Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

A sudden bold and unexpected question doth many times surprise a man and lay him open.

It was still dark when Lothíriel woke with a vague sense of disorientation, wondering what felt wrong. Then she noticed that she couldn’t have moved if she had tried. Éomer had her pinned to the bed with one heavy arm wrapped around her midsection and a muscular leg thrown across her thighs.

She lay still, afraid that if she tried to move from beneath him, she would startle him awake - and in her experience that could become life threatening.

Her breathing and her heartbeat quickened, not because she feared his reflexes but because she remembered.

Although ‘good’ was a much too common term to describe the experience. There were many others which could be employed: beautiful, exquisite, exhilarating . . . bewildering. She could think of quite a few more, but a single expression simply would not be befitting.

She had never felt anything so intense. His mouth had been firm with endless and devastating patience. No wildness, no greed, no urgency, only delight and soothing, offer and welcome. Whatever she had expected, perhaps even feared, it had been quite the opposite when his hard body had covered hers. There had been something thrilling about being beneath him, feeling his weight, his power, his strength. He could dominate her if he so chose, hurt her even, and yet she had known he would never do so. In his arms she had felt treasured. For all his physical power and strength, Éomer of Rohan was a tender man.

Carefully she made an attempt to loosen the tight embrace, trying to move his arm. But she achieved the exact opposite effect. The hard muscles under his skin tensed, pulling her even closer into the curve of his body. A hand found her breast and cupped it. And her body responded, as it had always responded to him, from the very first moment.

She put her hand lightly over his. It was weather-beaten and covered with calluses from handling his weapons; the rough hand of a warrior, which had wielded the sword that had killed. But on her body it had been caressing and claiming at the same time, smoothing over her like velvet.

Cautiously she began to stroke his forearm with the tips of her fingers, hoping the caress would cause him to relax his hold on her. Being skin to skin, nestled against his warmth, was an indescribably sensual feeling and she had no desire at all to leave his embrace. But her right arm threatened to go to sleep and already felt as if there were pins and needles in it. She needed to resettle herself.

She felt a scar under her sensitive fingertips. It was only a faint hardening of the tissue, reaching from about two fingerbreadths above his pulse up to the inside of his elbow. It must have been only a superficial wound, a cut, merely a scratch, caused by a thin and sharp blade. In the back of her mind she had registered a multitude of scars when her hands had begun to familiarize themselves with his body. One of them had been from a well-healed wound underneath his right arm, the wound she had treated.

It had been a year, one year ago that this warrior king had charged into her life and had conquered one after the other her mind, her heart, her body; her entire being. From tonight on, without Éomer she would no longer be whole.

Once more she tried to move the grip of his arm and this time he gave in. She was able to roll away from him to the edge of the bed. She sat up gingerly, listening to his breathing, if it indicated that he was waking up. But it stayed deep and even. Rubbing her prickling arm she slid to the foot end of the large four-poster, leaning her back against the bedpost

It was almost dark in the chamber, the only light coming from the fire, which had nearly died down. She looked at this man whom from tonight on she would call husband.

The glow of the embers gave Éomer’s sleeping form something of a statue sculpted from the shadows. His head rested on one arm, the long hair falling over his face and without her body in front of him, he was now on his stomach. She noticed that he took up a great deal of the bed. The quilt covered him to his waist, leaving bare the contours of his beautiful muscled back. No doubt, he was an imposing figure, even without his armour or his regal apparel. Under this quilt lay dormant concentrated power.

Lothíriel permitted herself a tiny grin and tugged at the bedspread, not least to tuck herself up again. Without the fire the room had grown quite cold. But it held another advantage. When she pulled the quilt to her breast, the other end slid down to Éomer’s hips. Pulled up over her shoulders, it allowed a very pleasant view of his buttocks and thighs. She took her time to study the sight in all its splendour.

Suddenly she realized that behind the unruly curtain of his hair, his eyes were open, watching her for his part with startling intensity. When their gazes met, his mouth twisted into an amused smile.

“I hope you appreciate what you are seeing,” he said, sounding slightly drowsy.

“I certainly do,” Lothíriel responded, surprised by her own husky voice and, at the same time, that she felt no embarrassment. And she felt bold enough to add, “I always have.”

Without taking his eyes off her, Éomer reached into the folds of the quilt and pulled at it. She had the choice now; she could keep her hold and let herself be pulled over to him together with bedspread - she couldn’t win a tugging game with him anyway - or she could just loosen her grip. She decided on the latter. Slowly the soft coverlet slid down her body unveiling it before his eyes. Under his gaze a hot wave surged through her veins, heating her cheeks. But it was still not from embarrassment.

“And do you also appreciate what you are seeing?” She could barely manage more that a breathless whisper.

His green-gold eyes glittered behind his dark lashes as he studied her at great length. His gaze moved up and down her body, taking its time, finally coming to rest on her face. At the look in his eyes, her mouth went dry.

It took Lothíriel a moment to comprehend the full meaning of what he had just said. Now she found herself at a loss for words of her own. This was not the kind of conversation she was accustomed to. Sharing a bed with a naked man . . . well, husband, actually, and being nude herself was inherently a rather unusual situation. Their nude bodies being the topic of a verbal exchange made it even more exceptional.

Éomer had raised himself on one elbow, brushing his hair out of his face with a curt gesture. He watched the changing expressions on her face and waited with apparent patience for a reply. But there was a glint in his eyes she couldn’t interpret. Perhaps it was just an illusion, created by the glow from the embers.

His lips curved into one of his slow smiles and before she realized his intent, he leant across the crumpled quilt, swiftly taking a hold of her and the next moment Lothíriel found herself on her back beneath Éomer’s large, warm frame.

This seemed to be becoming a habit. But unlike the evening before his quick manoeuvre didn’t give her a start. She rather welcomed the heat his body radiated. It warmed her much more satisfactorily than the bedspread would ever do.

He leant over her and confining her between his arms, he bent his head and slowly kissed the soft, vulnerable curve of her throat. She couldn’t suppress a sigh of pleasure or keep her back from arching. She felt him smile against her skin.

“Now you have had the opportunity,” his mouth moved along the line of her jaw to kiss her chin, “to see every part of me,” he continued, his teeth nipping gently at her lips. “I must say I am quite relieved to hear,” his tongue traced the outline of her mouth, “that I have your approval.” He kissed both corners of her mouth and then the tip of her nose.

Those caresses certainly didn’t help Lothíriel to gather her muddled wits. Being pressed deep into the bedding by a solid weight and having his legs firmly lodged between hers was a disconcerting position, definitely pleasant but also definitely disconcerting. And Éomer was looking at her with inviting expectancy, evidently waiting for a remotely intelligent reply. His expression was a mixture of amusement and tenderness. - And somehow hunger?

“What do you want me to say?” she answered, because she couldn’t really think of anything better, but she also couldn’t stay mute indefinitely.

He chuckled. She could feel the ripples of his stomach muscles against her belly.

“Are you telling me that from now on - as your husband - I have the right to put words in this beautiful mouth of yours?” he teased, going over her lips with the tip of his finger. “And from now on you will say only what I want to hear?”

“That certainly depends on what you want to hear,” she responded in the same tone to his jaunty mood.

“For a start, it is quite simple and easy to remember.” He pushed her tousled hair gently from her face and brought his lips down, brushing against hers with the barest friction. His own hair fell around them like a golden curtain.

His mouth shifted, deepening the kiss. She gave a soft, husky little moan and tightened her arms around his neck, but he broke the kiss and looked at her with deliberate seriousness.

That earned her another kiss. This time his mouth opened over her lips, urging them to part. She followed his lead. Their tongues touched. They tasted each other. All of a sudden she was too breathless for the moan she felt forming at the bottom of her throat, but somewhere in her fogged mind Lothíriel became aware of a thought emerging, a wicked little thought. She pushed against Éomer’s shoulders and pulled her mouth – with some difficulty – a fingerbreadth away from his. He looked at her quizzically.

“I would like to suggest a further addition to the so far assembled vocabulary,” she said, gasping for air.

“A king should always be receptive to sound advice and suggestions.” He did quite well, feigning sobriety. “What is on my Lady’s mind?”

She moved one leg experimentally. Éomer let her slide it out from under his. She curved her foot and drew it up along the back of his calf. The hair on his leg tickled the sole of her foot, making her smile.

The impact of those two words was staggering. From one moment to the other all the amusement, the playfulness, even the tenderness was gone from his gaze. The light in the chamber was just strong enough to illuminate the gold in his eyes, gleaming with a deep hunger. His mouth came down on hers with the impact of embers on snow. He shoved his fingers into her hair and gripping the back of her head, he held her still while deepening his kiss, leaving her senses frantically struggling to cope with the overpowering sensation of this onslaught.

This kiss was one of possession, of desire and need. His mouth claimed hers hungrily, even as his hands ran over her body, pulling her more tightly against him, if that was at all possible. Lothíriel found herself sinking into it all, letting herself melt into his body which was burying her, reaching until her hands found the powerful muscles of his back.

This kiss was not like any of the others he had given her. It was darker, more demanding and far more overwhelming. She would have thought that such a kiss would frighten her, but she had no wish to pull back from it. Instead she craved more of this kind of hunger. She was burning up. She wanted to be closer. She wanted to be one with him. The intensity of her excitement blindsided her. Desire, fierce and relentless, flooded her senses. She gripped his shoulders hard, her nails making an impact.

Éomer tore his mouth free from hers and raised his head with obvious reluctance. Lothíriel gave an unarticulated protest and opened her eyes, looking directly into his, which were shadowed with dark passion. Why did he stop? She arched herself against him.

He groaned and buried his face into the crook of her neck. “I want you so much.” His voice came muffled against her throat. She felt his hot breath. “I need you. I have waited for you for so long.”

Lothíriel was struggling for air. Breathing was not easy as Éomer was crushing her happily beneath him.

“I want you, too,” she got out despite the weight on her ribcage. Nobody could have expected her to say anything more original in this situation.

He lifted his head to gaze down at her, shifting his weight onto his elbows. Lothíriel panted for air, not only because the pressure on her upper body had eased and allowed her lungs to work properly again, but because of the look in his eyes. Liquid amber. They seemed to be able to burn holes into her very soul. But why had he stopped himself?

Framing her face tenderly with his large hands, he smiled at her in a strained way. She sensed the discipline he was exerting over himself, which she didn’t understand. It was there in every line of his body, from the set of his jaw to the corded muscles of his shoulders. She touched the side of his face, sliding her hand down the column of his throat, trying desperately to think of something that would make him resume his love-making. He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing the palm.

“How am I feeling?” She blinked at him in non-comprehension. Well, she felt as if she were going up in flames at any moment and he had better think of something to prevent it. She had no idea what he should do, but it definitely was he who had to do it.

Sore? Of course, she was sore. She had been sore for days. She couldn’t even remember how it was not to be sore. But this was really a rather inauspicious moment to consider her aching leg and back muscles. He hadn’t thought about them when he had come to her earlier, and actually, then she hadn’t thought about them either.

“Do not worry about my soreness,” she assured him. “I have got used to it by now.”

“I was not inquiring after the discomfort you must still be feeling from your long journey on horseback.”

“I was asking how you are feeling after having made love for the first time.”

“I am feeling fine,” she answered without a second thought - and truthfully.

Why was he asking that now? It must have been quite clear to him from her response to his kisses that she felt so good that she was rather eager to repeat making love to him . . . or rather having him making love to her. She wanted to do it again soon, because the first time, from a certain point on, everything had become blurred and she couldn’t remember any details. This time she would try to concentrate and take things in.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she tried to pull him down so that she could kiss him. But then, belatedly, she became aware of the actual meaning of his question. Startled by the sudden realisation she loosened her grip, letting her head sink back into the pillow.

Her natural pragmatism took over and she performed a quick assessment of the body parts in question, tensing her inner muscles. Beside that it felt slightly sticky; there was some tenderness in that particular place, but nothing she would consider worth mentioning.

“I am fine . . . I think,” she announced the result of her self-examination.

“I do not have the possibility of comparison,” she explained. “It feels a bit odd, but not at all uncomfortable. I must admit I had my doubts that it was going to work when I first saw . . . ” She stopped herself and blushed furiously. “I mean it looked as if . . .” She tried again. “There was a . . .” She saw him raise his eyebrows in mockingly polite encouragement and made a last effort to word a coherent sentence. “My first impression was one of incompatibility.”

She frowned irritably when she felt the first waves of laughter rippling through Éomer’s belly. He rolled to one side, disentangling his legs from hers. He was obviously failing in his attempt to remain master of an approaching outburst of mirth. There was not much left of the man who had just moments ago nearly buried her in an eruption of red-hot desire. Éomer’s ability to switch from one state of mind to the next in a blink of an eye was not only irritating; it was – particularly in this case - also highly annoying.

He gave a choked noise that could have been taken, with very little imagination, for a laugh. “No.”

She sat up and tried to pull the quilt from under him. Without his body – and his passion – warming her, the chill in the chamber quickly became rather disagreeable. Éomer obligingly shifted his weight, freeing the coverlet. She clutched it to her breast.

“If you are, I would rather know the reason. Because I really do not understand what I could have said that took your mind off . . .” Again she broke off and let herself fall abruptly back against the pillows, tugging the quilt up to her throat. She expected some comment from him. Instead, he turned on his side, propped himself on his elbow and looked down at her.

“I would not say that it took my mind off completely.” He managed to keep a straight face when her gaze darted to his groin and then quickly returned to his eyes. “It is just that your choice of words is often, somehow, unexpected.”

Lothíriel thought about it. “How would you have expected me to phrase my reply?”

It had become so dark in the chamber that it was hard to make out each other’s expressions. Éomer rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed and she heard him feel for fire steel and flint. He struck a spark and immediately the tinder in a metal bowl began to burn. He used the small flame to light the candle. Turning, he regarded her with a thoughtful smile.

“I do not know what I expected for an answer. When it comes to you, Lothíriel, I do not have the possibility of comparison either.”

He arched a single eyebrow in a deliberately curious inquiry. It was joined by the second when she failed to comply by providing an explanation.

She knew for certain that he had plenty of experience with the opposite gender, and therefore should have plenty of possibilities of comparison. But she would rather not deepen her last train of thought and broach the issue of his past relations with women. When she had rashly mentioned it the other day his reaction had been surprisingly irritated. And he had angrily stressed that he would not have his wife and queen compared to any other woman. It was not that she had a problem with it. Imagining him with another woman in the past did not arouse any strong emotions in her.

But right now she was vexed with herself for having not been able to curb her tongue. She was as infantile as Merewyn, blurting out whatever came into her head. From now on she would be better to watch what she was going to say.

Lothíriel sat up, making sure the coverlet stayed in place and drew her legs up to her breast, wrapping her arms around her knees. She looked at Éomer in silent contemplation.

She found that her last thought had something rather disturbing about it. It could not be the meaning of a bond between two people to tiptoe around each other, always afraid to offend or to upset. Of course she had been taught the value of reserve and prudence in dealings with others. But that could not apply to her relationship with her husband. This was Rohan! This was Éomer! If she could not be plainspoken with him then with whom? It was not as if she was deliberately trying to unsettle somebody the way Amrothos did with his impertinent candour. Something Éomer had said had triggered this thought and it was only sincere to voice it. And if she expected something in her relationship with her husband, then it was sincerity.

She realized that he was watching her with unconcealed amusement. Suddenly he leant forward and put a finger against her forehead, right above the bridge of her nose.

“I have discovered one thing already. If this little frown appears, inside my wife’s head something is working vigorously.”

Lothíriel decided to plunge in, head first. “Should I explain to you what thought induced me to make my last remark, or would I be better to avoid the topic in order to evade a likely argument,” she set out and then added, when something else occurred to her, “The last option would probably make it necessary to find a way to distract you.”

His mouth was edged with a hint of laconic amusement. “Whatever the topic is which might likely cause an argument, somehow I have the feeling you do not want to avoid it at all. Neither the topic nor the argument. But before we get into that, just satisfy my curiosity: how do you plan to distract me?”

“I have not had the time to consider it,” she admitted, wrinkling her nose. “But perhaps I could kiss you?”

His mouth twitched into a smile and he put a finger on her collarbone, letting it slide up and down. “You are learning quickly, my Lady.”

“I think my ability to learn has never been in question,” she told him primly.

“That will increase my pleasure in teaching you,” he said, his voice dark, soft and faintly amused.

“Has anybody ever told you that those who teach will learn the most?” she dared to challenge him.

“Indeed? Are you promising me a lesson?” It was amazing what he could do with that voice. It set tremors off in her body.

For a few heartbeats she became distracted by the glint of passion that had returned to his gaze. He held her eyes with his own. Another switch in mood. She let out the breath she was holding, watching a brief, self-satisfied smile appear on his face. She cleared her throat and found her own voice again.

“I think what I can promise you - at any time with the utmost probability - is an argument.”

Éomer groaned, a sound between disbelief and wry amusement. “You are persistent or - to put it bluntly - bloody stubborn.”

“And who was the profound judge of our characters?” Éomer asked, mildly curious.

“How?” The glance she regarded him with called his claim clearly into question. “As you said: I am stubborn. What I do not want to tell you, I will not tell you.”

In a single sleek movement he was over her on all fours. Surprised, she fell back into the pillows and found herself caged between his arms, his knees on both sides of her hips on top of the quilt, trapping her efficiently underneath it.

“I can think of more than one way to make you tell me whatever I want to hear,” he threatened her in a voice as smooth as velvet. It seemed her husband was once again in a playful – and seductive – mood.

She clutched the quilt to her throat. “Do you intend to employ your greater physical strength to force a name out of me?”

“Éomer, you will not . . . Oooohhh!” She let out a shriek, the volume surprising herself no less than Éomer.

“That should have been heard in all of Meduseld,” he laughed. “I would not be surprised if your brothers turned up to break down the door, their swords in their hands.”

That prospect, however, did not cause him to stop tormenting her. Lothíriel squealed and squeaked, having not the slightest chance to escape his titillating fingers, although she floundered underneath the quilt like a beached fish.

She opened her mouth to take a deep breath, enough for a scream that would have, in all likelihood, indeed alerted everybody under the roof of the Golden Hall. Guessing her intention Éomer came down on her hard and she found herself trapped beneath him, his full weight forcing all air from her lungs. His mouth closed on hers before any sound could have been formed. He kissed her, long and hard and deep; so deep that she forgot everything else, even the shortage of air until it became a serious problem and she simply needed to breathe or she would faint.

Éomer must have sensed her discomfort. He released her mouth and shifted most of his weight on his elbows.

Her breathing was heavy and ragged and it took her another three gasps before she was able to get out her reply.

“Well, in that case . . .” His fingers were aiming for a particular sensitive spot under her armpit.

“Nooo!” She braced her fists against his shoulders but could have just as well tried to move a rock wall.

Éomer showed pity. Laughing he rolled onto his back and took her with him, quilt and all. She spilled across his hard body and lay captive between his thighs. He locked one leg over her calves to keep her from wriggling. The heat that poured from him threatened to burn her, even with the bedspread between them. How could he stay so warm although he had been without a cover for quite some time? She spread her fingers across his broad shoulders, feeling the warmth of him. His muscles rippled and flexed under her hands. Who would have thought that they would end up in a tussle like a couple of puppies? Or rather in a tussle between a fully-grown wolf and a lap dog.

“I imagined that the marital act would be conducted in a more sober and grave fashion.”

Éomer choked, on what she did not know, but he choked nonetheless. “Act?” he finally got out. “Conducted?” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Grave?” he asked, lowering his voice to a wilfully grave tone.

“Well, yes,” she said with an injured air. “And if everybody had not been so intent on keeping me ignorant of the realities of the marital . . . whatever you want to call it, misunderstandings – and misconceptions - like this - and the one earlier tonight - could have been avoided.”

“I was speaking generally,” she enlightened him. “It is the custom to keep young women ignorant of these matters. At least in Gondor. Had I not been educated as a healer I would – very likely – not have known that there is a significant difference between the male and the female anatomy below the waist.”

“Not only below the waist,” Éomer stated, glancing pointedly at her breasts, which lay slightly crushed against his chest.

“Indeed, but that is easier to detect, especially as it is common fashion in Gondor to reveal quite a bit of a woman’s bosom.”

“I am not surprised.” She remembered fleetingly the Lady Cuillwen’s voluptuous form before her mind settled again on her original train of thought. “And though the education as a healer clearly informs you about quite a few aspects of these matters, there are others which simply get hushed up. For example, I have several times witnessed women giving birth and I was taught in detail what to do when the babies come out, but they let me more or less guess about the act of procreation.”

“You could hardly expect them – whoever they were – to let you witness that.”

“Of course not. A detailed description in writing would have been sufficient. But there is none. I looked for one in the library. And the only person I dared to talk to – and he proved not to be really helpful – was Amrothos.”

Her husband grunted beneath her. It couldn’t be her weight. He seemed to be quite content having her lying on top of him. His hands had settled firmly on her derriere, holding her in place.

“You spoke to Amrothos?” When she nodded, he grunted again and muttered, “And I thought he was merely trying to taunt me.”

“Amrothos is never trying to merely do something,” she assured him. “He always does it . . . or has already done it.”

“Yes, and he is a brother you are rather fond of,” he pretended understanding and then added something in his own tongue. When she glanced at him with a watchful frown forming between her brows he hastened to continue, “But what about your kinswomen?”

“Aunt Ivriniel?” She wrinkled her nose doubtfully. Putting her fists on top of each other on his breastbone, she rested her chin on them. “She never leaves Dol Amroth. Moreover, after she has explained something to you, you tend to be more confused than before.”

“Aragorn told me that you spent much time with Arwen. Would she not have been a better choice than your brother to answer any questions you may have had?”

“I could hardly trouble my Queen with such a matter, especially as said Queen is a nearly three thousand years old elf.”

“So, what was the actual issue? That Arwen was your Queen; or that she is nearly three thousand years old?”

“The issue was that any attempt to request information would have made me look like a perfect imbecile. As I said, in Gondor, an unwed woman is not supposed to inquire after such matters. And anyway, I was not so much interested in getting to the bottom of why people apparently are so keen in engaging in the marital act – even when a marital status is non-existent – than in a man’s frame of mind – generally speaking, of course. And therefore the obvious respondent had to be a man.”

“A man’s frame of mind? Oh my!” He regarded her with the kind of guarded look which reminded Lothíriel very much of one of Amrothos’s expressions when her brother was steeling himself against a topic of conversation he objected to. She wondered how Éomer would respond if she told him so. But before she had made up her mind, her husband continued, “May I ask in what context you felt it necessary to catch up on that particular subject?”

She gazed down at him contemplatively. She had still problems in judging Éomer, reckoning how he was likely to respond in certain situations. To her he was as unpredictable as he had always been. All she could say about him with certainty was that she loved him and that she trusted him. And all she could say about their relationship was that it would be . . . changeable. But then, she had never expected perfect harmony.

Therefore there was absolutely no point in avoiding the actual subject, which had once led her to seek out her brother. After all, Éomer had indicated that they had to discuss, sooner or later, those uncertainties they both knew were lurking at the fringes of their bond. After tonight they were no longer as unsettling as they had been, but they were still there. He had wanted to wait until they could be certain that there would be no more awkward interruptions when they talked, and it was rather unlikely that they would be interrupted now.

“I spoke to Amrothos after I had received your proposal.” She kept her tone neutral, waiting for his reaction. Would he try to leave it at their playful banter, or was he willing to go into this - still – sensitive matter now?

She couldn’t have said precisely what it really was but from one moment to the other she felt a kind of stillness in his body. He gave her a searching glance from behind half-lowered lashes. “You took advice from Amrothos? I am surprised you consented.”

Lothíriel did not like the sarcasm woven into his words. “You should be more surprised that I gave my consent despite the dreadful phrasing of your proposal.” She couldn’t help herself, but it was still eating at her.

Éomer looked startled, although whether from her statement or from the sharpened tone of her voice, Lothíriel did not know. They were silent for a long time while they gazed at each other through the shadows. Then he gave a low groan and closed his eyes, letting his head sink back into the pillow. She held herself very still, watching him thoughtfully. His lips had thinned and his jaw set in a hard line. It would seem that this had not been the right moment to address the issue. Suddenly she no longer felt comfortable in the intimate position she was in. But when she tried to move and roll off him, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

“I need to apologize, Lothíriel.” His voice was very soft. He kept his eyes closed. “That proposal was certainly not one of my greater achievements. Composing letters is not among my more prominent abilities even under the most favourable circumstances.”

“I never had a reason to believe you were not perfectly able to say precisely what you intend to express.” Lothíriel raised her objection with a hint of caution, but then added candidly, “Even if you might prefer to take it back a while later.”

Éomer’s mouth curved at the corners in fleeting amusement. “As I said: you are learning quickly.” His next words were contemplative. “But I have always felt that there is a big difference between something you say and something you write down.”

“What difference could there be?” She tilted her head, studying him. Had she not watched him so closely, she might have missed that his eyes opened just a slit, slanting her a glance, before they closed again.

“Parchment and ink are nothing but uncomplaining tools.” That sounded rather dismissive. “You see the words, but not the one who has put them there. You do not hear his voice; you do not look into his eyes. Words on parchment are as flat as the vellum they are written on.”

Somehow his last remark confirmed the suspicion she had entertained for a while that Éomer did not overly appreciate the written word in whatever form.

“If a letter is well composed you will only recognize what the writer wants you to. That makes all the difference. If somebody addresses me directly, I have the opportunity to appraise him, to guess his intentions. And if a letter is not well composed . . . a word on parchment is so easy to misinterpret. It may be written with a certain desire, but if the consignee misunderstands, there is no immediate opportunity to clear up any misconceptions. And as the writer you have no way of knowing how your words are going to be comprehended, especially when you do not know well the one who is supposed to read them. Words are meant to be spoken not to be put on parchment.”

Lothíriel wondered if he pontificated about the possible deceptiveness of the written word in full because he tried to avoid the real issue. She propped herself up on his chest, pressing her elbows hard between his ribs. The discomfort caused him at last to open his eyes again and look at her.

“Are you saying you found it difficult to write that letter to me?” she asked in an attempt to cut straight to the essential part.

“Difficult?” Éomer’s mouth twisted into a self-mocking grin. “It kept me up most of the night and afterwards there was a serious shortage of parchment in the whole of Edoras.”

“And the best you could get out, after all your efforts, was that proposal?” she asked in feigned consternation.

He gave an embarrassed groan and squeezed his eyes shut. It felt quite good being for once the teasing party. She caught his face between her palms, gave him a small, determined shake.

“Éomer! Look at me!” When he complied she asked, “Why was it so difficult to write to me?”

“Because I had to do it in a rush. I remember thinking that I would have liked more time.”

Éomer gave her a long, considering look. “I suppose there is no genuine chance that in the near future any debate between us will turn out to be facile and straightforward?”

“Proper diction is important or there might be occasional misunderstandings. Those must be nipped in the bud.”

“Very well.” He yielded to her argument with the shadow of a grin. “I did not feel pressured to do something I was opposed to but rushed into doing something for which I would have liked more time, so that I could do it properly.”

“And the one who rushed you was my father.” Lothíriel felt it not necessary to emphasise this statement as a question.

“Imrahil is a very astute and subtle man. I would be well advised to learn some lessons from your father. But, no, it was not he who rushed me – a least not intentionally.” He kept one arm tightly closed around her and raised his other hand, pushing her hair behind her ear and tracing its outline with his finger. The caress caused goose bumps to run down her body, which in turn made her notice that her backside was getting rather chilled.

“I knew,” Éomer continued, “that after I had agreed to Imrahil’s offer, he would send an according notification to Minas Tirith with the messenger leaving the next day. But I did not want you to be informed of the agreement in such an impersonal manner. I did not want you to become my wife because several people in our vicinity believed it to be a sensible match.”

When she opened her mouth to tell him that she had understood and appreciated his intentions quite well, despite the hapless wording of his proposal, he stopped her by laying his forefinger vertically against her lips.

“I wanted to ask you to be my wife. I wished then - and I still wish it now - that I could have asked you in person. I needed to know – and I still need to know - that you have come to me and to the Riddermark because it was your true wish and not out of some mistaken sense of duty.”

“The day at the Houses of Healing when I kissed you, Elfhelm reminded me that self-delusion is a wonderful thing. And I am afraid that was what I had been afflicted with for many months: self-delusion. I had persuaded myself that nothing had happened during that night we returned from the Black Gate, when I met that aggravating and enchanting healer. That nothing had happened that had not happened before.”

Lothíriel looked down at Éomer reflectively, being oblivious that the tell-tale frown had resettled between her eyebrows. She reconsidered his words. Proper diction was now essential.

“Are you saying that that night I treated your wound you began to feel something for me but assumed that it was only the usual male feeling of lust?” Without responding to the odd strangled sound Éomer made, she followed her thread. “I understand that a man’s carnal desire is not necessarily only for one woman, but rather some urge the vast majority of men feel for women in general. Therefore it is easy for them to get confused about the true nature of their feelings.” She ignored that his hands had released the hold they had kept on her and that Éomer’s head had come up and his eyes had narrowed. “But I suppose you had had enough experience with women to recognise me – even before we met again at the feast and were introduced properly – as the sort of female to whom a man without serious intentions had better give a wide berth to avoid getting into trouble. Especially after I had mentioned that I have three brothers.”

“That I am not the sort of woman a man would philander with and therefore - as you were – as you said yourself – not aware of any deeper feelings for me – you began shortly afterwards a liaison with a woman of a different sort. The Lady Cuillwen,” she chose to clarify. She tilted her head when a thought hit her. “Was that to distract yourself?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

For an instant Éomer stared at her with his eyebrows closely knit together above the bridge of his nose, his look one of utter incredulousness. When his reaction came, it came with vehemence.

“Damnation, Lothíriel.” He surged up off the bed, dislodging her and sending her tumbling back onto the pillows. This absence of self-awareness of his physical strength threatened to become a serious – and painful – issue in the future.

He stood next to the bed, his back towards her, shoving all ten fingers through his tangled mane. When he turned to glance at her over his shoulder, she saw a look of mingled perplexity and frustration on his face.

She had heard that – an accusation disguised as a question - before. It appeared she was going about this the wrong way. She retrieved the quilt, which had been flung halfway to the floor during his abrupt exit from the bed. Slipping under the warming coverlet she tried the voice of reason.

“Of course, I do. I understand that all men – I mean all men who are not bound in a union . . . or at least those should not engage in a liaison . . .” That did not sound well thought through or even convincing. She made a grab for her composure. “I mean, I know that a liaison is not about romance, but conducted only for the purpose of carnal gratification and therefore should not be taken too seriously.”

Lothíriel waved her hand in a graceful gesture of frustration. Suddenly she felt awfully out of her league. She wasn’t so certain anymore that she truly understood what she was trying to say. Éomer had turned around and looked down at her as though she had just metamorphosed into some unknown life form before his very eyes.

“Lothíriel,” he said, his voice suspiciously even. “Where in Bema’s name do you draw your diction from?”

“Amrothos?” Gone was the even tone. He spat out something in Rohirric, which sounded very much like a angry threat.

That was something else she considered to be a serious issue in the near future.

“Éomer, I would be very much obliged if you could refrain from muttering in your own tongue as long as I have not mastered the language of the Riddermark. But I can assure you that I am bound and determined to begin learning it as soon as I can find an appropriate tutor.”

This would probably be a rather awkward moment to try and discuss with him if he already had somebody in mind or if he wished her to approach Lady Cynewyn for a recommendation.

The glare he regarded her with made her suspect that the only serious consideration he was giving right now to any matter was throttling somebody. His next words confirmed it. “I only made a mental note to remember to strangle that bloody brother of yours at the earliest convenience.”

“Amrothos has done nothing wrong – at least not in this case. I asked him a question and he answered it to the best of his knowledge.” She chose to pass over his snort. “And I really do not understand why you are reacting so . . . skittishly.”

“Skittishly?” To describe the tone of his voice as offended would have been an understatement.

“Well, yes. And there is no reason to. All I have been trying to express is that I understand that – as a rule - men are different and have gained, more often than not, certain experiences. And Amrothos said that that is just as well. Otherwise there would be two clumsy virgins in a bed, not knowing what to do.”

There was tense pause before Éomer spoke again, articulating every word in Westron with unmistakable accuracy. “I will refrain from strangling him and I am not going to wait until he might do everybody a favour by falling onto his sword. I will run that very sword through him myself first thing in the morning.”

Lothíriel eyed him doubtfully. “You do not really mean that,” she said in a soothing tone as if reassuring a frightened horse.

Éomer just gave his head a little shake and rubbed his hand over his face. “If you had to talk to one of your brothers, could it not have been Erchirion? At least he appears to have not only a brain but also some common sense.”

There was another pause while Éomer took a deep open-mouthed breath and then let the air slowly escape out of his lungs.

Lothíriel hesitated to answer that. Somehow she had the suspicion that it wouldn’t be a good idea to mention that she had discussed her earlier apprehension regarding their betrothal with Erchirion.

Éomer had watched her and shaking his head again he raised both hands in an averting gesture. “No, I do not want to know,” he answered his question himself. He took another deep breath.

“Lothíriel, before I ask you to enlighten me why we are having this conversation at all, please tell me: you do not believe that I am just another man who indiscriminately dallies with women, do you?”

“No, I do not.” She thought it better not to confront him with Amrothos’s theory about his similarity with her aunt’s carnivorous plants. She had an inkling that such a remark would indeed be disastrous for her brother’s constitution.

“And your earlier – slightly surprising – exposition does not mean you expect me to have the occasional liaison in the future?”

Lothíriel felt dumbfounded for an instant before, with an involuntary jerk, she straightened up. “Certainly not!”

“Bema be thanked.” Sarcasm was dripping from his voice. “I am quite relieved to hear you are, after all, not indifferent to your husband’s moral conduct. Be assured, it is my intention to be faithful.”

Éomer threw up his hands in resignation, turned and marched over to the hearth. He squatted down in front of it on the thick artfully woven rug and began reviving the fire. Thrusting a handful of wooden splints into the embers with more force than necessary, he ignored the bellow and just blew several times into the glowing cinders, rekindling the flames. Lothíriel watched him piling logs onto the fire and stirring it with the poker. He kept his posture, staring into the flames. He was much too close to the heat to be comfortable.

“It must be me,” he addressed the flames, his words laced with resigned self-mockery. “It seems I am unable to express any matter of importance in an appropriate manner. I fail to do it in writing and I am incapable of revealing my feelings when I am face to face with you. At least not in a fashion that arouses your attention.”

Lothíriel searched for her robe, but it was hanging on the other side of the room on the screen shielding the washing facilities, and her chemise lay rumpled on the floor. So she slid out of the bed, wrapping the quilt around herself. She went over to the hearth, stepping from rug to rug, avoiding the cold floor tiles and trailing the much abused coverlet behind her. She joined Éomer in front of the inviting warmth of the fire, kneeling down beside him. She slanted him a cautious glance and nearly sighed in relief when he turned his face towards her and she saw neither anger nor frustration in his eyes. He rather seemed to be at a loss.

“I am sorry, Éomer. I am prattling again. I really do not know why I am doing this. It is not that I am usually . . . but. . .” She stopped herself, realising that she was on her best way to going on with her prattle.

“. . . but this is all very new to you,” he completed her sentence sympathetically, but with a hint of teasing. “Even if it is not to me.”

“Of course, you were right, when you pointed out the other day that we hardly know much about each other. We . . . I should have done something about it during those months of our betrothal. It is entirely my fault that we have wasted all this time. I should have tried to find a way to come and see you in the White City.”

“But that would have taken you away from Rohan for several sennights,” Lothíriel protested. “You could not have been spared for that period of time.”

“We Rohirrim travel fast. I can make it to Mundburg at a reasonable pace in five days. So I could have returned to the Mark in under two sennights. But back then I could not even have afforded to be away for two days.”

“No, of course not. Rohan and the welfare our people will always have to come first. I understand that.”

“When I consented to your proposal I knew that I was not only going to be bound to a man but also to his duty and his position. And I suppose you knew that I have been brought up with the knowledge and the acceptance that, though our birth means certain privileges, they are paid for by the service to our people. And that this service has always to be put above and beyond anything we may wish or long for. That makes me the kind of woman you need as a consort.”

Éomer gave her a not too gentle yank and tumbled her across his lap. He cradled her chin in his palm. “Could we - just for once - forbear from reasoning? What I have been trying to tell you again and again and - in the process – have been interrupted again and again, was that my proposal to you had nothing to do with a political agenda or even common sense. I wanted you to become my wife most notably and above all, because . . .”

This time she punched him against his shoulder, but apparently not very hard. At least not for him because it just made him laugh whilst her wrist began to hurt a little. One could sprain one’s limbs with a manoeuvre like that.

“It goes beyond reasoning and beyond common sense,” he continued with a chuckle. “It is what it is. I love you, Lothíriel.”

Three simple words and they warmed her all the way to her bones. A deep sense of rightness flowed through her. Knowing it was one thing, but hearing it . . .

She caught his face between her palms, caressing his bearded cheeks with her thumbs. “I think you do quite well, revealing your feelings, my Lord. The wording was perfect and certainly aroused my attention.”

When he opened his mouth to reply she prevented him from doing so by putting her finger against his lips, the way he had done with her earlier.

“It is what it is. And we shall enjoy our love and not ask for the ‘why’. But we are what we are. I am Prince Imrahil’s daughter. My ancestry, my upbringing, even the influence of my brothers, has made me what I am. Nothing can change that. And you are what you are, Éomer Éomundsson. Not long ago I heard my father say about Elessar that kings are not made, they are born. And that applies to you as well. You were born to be a king and even if you had not come to the title you would have had all the attributes and qualities, which make a king. Besides our love we suit each other because of what we are.”

“I doubt that Imrahil would have looked for common ground so readily had I been a Marshal of the Mark.”

Éomer tilted her chin with his forefinger and gazed at her for a long time. “Whatever pertains to you,” he said after a while that seemed to have gone on for an eternity, “my possibility of comparison is simply non-existent.”

His thumb moved across her lower lip, tugging it gently away from her teeth. His mouth closed over hers before she was able to say a word; before she was even able to think about what to say. But then, right now, nothing could have been further from her mind than talking. Her arm stole around his waist and she cuddled closer. Abruptly the quilt was flung aside and she instinctively made a grab for it.

“Do not worry. I will not let you get cold again,” Éomer assured her, lowering his head to press his lips against the hollow of her throat.

Lothíriel let herself be eased onto her back and Éomer came down beside her. She wove her fingers through his thick hair. Closing her eyes she savoured the feeling of the thick, soft strands sliding between her fingers.

His teeth nipped at her collarbone. “You are learning quickly, my Lady.” There was a smile in his voice, but it was also thick with desire.

Lothíriel relaxed back onto the fleecy rug, surrendering to the vibrant sense of well being that filled her. Éomer’s hands smoothed over her body with infinitely patient movements. And where his hands went, his lips followed. Time ceased to have any meaning for her. She felt heavy and warm, filled with a languid sensuality that made her begin to twist and turn.

Her last coherent thought was that it was rather unlikely that she would be able to concentrate on any details this time either.

The sun was rising when Lothíriel stirred again, having enjoyed a rather short but restful slumber. She rolled onto her back and stretched, lazy, relaxed and content. She could feel the satisfaction in every bit of her body. It sang in her veins and created a pleasant warmth in her belly.

But something about the bed felt wrong. After a few moments of pondering what it might be, it finally occurred to her that she was alone in it. She raised her lashes: she was still dozy as she eyed the rumpled sheets and pillows spread across the wide four-poster. They looked deserted and cold. It was unsettling to realize how quickly the feel of Éomer’s weight beside her had become familiar, the warmth of his body necessary for her comfort.

It was certainly not cold in the chamber. The fire must have been stirred anew not long ago. The flames were dancing high inside the hearth, feeding from the piled wooden logs.

Lothíriel stared across the room. One thing was becoming more and more certain: there was only a very little chance that Éomer would ever cease to surprise her. He had made love to her right there in front of the hearth. On a rug! Sweet Elbereth! She could not believe it. - Well, actually, she could believe it when taking into consideration that her bottom appeared to be slightly abraded. But this discomfort was only a minor disadvantage bearing in mind how he had made her feel. She still couldn’t think about the proper diction for that kind of feeling, that indescribable mergence of physical pleasure and boundless joy. It was so new, so overwhelming, and so unexpected. No wonder they did not want girls and unwed young women to become acquainted with what was awaiting them. Quite a few might get too curious.

However, she entertained the suspicion that the wondrous passion she had experienced in Éomer’s arms had a lot to do with the man and was not necessarily the rule. Although Lothíriel knew that her experience was extremely limited - or rather non-existent - her instinct told her that Éomer was a very generous lover, one who would always consider her needs and wants; even before his own.

Suddenly a rather silly thought caused a giggle to burst from her throat and she rolled over onto her belly, pressing her face into the pillow. She wondered if her father had included the attribute ‘good lover’ when he established the criteria for a suitable husband for his only daughter.

That finally made her lose it. She started laughing and her giddy and bubbly laughter was interspersed by squeals and titters. Somebody overhearing her would have thought she had gone mad, but she couldn’t stop herself. She did not even know why. Imagining the dignified Lord of Dol Amroth inquiring after the bedchamber qualities of prospective claimants to the hand of his daughter was not really that humorous. No! Not true! It actually was hilarious! She laughed even harder. Blindly she grabbed for a pillow and pulled it over her head. Perhaps she would be able to control herself if she cut off her air supply.

Buried under the down-filled cushion, shaken by this absurd mirth, she hardly noticed the mattress sink down beside her. The pillow was pulled from her head and when she flipped over onto her back she found Éomer sitting on the edge of the bed. He was wearing the dark red robe from the evening before and looked down on her with puzzled amusement.

That did not answer his question but she could hardly ask him if her father had interrogated him about his . . . Another fit of laughter seized her and Éomer let himself become infected, watching her with a rather bewildered chuckle.

For an elusive moment Éomer looked as if he were going to breathe a sigh of relief. With his forefinger he brushed some tangled strands of hair back from her face as he gazed intently down into her eyes, which were gleaming with happiness.

“If you are,” he said, his voice not more than a whisper, “then so am I.”

Lothíriel lifted her hand to play, on her part, with his hair. He must have brushed it. The last time she had looked at him it had been as tousled as hers certainly was. With her other hand she felt for the plait Éomer had braided the night before. It had come loose. Her hair must be in wild disarray.

“Yes,” he confirmed, his voice full of warmth and tenderness. “But you are my mess now.”

“Your mess? Did you not listen to what Mithrandir had to say? A woman is no property to anyone.”

He leant over her, his breathtaking grin on his face. “Do not believe everything an old wizard tells you.” He brushed his lips fleetingly against hers before he straightened up again.

Now it was Éomer’s turn to laugh. “I regret having to disappoint you, my Lady, but I think I’d better restrain myself and show some austerity. Otherwise we may not get out of this chamber all day and we are expected to meet our guests and be good hosts.”

Lothíriel managed to reasonably control her disappointed grimace. “Very well. I suppose it would not be very polite to leave them to their own devices for the rest of their visit. Although my brothers may easily find ways to occupy themselves. At least Erchirion and Amrothos.”

“But somehow I have an inkling that they will want to see for themselves that you have been treated well.”

She slanted him a mischievous glance. “You mean you would not mind me telling Amrothos how well I have been treated . . . and how I have been illuminated by my husband?”

Éomer looked at her with disbelieving horror. It wasn’t feigned. “What do I have to do to keep you away from that brother?”

“Keep me occupied,” she suggested in a husky tone. She stretched, arching her back languidly and watching his reaction from under lowered lashes. It was quite satisfactory. She was learning indeed.

Her husband appeared to share that opinion. “You may learn too quickly, my Lady,” he complained, but his eyes were bright with laughter.

He leaned over her without making any reply, gazing deliberately into her eyes, not touching her in any way until his mouth came down on hers. And then she got the kiss she had wanted, deep, slow and thorough. When he finally separated their lips she was breathless. She really had to learn how to attune kissing and breathing in a more effective way.

Éomer smiled at her. “I do not think you have a true notion how much I wish to keep you occupied all day, my sweet.” He traced the shape of her mouth with the knuckle of his forefinger. “But as you set out, all-too-truly, earlier, we are bound to duty and therefore have to give up this cosy togetherness . . . at least until tonight.”

Duty was a word Lothíriel understood indeed. Her expression grew more serious, and she did not realize that the regret she saw in Éomer’s eyes was not alone due to the fact that their wedding night was nearly over and that their obligations had caught up with them as they always would.

“Then I’d better get up and prepare myself for the day.” She turned on her side and propped herself up on her elbow. “I shall send for Winfrith. I think I need to take a bath.” Well, she definitely had this feeling that she desperately needed a bath.

“I thought you would like one. I spoke to Ælfgyth whilst you were still asleep. There is a bath being prepared for you.”

Lothíriel had a quick look-around, taking in the rumpled bedding, the crumpled up chemise on the floor and her own nude form. She had better make herself presentable before the servants brought in the hot water.

“Éomer, will you please hand me my robe so I can cover myself.” She gestured towards the screen.

Her husband rose obligingly and made his way across the room. “The bath is being prepared in the King’s chamber. Ælfgyth will let us know when it is ready.”

He took the robe from the hook. “Lothíriel, you have been told that we are expected to take a walk through the city later to meet the people of Edoras and accept their good wishes?”

“Yes, I do know.” She sat up and began to smooth out the quilt that covered her. “Lady Cynewyn was very thorough with her instructions regarding traditions and customs in Rohan. Tonight we will join in the festivities the citizens have arranged in our honour.” Her eyes fell on a brown stain, which made an obvious contrast to the pale green and cream coloured pattern of the bedspread. Her brows came together in a sudden scowl. She ran her fingertips over it. It was dried blood. Her blood. The proof that last night she had given her virginity.

She did not pay regard to Éomer who had come up next to the bed, holding her robe so that she could slip into it. When she didn’t respond he followed the line of her gaze.

“That is supposed to be on the sheet.” When she lifted her eyes to look at Éomer she found him watching her, apparently not quite certain what to make of her remark. “Now the quilt has to be presented for the required examination. This is truly . . .” She stopped herself to search for the appropriate term.

“Embarrassing?” Éomer prompted, again taking his seat on the edge of the bed.

“Embarrassing?” Lothíriel frowned. “Why should it be embarrassing? That a woman bleeds when her virginity is taken is simply a fact. Women are used to bleeding once a month, by the way,” she added, just to make sure he took that into consideration.

The corners of Éomer’s mouth twitched. “So I have been told. No, I thought you might find it embarrassing that we - or rather I - failed to remove the quilt before we made love. That could give the impression that the consummation of our bond was a rather rushed affair.”

“Right.” Éomer cleared his throat. “You are certainly not prone to flattering, are you?”

“In what regard am I supposed to flatter?” Lothíriel asked, uncomprehendingly.

He conceded with a grin. “Well, perhaps we’d better postpone that subject and come back to the initial question. You do not like the idea that now the quilt has to be presented?”

“Oh, no. It has nothing to do with the quilt. It is the procedure as such. It is exposing and libellous in equal parts.”

Éomer looked thoroughly surprised. He put her robe, that he was still holding, aside. “Before I draw – once again – the wrong conclusion from your words, perhaps you had better illuminate me.”

Lothíriel didn’t need any time to reflect on what she was going to say. Usually it was as easy for her to follow a sudden train of thought, as it was to follow a brightly lit corridor. She just had to concentrate and not let herself get distracted by Éomer’s close proximity.

“Of course it is justified and understandable that the people of a land desire the certainty that the heir to their land is of the royal blood line,” she set out to explain. “That is basically the reason why women of noble ancestry in general are supposed to go untouched into a bond: to guarantee the parentage of the children they are going to give birth to. But who, if not the man involved, should have the most interest in the legitimacy of his heir and any other children? So why not just take his word that his bride was a virgin. Why has it to be acknowledged by anyone outside of their union? Do you not regard it as an insult to your honour that in this matter your word will not be accepted?”

Éomer, who had listened to her exposition with a look of mingled fascination and amusement on his face, seemed slightly startled when she addressed the question, which was obviously not meant as a rhetorical one, to him.

“I have never viewed this subject in such a light. But I must admit there is quite some truth in your words.”

“Indeed,” she nodded; satisfied that she had apparently been understood. “And as the female part one feels exposed anyway in all a woman’s vulnerability.”

For an instant Éomer stared at her in astonishment, giving the impression that he had genuine difficulties in absorbing her last words. “You feel vulnerable to me?” he asked incredulously. “As my wife?”

“As a woman I do not have your size, I do not have your strength and I do not have your experience. Do you not think that is reason enough to feel vulnerable when you have to consummate the bond for the first time? A woman has to surrender, to be taken and it is she who bleeds when her body is invaded, not the man. And on top of everything the evidence of it will be flaunted. That is not only exposing, that is humiliating.”

“Lothíriel, please.” Éomer got up from the bed, ploughing his fingers vehemently through his hair. “Listening to you one would gain the impression that I have forced myself upon you.” He rubbed his temples. “Excuse me, but in my recollection you enjoyed our lovemaking. I have the marks from your nails on my shoulders and they are not defensive scratches.”

“Oh.” She felt her cheeks grow hot and almost habitually took refuge in a pragmatic approach. “I am sorry. Perhaps I’d better disinfect them.” She fumbled for her robe with the intention of getting some spirits from her small healer’s chest she had found last evening in the chamber. But Éomer intercepted her, dropping down on the edge of the bed and catching both of her wrists.

“Forget the scratches!” he ordered exasperated. “Would you mind explaining what you meant by ‘you have to surrender your body to be taken’?”

“Well, not that that statement makes the matter any less confusing, but I think I had better be relieved.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm.

“Éomer.” She tugged at her wrists and he let her go. Now she caught one of his hands with both of hers and raised it to her lips, the way he used to do it. “Your lovemaking is pleasurable.” She frowned. Proper diction was important. “Very pleasurable, actually. And I gladly surrendered my body to you because I trust you and I love you. But that is not the point.”

“Then enlighten me about what the point is.” His other hand circled the nape of her neck, fingers buried in her wildly tousled hair. With his thumb he pushed gently under her chin, tilting her face slightly so that she was obliged to meet his eyes. “I am afraid as soon as you begin to elucidate any of your trains of thought my brain gets highly confused – even overtaxed - and refuses to follow you.”

She searched his face. In his eyes she saw the impatience he felt, maybe even with himself because he didn’t seem able to grasp what she was trying to give him an understanding of. At the same time she sensed his willingness to comprehend something he had probably never wasted a second thought on. She gave a tiny sigh. Perhaps it was, in fact, her. She had been told before by other people that her way of thinking was slightly different and tended to make things more complicated. Not that she saw it that way. It was probably a matter of perspective. But now Éomer definitely wanted an explanation.

“You know certainly better than I,” she began, “that as the royal couple we are going to live our life under the scrutinizing eyes of a great many people. If we choose to acknowledge it or not, they are going to watch us, judge us and gossip about us.”

Éomer pushed an indefinable noise out through his nose. “I may have to remind myself of that at frequent intervals, but it is not a fact that is likely to slip my mind on a permanent basis. It seems that nowadays I cannot sneeze without everybody within a radius of ten leagues learning about it.”

“And the only retreat we will have, where we will be allowed something resembling privacy, is this.” She pointed with her forefinger down onto the bed. “I know I am expected to provide an heir for Rohan who will be begotten in it.” Her eyes darted to the rug in front of the hearth. “Most likely,” she added, not missing Éomer’s quick grin. It wasn’t much of a smile, just a faint lifting of the corners of his firm mouth. “You may feel this is ridiculous and I am making too much of it, acting just petulantly, but having to put out the bloodstained sheet or quilt on display is just one step short of having had somebody watch me . . . us whilst . . . .” Her train of thought made another leap. “And the whole matter is utterly pointless as there is no guarantee that this is actually my blood or at least my virginal blood. It could come from a deliberately self-inflicted cut. So in the end it is down to our word anyway.”

Lothíriel fell silent, aware that she was suddenly waiting somehow anxiously for his response. She was afraid she had prattled again. It seemed she simply couldn’t overcome the temptation of trying to explain herself to him. She would have been better trying to understand him instead. A flash of uneasiness shot through her. She studied him cautiously.

She blinked when she found him gazing down at her in a most amused manner. “My dear wife, I think from now on I shall invite you to all my meetings with the Royal Council. You should not have a problem producing any number of arguments I might need to strengthen my case against those old men.”

Before Lothíriel had a real chance to decide if she should feel offended by his words which were put forward in a pretty jesting tone, or rather relieved that he saw a humorous side to her abstruse lecture, Éomer got up abruptly, grabbed her robe and let it fall into her lap.

He pulled the quilt from her grasp and crumpled it up. Surprised by his sudden action Lothíriel forgot for the moment to cover herself with the robe. Uncomprehendingly she watched Éomer carry the much-abused coverlet over to the hearth and only then did she realise his intention.

Without bothering to slip on the robe she bounded out of bed but it was too late. Her husband had just thrown the quilt into the flames. Taking the poker and pushing it deeper into the hearth, he glanced at her over his shoulder.

He turned around to watch with an appreciative expression the way she twisted her body in an effort to struggle into her robe.

“My expositions or objections were of the theoretical kind.” She finished tying the bow of her belt with a forceful yank.

“Well, I am not of the theoretical kind,” he replied. “I do not see any sense in exchanging or listening to arguments without getting down to actions in the wake of them.”

“You have been listening only to my arguments and not to possible counterarguments of those others involved, of those who are expecting to be presented with the proof of the bride’s virginity and the consummation of the bond. What are you going to tell them?”

“I am their king and not the head of some debating society. They will have to take my word. Our word.”

She looked doubtfully at the hearth where the quilt, which at first had nearly quenched the flames, but was now beginning to burn happily, the stuffing of fine goose-down having caught fire. When she had set out to define her position she certainly hadn’t expected this kind of result. Éomer was definitely not in favour of fuzzy theory. She should have guessed.

“No,” he interrupted at once, though he couldn’t have an inkling of what she was going to say. He stepped closer and framed her face tenderly with his calloused palms. “During the next months there will be a lot of pressure on you. The House of Eorl needs an heir and you are expected to bear him. And you will be under the scrutiny of so many people who will watch how you are going to adapt to life in Rohan, how the princess from Gondor will manage to become the Queen of the Riddermark.”

“I have known from the beginning that there would be those kinds of expectations.” Lothíriel touched Éomer’s wrist on either side of her face. “I understand it and I accept it.”

“But I am not sure if I should be relieved or rather worried that you are accepting that kind of pressure so willingly. Lothíriel, first and foremost I want you at my side and not a woman someone else thinks you should be. I do not want you to accommodate the wishes of others unchallenged because you feel it is your duty. There will be so many times when we have to subordinate ourselves to the demands of our station. I do not want to begin with a matter that, already – as you argued quite rightly - makes no sense and is nothing more than an absurd, handed-down custom.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Never doubt that your well-being will always be of the utmost importance to me.”

She parted her lips to tell him how much she appreciated his solicitousness but the words never formed. Éomer’s mouth was somehow in the way, cutting them off before they could form. Her arms encircled his neck and she reminded herself to take a deep breath through her nose to avoid getting once more short-winded because of a kiss.

There was a smell. Her brain, solely occupied with taking in the pleasure of his caressing lips, only belatedly caught on and registered the nature of the smell. It was the pungent odour of charred wool. She opened her eyes and over Éomer’s shoulder she saw that the rug in front of the hearth was on fire. Before she had the chance to react Éomer released her so abruptly from his arms that she staggered a couple of steps backwards. She heard him swearing in Rohirric. By now she had enough experience of listening to those sorts of diatribes as to be able to easily identify them for what they were.

It seemed, that with going up in flames, the crumpled quilt had unfurled and partly fallen out of the hearth, setting light to the very rug they had made love on the night before.

With a fast reaction Éomer had grabbed the end of the rug that was not burning and pushed it over the licking flames, trying to beat out the fire. Whilst Lothíriel was still considering if it made sense to empty the large pitcher from the wash stand over the whole mess, her husband had already smothered the flames and stuffed the quilt back into the hearth, this time making sure that it stayed inside.

Lothíriel stepped closer, throwing a glance at the still slightly smouldering heap which just a moment ago had been an artfully woven rug. “It is ruined, I am afraid,” she remarked. Her bare toes came in contact with the cold floor tiles and she hastily retreated back onto the rug she had been standing on.

Lothíriel blinked but quickly picked herself up. “You burnt the quilt and the rug,” she stressed, jabbing a finger towards him. “And in that connection nearly burnt down this chamber.” She took a sniff. “At least you impaired it with a ghastly odour.”

“That is just from the scorched wool. The chamber only needs a thorough airing. It would be best to get it done right away, before any of your clothing takes on the stench.”

Without any forewarning he reached for her and, scooping her up in his arms, he carried her over to the door which connected with the King’s bedchamber.

“We have to instruct Ælfgyth to clean out this mess and air your chamber. In the meantime you can take your bath.”

He was going to carry her into his chamber where probably servants were still busy with the preparation of the bath.

“I have not seen any around. Better to put your arms around my neck and cease fidgeting.”

He held her easily with one arm whilst he unbolted the door and pushed it open, carrying her over the threshold. As she had assumed there were servants in the large room, which occupied the entire ground floor of the south western corner tower. A huge four-poster of carved wood and with dark green drapes dominated it.

When Éomer entered the chamber, the housekeeper of Meduseld and two young serving wenches turned towards him. Recognizing the load he was carrying, unmistakable grins appeared on the latter’s faces. That was mortifying. Lothíriel did her best to fight back the warmth in her cheeks and made an unsuccessful effort to cover her leg which had been left bare by the slipping robe. And she preferred not to give a thought to the state of her hair.

Ælfgyth managed without any obvious sign to usher the other two women out of the chamber, but the door had not even closed behind them when they could be heard bursting out in giggles. Lothíriel sighed, but would rather have ground her teeth. It appeared that she had just begun her life as a queen in a not exactly dignified manner, thanks to her husband.

“My Lady Queen, good morning.” The housekeeper bowed to her as if she were standing in front of her in her regal apparel.

“Good morning, Mistress Ælfgyth.” At least she could always rely on her voice. The tone of composure, that was instilled long ago, never abandoned her.

Éomer sat her down on his bed and turned towards the housekeeper, apparently unaware that his wife was highly tempted to punch him once again and was only refraining from doing so because she had learnt by now that it was rather unlikely for her to be able to inflict any real pain on him. Except, perhaps, if she hit him with something heavy. But then she might not be able to lift a suitable object high enough to cosh him with it.

“You had a mishap,” Lothíriel couldn’t help herself correcting him, pondering the merits of hemlock.

Éomer looked at her over his shoulder and flashed her one of his spine-tingling grins. He turned back to the housekeeper who had to be admired for not even batting an eyelid.

“I had a mishap,” he continued. “The Queen’s chamber has to be cleaned and aired, as quickly as possible, meaning at once.”

“Very well, my Lord, I will see to it.” Ælfgyth managed to keep her voice perfectly neutral. She looked at her queen. “My Lady, your bath is ready. Do you wish me to send for Winfrith?”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to answer but Éomer forestalled her. “Not right now.” She closed her mouth again with an audible click of her teeth.

“Very well, my Lord,” the older woman said once again. This time there was a hidden but definite smile in her voice. She bowed and left the chamber through the connecting door to see for herself what needed to be done in the other room. Éomer followed her and Lothíriel could hear him speaking to the housekeeper in their mutual tongue.

What was it about Éomer that one moment he could be considerate and mindful, and the next patronizing, treating her like an imbecile and moving her around like a chattel?

She slid off the bed and made her way behind the screen, which was the same kind as the one that shielded the washing facilities in her chamber. The copper bathtub she found was bigger than the one in the other room; no wonder, as it had to accommodate a larger body. It was filled with hot water, but there was enough capacity left to take a couple of buckets more. It seemed they had interrupted the servants in their task. Another three big steaming casks stood on the floor. Lothíriel decided to pour the remaining water from the wooden buckets into the tub, as she liked to have the bathing water up to her neck.

With the help of her belt she secured her hair into an unruly bun on top of her head, slipped off her robe and stepped into the bath, easing herself into the hot, soothing water. This was better than just good. She stretched contentedly and closing her eyes, she rested her head on the edge of the tub. She exhaled slowly, a long, satisfied sigh of relief. This was precisely what her weary muscles needed.

Lothíriel’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Éomer’s dark, lazy voice. She found her husband smirking down at her. He had once again caught her off guard. Rohan’s King seemed to have a rare talent for sneaking up on one like a big cat on an unsuspecting bird. What was it again that Amrothos had explained to her about cats and birds?

Before she could think of an appropriate remark she saw him untying the belt of his robe.

“What do you intend doing?” she asked, although she had forebodings about what was going to happen.

“I am taking a bath,” he announced whilst removing the robe and throwing it over the screen.

“Nonsense,” he replied casually. “You are not taking up that much space.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently forward.

It was too late. He had already stepped into the tub and settled down behind her and all the additional water she had poured earlier into the tub slopped over the edge in a cascade, flooding the floor and soaking all the surrounding rugs and skins that were covering the cold tiles.

Lothíriel stared at the deluge, blinking. Somewhere in the back of her mind she calculated how many bucketfuls of water Éomer’s body had just displaced. In all probability exactly the three she had added. How could they feel bothered by the gossip around them when they so freely delivered all the nourishment the gossipmongers could wish for? First they had set fire to the Queen’s Chamber and now they had flooded the King’s Chamber. There was no reason to believe that the servants in Rohan were that much different from the servants in Gondor. No doubt, they would happily spread the tale all over Edoras with lightning speed.

An arm wrapped around her midsection and she was pulled back against a hard chest.

“You were right,” Éomer stated unconcernedly. “There was too much water in the tub.”

Lothíriel relaxed reluctantly into the big, strong body behind her. Until last night she had not been accustomed to sharing a bed with another human being, but had been aware that it was expected between husband and wife. But it had never occurred to her that she was supposed to share a bath. That was not only a new realisation but also a very new experience. A pleasant one, as all new experiences with Éomer so far had turned out to be. She had always savoured his embraces and had discovered last night that they were even more satisfactory when there were no clothes separating their bodies, when they were just skin-to-skin. She nestled closer and let her head sink back against his shoulder, closing her eyes pleasurably. Wet skin to wet skin was an even more sensual sensation. She gave a soft, husky sigh.

Éomer’s palms smoothed over her thighs, over her belly and the long fingers of one hand found their way to her breast, cupping it, shaping it and stroking gently. A wave of pure physical pleasure that had its origin in her toes moved through Lothíriel. Éomer dropped light, unbelievingly tantalizing kisses on her temple and behind her ear. His teeth closed lightly around her earlobe and her belly went taut at this caresses.

“Do you have the slightest notion how much I am tempted to lock us into this chamber for the foreseeable future?” he murmured in his most alluring purr.

Lothíriel’s non-suppressible pragmatism assumed command over her tongue before her brain had the chance to intervene. She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut and tilting her head far backwards over Éomer’s shoulder. She felt the vibrations caused in his chest by the fit of laughter that had seized him. He kissed her exposed throat and then caught her chin between his fingers, tipping it, turning her face so he could look into her eyes.

“At some point in my life I must have done something right; something good; something some deity now wishes to reward me for. And I have been given the most precious and most unpredictable reward a man can desire.”

He turned her around so that she faced him. It was somehow disconcerting how easily he was able to move her and furthermore this position was slightly uncomfortable, causing a hollow-back. But she got quickly distracted from any inconvenience. Éomer’s hand smoothed her hair out of her damp face.

He covered her mouth and kissed her thoroughly. Before her mind went blank as it usually did at this stage, Lothíriel remembered something and pulled back.

“As I said, my Lady, always at your service,” Éomer assured her. He gathered her closer and grinned down at her beguilingly. “And there is something else which is going to get better with more practice.”

This was love at first sight, love everlasting: a feeling unknown, unhoped for,

Éomer pulled the door of his chamber shut behind him and, leaning his back against it, he finally allowed himself an audible chuckle. It was truly impressive how many arguments Lothíriel could produce when she set her mind to it and her brain to work. He wondered if she was simply able to come up with all those reasons just like that, or if she had truly given the matter profound consideration beforehand.

According to her explanation, riding came only seventh on the list of tasks she felt she had to tackle in her new station as Queen of the Riddermark. Had she really made such a list or was she just trying to prevaricate? Obviously not. She had been able to rattle through all the other deeds, ticking off the points on her fingers, without having to think about them. No doubt, Lothíriel believed in ‘be prepared’. And she certainly didn’t like it when somebody tampered with her planned agenda.

She had definitely not approved of his suggestion to Winfrith that the handmaiden should choose a riding-habit for her queen this morning. An amazingly fierce glare from those beautiful fawn eyes had told him that she strongly objected to him meddling in what she probably considered a rather female affair. But she also had a pretty good idea why he particularly wished her to wear such a outfit; meaning that he had taken note of her earlier reasoning but had no intention of conceding to it. It was advantageous that her upbringing as a proper Gondorian princess prevented her from emphatically expressing her displeasure with his – admittedly – heavy handed conduct in front of her handmaiden and within earshot of the other servants who were busy in the adjoining chamber.

It was just a question of how long propriety would maintain predominance over the temper that lay hidden under that polished mantle of serenity and poise. And it was there. A woman did not respond to a man’s lovemaking the way Lothíriel had responded to him last night without a true fervid temper simmering inside her, just waiting to erupt. She might not know yet what to do with it; she might not even know yet that she possessed it, but he had sensed it as early as the day he had kissed her the first time. On that day her reaction had surprised him; the depth of her sensuality combined with her pure innocence. Back then, he had realised that her response to him must have frightened her. No wonder, as it must have contradicted all the moral values and the sense of decency she had been brought up to comply with.

But the same values – or Lothíriel’s very own interpretation of them - now told her that she didn’t have to hold back anything from her husband in any way. Physically she had – after her initial nervousness - responded to him with abandon, and he was far from complaining. What sane man would?

He had known she was a thinker, but the examples he had been given last night of the range of her train of thoughts had eventually surprised him. He had an inkling that in the future he had better always be prepared to be permanently confronted with a wealth of ideas. Not that he would complain about that either. He could hardly wait to watch her dealing with Aldhelm or to watch her dealing with her new people. After a few months of getting accustomed to each other, the Rohirrim would find themselves unquestionably in the palm of their queen’s hand. Who could withstand that unique blend of wisdom and innocence, of grace and heart? And of a stubbornness that rivalled any mule. They would not know what had hit them, but then: why should they fare better than their king?

Éomer pushed himself away from the door and made his way along the corridor. He assumed that their guests would be found in either the Great Hall, where the morning repast would have been provided, or that he would find Aragorn and Imrahil in his study where they had normally met when the Dúnedain had stayed in Edoras during the past summer.

Just a moment before he opened the door to the hall, someone must have drawn aside the wall hanging that covered it from the other side and now ran blindly into him, apparently his visual faculty temporarily limited because of the different lighting in hall and corridor.

“Arrg,” the figure grunted and stumbled against the wall where he found an obviously needed support.

Éomer nearly echoed the groan when he realized who it was that – with some effort – had managed to stay on his feet.

Rohan’s King looked slightly baffled at the youngest Prince of Dol Amroth. Usually the latter’s tone of voice was chosen to irritate but he had never heard Amrothos sounding so irritable. He would have expected that – especially in context with the tenor of his question - from Elphir.

“I did not asked how she is, I asked where she is,” Amrothos corrected him impatiently. He appeared to have difficulties with standing upright unsupported and was unable to stifle another groan. And his voice sounded somehow as if his tongue had become bloated.

Éomer’s lips slowly twisted into a gleeful grin. “You have got a hangover.”

“Yes,” Amrothos hissed painfully, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. He groaned again, “This is one of those days that common sense teaches us are best spent lying in bed.”

“That is probably the reason why you are here and not in your bed,” the Rohír remarked unsympathetically.

A pair of eyes, which until this moment had been squeezed tightly shut, snapped open and although they were bloodshot their gaze reminded Éomer very much of that of a fox, sharp and with a savvy shrewdness. Imrahil’s youngest son was a lot of things, mainly of the bothersome kind, but above all he was annoyingly astute, no matter how much spirit he might have poured into himself.

“So, how is Lothíriel this morning?” Amrothos asked, having found his vexing tone of deliberate innocence again.

“Is that an educated guess, or did she declare it explicitly?” Amrothos demanded, the most guileless expression on his face, which he managed despite the fact that he must be suffering from a severe headache.

Éomer threw him a disgusted look. “I have not the slightest intention of discussing the subject with you.”

“Very well,” the other man gave in amiably. “I will ask my sister later.”

The utmost probability that he would get a truthful answer from Lothíriel caused Éomer to wonder what he could do to keep this particular brother away from her. Some kind of red herring was needed to lure the fox away from the goose. He tried the simplest approach, hoping he would make a sufficient decoy to begin with and stepped around Amrothos onto the dais of the Great Hall. He was granted success. The prince followed him out through the door. Éomer made haste to close it behind him and let the wall hanging fall back over it.

Amrothos had once more squeezed his eyes shut, except for a slit, and held his hand against his forehead to shield them from the sunlight that poured through the high set windows into the hall. Éomer recognized that the sun was quite high in the sky. It must be later than he had estimated. Having Lothíriel in one’s arms could distract a man considerably.

He crossed the dais, which still housed the top table and found to his satisfaction that Amrothos followed him. He was slightly unsteady on his feet but the temptation to annoy Rohan’s King further probably proved to be simply too great.

“What did you want from my wife anyway?” Éomer asked, forcing himself to employ a conversational tone.

“As you so perceptively – and unsympathetically, I feel I should annotate - assessed just moments ago, I underestimated the potency of the different kinds of spirits I was encouraged to consume at your and my sister’s wedding feast last night by the poor example given by a dwarf and two hobbits. Or perhaps I might even have overestimated my ability to tolerate the amount of those spirits I carelessly supplied my person with. The result is an overall indisposition with an emphasis on head and stomach, and at this point of my exposition I would like to bring up my sister again, who is – as you certainly know, after all you have availed of it yourself – in possession of a wealth of knowledge as a healer, including such about the different kinds of herbs and potions which should be able to provide some relief from my current condition.”

Éomer had stopped and watched with fascination this newly imposed upon him brother, who no matter what his condition might be, was able to produce this verboseness without any obvious breathing problems.

“In other words,” he said wryly, “Gimli drank you under the table and now you want my wife to give you some remedy to counteract your hangover.”

“Well, you will have to wait until Lothíriel has dressed.” Éomer turned to continue towards his study with Amrothos following in his wake.

Éomer decided to ignore that remark. But there was some truth to it, at least to the fact that it had become rather late. The leftovers of the early meal, served every morning shortly after sunrise, had already been cleared away and whoever might have attended it had left the Great Hall. Only a few servants were still there, performing whatever their duties were.

Their king had crossed the dais and took the three stairs down to the main floor in a single step. Behind him he could hear the Prince overcome this hurdle considerably less light-footedly. Éomer had just reached the door to his study when Amrothos once more addressed him in his most courteous voice.

Putting his hand on the latch, the Rohír pushed it up, looking over his shoulder at the other man. “What situation are you talking about?” The moment the words were out of his mouth he was overcome by the feeling that he should have bitten back that particular question.

“How often before have you been about to meet up with the father and the brothers of the lady in whose bed you just spent the night?”

The inquiry, put forward with cordial presumptuousness, rooted him to the spot for a moment during which time the door swung open into the room behind it. Amrothos swept past him.

Taken by surprise and slightly dazed Éomer followed him to find his study appallingly crowded. Not only had somebody stored two large chests there, as he had already discovered the night he had returned from Aldburg - he had been informed, that they contained books belonging to the future Queen, well, now of the Queen - but there was also a disturbingly large number of people in the room. It was slightly annoying as he had begun to consider the room to be his personal retreat over the past months.

Gandalf sat in his chair behind the desk, with Aragorn and Imrahil casually leaning against it, having obviously been in conversation with the Istar. Around the large oval table which Éomer used for informal councils with his marshals and captains, not only the other two sons of the Prince of Dol Amroth had gathered, but also the two hobbits and, of course, Gimli and his elven companion. And, thanks to the announcement by Imrahil’s scion, everybody had stopped talking and they were now looking at him with – he probably only imagined this because of Amrothos’s intentionally impertinent remark – varying grades of expectancy in their gazes as if they waited for him to give a statement of affairs. He felt highly tempted to turn on his heels and disappear to a more pleasant location, preferably his bed chamber.

“Ha! There you are at last,” Gimli bellowed, his hand wrapped around a beaker of ale. “You certainly took your time.”

Éomer yielded to the inevitable and pushed the door shut behind him. He was fond of his friends, he truly was, but right now he calculated taciturnly how many more days he would have to accommodate the whole lot before he could begin to savour the unhindered togetherness with his new wife. Two more days of festivities and then within a week everybody should be gone.

Before he had the chance to offer his guests his greetings, his dwarfish brother-in-arms rumbled on. “So, how was it?”

This question of – undoubtedly – genuine interest provoked a variety of choked noises and even stifled laughs from the Hobbits . . . and a scandalized glare from Prince Elphir which did not impress the Master of Aglarond in the least. If he took any note of it at all. His entire attention was concentrated on the King of Rohan who decided that this was an absolutely ridiculous situation and deserved to be treated as such.

“Educational,” he stated laconically and made his way across the room to have a closer look at the chests. He could downright feel the bewilderment caused by his answer.

“I would have expected nothing less from your wife,” Gandalf remarked with a satisfied undertone as if one of his pronouncements had just found its corroboration. But nobody had the chance to respond to the wizard.

“Educational?” Gimli repeated. “How can a wedding night be educational for the man? He is not supposed to need any more education in that field.”

Éomer wondered if there were words for tactfulness or subtlety in Khuzdul. He took a seat on one of the chests.

“Well, I learnt quite a bit about the flora and fauna around the palace of Dol Amroth.”

That comment drew the attention of the male members of his newly acquired kin, although Elphir did give the impression that he wouldn’t mind very much if something drastic were to happen that would rid him of his brother-in-law. Imrahil, on the other hand, took everything with his customary equanimity and humour.

“I would have never guessed that Lothíriel was overly interested in the flora and fauna of the coast.”

“I am not quite sure if the animals and plants she acquainted me with are natives of Belfalas.” Éomer looked across the room where Amrothos had found himself a seat next to Erchirion. “In fact, she gave an interesting account of a certain behaviour pattern pertaining to giant tortoises.”

He couldn’t help but feel some kind of respect for the quick-wittedness of Lothíriel’s two younger brothers. They caught on at once; the influence of the spirits he had overindulged himself with was apparently without a serious impact on Amrothos’s memory. Both princes froze for an instant, their gazes locked, and then Erchirion got up abruptly, suddenly having found something interesting to watch outside the windows. His shoulders were shaking ever so slightly. Amrothos forgot all good manners and let his head sink down on his arms which he had crossed on the table in front of him. That earned him a condemnatory frown from his eldest brother whilst Imrahil looked at his offspring contemplatively before he turned his gaze towards Éomer.

“Giant tortoises,” Éomer corrected, “and also about a boa with the name of Denethor and some carnivorous plants.”

“Carnivorous plants?” That particular part of his sister’s extraordinary collection seemed to take even Imrahil by surprise. “Where did she get those from?” He directed his question towards his heir.

“How am I supposed to know?” Elphir replied, apparently irritated and resigned in equal measures. “It was probably from the same source that provided her with the tarantulas.”

“Tarantulas?” Pippin squeaked. “You mean giant spiders? You keep them in the palace of Dol Amroth?”

That sounded as if the Hobbits might reconsider accepting the invitation that had been extended the other day for them to spend the summer as guests of the Prince of Dol Amroth.

“Not giant spiders; big spiders,” Amrothos reassured him, having recovered himself, “and only about a dozen. Actually, I always found the big, hairy variety of them quite cuddlesome.”

Aragorn came over to join his Rohirric friend, settling down next to him on the chest. Both listened in silence to the flaring dispute on whether arachnids could be described as cuddly or even should be kept as pets.

“A boa named Denethor?” the High King finally murmured. “Éomer, you have married into a rather interesting family.”

“Well, you should know that better than I,” the Rohír replied in a low voice. “After all, they kept you and your wife company at your evening meals quite often, as you told me, with the consequence that those gatherings turned out to be very lively. I think that I now get the idea what you meant when you said that.”

“Indeed.” Aragorn chuckled and slanted his friend a look, bordering a smirk. “You should really meet the Princess Ivriniel one day. She is a . . . remarkable lady.”

“You met her when you and Arwen travelled around the southern feoffs in the autumn?”

The Dúnadan nodded with a grin. “Arwen was favourably impressed by the daughter of Adrahil . . . after she had overcome being thoroughly bewildered.”

“The Princess cannot be worse than Amrothos,” Éomer alleged – prematurely, he began to fear when he did not receive a confirmation. “She can?” he asked disbelievingly. He decided it was time to change the subject.

“From your letters I have gathered that your visit to the feoffs south of the Ered Nimrais was a success?”

“Indeed,” Aragorn affirmed contently. “It went very well, just as Imrahil had predicted. The lords may not be pleased with the fact that the times have changed. They would have preferred that the King had only returned to rid them of the threat of Mordor. Having done my deed they would rather see me gone again. But it is different with the common people. They feel freed from generations of long acquaintance with uncertainty and instability. There is not much the lords can do to oppose their acknowledgement of the kingship, their hopefulness for a better, safer future. And they feel that from now on they will be taken care of by their king and no longer neglected.”

“Speaking of the expectations and trustfulness people tend to put into one person.”

“We are not on our own anymore, Éomer. We both have good men on our side who will support us and provide advice and guidance. And we have our wives.”

Éomer couldn’t suppress a smile that demonstrated very clearly that it was more than unlikely that he would forget about his wife. “There is only a difference between our wives in the form of nearly three thousand years of experience,” he reminded his friend.

“That is what she told me also, and I do not. Quite the contrary. I fear that sooner rather than later she will have gained a lot of the experience she might still be lacking at the moment and then I am the one who is going to have problems keeping up with her.”

“Indeed!” the High King remarked dryly, his smile deepening to an amused grin whilst he watched the Prince of Dol Amroth and his three sons. “Our friend Imrahil has produced a remarkable quartet of progeny. Each one by him or herself is quite unique.”

“Perhaps you had better not pass on my words,” Éomer suggested, his exasperated tone interlaced with a good portion of irony, “but I feel Middle-earth could have done without the eldest and youngest princes of Dol Amroth.”

“I have to admit that Prince Elphir is not the most charming of his contemporaries,” Aragorn agreed with a faint smile, “but I cannot deny his great abilities as an administrator. And he is as loyal to the crown as his father; as all of the family. It is good to know Belfalas is in his capable hands whilst Imrahil spends most of his time in Minas Tirith as the one of my advisers I rely most upon.”

“As long as Elphir stays in Dol Amroth,” the Rohír muttered more to himself, “I can live with the knowledge of his existence. I would just prefer not to be reminded too often of it.”

“I think Elphir’s only problem is that he has yet to be convinced that you are the right husband for his sister,” the Dúnadan noted, his tone somehow not overly convincing. “You are the last who should be unable to comprehend his attitude.”

“So what?” Deciding to ignore the last remark, Éomer glanced across the room, wondering if the heir of Dol Amroth had been born with that glum expression plastered all over his features. “Do you expect me to go to the trouble of proving that to him? Lothíriel is my wife now. Why should the hapless disposition of that crabber bother me?”

“It is not I who expect you to make peace with him,” Aragorn pointed out, “but presumably your wife.”

The face Rohan’s King pulled reminded one very much of that of a man with a severe toothache. “That is indeed to be feared. I have already been informed - in no uncertain terms - that the new Queen of the Riddermark is very fond of her brothers. Although that seems to refer, first and foremost, to that inebriated pain in the neck.” He pointed with his chin towards Amrothos who appeared to have become more and more sensitive to the noises surrounding him. He looked rather pale and had the palm of a hand pressed against his forehead, wincing whenever Gimli chimed in the general conversation. “For some unfortunate reason Lothíriel considers him her confidant,” Éomer explained, looking pained.

“I am afraid she takes most things he says literally. And he knows it. In my opinion Erchirion is all the brother she needs.”

“I admit he is the one of Imrahil’s sons whose indisputable talents are most conspicuous.”

“You must feel confident regarding his abilities. Otherwise you would not have appointed him as your envoy to the southern feoffs.”

“We have agreed – that is the Royal Council and myself – that it is advisable to keep a constant eye on those vassals and make certain that they are aware of it. Erchirion proved that he knows quite well how to deal with disobedient liegemen when he organized the provisions for Rohan. He has no problems putting the thumbscrews on somebody – with an engaging smile on his face.”

Éomer grinned. “I doubt that Faramir would resort to such a measure, no matter the circumstances.”

“His cousin is characterised by less reluctance. Erchirion believes in adapting the means to the ends. And he knows the southern lords much better than your brother-in-law. Furthermore, Faramir has enough on his hands with the re-colonisation of Ithilien. He is already talking about rebuilding Osgiliath. That is a task more to his liking and more in the realms of his vocation.”

“Then all you have to do is to find a deed for the one of Imrahil’s sons whose dubious talents are best camouflaged.” Éomer laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder, looking at him with deliberate urgency. “You would do the rest of the world a great favour if you kept him occupied.”

“You feel Prince Amrothos is up to taking on a task of some importance?” Aragorn asked guilelessly.

Éomer’s brows came together in a sharp line. His instincts told him that he was just being led into a trap, but he couldn’t think what kind of ambush had been laid out for him.

“He might be a menace, but he is a highly intelligent menace,” he said cautiously, watching his friend through suspiciously narrowed eyes. But the Dúnadan gave the impression of a man whose attention had just been grabbed. “I suppose all that has to be done is to see to it that the capacity of his brain is steered towards a meaningful task, instead entirely on finding ways of getting on other people’s nerves.”

“I am in complete agreement with that assessment,” Aragorn said in a tone of deep satisfaction. “Actually, Imrahil and I hoped that you would be the one to find such a meaningful task for him.”

Éomer stared at him for a moment, utterly speechless. “You . . . ,” he finally managed to mutter under his breath. “You mean . . . ME?”

The last syllable came out with so much force that its sound virtually echoed inside the restrictions of the four walls surrounding them. All conversations came to an instant halt and nine pairs of eyes attached themselves to the figures of the two kings, who – until now – had talked to each other in low and quiet voices. Éomer decided to ignore the sudden attention his famously resonant voice had caused.

“Could it be that you and Imrahil also did too much justice to the wine last night?” he growled accusingly.

His friend gave no sign of visible repentance, only an innocent smile. “We already discussed it at some length on our way to Edoras. You know how it is; long nights round the campfire.”

“You truly must have spent too much time in confined spaces if less than a dozen nights under the open sky gives you an idea like that.” He got up abruptly, not caring that everybody in the room was watching them now, listening with utmost interest. “The answer is ‘no’, Aragorn.”

“The question does not matter. The answer stays the same. I’d rather offer sanctuary to a herd of Mûmakil.”

Bema, what could it have been he had done to his friends to deserve an assault of this kind? He certainly sympathised with everybody who tried to get rid of Amrothos but there was no way they would just dump him on Rohan. Why not somewhere east? Far east!

“Do you not think it would be much easier for your wife to settle in if she had a familiar face in her vicinity?”

Damnation! Aragorn had been spending too much time with Imrahil and his family; otherwise this guileless expression and the lulling tone of persuasion could not be explained.

“The very last person east of Belegaer I want in Lothíriel’s vicinity is that brother of hers.” He tried really hard to keep his voice down. After all, he had no desire to offend his father-in-law . . . although nobody in his right mind should be affronted by the mere truth, especially when said truth applied to that double-trouble incarnate.

By way of an exception some deity must have decided to be on the side of Rohan’s ruler in this matter. Before Éomer had the chance to say anything he might later regret – or at least feel disconcerted about – the door opened and Lothíriel took a couple of steps into the room. Setting eyes on the obviously unexpected number of people crowding the study she came abruptly to a halt. She blinked in surprise when, quite unprepared, she found herself the centre of the attention, everybody in the room rising to bow their respects to the Queen of Rohan.

Éomer had long ago discovered that his wife wasn’t inherently more of a stickler for protocol than he himself, but she had, of course, learnt it from the cradle and took refuge in it whenever she felt it suited her. For instance, to cover a momentary self-consciousness. Remarkably, she managed somehow to make eye contact – just for the split of a moment – with every single one in the room she had included in her general words of greetings; even according to the correct hierarchy. She then had a precisely befitting smile for Legolas, who gallantly stepped forward to close the door behind her, but that was how far any effort regarding the correct protocol went, as Amrothos could no longer keep a pressing question for his sister to himself.

Éomer wondered why he wasn’t surprised that Lothíriel didn’t show a hint of bewilderment as to the unexpectedness of this inquiry.

“Because usually I am wearing skirts without breeches underneath.” She gathered the split skirt of her riding dress, drawing attention to this particular detail of her outfit. “And it is such a nuisance always having to keep them from crawling up your bare legs.” She glanced at her husband with a slight frown between her delicately arched eyebrows, “We are not having any overgrown spiders here at Meduseld, are we?”

Éomer decided to ignore the choked laugh coming from the – supposed to be dignified – High King of Gondor.

“Not to my knowledge,” he murmured distractedly. Suddenly he was overcome by the need to pull her into his arms. It had been much too long since he had felt her against him. But there were definitely too many people in this room, forcing him to exercise restraint.

Something about Lothíriel looked different this morning. Never having given female attire much thought it took him a moment to comprehend that so far he had seen her only wearing varying shades of blues or greys. He couldn’t really remember any details of her wedding dress other than the colour and that she had looked simply stunning in it. This morning’s riding dress made her appear very much unlike the cool and untouchable bride. Scarlet suited her dark hair and fair skin. Inwardly he had to congratulate Winfrith, who had in all probability chosen the garb. As far as he was able to judge Lothíriel showed only a passing interest in such matters. But then: the most beautiful people were the ones who didn't know it.

The handmaiden must have guessed what he had planned for his wife later today. There was not much one could keep undisclosed in Edoras. And the young woman had chosen well. The crimson colour would portray an image of the new Queen the Rohirrim were unlikely to forget too quickly.

Thanks to Amrothos’s unconventional greeting, the moment of awkwardness the bride might have experienced by finding herself under a certain scrutiny - however unintentional - after her wedding night had been weathered and Lothíriel’s attention was drawn to the chests somebody had felt it to be reasonable to store in the King’s study.

“Are those my books?” she asked, clearly delighted to have located another item of her possessions. Smiling slightly absent-mindedly at her father she stepped around the desk, acknowledging Gandalf with a distracted nod and began to fiddle about with the massive lock of the first coffer.

Aragorn slanted Éomer a look, unable to keep the sparkle of amusement from his face. Lothíriel’s tendency to single-mindedness was hard to miss. “Let me help you, my Lady,” he offered.

“Thank you, my Lord.” She made room for him and Gondor’s King pushed the bolt back without any difficulty and lifted the vaulted lid. The interior was filled up to the rim with leather bound books.

Éomer’s head swung around. Being focused on his wife he had missed Amrothos coming up next to him. The Prince managed to grant him a sweet smile before he grimaced once more in pain. But apparently only the loss of his entire head would be able to bring a halt to his wagging tongue.

“You know, Lothíriel, with all those books to read you are certainly not going to run the risk of getting bored during long evenings.”

The Rohír pondered if he should do something about the two rows of perfectly set teeth in his brother-in-law’s mouth.

“These are all healers’ books,” Lothíriel explained without looking up. She was rummaging around in the chest. “I had them copied from those in the Houses of Healing over the last months. Ah, there it is,” she proclaimed pleased and pulled out a volume bound in well used, dark blue leather from amongst all the other tomes.

“Her journal,” Amrothos informed Éomer helpfully. “She takes notes about virtually everything new she learns and finds noteworthy. And she is truly talented when it comes to illustrating them with quite detailed little drawings.”

Éomer came to the decision that there was no point in being considerate any longer about the possible consequences of an imperatively needed action to shut up this human scabies. And his resolve to resort to something rather drastic must have shown because from the corner of his eye he saw a mildly alarmed expression on Aragorn’s face.

But whatever action and counteraction the two kings might have taken, they were forestalled by Rohan’s Queen, who finally found the time to inspect her brother more closely.

“You drank too much last night,” she stated with more than just a hint of disapproval.

“I am pleading guilty. I had hoped you had some potion for me to swallow, so that my head will cease to feel as if it were going to burst at any moment.”

“I can assure you it will not do so,” Lothíriel declared with unexpected pitilessness. “Go and get some fresh air. By tomorrow morning, at the latest, you should feel quite well again. Hangovers do not persist if you do not add fuel to them.” Éomer looked at her, favourably surprised. It appeared she had truly meant the ‘damn Amrothos’ during the wedding ceremony.

Obviously the Prince hadn’t expected his sister to refuse him her sympathy and certainly not to deny him her attendance as a healer. “Why do you not just give me – in addition to your good advice – whatever you took yourself to cure your last hangover?” he demanded in an exaggeratedly offended tone.

His words caused several pairs of eyes to settle on Lothíriel, not least her father’s. Éomer forgot his irritation with Amrothos for the moment.

“Your last hangover?” he asked his wife in an intensely curious tone. “You gave the impression that, due to the fact that wine does not agree with you, you prefer to abstain from drinking any spirits.”

“Regrettably I became aware of the fact after my only hangover,” Lothíriel said primly, slanting her brother a furious glance which should have made him suspicious about any herbal brew she might recommend him to take.

“May I ask when you felt it, for whatever reason, necessary to make your acquaintance with that experience?” Imrahil inquired mildly, the question in itself rather out of the ordinary as the ruler of Dol Amroth - to Éomer’s knowledge - hardly ever interfered with his offspring’s antics; at least not in public.

“That was last Úrimë,” he announced, looking straight at his brother-in-law, imitating his sister’s unconscious double-blink.

It was not the first time Éomer wondered if this prince had a death wish. But he understood quite well what Amrothos was trying to tell him. Last Úrimë he had sent his unfortunate proposal, and it had unsettled Lothíriel so much that she resorted to getting drunk. He gazed doubtfully over his wife’s slender form. It shouldn’t have taken too much wine. And he wondered if Aragorn hadn’t been mistaken when he singled out Elphir as the brother who was the least convinced about the right choice of husband for his sister. Amrothos was much less obvious and not easy to see through. Was he really just trying to provoke? Or rather: what was he trying to provoke?

But neither he nor Lothíriel, whose scowl left no doubt that she was indeed pretty annoyed by her presumably favourite brother, had to deal with those allusions right now. Imrahil didn’t take his eyes from his youngest son whilst he addressed his daughter.

“Lothíriel, my dear, why do you not recommend a suitable remedy for Amrothos and tell him where he can get it,” the Prince intervened with a perfectly neutral voice, “so we will be relieved of his presence for the time being?”

“Thank you, Father.” Amrothos’s engaging smile showed not a hint of remorse. “I am very much obliged.” He looked expectantly at his sister.

“Milk thistle, mugwort and lavender,” Lothíriel listed the appropriate herbs with a not to be missed unwillingness. “I am certain Mistress Ælfgyth will be able to provide you with those.”

“Thank you, sister dearest. I am very much obliged.” He turned to leave, but then hesitated, slanting her a glance from narrowed eyes. “You are not trying to poison me, are you?”

“That is a risk you have to take,” Rohan’s Queen informed him, in a voice as sweet as honey.

Amrothos just responded with a grin, although it was a bit lopsided. “I am off to the kitchen,” he announced to no-one in particular, causing Pippin to jump up from his chair like a beaten jerboa.

“I am with you,” the Hobbit declared. “It is high time to grab a bite to eat. My stomach grumbles so loud that I cannot follow any of the conversations anyway. Come on, Merry, make haste.” His cousin followed him willingly but with more composure.

“I will go with you, as well,” Gimli rumbled, taking the empty beaker and jug with him. “The air is too dry in here. My throat needs to be moistened. Are you coming, lad?” he boomed next to Prince Elphir’s ear, addressing his elven companion.

Legolas declined with one of his distant smiles. “I will meet you later, my friend.”

The dwarf stomped out of the King’s study in the wake of the others, slamming the door behind him shut with a deafening bang.

“It is fortunate that the Rohirrim’s method of construction is a rather stable one,” Gandalf remarked, his whimsical smile clearly revealing that he felt thoroughly entertained.

“It is also fortunate that the Rohirrim are known to have stable nerves,” Éomer stated wryly, and, taking the journal from his wife’s hands, he began to flick through it. “I am certainly in need of them this morning.”

“Having strong nerves is the basic requirement for being a parent,” Imrahil reflected, raising his brows at his grinning liege. “As you will experience very soon, my Lord.”

“My respite is going to last for another couple of months,” Aragorn replied good-humouredly. “And should I need any advice, Imrahil, I know I can always turn to you for help.”

“That would imply that you consider my efforts, regarding a decent upbringing of my offspring, as successful.”

“And you do not consider them so yourself?” Gandalf asked, undoubtedly relishing the conversation.

Éomer looked up from studying an indeed very detailed drawing of a slivered bone, glancing across the room at the eldest of Lothíriel’s brothers. This was the first time he had witnessed Elphir taking part in one of his siblings’ light hearted quips. Besides resembling Erchirion and Amrothos physically, there seemed after all to be some basic traits of character that even his normal grouchiness couldn’t conceal completely.

But he had no intention wasting time with musing about the quirks and mannerisms of the Princes of Dol Amroth. He had yet to get to know his wife and he had forebodings, not only since last night, that that would become in all likelihood an experience of the exceptional kind, even without the interference of this vexing triumvirate. In all honesty, he just wanted them gone as quickly as possible. Though Erchirion appeared to be quite at ease with his sister’s wedlock, you could never tell with that one. Right now he leant with crossed arms against the opposite wall, having contented himself to watching the entire spectacle with his customary shrewd, ever-amused gaze, which gave you the impression that he knew much more than anybody else.

Éomer definitely wanted Amrothos gone. He just hoped Aragorn had only tried to pull his leg when he earlier raised, out of nowhere, the issue of finding an occupation for that scallywag who, as far as he knew, had up until now led a life of idleness. Rohan still had more problems than the average hedgehog had fleas. There was no room for some bored prince bumming around, causing mischief whilst the Rohirrim had to overcome newly arising difficulties day after day. It was hard to understand how the same parents could have produced a daughter who was so determined to carry out her duty and be useful and a son who seemed to care only about . . . nothing.

He counted on Lothíriel’s irritation with Amrothos lasting long enough that Aragorn’s argument that the Queen of the Riddermark would find it easier to settle in her new home with a familiar person around would lose its validity.

And it was time that Lothíriel was made closer acquainted to her new people. It had been decided that they would take a walkabout through Edoras today, so that its citizens could meet their Queen face-to-face.

It was not a secret to Éomer that many of his kinsmen felt ambivalent about his choice of wife. On the one hand the unhesitating and dependable aid from Gondor during the winter months had won the favour of the Rohirrim who over the past decades had evinced dubiousness if not distrust for their southern neighbours. But on the other hand a queen from Gondor still meant for many in the Riddermark Morwen of Lossarnach. He was not certain if Lothíriel was aware of the unfortunate legacy his grandmother had left behind so many years ago. It was another issue that had to be raised between them soon, although he had no doubts that his wife would win over her new people as she had won over – unconsciously - all those men who had been in her care in the Houses of Healing.

The herdsmen had already spread their favourable tales all over the Eastmark, but then the dwellers of the eastern plains were unreservedly willing to trust their former Marshal’s faculty of judgement. The people of the Westmark would be the harder nuts to crack. When eventually the weather was improved, the journey safe and Lothíriel’s skills on horseback satisfactory, they would visit the settlements in the Westfold and those between the Rivers Adorn and Isen. Seeing and meeting her would turn Lothíriel from a vague figure to a woman made of flesh and blood.

Considering her curiosity for anything new, she would - with the utmost probability - embrace the idea of travelling the Mark. And, as a side-effect, it should provide incentive enough to push ‘riding’ well up her list of priorities.

He contemplated his wife appraisingly whilst she indulged in some lively chatter with Gandalf.

She had made it perfectly clear this morning that riding did not belong among her most favoured activities, rather she considered it a bothersome necessity. But she was not as hopeless as she had tried to convince him. He had seen her on that little chestnut. She had moved with the horse in a perfect natural unison. – Well, Lothíriel’s body always moved perfectly naturally, especially in unison with his. – All she needed was a replacement for her mare, more practice and above all she had to learn to concentrate on her horse and not let her thoughts wander at will.

Pertaining to the first, he had a surprise for her but also the suspicion that Lothíriel would not be overly taken with it. But only at the beginning; soon she would learn to appreciate it. He couldn’t imagine it to be otherwise.

He threw a last glance at the journal in his hands and frowned. That particular drawing looked like a smashed joint, decorated by a torn muscle. His wife had undoubtedly some peculiar talents. He snapped the leather bound journal shut.

She turned her attention from Gandalf to look up at him. She smiled, her large, grey eyes shining warmly. And Éomer felt very much tempted to make a proposal to retire to their chambers instead of the proposal to set out for their walk through Edoras. He held out his hand and she promptly put hers in it.

“Are you prepared to become closer acquainted with our people?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

“And will you do us the honour of accompanying us? Aragorn? Imrahil? And you Gandalf?”

“Oh, if you do not mind I will stay behind,” the Istar announced. “If my Lady, the Queen, does not object, I would like to have a look at her library.”

“Not at all. But those are without exception healers’ books,” Lothíriel warned him.

“Elphir and I will stay here as well,” Erchirion declared, leaving his observation post. “We have other plans.”

“We have other plans?” The heir of Dol Amroth regarded his younger brother with a dumbfounded glance.

“Yes, we have” Erchirion confirmed, short-spoken and without elaborating about his intentions.

“Indeed, you have,” Imrahil intervened. “And it is not necessary to change your plans.”

“I will search for Gimli. We might join you later down in the city.” Legolas bowed his greetings and left the King’s study.

“Shall we set off?” Éomer handed his wife’s journal to Gandalf, who again took his seat behind the desk, obviously looking forward to browsing through the books on offer.

“Where are we going to meet the citizens of Edoras?” Lothíriel inquired keenly whilst Éomer guided her out of the room, his hand in the small of her back. Simply touching her proved to be too great a temptation.

“We just start walking through the city. No particular course has been planned. We will talk to the people where we meet them.”

“Oh, yes, very much. Especially the joiners and the carpenters.” They had reached the Great Hall and Lothíriel made a sweeping gesture with both hands, covering all her surroundings. “I love those elaborate carvings.” She tipped her head backwards to look up at the pillars supporting the roof. “They are undoubtedly outstanding.”

“I am pleased to hear that.” Éomer smiled down at her, relishing her enthusiastic inquisitiveness. “Carving is some kind of common passion of the Rohirrim. Give any Rohír a knife and a piece of wood and he will start carving.”

“I hope with some artistic value,” Lothíriel teased. “Otherwise it would have been a total waste of resources in a land as short of woods as Rohan is.”

“There is no cure for your pragmatism, is there?” He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, ignoring the company of his father-in-law and the King of Gondor.

Éomer was overcome by a sudden feeling of frustration. There were constantly too many people in their vicinity.

Well, that one was definitely dispensable. On his personal list of the most annoying people he came closely behind Amrothos.

The bald man, his body but certainly not his spirit stooped by gout, shuffled in a hurry across the hall. He bowed his greetings to the Dúnedain.

“My Lord,” he addressed his king. “I gather you are setting out to introduce your queen to the people.” He didn’t give Éomer the opportunity to confirm this assumption. “Should that not be preceded by the presentation and inspection of the wedding sheet so that the bond can be validated?”

Éomer knew for certain that - although his kinsmen were known to be outspoken - there were words for tactfulness and subtlety in Rohirric. But it appeared that they did not belong to Lord Aldhelm’s closer vocabulary.

“There will be neither any kind of presentation or inspection nor is a validation of my bond to my wife necessary,” he declared tersely, turning away from the old man, trying to get this farce over and done with.

“But my Lord,” Aldhelm protested. “The tradition has to be respected. It has to be confirmed that the Princess was . . . ?”

If there was something to say about Lord Aldhelm with absolute certainty, then it was that he was imperturbable. But the tone of voice and the glare of his king would have caused even a fully-grown warg to put its tail between its legs and run. Involuntarily the old man took a step back, opening and closing his mouth like a fish on dry land.

Four pairs of eyes settled on the Queen of the Riddermark, showing different degrees of bewilderment. Lothíriel appeared to be totally unaffected by them.

“How are you treating your ailment?” she asked. And when Aldhelm failed to respond, she went on, “Have you ever tried a combination of a healing potion made from the fruits of the cedar tree and regular steam baths, enriched with the embers of the walnut root?”

“Well, we really have to discuss such a treatment quite soon. I am certain it will bring you great relief. Perhaps I will be able to find the time after Éomer King and I have returned from our visit to the city.” Lothíriel turned towards her husband. “Shall we go, my Lord?”

“By all means,” Éomer exchanged a look with Aragorn and Imrahil. Both had faint smiles on their faces. The High King moved his lips silently, but his friend was quite sure he knew what the soundless words were supposed to tell him. ‘Never underestimate her.’ Indeed, it would seem that Lothíriel had certain diplomatic skills at her command when she needed them. For example, like those needed to persuade a rude warrior to have his wounds treated.

“My sweet,” he murmured. “The Rohirrim are waiting for their Queen. And they will not be disappointed.”

The Doorwards, flanking the heavy gates of the Golden Hall stepped forward and pulled the carved wings open, bowing to the royal couple and their escort. Outside on the paved terrace Éomer was about to take a deep breath of fresh air and relief, but aborted his intention abruptly when he saw a figure lounging on the top step of the wide stairs. Amrothos was sitting there, nursing a large, earthen mug with some steaming liquid.

He threw sister and brother-in-law a short glance over his shoulder, then raised the mug high over his head and began without warning to declaim some obscure poetry . . . or something like that.

“Now he has completely taken leave of his senses,” Éomer informed his wife.

Lothíriel appeared to be only mildly bewildered by this unexpected outburst. “If I am not mistaken, he just quoted a piece of Berendirith, a famous Gondorian poet and playwright.”

“Did he indeed?” Éomer found once again his opinion confirmed that poetry did strange things to the human brain. “And is there any particular reason for doing so?” he inquired with all the forbearance he could muster.

“I just recited it because it addressed the four classical elements: fire, water, earth and air,” the Prince explained. “And if I correctly understood the tale that was spread about in the kitchen this morning, then after the fire and the flooding we had better be prepared to expect a landslide in your bedchambers.”

Éomer nearly sighed in resignation. How could he have assumed that the word would not make its round rather quickly, and he really shouldn’t be surprised that it made it to Amrothos’s ears first of all.

“Be grateful that insanity is not contagious,” he said acidly. “Otherwise I would have to place you under quarantine in the dungeons.”

“You have threatened me with the dungeons before.” Amrothos got to his feet in an amazingly sleek movement, considering his condition. “Do you remember the occasion? That was during a certain feast at Merethrond.”

Éomer did his best to keep a grip on his, once more, slipping temper. It appeared some deity was finding it amusing to subject him to a test of patience. “I can assure you the dungeons underneath Meduseld are even less comfortable than those in Minas Tirith.”

“Ah, yes.” The Prince remained unimpressed. “It is rumoured you had the opportunity to give them a try yourself.”

Rohan’s King caught his Gondorian counterpart failing in his attempt to restrain his laughter. Éomer gave his friend a look of mingled irritation and incredulity. This was getting ridiculous

“If you think,” he addressed Aragorn in the tongue of the Rohirrim, which earned him a frown from his wife, “that you can saddle the Mark with him, you are gloriously mistaken. Oslafa,” he called to one of the Doorwards, pointing at Amrothos, and changing back to Westron. “Keep him here, and if he tries to leave the Hall, hit him over the head.”

The man just bowed his understanding, the faceplate of his helmet concealing the expression on his face. Éomer wondered what he should make of Lothíriel and Imrahil refraining from comment.

The younger Prince raised his empty hand in a gesture of mock defeat. “I will bow to brute force. Power is the most persuasive rhetoric.”

Bema, to shut up this lunatic once and for all there was obviously no other choice but brute force.

Not caring about Aragorn and Imrahil, Éomer took Lothíriel by the elbow and half-dragged her down the high stairs to the city, but his wife managed to turn around to the Doorward.

“Do not hit him too hard,” she advised, a strange tone vibrating in her voice. “Head wounds tend to bleed excessively.”

Amrothos recited Horatio from “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark”. Berendirith is Sindarin and means resolute protector. In English that would be William.

Éomer had never thought it possible that one day he would learn quite so much about the making of barrels, casks and buckets and other similar wooden objects.

Although he had lived the greater part of his life in Aldburg, as a child and later as the Marshal responsible for the Eastmark, he had, from one point that he couldn’t even recall, begun to consider Edoras home. Perhaps because it was the place where he would find Éowyn, where he would meet up with Théodred and other friends whose duties deployed them all over the Mark. But his life as a rider had taken place between Meduseld and the stables, with visits to the blacksmith and the saddler to have the horses shod and weapons and equipment repaired. He had never paid much attention to the other craftsmen and this was the first time he visited the workplace of Gearwald, ‘ðe cýfwyrhta’.

He stayed in the background, making himself available in case any translation was needed. The cooper spoke only broken Westron, but that did not prevent Lothíriel persuading him to explain his craft to her in detail and having him answer unending questions. Right now Gearwald was acquainting her with the correct terms for the different barrels according to their respective size.

“That means for ale you make three different sizes of casks. Nine gallons fit into a firkin, eighteen into a kilderskin and thirty-six into a barrel,” Rohan’s Queen summed up the craftsman’s explanation whilst Rohan’s King began to wonder how they would ever make it to the actual destination of their walkabout before dark. It seemed that Lothíriel’s thirst for knowledge didn’t know any bounds. And when she had told him that she was interested in the different crafts she had meant it indeed.

At the carpenter’s workplace a pole lathe had aroused her curiosity and she had watched Ecgbehrt ‘ðe treowyrhta’ demonstrating it as well as the shave horse at work. And she had demanded to learn the Rohirric words for the vast array of tools in his workshop, silently repeating the difficult to pronounce syllables before storing them away in her memory. Finally she had viewed, with genuine appreciation, furniture and a selection of wooden artefacts created by the craftsman, who had appeared somehow overwhelmed by his new queen. Éomer contemplated that that could hardly be held against him. On their parting the carpenter presented Lothíriel with a beautifully carved casket. Aragorn, who had preferred to wait with Imrahil outside the cooper’s place, was carrying it at the moment and Éomer just hoped Master Gearwald wouldn’t feel it necessary to hand his queen a barrel, no matter what size.

It had started at the very beginning. It turned out that the curiosity between queen and people was mutual. The children had been especially nosey about the unfamiliar looking woman from a far away country and had not been able to resist her allure. Soon they had overcome their initial shyness. A little girl had broken the ice when she wordlessly held out a bundle of sadly crushed wild flowers. At least Éomer had thought that they were supposed to be flowers. To him they looked rather like something a goat had left over from its last meal.

But Lothíriel had accepted them with a radiant smile, as if the poor blossoms had been gold-plated, and had expressed her appreciation in words, none of which the little one had probably understood. But they had been acknowledged with a wide, toothless grin of utter delight. And from then on other children also wanted to bestow welcoming gifts on this beautiful young queen. Soon Lothíriel had been carrying an interesting collection of stones, carved roots, dried fruit, a hair ribbon, feathers and more dead plants in the pockets of her riding-gown. In front of Ecgbehrt’s place everything had been stored in the new casket under the watchful eyes of the swarm of youngsters following them around.

And all the while they had happily chatted with their queen, neither the children nor Lothíriel caring much about the fact that the other party hardly understood a word of what was said. Her easy and unaffected dealing with their offspring seemed to impress the citizens of Edoras favourably. Wherever they went, there were children trailing behind them and friendly and smiling people hailed the young noblewoman from the South.

Éomer was well aware that such unreserved openness from his kinsmen was by no means a matter of course. The past years had taught the Rohirrim vigilance and, unfortunately, suspicion against the outside world in general. Last summer during Théoden’s funeral they had met the many foreign guests, welcoming them, but with apparent restraint. Over the winter months their attitude towards Gondor and its people had improved for the obvious reason and he hoped that the words of their wedding vows, carefully chosen by him with the help of Gandalf, who had appeared to know what he wanted to achieve before he had even began to explain the situation, had convinced his kinsmen that his bond with the Princess from Gondor was by no means merely a political match. Their new queen was here of her own free will and she would be one of them.

Having watched Lothíriel listening attentively to Guthlac, ‘ðe webbestre’, who had told her about the respective advantages and disadvantages of a beam loom and a warp weighted loom and admiring various complicatedly woven twill patterns, he couldn’t imagine anybody doubting her sincere interest in the way the Rohirrim lived. She neither seemed to feel awkward nor out of place in the dwellings of the craftsmen, although they must appear, to somebody who had been accustomed to the premises of great cities like Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith, more than just confined. But Lothíriel didn’t seem to be aware of her surroundings, just eager to take in everything new.

They had left the weaver’s place with another gift for the queen. Imrahil was now carrying several yards of moss green twill over his shoulder.

“They preserve the natural oil of the sheep wool in the fleece when they prepare it for spinning and dying,” Lothíriel had informed her father whilst handing him the folded cloth. “And then the fabric is woven in a special technique and together those processes make it perfectly water-repellent.”

“Indeed?” the Lord of Dol Amroth had replied. “Something I have always wanted to know but hesitated to ask.”

Lastly, when they had arrived at the work place of Baldred ‘ðe crocwyrhta’, Éomer had given up hope that he would soon manage to get his wife away from all those tempting sources of information. Now he also knew where to dig for the best clay in the environs of Edoras and Aragorn had been – in addition to the casket – entrusted with a wheel thrown bowl, beautifully decorated and with a lead glaze of yellowish red.

Seeing a double-edged knife attached to Lothíriel’s waist was something one needed to get used to. Ulger, ‘ðe isensmið’, had watched the lady fastening the slim blade to her belt with satisfaction. It was a simple knife, the hilt with modest silver inlays and steel edges fire-welded to the iron. And it was perfectly balanced, an unobtrusive but deadly weapon, a fact she probably didn’t even comprehend. In Éomer’s opinion it would have been more sensible to present her with a buckle or some other ornamental piece.

Lothíriel had begun to describe her surgical instruments to Master Ulger - both ignoring Éomer’s presence in spite of some difficulties because of the language problem. The blacksmith had been very interested in having a look at the handiwork from Gondor, confident that he was able to copy them in equal quality. Listening only with half an ear to their conversation, Éomer’s eye had fallen on a wooden crate, covered with an old blanket. At one corner it had slipped, revealing wrought-iron hilts with leather grips and simple lobed pommels. He had pulled back the cover and looked down on at least two dozen swords with rebated edges, their points rounded.

He had taken one of the weapons out of the crate, flexing his fingers around the hilt, balancing it in his hand. It was excellently crafted, suitable for battle, just not sharpened yet.

“They are for the ‘behourd’ planned for tomorrow,” the blacksmith had answered without hesitation.

“There is a ‘behourd’ planned for tomorrow?” Éomer’s eyebrows had gone up quizzically. “Two questions: whose idea was that and why was I not informed?”

The bulky man shrugged his shoulders. “As far as I know it was Éothain’s idea and I do not know why you were not told. Perhaps it was meant to be a surprise. After all, it is in honour of you and your lady wife.”

“What is a ‘behourd’?” Lothíriel had come up next to him to satisfy her curiosity.

“In Gondor you call it a ‘tournament’. It is a friendly combat where the men can show off their skills with the sword.”

“I know what a ‘tournament’ is. An event where men hit out at each other in best comradeship with blunt weapons until all of them are black and blue and are bleeding from a number of minor wounds. Afterwards they go to a drinking house together and celebrate their exploits with plenty of wine and ale, so that the next day they are not only stiff and sore but also have a hangover. My brothers will greet such an opportunity with enthusiasm. That is if they are allowed to take part.”

“I am quite certain that they are not only allowed to take part but expected to. I have this feeling that the men of my guard plan to challenge the Knights of Gondor.”

“In all friendliness, of course,” his wife had stated in a dry tone. “I hope you do not mind me saying so but men are strange creatures. One would think you had already had enough combat for more than one lifetime. Will you participate as well?”

“No, I do not think I am intended to. And besides,” he had lowered his voice, “right now I am not in the least interested into man-against-man combat.”

That had earned him one of her tiny frowns and then he had watched a flush creeping up her cheeks when she had caught on. Her shoulders had squared ever so slightly.

“I just have to get it to your throat, and to get it there requires nothing but a distraction.”

She turned her back on him to continue her conversation with the blacksmith and Éomer had silently laughed to himself. Look at it this way - getting distracted by Lothíriel was by no means improbable. He had, right then, been not only willing to become distracted, but also highly tempted to pull her into his arms and kiss her. That would have had added plenty of fuel to the already brightly burning fire of gossip; the king kissing the queen senseless at the smithy.

Next they had made their way to the workplace of Ælbert, ‘ðe leðerwyrhta’. Here a scabbard for the knife had been bestowed upon Lothíriel. No doubt, old Ælbert had made it specially to present to his new queen, as its style matched the leather goods which Éomer had ordered from him as part of the traditional ‘morgengifu” for the bride. After having arranged with the craftsman to return soon to his workplace to have her feet measured for sturdier shoes – she had declared that she could hardly walk around in riding boots all the time; why, Éomer hadn’t quite been able to comprehend – Lothíriel had bid her farewell and stepped out into the afternoon sunshine. Master Ælbert had looked after her.

“She is not like that grandmother of yours,” he had informed his king brusquely.

Éomer, who had been about to follow his wife, had come to an abrupt halt. “What makes you say that?"

The old man had snorted. “That Morwen would have never come to me for new shoes. Not fancy enough.”

“There is nobody who should know that better than you, my King.” The saddler had pointed down at Éomer’s feet. “When you were growing you had to come here at least every three months to have a bigger pair fitted. But that grandmother of yours,” he had gone on, “had everything she needed and wanted brought from Gondor. Even her saddles.” There had been contempt in his voice though it was hard to say if it were directed towards the former Queen of Rohan or the skills of Gondorian leatherworkers.

“Since when do the Gondorians know how to make a proper saddle?” Éomer had asked, trying not to let his amusement over the old man’s rant show too much.

Master Ælbert had crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze direct. “Looks like you found yourself a good woman.”

When Éomer had left the saddler’s workshop he had just caught a glimpse of Lothíriel disappearing inside the cooper’s place. He had sighed and exchanged a glance with Imrahil.

“Somehow I did not expect her to tour the places of all the craftspeople quite so thoroughly.”

“I always considered it a miracle that her curiosity survived the formal education which was thought to be inevitable for a Princess of Dol Amroth,” Imrahil had remarked in a musing tone. “But then I found that although the best cure for boredom is curiosity, there is no cure for curiosity. At least not when it comes to my daughter.”

“Would you prefer her to grow out of her inquiring mind?” Aragorn had asked his younger friend, quite seriously.

“Not on any account. I am just surprised that it is so all-embracing.” He had turned to follow his wife into Master Gearwald’s workplace. “Now I am curious what questions she is going to have for a cooper.”

When he had joined Lothíriel he had found her already in lively conversation with the short, beefy and slightly dazed looking Gearwald, and he had also found out that his wife had more questions about the trade of a cooper than he could have thought of in a lifetime. And those had finally led to the subject concerning the different sizes of barrels. Now it was time he found an excuse to prise Lothíriel away from this place.

“My Lady.” He touched her on her elbow to get her attention. “I think we should let Master Gearwald alone so he can finish his day’s work. He certainly wishes to join the festivities in time tonight.”

He was quite proud of himself. His diplomatic abilities had improved. Lothíriel decided to take her leave.

“Of course.” She offered the craftsman an apologetic smile. “I do not want to hold you back from your work any longer. I thank you for your time, Master Gearwald.”

“Where are we going now?” Rohan’s Queen asked, apparently still neither bored nor tired, when they met Aragorn and Imrahil outside.

“Indeed?” She smiled at him, obviously having forgiven him for his earlier innuendo. “What is it?”

“Very well. I will wait. But had you not better tell King Elessar and my father about the surprise your riders may have planned for their men?”

“I had better do so. After all, it will be you who will have to drag them back to Gondor with you.”

Aragorn groaned, frowning in mock horror. “A surprise from your riders for our knights? Please tell me it is not going to be what I think it is.”

“I am afraid I cannot,” Éomer choked back his laugh. “At Ulger’s workshop I found two dozen good swords with unsharpened edges and rounded points.”

“A challenge?” Imrahil interjected. “When is this tournament supposed to take place?”

“Tomorrow as far as I know,” his son-in-law replied. “I just learned of it by chance when I discovered those swords. Apparently it was one of Éothain’s flashes of inspiration.”

“And three days later we will have to set off back to Minas Tirith with a dozen sore and bruised men.” Gondor’s King appeared somehow resigned.

“Merriment?” A mixture of incomprehension and consternation was dripping from Lothíriel’s voice. She looked at Éomer. “I am not repeating what I said earlier because I hate repeating myself.”

“Good,” Éomer said, putting his hand in the small of her back and guiding her towards the stables. “Then let us proceed.”

As they had made their way down from the Golden Hall back and forth all over the place instead of following the paved main path, Lothíriel had lost her bearings between the houses and only realised at the last moment where they had been heading.

“Yes, it is,” Éomer confirmed, grinning at her suspicious tone. He nodded to a young lad waiting in front of the stables which held the mares. The boy disappeared inside.

Around the perimeter walls quite a number of the citizens of Edoras had gathered and the whole flock of children, who had accompanied them earlier, had rushed ahead of them and were now scattered all over the place. But as the offspring of the Rohirrim they knew that when here they had to keep out of the way and keep quiet in order not to startle the horses.

“Why are all those people here,” Lothíriel asked, the suspicion in her voice deepened. Éomer could feel her spine stiffen under his hand. He let his thumb glide in a soothing caress around a delicate vertebra.

“They are here to attend the handover of the traditional ‘morgengifu’ by the groom to his bride.”

“Well, even if it were not supposed to be, in this case it could hardly have been avoided.”

The gate to the mares’ stable opened and the lad - with a proudly beaming smile plastered all over his face - led out a horse of outstanding beauty. It was one of the very few blacks which had not fallen victim to the raids from Mordor. But it was not only her colour made her exceptional – the mare’s conformation, although she was only a breath over 15 hands high, was as immaculate as one could wish for. She had a long, elegant arched neck and a fine extended short-eared head, a compact yet perfectly muscled body with strong sloping hindquarters and a low-set luxurious tail. Her sloping shoulders were quite powerful, her gait spectacular. She had a great presence and carried herself proudly.

When Éomer had seen her for the first time – after Ealric had pointed her out to him - he had known at once that this and no other mount was suitable for the Queen of the Riddermark. Old Ælbert had made and fitted the bridle and saddle. It was fashioned from velvety soft black leather. The only colour came from the scarlet saddlecloth, embroidered with the golden sun of the Rohirrim. Black and red.

“Indeed,” Éomer confirmed dryly. After this morning’s debate about the vital necessity of horses for all people in Rohan, he had wondered about her reaction to the nature of his morning gift. “I am relieved to learn that you are able to identify even less exotic animals.”

Keeping his hand on her back he pushed her gently forward and after a couple of steps he could feel a sigh of resignation. Reluctantly Rohan’s queen went to meet her new mount. Éomer gestured towards the stable lad.

“Greetings, Osmund.” Lothíriel smiled at the adolescent and the lad promptly turned beetroot red.

“My Lady,” he squeaked, and then he just abandoned them and virtually ran back to the stables.

His queen looked after him slightly baffled. “I think his voice is just breaking,” she remarked. The last time Éomer had spoken to the lad, there had been nothing wrong with his voice but he decided to refrain from mentioning it. He didn’t mind Lothíriel being oblivious to the effect she could have on a man – or on those who intended to grow into one. Sooner or later she would become aware of it anyway.

“What do you think of her?” he asked, putting his hand on the mare’s withers. The well-trained horse stood calmly, presumably awaiting some command from these humans.

“Hmm!” Lothíriel stepped in front of the animal, obviously trying to catch its gaze. It was certainly not the common manner of appraising a horse. Éomer just waited to see what there was to come next.

Watching Lothíriel eying her new mount dubiously, he found his initial impression, from when he had chosen the coal black, confirmed: mare and mistress would suit each other very well. He chuckled inwardly; they had a lot in common - for example - an excellent bone structure and an impressive mane. Nobody had to tell him that this beauty had everything needed to become the taproot mare of an exceptional new breeding line. His gaze drifted over his wife’s graceful form. Catching himself he gave his head a little shake. He had better stop his wandering thoughts right there . . . at least for the moment.

Lothíriel had begun to cautiously stroke the velvet skin between the mare’s nostrils and the horse moved appreciatively closer. Complying with this plain request her mistress let her hand slide up the animal’s nose and under the forelock, lifting the heavy tuft of hair away from the mare’s eyes. The gesture revealed the brow-band which was decorated with a golden, multi-shafted sun nearly the size of her palm.

“It is a special present from Gimli. He crafted it from a nugget he found in his youth and had carried with him ever since.”

She turned her head to look at him, clearly stunned. “I will have to thank him for such an extraordinary gift. Although I guess the honour is more meant to be bestowed upon you than on me.”

“I would not say so. Gimli appreciates a beautiful woman - even if she is dark-haired.”

Lothíriel glanced up at him with the well-known frown between her eyebrows. He saw her open her mouth as if to say something, probably to ask another question, but then close it again, obviously having decided otherwise. Her gaze wandered back to the horse.

Éomer wondered whatever it might have been that she decided not to articulate. But then he just did his best to keep a straight face because he had looked forward to this question with some glee.

He more guessed than saw the barely imperceptible jolt that straightened her spine. She blinked and let the forelock fall back over the brow-band.

“Léohtymbhwyrft,” Éomer repeated slowly and with an innocent tone, which would have done credit to Amrothos.

He could think of nobody who knew how to keep her countenance in public better than Lothíriel. Therefore only he saw the look in her eyes and if looks could kill, Rohan would be deprived of its King right now; a king who had the dim feeling that he might be made to regret this little jest in the near future.

“What is the meaning of her name,” Lothíriel inquired in a cool and perfectly composed voice.

“Léohtymbhwyrft,” Éomer just couldn’t resist pronouncing the – for someone who was not Rohír by birth - almost unpronounceable once more, “means ‘Circle of Light’.”

Lothíriel took two steps back and let her gaze pass over the horse. “And who thought it befitting to name a horse who has not a single hair on its body that is not black ‘Circle of Light’?”

“The change of coat is not complete yet. She is a coal black. Her summer coat shines like the wing of a raven and the sun will conjure a bluish gleam on it.”

“I was given a feather earlier by a little boy named Godric. He told me it is the ‘isigfeðera’ of a ‘ræfn’.”

Éomer glanced down at is wife with a mixture of admiration and respect. “So you were indeed able to make sense of the torrents of words the children were heaping on you.”

“Of course I was.” She looked at bit miffed. “Did you think I was faking it? You just have to listen carefully and also pay attention to their gestures and what they express with their faces.”

“Indeed.” Éomer was too much a warrior not to take advantage when an adversary dropped his or her guard. In battle mistakes got punished immediately. “I am glad to hear that. Then it should not be a problem for you to quickly improve your skills on horseback.” He was hit by another glare but he refused to take notice. “Let us start the lessons right now.” He signalled to his squire who was waiting in front of the gate to the stables that housed the stallions and geldings.

It was amazing that with a single syllable someone should be able to express such a vast range of emotions. There were overtones of surprise, annoyance, disbelief, protest and even a warning. Éomer smiled endearingly.

“Now seems to be a good time, do you not think so? After all, Léohtymbhwyrft is already saddled.” He moved to block any means of escape with his body.

“No, I do not think so.” The reason she was likely to give him why she didn’t think so was cut off by hoof beats. His squire led Firefoot, bridled and saddled, out of the stable. “You planned this,” Lothíriel uttered accusingly under her breath and for a moment Éomer thought he would have the pleasure of hearing his wife swear for the first time. But her self-discipline was not to be underestimated.

“But of course I planned this,” he drawled with great casualness. “It is part of my surprise.” With an unmistakable gesture he offered to help her into the saddle but Lothíriel stalled him.

Something in her voice told him that she believed she had come up with a very persuasive argument.

“I am still very sore from the journey and I am certain that any additional – and unnecessary – ride over the next days, as long as I am on the mend, will only worsen my current condition.”

“I thought you had got used to being sore,” Éomer reminded her of her own words, struggling with his amusement.

“I have got used to my condition as it is. If it gets worse due to needless exercise there will be nothing I can do but retire to my chamber and rest.” She put a not to be missed emphasis on the last word and then added, “For several nights.”

She met his gaze squarely, unblinking and Éomer nearly burst out laughing. This lovely little minx was learning enormously quickly and he had better savour the time he was still able to stand his ground against her. He moved closer, caging her between the horse’s body and his own and bringing his lips close to her ear.

“What are you trying to do, my Lady?” he asked with a throaty chuckle. “To bribe me or to blackmail me?”

She moved backwards against the horse. “Neither,” she informed him primly. “I am just stating a fact.”

Without replying he bent down, grasped her lower leg and lifted her up. In order to avoid tumbling down ungraciously next to the mare she had to swing her other leg over its back and landed in the saddle with a bit of a thud. He held the stirrup for her to put in her foot.

Lothíriel adjusted the reins quite expertly for somebody who professed to be hopeless on horseback. She regarded him from her raised position with a look of hauteur.

Éomer shook his head. “I do not think so,” he contradicted her and when he saw her lifting her eyebrows unconvinced, he added in a low purr, “You may not have taken into consideration that I will be able to seduce you anyway.”

Lothíriel smiled down at him in deceptive sweetness. “You, my Lord, may not have taken into consideration that I will be able to resist you . . . anyway.”

He couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. “My Lady, when I have won this bet I will already have everything I like.”

He didn’t wait for her reply – and she had one on the tip of her tongue, of that he was perfectly sure – but turned away and found Aragorn and Imrahil watching them with unconcealed amusement. It was unlikely that they had been able to understand their bickering but they had certainly drawn their own conclusion on what they had just witnessed – as had everybody else sojourning in the stable yard, meaning about half of the population of Edoras.

“A truly wonderful horse, Éomer,” there was genuine admiration in Aragorn’s voice. “Perhaps not quite strong enough to carry a man in armour but a perfect mount for a lady and certainly worthy of the Queen of the Riddermark.”

“Let us hope that this horse is going to share your opinion, my Lord,” Lothíriel noted dryly. She slanted her husband another irritable glance and took the reins in one hand so she could arrange her skirt with the other, apparently having submitted herself to her fate, but Éomer had this gut feeling that all had not been said and done in this matter. If there was one thing he was absolutely certain about then that life with Lothíriel would never be predictable.

He clicked his fingers and his squire let go of Firefoot’s reins. The big slate blue grey made his way eagerly over to his master, nearly mowing down the High King of Gondor and his mightiest vassal in the process. Aragorn and Imrahil had to move quickly to get out of his way.

“Éomer, this overgrown mule shows no respect,” Aragorn complained, nearly having dropped the bowl Master Baldred had gifted to his queen.

“Nonsense,” Éomer mounted his ‘mule’. “He is perfectly well brought up and an . . .”

“. . . an amiable lad, I know,” Aragorn interrupted him. “Talk about being biased.”

Imrahil laughed but kept a respectful distance from the mount of Rohan’s King. He looked over at Lothíriel with a hint of concern, but his daughter had obviously no problems with the black mare. The horse was very well trained indeed, and though active and energetic also gentle and docile.

“I can see that the royal couple have quite a few traits in common,” the Lord of Dol Amroth remarked, adjusting the bolt of cloth he was carrying over his shoulder which had began to slip during his evasive manoeuvre. “Both have the tendency to defend someone dear to them out of habit and against their better judgement. For Lothíriel it is Amrothos, for Éomer Firefoot.”

“At least Firefoot is useful,” Éomer reminded his father-in-law to consider.

Imrahil turned towards his liege. “My point having been proven, I rest my case.”

Aragorn gestured his approval of this perception. “You are about to leave the city?” he asked his Rohirric bother-in-arms.

“We are not going far; just about three miles. I want to show Lothíriel something,” he turned around to meet his wife’s gaze. “Something of Rohan.” Her schooled countenance of alleged serenity changed a little. She slanted him a curious glance.

“What of Rohan?” She might be miffed at him but she couldn’t help herself.

They were interrupted by more hoof beats. Five riders appeared from behind the stables to join them. They wore the knee-length coats of mail and the ornamental gorgets of the Royal Guard. Éomer pointed at the first of the riders, whose gelding was an amazingly ugly, ram-headed, goose rumped, blue roan. But it was publicly known that the man loved his mount as ardently as any Rohír could love his horse.

“Lothíriel, this is Captain Éofor. The Guard is under his command as long as Éothain is indisposed.”

“My Lady Queen.” The man bowed in his saddle and his queen returned his smile, which she shouldn’t have found too hard. As ugly as his horse was, this man was said to be handsome.

Éomer went ahead with his introductions, “This is Ceorl, my standard-bearer; Acwulf, Éadger and Torold.”

All the men politely bowed their greetings to their queen and all of them looked at her with the unmistakable appreciation the average man was simply unable to conceal at the sight of a beautiful woman. Éomer had already taken notice of those admiring glances from his riders - and also that Lothíriel was not conscious of them - on their way from Aldburg to Edoras. He had no doubt that none of the men would treat their queen other than with due respect and restraint. They would certainly be the healthier for it.

Éomer turned to Aragorn and motioned with his head towards the riders of the Guard. “Our escort. Am I not to be praised for having listened attentively?”

The King of Gondor raised his eyebrows. “Good boy,” he said in Sindarin, obviously to the surprise of Prince Imrahil. Éomer grinned. He wasn’t quite sure if his father-in-law’s bafflement was due to the patronising words or that Aragorn was expecting a Rohír to understand the language of the First Born.

“As from yesterday I have entrusted my daughter into your safekeeping,” the Lord of Dol Amroth replied simply.

“Is that meant to be an expression of confidence towards Éomer?” Lothíriel asked, having guided her mare to come to a halt next to Firefoot. “Or does it just mean that you are relieved to have finally got rid of me by thrusting me upon somebody else?”

Aragorn took it upon himself to answer that. “It is not for me to speak about your father’s motivation, my Lady, but I can assure you I have never seen anybody so readily accept having somebody imposed upon him, as your husband did when your father made the proposal.

To forestall whatever there was to come out of his wife’s opening mouth Éomer urged Firefoot forward and this caused the big grey to nudge the smaller mare not too gently and force her to turn on her hocks. Luckily her rider had no problem in matching her movement despite its suddenness. The indignant glare the black beauty threw at the stallion was another proof that mistress and mount were going to suit each other just perfectly.

Éomer directed Firefoot towards the Great Gate. Looking very self-assured, the smaller mare kept at the stallion’s side and matched his pace. The riders of the Guard were following behind. Rohan’s King looked down at his wife and her mount. Together they were providing precisely the image he had wanted the citizens of Edoras to see. He was probably not exactly impartial but the pair was of striking beauty.

Under the watchful eyes of the Rohirrim they left the stable yard, crossed the open grounds and then passed through the gate.

He had already wondered how long it would take her to try and pump him for an answer. He gestured ahead of them. “We will cross the Snowbourn and from the ford it is just under a league ahead.”

“Rocks?” It was amazing that such a charming little nose was able to produce such a solid snort. It was quite unladylike and had certainly not been part of her formal education as a princess. “Are you telling me that you forced me on this horse and are going to drag me across a river and over a plain to view some rocks?”

From the corner of his eye he saw Lothíriel running one hand through the mare’s luxurious mane and patting the elegant neck.

“And I know that she is one of a very rare breed.” He heard her giggle. “Merewyn would say that we have the same hair colour.”

“Well, it is true and one of the reasons why I chose her for you,” he admitted with a grin.

He hadn’t expected her to burst out laughing. “You chose her for me because you thought we . . . look similar?”

“I would not go that far – I truly appreciate that you do not have hair all over your body – but all in all it certainly would not be an inappropriate comparison for either of you.”

“Welcome to Rohan.” She laughed again, a rich, warm wonderful sound. “I dare say being compared to the beauty of a horse is presumably the greatest of all compliments I can expect from you.”

She frowned over that remark for a heartbeat. “Are you trying to make me vain?”

“Because with the colour creeping up your cheeks you look even more beautiful.”

And now she blushed indeed, averting her eyes nonplussed. “Have you eaten anything this morning that did not agree with you?”

They came to the ford over the Snowbourn. The banks were trampled down by uncountable hooves. Éomer kept an eye on his wife and her new mount, but they mastered this obstacle without a problem.

It was probably meant to be a quip, although one that sounded a bit cautious, but she effortlessly strode off at a canter, the black mare easily manageable and sensitive to reins and legs. Éomer watched the newly matched pair carefully, trying not to be too obvious. To his satisfaction he saw Lothíriel relax more and more, adjusting herself to her mount’s smooth gait. He found his previous impression confirmed: she had everything needed to become a capable rider. He just had to overcome her reluctance, meaning her stubbornness.

And she couldn’t be as stiff and sore as she had pretended to be. She proved to be quite able to stay with the pace until they reached their destination which was a formation of huge boulders rising out of nowhere in the middle of the vast grass-lands. It was as if some deity had once dropped the massive oval and round rocks out of the sky and now they were towering above each other like a mighty bastion.

“Rocks,” Lothíriel remarked laconically after they had pulled their mounts to a halt at the foot of the formation.

Éomer jumped off Firefoot and – just let the stallion go; a war horse would never wander far away from his master – he went over to the black mare to help Lothíriel out of the saddle. When he put her on her feet she couldn’t stifle a soft groan. She seemed to be still sore after all, just too stubborn and too proud to let it show in front of the riders.

“And now?” she asked, observing the boulder with a puzzled frown between her eyebrows.

Over her shoulders he saw Éofor failing to suppress a grin. Acwulf and Torold had, without any order, set out to circle the formation, one going to each side. Vigilance had long ago become second nature to the Rohirrim.

“Why do you want me to climb the rocks? I mean, what could be up there worth the trouble.”

“Then why in the name of the Valar do you want me to go up there for nothing?”

“It is not going to be for nothing. It is just that there is nothing up there.”

“Has nobody ever told you that the Rohirrim love to entertain themselves with riddles?”

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her behind him. She was just short of digging her heels in.

That indeed was true. Many years ago, when he and Éowyn had first come to live in Edoras and rides in the vicinity of the city had still been safe, even for youngsters, they had often come here to explore the rock formation, making it their hideout. He knew his way around here as well as around his own bedchamber. He chose the easiest route up to the top and found that Lothíriel was quite steady on her feet, following him easily enough. He began to suspect that his wife wasn’t so much underestimating her physical abilities, as she was urbanely lazy. He pulled her up the last ledge and then turned her around to face the wide plains which rolled westward.

“You see, nothing is up here, but down there lies the Westfold of Rohan.” He wrapped his right arm around her midriff and pulled her back against his chest. “Do you see the three tall peaks on the horizon?” He pointed with his other hand to their left. “Those are the Thrihyrne. At their feet lies the Hornburg and Helm’s Deep winds into them. And under them there are the Glittering Caves, Gimli’s home now.” He felt her relax into his body. He smiled and for a moment he pressed his lips against her temple. “And further on, to the north, what looks more like a shadow, where earth and sky meet, are the Misty Mountains. Their southernmost foothills, across the River Isen, are called Dol Baran. In the summer those hills are covered with heather as far as you can look. They surround Nan Curunír, the Wizard’s Vale, Saruman’s Fortress Orthanc. The Ents now call it Treegarth.”

“Yes, I imagine you would enjoy that. I think Treebeard would be happy for us to pay him a visit during the summer months.”

“Correct, that is the Gap of Rohan. The river Isen flows south from Nan Curunír through the Gap of Rohan and then west to the Sea. The river is the western boundary of Rohan and ever since the Eorlingas came to Calenardhon it is there that we have had to defend our land against the Dunlendings.”

He couldn’t help it. His voice hardened when he spoke the name of the hill men. Lothíriel caught the fluctuation of his voice.

She grasped his forearm, which circled her waist with both hands and nestled deeper into his embrace. “Tell me.”

He wrapped his other arm around her as well. “Not today. Soon I will tell you but not today.” He buried his nose into the softness of her hair. Fleetingly he remembered the preference of most Gondorians for obtrusive fragrances. Lothíriel’s hair smelled of almonds and honey. A thought made him smile. She felt it.

“That is awful.” She tried to turn around to face him but he held her in place. “If that is meant to be a compliment I can assure you, it is not one that is likely to make me blush.”

Éomer laughed. “No, on the contrary, it is wonderful. The smell, I mean. I love it.” Then he turned her around after all, pulling her closer into his embrace, and the entire length of her melted against him. He cupped her face with one hand and tipped her chin up with his thumb so he could look into her eyes. “I love everything about you,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her. He had wanted to do that since he had closed the door to their chambers behind him earlier today. Much too long ago. But Lothíriel evaded his mouth.

He captured her lips for a deep, hungry kiss. He was lying. Éomer knew his men well enough to be sure that they would be relishing the entertainment and what’s more he had a shrewd idea of what they would be saying about it.

“Well, I was wondering what Éomer understood by a ‘marriage of convenience’.” Ceorl remarked wryly, watching the tightly embraced royal couple forty feet above them with thoughtful interest but without the slightest hint of embarrassment for watching them.

“I would consider having to wed a woman like that very convenient.” Éofor unhooked a water bottle from his saddle and uncorked it, “Especially if you think about the other choice he had.” He took a sip passing the flask to the standard bearer.

“He had another choice?” Éadger was the only one of the riders who had dismounted, and was holding his queen’s mare by the reins. They had decided to let Firefoot wander at will. It was safer for all of them and the stallion never moved far away from his master.

“Eormenhild of the Westfold Vale,” Éofor definitely relished the words and the aghast stares they evoked.

The other riders made various noises, expressing disbelief, disgust and relief on behalf of their king for having been delivered from a fate like that.

“She has very hairy legs,” Torold, who was from the Westfold Vale, announced after a short, contemplative silence.

“I did not assume that you knew anything about our new Queen’s legs,” Acwulf hit back.

“Aye,” Éofor confirmed. “If you accidentally let slip something like that within earshot of Éomer, you are a dead man.”

Éadger looked thoroughly dumbfounded, “Why should the king do something to Acwulf just because Torold knows that Erkenbrand’s daughter has hairy legs?”

“How do you know that Eormenhild has very hairy legs?” Acwulf came back to the more interesting topic.

“Everybody at the Deep knows that. And she has enormous tuffs of hair under her arm pits”

“I do not want to know that,” Éofor stated, looking at if somebody had offered him a handful of earthworms as a snack.

“A moustache. But the hair is very light. You can only see it if you get very close.”

“Well, I can assure you I have no intention of getting anywhere near that close.”

“It looks like Éomer has been lucky,” Ceorl looked again up to the top of the rock formation where his king once more had his wife wrapped in his arms with her back against his chest. Both were looking westwards to the Gap of Rohan.”

“Éomer has always been lucky with women.” Éofor leant back in the saddle, propping himself up comfortably on his roan’s croup, “But this time he had outdone himself.”

“You had better take your own advice to heart and watch your mouth also,” Ceorl frowned disapprovingly at his captain.

“Well, you can look but keep your mouth shut and stay away,” there was a wealth of warning in the voice of the younger man.

“What are they doing up there anyway?” Éadger had watched the couple on top of the rocks the entire time with a puzzled expression, not listening to the conversation.

“They are watching the sunset behind the Gap of Rohan.” Acwulf explained very slowly.

“But . . . there is always a sunset. There’s one every evening. You do not have to watch it.” The young rider looked miffed and baffled in equal measure when he realised the other four men were laughing at him.

“Look, Éadger,” Torold set out to explain; after all he was two years older and wiser. “Womenfolk like that romantic stuff and they are much more approachable when you offer them some.”

“I take a bath and clean my teeth before I go to Brictwen.” He was referring to the keeper of a drinking house with a dodgy reputation and for a second time today all of his four comrades groaned in response to him.

“You need some polish, or you will stay a lonely man,” Acwulf decided, and he and Torold set about immediately to provide what they considered polish.

The sun was nearly touching the western horizon. Above them Éomer had settled back on a small boulder, still holding his wife tightly in his embrace. Éofor watched them until he realised that he was being watched by Ceorl. He turned his head, grinning at his friend.

“Do not look so suspicious. It cannot be forbidden to admire something exceptional.”

“Yes, there is. Tonight there will be dancing, not just a formal, dull feast. And I will dance with our Queen.”

“I know. But there might be an opportunity.” Éofor grinned smugly. “There will be an opportunity.”

“You do have a death wish,” Ceorl stated with resignation, “because you will try to dance with her not only under the eyes of her husband, who is our King, but also under the eyes of her three brothers. Do not expect me to pity you when they banish you for the rest of your life, to watch over the land far west, where the Isen joins the Adorn.”

Thanks to all my kind reviewers for their comments on the last chapter. I know, I'm awfully behind with my correspondence and the replies. All I can say to my excuse is that healthwise I'm a bit out of it at the moment. I try to improve.

The way back to Edoras took more time. After the sun had disappeared below the western horizon, the darkening shadows of the coming night began settling over the plains. The last light of the day quickly faded away. The waning crescent of the moon and the first stars of the firmament were veiled by misty clouds, providing just the barest source of light.

Only a seasoned rider, who trusted his equine partner explicitly, would dare to urge his mount into a faster pace under these visual conditions. Lothíriel had neither the experience in the saddle nor was she likely to have learnt to trust her new mare in such a way yet. The use of the terms ‘trust’ and ‘horse’ in one sentence was probably a rather foreign concept to her anyway. Only after some persuasion did she agree to let the black walk on a long rein. Before she had reluctantly followed Éomer’s suggestion to entrust herself to her horse, they had to go through a - by now becoming - quite familiar chain of arguments. What surprised him was that he hadn’t heard a single sound from his riders during their exchange; although there was no doubt that they were eavesdropping with rapt attention.

As they approached the ford across the Snowbourn the steep hill of Edoras emerged slowly from the cover of darkness like a jagged phantom, freckled with tiny golden stars. A host of torches had been lit along the main path. From a distance they gave the impression of a flickering snake wriggling from the gates uphill to the Golden Hall. About half-way the slim line widened out in both directions to form a rough square where more torches and bonfires were illuminating the city’s principle gathering place

The constant winds of the tableland descending the mountainside of the Ered Nimrais carried scraps of voices, laughter and music towards them, and after they had crossed the fords they were greeted by the smell of roasted meat wafting through the air.

They made their way between the barrows of the Kings of Rohan towards the gateway, which stood wide open, awaiting the return of the royal couple and their escort. After having passed the guards, the wooden gates were pushed shut and secured by heavy bars. The open field behind the fortification and the stable yard was also bathed in the light of pitch torches and the cheerful sounds of a festive gathering swept down the hill.

Osmund, Lothíriel’s newly appointed groom, and Éomer’s squire Forthhere appeared to take care of their sovereigns’ horses. The accompanying riders dismounted as well and led their steeds away, politely taking their farewells.

Éomer hid his smile when he saw Lothíriel patting her mare, caressing the velvet nostrils and murmuring into her ear. It appeared as if somebody was already becoming fond of her horse. He extended his hand towards her and she put hers in it without hesitation, letting herself be pulled closer to him, the warmth of their bodies blending. He waited until the stable-hands had gone off with the two horses. Gently he pushed a strand of silky hair from her face. The eternal winds of the plains had taken their toll on her skilfully braided tresses.

“Soon she will figure out that you are her mistress, and – as a true Rohirric horse - she will give you all her devotion and her trust. You have to learn to trust her in return.”

“I promise if I ever learn to trust a horse it certainly will be Léohtypf . . .tymbt. . .” She wrinkled her nose, obviously impatient with herself. “Would it make sense if I called her Léoht?”

One of her adorable giggles gushed from her throat and from one moment to the next an intense hunger swept through him. He wanted nothing more than to bow his head and kiss the spot on that throat where he knew her pulse was throbbing. He couldn’t help himself. He had to touch her, never mind that they were standing in the middle of the well-lit stable yard, and although most of the citizens of Edoras were up at the square, there were still enough around to make an attentive audience, one that would be eager to spread the tale that their king could hardly keep his hands off his queen. They had no idea. They had not the slightest idea how much he wanted to half-drag, half-carry – whatever worked fastest – Lothíriel up the hill to Meduseld and into their chambers, get this riding habit off her body, take her to bed and then make love to her all night.

Gazing down at her finely boned face, with the huge grey eyes smiling at him guilelessly, he was quite certain that the object of his lust had not the slightest idea either. He had wanted her for so long; had waited for her, and now that he had had her, he wanted more. How had she phrased it? ‘I do not even know if I understand what wanting somebody truly means.’ No, she had no idea . . . yet. She was good in bed: passionate, sensual and graceful, but she was still an innocent – never mind that her sexual status had changed last night - who didn’t really know what she was doing. But that didn’t matter. She’d learn soon enough, and he was going to have the time of his life teaching her. For the time being, however, they had a problem . . . or rather he had this particular problem. In order not to scare her off, he would do well to restrain his impassioned longing.

He allowed himself to let his knuckles tenderly graze her cheek, smoothing a fingertip over her brows. “They are so very beautiful,” he murmured.

“Thank you. I think your eyes are quite beautiful as well.” She sounded serious but then she gave him an impish grin. “For a man, that is.”

When he took her hand to press a kiss in its palm, she twisted her fingers scratching with her nails lightly through his beard, touching the corner of his mouth.

Oh my! Éomer was just able to suppress the low rumble of want that threatened to come from the depth of his chest. They were definitely in a highly unsuitable place for this.

The voice ambushed them from the shadows beyond stable yard fence, and this time Éomer’s groan refused to be stifled. It appeared that they would continue right from where they had left off. Both he and Lothíriel turned around to see Amrothos hopping in an agile vault over the stone wall and sauntering towards them, smiling as pleasantly as a fox who had just found himself a well-populated chicken run. Apparently he had overcome the indisposition of his hangover.

“You are late,” he informed his sister and brother-in-law reproachfully. “I think we have to consider it very bad manners when the guests of honour of a celebration leave those who wish to honour them with said celebration to their own devices.”

“And you know all about bad manners, do you not?” Éomer inquired, sounding much more polite than he felt.

“Actually, I am an undisputed authority on bad and good manners.” The youngest Prince of Dol Amroth tilted his head contemplatively. “After all, to be truly rude you have to understand good manners.”

“As far as I understand good manners they mean nothing more than to put up with other people’s bad manners.” Éomer knew that it was bordering on overestimation of his own abilities to get into a verbal exchange with his wife’s youngest brother and hope to stay remotely in control of its course. But he certainly hadn’t expected Lothíriel to do her bit.

“And proof of good manners is to be able to put up pleasantly with the bad manners of others,” she interjected in a lecturing tone, clearly chosen to tease him.

Éomer looked down at her in disbelief. Her innocent facial expression was a mirror image of her brother’s. It was almost frightening. “Bema, nýdhelp!” he called upon the Great Hunter in his native language, but when he saw Amrothos opening his mouth, no doubt more than just happily willing to continue this inanity, he snarled at him in Westron, “Hold your tongue!”

The Prince managed to look hurt and executed a perfect bow. “Thy will be done, Éomer King.” He turned towards his sister. “As you can see yourself, I am perfectly able to put up pleasantly with the bad manners of others.”

Rohan’s King decided that this was the right moment to seek out the company of others who would hopefully remove them from this pest’s undivided attention. The hope was only small but, nevertheless, there was hope. There were supposed to be several appealing young women attending the festivities. He hadn’t really paid much attention, but he couldn’t have failed to notice that over the past two evenings the Princes of Dol Amroth – meaning Erchirion and Amrothos - had easily charmed quite a number of the female population of Edoras. There had to be at least one amongst them to arouse Amrothos’s carnal interest and – more importantly – keep it for the time being. If necessary Éomer wouldn’t stop at giving an appropriate instruction to make sure that the Prince was going to become thoroughly diverted. Now and then one should reap the benefits of one’s position.

Mentally occupied with outlining such a scheme, he had unthinkingly wrapped his hand around Lothíriel’s upper arm and pulled her with him when he had started for the path that climbed uphill towards the music and cheerfulness. Gradually it began to dawn on him that he was being met by a certain resistance.

“É . o . mer!” Every syllable of his name was stressed with indignation. He came to a halt. His wife was obviously displeased about something. She stared pointedly at his hand on her arm. “Would you cease doing that?” she asked him in a rather annoyed tone.

“What am I doing?” Momentarily he was at a loss. He glared at Amrothos who had trailed behind them and was now standing a couple of yards away, all ears. Éomer pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “You can go ahead. I doubt that there is a risk of you getting lost.”

“I never get lost,” his brother-in-law assured him, “except when I choose to.” But he began to move further up the path. “Make your point of view clear to him,” he advised his sister when he passed her. “And do not yield. Give that man an inch and he will take a mile.” Whistling, he strolled away.

“No, he does not. I think that was an accidentally fitting piece of advice.”

“Very well. Perhaps then you can enlighten me what you wish me to cease doing.”

“Yes, you do. You have been doing it since I arrived here in Rohan. Actually,” she frowned, obviously recalling some specific occurrence, “it started back in Minas Tirith.”

“I moved you around back in Minas Tirith?” He tried to emulate her and remember an occasion when he had moved her around, but all his memory was willing to divulge, right now, was the image of him kissing her at the Houses of Healing. Talk about a selective mind.

“Right.” He definitely was able to recall that instance in every detail. “At that particular moment quick action was essential.”

“Your quick action nearly made me end up in the arms of Lord Elfhelm,” she reminded him.

“Otherwise you would have ended up face-to-face with the manservant assigned to me.”

“Yes, and he told my father’s squire, who told my father,” Lothíriel stated matter-of-factly.

Éomer stared. “Imrahil knew . . . ?” Why hadn’t the Lord of Dol Amroth ever mentioned it? The entire family was completely unpredictable.

“Bema!” Éomer muttered a series of curses. Imrahil’s family not only had a tendency to be unpredictable but also to confuse things. Unfortunately Lothíriel was no exception. “Would you mind being a bit more precise?”

“You drag me behind you, shove me wherever you want me, lift me onto a horse or carry me around as if I were some chattel. If you wish me to change position, just say so and make an appropriate suggestion.”

Éomer glanced down at his wife, briefly baffled by the belligerent tone with which this accusation was hurled against him, but then his lips moved in a rueful smile. She was right. He had moved her around quite a bit over the past days, however, not because he disregarded her, as she obviously assumed, but because he simply liked touching her.

Well, at least that was the main reason. On the other hand, he couldn’t deny that using his physical strength to steer Lothíriel wherever he wanted her to go saved a lot of time. He doubted very much that a simple suggestion would be sufficient to make her do anything she might be the slightest bit opposed to. It was more likely that it would lead to a prolonged reflection on the pros and cons of the respective suggestion. But for the sake of peace and quiet at the moment he decided to refrain from explaining that consideration. It would only delay them for the foreseeable future and in one aspect Amrothos had been right. They were late. The people were waiting for them at the mainsquare and it would be bad manners to let them wait much longer.

“I do not feel hassled,” she protested, to Éomer’s satisfaction stepping closer to him so that she had to tip her head backwards to be able to look into his eyes. “I just do not want to feel . . .”

“. . . moved,” he completed her sentence when she hesitated. He pushed aside any regard for possible onlookers and bent down to brush his lips briefly across her mouth. “I will try to improve,” he murmured.

“Only try?” She sounded just a little bit breathless. At least the effects they were having on each other were mutual. It looked as if he had soothed her earlier pugnacity for the time being. He was learning how to handle her, but he’d better relish this effortlessly achieved truce. He somehow doubted that in the future a consensus would always be so easily reached.

“I will try my best,” he conceded. “But I cannot promise to do completely without moving you,” he reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, “because moving you means touching you.”

Lothíriel raised her hand and with it his, studying it with engrossed attention. “But you can have one without the other,” she insisted.

“Provided that I am able to always think straight and plain whilst in your presence. You, my Lady, have the power to disconcert me profoundly.”

Lothíriel widened her eyes in feigned astonishment. “If my presence robs the King of Rohan of the ability to be in full possession of his faculties, perhaps, my Lord, you had better ask yourself if you wed the wrong woman.”

“Definitely not.” Abruptly he drew her into the warmth of his body, covering her mouth with his, his lips pressing against hers.

Hang any curious onlooker! The riders of his guard had probably, long since, walked up the short cut along the back of the houses and were already spreading the tale that their king had dragged his queen across the plains and up a rock formation just to kiss her senseless. What was the point of finally having the woman who had distracted his mind for months as his wife, if he had to keep himself at bay all the time? He could very well do without these festivities. A wedding should be about the groom and his bride, preferably together in a bed – until further notice.

For an instant Lothíriel stiffened in his arms, but, with an inward sigh, she opened her mouth when his tongue brushed her lips. Her hands slid upward, a scant inch at a time. Finally, one arm circled his neck while the other clung to his shoulder. Her fingertips touched the nape of his neck under his hair, gliding softly. It was the lightest of caresses. Never had he realized just how sensitive that part of his body was. Éomer’s arms tightened around her as his tongue mated with hers. Desire, intense and urgent, swept through him, chasing away any attempt to think rationally. The longer he kissed her, the more he needed her to keep kissing him. This woman sent all his senses vibrating and she didn’t even know it. She truly had the power to disconcert him.

Eventually the sudden rise of joyous voices coming from the city square, a chorus shouting loud encouragement to somebody, broke the spell. He pulled back and heard to his satisfaction a deep-drawn sigh of protest from Lothíriel. She had been caught in the bliss of the moment as much as he had. Whatever storms might come in the future their mutual passion would weather them.

“I cannot tell you how much I would rather take you elsewhere,” he whispered hoarsely, “but we’d better join that merry assembly.” He saw her nodding, averting her eyes. It was not difficult to guess that heat was colouring her face. “You are not supposed to be embarrassed about kissing your husband,” he teased.

“It is not so much the deed as the location.” Her voice sounded self-conscious, having probably surprised herself with her fervid response to him, or rather with her fervid response illuminated by a fair number of torches. “We really should go now. It is very impolite to make the people wait.”

“It is not as if they are not having their fun without us,” Éomer assured her. “After all, it is a brydealoþ, more of a cýpedæg, a fair, than a symbel, some solemn function. There is no formal opening; everybody joins the celebration as it suits him.” He smiled at her little frown, telling him that she was filing away the new words.

“Quite literally it means ‘bride-ale’, which indicates that the union of a man and a woman has to be toasted with strong drinks.”

“Therefore it enjoys great popularity,” Lothíriel remarked philosophically.

“It certainly does. And everybody who belongs to the community the bridal couple lives in will join the celebration.”

She pondered that information for a moment. “That may be practicable in a small hamlet, but how can an ordinary couple here in Edoras afford to feast everybody living within its boundaries?” she asked with her usual pragmatism.

“They do not have to. It is not as if this brydealoþ in our honour is an exceptional event and that the citizens of Edoras have arranged an uncustomary celebration for their king and queen. They do it for every bridal couple. Perhaps they have put a little more effort into it; perhaps the food is more lavish, but on the whole it is just a traditional ‘bride-ale’, done for everybody by everybody.”

“I hope that the food is more lavish does not mean the people of Edoras had to scrimp and save on this occasion?” Leave it to Lothíriel to concern herself with the consequences of any matter.

“Do not worry, my sweet. Last night all the citizens celebrating all over the city, as well as those assembled in Meduseld, feasted as guests of the Prince of Dol Amroth. Your father insisted upon making the arrangements for his daughter’s wedding, claiming it to be a custom in Gondor. The provisions he sent came at the same time as the wains containing your personal belongings.”

“It is indeed a custom in Gondor to bid farewell to a daughter with an elaborate feast,” she insisted with emphasis as if she doubted that Éomer had truly believed Imrahil’s claim. “You would have upset my father if you had not allowed him to do so.”

“Would I?” Éomer asked dryly. He had begun to wonder what it would take to make the Prince of Dol Amroth lose his countenance. Obviously a breach of propriety like Lothíriel’s presence in his bedchamber hadn’t been sufficient for the Dúnadan to let himself get worked up.

“Be that as it may,” he had to dispel a grin from his lips when he saw her scowl at him for hinting scepticism at her words, “yesterday all the citizens were provided for and regarding today’s food you can be assured that Ælfgyth has contributed adequately from the stocks of the Golden Hall.”

“Hmm.” For the time being, she seemed to be appeased by his explanation. They had nearly reached the square and something else attracted her attention. She tilted her head, listening with a bewildered expression before turning slightly pained.

“I know music plays a very important role in the lives of the Rohirrim and I often heard your kinsmen sing quite beautifully at the Houses of Healing. And yesterday at the wedding feast the tuneful melodies made by the lyres were rather tender and very touching, but this,” she gyrated her free hand, “sounds a bit . . . no, it sounds totally off-key.”

There was no reason to disagree with her statement. The music of Rohan was indeed soulful, at times poignant but always melodic. Flutes made from apple-wood and hawthorn, timbrels and drums and lyres made from maple-wood always joined together in harmony. But the noise that assaulted their ears when they arrived at the square was as far from melodiousness as the croaks of a flock of crebain with a severe infection of their vocal cords. And the agonized squeaks and creaks of the flutes were accompanied by the ear-battering booms of the drums and the hooting of an apparently highly entertained crowd.

Virtually everybody had gathered around the section of the square where the dancing usually took place. The long tables and benches around the perimeter had been abandoned; even food had been left behind, including the meat roasting on the spits. Éomer saw a large tabby cat seizing the opportunity to subject a large saucepan to a closer inspection.

“As I said before, they are having their fun without us,” he stated, wrapping his arm around Lothíriel’s shoulder to protect her from any shove or nudges while he steered them through the cheering and rhythmically clapping crowd. As soon as the people recognized who was trying to make his way to the front they made room at once but also greeted their king and queen with forthright and unfeigned cordiality.

The sight that greeted them when they finally made it to the fore was one to behold. In the middle of the space there was a short, square figure with masses of reddish brown hair and beard flying. He was moving solely on his own; to the inharmonious bedlam nobody in his right mind would have called music. Although the term ‘move’ didn’t do justice to the energetic bouncing, skipping, jigging and kicking, but whatever Gimli was doing, with increasing vigour and to the chants of his rapt audience, it couldn’t have been called dancing by anybody who still had all his wits about him.

“Are you certain he is not in pain?” Lothíriel asked worried after having watched the act for a moment. She was clearly mystified.

“There is no reason to be concerned, my Lady.” Only now Éomer realized that they were standing next to Elfhelm and his wife. “He announced earlier that he was going to demonstrate the proper dance for such a joyous occasion as a wedding.”

Éomer grinned when he saw Lothíriel study a few more of the forceful manoeuvres of their dwarfish friend with a dubious frown. He couldn’t blame her. Under different circumstances he would have rather guessed that Gimli’s breeches were being invaded by an entire ant colony. And he wasn’t surprised that nobody else had joined this unconventional jig. It would have been hazardous for anybody’s health to accidentally get in the way of the Master of Aglarond.

“Perhaps it would be easier for him, if the musicians played some proper tunes which he could dance to,” Lothíriel finally suggested.

“I am afraid he advised the musicians to accompany his moves,” Elfhelm explained.

“No doubt, they are doing their worst,” Éomer muttered. He became aware of Aragorn and Imrahil standing within the watching crowd across the dancing floor. When he caught the eyes of the former Ranger, the Dúnadan laughed and shook his head, pointing at their mutual friend and brother-in-arms gone wild. Thereupon Gimli spotted Rohan’s King and with a howl shot towards him so that Éomer was tempted to step in front of his wife to protect her from a possible impact. But the dwarf stopped sharply, just before them, bouncing up and down enthusiastically.

“Before I can find the stamina to follow your lead I think I’d better get some necessary nutrition,” Éomer refused the invitation, laughing.

“Food! Food is always good.” Gimli flaunted some more fancy footwork, spun around in a not exactly elegant but certainly unique pirouette, his short arms rotating like the vanes of a windmill. “Talking of food, the exercise has made me hungry not to mention thirsty. And you Horselords may not know how to dance, but you do understand something about the masterly brewing of ale.” Half stomping, half skipping he danced over to the makeshift dais where the musicians were seated. “Thanks lads, that was quite good for a first time.” He bowed to the players, who returned his greeting, and then to his audience who brimmed over with enthusiasm, their applause accompanied by whistles and hoots.

“Ale! Somebody get me some ale!” he boomed, pushing his way through the crowd towards the corner of the common where several large barrels of wine and ale were located. Lothíriel looked after the compact figure.

“No objection to that observation from me,” her husband agreed. He still had his arm around her midriff, her back against his chest. It was a very agreeable position – at least for him. Lothíriel was tugging discreetly at the hand he had spread over her stomach. Éomer decided to ignore her.

With the end of Gimli’s performance the audience had begun to disperse in all directions, the people returning to their earlier activities and the musicians had once more begun to play a gaily melodious piece of music, caressing the eardrum instead of attacking it.

Éomer, however, became unexpectedly attacked from another side. His Marshal’s wife planted herself in front of him.

“Truly, my Lord! How inconsiderate of you. My Lady was on her feet all day, without a rest or a bite to eat since she had some sweet bread and tea this morning. And as if that, on top of the long journey she has just accomplished, was not wearisome enough, you had to take her out for a ride.”

Éomer looked slightly taken back at Cynewyn, who – although he was her king now and not that many years younger – still hadn’t given up her irritating habit of scolding him now and then, as if he were still the adolescent who had once sat at her table.

“That was what I tried to tell him.” Lothíriel was quick to take up the same line. “But he just tossed me on a horse and led me out of the city.”

Elfhelm laughed. “You’d better give up any attempt of resistance, my Lord King. You stand no chance when women join forces against you. I should know. I have four of them in my own household.”

“My sympathy is yours, my Lord Marshal,” Éomer assured him and then put his mouth close to Lothíriel’s ear. “Do you wish to retire, my Lady?” he whispered.

“No, I do not!” She wriggled out of his embrace. “I wish to eat something. After all, nutrition is essential to keep up my . . .” She stopped herself, clearing her throat in embarrassment. Éomer couldn’t suppress a smirk. Her own daring had obviously taken her by surprise.

“. . . stamina?” he completed her sentence innocently. That earned him a reprimanding look from Lady Cynewyn. The Marshal’s wife turned towards her queen.

“Éomer, that remark was rather ungallant,” Elfhelm informed his king, not trying to hide his grin. “And that is the more gracious phrasing. My wife would have called it boorish.”

“In all probability,” Éomer conceded. “But I just spoke out loud the word my wife had on the tip of her tongue anyway.”

“You should have left it there. Wives are very powerful and dangerous creatures, my friend, whom we do not upset if we can avoid it. Nothing you have come across so far is comparable, in the best sense and the worst.”

“I agree.” Éomer followed his wife with his eyes. It wasn’t difficult. There was no other like her. “She is utterly and perfectly incomparable.”

The Marshal of the Eastmark tapped his king on his back. “You have a lifetime to appreciate her. Come on; let us see if Gimli is willing to share some of the ale.”

Éomer accompanied the man who had always been more to him than the captain who had been given orders to train the King’s nephew. Elfhelm had taken him into his family and, although not that many years older, he had shaped him in more than one aspect to become the man he was. He had been his mentor and, above all, he had been his friend. Unlike Erkenbrand and Aldhelm, he had never preached to his newly proclaimed king about his station. If anybody knew how seriously the last of the House of Eorl took his duty towards his people, it was Elfhelm and most notably the serene and loyal man had never felt it necessary to press Éomer to take a wife to secure the succession. Only once had he touched on the subject and that was when he found his king on the verge of compromising the Princess of Dol Amroth. Back then, on that one single occasion, he had proffered his opinion that Imrahil’s disconcerting daughter would make a very suitable queen-consort. Though he had never mentioned it again, there had been a certain smugness about him when Éomer had told him about Imrahil’s offer and the agreement that had been reached between them. And, very soon, Éomer intended to ask his friend what it had been that made the Marshal of the Eastmark look so favourably upon his bond with the Princess from Gondor. He knew Elfhelm too well to believe that the political advantages of such a union had been in the forefront of his mind.

They joined not only Gimli - who had settled on a bench with a large beaker of ale and an even bigger platter loaded with pork roast, oat bread, beans and onions - but also Aragorn and Imrahil, both having found a seat next to their short friend and who were just being served beef casserole and goblets of wine by Ælfgyth. All three of the younger Princes of Dol Amroth had sat down on benches in the close vicinity; Elphir in conversation with Legolas – it was hard to say who looked more bored – Amrothos surrounded by a group of twittering young females, amongst them Merewyn.

Éomer slanted his Marshal a sideways glance. He liked the girl very much, but it was known that Elfhelm was a rather strict father – for a good reason, namely his very own record in such matters - and he wouldn’t mind at all if his wife’s youngest brother got into trouble over the little chatterbox. On the other hand Amrothos was probably clever and principled enough not to dally with any of his youthful worshippers. That was rather unfortunate. A more experienced woman was needed for him to trifle with. One who would be able to keep him occupied for the rest of his stay.

Erchirion seemed to be more focused on the matter. He was in the company of a young woman, one of the many widows that the war had left behind. Éomer knew her fairly well. She was a relative of Aldhelm, living in his household and said to have a rather sound character. Erchirion’s chances of talking her into bed – if that was his aim – were pretty slim. But then, one had better never underestimate any of the royal family of Dol Amroth. They were always good for a surprise.

Éomer took a seat opposite his father-in-law who watched with unveiled fascination the mere pace with which Gimli cleared his platter and drained his beaker. Next to him his liege, better acquainted with the dwarf’s healthy appetite, tucked into his own food, obviously enjoying the dish. Aragorn smiled at his friend.

“I put my faith in Ælfgyth. She saw me approaching when she served you and will hopefully bring something for me as well.”

Right on cue, Lothíriel appeared from the crowd around ðe cycenæbære, the hot food stall, the housekeeper of Meduseld following her with a steaming bowl in each hand. Lothíriel herself carried a platter with bread and some cutlery. She put the bread on the table, smiling her greetings to her father and Aragorn and then addressed her husband.

“You have the choice; Hriðer Smeamete or Bræde Cicen.” When her answer was the laughter of all three men she frowned, irritated. “What is it?”

“Well, of course I asked a few questions.” His daughter appeared clearly bewildered why that should be so amusing. “I like to know what I am eating.”

“Either beef casserole or roasted chicken.” Éomer saw to the translations. “If I have the choice, I would like ðe smeamete.”

With one of her quiet smiles Ælfgyth placed the bowl with the casserole in front of him, the other next to it.

The housekeeper left and Imrahil raised his eyebrows, looking questioning at his daughter.

“Mulberry wine,” Lothíriel replied to the silent question. She looked hesitantly at the seating accommodation, then she put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder for balance and climbed over the wooden bench, for the moment giving everybody around a good view of two long, slim legs clad in breeches before she pulled her split skirt behind her and settled down next to her husband. Éomer caught a disapproving frown from Elphir and gathered that this manoeuvre would have been regarded in Gondor as unseemly behaviour. Well, now his sister was the Queen of Rohan and here nobody would care if she climbed over all of the furniture in Meduseld. The slightly amused expression on Imrahil’s face told him that Gondor’s mightiest vassal had come to a similar conclusion.

Lothíriel handed him a combined spoon-and-fork, an adept solution to the problem of dealing with solid and liquid foods with one utensil, and passed the bread platter. Earlier she might have been miffed at him, but now she seemed willing to feed him.

“Is there a need for forgiveness?” she returned as softly-spoken, but there was a certain chill in her voice.

Éomer looked at her, startled. He hadn’t expected to be met with a rebuff. “If there is, I offer my sincere apologies.”

“You have been in a jesting mood all day, my lord.” Her tone was cool, but when she glanced up from her meal, there was a gleam in her eyes. “But I remember that once I told you that with three brothers I have lots of practice in forgiving stupidity.”

Éomer confined his reply to a not exactly enthusiastic grunt, not wanting to risk voicing anything that could have been judged as a cutting of one of her dear siblings.

Lothíriel speared a piece of chicken with her fork and raised it to her mouth, but refrained from taking a bite. Now she was definitely grinning. “Why, my Lord. Can it be that you do not like being compared to my brothers?”

The arrival of Ælfgyth with their drinks saved him from an answer, but they had reached a truce . . . for now.

They feasted in the company of their friends – Merry and Pippin joined them after having hauled so much food over, that the table threatened to sag – their conversation light-hearted and filled with cheerful banter. Around them, all the citizens of Edoras appeared to be having a good time. They were laughing in a more carefree manner than Éomer could remember them having done in a very long time and doing justice to the no longer strictly allotted food and drink. It was something they had been rarely able to indulge themselves in for many years. The children were obviously having their share of a good time, too. Nobody seemed to have the intention of sending them off to bed. Gaggles of all ages rampaged around, every single one making more noise than the average banshee.

After Gimli had vacated the dancing floor, a handful of couples had taken his place. Merewyn had managed to drag Amrothos there, quite successfully teaching him the Rohirric dances. One could not deny that the Prince had an aptitude for it, catching on to the steps and the rhythm very quickly and looking not at all as bumbling as most other men did. His own person included, as Éomer had to admit to himself. He just hoped Lothíriel wouldn’t want to dance. If she wished to get more exercise, he could make a few suggestions. Well, actually he had, in such a case, a very particular suggestion to make.

But his wife’s attention was drawn not by the dancers but by a group of men, sitting with their ale on stumps around a bonfire. Taking turns, one would recite something, which was followed by a short discussion, which would regularly result in laughter and applause. When after a while Gandalf joined them, Lothíriel could no longer curb her curiosity. She leaned into his body.

“Éomer, that group over there, the one that has just been joined by Mithrandir, what are those men doing?”

He relished that she obviously took it as a matter of course to have her breast pressed against his arm, and to rest her cheek for a heartbeat against his shoulder. Under the table he took her hand, weaving their fingers together.

“I told you earlier that the Rohirrim like to entertain themselves with riddles. Well, that is what they are doing over there; asking each other riddles.”

He watched with amusement as his wife contemplated the group. One of her frowns appeared above the bridge of her nose. She was clearly intrigued by their game.

He got up and, instead of merely assisting her to climb over the bench, he slid his hands under her armpits and lifted her easily over the barrier. Lothíriel was already much too focused on her targets to pay any attention to this, perhaps not entirely kingly, procedure. Éomer doubted that any of their subjects paid much attention either.

Gandalf had sat down with the riddlers: a quite varied lot. Éomer saw that Gléowine was with them, his uncle’s minstrel and scop; he recognized Æthelmære, a member of the Royal Council, a few of the city’s craftsmen – amongst them Master Ælbert – and a handful of riders of his guard. When they saw their King and Queen approaching, the men jumped to their feet to greet the couple. The Istar, taking his weed-pipe from his mouth, smiled at Lothíriel.

“I should think that before I can try my luck, I would have to learn the tongue of Rohan well enough that I would be able to make out the subtleties of the language.”

“Perhaps I might be of some assistance.” Gandalf gestured her to take a seat next to him. “Come to my side and I will translate to the best of my knowledge and belief.”

Lothíriel did as she had been bidden, and one after the other the men settled down at their former places again. Only then did Éomer make out that amongst the group was the Captain of his Guard, Éofor. The rider was watching his Queen with an expression that reminded Éomer, unpleasantly, of a cat eyeing an unsuspecting bird, apparently so fascinated that he was unable to avert his gaze. He did not like that look at all. Éofor had a certain reputation, that was for sure, but what was the man thinking of? He was not in the company of some ‘tæppestre’, some serving wench.

Before Éomer had the chance to decide what to do, somebody stepped next to him. He slanted the man a glance. It was Erchirion. His wife’s brothers had the unnerving habit of popping up out of nowhere. It seemed he had failed in whatever his intention regarding Aldhelm’s kinswoman had been. However, he did not look at all crestfallen.

“What is so interesting here that it has drawn not only the Royal Couple into the circle but also the wise wizard?”

“Riddles,” Éomer answered with a not to be surpassed curtness. He turned his attention back to his captain.

But another short glance showed Éomer that his brother-in-law had followed his line of vision and was now also contemplating the rider, who still had his sight trained on his beautiful queen. However, unlike Rohan’s King, the Prince didn’t appear to be irritated by the brazen regard, only mildly interested.

It had been Gléowine’s turn to present a riddle, and Gandalf quietly translated the words for Lothíriel. It was a complicated one - Éomer hadn’t really listened, as he was concentrating on the man who dared to stare rudely at his wife. The discussion went back and forth, several solutions were proposed, but Théoden’s old minstrel only shook his head again and again. When he was finally asked to explain his riddle, Erchirion cut in.

This time Gléowine nodded appreciatively. Éomer was not surprised. Lothíriel’s bothers – at least the two closest to her – no doubt had a very capable brain each. It was just that they preferred to camouflage the fact. On the other hand, a quill was a rather uncommon implement for the ordinary Rohír and therefore difficult to guess right.

The next riddle came from a young, lanky weaver they had met earlier in the day at Master Guthlac’s place. It was easy to solve, as was the one after it, recited by another of the craftspeople, because they both dealt with the respective crafts of the men. Then it was Éofor’s go.

“If you wish, my Lady,” the man addressed his Queen in all politeness, “I can present my riddle in the common tongue.”

Éomer did not doubt that the Captain of his Guard was quite able to deliver the riddle in Westron. He was from the eastern Folde and most people in the border region spoke that language as well as their own tongue. Nevertheless, something about the conduct of the man irritated him, but before he had the chance to intervene, Lothíriel accepted the offer.

The man glanced fleetingly at his King, his gaze equally cautious and challenging, however he began to recite his lines without any obvious hesitation.

For a long moment, after Éofor had ended, there was an embarrassed silence, with the men exchanging disbelieving glances and looking anxiously at their King. The only reason that Éomer did not react immediately was the fact that he couldn’t quite decide if he should disembowel the man on the spot for his impertinence or reduce him to mucking out the stables with his bare hands for the rest of his life. He felt Erchirion’s eyes on him.

“That is an easy one,” Lothíriel declared, perfectly oblivious to the tension which had suddenly flared up and had caused her companions to become frozen to their seats. Éomer blinked at her in disbelief. He heard Erchirion making some choking noise.

“So you have figured it out, my dear?” Gandalf stated in a slightly curious tone. Éomer didn’t know what to make of the amused twinkle in the wizard’s eyes. “We are quite eager to hear your answer to this riddle.”

“The answer is an onion,” Lothíriel replied firmly, like somebody who was perfectly sure of her ground.

Éomer squeezed his eyes shut, not certain if he should laugh or weep. What had made him think that Lothíriel’s train of thought would be anywhere close to that of the ordinary mortal?

“An onion?” Erchirion repeated reflectively. “Yes, I can see that. Absolutely . . . an onion.”

Sure enough a breath of relief went through the group gathered around the fire, and the unease on the men’s faces was slowly and warily replaced by an affectionate amusement. Éomer heard his brother-in-law exhale in a way that left him in no doubt that Erchirion was struggling against his own temptation to laugh. Gandalf wore his customary look, a mixture of omniscience and mirthful serenity, and the way he met the gaze of his young Rohirric friend seemed to ask: what did you expect?

Éomer would have expected that none of his people and most certainly none of his own guard would dare to behave towards their Queen with anything but integrity and discretion. That Lothíriel did not catch on to this unseemly piece of impudence did not matter in the least. Éofor was going to regret having made a misjudgement, a very stupid one, if he thought he was going to get away with trying to throw his Queen off balance. Why he had done it, Éomer felt completely unable to comprehend.

For the moment the Captain managed to avoid his king’s deadly glare, pretending nonchalantly that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. However, now that her mind was no longer wholly fixed on solving the riddle, Lothíriel began to notice that something about the previously comfortable atmosphere had changed. Éomer saw her eyes wandering from one face to the other. They stayed longer on her brother’s with an unmistakable question in her eyes. Obviously not getting the cue she required from Erchirion, her gaze settled on him. Éomer was not quick enough to disguise the anger blazing in his eyes. She frowned, clearly confused by his sudden change of demeanour and once again she looked around, searching for a sign from one of their companions about what she might have missed.

She opened to her mouth to ask a question, which - in all likelihood - would get straight to the heart of the issue, and Éomer’s brain began working so fast that he fleetingly wondered that no steam was coming out of his ears. He tried in vain to find something remotely reasonable to distract her attention but he was saved by a small figure running into him from behind, nearly knocking him over.

Having knocked himself off balance by the impact, Meriadoc Brandybuck hopped a couple of times from one foot to the other to regain his stability. He grinned from flushed cheek to flushed cheek, his hair hopelessly tousled. He had shed his frock coat despite the cool night air and was in his shirtsleeves. Just a look at his good-humoured face and Éomer felt the tension easing away from him. All his friends had a special place in his heart and he loved Aragorn as a brother, more than his own life. But somehow just looking at this small man, who had been at Éowyn’s side on the Pelennor and had secured her survival, always made him feel soothed and cheered-up. And he couldn’t help grinning back.

“I can assure you, my Lord King, I am not attempting to hurt myself or others.” The Hobbit shoved all ten fingers through his hair, not really succeeding in achieving any neatness. “However, I know you avoid getting on the dance floor at all costs, but why should your lady wife be afflicted with your unwillingness? So, if you agree and my Lady would do me the honour, I would like to have a hop with her.”

Éomer turned around to send Lothíriel a questioning glance. “Well, my Lady, can you withstand such an invitation?” he asked.

“I certainly cannot.” Lothíriel got to her feet, addressing Merry. “Just before you mentioned it, Master Brandybuck, a feeling had begun stealing up on me, that – if I depended on my husband’s lead – I would have to do without a good dance tonight.”

“If I had known that you longed to dance I would have made the sacrifice,” Éomer assured her with all the enthusiasm a man would summon up for the pulling of one of his teeth.

Merry rolled his eyes. “There is no need for you to become a martyr,” he set the Rohír’s mind to rest. He stepped into the circle and extended his hand towards Lothíriel, bowing from his waist. “Will you do me the honour, my Lady?”

“The honour is mine, Master Holdwine.” She put her hand in his, her long, slim fingers making his look quite chubby.

The Hobbit nodded his head to acknowledge the others around the fire. “I beg the fair assembly’s pardon for whisking away this beautiful lady from their company.”

When Lothíriel rose from her seat next to Gandalf, all the men in her company politely got to their feet as well. She smiled at them. “I thank you for letting me participate in your merriment. I found that such a riddle-match is indeed a very engaging entertainment.”

The men murmured their compliments, still struggling with their amusement, but there wasn’t a whiff of maliciousness in their countenances.

Whilst Lothíriel let herself be escorted from the circle by Merry, she warned the Hobbit, “I am afraid I have never danced to Rohirric tunes before and I do not know the steps.”

“That should not be a problem, my Lady,” Merry assured her gaily. “Neither do I.”

“Well, that statement holds promise,” Gandalf remarked dryly, looking after the unlikely pair. “I feel to continue with the riddles would be rather anticlimactic, do you not all think so?”

“I certainly cannot imagine anything topping it,” Erchirion agreed in a deadpan voice that reminded Éomer very much of his begetter.

“True, true.” The wizard knocked out his pipe on the side of the stump and stored it in a slim, longish pouch hanging from his belt. “My dear fellow riddlers, please excuse me, but I do not want to miss watching the next dance.”

“Neither do I,” Erchirion sided with him. “What about you, Éomer?” he turned to his brother-in-law, but Rohan’s King didn’t pay the Prince any attention. Now that Lothíriel had gone, he had the utmost intention of having a very serious and private ‘conversation’ with his captain. But Éofor had disappeared, taking advantage of the general jumble of a party breaking up. He knew better than to stay anywhere near his King at the present time.

“Where has the scumbag got to?” Éomer growled under his breath before he realized that Erchirion was still close enough to overhear him.

“Well, I suppose you would not have made him a captain of your guard, had he not at least a basic modicum of intelligence, which in turn should enable him to be aware of the fact that right now it would be rather disadvantageous for his personal safety to be left alone with you.”

“Erchirion, could you do me a great favour?” Éomer asked, with poorly concealed impatience.

The Prince’s laugh was one of genuine amusement. “Although I am often tempted to, I cannot deny that as brothers we share certain similarities.”

“I always considered you the only one my wife’s brothers with a certain amount of common sense.”

“Thank you. I think I will take that as a compliment,” Erchirion said straight-faced. “Though I doubt Elphir would agree. Amrothos, however, is very likely to tell you that he intends to resist common sense with his last breath.”

“Éothain made him captain, as it is his responsibility.” Éomer got back abruptly to the original subject. “At the moment I am considering overriding my Marshal’s decision and inquiring of Ælfgyth if she needs somebody to give the latrines a thorough cleaning.”

“After all your wedding guests have left, that should indeed become a necessity,” his brother-in-law agreed thoughtfully.

Éomer couldn’t help a chuckle. “And with your sister you share a pragmatic approach towards things.”

The small lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes deepened as Erchirion’s mouth curved into one of his lazy smiles. “As well as an abundance of common sense.”

“Abundance?” The Rohír pretended to consider that. This was the one of Imrahil’s sons he wouldn’t mind becoming good friends with. “Let us not exaggerate.”

The Prince gave an elegant, one-shoulder shrug. “I suppose common sense is a matter of definition anyway.” They were now solely on their own. “Shall we go and see how your wife is faring on the dance floor?”

“She would not know how not to cut a good figure,” he remarked, a mental image of his graceful wife very clearly before him.

Erchirion tilted his head contemplatively, a habit which reminded Éomer disturbingly of the youngest of the brothers. Not only in their looks were the Princes of Dol Amroth so vexingly alike but also in their mannerisms. The next words, however, caught him flat-footed.

His first reaction was to tell Erchirion to mind his own business. But then he remembered that he had asked Faramir the very same question, in an even more belligerent tone. He should have been more surprised that so far not even Imrahil had wanted assurance of what his true feelings for Lothíriel were. As a matter of fact, not even Lothíriel herself had demanded a declaration of love, just a reason why he had wanted her as his wife. Not that he had not tried to admit the nature of his feelings to her. It had just turned out to be quite challenging to get her focused on the subject.

“Yes, I truly love her.” Lothíriel’s brother was entitled to an answer, one as honest and straightforward as he had expected from Faramir. “Although I did not realize it at the time – or for some time after – I fell in love with her the night she slapped a spirit soaked gaze onto my open wound.”

Erchirion did not bat an eyelid at this revelation, just stated wryly, “That must have hurt.”

“I give you my word, Erchirion; I will always take care of Lothíriel and will protect her with my life. She will not want for anything, if it is in my power to give it to her.”

There it was again, that superficially lazy, inscrutable smile. “My sister does not set great store in worldly goods. All she needs is to be loved and allowed to be herself. My father trusts you to be the man who can give both those things to her.”

The Rohír wondered if Erchirion refrained from adding ‘for whatever reason’. Not that he had not asked himself the very question. Imrahil had told him when he made his offer that he felt that Éomer would accept Lothíriel’s uniqueness and not try to restrain it. But he had never brought up the issue of love. But then the Lord of Dol Amroth was an exceptionally perceptive man. Perhaps he had known much more from the beginning than the two parties involved.

“Tell me, Erchirion, this Elven blood said to be running in your veins; it does not enable your father to read other people’s minds, does it?”

The Prince’s enigmatic smile turned into a slightly pained grin. “That is a question all of his children have wondered about now and then. It is a rather annoying attribute, I can assure you, but personally I doubt it has anything to do with our one Elven ancestor long ago. And by the way,” he added incidentally, “you have as much Elven blood running through your veins as we have.”

“A kinswoman of ours, a cousin to our grandfather, five or six times removed . . . or something like that.” Erchirion did not sound as if he attached overly great value to his ancestry. “You could ask our aunt Ivriniel. She would know.”

They had begun to move towards the dance floor at a leisurely stroll. In the meantime the space had become much more crowded and two lines of couples moved to a – by Rohirric standards – sedate piece of music. The dance was about to draw to a close, the female and male partners separated and moved in opposite directions. At the end of the dance floor they turned around to face each other, the men, hands on their hips, just stomping from one foot to the other while the women performed a sweeping pirouette, which sent their wide skirts flying.

Éomer caught sight of Lothíriel’s scarlet riding gown. He was quite sure that she had never danced in boots before, but she certainly did cut a good figure. Like he had noticed with Amrothos, she had easily got the hang of the rhythm and the steps. Gracefully she moved back towards the centre of the space, joined hands with Merry, circled once around him, and to the last bars of the music she dropped - like all the female dancers – into a curtsey, while the men bowed deeply.

Musicians and dancers received an enthusiastic applause from their audience. Many had - for the time being – satisfied their appetite, and again a large crowd had gathered around the dance floor to watch and enjoy the music. Benches had been brought over so that elderly people could join in with more comfort, and more than one of the spectators nursed a beaker of ale or wine. Some even held a plate of food, munching happily along.

The musicians struck up another tune and most of the couples – amongst them Lothíriel and Merry – once more took up position, forming a circle, women and men alternating. After a few bars Éomer recognized the piece and couldn’t help grinning. Erchirion caught his expression.

“I wonder if Lothíriel knows that this particular piece is ðe éonahleapan, the “Dance of the Horses”, imitating their love-play. The most common dance for a wedding.”

“Why am I not surprised that there is such a thing in Rohan.” The Prince critically watched the dancer’s next moves. “I suppose that they are now pawing with their hooves,” he commented. “Shall we expect them to neigh at some point?”

Lothíriel was – no doubt - enjoying herself, although Merry didn’t catch on as quickly to the steps and regularly stumbled into her way, tripping her and breaking her rhythm. But she didn’t seem to mind. And the citizens of Edoras appeared to regard the unaffected young woman, who happened to be their queen and who didn’t care much about keeping up appearances, with friendliness and goodwill.

He had told her after the wedding ceremony that soon they would learn to love and to respect her. He was perfectly convinced of that and not because he was blinded by his own feelings. Lothíriel was always herself; she did not know how to pretend or to play a part. She was through and through genuine. And if his kinsmen appreciated one trait in the character of a fellow man or women, then it was honesty and straightforwardness.

He let his gaze roam over the crowd. For now the people were cheerful, content and relaxed, and he wanted it to stay that way, to be it that way for all men, women and children in Rohan. He wanted peace and prosperity for them. The outside world called them a people of warriors, of savages, but that was not true. They were not aggressive by nature. They hated war and violence as much as any being with half a brain would. But in their short history they had had to defend themselves again and again and they would do so in the future if they had to. That is if their king did not succeed in maintaining peace.

He turned around, searching for and finding Aragorn, where he had left him, sitting together with Imrahil, Legolas and Elfhelm. He knew those four, the men and the elf, felt the same. They wanted to rebuild their realms in peace but they were at any time prepared to defend those entrusted to their care with all their might.

Only the well-being of his people counted. He had to make sure that they could live their lives without worries. That they could do their daily deeds, could laugh and weep, love and quarrel without having to dread the next day.

His wandering gaze came to a halt on his Marshal’s wife. Cynewyn had her hands on her hips, scolding, not him for a change, but her daughter. He wondered what Merewyn had done, but he guessed the evening was over for the curly head. Whatever her misconduct might have been, it seemed likely that the youngest Prince of Dol Amroth was somehow involved. He looked around for Amrothos and found him still – or again – on the dance floor, this time with a pretty lady much better suited to him. Precisely the type that could keep him occupied – day and night.

The circle of dancers moved again, the men pawing with the hooves, an imitation of a love sick stallion, and Éomer’s gaze came to rest on another well-known figure.

“I beg your pardon?” Erchirion inquired politely, but when he followed the Rohír’s line of vision, he could make out, without needing a response to his question, what had aroused his brother-in-law’s displeasure. “It seems to me,” he stated, looking with a mixture of amusement and caution at his companion, “that the man lacks the basic instinct of the human race: self-preservation.”

There was no reason to counteract that conclusion. Captain Éofor of the Royal Guard appeared to have every intention of getting into trouble in the foreseeable future. He was on the dance floor, just one couple away from Lothíriel and Merry, and while the women whirled away from their partners to form an inner circle, his eyes were not on his partner but clearly on his Queen.

Éomer uttered a lengthy Rohirric curse – after he had made sure that no youngsters were in their vicinity.

Erchirion raised his brows. “I would be very much interested in the translation of that bit.”

The Rohír couldn’t help but choke out a laugh. “Those were the kind of words our mothers never wanted to hear from us.” But once more he turned serious, a scowl fixing itself on his features. “The way he has been staring at her all night is quite simply an impudence.”

“If I may say so – as her brother –your wife is rather appealing. You cannot always expect all men to look in the opposite direction.”

“It is not just that he is looking, but the way he is looking at her. For Bema’s sake, she is his Queen.” Éomer caught himself growling the last words. Erchirion made a noise that reminded him of one of Amrothos’s annoying giggles.

“Are you upset with the Captain because he is gawping at his Queen or because he is gawping at your wife?”

Good question and just his luck to stand next to another one of his overly perceptive, new kin. He did not want any other man eyeing Lothíriel. Somehow he hadn’t expected it to happen at all. He had spent most of his life in the company of men, and it couldn’t be denied that in such company women were a regular topic of conversation; all kinds of opinions regarding women were traded. And those talks had led him gain the impression that the majority of his own gender preferred the more lush female forms. Bema, before he had encountered the Princess of Dol Amroth he would have regarded himself as one of them.

This dance had ended and he saw Lothíriel happily bantering with a beaming Merry. They apparently had agreed to dance another one together. Hadn’t she complained earlier that he was overexerting her?

Lothíriel was so cool and fine and always so much her own. There was a kind of unique radiance about her. Had he really believed that her beauty was only in the eyes of him, as the beholder? She was beautiful. It was as simple as that and others saw it as well . . . and he didn’t like it. However, Erchirion was right. He couldn’t throttle somebody just because he was looking at his wife. Unfortunately!

Again the dancers were forming two circles, the men on the outside, the women on the inside. This time it took Éomer a while to identify the piece. Usually he tried his best to keep away from any form of dancing, at least when he was expected to partake.

Doing his best to overcome what he refused to call jealousy, he decided to let Erchirion in on the niceties of this particular dance. “Now, this could become highly entertaining indeed. It is a challenge to the dancers by the musicians. After every section they will play the repeat faster. The winner is the party which manages to keep up the pace longest.”

“Our friend Meriadoc could become an obstacle for the dancing party,” Erchirion replied. “I think that was what Mithrandir was looking forward to.”

Turning his attention back to the dance floor, Éomer had to blink several times because he feared something was wrong with his eyesight. But nothing changed. The view stayed just the same. Lothíriel’s partner for this dance was not the Hobbit but Éofor.

If you are interested in listening to original dance music of the Medieval Ages, here are the links:

I took the liberty of borrowing the riddle presented by Éofor from the Anglo-Saxons. The more I read about them, the more I am fascinated by their culture. There were anything but primitive.

“You are rather inventive, are you not?” his brother-in-law remarked dryly before he caught the same sight. “Oops! How did he manage to arrange that?”

“I do not know. I do not care.” Éomer began to move forward but was intercepted by an elbow, which the Prince dug into his ribs.

“I do not think it is very befitting for a king to pummel a captain without obvious reason.”

“It does not look as if he forced her to dance with him,” Erchirion pointed out, waving his hand towards the dancing couples.

Regrettably, he was quite correct. Lothíriel was smiling amiably at the man who had been introduced to her officially by her own husband as an esteemed member of his guard. She had no reason not to behave in a friendly way towards him, as long as he treated her with due respect. And even if he took any liberty it was more likely that Lothíriel would be oblivious to it than that she would catch on to the fact that somebody was making a pass at her – if Éofor’s instinct of self-preservation was indeed so low that he would try to do that.

The male and female lines had separated and moved in different directions, the orderly formation seemingly breaking up, but after both parties had danced around the perimeter of the floor, they came together again in a sweeping figure and each dancer found himself back with his former partner. Promptly the music started from the beginning, but this time going faster, causing the dancers to repeat the steps at a quicker pace.

Not completely familiar with the swift succession of steps, even after the first round, Éomer saw Lothíriel hesitating, for just a heartbeat. She was near to getting all the other dancers into a muddle, but Éofor quickly steadied her by wrapping his hand around her elbow. The further movements required that the man took the woman’s right hand in his own right one, resting his left on her left hip. Involuntarily Éomer’s jaws clenched when he saw the rider pulling his wife more closely against his side than was necessary. The lunatic even dared to bend down, apparently muttering something into Lothíriel’s ear. And his wife looked up and laughed at him.

Éomer’s reaction was immediate and startlingly intense. Every nerve in his body reacted fiercely to the sight of Lothíriel laughing with another man. The possessiveness he felt took him by surprise and for a moment also took his breath away. He gave a very low growl. Erchirion turned his head quickly at that tone and frowned at him, clearly alarmed now.

“Éomer, you are not going to pick a fight!” That was not a statement but a definite order. Momentarily baffled, Rohan’s King gazed at his brother-in-law, and for the first time he felt he saw what truly lay behind the ever-amused façade: those chocolate-brown eyes were as hard as granite. This was the man who didn’t mind putting the thumbscrews on others.

“And you are going to prevent it?” he ask in a dangerously even voice when he found Erchirion’s hand on his forearm. He really didn’t want to hit Lothíriel’s brother.

“At least I will try,” Erchirion replied, matching the tone. “And in the course of it, we would not only embarrass ourselves, but also Lothíriel.”

Éomer puffed out his cheeks, releasing some of the air which had been bottled up inside his chest, summoning all the self-control he possessed. “Are you expecting me to watch idly while that boor runs his hands all over my wife?” he snarled, although the accusation was slightly exaggerated. Suddenly he felt the need to paw like an ill-tempered Firefoot before a charge, but he forced himself to accept the inevitable . . . with bad grace

The Prince did not answer at once, his attention was again fixed on the dancers, but the strain in his body gave away his preparedness to hold his brother-in-law back if he had to.

The dancers had finished the second round and just started out for another, even quicker paced one. Again Éofor had his hand on his queen’s hip, or rather had his arm nearly wrapped all around her waist. And Lothíriel had begun to look perhaps, not yet uncomfortable with the situation, but undoubtedly puzzled by the brazen action. At least she wasn’t laughing anymore at the man’s face but frowning down at the hand, which touched her with audacious confidence.

“You are right,” Erchirion admitted. “It is time to bring this to a halt. But I think we should leave it to Amrothos.”

Erchirion grinned fleetingly at the utmost incredulity punctuating that single name. “He has his uses . . . now and then. Do you know that he is a brilliant chess player?”

“What – by all that you hold sacred – has that to do with the impertinent behaviour of my captain towards my wife?"

“Amrothos knows how to place a pawn. See for yourself.” He pointed with his chin at his younger brother.

Between the latter and his partner, and Lothíriel and the captain, there were two other couples and only now did Éomer realize that Amrothos had his eyes fixed on his sister and the man leading her through the dance. Judging by the frown the Prince wore – a serious expression by his standards – he had caught on and wasn’t pleased either. But how was he supposed to take action – other than pummel Éofor? Perhaps Erchirion considered it more fitting for a prince than for a king to start a brawl. Talk of Gondorians and their emphasis on proper conduct.

Just when the female and male lines of dancers were about to separate once more, Amrothos – who until now had been an epitome of light-footedness – stumbled and shoved his partner straight into the woman next to her. Éomer saw his mouth moving, no doubt spluttering his apologies, helping his victims to find their footing again and propelling them back into positions. One had to allow him that he was fast and so the disturbance was quickly resolved, the dancers eager not to fall behind the music.

“A chess move,” Erchirion replied easily, all tension gone from his voice. “He positioned the Queen.”

Éomer dubiously watched the course of events unfolding before him. The third round of the dance drew to a close and the lines swept towards one another. One after the other the partners found each other again. Suddenly he realized that the next pair joining hands looked dumbfounded when they met and then Éofor found himself with a short, tubby woman. If his King was not mistaken, it was the wife of Master Gearwald, the cooper.

Slowly Éomer began to grin. Somehow Amrothos had managed to change the order of the female line of dancers, and not just at random, but in such a way that he and his sister came together. When she met her brother, Lothíriel laughed, not only surprised but, Éomer could have sworn, also relieved. Whilst they were performing the next moves, Amrothos’s head bent down to her, he whispered something into her ear and when Lothíriel nodded, he whirled her gracefully out of the formation and led her off the dance floor. He escorted her over to where his brothers were waiting for them.

“I think I have found something that belongs to you,” he addressed Éomer in his customary cocky tone. “You should really try not to lose sight of it. It easily catches the eye of others.”

“I am not ‘something’, Lothíriel protested in mock irritation, taking the hand Éomer held out to her and letting herself be pulled against his side. Granted, it was a rather possessive gesture, but he didn’t really care about Erchirion’s knowing grin.

“On the contrary” he told his wife. “You are something very special.” The warm smile that lit her eyes made it very difficult not to act on the urge to kiss her. On the other hand, two attentively watching older brothers had a rather deflating effect on such a longing.

But it seemed they would soon be left on their own. Éomer watched, with interest, the silent communication between the two princes: a glance, the rise of an eyebrow, the twitch of a corner of the mouth and some understanding had been reached. Only close-knit siblings were able to confer in such a covert way. He and Éowyn had done it as long as he could remember.

“Dearest, now that you are back in the care of your husband, you will not mind if we pursue our own amusement?” Erchirion asked his sister. The question was - no doubt – purely rhetorical.

That was an ambiguous announcement if he had ever heard one. What exactly was this pair up to?

“Behave yourselves!” Lothíriel ordered her brothers sternly. “I do not wish to hear any complaints about you.”

“Now look at our midget; ordering us around. Ouch!” Amrothos cried out and rubbed his arm where his sister had swatted him. “Marry her off to a king and she thinks she can maltreat me.” The two of them launched happily into an affectionate siblings’ quarrel.

“We will take care of that man,” Erchirion answered, also at pains not to let Lothíriel hear his words.

“And I still feel that it is not a good idea for a king to beat up a captain of his guard, though I fully understand the urgent and natural desire to do so.”

“Now, that should put my mind to rest.” To think that there had been times in his life when he had wished for more brothers and sisters.

He felt a small, warm hand against his back. “Éomer, you will not believe it, but I am hungry again.” He turned around to find Lothíriel smiling up at him, wrinkling her nose sheepishly. More fine strands had escaped from her elaborately braided hair and framed her face. The fair skin over her cheekbones was flushed from the exercise of the dancing. It seemed only natural for him to put his arm around her shoulder and for her to lean into his body.

“In that case I had better feed you or I might have my Marshal’s wife back at my throat.” He glanced at Erchirion, for a moment reluctantly. It was not in his nature to have others take care of his affairs. But then they were her brothers. They had a right to be involved. That Éowyn was married and now living far away at her husband’s side did not mean that he no longer felt a responsibility. “Very well, you may go and pursue whatever you find . . . amusing.”

Erchirion gave him a short nod and turned to saunter away. Amrothos gave his sister a wink and followed in his wake.

Éomer let the tips of his fingers slide down her arm and across the small of her back. He took her hand in his. “Shall we join your father and Aragorn?” he murmured. He escorted her over to the table, where he had earlier seen his friends gathered. Gandalf had joined them and now sat at the High King’s side and Elfhelm was again next to his wife.

When he saw the royal couple approaching, Imrahil greeted his daughter. “How are you enjoying your first Rohirric celebration, my dear?”

“Very much, Father.” This time she climbed without hesitation over the bench to sit down across from the Lord of Dol Amroth, next to Aragorn, who, like Gandalf, had lit his pipe. “It is a brydealoþ, by the way,”Lothíriel informed no-one in particular.

Éomer grinned at his father-in-law before addressing his wife, “I will see if I can find Ælfgyth to bring you some more food.” However Cynewyn got up from her place.

“Leave it to me, my Lord. The boldweard of Meduseld needs a moment of rest and time to eat something herself.” She walked swiftly away.

“So you have already begun to learn the language of the Riddermark, my Lady?” Aragorn inquired, making sure that the smoke of his pipe drifted away from his friend’s new wife.

“I am only picking up pieces at the moment,” Lothíriel replied. “However, I wish to begin wholeheartedly as soon as possible. But I will need some sort of tutor to guide and to instruct me.”

Gandalf took the pipe out of the corner of his mouth. “Perhaps you should talk to Gléowine. You met him earlier amongst the riddlers. He used to be Théoden King’s scop but he does not wish to serve in such a function any longer.”

Lothíriel frowned in contemplation. “He was the old man who presented the riddle about the quill.”

“I will talk to him within the next couple of days,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Well, I suppose that my opinion is no longer required,” Éomer remarked in mock disgruntlement.

“I am certain he has not,” Lady Cynewyn interjected as she returned, balancing a flat bowl and two goblets, “Men always get in a huff, when they are not allowed to shove their oar in.” She put down the bowl in front of Lothíriel, before setting down the goblets of wine for her Queen and King. “I brought you some cucumber salad in honey and cider vinegar, my Lady. I thought you would prefer something light.”

“Thank you, Lady Cynewyn. That is quite right.” Lothíriel picked up the fork.

Éomer pointed at the dish that had been served to her. “Hwerhwettan wyrtmete.”

“Hwerhwettan wyrtmete,” her husband repeated with a hint of glee. “Cucumber salad.”

The next moment the King of Rohan found out that riding boots made in Gondor had pretty solid heels and his wife an unexpected cruel streak.

Nevertheless, as the night grew older and the air colder, Lothíriel slid closer to him, seeking the warmth of his body and the pillowing quality of his shoulder. He looked down at her and found her adorably drowsy. There was a good chance that he needed to carry her up to the Golden Hall only to have to tuck her in for a good night sleep. It was really time to leave all these annoying requirements of a royal wedding behind them and begin their normal life as husband and wife . . . and as King and Queen-Consort, which would undoubtedly always put a restriction on their privacy.

From the corner of his eye his saw a movement and his head went around quickly, his senses always on the watch, even in the company of kin and friends. A group of men had gathered at the edge of the square. He identified them without difficulty as the burhgemót of Edoras, the assembly of the common citizens. They came towards his table, led by Master Ælbert, the saddler and their ealdorman, their spokesman. Éomer slid around on the bench and rose to his feet to greet the man.

“Of course, Master Ælbert.” He was certainly not the one who would tell the old man that he had just addressed him with the wrong title, the one he had left behind when he took the one of king. “What can I do for you?”

“In the name of all the citizens of Edoras, and representing all the men and women in the Mark, we would like to convey our best wishes to you and your Lady Queen and wife for your wedded life. And we hope you will allow us to present you with ðe geþeawe brydegifu.”

Lothíriel had risen as well and unthinkingly he held out his hand for her and helped her climb over the bench – once more. This was getting a habit.

He had forgotten to tell her about the traditional bride-gift. Or rather, he had forgotten about it. Now it was too late to find out what Lothíriel would think about this particular present and he just had to wait and see how she responded.

“The Queen and I would like to thank all of our kinsmen for their good wishes and for the brydealoþ – and we will gladly accept the brydegifu.”

Old Ælbert nodded and motioned somebody in the background. Two men – one of them Master Ecgbehrt, the carpenter – carried something large and heavy towards them. It was covered by a dark green blanket and it could have been a chest, though Éomer knew it wasn’t.

By now a large crowd had gathered around them, no doubt all of them eager to witness the presentation of the gift and, without a doubt, the reaction of their young queen.

The men placed the heavy object directly in front of them and Ælbert stepped forward to remove the blanket and unveil the cradle.

On every brydealoþ he had attended a cradle had been given to the bridal couple, but this was by far the most elaborate piece of craftsmanship he had ever seen – not that he had paid much attention to this particular piece of furniture in the past. It was made of maple-wood, the surface finished to velvet-smooth perfection. It was embellished with carvings of heads of horses and the high headboard showed the multi-shafted Rohirric sun.

“How lovely.” There was true appreciation in Lothíriel’s voice. Obviously at the moment she was not giving a thought to the fact that she was supposed to conceive, carry and bear the future occupant – or occupants – of this nursery fixture. She ran her hand admiringly over the soft wood. “This is a master’s work. I thank you all so very much.” She smiled at the carpenter. “And especially you, Master Ecgbehrt. You have done wonderfully. It is the most beautiful cradle I have ever seen.”

How many had she seen? Éomer was just relieved that Lothíriel didn’t seem to feel any embarrassment about the implication behind the gift, and the expectation that she should soon deliver the heir of Rohan. He had to make certain that nobody – primarily Aldhelm – began pestering her about an early and prompt creation of the next in the line to the throne. Not that he wouldn’t be interested in eavesdropping on that conversation.

After having thanked and talked briefly to all the other members of the burhgemót, everything began to settle again. Ælfgyth assured her Queen that she would make arrangements for the cradle to be taken up to the Golden Hall. Finally Amrothos appeared out of nowhere and gave the furniture a push that sent it rocking.

“Looks pretty sturdy,” he commented. “Might even last the first Horselord you are going to keep in there.”

“You are talking nonsense, Amrothos,” Lothíriel informed him. “It is so well made that it will last for generations.”

The Prince’s eyes darted between his sister and her husband, several times, back and forth, his expression getting more and more sceptical with every sweep. At long last he shook his head.

“I would not bet on it. I am expecting the worst from any mutual offspring of yours.”

“I doubt there is a chance of anybody ever surpassing you,” Éomer assured him. He had decided to make his peace with his brother-in-law – at least for tonight.

Amrothos beamed at him. “Are you trying to tell me, brother dearest, that I am creation’s crowning glory?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind Éomer felt a faint wonder that he didn’t flinch at being called brother by this menace. He must have begun to come to terms with this particular fate of his. “You are proof that whatever deity is ultimately responsible for creation has a strange sense of humour.”

And he must have gone mad that he was letting himself get into another of these imbecile banters. He just waved him off and Amrothos conceded with a sly grin. Probably because he guessed that Rohan’s King was going to suggest to his wife that they should retire. Lothíriel was once again losing her battle against the yawns ambushing her regularly.

By now he understood the working of her mind well enough to know how to avoid an imminent argument. He quietly and quickly made their apologies, bade their farewells and steered her towards the main path leading up to Meduseld. True, he was moving her again, but it didn’t seem to have penetrated her momentary lethargy. They were already half the way up to the Golden Hall before he heard a word from her.

“Can we just leave everybody behind?” she asked, her voice sounding as unfocused as her eyes looked when she gazed at him. She stumbled over an uneven paving stone. Éomer steadied her and, after a second thought, picked her up without prior warning. He carried her further up the hill.

“What are you doing?” That sounded, all of the sudden, as if she was very much awake.

“I know I am running the risk of getting a dressing down again for carrying you like some chattel, but I cannot have my wife stumbling around half asleep and possibly hurting herself.”

“Put me down at once!” That sounded not only awake but downright commanding.

They had reached the high stairs leading up the terrace in front of Meduseld. “Are you feeling in shape to surmount this obstacle?”

Éomer put his right foot on the second stone step and sat her on his thigh, holding her easily in place. She folded her arms beneath her breast and regarded him with an irritated glance.

His large hand cupped the nape of her neck. He bent his head and kissed her full on the mouth. She went very still, but she did not pull away. He let his tongue slide between her lips in a deliberate attempt to seduce her. Slowly she began to return the kiss, raising her arms to circle his neck. She slid off his thigh and pulled his head down towards her . . . and then she stepped backwards out of his embrace.

“Thank you for the offer, my Lord. However, I am fully capable of walking up the stairs all on my own,” she announced amiably. She turned and rushed up the steps as if she feared he would try to recapture her.

Éomer grinned and went after her. It looked as if she was wide awake again and he had every intention of reaping the benefits of it. Reaching the head of the stairs he saw that the Doorwards had swung open the carved panels of the entrance to Meduseld for her and Lothíriel swept into the Hall without sparing him another glance. He was quite sure that they had just provided some sort of compensation for the two men whose duty had kept them from the entertainment and celebration down at the square.

He followed his wife across the Hall, his longer strides allowing him to easily catch up with her. He overtook her on the dais, drawing back the wall-hanging and opening the door covered by it. She still didn’t spare him a single glance whilst they walked along the corridor towards their chambers. Taking the hint and keeping silent, he opened another door at the end of the corridor and gestured her to precede him – and before she fully realized it, she was in the dimly lit King’s Chamber, with the door shut tightly behind them.

He really had to struggle to control himself. To burst out laughing didn’t seem to be a good idea at the moment, even though the deadly glare she tried on him was somehow not overly frightening – at least not physically.

“I think I forgot to mention something last night,” he began cautiously and with all the self-control he was able to muster.

“That,” he pointed behind her back and waited until she had turned around to see what he was indicating. When she faced the huge four-poster, he continued, “is our bed.”

“Oh.” She kept her back to him. “Are you saying I have to sleep with you every night?”

Éomer allowed himself a grin. Her choice of words was sometimes – unintentionally – quite ambiguous. “No, what I am saying is that I wish you to sleep in this bed every night.” He hesitated but then couldn’t help himself. “Beyond that everything else is negotiable.”

Her shoulders squared when she caught on and she cleared her throat. “So you are not trying to seduce me?”

He got no answer. She just stood there, her back turned towards him. She was obviously not quite sure how to play this game. He stepped closer, not really touching but close enough so she would feel the heat from his body.

“Lothíriel,” he murmured. “You cannot stand here all night. You have to change position sooner or later.”

“Do you have an appropriate suggestion to make, regarding such a change of position?”

“How about . . . ,” he raised his hand over her shoulder, just next to her cheek and pointed straight forward, “. . . the bed?”

She deliberately hesitated with the answer. “That suggestion is . . . agreeable.” There was a hint of a smile in her voice.

That last syllable had barely left her mouth when he scooped her up in his arms, crossed the space with three long strides and just tossed her down on the bed. She bounced off the mattress with a squeal but had no chance to protest further. Éomer came down next to her, rolled half over her, pressing her with his weight into the bedding. He captured her wrists, pushing them upwards and lightly pinning them above her head. His gaze never left her eyes. Slowly he lowered his mouth, closing it over hers. His reward came quicker than he had expected after their last round of arguments. She returned his kiss with an ardour that surprised him. Her lips parted, inviting him to deepen their kiss. He didn’t need to be encouraged. With a smooth thrust of his tongue, he explored the sweetness of her mouth – and tasted honey and cider vinegar.

A soft little moan escaped her throat, and Éomer tightened his hold on her. She arched her back, pressing her breasts against the wall of his chest. Bema, he couldn’t resist her. How was he supposed to take this slowly? He couldn’t help himself. He didn’t think he could ever get enough of kissing her, touching her. In the back of his mind he made a necessary correction to a hitherto existing conviction. He hadn’t known anything about what wanting a woman really meant.

He let go of her wrists and let his hand slide along her arm down to her breast, cupping it. He nearly growled in frustration. There were too many layers of clothing between them.

Lothíriel had her arms wound around his neck; her fingers woven through his thick hair, the strands gathered in her fist. He felt a tug. She tried to get his attention. Bema grant him mercy! She couldn’t want them to stop. With quite some effort he tore his mouth away from hers, but denied her lips, it searched with a kind of will of its own for another target, moving lower to the curve of her throat.

“Éomer,” she panted with obvious difficulty. It appeared she still hadn’t mastered the art of kissing and breathing simultaneously. “Do we not have to do something about our clothes?”

He began laughing, relieved and happy, pressing his face against the crook of her neck. Talk about kindred spirits.

He pushed himself up on his knees, looking down at her beautifully flushed face, her lips swollen from his kiss, her eyes large and dark.

“I am blessed. I am blessed with the most beautiful, desirable and imperturbably pragmatic wife.” Before she had the chance to respond he began to roll her playfully back and forth. “How do I get you out of this? Bema, what is this dress doing with all these lacings?”

Lothíriel giggled, a low, throaty sound that went straight to his groin. “Most of them are ornamental.” She squeaked lightly, when his fingers brushed her under her ribs. “Your pragmatic wife would like to make a suggestion.”

Éomer thought about that. “Very well.” He rolled off the bed and started to work on his belt.

“But first you have to assist me with my boots.” She lay flat on her back, lifting one leg.

Without a word he grasped her booted foot and gave it a yank, dragging his giggling wife down to the foot end of the bed. Her wide, split skirt rode up over her hips, unveiling her breeches. Whilst he pulled her boots off her feet, he regarded the leg clothing with a doubtful gaze.

“It is just as well that we are going to remove our own clothing. I have never had to peel breeches off another person.”

“I am a bit amazed,” Lothíriel commented absent-mindedly, hopping off the bed and beginning to loosen the side lacing of her dress. “I would have thought this kind of riding gown is quite common in Rohan.”

Éomer stared at her. Was she indicating that she expected him to have a wide experience of removing clothes from female bodies? But then she shrugged her gown from her shoulders and let it fall to her feet. Now she was only wearing her breeches and a thin blouse, showing him the only body he had any interest in. He just watched, indulging himself in this vision to behold of his wife shedding the last of her garments. She put them over the back of one of the armchairs and turned around.

“Éomer, you are still fully clothed,” she complained, not in the least shy that she was standing before him perfectly nude. An acute tug in the vicinity of his groin reminded him that he had better shed his attire without any more delay, or he might end up in bed with his wife, still half clad. He yanked off his boots and began to strip, not caring where he dropped any of his garments.

Lothíriel had turned down the covers, climbed back onto the bed and begun to undo her braids.

Éomer pushed down his breeches and stepped out of them. He was about to walk over and join his wife in bed when he became aware that her hands had stopped unbraiding her hair. She sat there in the middle of their bed, gloriously naked, arms raised, fingers laced through her tresses, staring at his arousal. However, this time not intimidated but plain and simply . . . surprised. Now what? They had been here before but he thought that the matter had been closed the previous night.

“Wrong?” She looked up into his eyes. “Oh, no! Nothing is wrong.” Her gaze moved back to his groin and he saw a mischievous smile slowly taking over her features. “I think I have just figured out why everybody seemed so amused by my answer to the riddle and . . . on further reflection I think I was definitely mistaken in my conclusion.”

Éomer woke later than usual. The sun was high in the sky when he opened his eyes. But then, it had been very late when they had gone to sleep. Lothíriel was still sleeping.

She was lying half over him: her breasts crushed against his chest; her legs tangled with his. Her hair flowed in a cascade down her back and over his shoulders, the dark mass concealing her face. He could feel her lips slightly open against his collarbone, the warmth of her breath moistening his skin. He carefully shifted her off him and down onto the sheets. He placed her head gently on the pillow and brushed aside the silky strands which had fallen over her face. He raised himself up on one elbow and then watched her as she lay there. Her skin was as smooth as honey and cream amidst the folds of the dark green quilt and he was tempted to touch her all over again. She looked like a dream. Some celestial spirit, he thought, a tender smile curving his lips. Her inner purity, her essence, had told him from the beginning, the very first night he met her: the healer was something special, someone unique. A woman not to be taken lightly.

Warmth invaded his system again. No unearthly creature last night, but an enchantress, stirring him, beguiling him, mystifying him. He reached for her again, unable to withstand the temptation to touch. His fingertips feathered over her lips, traced the line of her jaw, went along her slender throat and down the delicate breastbone, brushing the curve of her breast.

Lothíriel opened her eyes slowly, her dark lashes blinking over silver-and-grey irises. At first she studied him with a misted confusion, then she smiled a soft, almost shy welcome.

She yawned and shifted, and the dusky crest of a nipple became visible. He groaned inwardly. By now it didn’t take much to want her again. The mere sight of her smile sent him plummeting into a downward swirl that gripped his heart and his loins in a painful vice.

She reached out and stroked his cheek, running her fingers slowly down his torso. She paused at his waist, drawing circles idly with her fingers. She sought his gaze. There was a shadow of hesitation in her eyes, a question, a warm flush to her skin that started just above her breast and coloured everything in its path, all the way to her cheeks. He bent forward, brushed his lips lightly across hers and then he began to deepen the kiss, making it last a long time, not rushing her. She edged towards him, her hand plunged lower and her slim fingers curved seductively around him. Spasms of desire stabbed him like white-hot arrows.

He eased her onto her back and angled his body across hers, kissing her more intensely, tossing, with an impatient movement, the quilt down to the foot of the bed. Soon he forgot that there was a world beyond this chamber. All that mattered at that very moment was them: their kisses, their whispers and sighs, and their slick, entangled bodies.

And later, she smiled at him sweetly and yawned again. Then she curled up just like a kitten and slipped away into some forecourt of sleep.

Éomer gradually drifted back to full awareness. He took his time about it, savouring once again the feel of Lothíriel’s body snuggled alongside his own. Her head was cradled on his arm. She had one palm resting on his chest and one foot wedged intimately between his legs. He felt her flex her toes a few times as though she liked touching him that way. He wanted to stay like this all day.

But since when had his personal wishes been allowed to take preference? Outside this chamber there was the populated world, expecting them to make an appearance. Reluctantly, he turned towards his dozing wife.

She made some kind of grumbly noise, rubbing her nose against his shoulder. Finally, with a deep sigh, she raised her lashes.

“I am afraid so.” He nestled her closer against him. There was something preying on his mind, but somehow he hadn’t got around to asking her about it last night. “Lothíriel, why were you dancing with Captain Éofor? You had been on the dance floor with Merry.”

“Hmm?” It appeared she hadn’t fully joined him in the waking state. She pressed her face into his shoulder and he felt her nipping at his collarbone. He kissed her on the top of the head.

“If you are hungry again then I had better call for Ælfgyth to bring us some food. I might yet be needed in my entirety.”

“Ow!” He caught her chin between three fingers and compelled her to look up to him. “Mistress Healer, do I have to remind you that you are not supposed to inflict wounds?”

She flipped onto her back and gave a leisurely stretch. “I do, too,” she informed him.

A warm, heavy, very bright sensation drifted through him, travelling down his midsection to an area . . . He quickly rolled out of bed before he could act on it and as a distraction – a very meagre one - he began picking up his clothes, which he had left widespread all over the floor the previous night. Lothíriel propped herself up on her elbows, watching him, her bewilderment showing clearly on her beautiful features. Straightening, he grinned at her, keeping his garments in front of him.

“My sweet, just hold the thought and tell me again tonight. Or even better, show me tonight, but for now . . . I have to keep some distance.”

Her expression transformed into a satisfied smile, but then she announced with her usual sober disposition, “I am in need of my robe.”

That was, no doubt, a request to him to fetch the garment from the Queen’s Chamber. Éomer dumped the clothes he had already retrieved unceremoniously on an armchair – Ælfgyth would take care of them later. He reached for his own robe which was hanging from the screen shielding the washing facilities. Whilst he slipped into it, he inspected the floor. The soaked rugs and skins from the previous morning had been replaced. From now on he would pay more attention to the amount of water that had been put into any bathtub he intended to share with his wife. Otherwise the housekeeper of Meduseld might run out of floor coverings.

He tied his belt and returned to the side of the bed, sitting down. Lothíriel had retrieved the quilt and tucked it around her body.

“To come back to my earlier question,” he began, noticing with amusement the tiny frown appearing between her eyebrows whilst she looked at him attentively. “Why were you dancing with Captain Éofor?”

“Oh, that question.” Lothíriel sat up, drew her legs up to her breast and wrapped her arms around her knees. “The Captain suggested that we – that is Merry and I and the Captain and his lady – swapped partners for the upcoming dance, because it was going to be a rather fast and complicated one. He held the view that it would be easier for Merry and me if we each danced with a partner who knew the music and the steps.”

The devious bastard. However, Éomer didn’t get the chance to voice his opinion, because his wife went on contemplatively.

“I know that the Captain is a reputable member of your Guard, but if you do not mind me saying so, I – personally – feel he is pretty full of himself.”

That remark made Éomer’s mouth curve very slightly in satisfaction. One should have trust in Lothíriel to sense the obvious.

Indeed, one could trust Lothíriel to sense the obvious without always catching its relevance.

“He certainly is. He twice stepped on my foot – I was truly glad that I was wearing boots, although I had never dreamed that I would one day dance in a riding habit – and he was so clumsy that he constantly bumped into me.”

“He was clumsy and bumped into you?” Éomer rubbed a hand over his face and covered his mouth for a short moment to disguise his smile. He wasn’t quite sure if he felt only amused or even slightly at a loss. “Well, I suppose that is one possible appraisal of Captain Éofor’s behaviour,” he said, eyeing her with a sidelong glance.

She tilted her head, studying him. “And what would be the other?” She looked slightly confused.

“That he took advantage of a situation he had deliberately set out to bring about.”

After this explanation his wife looked even more mystified, if that was possible. She opened her mouth and then closed it abruptly, obviously feeling the need to reconsider whatever she had been about to say.

“What situation did the Captain bring about and what sort of advantage did he take?” she asked after some contemplation. “I was certainly there but it appears I failed to take notice.”

Éomer groaned inwardly, for a moment tempted to placate her and change the subject. But that would be patronizing and presumptuous. Hadn’t Lothíriel proven just last night that, though she might be still inexperienced and perhaps even naïve, she had a very capable brain which came quite quickly to the right conclusion once she had all the facts before her?

“Lothíriel, I have been wondering since last night what led Éofor to behave the way he did, and I think it must have been some kind of bet.” He nearly smiled at her expression, which was curious and bemused in equal measures. “The riddle he asked and so very obligingly presented in Westron, should have never been uttered in the company of a lady. It was the kind of crude one that the riders use to entertain each other whilst on patrol.”

“Oh, I understand. What cheek!” Lothíriel declared indignantly. “That is why suddenly everybody looked so disconcerted. I was wondering about it, but at that moment I was so certain I had got the answer right. It only dawned on me later when I saw you . . .” Her lips twitched and, punctuating her words with a wave of her hand, she vaguely indicated the vicinity of his groin.

“I think an onion was, at any rate, a convincing conclusion,” Éomer remarked in feigned seriousness.

His wife managed to adapt herself to this pretended countenance, although her neck was noticeably quivering with the exertion of keeping a giggle inside. However, she quickly gathered herself for one of her direct questions. “If it is considered impolite to present that kind of riddle in female company . . .”

He grinned, poking her shoulder gently with his forefinger. “It was you who said proper diction is important,” he reminded her. Lothíriel caught his hand in hers.

It was not easy to come up with simple answers to a complex question. “I can only guess, but I suppose to prove to his comrades-in-arms that he accepts a dare; that he dares to reach for what is strictly out of reach.” Éomer shrugged his shoulders. “I am afraid I do not have a better explanation.”

Lothíriel nodded slowly. “What an idiot,” she stated, still looking faintly non- comprehending.

“He must have realised that you would not be pleased, even though I did not fall for his bait simply because I did not understand it then.” She reached for him, resting her palm against his cheek and tracing his eyebrow with the tip of her thumb. “You were angry. I saw it in your eyes. Why would he risk making his King angry?”

“Because he is stupid? Because he is a man,” Éomer admitted in pretended reluctance.

Amusement gleamed in her eyes. “Now, that is an explanation I like.” She pushed the strands of his tangled hair behind his ears. “However, that is not all.”

He gave her a wry look. “Basically that is all. He is a man and you are a very beautiful woman and what’s more, your beauty is one that the men of the Mark are not used to. It is unfamiliar to them and that makes it even more alluring and – as it appears for some - yielding to its lure more tempting.”

Lothíriel stared at him, nonplussed and he could see her cheeks warming. “But I am a wedded woman now. His King’s wife.”

“His Queen,” Éomer reminded her. “And my Captain needs to understand exactly what that bears for him. Once, not that long ago, I was a rider like him. We were equals. But then, in quick succession, I became a captain, his Marshal and now his King. However, it appears Éofor finds it difficult to leave the rider behind. I do not have a problem with such lack of distance as long as it concerns only me, but I will not accept that he treats his Queen other than with utmost respect.”

“What do you intend to do to him?” There was a certain suspicion in her voice. He felt quite relieved that he could put her at ease without actually lying.

“I will not do anything to the Captain, except have a word with him . . . at some time . . . later,” he assured her. Her sceptical frown lessened but did not disappear entirely. “What do you expect me to do? Pummel him?” he asked, striking a light tone. After all, he was perfectly aware that his wife was not in favour of resorting to force. “That would be hardly befitting for a king, would it not?” Éomer tilted her chin with his forefinger and kissed the tip of her nose. “I will get your robe.”

And he had to get out of here unnoticed and without provoking his wife’s distrust so he could find out what that pair of fearsome brothers of hers had done to the Captain of his Guard.

Not that he felt appeased towards the man. He was quite certain, after having given the affair some thought, that the sole purpose of Éofor’s impertinent behaviour had been nothing but to give himself airs before his fellow riders. He considered himself a formidable squire of women, one who could get any female - maiden or matron alike – flustered. When they had ridden together under Elfhelm’s command, there had been some sort of constant competition going on between them. It enveloped their horsemanship, their skills with the sword and spear and their fortune with the opposite gender. For Éofor everything had come down to a challenge and more often than not he, Éomer, had accepted it. At least as long he had been a young rider without any noted responsibility or obligation. The best he could claim for himself was that he had never philandered with women. However, he had seldom refused an offer either. The best he could say about Éofor in this regard was that the man was a fair loser. That should become quite convenient for him, because he was going to lose more than the self-assured grin that he had worn last night.

In the Queen’s Chamber he came across Lothíriel’s handmaiden. Winfrith greeted him with a curtsy.

The young woman quickly retrieved the garment and handed it to him. “I had hot water brought from the kitchen house. So if my Lady wishes to take a bath, I can have it ready without delay.”

And the handmaiden had not only everything set up for a bath but also had kept her queen’s nutrition in mind. Éomer discovered a tray with a mug of buttermilk, sweet bread and apple butter.

This was turning out quite well. Whilst Lothíriel took a bath and got dressed he would set out to find Erchirion and Amrothos and demand a detailed report about just how inventive they had been in their quest to teach a lesson to the man who had dared to pester their sister. His experience with Éowyn had taught him that even women who usually displayed a rather practical approach to every-day-life needed some time to get into their clothes. He had no ambition to be held responsible by Lothíriel for any bodily harm that might have been inflicted upon Éofor. At least not as long as he actually hadn’t lent a hand with it in person.

In the King’s Chamber he was welcomed back by the pleasant view of his wife’s bare and shapely bottom. Lothíriel was picking up a few pieces of clothing that were still scattered on the floor.

“Winfrith has a bath prepared for you,” he informed her, holding up her robe so she could slip into it. After she had put her arms into the sleeves he circled her waist from behind and tied the sash into a bow.

“Éomer, is it very much trouble for the servants to heat the water and carry it all the way to my chamber?”

“What do you mean by much trouble?” He slid his hand under her hair and pulled it out of the collar of her robe so it could fall down her back.

Lothíriel turned to face him. “We are here in the western corner tower of Meduseld. The kitchen house is diagonally opposite from here on the eastern corner. With all the guests around I assume the domestics are very busy.”

His hands curved around her shoulders and he pulled her closer, dropping a brief kiss on her forehead. “No matter how busy they might be, heating the water to prepare a bath for their Queen will always be given priority.” His mouth twisted into a self-conscious, remorseful sort of grin. “And we have many more servants around the Golden Hall than we actually need. So none are likely to get overexerted even during such busy days as these.”

Lothíriel pulled the lapels of her robe properly together, much to her husband’s regret. “Is there a specific reason why more servants are employed in Meduseld at the moment than is common?”

There was indeed a reason. It was a complex and complicated matter and he had to admit that so far he had dodged giving it the necessary attention. However, now that he let drop the remark, it was rather unlikely that Lothíriel would leave the subject alone and just go and take a bath.

“In a way the servants of ðe cynelice hlafætan, the royal household, are just another casualty of the war. Traditionally the family members of the riders of the Royal Guard provide the servants of the Golden Hall. My uncle’s guard perished on the Pelennor and when I came to the title my own riders undertook that duty. But I couldn’t send away the widows of the men who had died defending their king. What is more, the last winter was hard enough on us anyway and those women and their children had no provider. Where could they have gone?”

“So you kept them in service around the Hall and also engaged the family members of the new guards?”

“It is not as if we doubled the number of servants. My riders are still rather young men and only a few already have a wife and children.”

“But when they wed they can rightfully expect their spouses to come by a position in the royal household,” Lothíriel conjectured quite correctly.

“That is not the only problem. We are already short of housing. The dwellings at the foot of the Golden Hall, on the right-hand-side behind the Armoury, are supposed to accommodate the riders of the Guard and their families. Some of the widowed women moved in together to clear a space for the families of my riders. The unwed men squat in a dozen single room stone houses Gimli helped us to construct downhill close to the stables, just behind the city wall. But that can only be a temporary solution.”

He didn’t mention that these houses had only been finished recently and that most of his riders had bedded down in the Great Hall all winter. Not that they minded very much. They had camped in worse places. Inside the walls of Meduseld it had been warm, and they had been able to enjoy the companionship of each other – Ælfgyth had drawn a line at disreputable female company – but they had been supplied generously with food and ale.

“So what do you intend to do about it?” The question didn’t surprise him. Lothíriel’s way of thinking, after all, was very straight and focused.

“I do not know yet,” Éomer admitted ruefully. “Quite frankly, I have not paid much attention to it. I had other matters to consider, ones which seemed more urgent at the time.”

He had to admit, this was a proposal he hadn’t expected. “No, certainly not,” Éomer replied, slightly hesitatingly. To put it mildly, he felt taken by surprise. “What do you intend to do?” he asked, perplexity colouring his voice.

“I do not know yet. First I have to acquaint myself with all circumstances. However, there is an answer for every problem,” she informed him in a perfectly convinced tone and then added, in all casualness, “I will inform you when I come up with one.”

Éomer stared at her, for the moment at a loss of words. In the back of his mind an amused voice whispered, ‘Never underestimate Lothíriel of Dol Amroth’. ‘Lothíriel of Rohan’, he corrected that voice silently. He rubbed the back of his neck. Since when had he begun soliloquising?

“I am certain you will – I mean, come up with a solution.” Looking at her expression he couldn’t prevent the corners of his mouth from quirking fleetingly into a grin. She appeared to be absolutely confident about what she had just said: that for every problem there was the right answer and that she would find the appropriate one. It didn’t enter her mind that she might fail. Such an attitude was undoubtedly the basic requirement for success in general: exclude failure from your considerations in the first place.

She took his silence to indicate that the subject had been closed for the time being. “Very well, I will take my bath now and prepare for the day. As far as I remember the plan to entertain everybody with some swordplay has not been changed.” She stepped around him, and whilst she walked over to the door leading to her chamber, she mused aloud, “I think it is time for me to find out where my healer’s equipment had been stored. It might become necessary to have some at hand.”

The bloody ‘behourd’. He had forgotten all about it. Quite a few things had slipped his mind since he had become a wedded man.

Lothíriel came to a halt at the door. Her hand on the latch, she turned towards him. “You are not going to keep me company?” she asked, her tone unmistakably inviting. She had twisted her body around just from her waist, letting it curve into a very interesting and seductive line, and Éomer had to firmly quash the desire to give into the temptation and join her. But for once his urge – heightened by suspicion – to find out what her brothers were up to proved to be – marginally - stronger than the allure of his wife. Besides, tonight she would be back in his bed.

“I am afraid the bathtub in the Queen’s Chamber is definitely too small for both of us.” At any other time he would have considered that to be a lame excuse.

Lothíriel appeared only mildly disconcerted and if he was not mistaken then the look in her eyes meant something along the line of ‘your loss’. Éomer remained where he was for a moment after his wife had deserted the chamber, regarding the door reflectively and wondering how their married life would evolve when its mundane side took over. But somehow he couldn’t imagine life with Lothíriel ever becoming banal. Not in a hundred years.

None of Imrahil’s offspring knew how to be ordinary . . . which reminded him of his new brothers. He allowed himself an audible groan with just a sprinkle of self-loathing. What had come over him to give them his approval to deal with Éofor? Erchirion gave the impression of being quite level headed, but he had confessed himself that there were not to be denied similarities between him and Amrothos. And it was an established fact that the Dol Amroth family – including Imrahil and Lothíriel – had a perception of the world that was undeniably different from any other person Éomer had ever encountered.

He quickly washed, not bothering to call for hot water. He could do quite well with the cold from the large pitcher that had been left on the washstand at some time the previous day. Contrary to what Lothíriel had once accused him of, he liked to indulge himself in a big tub with hot water, but if it had to be, he would make do with the icy floods of a creek. He was used to dressing in a hurry and though he strongly refused to have a valet who would just make a fuss over him, he could depend on Ælfgyth to ensure that his clothes were taken care of and stored in places where a man was actually able to find them.

Thanks to long years of practice Éomer emerged from his chamber probably around the same time Lothíriel had just made in into her bathtub. This would give him the opportunity to deal with whatever mischief – or perhaps he should better think in terms of havoc - the Princes might have done since he had last seen them and to grab a bite to eat. His stomach had just announced, with a low grumble, that it would appreciate some sustenance.

Unlike the previous morning, he found that the Great Hall was a hive of activity. All the wedding guests of honour had gathered at the top table on the dais, only the two seats in the centre were left vacant for the Lord and the Lady of the Hall.

When Éomer stepped through the doorway leading onto the dais, he found Erchirion and Amrothos directly before him, sitting at the end of the top table over some mead and in conversation with Erkenbrand’s two younger sons. The eldest, Erkenwald, had lost his life during the battle for Helm’s Deep.

The two Princes of Dol Amroth gave the impression that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. So far everything appeared to be quite normal and that in itself made Éomer highly suspicious. Normal and - at least – Amrothos of Dol Amroth in the same sentence simply didn’t fit together. Erchirion looked up and just nodded a noncommittal greeting but it attracted his younger brother’s attention and caused him to bestow a toothy grin upon Rohan’s King. Amrothos’s facial antic reminded the latter unfavourably of the snarling whelp of a warg, and it was then that Éomer knew that this day was going to hold one of those surprises he could do very well without. He needed to have a word with this pair in private.

Whilst he made his way to his seat, he let his eyes roam over the crowd which filled the hall, his attention being drawn by a group of riders, easily to be identified by their surcoats as his guard. Amongst them he spotted Éofor, healthy, of good cheer and his usual boastful self.

Éomer sank down on his chair, his gaze wandering between his captain and his brothers-in-law. He felt, at the same, time irritated and irritable. Last night Erchirion had insisted that they dealt with Éofor in their way. Had they changed their minds, not taking the occurrence seriously enough, and just decided it was not worth a wholehearted effort? No, he didn’t really believe that. Both Erchirion and Amrothos had been angry, although they didn’t tend to display their emotions the way he was used to. So what were they up to? He held the conviction that the punishment not only had to match the offence but also should be carried out without delay.

“Greetings Éomer,” an amused voice interrupted his musings. “What have they done?”

With a sheepish laugh the Rohír turned towards his friend, whom he had absent-mindedly ignored. “Do you fear for your subjects?”

Aragorn gave him a wry look. “I know by own experience that brothers-in-law can be pests, though I have to admit I am much less dogged by fate than you are. However, you should consider that your wife’s brothers would make far finer allies than foes.”

“I have neither reason nor aspiration to turn those two into adversaries. It is just that they, well mainly Amrothos, make me feel as if I were walking next to a mûmak on a starless night. I fear every step the beast makes.”

The King of Gondor laughed with a good portion of malicious joy. “That serves you right, brother. Your wife was handed to you on a plate. You barely had to lift your little finger to win her. Some burden attached to such a price is only fair and just.”

Éomer didn’t get the chance to reply as Elfhelm approached the high table and bowed his greetings to the kings.

“My Lords.” The Marshal of the East Mark gave the impression of a father who had to announce, with the appropriate stern face, the latest misconduct of an obstinate child whilst inwardly having a whale of a time. “I suppose that you have already heard the rumour that the Royal Guard of Rohan wishes to challenge the Knights of the Royal Gondorian Guard to an exhibition bout?”

“Yes, I heard it through the grapevine,” Éomer answered, pulling a face. “Or rather, I found the evidence at Ulger’s place yesterday.”

“Éothain put the order for the unsharpened swords with the blacksmith,” Elfhelm supplied the information. “But as he had the bad fortune to take an arrow, I have been requested to approach the Kings and gain their consent.”

“They actually remembered to ask for permission?” his sovereign remarked, clearly feigning his surprise. He turned to his Gondorian counterpart. “It is your decision, Aragorn.”

“Are you trying to pass the buck to me?” his friend protested. He gestured towards the gathered crowd, made up mainly of the Rohirric riders and the knights of Gondor and Dol Amroth. “If we do not let them have their ‘behourd’ they are going to sulk for weeks. And I would rather go back to Gondor with some of them sore and bruised in tow, than have to deal with them at their grouchy best.”

“In that case,” Éomer nodded to his Marshal, “let them send the ‘ōretta’ forward to issue the challenge.”

As he had just taken a sip, tea spewed from between Aragorn’s teeth. He made a grab for the napkin and dabbed his mouth and chin. He slanted the Rohír next to him a disbelieving glance.

“Two nights as a wedded man and you have already begun to feel the strain?” he taunted the friend who, not even a couple of days ago, had reminded him that he could be his grandfather.

Éomer rolled his eyes. “I am beginning to see Lothíriel’s standpoint. After all the battle they have experienced, one would think they would tend to recoil from any form of combat. Instead they are just dying to hit out at each other.”

“Feud is all most of them have known during their lives. Many find it hard to change their ways and we cannot promise them that there will never again be warfare.”

“No, we cannot,” Éomer agreed gloomily. He watched the men sitting at the tables down in the hall. Warriors who received the message that their kings had consented to their exhibition bout were behaving like youngsters having been allowed to participate in a particularly exciting game. Just a few years back he would have been one of them. He would have been as eager as them to fight just for the sake of a good fight. He did not have the taste for it any more. He had lost it together with the many friends and brothers-in-arms he had seen die.

Aragorn watched him pensively. “You are not getting old, Éomer,” he assured him with an empathetic smile. “You have just discovered that life holds much more in store than you have ever dared to wish for.”

In the hall things got moving and Éomer’s standard-bearer, Ceorl, stepped forward. He bowed before the Kings of Rohan and Gondor.

“My Lords, with your consent, we, the Riders of Éomer King, will take the liberty of challenging our brothers-in-arms, the Knights from the Realm of Gondor, to a ‘behourd’.”

With both Kings nodding their acquiescence, Ceorl turned around to face the warriors of the two realms that filled the Golden Hall. “Knights of Gondor, what is your say?”

The young Rohirric rider went on, “The ‘behourd’ shall be governed by strict rules which shall not be bent or broken. The man who does risks ridicule and shall be scorned and shunned.”

With another cheerful ‘Aye!’ at the top of everybody’s lungs, his words were confirmed. Nobody had the intention of disobeying any code of conduct. What all of them wanted was nothing but a good, entertaining fight.

“The ‘behourd’ shall be fought in the tradition of our forefathers with sword and shield; protection shall be given only by a shirt of mail. Each side shall name seven contenders and it shall be decided by drawing lots who engages whom in honest single-combat on the ‘wigræden’. Each duel shall, once begun, not be brought to a halt until the challenger or the defender declares himself satisfied and willing to make peace.”

“Should it prove necessary to decide a winner by arbitration, we would like to ask Gandalf, once known in the Mark as Greyhame, to preside over the ‘behourd’ as an impartial arbiter for both parties.”

“I am honoured that I do enjoy the confidence of both the men of Rohan and Gondor and I accept the request.” The Istar leaned back in his chair. “This visit to the Mark keeps me once again on the go,” he remarked to no-one in particular.

The standard-bearer tried to hide his smile and to carry out his role as the ‘ōretta’ with the appropriate dignity. “With my Lords’ permission,” he addressed the kings, “The chosen combatants shall come forward and the drawing of the lots shall decide who will fight whom.”

During Ceorl’s speech, Éomer’s stomach had rumbled along and Aragorn’s grin told him that the protest of this food-demanding part of his body had not gone undetected. For a moment he considered putting forward the absence of the Queen as a reason to demand a postponement of the drawing . . . but bugger! He was hungry and he intended to eat in peace.

“Ceorl, something tells me that the issuing of the challenge was a mere formality and that the combatants had long been selected from amongst the ranks of both parties. Do you feel that they will have a problem if I take the time to eat something before we go over to draw the lots?”

The young rider gave him a wide grin. “No, my Lord. I do not think anybody will object if you wish to snatch a hurried meal. We can spare a few moments.”

“That is very generous of you,” Éomer remarked ironically, his eyes already fixed on Ælfgyth, who was about to approach the head table. She was carrying a tray that promised a few culinary delights.

Whilst the housekeeper placed a bowl of porridge and plates of sweet breads and fruits before her King, Éomer heard a groan coming from next to Aragorn. He leant backwards to make good for having failed up to now to greet his father-in-law. Imrahil stared with a pained expression towards the group of Gondorian knights who would accept the challenge of their Rohirric comrades. Amongst them was Amrothos.

Despite Lothíriel’s words of the previous day that her brothers would relish some swordplay, he somehow hadn’t expected this Prince of Dol Amrothos to actually partake. His preferred weapon seemed to be his tongue.

Pouring cream over his porridge and sweetening it with a generous portion of honey, Éomer addressed the Lord of Belfalas. “Do you fear for his health, Imrahil?”

“His health?” His father-in-law gave him a faintly bemused look. “No, I do not fear for his health. My son is quite able to take care of himself. I fear for my peace and quiet.” Looking up at the ceiling, he gave an – only slightly - exaggerated sigh. “He will have a good time, no doubt, ending up bruised and bloodied. However, after the battle with the swords the battle of words is going to begin. Lothíriel will be upset, as she does not approve of this sort of entertainment, probably calling it a childish ruckus. Elphir is likely to comment along the lines of - impropriety and vulgarity, and Erchirion will make certain – with one or two carefully chipped in words – that the argument does not die down too quickly. All things considered, it looks as if my family is going to have a rather stimulating day ahead.”

The Prince of Dol Amroth did not turn a hair whilst he watched the Kings of Rohan and Gondor battling – unsuccessfully – with their laughing fits.

“Perhaps you can take comfort in the fact that your daughter might choose to voice any objections or comments she has to make to me?” Éomer tried to console his father-in-law.

“True. She is now for you to deal with.” Imrahil gave him a satisfied nod, and had Éomer not returned to his porridge, he would have noticed the conspiratorial glance the two men, whom he considered to be his friends, exchanged. And the guileless gleam in the eyes of the Lord of Dol Amroth would have given him at least some advance warning.

“I understand,” Imrahil again took up the conversation, “that my Liege-lord has already presented my request that you engage Amrothos in your service?"

This time it happened. The oatmeal went down the wrong way. Éomer choked in earnest. A violent coughing fit shook him and the exceedingly audible retching noise he couldn’t restrain helped him to get the undivided attention of the gathered crowd. Eyes watering, he grabbed blindly for the napkin which Aragorn held it out to him. Gondor’s king was watching him with a mixture of concern and amusement and Éomer buried his face in the cloth, trying to gain control of his breathing.

It appeared that Imrahil always waited until he had stuffed some porridge into his mouth before he announced that he intended to saddle him with one of his offspring.

Somebody slapped him on his back. “Drink something, Éomer,” he heard the voice of his father-in-law. At least the Prince sounded regretful. Éomer just waved one hand dismissively, still not able to speak. He cleared his throat several times, managing to cough the larger amount of the oatmeal he had inhaled into the napkin. Finally he dared to emerge from behind it and found that the hall had gone perfectly still and about a hundred pairs of eyes were staring at him, more bewildered than worried. He gave another single, rough cough, wiped his eyes and glared back – with success. By and by the men turned back to their own business and conversations.

Éomer decided to comply with Imrahil’s suggestion and drink some tea. He slanted his father-in-law, who had obviously jumped up from his seat to assist him and was now standing behind his chair, an accusing glance over his shoulder, but refrained from any comment. He didn’t quite trust himself regarding what he was going to say and anyway, he was equally uncertain if his voice would work. So he just sat there and drank small sips of his tea, slowly recovering from the indisposition of the choking fit and from the mental impact of Imrahil’s words.

“Are you feeling better?” Aragorn asked after having given his Rohirric friend a moment to gather himself.

“Yesterday I thought you were jesting,” Éomer croaked, once again clearing his throat. “I hoped you were jesting.” Somehow that particular issue had slipped his mind as well since the previous day. He scowled at his father-in-law. “What am I supposed to do with Amrothos?” At least his voice was returning to normal. Suddenly a thought hit him. “You do not feel it necessary to leave him behind as a minder for Lothíriel?” he demanded sharply, suspicion in his voice.

“Let me make a suggestion,” Aragorn intervened. “Why do you not discuss this later in private . . .” he gave Rohan’s King a meaningful glance, “. . . and calmly.”

“Another piece of grandfatherly advice,” Éomer growled and pushed the bowl back. But then he sent the Prince a lopsided grin. “I apologize, Imrahil.”

“No apology necessary,” his father-in-law replied. “Anything involving Amrothos tends to provoke that sort of response.”

That remark caused Éomer to look around for the one who had the best prospects of becoming his nemesis. Instead he caught sight of the middle one of the younger Princes prowling the perimeters of the hall.

“Excuse me,” he murmured and got up abruptly from his chair, not caring about the bemused glances the Dúnedain sent after him. He had every intention of interrogating Erchirion about what he had planned to do about – or to – Éofor.

His brother-in-law, who was leaning casually against a pillar, turned towards him in a languid movement, not even attempting to hide the teasing quality of his smile. “Greetings, my Lord King. I hope you have fully recovered from that little incident just now?”

“What I wish to talk about is the announcement you made last night that you would take care of the Captain of my Guard. Have you changed your mind?”

“Not at all. You may put your mind at rest. The captain will be given a thorough warning.” He put his most engaging smile on his face. “We will leave it to Amrothos.”

Erchirion frowned at him. “Could it be that we had this exchange before?” he asked indulgently. “In that case, now it would be for me to say that he has his uses.”

For an instant Éomer was baffled. “Are you saying your inventive plan is that your brother is going to fight Éofor in the ‘behourd’?”

“That is not inventive,” Rohan’s King pointed out. “That is perfectly unimaginative.” And he felt, somehow, disappointed about the fact. “Thus we could have straightened out the matter then and there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Erchirion. Let us forget about whatever you came up with. I am grateful that you saved me from making a fool of myself last night, but after having slept on it, I think it is for the best if I have a talk with Éofor in private. I intend to caution him to remember his place and make certain that he understands that he is not going to get away with such stupidity another time.”

“I am afraid you will have to talk to him after Amrothos has finished him off.”

Éomer groaned. Couldn’t he have fallen in love with an orphan? Or with somebody whose kin was demure and . . . boring?

“What makes you so certain that Amrothos will finish off Éofor and not the other way around? One has to give credit where credit is due and the last time I looked, my Captain was a formidable warrior.”

“Amrothos will best him.” Erchirion announced this opinion with the same sort of unflappable confidence Lothíriel had displayed earlier that morning. It must be a family trait.

Éomer caught himself blinking. “Do I have to understand the logic behind that statement?” he asked, forcing patience into his voice.

“Amrothos began to talk at a very early age,” his brother-in-law set to explain, the gleam in his eyes revealing that he enjoyed the King’s visible impatience. “First, of course – as all children – single words, but as soon as he was able to put them together to form complete sentences, he began insulting people. That went by without serious retaliation as long as he was a cute toddler, but soon he had to learn to defend himself effectively and that necessity made him – over the years - an extraordinarily capable swordsman.”

Éomer contemplated the Prince for a long moment, pondering if he was trying to have him on. He decided not to go deeper into this little tale.

“Very well, let us act on the assumption that Amrothos is able to beat up Éofor. But the pairs are going to be drawn by lots. What is the likelihood that they are actually going to end up fighting each other?”

Those words began to haunt him. “Are you telling me that your brother is going to cheat in the draw?” Éomer asked disbelievingly.

“He does not like the term ‘cheating’. He prefers ‘manipulating’,” Erchirion corrected his brother-in- law.

“I do not believe this,” Éomer muttered under his breath. “I begin to wish that I had knocked Éofor down last night. Then this entire farce would already be over.”

“I thought we agreed that it was for the best to spare Lothíriel the embarrassment of her husband acting in a fit of jealousy.”

Rohan’s King decided to ignore that assessment of his state of mind. “And you feel she prefers her brother beating up another man because of her? That is, if he truly manages to do the beating and does not get beaten.”

“A brawl on a dance floor is somehow more conspicuous than a quarrel on the battleground,” Erchirion placidly asked him to consider. “That is the entire point of it.”

“I remember quite clearly you saying that you were going to come up with a more inventive way of a riposte.”

“True. However, Amrothos insisted upon having some fun. And – as a rule - it is futile to try and change his mind. I am not in the habit of flogging a dead horse.” Erchirion stopped short. “I suppose that that particular manner of speaking is not very well received in Rohan?”

Éomer gave up. He raised both hands, admitting his defeat and walked off, leaving his brother-in-law standing there. Attempting to win an argument against Lothíriel’s brother was like trying to shoot an eel with a crossbow. Back at the top table he found that Imrahil had gone to talk to his Swan Knights – and probably to his youngest son – and the King of Gondor in conversation with Gandalf.

“Aragorn,” he interrupted them quite rudely, slumping into his chair. When the addressed looked up, he went on, “For once let it be me who gives a piece of advice. Do not do it.”

His friend frowned at him incomprehensively and then raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“After your child has been born, do not ask any advice from Imrahil. He must have done something wrong.”

“Do we have to conclude from your words that your dealings with your wife’s brothers are not to your liking?” Gandalf inquired, an amused twinkle in his pale eyes. “At least I hope this resentment had not been courted by the new Queen of the Riddermark.”

“Is there not a saying that ‘All Disasters come in Threes’?” Éomer replied, reaching for a piece of fruit bread and topping it with a liberal heap of apple butter. “That excludes Lothíriel.”

Startled by the unexpected sound of his wife’s voice, Éomer dropped the slice of bread. Of course, it landed butter-side down. Turning around he found her gazing at him teasingly. She had been done with her morning toilet quicker than he had expected and was back to wearing blue - and another riding gown. They made some progress here.

“Well, for a change I managed to sneak up on you,” she remarked, sounding quite satisfied with herself.

Aragorn got up to adjust the chair next to Éomer’s for her. “It appears, my Lady, any dealings your husband has with one of your brothers are doomed to failure on his part.” There was no doubt, the Dúnedan felt highly entertained.

After having thanked the King of Gondor for his assistance, Lothíriel frowned at Éomer. “Have you ever considered simply evading Amrothos?”

“Are you saying there is indeed the chance of prompting him to get out of my way?” Éomer didn’t have to feign his amazement. He retrieved his bread and wiped the butter from the table with his napkin. “However, in this case my dealings were with Erchirion.”

“Erchirion?” Lothíriel didn’t have to say more. Her tone told him quite clearly that she considered it utterly impossible not to get along with that one of her siblings. If his wife had a fault then it was her bias regarding her brothers. He wondered if it applied to the eldest as well and for a moment felt tempted to probe it, but then abandoned the idea. He feared the outcome.

In the meantime Lothíriel’s mind had wandered on. “Why are all the men assembled in the hall this morning?”

“They are waiting for the draw for the ‘behourd’ to take place,” Aragorn explained. He had taken his seat on her other side.

“As soon as your husband has finished eating,” the High King supplied helpfully.

Lothíriel regarded the food placed in front of Éomer with an assessing glance, then looked at him enquiringly.

“I got interrupted several times,” her husband defended himself, wondering why he felt the need to make an excuse. Could it be that he had already begun to adjust to wedded life? “It is not as if I had a leisurely meal.”

“You could have taken your ‘morgengrýtt’ in my chamber, in peace and quiet instead of going off to quarrel with my brothers.” It looked as if she had learnt a new word.

He was saved from the answer by Ceorl, who had chosen that moment to step once again in front of the high table to fulfil his role as the ‘ōretta’. The man definitely had potential, not to mention a good sense of timing. Éomer decided to keep that in mind for the future.

The standard-bearer bowed respectfully before his Queen then turned to address the King.

“Are the warhorses already pawing the grounds with their hooves?” Éomer asked with a wry look at the gathered warriors.

“They feel . . . a bit excited,” Ceorl admitted. He held two worn leather pouches in one hand. His King knew them well. As long as he remembered they had been used to draw the training partners for sword practice.

The babble of voices in the hall had died down in anticipation. The young rider turned to face his comrades and took one pouch in each hand.

“In the presence of our Queen and the Kings of Gondor and Rohan the draw shall take place now. The challengers must step forward and draw their lots.”

Seven of his Riders, one of them Éofor, came up to the ‘ōretta’, no doubt, with the exception of the injured Éothain, the most fierce and skilful fighters amongst his Guard. This was supposed to be a friendly exhibition bout; only these men weren’t used to playing with swords. He just hoped the Gondorians didn’t expect some chivalrous merriment.

The riders bowed their respects to their Queen and although Éomer saw the eyes of his Captain dart for an instant towards Lothíriel, his regard was considerably less impudent than it had been the previous night.

Ceorl loosened the string of the first pouch and each man slipped his hand in it and pulled out the small, carved figure of a horse. Every figure had been given a different posture and there was a duplicate of each in the other pouch. The seven challengers held their draws high above their heads for everybody to see.

Now it was the turn of the defendants. Amrothos was the first to reach inside the second pouch and it took him a heartbeat or maybe two more than the others had needed to get hold of one of the wooden figures. However, not so long that it would have made anyone suspicious. But when he brought it out he had the carving of the similar bucking horse between his fingers as Éofor had held up.

Éomer felt some sort of reluctant admiration. To the more dubious talents of his brother-in-law there now had to be ranked the dexterity of a pickpocket. A beneficial gift, no doubt. Amrothos caught his gaze and grinned. He seemed to be rather pleased with himself.

One by one the Gondorians drew their lots, presented them to be examined and the respective opponents had the first chance to assess each other. Good-natured taunts were traded, some backhanded compliments slipped in and there was no question that the men, now that the preliminaries were over, were eager to get on to the battleground, the fenced training field behind the stables.

Rohan’s King watched the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Captain of his Guard exchanging the salute of warriors, clasping their right forearms. Amrothos wore his most disarming smile and Éomer couldn’t help but think that he must have been a cute toddler indeed. If he interpreted correctly the smug grin on Éofor’s face, which was obviously already dismissing his opponent, then the man was in for a surprise – if Erchirion hadn’t over praised his brother’s skill with the sword, that is.

“What is going to happen now?” Lothíriel wanted to know, shaking him out of his reverie.

“Everybody goes down to the ‘wigræden’, the battleground, to watch the ‘behourd’.” Éomer suppressed his desire for more sustenance – at least his stomach wasn’t rumbling any more - and got up from his chair. His kinsmen would truly surprise him if they had not planned to combine the exhibition bout with another outdoor meal. So he wouldn’t go hungry for the rest of the day. And with seven pairs to fight each other in single-handed combat they might be down at the training fields all day.

He pulled out the chair for Lothíriel and whilst she rose, she announced, “I have to look for Mistress Ælfgyth.”

“She promised to find me a satchel for the dressing material and the salves and lotions I am going take with me to the battleground.”

Éomer caught Aragorn’s amused smile. “Lothíriel, be assured that the treatment of any possible wounds will be taken care of.”

“I would rather be safe than sorry,” she replied insistently. “Especially with that idiotic brother of mine finding it necessary to participate in this folly.” She abandoned the two kings and set off to find the housekeeper.

The Rohír shrugged his shoulder at his grinning friend. “I am not allowed to find fault with her brothers, but she may call them any name she considers appropriate in the heat of the moment.”

“Legolas did. He thought it to be a rather surprising remark for a bride during her wedding ceremony.”

The bride was already returning, carrying a leather satchel over her shoulder. “Ælfgyth had already packed everything I had laid out. She is very proficient indeed,” Lothíriel informed them.

Éomer took the satchel from her and slung it over his own shoulder. “She has to be. She held everything together and ran Meduseld efficiently even while it was under the sway of the worm.” He couldn’t prevent bitterness from creeping into his tone. The memories of those days were still too vivid and too strong. But he, almost immediately, regretted not being a better master of his emotions when he saw Lothíriel responding to his mood. He forced a smile, which became more relaxed when it was answered by one of hers that was both empathic and compassionate.

Aragorn stood waiting for them and somehow he seemed to have discerned what had been communicated between them. There was a calm watchfulness in his gaze that Éomer had always found comforting.

“I think we better start for the ‘wigræden’,” he suggested. “We are supposed to open the ‘behourd’ and our frightful warriors might get annoyed if we have them wait for too long.”

In a threesome they left the Golden Hall and joined the trek of the citizens of Edoras down towards the stables. Nobody wanted to miss this test of strengths and skills between accomplished warriors from two countries.

For longer then anybody could remember, men of Rohan had trained and demonstrated their skills with sword and spear, with axe and seaxe on the fenced training field behind the stables that housed their powerful warhorses. It was a large square, at one end dug into the slopes of the hill, so that from there spectators could easily watch the events on the field. Today somebody had, in preparation of the ‘behourd’, dragged half a dozen wooden armchairs and a number of benches onto this natural stand, so that the royal couple and the guests of honour at their wedding could attend the spectacle in some comfort. On the other three sides, which were fenced up to the height of a man’s shoulder by wooden palisades with blunt ends, there was already a great press of people.

Éomer let his eyes roam over the assembled citizens. It looked as if everybody had been awaiting this exhibition bout with expectation and probably known about it for quite some time – except him, of course. But then, an imminent wedding and a woman who had governed his thoughts for months could distract a man.

On their way down along the main path, Lothíriel had chatted amiably with Aragorn, telling him, on his inquiry, how she planned to approach the demands of her new station as Queen of the Riddermark. Her famous list of tasks had come up and to Éomer’s quiet amusement the point ‘riding’ had gone up by several places. He wondered if it had something to do with the charms of a beautiful, black mare.

Upon their arrival – it appeared they were amongst the very last – Éomer watched his wife bidding her greetings to those assembled. Her unstudied forthrightness was being met by a warm and honest welcome. She fitted in; she belonged. And his kinsmen – not even consciously – acknowledged it.

Aragorn had come to stand next to him, his eyes, too, on the young Queen who was moving, without pretence, amongst her new people. He put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “I think that also answers – among other things - your question: what it is she wants and what it is she needs?”

Then their attention was called towards the ‘wigræden’, where all fourteen contestants had taken station. Ceorl came up in front of them

“My Lord Kings! The challengers and the defendants have chosen sword and shield and now await your words to let this ‘behourd’ begin.”

Both the King of Rohan and the High King of Gondor stepped to the edge of the stand. Éomer could hear the dignitaries behind him settle and the voices of the spectators dying away. The men in the field went down on one knee.

And so he spoke those ancient words that, over the ages, had sent warriors into combat.

“Do honour to yourself with valiant deeds, while the Valar take care of you!”

The contestants rose and all but the two who would compete against each other first, left the ‘wigræden’. They took up position at opposite sides, Ceorl as the ‘ōretta’ between them, raising the truncheon.

“As it was the challenger’s prerogative to name the location, then the defendant has the right to the first blow,” he declared. He looked to his king to give the signal. Éomer raised his hand and the truncheon fell. Ceorl left the ‘wigræden’ and the contestants advanced to meet each other.

Once again I borrowed from the Anglo-Saxons, this time from an Old English poem:

The first two duels took their course, blow-by-blow, as Éomer had foreseen. The Gondorian knights had expected to compete in a friendly encounter with the intention of enjoying themselves, showing off their skills and entertaining the onlookers. The only concession the Rohirrim made to the friendliness of the spectacle were the unsharpened edges and rounded points of their swords. They fought to overcome and defeat their opponents by hook or by crook. Some feeble recreation was foreign to their nature.

He had probably collected as many of his scars on the training field as he had on the battlefield. Unconsciously Éomer rolled his shoulders as the muscles tensed in remembered pain. Physical pain had been part of his life for a long time. He had tried to avoid the pain of the soul – only to learn that no-one was able to avoid the inevitable.

The first two men of Gondor, one of Aragorn’s guard and one Swan Knight, went down and admitted defeat rather quickly and, without a doubt, utterly surprised by the total ferocity with which their Rohirric challengers had struck out at them.

Whilst the man from the coast limped off the field, holding his shield arm pressed stiffly against his chest, his Lord turned towards his son-in-law, “Éomer, your men do know that this is supposed to be a good-natured sparring match, do they not?”

“Well, at least I thought somebody had mentioned it to them,” Rohan’s King replied wryly. “Perhaps I had better talk to Ceorl before the next round begins.”

“Nonsense,” Gimli, standing next to the seated Imrahil, bellowed his protest right into the Prince’s ear. “Not a hair on anyone’s head had been harmed. It’s just some skirmish. I should show them how a dwarf fights.”

Éomer had to stifle his grin at seeing his father-in-law crossing his eyes and giving his head a little shake. “I am afraid, my friend, today you are not allowed to participate. It is strictly between the members of the guards.”

“And what is that Prince doing amongst them? He is no guard, but he is allowed to fight.” Gimli gave an outraged snort, “I am being discriminated against.” By now the Rohirrim had learnt how to deal with their new neighbour. From somewhere a beaker of ale was passed to the Master of Aglarond, who, at its sight, decided to drown his sorrows. After a deep gulp he just mumbled on, his words disappearing into his beard.

When Éomer made a move to rise from his chair, intending to have a word with his overzealous riders, he was stopped by the High King. Aragorn had placed a hand on his arm.

“Do not intervene. I think by now the defendants have comprehended that their challengers do not regard this as some sort of child’s play. The next one is prepared. They are seasoned warriors, who have proved themselves in battle and should be able to stand up to any challenge. If you take action in such way as to order your riders to hold off, they will feel shamefaced.”

“Very well.” Éomer relaxed back into his chair. He turned towards his wife who was sitting on his other side. He didn’t believe that she overly appreciated this display of unleashed force. She had informed him that, for her, the duel of two warriors stood less for an exhibition of the art of fighting as for the quantity of unnecessarily sustained injuries. Therefore he wasn’t surprised to find Lothíriel’s gaze not on the ‘wigræden’, into which Ceorl had just led the next two opponents, but fixed on a small group nearby. One of the healers of Edoras was treating the Swan Knight, whose shield arm had taken a serious beating. He had lost hold of the handle for just an instant and his guard had slipped. His Rohirric adversary had taken that as an invitation to vigorously attack his unprotected shoulder. The blunt sword had, no doubt, caused a severe contusion.

Éomer leant over to her. “Do not worry for your father’s men, Lothíriel. Ærwin certainly knows how to patch up the casualties from this training field. He has done it for at least three decades.”

“I hope for the men that he does more than just patch them up,” Lothíriel murmured. “I have not met Master Ærwin yet.” There was a note of reproach in her voice.

“The opportunity to introduce him – or his fellow healers - to you, has simply not arisen.” As a matter of fact, he had avoided letting her get anywhere near the healers of Edoras. After what he had seen happen the previous day when her thirst for knowledge had got the better of her and he had had to prise her away from the craftsmen, he downright feared her – inevitable – first meeting with the healers. And it had to be taken into consideration that Ærwin was not another Berenwald. Éomer had the uneasy feeling that the narrow-minded man would dismiss any knowledge a young woman, of less than a third of his age, might have to impart. That she was his Queen would be nothing in her favour, but rather add to his preconceptions. Before he introduced Lothíriel to the old healer and his two fellows, he needed to talk to her.

For a third time Ceorl raised the truncheon, awaiting his signal. Éomer gave it, returning his attention to the ‘wigræden’.

Aragorn was proved right. The knights of Gondor had finally understood that they were not here to fiddle with their swords. Their champion for this round was Ochadrion, Captain of the Royal Gondorian Guard. He was a tall, powerfully built man who during his last stay in Rohan had befriended Éothain. Although back then he hadn’t been a match for the Marshal at a carousal, on the ‘wigræden’, however, he proved himself to be an adversary who had to be taken more than seriously.

The battlefield, where death could fall upon a man from anywhere, required from the warrior more than just skills and valour. When surrounded by foes and predators, who had only one purpose, the purpose to kill, his best chance of survival were his instincts. They had to lead him and he had to trust them.

In a single-combat two men faced each other totally alone. Here they could take the time to observe the opponent, to assess him, to find out his strengths and his weaknesses. A combatant needed to bring his way of fighting in line with his adversary’s, exploiting and utilizing a chink in his armour. A duel demanded not only power and skill but also patience and adaptability.

Ochadrion had definitely all the attributes to make an accomplished duellist and it was obvious to the onlookers that his challenger fought with fervour but without a strategy. The Gondorian captain had the overview, the experience and was mindful of conserving his strength.

This fight lasted longer than the two earlier ones, but only because surrender was an utterly foreign concept to the Rohirric rider and the shouts of encouragement from his kinsmen kept him going when it was no longer possible to overlook the fact that he was at the end of his tether. Only when his guard slipped for a mere instant and his opponent unhesitatingly used that opportunity to put the rounded point of his sword against his throat, was he willing to call for peace. He let his sword fall to the ground and lowered his shield.

Ochadrion acknowledged the acceptance of his win and held out his hand to help his adversary to his feet. The man retrieved his sword and the warriors saluted their kings and walked, both limping now, off the ‘wigræden’, accompanied by the applause and cheering of the crowd.

“You were right. They woke up,” Éomer addressed Aragorn. “However, I hope you are equally aware that after that defeat the next rider will put in an even greater effort to overcome his opponent. That might bring about more serious injuries.”

“They are grown men, on both sides,” the High King decided. “They must know for themselves how far they can go. They can call for peace at any time.”

“The crowd will spur their kinsmen on,” his friend warned him. “They might have come here with the genuine intention of being fair and impartial, but the longer the ‘behourd’ lasts, the more excited they are going to get.”

Aragorn chuckled. “They are already quite excited,” he replied in a dry tone. “I heard a few words that I have never come across before and I am not certain if I need to know their deeper meaning.”

“What kind of words?” Lothíriel asked, leaning forward in her chair and looking quite interested.

“Ah...” Gondor’s King averted his gaze and glanced at his friend, seeking help.

Éomer smirked at him, but then turned towards his wife. “Lothíriel, there are so many words to keep in your head, ones which you will need in everyday conversation. I think the sort of terms Aragorn was referring to, should be put aside for later . . . much later,” he added under his breath.

“How much later?” she promptly wanted to know. Not that he had truly believed a vague answer would satisfy her.

“How about a hundred years?” Éomer suggested, perfectly conscious of the fact that many ears were attentively listening to this exchange between King and Queen.

“Hmm!” Lothíriel tilted her head contemplatively. “Are you saying those kinds of words are inappropriate for a young woman but commonly used by grandmothers?”

What Éomer really appreciated about his kinsmen was the fact that they would never dream of pretending not to be eavesdropping on what was basically a private conversation – although it was, of course, conducted in public. He’d better get used to performing on this kind of stage: however he needed to remind Lothíriel at the first opportunity that each word of hers would be listen to and evaluated.

“My Lady, you certainly do not need any additional sort of - dubious - vocabulary to keep yourself in a debate,” he assured her. “You are perfectly able to twist and turn anybody’s words to your requirements.”

“Indeed, I have from good authority that I possess a quite capable tongue.” She smiled at him amiably. “Nevertheless, I am always at pains to improve myself.”

“The eagerness for the improvement of your own person holds hope, no doubt.”

“There is no danger of you backtracking on this little dispute?” Éomer asked in mock resignation.

Lothíriel pretended to ponder the question, tapping a finger on her chin. “Absolutely none," she then confirmed.

“Are the King and Queen of Rohan in need of an impartial arbiter?” Gandalf inquired helpfully from where he had settled in a slightly rickety armchair next to the High King. “As the duels have so far been decided in an abundantly clear fashion, I am gladly poised to offer my impartial verdict in other respects.”

“We’ll think about it,” Éomer turned this kind offer down, glaring at his chuckling counterpart from Gondor, who had – after all – brought this whole banter about with his unguarded remark. One had to be careful about any word uttered in Lothíriel’s presence.

“That the necessity of having an impartial arbiter on hand has arisen after only two days of wedded bliss would have to be considered as evidence of incompatibility,” a voice from behind them rang out.

Éomer couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He had happily forgotten about that one. Actually, he would have preferred to be able to happily forget about Prince Elphir for the rest of his life.

“Muzzles,” he murmured in Rohirric. “That family should - at least temporarily - be provided with muzzles.”

Those in his close vicinity, who were in command of the tongue of the Horselords, heroically struggled to keep their laughter inside, whilst his wife frowned at him disapprovingly. Or perhaps - if this was his lucky day, which he doubted - her disapproval was rather directed towards her perpetually surly brother. Be that as it may, those watching the ‘behourd’ from the stand had been given the unexpected opportunity to enjoy not only the swordplay to the full but also the wordplay of the newly extended royal family. Imrahil hadn’t promised too much. Éomer was just relieved that Erchirion had chosen to keep his younger brother company whilst Amrothos waited for his turn against Éofor. Otherwise he would have shoved his oar in, long ago.

He thought it was about time to direct the general attention back to the battleground where Ceorl was waiting for him to signal his assent for the next bout anyway.

This time it became brutal. The two combatants were not what one would describe as graceful or swift fighters. In principle both simply didn’t budge and just went for their opponent with one powerful blow after the other, blocking the ones struck at them with their shields. Under these onslaughts the stout hides, which covered the face of the shields, soon split, the metal rims dented and finally the lime-wood planks began to splinter. Both men were breathing hard, panting and groaning with each blow they dealt or took. Dark colour suffused their faces; sweat was running into their bulging eyes.

It was one of the most brutish and artless duels Éomer ever had the misfortune to witness and far from an uplifting sight. He heard a disgusted sound coming from Lothíriel and glanced over at her. Her expression was so thoroughly repelled and disapproving and at the same time disbelieving that it was yet again a bit comical. She sensed his gaze and turned her head to look at him.

“I suppose this is not the best example of what you might call the art of fighting?” The sarcasm in her tone was hard to miss.

“When you come across an Orc it is better not waste your time with fancy swordplay,” Gimli took it upon him to reply. He had finished at least another beaker of ale and was now devoting himself to relieving a basket of its contents - small loaves of spiced bread. Éomer would have appreciated a piece or two himself. His dwarfish friend dipped some bread in an earthen pot, which contained onion relish, before waving it through the air - the spectators behind him would need to check their clothes and their hair for the strong smelling spread. He went on, “He is just out to disembowel you, thrust his blade into your gut.” He shoved the piece of bread into his mouth, chewed a couple of times and then swallowed. “You’d better be quick and beat him to it. Cleave his skull or slit his throat.”

Éomer had watched Lothíriel during Gimli’s lesson in fighting Orcs. She hadn’t batted an eyelid at the grisly details, just listened politely.

“The entire point is,” she stated in a no less pontificating tone after Gimli had finished, “that there is no Orc in the ‘wigræden’ but two men with all the finesse of two rams during the rutting season.” She stopped herself, gyrating her hand with a slightly embarrassed gasp for breath. Éomer grinned. It seemed that sheep had to be counted amongst those common animals she had been used to observing.

At that moment the Gondorian knight struck a blow at his adversary’s shield, both men grunted loudly under the strain of the onslaught.

In retaliation the Rohír dealt his opponent a strike so forceful that the shield the Gondorian had raised to cover his upper body and head swung back heavily and the metal rim cracked against his forehead. The man staggered back, barely keeping on his feet. Immediately blood poured from a wound. His brows were already much too soaked by sweat to protect his eyes from the bright-red stream. It was just a matter of moments before he would be nearly blinded by it.

“Laceration,” Lothíriel diagnosed laconically. “I doubt that the blow was hard enough to cause a concussion. However, as I said only yesterday, head wounds tend to bleed excessively. Perhaps helmets would have been a good idea.”

“You just said no concussion,” Gimli grumbled dismissively, and then added after a contemplative frown, “My Lady.”

Nobody paid him any attention because the events on the battleground once more drew the interest of the spectators. The Rohír had every intention of making use of the obvious disadvantage that the head-injury was causing his opponent. He put his entire weight behind his shield and threw himself against the other man. Impaired by his blurred vision and taken by surprise by the unconventional manoeuvre, the Gondorian faltered and reeled backwards. Trying desperately to keep his footing, he just managed to avoid landing on his back and instead hit the ground hard on his bottom.

“Very likely a sprain of his tailbone,” Lothíriel murmured absent-mindedly in a tone she would have probably used in a treatment chamber, her fingers flexing on the armrests as if she were palpating a body for injuries.

Éomer heard chuckles coming from Aragorn and Gandalf and a disapproving snort from Elphir. He turned to cast the Prince a look and saw Legolas standing next to him. This was one of the rare occasions that the Elf did not find it easy to keep his usual serene countenance. Éomer caught Imrahil’s gaze. His father-in-law was sitting on his daughter’s other side and with his eyebrow crooked, he silently seemed to recall his words of this morning: yours to deal with.

The next single-combat was a rather dull affair. Grimbeald, the Rohirric fighter, was a heavy-set, clumsy man, who usually avoided moving much without his equally heavy-built equine partner beneath him. Together they were a force of nature; on foot the man was as agile as a tree-trunk. Why his comrades had chosen him to represent the Royal Guard in the ‘behourd’ was a mystery to Éomer. But then, when Grimbeald got something in his head, it was nearly impossible to argue him to the contrary. They had probably just followed the line of least resistance and had let him have his way.

Fortunately for him, his kinsmen had decided that this was the right time to pass around food and drink. There was a lot of movement in the crowd, the spectators giving their best attention to the eatables and mostly ignoring the current events on the ‘wigræden’. Nobody appeared overly affected when their champion went down with an audible thud after a comparatively short fight. He had just stumbled and tripped over, no doubt surprising his opponent. The Gondorian looked as if he was prepared to help the other man back to his feet and resume fighting, but Ceorl moved in quickly and declared him the winner.

Filled stomachs put everybody in a cheerful mood and good-natured hoots accompanied the combatants’ efforts in the sixth duel. Both were well matched regarding their physique and their agility, but the knight of Gondor definitely had trouble getting used to the short Rohirric sword and the non-existence of a cross-guard. He was neither able to hold his adversary at a distance nor to utilise the actual advantages of this type of sword - its great flexibility, which enabled the adept warrior to hack, slash and thrust effectively in rapid succession. Growing tired, after having had to block many more blows than having had the chance to hand out, he finally received one against the side of his head and passed out, falling down like a felled tree.

Beside Éomer, Lothíriel, who during the fight had occupied herself mainly with picking tiny insects out of her tea, shot up from her chair with a choked exclamation. The mug landed in the grass at her feet, the spilled tea soiling the hem of her gown. Éomer reached for her hand and urged her back into her seat. Her slim hands wrapped themselves around the armrest in a firm grip.

“Lothíriel, there is nothing to worry about. The blow was not that bad,” he assured her.

Acwulf, the Rohirric fighter had gone down on his knees to check on his defeated opponent. He looked rather dumbfounded, obviously not having expected such a resounding success from his manoeuvre.

“Not bad?” Lothíriel stared at her husband as if she was doubting that she got his words right. “That blow was executed with enough power to cause a concussion. A serious concussion,” she added to make sure he got her point. “Furthermore it was carried out with the broadside of the blade against his ear. His eardrum could have been affected, a rupture actually, which might cause a conductive hearing loss on that side.” She had been watching more attentively than he had given her credit for.

“My Dear, there are the healers of Edoras around who have had a fair share of these kind of injuries,” he reminded his daughter, gesturing towards the ‘wigræden’ where two men had joined the combatants to take care of the unconscious man. “And believe me, Garavon has a rather hard skull. It is unlikely that a single blow will put him out of action for too long.”

His predication proved to be accurate. The Gondorian, a Swan Knight, sat up and shook his head a few times before he climbed, with the assistance of his helpers, to his feet, able to leave the battleground on his own and accompanied by a relieved clapping from the onlookers.

“An external head wound bleeds strongly, but the slight bleeding from a ruptured eardrum can easily be overlooked. It is also known that a perforation of the eardrum can lead to infections later, which can induce, for reasons we do not know, vertigo and instability, often accompanied by nausea.”

Éomer took her hand and found that it was trembling ever so slightly. She was truly concerned about the man. “If it sets your mind at rest you can have a look at your father’s guard after the ‘behourd’ has come to an end. There is only one more pair of contenders to compete against each other and then – if it is your wish – we can pay our respects to all today’s combatants and you can see if they are all well taken care of.”

She smiled at him, weaving her fingers through his and leant closer. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Please believe me, it is not that I regard the Rohirric healers to be incompetent. But they are men who consider this to be hardly more than some friendly scuffle. A tiny disregarded wound – disregarded even by the wounded himself out of pride – can turn out to be most harmful.”

“I know you would never malign a fellow healer.” He caressed her knuckles with his thumb. “And I equally know – we both do – that sometimes a man has to be bludgeoned into having a wound properly treated.”

“Indeed, we do know that all too well,” she agreed, her voice so low, he had to guess those words more than he could actually hear them, but the gleam in her eyes was warm and unmistakably beguiling. When had been the last time a woman’s smile had made his heart miss a beat? He couldn’t remember. Probably never before. And as soon as Lothíriel truly comprehended what effect she could have on him, he was going to be in trouble.

“You should soon be able to put your healing skills to a more appropriate use as our brother is the next in line to brag and boast about his swordsmanship.”

Something about Elphir’s malcontent voice made all the fine hairs at the nape of Éomer’s neck stand on end. Once more he turned around to look at Lothíriel’s eldest brother. The only agreeable thing he had ever heard being said about the heir of Dol Amroth was Aragorn’s assessment that he was a brilliant administrator and a loyal liegeman. That he seemed to be at constant odds with his youngest brother said a lot about Amrothos. As hard as Éomer found to accept it, most notably it said a lot of positive things about Amrothos.

Paying no regard to the fact that he was under the blunt scrutiny of Rohan’s King, the Prince carried on bestowing his opinion about their sibling upon his sister.

“As Amrothos finds it necessary to make a fool of himself by taking part in this sort of crude posing, you will undoubtedly have enough to do patching him up afterwards.” He gave another of his disapproving snorts. “I will never understand how a Prince of Dol Amroth managed to grow up with such an unfortunate lack of tactfulness.”

“Something I have been wondering about as well,” Éomer remarked wryly and turned to his father-in-law. The Lord of Belfalas appeared to be holding back a smile. “Imrahil, I think my opinion about Amrothos is on the point of reconsideration and I concede that I might have been wrong. Perhaps we may indeed discuss your request later.”

“The bane of the one who bugs me shall not be my bane?” Imrahil inquired, a glint of mocking amusement in his eyes.

“I would not go that far,” Éomer replied, warding off the feigned enthusiasm.

Somehow her apparent unawareness of her father’s latest scheme didn’t take Éomer by surprise. Although he very seldom seemed to interfere in his children’s quarrels, Imrahil had the really bothersome habit of making plans without involving those who were actually affected by them, namely the aforementioned children. He wondered if Amrothos already knew about the good fortune his father had planned for him.

“Have you found the opportunity to discuss your idea with him?” he asked in all sarcastic friendliness.

“Discuss what idea with whom?” Lothíriel asked impatiently. She didn’t like to have her questions ignored.

“The term discussing would be too far-reached,” Imrahil admitted, as always his unflappable self.

“I was suddenly overcome by such an inkling.” Éomer was truly delighted about this development. That the Prince hadn’t told the primarily concerned person about his – abstruse – scheme could only mean one thing, that Amrothos would be everything but overjoyed by his father’s machination.

Between them Lothíriel let out an irritated breath. “What are you talking about?” she repeated. “Father?”

Imrahil opened his mouth to answer – at least Éomer thought he intended to reply to Lothíriel’s probing question - but was interrupted by the appearance of the last pair of combatants on the ‘wigræden’.

At the sight of her brother, Lothíriel seemed to forget – for the time being – about her query. She eyed him with a mixture of vexation, apprehension and affection. In whatever shape Amrothos would emerge from the ‘behourd’, after she had taken care of him as a healer she was likely to give him a good bawling-out in her capacity as his sister.

Besides the reception of the usual applause and cheering, this time the duellists were also greeted by a chorus of high-pitched acclamations, unmistakably from the mouths of young females. A notably loud squeal came from just behind them where Marshal Elfhelm and his family had gathered to observe the event. The shrill sound of rapture merged into a low wail of pain. Éomer assumed that Cynewyn hadn’t shied away from using a reasonable amount of force to bring her eldest daughter to her senses – or at least to shut her up.

As the defendant Amrothos had the right to the first blow. The shield rather negligently raised so that it barely covered the left side of his torso, he advanced nonchalantly towards his opponent. The sword swung casually in his right hand and he made no move to strike out. He gave the impression that he intended to exchange a few pleasantries with the other man instead of well-placed blows. And indeed, although nothing could be heard over the noise of the crowd, one could make out that his lips were moving.

Éofor, who was, due to the rules, not permitted to do anything but keep up his guard, looked increasingly irritated and the same went for the spectators. The shouts of encouragement from them were more and more interlaced by impatient hoots and annoyed whistles. Amrothos didn’t appear to be bothered at all. He kept talking.

Aragorn chuckled. “You certainly remember,” he addressed his younger friend, “Faramir once mentioning that his cousin is able to talk anybody into the ground. We may be given the chance to witness such an occasion.”

“An unusual approach to single-combat. As far as I recall, it has not been seen in Edoras ever before,” Éomer stated and then added with malicious satisfaction, “And Éofor looks as if he might explode at any moment.”

The High King slanted him a shrewd glance. “From this joyful gloating I gather your captain has not been in your favour lately?”

“Ah!” Aragorn grinned. “Now I know what you had to discuss with Erchirion so urgently this morning. So brothers do make fine allies?”

Éomer decided to just mutter something incomprehensible. He cast a look at Lothíriel to find that she hadn’t paid any attention to this last exchange of quips. She was watching her brother. As an addition to the other emotions a faint bemusement was now displayed on her face.

“Good grief! He is playing the idiot again,” Elphir hissed, apparently mortified by his brother’s latest exposition.

If Éomer had learnt something about Amrothos then it was that he didn’t do anything without a purpose – although that purpose was not necessarily easy to pinpoint. Suddenly he received the impression that the Prince was not playing at all but explaining something. He had rested the sword against his shoulder, even using it absent-mindedly to scratch his back, whilst he kept on talking at Éofor, whose face had, by now, become bright red. The fair complexion, which so many of the Rohirrim sported, was not exactly advantageous under circumstances like these. His mood was easy to guess: the man was furious.

Éomer had no doubt that at this very moment Amrothos was explaining to the Captain of his Guard why he intended to make kindling of him. He only hoped – for Lothíriel’s sake - that his brother-in-law was not suffering from an overestimation of his own capabilities.

An instant later the Prince demonstrated that at least he was fast; bloody fast, as Éomer had to grant him. One moment his entire body language had been one of blasé attitude, a heartbeat later his lax grip around the hilt had tightened and his sword cut through the air like a flash of steel. Startled dismay showed on Éofor’s face and he was just able to bring up his shield to block the heavy blow. He staggered backwards and the Prince struck out again, aiming for the lower leg of his opponent, a weak spot in any warrior’s defence. Once more the captain’s move was more one of desperation than a collected evasion manoeuvre. Amrothos did not hesitate to use the moment the other man needed to regain his bearings and landed another tough stroke, hitting the rim of the shield.

At last the Rohír recovered from the surprise of the sudden attack and from the swiftness and preciseness of it. He put all his power behind his counterstroke and once more the Prince baffled him and the spectators when he parried it with his blade instead of his shield. The physical strain that this move required was clearly shown by the blood that surged to his face and the baring of his teeth. His features contorted painfully but his wrist proved to be strong enough to withstand the impact. Amrothos slid out of danger with the same light-footedness he had displayed on the dance floor the previous evening. Freeing his blade, he deftly sidestepped the rider on his right and in the same motion swung around and dealt a fourth blow. Éofor had barely the time to bring up his sword to protect his head, and again steel clashed on steel.

The crowd expressed its satisfaction at the turn of events, now cheering both men equally.

After the first encounter of close-in fighting the combatants had drawn back, protection and offensive weapon in place, observing each other; assessing. The captain was having – without a doubt - to admit to himself that he had misjudged the apparently feeble prince from the coast. And that made him even more furious, his mood heated by Amrothos’s perky smile.

Whilst the combatants circled each other, Éomer turned and gave Lothíriel a searching glance. Her eyes were focused on her brother, but she looked as cool and untouched as the snowy peaks of the Thrihyrne. He gazed at her hand that was lying, apparently relaxed, on the armrest. However, a slight trembling of only the middle-finger told him that she was not nearly at ease as the composed mask on her face suggested to anyone watching. Gently he put his hand over hers.

“He is an idiot.” Her eyes didn’t move from the ‘wigræden’ were the weapons clashed anew, but Éomer kept his gaze on his wife’s flawless profile.

From Elphir came a contemptuous sniff, but Éomer’s reward was a tiny smile curving, for a moment, the corners of Lothíriel’s soft mouth. Her fingers shivered beneath his. They were cold and he clasped them with his larger, rougher hand to warm them.

At first sight the advantage on the battleground seemed to lie with Éofor. He was the taller of the men, although just by an inch, and of heavier build, so height and weight and reach were all on his side, and there was no questioning of his skill and experience with the shorter Rohirric blade.

Amrothos was leaner and he had already impressively demonstrated that his lightness lent him speed and agility. His swift opening attack had shown that - though he should be more used to fighting with the long-sword, the weapon of the Swan Knights – he knew quite well how to handle the blade of a mounted warrior. However, his greatest asset was undoubtedly his unpredictability. As nerve-racking as his usual quirky behaviour was, he did prove that he could also drive an opponent on the battleground easily mad by smiling at him audaciously and obviously commenting on - or rather taunting – the other man’s efforts.

He induced the captain to overhasty manoeuvres. Éofor attacked him relentlessly, not caring about conserving his strength. Amrothos on the other hand, after the first quick succession of blows in his opening charge, contented himself with being on the defensive, evading and parrying the strokes dealt at him with light-footed ease. The sun was high and hot and he was sweating but he still had his breathing under control. On the other hand the Rohír was already sucking in the needed air through clenched teeth.

“What is he doing?” Éomer heard Lothíriel whisper. “Why is he making him so angry?”

“Angry men grow careless.” He let his thumb glide down to her pulse. How did she manage to appear so perfectly poised while her heart was racing?

Once more he succeeded and made her smile. She turned to look at him. “I shall remember your words, my Lord, and so shall you,” she teased. But then the warmth faded from her eyes, to be replaced by wariness. Her attention was drawn back to the ‘wigræden’ where Éofor had just attacked again.

It was a feint, apparently striving to breach Amrothos’s defence with a stroke delivered from below with the edge of the blade, but in a blink of an eye the Rohír had changed his grip on the hilt, charging into a stabbing attack that aimed to compass the other’s shield and to drive the point of the blade into the pit of his opponent’s sword arm.

Amrothos only narrowly escaped the powerful thrust, his greater agility saving him. He threw up his sword, parrying his opponent’s flourish. He escaped a bind by sliding his sword’s point out from underneath Éofor’s blade. The Rohír couldn’t break the forward movement after his forceful lunge and crashed with his shield against the slighter built Prince. It verged on the miraculous that Amrothos was able to hold his position without toppling over but the pressure of the greater body mass made it difficult for him to keep his balance. But obviously he had learnt the lessons any good sword instructor should have drummed into his apprentices’ heads: one needs to counter the opponent’s action with a complementary reaction; strength is countered with weakness, and weakness with strength. Unfortunately this simple principle was too often forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Amrothos remembered and quite suddenly ceased his counter-pressure by executing a swift, complete turn around his sword arm. He then used the momentum of the rotation to strike the Rohír, who on his part was thrown out of balance, across the back. Éofor’s yelp was a mixture of pain and rage and probably the latter enabled him to come around with the force of a battering ram. He used his shield to knock his opponent’s guard aside. The force of the blow thrust the rim of his own shield into Amrothos face, cracking the bridge of his nose and his right brow.

“Hoom,” Gimli rumbled and sounded for the moment rather like Treebeard. “That does not look good for the lad.”

Not that the dwarf was so very wrong in his estimation, but feeling Lothíriel’s hand trembling with strain, Éomer wished he had kept that comment to himself.

However, once more Amrothos managed to do something perfectly unpredictable. He hurled his shield like a disc at his opponent, hitting the utterly surprised Éofor squarely in the shoulder of his sword arm. The following onslaught surprised him even more.

Holding the weapon with both hands now, with the hilt at chest height as if he were wielding a long-sword, Amrothos delivered blow after blow in rapid succession, not leaving his opponent the time to collect himself, let alone find a way to counter-attack. He drove the Rohír before him, hacking, slashing, thrusting, slicing, his blade bending under the force of the blows it dealt. Amrothos pursued the other warrior with a determination and ruthlessness Éomer had not thought his apparently blithely unconcerned brother-in-law had in him. But then he recalled a memory: he had seen the Prince fight this way before. At the Black Gate where he had fought to kill or to be killed. And suddenly Rohan’s King was overcome by the suspicion that today his captain’s life was only saved by the fortunate fact that the weapons in this ‘behourd’ were unsharpened.

He wasn’t the only one who sensed a defiant, cold fury in Amrothos. Gimli bent forward over the backrest of Éomer’s and Aragorn’s chairs.

Elphir forestalled anybody who might have made a reply to the dwarf’s query, “Because it is.” For a change he sounded puzzled – and worried – instead of indignant. “But only the Valar know what he has done this time.”

What he – Amrothos - was doing right now was pressing hard, driving his opponent back. And the backwards-moving Rohír couldn’t see that behind him was a stumbling block in form of the Gondorian’s discarded shield. A sudden backward lunge made him stagger onto it. He twisted his ankle and slipped. Still parrying, he fell and threw up his sword. Amrothos following stroke took the weapon out of his hand. Sprawled in the dust, the rider wasn’t ready to give up yet. He let his shield go and rolled to make a grasp for his blade, but the foot of his opponent came down on his wrist, nailing it to the ground. In the nearly dead silence that had spread over the place with the intensifying of the duel, one could hear a crack and a moan coming from Éofor.

The Prince pushed the rounded point of his sword against the man’s neck. He was breathing heavily, his teeth bared. Blood ran out of his nose and from his brow, blending with the sweat and dust that marred his handsome face. Either he kept his right eye closed to prevent blood and sweat flooding it or it was already swollen shut.

“Do you call for peace?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse from the exertion, but came loud and precise.

Éofor hesitated with his answer, no doubt finding it difficult to admit his defeat. Ceorl was already standing halfway between the entrance and the combatants, waiting to declare the end of the duel. Amrothos shifted a little bit more of his weight onto the foot with which he held the other man’s wrist down, murmuring something that was inaudible to the crowd. Finally the Rohír yielded.

“And I shall grant it to you,” Amrothos replied endearingly, taking his foot off the hand. “Would you mind holding that for me?” he addressed the approaching Ceorl, passing him his sword.

Only now did the crowd abandon its perplexed silence. All broke out in loud cheers to salute the winner of this combat that – as everybody had comprehended – had been different from the previous ones. It had been more heated, and interspersed with unexpected tension between the two opponents.

Amrothos stepped aside, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. Lothíriel shot out of her armchair, nearly toppling it over. Before Éomer had a chance to react she had crossed the couple of yards to the edge of the stand and – bracing herself with one hand in the grass – hopped down the bank into the ‘wigræden’. Dumbfounded, her husband stared after her.

“One has to give your children their due, Imrahil.” Gandalf had a smile in his tone. “They are quite agile and always good for a surprise.”

“You take the very words out of my mouth,” Éomer affirmed that assessment dryly, walking up to the edge of the stand to watch Lothíriel examining her brother.

She had his jaw in a firm grip, with thumb and forefinger of her other hand tenderly probing his nose.

“Of course it hurts.” She batted right back. “A broken nose does hurt. You need to sit down. Not here,” she added when he made a move to lower himself to the ground. She caught his face between her palms, tracing the rim of his eye with a sensitive finger tip.

“I am not poking anything into your eye. I am just trying to establish if there is a fracture to your thick skull, namely frontal bone and malar bone.” Again he whined. “Do not be such a mollycoddle, Amrothos,” she scolded, disregarding his fretful grumble.

“So the children are already having fun again.” All of a sudden Erchirion stood next to Rohan’s King, eyeing his siblings with his usual laid back countenance.

“If I remember correctly what you told me this morning then it was supposed to be all about fun,” Éomer replied. “It could have ended badly.”

“The funny thing is - things never end really badly for Amrothos.” This one must have inherited his imperturbability from his father, who had just joined them, his eyes also on his two youngest.

“I suppose you are not going to tell me what this was all about?” Imrahil asked mildly.

“No,” Erchirion answered in the same friendly tone. “I do not think you truly want to know.”

There was a short pause. “My only solace is that one day all of you will have children of your own,” the Lord of Dol Amroth remarked philosophically. “And then I will sit back, watch and gloat.” He turned to leave the stand, walking over where the combatants of the ‘behourd’ gathered amongst their comrades. After hesitating for only an instant, Elphir joined him without making any further comment.

Éomer spotted Elfhelm’s wife further up the hill. She was shepherding her offspring back to the guesthouse where the family were staying. Merewyn looked rather reluctant to follow her mother, gazing back over her shoulder all the time, only to get dragged away by an adamant Cynewyn. The little chatterbox seemed to be suffering from a serious bout of infatuation.

He turned to find his wife standing below him, her head at the height of his shins. She had her head tipped backwards in order to look up to him, her hands on her hips.

“The satchel with the remedies.” She tapped her foot impatiently, “I need to clean Amrothos’s wounds and tamp his nose. It is still bleeding. And then I would like to have a look at Captain Éofor’s wrist. I think Amrothos broke it when he stepped on it.” She glanced over to where the man was limping off the battleground, holding his right hand pressed against his chest.

That was quite certainly the last thing he wanted, Lothíriel caring for the cursed captain. Amrothos had followed his sister and was now standing right behind her, rolling his good eye at her words. The other had indeed swollen grotesquely, the lids the colour and shape of a ripe plum. He wiped the trickles of blood from his nose with the sleeve of the tunic he wore under his mail-shirt.

“Why do you two not come up here where Amrothos can sit down whilst you treat him?” her husband suggested.

“You are so good to me, brother,” Amrothos sighed, in all likelihood knowing that it wasn’t necessarily in the fore of Éomer’s mind to be good to him. He wanted to get his wife as far away from the captain as possible and having her back up with him on the stand again gave him a fairer chance to handle her – though he’d better never phrase it that way in her presence.

Lothíriel regarded the compound. The entrance through the palisade was on the opposite side to the stand. She would have to cross the training field and then walk all way around to get back to the place from where they had been watching the ‘behourd’.

“Perhaps you should have taken that into consideration before you hopped down there,” Éomer pointed out and couldn’t resist adding, “You nearly gave poor Elphir a fit.”

The glare she had directed at him was turned towards Amrothos when he muttered something sounding like “Just nearly? What a shame!” He grinned at his sister; however his smile, as swollen and smeared with blood as his face was, had lost some of its charm.

“Why do you not heave her up, whilst I give her a shove from the bottom?” he addressed his brother-in-law.

“By all means feasible,” Éomer nodded, but Lothíriel was everything but agreeable to such a plan.

“I will not be hoisted anywhere by the two of you.” As a precaution she stepped away from the bank and out of Amrothos’s reach. “That would be perfectly undignified.”

“You have already lost your newly acquired queenly dignity when you threw yourself down here,” her brother assured her ungratefully. “Whatever, please make up your mind. I am bleeding to death.”

Erchirion had watched the whole episode with his arms crossed. “Dearest, why do you not give Éomer and me each a hand and we will pull you up in as dignified as possible a manner. There is no need for Amrothos to shove you from behind.”

Every now and again, a notion consolidated with Éomer that he could learn from observing Erchirion managing his kin. Lothíriel seemed to consider his suggestion, eyeing indecisively those of the earlier onlookers who still gathered on the stand. Like Aragorn and Gandalf, who were in conversation with the Marshals of the Mark, everybody was occupied reminiscing about the ‘behourd’. In the end her dedication as a healer, heightened by her concern for her brother, won.

“Very well.” She outstretched both her arms. Éomer and Erchirion took hold of them and lifted her easily upwards and she even appeared to have enjoyed it. “That went smoothly,” she declared with a giggle. “Now, where is my satchel?”

“Your wish, my Lady, is my command.” Éomer had already given his salute to her back.

Together with Erchirion he bent down to offer the other brother a hand and when he gripped them, they hauled him upwards. He landed with a stifled groan between them, pulling a face. “I am very much obliged.” He cautiously fingered his nose. There was a lot of blood. “There goes my beauty,” he sniffled and sauntered off to drop on the chair Éomer had earlier abandoned. He let his head come to rest against its back so his sister could take care of his maltreated face.

Watching Lothíriel who began carefully to clean his face with some liquid she got from her satchel – and listening to Amrothos moaning and groaning – Éomer recalled the events having led to the necessity of it. He let out a low chuckle.

“Your words have come true. He is indeed very proficient in surviving the wrath of men he has insulted.”

“An effective weapon. Had there been walls on the battleground, Éofor would have been up at least a couple.” A very agreeable mental image.

“The Captain underestimated my little brother.” Erchirion shrugged his shoulders. “And so did you,” he added in mocking accusation.

To contradict that statement would have come close to a lie, so Éomer simply mirrored the shoulder shrug. “However, I have always wondered what he is camouflaging behind this annoying façade of his.”

“Primarily resentment at the ill fate of being a third son.” When Rohan’s King didn’t respond because he wasn’t quite comprehending what Erchirion was trying to tell him, the Prince continued, “The first is the heir, the second the spare and the third . . . somehow not included in any greater scheme. We Gondorians hold a rather static view about the way of the world. We like things to stay well sorted and are ill at ease with somebody who does not conform to the universally acknowledged requirements of our society.”

Suddenly something began to dawn on Éomer. Less than a year ago Imrahil had argued with him that a headstrong and unconventional Lothíriel would be much better off married to him than to a Gondorian nobleman. And now he intended to dump his idiosyncratic youngest son on Rohan. What did that say about the perception the Lord of Dol Amroth had about the land of the Horselords?

Erchirion had tilted his head, studying him. “You look like a man for whom the scales just fell from his eyes,” he remarked with his usual astuteness.

“From the point of view of a Rohír your entire family is rather out of the ordinary.”

Both looked over to Lothíriel who had tamped rolled up gauze up Amrothos’s nose and was now dabbing something around his injured eye. She leant over him, concentrated on her deeds, totally immersed in what she was doing. Her thick plait had fallen forward over her shoulder; it swung with each of her movements and the wind had again managed to wrestle fine strands free from the braiding, which now framed her beautiful face.

“She is endued with many assets, enough to balance any quirks. For her, I am even willing to come to terms with Amrothos.”

“I am certain your wife will be overjoyed to hear that,” Aragorn addressed him from behind. He laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “And so will Imrahil.”

Éomer decided not to respond to the smirk that accompanied his friend’s words. But he saw Erchirion’s eyebrows going up quizzically. The Prince had caught on to the emphasis his King had put on the last part of his statement. Well, it wouldn’t be him who illuminated Erchirion – or Amrothos for that matter - about their father’s scheming. He had no inclination to get between the lines.

Fortunately Aragorn had something else on his mind. “I intend to go and meet the combatants to salute their efforts. Will you come with me?”

Éomer saw that his Marshals were already on their way. Gandalf was in their company. Legolas had gone with Imrahil and Gimli had hardly waited for the end of the last duel before he rushed over to give the combatants his verdict.

“And I will come as well, “Lothíriel announced. She had finished treating her brother and stashed her remedies back into the satchel. “I wish to have a look at Garavon’s eardrum.”

“There cannot be too many men around who have wives that are interested in other men’s eardrums,” Amrothos remarked, stepping next to his brother. With tamps up his nose his voice sounded rather mumbled and the cleaning of his face hadn’t really done anything for his looks. The oil his sister had dabbed on the marred parts gave it an unhealthy shine.

“Nothing serious,” Lothíriel reassured everybody, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. “Just a broken nose. But stepping so unnecessarily on Captain Éofor’s hand might have fractured his carpal bones. I had better have a look at it.” With those words she started towards the crowd that had gathered behind the stables, somewhere amongst which were the injured combatants.

Before Éomer had the chance to protest – let alone to think about something remotely cogent to restrain her from her aim – Amrothos gave a lengthy moan, much higher pitched than his usual voice, rotated on his heels and sank backwards against Éomer. Utterly surprised, only his quick reflexes made Rohan’s King catch him under his armpits before he thudded onto the ground.

Thunderstruck Éomer stared down at the figure that hung with closed eyes in his arms like a wet rag. A glance at Aragorn told him that his friend was not less flabbergasted.

“Amrothos!” There was an undertone of panic in Lothíriel’s voice as she rushed back at her brother’s side.

“Could it be that there is more to his injury than a broken nose?” Erchirion inquired, his concern not sounding overly convincing to Éomer’s ears. “Perhaps a concussion?” the Prince supplied, giving his brother-in-law a wink.

“There was no obvious sign,” Lothíriel murmured more to herself. “Amrothos, can you hear me?”

The answer was pitiable groan. If Imrahil was searching for a meaningful occupation for his son, he should perhaps consider the travelling folk. The Prince had all the talents required to make a jester.

“Sometimes the degree of an internal injury shows itself only after the strain of the battle has worn off.” She was checking her brother’s ears, probably for some bleeding she might have overlooked. “He might be suffering from some trauma.”

Although he was quite glad that she had forgotten about her quest to take care of Éofor, seeing her so obviously distraught over her brother gave Éomer doubts about the appropriateness of the means.

“Amrothos?” Lothíriel tried again. “Please, open your eyes . . . eye.” Her brother complied with yet another variation of a moan. He rolled his fit eye a bit around before he focused on his sister. She raised her hand, holding up three fingers. “How many?” she asked.

“My vision is suddenly blurred, but I think three . . . yes, three.” Another wretched groan.

Éomer dared a glance at the King of Gondor. Aragorn had a hand shoved into his hair and his eyes squeezed shut. His shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. Éomer couldn’t blame him. He himself, on the other hand, had an odd feeling of unreality.

“I do not think it is too bad,” Lothíriel seemed to be a bit easier. “The physical strain in general might have contributed to this bout. He needs a good night’s rest. I will go and find Mistress Ælfgyth to have his bed prepared and see if there is somebody who can keep watch over him if necessary. Erchirion, as soon as he no longer feels giddy you will accompany him to his quarters. Éomer and King Elessar, you might go and join the combatants. Your assistance will not be needed.”

With that conclusion she turned and walked briskly up the hill towards the Golden Hall. The men looked after her.

“I suppose all of us have been issued our assignments,” Aragorn remarked in a deadpan voice. “Perhaps we’d better comply with those directions.”

Éomer glanced down at his brother-in-law who was still hanging in front of him in what had to be a rather uncomfortable position for an – allegedly – seriously injured man. “What do you call this unique performance?”

"Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!” His head dropped lifelessly forward.

Now it was Éomer’s turn to groan. He looked at Erchirion for help, but the latter just shrugged his shoulders once again. His next words left Rohan’s King undecided if there was any sanity left in his vicnity.

"More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise," Erchirion declaimed, addressing his brother.

“Let me guess,” Éomer asked resigned and not really interested. “More Berendirith.”

“No,” Amrothos replied in a quite lively way, having overcome his dying stage. “Dorveleg. A contemporary of Berendirith, but a second-rate poet in my opinion.”

“Let us go, Aragorn.” Without waiting for a response, he jumped down the bank and marched acrossed the field towards the stables. After a few long strides he heard Aragorn’s chuckle just before he caught up and fell in step beside him.

Orlando is a varient of Roland, meaning ‘famous land’; in Sindarin it would be Dorveleg

"I cannot put her down in Meduseld and then just let her be. Somebody must look after her, and I do not have the time. And I do not want to imagine what she would be able to do if she was left without proper supervision.”

Lothíriel eyed herself critically in the large looking glass that sat on a chest containing winter clothing. She assumed that Winfrith had placed the oval mirror with the heavy bronze frame on that particular coffer because she wouldn’t have to move it again before the cold season. The way it looked, however, she could have set it on any of the chests except the one containing her riding habits. Her third day as the Queen of the Riddermark and she was wearing for the third time breeches, boots and a gown with a split skirt. The heavy winds which seemed to belong to the Riddermark as much as its horses made the wearing of breeches under one’s skirts extremely practical.

Lothíriel turned around and looked over her shoulder, contemplating the lavish fall of the pleats across her behind. Not that these garments weren’t becoming. Arwen’s taste was flawless and she had known precisely what would suit her reluctant protégée. After having worn the simple and unflattering healer’s garb for the better of four years and now and then - to please her father – a gown she had mostly had stitched together on short notice, she had to admit that it was amazing what a dress chosen with adequate thoughtfulness could do for one’s appearance. Instead of looking – as Amrothos had once put it – as if she had dressed in a hurry in the gleaming light of a nearly died down candle, she looked . . . good. And this was just a riding gown and not the most elaborate she owned; it was quite comfortable and when wearing it she appeared to have a waist, and even breasts above and hips below it.

Of course, Winfrith’s braiding skills contributed to her flattering looks. The eternal winds of the plains demanded her to wear her hair in a style that kept it from being blown in her face all the time. A simple plait from the nape of her neck would have been decent enough, but the handmaiden seemed to have the ambition to show off a new hairdo every day. Lothíriel pulled the thick braid forwards over her shoulder, admiring it. She wouldn’t have known how to do that kind of herringbone plait.

A last glance into the mirror told her that – unfortunately – the whisker burns Éomer’s beard had left around her mouth hadn’t faded yet. There were a few more parts of her body sporting the reddish marks that his sandpaper cheeks tended to cause. She was certain that Winfrith had noticed them when she had helped her dress. It was rather embarrassing but she didn’t believe that the young widow was a gossip and would let such intimate details go beyond her bedchamber. And as she doubted that Éomer was willing to shave off his beard, and refraining from kissing him was out of question, she’d better resign herself to the fact that she would be, on a good many mornings, the very picture of a woman who had been - at the very least - thoroughly kissed.

With a resolute movement of her hand she tossed her braid back over her shoulder. It was time to follow Éomer.

He had left their bed at the break of dawn. Or . . . it was rather that he had intended to leave it at the break of dawn but somehow become enticed into coming back and making love to her. He had accused her – unfairly, she had to say, especially as he had not appeared overly repentant about it - of having lured him back into her arms. Granted, she hadn’t been completely awake but she couldn’t think about anything she had done – on purpose or unintentionally - to prompt him to abandon his intention of getting up bright and early to look through all those tasks he had to leave unattended due to the wedding and which now had to be taken care of.

Later this morning he was to meet with King Elessar and her father and she expected their council to last the entire day. Since the Gondorian entourage had arrived in Rohan the three men had only been able to trade the most essential information about the way things stood in both realms after the winter and the situation along the borders of the two kingdoms.

And Rohan still needed food aid from Gondor; that was until this year’s harvest, which was still a good three months ahead. But from what she had overheard, the prospects were promising. After years in which one disaster had been chasing the other, at last the weather seemed to be on the side of the Rohirrim. The frost had left the ground early, precipitation had come as rain instead of snow and now a mild sun was warming the land and luring the crops out of the soil. The next six weeks would be essential for the yield. Sun and rain needed to be well balanced.

In the past she had never paid great attention to husbandry. The production and distribution of foodstuffs had failed to raise her curiosity, as in Gondor food had always been in more than adequate supply. But the accounts about the severe food shortage in the land of which she was supposed to become queen had caused her to do considerable research not only into farming but also into the problems that would follow in the wake of a famine, especially the health effects malnutrition caused. She had heard that the Westfold had been particularly hard hit and she needed to talk to somebody who could describe to her the state of health of the people living beyond Edoras.

She had had the intention of addressing Éomer about the issue the previous night but they had become distracted almost as soon as they had been alone in their chambers. And this morning the same had recurred. If she wished to have a purposeful talk with her husband, perhaps she had better approach him in more public surroundings.

Lothíriel herself did not intend to spend the day idly. The wedding and the festivities lay behind them; from today on the normal course of life would take over. She just had to figure out what her everyday life would look like. She had certain ideas about her future role; however, she wasn’t quite sure how those ideas were going to agree with her new people. She would have to talk to them, to many of them, but to do just that she had to master their language first. That was the least the Rohirrim could expect from their queen - that she was able to converse with them in their own tongue. And to begin with they had to see that she was making an effort. Finding a tutor and starting to learn Rohirric had to be given priority.

She would take up Mithrandir’s recommendation and approach Gléowine. When the Istar had suggested Théoden King’s old ‘scop’ would make a suitable teacher, Éomer had raised no objections. Therefore she could act on the assumption that he wouldn’t disapprove of her talking to the old man she had met briefly during the riddle-match. It was more likely that her husband would appreciate her not bothering him with every little thing. After all, it was part of her duty to take as much of the load off him as she could possibly manage.

But before she went to find Gléowine she needed to check on Amrothos and see how he had spent the night. His dizzy spell after the ‘behourd’ had surprised her. There hadn’t been the merest indication that besides the bruised face and broken nose more serious damage had been done. She had watched his duel closely and she was quite certain that he hadn’t received any heavy blows to his head during the fight. However, one of the first thing healers learnt was that nausea and vertigo should never be taken lightly even when an obvious reason couldn’t be established. Perhaps her brother had again just drunk more than he should have the night before the combat. Spirits tended to evoke the most puzzling effects on men.

She also wished to seek out Captain Éofor. She feared that Amrothos might have fractured the carpal bones of his sword hand, a serious injury for any warrior. She would feel bad if her brother’s excessively rough manoeuvre had caused some permanent damage. It would salve her conscience if she saw with her own eyes that he had been treated adequately by the Rohirric healers and she intended to apologize for Amrothos’s overzealousness.

Lothíriel inspected her satchel one last time to see if she had everything she might need. She had filled a tiny phial with a small quantity of the rare and valuable rose oil and had put it together with some gauze in a pouch. She would leave it with Amrothos so he could apply it to the haematoma around his eye himself, several times a day. She doubted that she would have to replace the tamps in his nose. Although his unexpected dizziness was still worrying her, she felt confident that the bleeding would have stopped.

Slinging the satchel over her shoulder she left the chamber. She needed to ask Mistress Ælfgyth if she could keep the leather bag. It was just the right size for the basic healer’s equipment.

Like the previous morning the buzz of activity in the Great Hall almost stunned her. It appeared as if half of the population of Edoras was in the habit of being present every morning, going about whatever business had brought them to Meduseld. Not only had many of the Gondorian Knights and Rohirric Riders assembled along the heavy, carved tables to take their morning meal – yesterday’s ‘behourd’ obviously hadn’t done any harm to their comradeship – Lothíriel also caught sight of a handful of citizens she had met during her walkabout through the city.

Just a few steps from her, supervising two serving wenches clearing the top table, Lothíriel caught sight of Meduseld’s housekeeper. Setting eyes on her queen, Ælfgyth gestured the two young women to get on with their task and approached Lothíriel, bidding her morning greetings.

“Good day to you, Mistress Ælfgyth. Yes, I have. Winfrith has seen about my morning fare.” Lothíriel looked around to see if there was a familiar face in the hall. “I gather the kings have already gone into council?”

“Indeed, my Lady. They have retired to Éomer King’s study, and with them went my Lady’s father and Gandalf and the Marshals of the Mark as well as Master Gimli and Prince Legolas.”

“The Princes Elphir and Erchirion took their early meal here in the hall. I overheard them talking about going down to the stables to have a look at my Lady’s new horse.”

“Oh my! I just hope they do not get it into their heads to drag me out for a ride. I am going to be rather busy today.”

Ælfgyth looked rather incredulously at her for a short moment, before gathering herself and adopting a neutral expression. She didn’t seem to believe that there was much that could keep her new queen occupied – at least usefully – all day. Lothíriel sighed inwardly. Apparently her reputation as a woman of action didn’t carry much weight. She decided not to enter into the subject. After all, appreciation came from purposeful doings, not from threadbare words.

“Just in case somebody asks for my whereabouts, after I am going to inquire after my brother Amrothos’s well-being, I intend to call upon Master Gléowine to request for his help in learning your tongue. Mithrandir . . . Gandalf recommended him as a possible tutor. I might also venture down to the stables.” She didn’t mention that it wasn’t with the intention of paying her horse a visit. “However, I shall be back in time for our meeting.”

Last night she and Ælfgyth had agreed to get together after today’s noon meal so that the housekeeper of the Golden Hall could answer her queen’s questions regarding the organisation of the hall in general and the ordinary everyday routines. Not that Lothíriel planned to interfere in the running of the hall. Nothing could be further from her mind. Housekeeping, as such, wasn’t exactly her forte. And she wasn’t in the habit of dictating to people who had definitely more experience, in a certain domain, how to perform a task. But as the ‘hlæfdige’ of Meduseld it was her duty to be conversant with all details regarding ‘ðe cynelice hlafætan’.

“There is a solar in Meduseld?” Lothíriel asked back, taken by surprise. So far nobody had bothered to tell her that there was a room other than her bedchamber to where she could retreat from the hustle and bustle and the noises and smells of the Great Hall.

It appeared there hadn’t been any particular scheme of how to install her to her new station. Well, she was pretty good in outlining schemes – and pursuing them. She’d better take the whole issue into her own hands from here on. Having a queen was obviously something the Rohirrim had to get used to again – and that included, to all appearances, Éomer as well.

Ælfgyth’s next words just confirmed her in her intentions. “Why, of course there is a solar. It is located in the eastern corner tower. Originally it was decorated for the Queen Morwen and in the last years it has been used solely by Lady Éowyn. I thought my Lord Éomer would wish to show it to you.”

“It must have slipped his mind,” Lothíriel said dryly. “Perhaps you can arrange for a light meal that we can take together, Mistress Ælfgyth. I would enjoy that.”

“That is a very good idea.” Lothíriel wondered briefly if the housekeeper wanted to avoid eating with her alone but she discarded the very idea. She must be gravely mistaken if she hadn’t a good rapport with the steadfast woman. She used her thumb to lift up the satchel slightly from her shoulder and draw Ælfgyth attention to it. “I hope you do not mind me keeping it for today?”

“Not at all, my Lady,” the tall woman assured her. “I found it when I had the solar cleaned. Nobody claimed it. It might once have belonged to the Lady Éowyn.”

Lothíriel walked down the centre aisle towards the open doors of the Great Hall. She nodded her greetings to the men who were sitting to the left and right and who all got to their feet to return her salute. What a fuss. Losing her anonymity as just one amongst many healers had its drawbacks.

The very moment Lothíriel stepped outside onto the high platform, on which Meduseld stood, it was confirmed that she had chosen wisely when she had decided to wear another riding habit that morning. The inescapable wind of Rohan’s plains – today even more severe than over the last few days - caught hold of her skirts and blew them up around her legs. Without the breeches she was wearing underneath, it would have been an embarrassing moment. If she were ever to make use of all those gowns that had been made up for her, she needed to think of something. Perhaps she’d better sew lead into the hemlines.

The weather was beautiful, despite the windy conditions. The strong breeze chased ragged clouds across the sky and the sun sent warming beams to the earth. A group of youngsters was lurking around the foot of the platform. Lothíriel walked down the steep stairs.

“Gōdne dæg!” she greeted the children and her words were echoed by about a dozen young voices. A few of the older ones even gave an unpractised bow and most of them were surveying her so inquisitively that she might have wondered if she had some dirt on her face, had she not decided to resign herself to those bold and direct gazes she got from virtually every one of her new people. But on the other hand, she remembered quite well the stares the citizens of Minas Tirith used to send after the Rohirrim who had been so utterly peregrine to them. It was just that Gondorians gaped less openly.

“Hū sind gē?” she tried a bit of idle chatter. Encourage by a positive response – it appeared she had been understood – she decided to rope in the youngsters to help her locate Amrothos.

“Iċ ðearf ēower fultume. Iċ sēċe mīn brōðer.” She tipped against her nose to clarify whom of her three brothers she was searching for. If she interpreted the answering giggles of the children correctly, they had actually got the point of her gesture. - Or they were just sniggering at her awful pronunciation.

“Hwǽr is his gesthūs? Gē magon mē ætīwan?” Lothíriel wrinkled her nose at her own stammering. She badly needed to speak to the former ‘scop’ and persuade him to become her tutor.

However, the children had comprehended what she wanted from them – which only spoke for their intelligence – and gestured talkatively to the houses which stood on the western slopes below the Golden Hall. They began to move in that direction, gesticulating for her to follow them. Complying with their request, Lothíriel suddenly felt tiny fingers fumbling for her hand. She looked down into the shy smile of a little girl, the same that had given her the sadly crushed flowers the other day.

“Ēalā, lēofesta,” she greeted and was rewarded with a wide grin and a firmer grip on her hand.

The group of young Rohirrim escorted her to one of about a dozen guest houses, which all looked very much alike. Built of weathered wood and thatched, they all had a narrow porch; a door in the centre flanked on each side by a window with bull-eyes-panes and carved shutters.

Out of the stream of words they lavished on her, she thought she understood ‘Æðeling Amrothos’. The oldest of the children, a boy of about twelve years, pointed at the door.

“The Prince,” he said, choosing his words in Westron carefully, “. . . sleeps here. In the back.” His forefinger he drew an arc to the right. “That side.”

He was a rather handsome boy with wavy, wheat-coloured hair and large, blue eyes. And an innocuous smile that reminded Lothíriel disconcertingly of one of Amrothos’s.

“Hwaet is þīn nama?” she asked him, having the uneasy feeling she was just being led up the garden path.

“Iċ eom Cerdic, Cwēn mīn,” he replied with an expression on his face harbouring between innocence and earnestness.

“Cerdic,” his queen repeated. Perhaps she was doing him wrong, but for some reason she was certain she would remember his name. She let go of the little girl’s hand and stepped onto the porch, opening the front door and finding a short corridor. It had two doors on each side, leading to the guest chambers. Amrothos had apparently found accommodation in the back on the right-hand-side. Lothíriel took the few steps down the windowless passage. She could hear some noises coming from behind the door, the boy had indicated; the creaking of a bed. She knocked. After a brief delay Amrothos’s voice rang out, rather disgruntled.

“It is me,” Lothíriel answered. Obviously somebody in there hadn’t slept that well.

“No, it is Vána.” She regarded the door with a bit of bemusement. Had Amrothos just sounded somehow uptight? “Are you still in bed? I am here to have a look at your nose.”

More noises - including her brother’s hushed voice – came from the inside. Then she could hear the latch being pushed back and the door opened just wide enough for Amrothos to squeeze through. He was barely outside when he pulled the door closed behind him. He was barefooted, wearing his breeches and a wrinkled linen shirt that hung down to his thighs. His hair was mussed and the right side of his face, including the swollen nose, was sporting a rather interesting palette of colours.

He greeted his sister with a rather pretentious looking smile. “You are up and around early.”

“By no means.” Lothíriel gave him an assessing look. He didn’t look ill, just tired. “It is well into the morning. How was your night?”

“Insignificant.” He was definitely short with his answer, close upon impolite. Lothíriel was struck by the impression that he would have preferred to get rid of her. He might be suffering from a headache. She took the satchel from her shoulder to pull out the pouch with the rose oil and the gauze.

Before Amrothos had the chance to answer somebody inside his chamber banged into a piece of furniture and a clearly female voice gave a cry of pain, which was choked off rather belatedly.

Lothíriel watched her brother puffing out his cheeks to give a soundless whistle. He was looking rather sheepish. Her eyes widened with dismay. “Have you got a woman in there?”

For an instant it seemed as if Amrothos was going to rebuff this assumption, but then he just bestowed one of his cocky grins upon her. “If I have not, I just wasted the entire night.”

The flippant remark left Lothíriel first dumbfounded and then caused her tongue work quicker than her mind. “How could you? Your nose is broken.”

She had the feeling that this statement was somehow off the mark as soon as the words were out of her mouth and even before the brow over Amrothos’s healthy eye shot upwards. She assumed that he only stifled a laugh because it would have hurt him too much.

“If after three nights as a wedded woman you think the nose is absolutely essential, then Éomer must have been doing something wrong. Or . . .” he suddenly contemplated her with interest and a wicked glint appeared in eyes, “ . . . he has been doing something I should perhaps ask him about.”

Indignation surged up in Lothíriel. “You oaf!” She pushed the medicine pouch against his chest, striking him unexpectedly and making him stagger backwards against the door. He just managed to catch the small leather bag before it dropped to the floor.

She spun around and marched along the short corridor to the front door, which she had left open. She stepped out on the narrow porch and slammed the door shut with enough force to rock the wooden structure. From the inside she heard her brother’s muffled voice.

Sorry? About what? Certainly not that he had found female company to help him soothe his battle wounds. Sorry that she had found out? In the past it had been some kind of implicit understanding between her brothers that any hint of carnal knowledge had to be kept away from their innocent sister. It appeared that with her new station as a wedded woman this accord was no longer valid. This was the first time that one of her brothers had ever made such a vulgar innuendo in her presence. And she didn’t like it. She didn’t like that her bond with Éomer, their lovemaking, had been equated with Amrothos’s tryst with some . . . leman.

Uncommonly annoyed, she took the two steps down from the porch and came abruptly to a halt. Erchirion was supposed to be sharing that chamber with Amrothos. If there had been a woman with her youngest brother, then where had Erchirion spent the night?

Fresh indignation erupted and Lothíriel couldn’t prevent her throat from making some growling noise. Why, she thought grimly, did men always chase women?

Of course she had known that both Erchirion and Amrothos indulged themselves in liaisons. It was just that never before had she been confronted with the evidence so directly. Unexpectedly, she felt awkward about it. Until three days ago she hadn’t quite comprehended what truly lay hidden behind the simple term lovemaking. – The phrase marital act had for some reason both taken aback and amused Éomer. - She hadn’t understood anything about the intimacy and the closeness, the passion and the intensity that could erupt between a man and a woman. How could anybody treat such an exquisite fusion of emotions so casually? Unless Amrothos’s nightly activity had nothing to do with making love. He had just sought – what he had once called – carnal gratification. And to obtain that - a mere act – a carnal act – was certainly quite sufficient. To associate such a quest with love was an abomination in itself. How could any woman bring herself to take part in the act without true feelings for her partner? Men were different. That was common knowledge. But what made a woman fall into bed with a man she barely knew and who would leave her as soon as he left the aforementioned bed?

Bewildered and still bothered by her brother’s frivolous manners she made her way back to the main path. She nearly overlooked two short figures approaching her from up the hill. It took her engrossed mind a score of heartbeats before it registered that their lively greeting was directed at her.

Over the past days Lothíriel had marvelled on several occasions that the Hobbits seemed to be endued with the enviable talent to conjure up smiles on virtually everybody’s face. Now she found herself answering Merry’s cheerful salutation with a genuine smile of her own, relieved that he was taking her mind off Amrothos’s loutish conduct.

“Greetings, Master Meriadoc. And to you, Master Peregrin. I have a few errands to do around the city.”

Both Hobbits were in shirtsleeves, wearing only waistcoats of heavy velvet. Although she knew that the Halflings never put on footwear, the sight of their bare feet momentarily gave her goose bumps.

“Perhaps we can keep you company,” Merry offered. “We have nothing better to do.”

“We just planned to walk the last meal off with a stroll to clear the space for the next,” his cousin chipped in.

“I gladly accept,” Lothíriel replied dryly upon Merry’s complimentary proposal. “Your company is welcome.” She looked around. The children kept themselves a dozen yards away from them. Cerdic was eyeing her cautiously. That brat had known that Amrothos had been in dodgy company. Sweet Elbereth, the boy could be by no means more than twelve years old. Yes, she definitely would keep his name in mind.

She turned her attention back to the Hobbits. “Actually, I am hoping for your help to locate Master Gléowine, Théoden King’s minstrel. You have been to Edoras before on more than one occasion and I assume you know your way around.”

Merry happily nodded his confirmation. “I know where he lives. It is easy to find. The gables of his house are decorated with carved lyres instead of with the typical horse heads.”

“Thank you. That is very kind of you.” Lothíriel passed him the leather bag although it was anything but heavy. Men of every size had this need to do things for women. It probably made them feel able-bodied.

Lothíriel let the Hobbits lead her down the hill. After barely more than fifty yards Merry pointed out a house directly off the main path. If she had kept her eyes open, she should have come upon it by herself. The former minstrel’s abode had no garden, but its surroundings were immaculately kept as was the wooden structure itself. It was not large; perhaps the size of the guesthouses of the Golden Hall, but there was no porch. The front door opened directly onto a short path of raked gravel.

“I do not think it will take long to present my request to Master Gléowine.”

“Do not mind us,” Pippin assured her. “We are at leisure.” From somewhere he conjured up a couple of wrinkled apples, tossing one to his cousin. Content, the two settled on a flagstone step, devoting themselves to their snack. It was said that the Hobbits were an easy-going people, comfort-loving but unobtrusive. Lothíriel saw no reason to have doubts about this appraisal.

She knocked at the front door of the minstrel’s home, which was opened instantly, as if somebody on the inside had already seen her approaching. However, she didn’t find herself face to face with the old man she had met during the ‘brydealoþ’, but unexpectedly with a young woman about her own age, who had a pair of the most unusual eyes she had ever seen in her life. Their shape and the clear green colour of the iris reminded Lothíriel of the eyes of a cat.

She caught herself staring at the comely face. She was quite certain that she hadn’t met this lady before. One did not overlook - or forget - eyes like those, even in a crowd. To her surprise the young woman sank into a formal curtsy. “My Lady Queen,” she murmured in a melodious voice, casting down her remarkable eyes.

“Good day,” Lothíriel greeted, for some reason bemused by the other woman’s presence and demeanour. “I am looking for Master Gléowine.”

“Gardryð, hwā is hit?” The minstrel appeared behind the young woman. When he saw Lothíriel he stopped short, but his smile – though surprised – showed genuine delight. “My Lady Queen. To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”

“Greetings, Master Gléowine. I hope I do not call upon you at an inconvenient time?”

“Not at all, my Lady. It is an honour.” Gléowine gestured to the entrance to his house. “May I invite you into our humble abode to partake of some refreshment?”

Lothíriel accepted his friendly invitation with a nod and the woman – Gardryð – stepped aside to let her pass. The ‘scop’ led his queen into a large, rectangular room that took up the entire width of the right side of the house. It had a wooden floor, a hearth at the small end of the room with a door next to it that probably opened to the screens passage and the kitchen house beyond. The walls were hung with tapestries; the furniture was simple: a couple of iron bound chests, shelves, a loom and a large table in the centre flanked by benches and two richly carved armchairs. One end of the table was piled with parchment rolls; a quill and an inkpot lay waiting to be used. Different musical instruments were spread out over the room.

Gléowine pulled one of the armchairs back from the table. “Please, my Lady, be seated.”

Lothíriel thanked him; however she remained standing next to the chair, looking quizzically at the young woman, who had followed them. The minstrel understood.

“Forgive me, my Lady. I neglected to introduce my granddaughter. This is Gardryð, my ‘dohtordehter’’, my daughter’s daughter.”

“I am honoured to make yours, my Lady Queen,” the minstrel’s granddaughter answered politely. Her voice was soft and obliging, but her gaze cool, confident and spoke of intelligence. “May I offer you some refreshment? I have just made bramble tea.”

Whilst the young woman left the room through the backdoor, Lothíriel took her seat in the armchair. Master Gléowine sat down next to her on a bench.

“I am honoured to welcome you to my house, my Lady,” the minstrel repeated, a warm smile on his wrinkled face. “The tale of you visiting the workplaces of Edoras’s craftspeople did the rounds. They certainly felt flattered that you showed such interest in their livelihood.”

“What people are able to create with their hands had always held great fascination for me. I had a good time visiting those workplaces and you will certainly find me there again in the future. But having given it some thought with the benefit of hindsight, I fear I must have bored the Kings and my poor father to tears.”

“I cannot speak for the Lords Aragorn and Imrahil. However, Éomer King will certainly benefit from being coerced into paying some regard to the lives of the ordinary citizens. He has the ability to keep things in mind even when they are not of immediate interest to him.”

“Is that so?” Lothíriel asked with a glint in her eye. It appeared she had come across somebody who could tell her quite a bit about her husband – and who wouldn’t mind doing so - after all, she didn’t know much about Éomer. The ‘scop’s’ next words confirmed that thought.

“When your husband first came to Edoras as a young lad, his uncle instructed me to teach him until a proper tutor could be found. Like all boys of his age he was more interested in horses and swordplay than in his lectures. However, although it would have been easier to herd a sack full of fleas than to prompt him to sit quietly on his chair for an entire morning, he never failed to keep up with his lessons.” The old man chuckled. “And they must have bored him to tears back then.”

“I have to confess that there was not much poetry taught but to our defence one has to concede that your husband has learnt how to sing the traditional ballads of the Mark as well as any Rohír.”

“Éomer can sing?” Lothíriel wondered if she didn’t sound too disproportionably astonished at this revelation. She herself couldn’t hold a tune if her life depended on it.

She contemplated the old man. “The strong I have no trouble in believing,” she murmured.

There seemed to be some truth to the tale that the Rohirrim sang during battle. It was hard to imagine though that somebody who had to carry the weight of all the armour Éomer wore and fight a superior number of foes would find a sufficient amount of air to bellow out a song.

“Mayhap you should ask your husband to sing for you.” The suggestion was gently dry.

Lothíriel could imagine Éomer being just overjoyed by a request to prove his musicality to her. Thinking about it, a prospect truly to look forward to. “I will . . . first thing tonight.”

The old minstrel wasn’t able keep a sparkle of amusement from his face but refrained from further comment, perhaps because his granddaughter reappeared, a tray with an iron teakettle and earthen beakers in her hand. Lothíriel caught the aroma of blackberries. Silently Gardryð placed the tea set on the table and filled the mugs with the steaming brew. Then she settled – still wordless - next to her grandfather.

“Master Gléowine,” Lothíriel began, “I must admit this is not merely a courtesy visit. I have come with an ulterior motive.”

“Some hidden agenda?” Her host furrowed his brows in feigned disbelief. “What ambiguous purpose could it be that makes our Queen seek the company of an old man?”

“Nothing dubious, I assure you.” Lothíriel took a sip of her tea. It was generously sweetened with honey. “I have a request to make. Like my husband, when he came to live in Edoras as a child, I am in need of a tutor; one who will guide me in learning your tongue. Mithrandir advised me to approach you, Master Gléowine.”

The minstrel spread his hands in surprise and exchanged a quick glance with his granddaughter.

“My Queen, your request and the reliance on my abilities you evince by asking, do me great honour. But I must declare this comes all of a sudden. I hardly know what to say.”

Lothíriel searched his face. He did indeed look very surprised but not necessarily reluctant. And that was certainly a good starting point.

“Master Gléowine, I do not expect you to give me your answer immediately. I am aware that a request of this kind requires some measure of consideration and I suppose you wish to discuss the situation with your granddaughter.” She contemplated if there was anything she could say that would carry additional weight and persuade the old man to decide favourably upon her suit. “Mithrandir did not clearly elucidate why he felt you were the right tutor for me, but it is known that he never does anything without good reason.” She watched the minstrel closely to see how he felt about being advantageously singled out by the Istar. He had taken note of it without any visible reaction. At least he was not a man to be easily flattered. “I need to learn the language of the Mark as quickly as possible – for a start, just well enough to hold a basic conversation with those who are not well acquainted with the common tongue. Like the children,” she added.

Grandfather and granddaughter exchanged another – surprised – glance. “You wish to converse with the children of Edoras, my Lady?” Gléowine asked, apparently subduing an impending laugh to a smile.

“Yes, of course I do,” Lothíriel answered with a light frown, not quite sure why such a notion should invoke astonishment. “The children seemed quite willing to talk to me. We have already attempted a chat earlier this morning, but I am afraid my poor efforts caused some merriment amongst them.”

“It is not that I am surprised they want to talk. They certainly are highly curious about you, my Lady.” The old man’s smile became a touch cautious and he shot his queen a searching glance when he added, “We all are rather curious about the wife Éomer has chosen.”

“Indeed?” Lothíriel tilted her head and returned his smile with one of her – unconsciously endearing – own. “You cannot be more curious than I am. There is so much to learn about Rohan and its people. I have so many questions to ask, and I want to ask them in your own tongue. And it seems that with every answer I get, new questions occur.” She frowned reflectively at her own words. “I think I’d better begin taking notes,” she murmured to herself.

“Then you have something in common with my granddaughter, if you do not mind me saying so, my Lady.” Gléowine patted affectionately the young woman’s hand. “Gardryð is interested in virtually everything."

His gaze at his granddaughter revealed quite clearly that he was very proud of her, but the beautiful and reserved woman appeared to feel awkward at his beaming. “Not everything,” she replied, her voice quiet, absent-mindedly running a fingertip around the rim of her beaker. “I like learning.”

“Gardryð is very interested in leechcraft,” the ‘scop’ enlightened his queen and his words inevitably grabbed her attention

Something not being an option was an utterly foreign concept for Lothíriel. She put her own mug, from which she had been about to take sip, back on the table. “Why should it not be?”

The minstrel’s granddaughter lifted her unusual eyes and turned them towards the other young woman who was her queen. Lothíriel thought she saw a keen glint lighting up in them, but the answer came in a subdued tone. “Traditionally in Rohan leechcraft is practised by men.”

Lothíriel sighed. She had herself experienced the fact that the Rohirrim were – carefully put - rather reluctant when it came to being treated by women; especially by a very young woman. Back at the Houses of Healing she had had a lot of convincing to do – when her patients had been conscious – and had to resort now and then to unconventional methods to persuade them to let her take care of them. Éomer had not been a praiseworthy exception. At least a few days ago he’d undertaken the task of convincing Marshal Éothain – his methods in doing so even more unconventional than any of hers.

“You say it is a tradition that the art of healing is practised by men. That does not make it a law and therefore it can be easily changed.”

“Traditions are never easily to change, my Lady,” Gléowine contradicted her. “And there is a good reason why the healers of Rohan are men. They go out onto the plains with the éoreds and treat injured riders after battle; they also need to treat the wounded horses.”

“A healer does more than mend broken bones or slashed flesh. Surgery is just one part of the craft. A healer aids people in recovering from all kinds of ill health and brings them relief. He - or she - recognizes, identifies, treats and cures diseases, and has to know about the human anatomy and the organs inside a body. A healer has to be knowledgeable about herbs and has to be able to make potions. There are many aspects of healing and not only injured warriors need to be taken care of.”

She had got swept along by her own passion for her craft, and the minstrel regarded her with some amused puzzlement. His granddaughter’s expression, on the other hand, was, for the first time since her queen had entered her home, completely unguarded. She seemed quite overwhelmed by Lothíriel’s fervour. She didn’t take her eyes from the other woman.

“We had heard that the princess from Gondor Éomer King was going to wed was also a healer. Are there many female healers in Gondor?” There was a subliminal tone of hope in her voice.

“The field surgeons are men, of course, like here in Rohan. However, at the Houses of Healing the healers are women. They are responsible for the good health of the citizens of Minas Tirith from birth throughout their lives till death.”

“There is no place like that here in Edoras,” Gardryð remarked with obvious regret. “We have healers, naturally. The most experienced is Master Ærwin but he would never agree to take a woman as an apprentice.”

Lothíriel remembered the name of the Rohirric healer and also Éomer’s remark that the opportunity of introducing her to the man hadn’t arisen yet. She began to wonder if the Rohirrim nursed certain prejudices against female healers. But then, her husband had assured her that he didn’t disapprove at all of her wish to continue practising her craft. And Master Berenwald hadn’t objected when Éomer had requested her to treat his friend and Marshal. On the contrary, the healer of Aldburg had appeared quite interested in observing her and had accepted the surgical instruments she had given him with honest appreciation.

“Traditionally there is an allocation of responsibilities,” Gléowine assumed the answer to that question. “The field surgeons, as you called them, my Lady, are men, the midwives are women. My granddaughter knows that.”

Lothíriel didn’t particularly like the slight reproof she recognised underlining the minstrel’s voice and which was directed towards his granddaughter.

“The midwives – there are only two in Edoras – are more knowledgeable in plant lore than the healers,” Gardryð pointed out as if she felt it necessary to stand up for those women.

Lothíriel watched the lush mouth of the other woman tighten with resentment. When she had argued with her father about becoming a healer, at least her gender hadn’t been up for discussion – rather her age and her station. And suddenly she felt a bond of understanding and affection towards Gardryð.

“If you really wish to become a healer, then there will be a way,” she assured her.

“And I wish it were that easy, my Lady. Master Berenwald might be willing to take me on as an apprentice, but I cannot leave Edoras.” Once again she cast down her eyes. “I cannot leave my grandfather.”

That sounded just sad. Her resentment, however, was not directed against her grandfather, whom she obviously loved, but against the circumstances and against the tradition.

Well, perhaps Gléowine had been right. It was not easy to change age-old traditions, but they were not chiselled in stone. They could be changed, just cautiously, with patience and not with a crowbar.

Apparently she ought to add a few more people to the list of those she needed to talk to: Master Ærwin and his fellow healers - and the midwives, of course. There was no point in waiting for Éomer to find some time to introduce her. Sooner or later she had to learn how to deal with her new people anyway.

“You, my Lady?” That came as one voice out of two mouths and it was hard to say who sounded more baffled by her offer – the old man or the young woman. Both their facial expressions reminded Lothíriel very much of a couple of beached fish. Gardryð was the first to remember to close her mouth.

“And that bars me from training another healer - why?” his queen asked, conceding ruefully to herself that she savoured their bafflement.

“You will not have the time,” Gléowine claimed. “You are . . . the Queen.”

Lothíriel thought that to be a particularly lame argument but decided to refrain from pointing it out.

“And as such it is my duty to see about the well-being of all of my people and that includes their good health. It will be my task to ensure that in the future adequate care and attendance by healers is available for all Rohirrim.” When she saw the minstrel’s bemused expression, she added, “Éomer King agrees.”

At least she hoped that Éomer would back her plans when she found the chance to explain them to him and that he hadn’t meant that their people would just temporarily benefit from the healer’s equipment she had brought from Gondor. How would he react when he learnt that her intentions were to reshape certain traditions – like the limitation of the healer’s field of activities to the treatment of wounds and injuries? Or that she planned to establish a central setting in Edoras to take in the sick?

“At the moment it appears as if there is nothing for the Queen to do but learn Rohirric . . . and improve her skills on horseback.” Lothíriel wrinkled her nose. She would probably be in need of an appropriate instructor for that particular exercise, too. “The royal household runs smoothly under the charge of Mistress Ælfgyth. Therefore there is nothing to be said against me educating your granddaughter in the art of healing. We may come to a reciprocal agreement, “she suggested on a sudden notion. “You, Master Gléowine, become my tutor and in return I take your granddaughter as an apprentice.”

Yes, their open mouthed astonishment was definitely reminiscent of long departed fish.

Both Rohirrim had been left speechless by her unexpected proposition. Very good. If Gardryð wanted to become a healer only about half as much she once had, then – as luck would have it - she had found the perfect advocate for her request and the young woman would find a way to convince her grandfather to do the horse-trading. Did they call it that in Rohan, too? Very likely. And she, Lothíriel, would kill two birds with one stone. She would get a competent tutor and also her first dedicated aide for her main objective: to improve the overall health care of the Rohirrim.

Before her victims had the time to gather themselves, Lothíriel decided that perhaps a temporary withdrawal was the best advised action to be taken at this moment. Let grandfather and granddaughter digest and discuss the proposal in privacy.

Without warning she got up from her chair, causing her hosts to scramble hastily to their feet. “I must make my farewell. I do not wish to take up more of your time today.” She made her way to the tiny hall and opened the front door. Gléowine and his granddaughter followed her, still speechless – or at least wordlessly. Lothíriel smiled amiably at the young woman.

“I have enjoyed having made your acquaintance, Gardryð. Thank you for the refreshment, and I hope I will hear from you soon.” She turned towards the minstrel who was attending the door. “Master Gléowine,” she greeted.

“My Lady Queen.” The expression of his face had changed from the earlier dazed and then stunned look to one of genuine amusement. “Does Éomer know?” he asked when she raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

The minstrel chuckled. “It might be one of the first words I will teach you.”

Lothíriel answered with a laugh of her own. “Then I will be patient and wait for my first lesson. I thank you, Master Gléowine.”

“It is my pleasure, my Lady.” The old man’s smile turned wistful. “’Mīn eald hlāford’ would have approved of you.”

“Many have forgotten, but Théoden King had a wicked sense of humour. He would have liked to watch his nephew deal with the woman he has chosen to be his wife.”

Lothíriel wondered what that statement was supposed to imply. The next moment her attention got diverted by Merry and Pippin, who found that their patience had now been stretched far enough. Cheerfully they greeted the former minstrel and after a few sentences of idle chatter they bid their farewell to Master Gléowine.

Quite satisfied that her first quest had been successful, Lothíriel was determined to tackle the next point on her list before she returned to the Golden Hall to meet with Mistress Ælfgyth and Lady Cynewyn.

“May I ask you to act as my guides once more, dear friends?” she addressed her small companions.

“Of course, my Lady. We are at your disposal,” Merry assured her, giving his cousin a nudge when Pippin chipped in, “As long as we are back in time for the noon meal.”

“Then you must know where the Royal Guard is housed. I need to find Captain Éofor.”

Solar – a room used in medieval times for solitary activities. The etymology of ‘solar’ is often mistaken for having to do with the sun.

The Hobbits guided Lothíriel downhill towards the lower areas of Edoras, past the training field, across the stable yard and towards the grand stables.

This part of the city was even busier than the Great Hall or the places of the craftspeople. One only had to watch the bustling activity down here to cast off any possible doubt that the life of the Rohirrim was centred on their horses. The smell of the animals couldn’t be ignored and, from the impatient neighing and bristling snorts, one had to deduce that the beasts were as headstrong as their masters.

Stablehands were all over the place, mucking out stalls, grooming horses and assisting Master Ulger, the blacksmith, whom Lothíriel had met when he had presented her with the slim dagger. She felt a trace of guilt because she had failed to wear the gift. Or rather the dagger had slipped her mind. She simply wasn’t used to wearing a weapon.

It appeared that a couple of Swan Knights had seized the opportunity to have their horses shod before they set off back to Gondor. They were easily to be identified as they were wearing their lord’s colours. Sitting on barrels, they were leisurely watching the blacksmith at work. When Lothíriel approached, in the company of her short friends, the men jumped hastily to their feet, obviously caught off guard by the unexpected appearance of the Queen of the Riddermark in the vicinity.

Lothíriel returned their respectful salutes, blissfully unaware that her presence in the area around the stables – more or less on her own - caused some attention. A few eyebrows rose in surprise, not to mention the gaping stares. She followed Merry and Pippin around the stables to the rear where Gimli and his fellow dwarves had put up stone houses directly below the dyke and the wall.

“There it is,” Merry gestured towards the new, somehow outlandish looking constructions. “Let us ask around and find the captain for you.”

“That is not necessary,” Lothíriel declined his offer with a friendly smile. “I think that man over there is Ceorl, who acted as the ‘ōretta’ yesterday. He will be able to tell us where we can find Captain Éofor.”

She had caught sight of a man sitting on a chopping block in front of one of the dwellings, his back turned to them, obviously enjoying the warming rays of the sun. He was in shirtsleeves and had his long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He was occupied with some task. Lothíriel couldn’t make out what he was doing, but he was so engrossed, bending over something in his lap, that he didn’t hear them approaching. The famous vigilance of the Rohirrim appeared to have left him for the moment.

The man’s back stiffened. For at least half a dozen heartbeats nothing happened and Lothíriel began to wonder if there was something wrong with Éomer’s standard-bearer. The young Rohír began slowly – really slowly – to turn his head so that he could look at her over his shoulder, his expression revealing both disbelief and embarrassment.

“Cwēn mīn?” That sounded as if he wished he had first suffered a bout of mishearing – and that now, furthermore, something was seriously wrong with his vision.

“Iċ grēte Þē,” he rasped his greeting belatedly, and whatever had dumbfounded him so profoundly made him not only forget his command of Westron but also his courteousness. He stayed on his makeshift seat and made no move to rise. He just stared at his queen, his neck twisted in a way that had to be rather uncomfortable.

To save him from keeping up his cramped position, Lothíriel stepped around him and caused another unexpected response.

The Rohirric warrior, esteemed member of Éomer’s Royal Guard, actually shrieked. “Nā! Iċ bidde Þē, neart!” Frantically he tried to cover himself with a piece of clothing . . . his breeches to be precise.

Now, standing in front of him, Lothíriel could see what he had been concentrating on. He had been attempting to make some repairs to his breeches with a needle and thread. For that endeavour he had taken off his leg clothing and was now sitting on the chopping block clad only in his braies and chausses. He was eyeing his king’s new wife about as happily as if he were facing the biggest and ugliest of Saruman’s Uruk-hais.

Lothíriel thought his reaction slightly overdone. The undergarments covered him as completely as his breeches would have. And as a healer she had seen her fair share of unclothed male bodies.

“I apologize,” she said, hoping to appease the Rohír with her soothing tone. She had had plenty of opportunities to practise this particular one on his kinsmen, back at the Houses of Healing. “I did not realise that this was an inconvenient moment to address you. Nevertheless, would you be so kind to point me towards where I can find Captain Éofor?”

Lothíriel frowned. She had certainly not expected her intentions to be questioned by the young warrior, who was still sitting on his piece of log rather tensely - the breeches pressed against his groin and giving the impression that he was tempted to make a bolt for it. And she wondered why he sounded so suspicious.

This was the second time today that somebody was not only rather short-spoken with her but also left her with the feeling that he’d rather see her from behind.

“I have no doubt that they have done well. However, I wish to see for myself that my brother’s unreasonably rough manoeuvre during that passage of arms yesterday did not have any lasting after-effects.”

“Rest assured, my Lady,” Ceorl declared stubbornly, “his injury is nothing to speak of.”

By her very nature Lothíriel relished an exchange of arguments or a full discussion of a matter - except when the opposite number was a dog, a small child or an obstinate warrior. Under those circumstances it was advisable simply to give an order if one wished to achieve a result in the short term.

She locked her smile into place. “Ceorl, you will take me to Captain Éofor.”

The Rohír knew an order when he heard one, but he virtually bristled with reluctance. Lothíriel couldn’t understand why he looked so pained at her demand. It wasn’t certainly that unreasonable. Or it was rather that he looked highly uncomfortable – not exactly like a man in pain but rather like one suffering from a full bladder.

“You do not have to bother Ceorl, my Lady,” Pippin butted in. The Hobbits appeared to wallow in the situation. “Let him stay with his breeches.”

“Yes,” Merry added gleefully, “let him finish the repair work. I am sure he does not want to sit around in his undergarments all day.”

“We will have figured out the whereabouts of the Captain in no time,” his cousin assured her.

“My breeches are done,” Ceorl rejected their proposal resentfully. “I will accompany my Lady Queen to Captain Éofor’s quarters.”

“With or without your breeches and boots on?” Merry inquired with cordial interest and landed himself a murderous glare.

“If you insist, I will welcome your guidance,” Lothíriel said to pacify as she turned her back to him. She was quite certain that Ceorl wished to accompany her properly dressed and that he wouldn’t get into his breeches as long as she was facing him. Men sometimes turned out to be amazingly prudish. For instance when they were confined to a bed and one was trying to give them a wash.

Behind her she could hear the standard-bearer pottering about, expressing his disapproval – or whatever - by some needless huffing and puffing.

“The needle is still hanging from the seam,” Pippin pointed out helpfully. The Hobbits didn’t obviously feel it necessary to show the same discretion as Lothíriel.

“Yes, I would be careful if I were you,” Merry supplied. “A pinprick in that region would be painful.”

Lothíriel turned around to find Ceorl back in full gear, making up for his earlier lapse by bowing now to his queen. He gestured her to follow him and led her . . . to the next house in the row. She raised her eyebrows in bemusement.

“Not that I do not appreciate your courtesy, but although I am still not familiar with the locality, I think I would have found this place if you had simply pointed it out from where you were sitting.”

Ceorl refrained from a direct reply. “I will announce your visit,” he informed her and beat with his fist so forcefully against the front door that his queen took a surprised step back.

“Ceorl, hwæt is hit wiþ ðē?” Lothíriel recognized the voice of the Captain of the Royal Guard. From its tone she would say that there was another man who was not at his best this morning.

“I am not alone. You have a visitor.” Ceorl opened the door only a little and shoved his head through the gap. “The Queen wishes to enquire after your health.”

There was a pause. “Sēo Cwēn?” Éofor finally asked, disbelieving. “Éomeres wif?”

“As far as I know that is the only queen we have,” the other Rohír retorted with a good portion of sarcasm.

Lothíriel began to lose her patience. “Have you been able to come to a conclusion on whether Captain Éofor is clad in an appropriately decent manner so that I might see him now?”

Her own sarcasm didn’t bypass Ceorl. He pulled his head out of the house and shot her a glance, which left no doubt that he was in a huff. “It is just that I value my life.”

His queen thought that that remark made no sense but she didn’t get the chance to reflect on it. The door was pulled open from the inside and the Captain of the Royal Guard stepped out. He bowed respectfully.

Lothíriel appraised the man. Despite the rather artless splint that covered his entire forearm from his elbow down to his fingers and made that limb totally useless, he was fully dressed in the usual garb of the riders. And although he appeared to be surprised by her presence here at the guards’ quarters, unlike Ceorl he looked quite pleased to see her.

Lothíriel returned his smile with a fleeting one of her own, her concentration focused on his injured arm. “As Ceorl mentioned, I am here to see for myself how serious the damage done to your hand is. Are you in pain?”

Lothíriel nearly sighed at those words. By now she should have become used to the obviously customary reply of the Rohirrim when it came to injuries.

“From what I observed yesterday I would have thought that the bones of your wrist or perhaps your hand were broken.”

Éofor lifted, with the help of his sound arm, the heavily splinted damaged one. “That is indeed so, my Lady. A couple of bones in my hand have been broken.” He didn’t voice it but his gaze said something along the lines of ‘. . . by your brother.’

The counter argument would have been that, if he didn’t want to risk injury, he shouldn’t enter a ‘behourd’, but Lothíriel did not feel like standing up for any of Amrothos’s actions at this particular moment. Besides, other matters held more immediate interest for her.

“Bones of your hand, you say.” Unwittingly her customary frown appeared above the bridge of her nose. “Carpal bones or metacarpal bones?”

“Ah?” The captain looked taken aback. Apparently he had never come across those specific terms. “Well, just bones,” he said vaguely, indicating his palm.

“I see,” Lothíriel nodded. “So your metacarpal bones are damaged. That concurs with what I witnessed. But why are you wearing that overlarge splint? It must be rather uncomfortable.”

Éofor made a noise through his nose that might have been a laugh. “You can say that. The healer who put it on my arm said it is supposed to keep my hand from moving.”

“Indeed, your hand has to be immobilised but certainly not your entire forearm. A stiff bandage should have been sufficient.”

The Rohirric rider looked at her contemplatively, obviously deliberating about something. “If I were seriously wounded,” he said slowly, “and had the choice of being treated by either Berenwald or Ærwin, I would choose Berenwald. And Berenwald left it to you to cut that arrowhead out of Éothain. So the rumour is true that the noblewoman from Gondor who is now our queen is also a healer.”

“That is no rumour. I am a healer.” Lothíriel had lost count of how many times in the past she had to reassure doubtful patients about her status – a considerable number of them Rohirrim.

“Éofor!” Ceorl exclaimed in a sharp tone, surprising his queen. It appeared the difference in ranks was not as pronounced in the Royal Guard of Rohan as it was in the Gondorian forces. There a standard-bearer would have never dared to adopt such an attitude towards his captain. The young warrior caught her surprised gaze.

“I apologize, my Lady Queen. But Éofor should not trouble you with his ailment, which is really not worth mentioning.”

“Says the man who has not a heavy splint on his arm, cutting off the flow of the blood and causing excruciating pain,” his Captain accused him in a fretful voice.

“Believe me, Ceorl. It is no trouble at all to look at Captain Éofor’s injury,” Lothíriel assured him, carefully taking hold of the splinted forearm, not aware of the looks the men exchanged. She heard the standard-bearer mutter something like ‘dwæser’ but didn’t pay much attention. She was concentrating on examining the weighty support.

“I think a stiff bandage for your hand from the wrist to the joint of the fingers should provide adequate support.”

Four pair of eyes stared at her. There seemed to be considerable doubt that she had been heard correctly.

“Are you going to make some pancakes?” Pippin asked – with a hint of hope in his voice.

Lothíriel laughed. “No, I am afraid there will not be any pancakes, Master Took. Actually, I only need the whites of the eggs to soak the bandages in. Then I wrap them around the hand and as the egg white dries, it hardens and the stiff bandage keeps the injured limb immobile.”

“And that is supposed to last?” Ceorl asked sceptically but nonetheless curious, having forgotten his objection for the moment.

“As long as it is kept from the rain – or any water in general – it should last for the month the bones will need for mending.”

“Be that as it may,” the young warrior absentmindedly scratched his brows, “we do not have any eggs here. We riders take our meals in the Great Hall.”

“There is a yard with chickens not far from here,” Merry butted in. “We can go and ask if they will give you half a dozen.”

“Those must be Rimhilde’s chickens,” Éofor conjectured. “She is our ‘horsþegn’s’ wife. Their place is right next to the stallions’ stables.”

“Pippin and I will go and ask the lady,” the Hobbit offered and without waiting for an affirmative reply he turned on his heels and hurried away, his cousin in his wake.

“Master Took, my satchel,” Lothíriel called after them, prompting Pippin to come scampering back, thrusting the leather back into her arms and doing a hasty about turn to catch up with his fellow.

“Or they are just hungry again and hope they can cadge the egg yolk.” From what she had seen over the past days the Hobbits had a constant need for an astonishing amount of foodstuff, especially considering their size. “I think we should begin with removing the splint,” she addressed the Captain. “Perhaps there is a place inside where you can sit down?”

“Ahem!” Ceorl apparently found it was time that he made himself heard again.

That statement was probably meant to put his comrade’s mind to rest – and hers, but Lothíriel saw that that provoking, overconfident grin from the night of the ‘brydealoþ’ was back in place and she thought this was the perfect opportunity to have a word with the good captain. So when Ceorl announced that he had the intention of keeping them company, he received a gracious smile from his queen.

One was not born a Princess of the Realm of Gondor and worked at the Houses of Healing for four years without acquiring the ability to issue orders. It did help that even a rather obstinate Rohírric rider was - to a certain degree - used to taking orders. He was just not used to taking them from dark-haired, delicate-looking women. On the other hand, she was his queen but that was something he wasn’t used to either. Lothíriel could almost see his thoughts travelling to and fro behind his forehead.

Grudgingly, the man finally yielded and set off, dragging his feet as if they were weighted down with lead. Sweet Elbereth, what did he think his captain could do to her? She turned towards her patient.

“After you, please, my Lady.” Éofor bowed, all politeness, and let her go ahead.

Lothíriel entered the quarters and found herself in an unadorned room. There was only a hearth opposite the door with a stack of firewood next to it and in the centre a square table flanked by two benches. On either side of the room there were doorways with coarsely woven curtains. One was pulled back and she could see a chest and one end of a pallet covered with furs and some blankets.

“How many men does a house like this accommodate?” Lothíriel asked, stepping to the table and putting her satchel down.

“I have the privilege to share this house only with Marshal Éothain. But it is the smallest one. The others are bigger: however, up to eight men have to live together in those.”

Lothíriel took another look around, wondering if all the quarters were as sparse and unaccommodating as this one belonging to the Marshal and the Captain of the Royal Guard. The only personal thing she noticed was a board game set up on the table. The rectangular board was split into differently coloured squares; the pieces were simple and barrel-shaped, obviously carved from bones.

“Not much else I can do for the next month, as it looks.” Éofor raised his – still – splinted arm.

“We will see. Take a seat and put your arm on the table,” Lothíriel ordered.

The Rohír obeyed and perched down on the bench. Lothíriel took a couple of rolled up bandages from her small leather bag, and, while she groped around in it to find her surgical knife, she watched the man from under lowered lashes. The gaze he kept locked on her was avid, but at the same time toned down by some self-mockery.

What had Éomer explained? That her unfamiliar looks alone meant an allure for a man like Éofor, and although he knew she was strictly out of reach for him – both as the wife of another man and as his queen – his ego induced him to treat her with presumptuousness instead of with courtesy. Lothíriel’s hand had found the knife and pulled it out of the satchel. A protective sheath covered the razor sharp instrument.

“Captain Éofor, as we have a moment to speak to each other in private, I would like to take the opportunity of asking you to cease continuing acting in this impudent manner towards me. It is tedious and abhorrent in equal measures.”

As a surprise attack went, it was perfectly executed – no doubt – having come truly unexpectedly. The rider froze, staring at her in non-comprehension. Lothíriel was tempted to advise him to close his mouth. It was early in the year, but in the immediate vicinity of the stables there could already be plenty of horse flies around. But she had to grant him that he recovered quite quickly.

“My Lady, I regret that any of my recent behaviour should have given such an impression.” He managed to sound aghast and offended. It surprised her that he didn’t put his hand on his chest in a gesture of anguish. “I can assure you that I have always only wished to demonstrate my highest regards for my queen.”

“And you do so by asking lewd riddles in the presence of your queen?” Lothíriel inquired pleasantly and freed the sharp knife from its sheath.

Éofor blinked doubtfully at the sight of the short, glittering blade. “You were told the correct . . . I mean the other answer?” he asked cautiously.

“I might not be familiar with everything concerning Rohirric life yet, but I do not need anybody prompting the answer to some imbecile riddle. Of course, I knew the other answer.” However, she did not have any intention of telling the captain what actually gave her the vital cue. Let him assume that she had solved the riddle correctly that night at the bonfire and had just chosen to keep quiet about the mere cheekiness of his behaviour. “What I had to be told,” she continued, taking a grip of his injured arm and bringing the surgical knife into position, “was that although Rohirric customs and practice are less stringent and demure than those of Gondor, your conduct during our dance together was anything but respectable.” With a dexterity acquired through lots of practice she began to cut off the bandages which held the splints in place. “That will not recur.”

The Rohír followed the procedure with a certain uneasiness. “You cannot expect me to disagree with you, my Lady, whilst you are wielding a deadly weapon.”

Lothíriel sent him a short, deliberately blasé gaze before she concentrated again on her work. “It is certainly sharp enough to cut your throat, Captain.” She had to stifle a smile when she felt him twitch. “But this knife is irrelevant. My words are not a matter of agreement or disagreement. I am telling you and you will conform.”

By mere chance, with her last remark the bandages were cut and the splints that had kept Éofor’s arm immobile came off. Abruptly the injured hand lost its support. The Rohír hissed in pain. “You Gondorian healers are not a straw more sensitive than our sawbones,” he complained.

“My sensitivity depends entirely on my patient.” Back at the Houses of Healing, Ioreth would have had her head on a platter for that statement, not to mention for her rough treatment of the captain. But then, she had learnt that occasionally it was helpful if she deployed blunter measures to ensure getting the attention of the men of Rohan.

For the time being their intriguing conversation was interrupted by Merry who came bursting into the room, carrying a bowl in front of him.

“Here are the egg whites. Mistress Rimhilde has already separated them from the yolks and beaten them.”

“That is perfect,” Lothíriel took the bowl from him. “Precisely as I need them.”

The Hobbit came to a halt under the doorway. “Mistress Rimhilde suggested that she makes some ‘crompeht’ from the egg yolk for Pippin and me.”

Finding her earlier guess confirmed, Lothíriel couldn’t help laughing. “Have you paid for the eggs?” she asked.

“I told our kind hostess that Captain Éofor would take care of the recompense.”

“What?” The rider glared at him. “I am supposed to pay for eggs you are going to gobble up?”

“We would not have to eat the yolks if you did not need the whites for your bandages,” Merry pointed out, and was gone.

“And I may rest assured that Rimhilde will not forget about it,” Éofor grumbled. He seemed to have a streak of pettiness.

Lothíriel cut shorter strips from the rolls of bandage and dipped one after the other into the beaten egg white and soaked them thoroughly.

“Now that we have come to the agreement that your behaviour will be - as from today – as exemplary as can be expected from the Captain of the Royal Guard, there is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

The glance she received told her that her patient did not share her assessment that they had reached an agreement, but rather that it had been forced upon him. But that was just fine with Lothíriel. Unlike other recipients of his platitudinous attempts of philandering she certainly felt neither flattered nor flustered by them, in all likelihood an unprecedented occurrence for the boastful captain. As long as he had understood his place, it should be possible to deploy him in a perfectly useful fashion.

“Even without your arm being impaired by the splint, your hand – your sword hand - will not be of any use for at least the next month.”

His words were noncommittal, his tone still vexing. Lothíriel looked up and caught his eyes. She saw a mixture of emotions flaring in them. It appeared to be difficult for him to see her as somebody who commanded obedience rather than a young female. The concept of having a queen – albeit one from a foreign land - seemed to be, for the time being, disconcerting for the Rohirrim. She would have to prove herself worthy of her station, but in this particular case she simply had to impose her will on this man. She held his gaze with all the inbred confidence of her noble breeding and the assuredness acquired through her work as a healer. And in the end the rider yielded and lowered his eyes.

“You have seen the horse the King gave to me, Captain Éofor, and you have certainly seen that riding is not one of my stronger points. It will require some practice to become proficient enough so that I will be able, by summer at the latest, to travel Rohan on horseback – without holding anybody up. I intend to begin daily exercise rides in the vicinity of Edoras as soon as King Elessar’s company have left in five days time. By then your hand should have settled so that you will be able to accompany me on those rides.”

“Hwæt?. . . Ah, I mean, what?” The Rohír cleared his throat. “I mean . . . I beg your pardon, my Lady?”

“Which part of my explanation was not plainly comprehensible?” Lothíriel asked, clearing away the old bandages and the wooden splints, which had done their part.

“You hold grave misconduct against me and at the same time wish me to act as your riding instructor? There is a lot not to be comprehended, my Lady.”

His queen sat down next to the baffled rider. “This might hurt a bit,” she warned and aligned the man’s hand. He hissed but didn’t flinch. Seeing to it that the straightened bones of his hand stayed in place, she carefully slipped her own left hand under his to give it support.

“Your third and fourth metacarpal bones are broken,” she murmured, more to herself. The fourth was rather weak, but it required some pressure to break the third. She needed to have a word with Amrothos. So much force had been unnecessary. His broken nose had been accidental; the Captain’s injury had been done on purpose.

With her free hand she fished the first strip of egg white saturated linen from the bowl and began to arrange it quickly and skilfully around the injured limb. Putting a stiffened bandage to brace a broken bone was one of the first practical tasks the healers’ apprentices were allowed to do on their own. She had long ago lost count of how many times she had done this. In a city made entirely of stone, people were inclined to fall heavily.

“May I remind you that your misconduct is a matter of the past?” Carefully applying as little pressure as possible, she began to smooth out the different layers of the bandage so they would merge into a tight brace. “You are the Captain of the Royal Guard,” she continued. “I imagine that you have not reached the position without having demonstrated numerous outstanding attributes. That fact does qualify you as my escort.”

“I have not had the opportunity to inform the King, but I am certain he will be in concordance with my reasoning as well as with my decision.”

The captain gave a grunt, which didn’t sound as if he was convinced. However, Lothíriel was quite sure that her logic was simply compelling and that Éomer would understand.

“My brothers?” Lothíriel asked uncomprehendingly, applying another layer of linen. “What do they have to do with this matter?”

“You are just treating their disagreement with my . . . recent conduct towards you,” Éofor enlightened her. When she raised her eyes from her task and stared at him, he had the grace to look rather sheepish.

“Are you saying this whole ridiculous business yesterday - the duel between you and Amrothos - was some kind of punishment?” she demanded, incredulity emphasizing the last word.

Now it was Lothíriel’s turn to forget to close her mouth, being speechless for a couple of heartbeats. The first words that came to her puzzled mind were, “How dare he interfere in my affairs!”

The extent of her outrage obviously surprised Éofor, but as he watched her a mixture of gloating and hope crept into his gaze. “He is your brother, my Lady, and this is Rohan.”

“Do I have to understand the connection?” Lothíriel lashed out impatiently.

“In Rohan, when a woman weds a man, naturally she will live with her husband’s people but her blood-kin will continue to watch over her and her children. It is her brothers’ duty to protect her interests and those of her offspring.”

“That is a custom of Rohan?” She tipped her head back and looked towards the ceiling. With a groan she closed her eyes. “I only hope that nobody will ever tell my brothers about that.”

Lothíriel’s eyes flew open and she turned towards the hard, cutting voice coming from the open doorway. Beside her Éofor jumped hastily to his feet. Amrothos was standing there, his shoulder propped casually against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest. However, there was certainly no casualness in his air. With the sun behind him, his sister could hardly make out his face. But it came to her mind that the peacock blue of the tunic he had chosen would emphasise unfavourably the rainbow colours currently decorating his features.

“Sister dearest, would you be so kind as to tell me what you are doing here?”

Amrothos’s trenchant inquiry made Lothíriel blink in astonishment, and she couldn’t have said that she appreciated his sarcasm. But she recovered quickly.

“I am here to alleviate the effects of the damage you have done.” Her tone matched his. Today she did not feel overly affectionate towards Amrothos.

“Why should you feel it necessary to take the pain of alleviating that damage after I went through all the trouble of causing it?” One of Amrothos’s more irritating character traits was that he never tried to deny his wrongdoings or to excuse them.

“I cannot have my brother breaking the limbs of Éomer’s guards,” she accused him, making certain the tone of her voice indicated clearly the annoyance she felt with him.

Her brother’s jaw was set in a grim line. “It is not as if I am doing it indiscriminately. I restrict that treatment only to a carefully selected number.” His chin jerked in the direction of the rider. “He knows what I am talking about and I thought we had come to an agreement yesterday.”

“It is amazing what your family understands by ‘coming to an agreement’,” Éofor dared to interject, at the same time shooting the prince an edgy glance.

Lothíriel saw Amrothos flex his fingers as he would have flexed them around the hilt of a sword. Fortunately he hadn’t felt the need of donning one. With his remark the mangled rider had exposed himself to the not improbable danger of having just another of his body parts broken – possibly his neck.

“Quiet!” she snapped at him. “And sit down. I am not finished with you.” With a vigorous motion she turned towards her brother. “And you will wait – without making trouble - until I have finished with him and then we are going to have a word – in private.”

Éofor glared at her but obviously thought the better of whatever retort he had intended and took his seat on the bench.

Amrothos looked thoroughly baffled for a moment, but then he raised his eyebrows mockingly and cocked his head. “I see. This is your - only recently - acquired queenly tone of authority, am I right?” He came into the room, up to the table and contemplated her handiwork on Éofor’s arm. Having him standing in an advantageous position above him the Rohír made a move to rise again. Absentmindedly Lothíriel waved her hand in a gesture commonly used to signal a dog to stay down - and was obeyed. She masked her vexation over Amrothos’s words with a bright smile, hoping that it would peeve her brother as much as he was currently peeving her.

“Do not tempt me to give my queenly authority a trial by asking any other riders who are around to remove you from their domain.”

Amrothos laughed humourlessly. “That should be interesting. Giving your husband’s guards the chance to witness a spat between their new Queen and her dear brother. Talk about first impressions are important.”

“They will be given the opportunity to learn that their new queen does not accept others meddling in her affairs.”

“Your being approached improperly by some puffed-up would-be debaucher is quite certainly not merely your own affair.”

Although Éofor did not seem overly pleased to be described in terms such as ‘puffed-up’ or ‘would-be’, his eyes darted back and forth between the royal siblings, no doubt fascinated by the exchange of words.

Lothíriel again took up her place next to him on the bench and dipped her fingers back into the bowl with the soaked linen strips, fishing for another piece. “It is not up to you to decide which are my private affairs and which are not,” she rebuked her brother. “At the very most Éomer has the right of a say in such a matter.” She straightened the dressing and applied it to the brace. When she looked up from her work she saw Amrothos watching her with an expression residing somewhere within an obscure triangle of patronization, pretended pity and amusement. She sat in silence for a moment, digesting what she had just heard.

A vexing thought jumped up in her mind. “Éomer was not in on this!” Disbelief mingled with outrage in her voice. She received an omniscient grin and an unappreciated portion of sarcasm.

Infuriated Lothíriel slapped another strip of linen rather carelessly on her creation, which produced into a moan of pain from her patient. She didn’t pay him any attention.

How dare they! Éomer usually pretended to be exceedingly annoyed by Amrothos’s antics but he apparently hadn’t minded drawing on him to carry out . . . what exactly? She remembered his words after having admitted that he was angry about his captain’s conduct. ‘What do you expect me to do? Pummel him?’ Oh, no! He had downplayed the matter and arranged for her brother to do the pummelling, with the effect that both Amrothos and Éofor had got hurt. And she had been kept in the dark like some imbecile.

Lothíriel growled in frustration, a not entirely lady-like sort of noise. It earned her a befuddled look from Éofor and a gleeful chuckle from Amrothos.

“I do not think I would like to be in Éomer’s riding boots tonight,” the latter declared, his formerly severe tone having become more moderate. For the moment the danger of him going for the captain’s throat seemed to have diminished.

Ceorl’s timely return enforced a temporary ceasefire. The unimpeachable rider swept into his captain’s quarters, carrying a bucket with steam rising from it. He came to an abrupt halt when he found himself unexpectedly face-to-face with Amrothos. A good quantity of the hot water slopped over.

Lothíriel cast him a glance over her shoulder. “Considering his behaviour earlier I gather he also knew about this act of vengeance?” she asked, addressing no one in particular.

“You are exaggerating,” her brother asserted whilst the young Rohír wisely refrained from any comment.

Being accused of exaggeration by Amrothos of all people had a certain irony to it.

“Put the bucket here on the table. I have finished with Captain Éofor and wish to cleanse my hands,” she instructed the standard-bearer.

“You sent me off to get boiled water only so you can wash your hands in it?” Ceorl asked, riled. “It is not as if we have buckets full of boiling water standing around.”

As much as she appreciated the straightforwardness and blunt honesty of the Rohirrim, this was a moment when she would have preferred this one to have kept his mouth shut.

“Your Lady Queen just wanted to daff you aside,” Amrothos clarified with a thunderous glare at his sister. “Because for some reason that I fail to comprehend, she felt it necessary to have a chat in private with our dearest captain here.”

“I prefer to arrange my affairs verbally instead of resorting to the primitive means of violence, which is – after all – nothing but the last refuge of the incompetent.”

Lothíriel plunged both hands tempestuously into the water without having rolled back the narrow sleeves of her gown – with the result that she soaked them half way up to her elbows. “Would somebody be so kind as to get me a cloth to dry my hands with? – Not you,” she snapped at Éofor who made a move to rise. “You have to stay in that position and keep your forearm still until the egg white has completely hardened.”

Ceorl took his cue and disappeared into one of the adjoining chambers. One could hear him foraging around before he returned with a – reasonably – clean piece of flannel. Thanking him rather ungraciously – at the moment she was really angry with men in general – Lothíriel accepted the cloth to dry her hands and wring as much moistness out of her sleeves as possible.

Everybody kept silent. Lothíriel – and she assumed Amrothos, also – because she felt this spat between her brother and herself was a rather undignified affair and that already too much had been said in front of a couple of highly enraptured witnesses. And the two riders were probably uncertain what would happen if they provoked their new queen – a dark horse, after all – by another inconsiderate remark.

Lothíriel discarded the cloth – the men could clean up after her - and picked up her surgical knife.

“The bandage should serve you well for the time the bones need to mend. That is, of course, as long as you do not something stupid with your hand. In that case you may call upon me and I will have another look at it.” She returned the knife to her satchel. “Otherwise I will see you in five days.”

“None of your business,” his sister snubbed him. “In five days you will be gone anyway.” She made it sound as if she could hardly wait to see the last of him. Wrapping the strap of the satchel over her shoulder, she gave a curt nod. “Captain Éofor. Ceorl. Good day.”

Ignoring Amrothos she marched out of the house. In order not be left behind, all her brother could do was to throw his adversary a last lethal glare and then make haste to catch up with a – metaphorically speaking - steaming Lothíriel.

Ceorl waited until he was absolutely sure that this unpredictable pair of siblings was out of earshot. Disgruntled, he turned on his friend.

“I warned you that this silly game of yours would only get you between hammer and anvil. And you can count yourself lucky that Éomer obviously did not regard the whole affair as serious enough and left it to her brother to teach you a well-deserved lesson.”

“Ceorl, if you assume that the danger comes from Éomer or that prince, think again.”

“Our Lady Queen sent you away because she had some orders to issue. She ordered me to behave myself from today on . . .”

“I have not had the chance to refuse,” Éofor defended himself. “Frankly speaking, I have the feeling that this half pint Éomer made our queen does know how to get her way.”

“I am not overly fond of obstinate woman,” the Rohír stated a fact that was not entirely unknown to his friends. “And I wonder if Éomer already has any idea what the Gondorians have foisted on him.”

“Unlike you, he might prefer her to a pretty shell filled with nothing but air.”

“You know as well as I do that he is used to having his orders obeyed. It will be interesting to see how he is going to deal with a wife who prefers to arrange her affairs as she thinks best.”

“I do not mind watching that spectacle either, but I’d rather do it from afar.”

“So you will not end up between hammer and anvil?” the Captain of the Guard asked wryly. “Perhaps that is the best approach,” he added thoughtfully, “because that hammer is likely to strike plenty of sparks.”

Braies - a pair of baggy linen drawers worn during the Medieval Ages by men (and possibly women) of all classes under their normal clothing. Laced to the braies was a pair of tight-fitting hose or chausses to cover the legs.

The relationship between brothers and sisters and between uncle and sister’s children - foremost the sons – was very special, almost sacred, in all Germanic societies. So it had a certain logic that the terms the Anglo-Saxons used for uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces specified the side of the family: for instance, father’s brother was ‘fædera’, mother’s brother ‘eam’. Éomer’s position at the court of Théoden was unique. He was not just another member of the royal household, he was the king’s sister son. Their relationship would have been considered more important than that between the uncle and a possible brother’s son.

She ignored the request. It was rather a command anyway – and that she didn’t like. At least not from her brothers, and especially not from that brother. Amrothos had occupied a lot of important roles in her life – playmate, scourge, confidant – but he had never held a status of authority. He usually had had to trick her into complying with his biddings . . . and, usually, he had succeeded.

Lothíriel marched briskly along the narrow path below the wall, eastwards, away from the stables and the main part of the city. Only vaguely aware that the houses here seemed to be older and were rather more neglected looking than those she had found so far around Edoras.

That finally did it. She stopped and turned around so quickly that he almost ran into her.

“Childishly?” she spat. “How grownup is it to hurt a fellow man just because you do not agree with his conduct?”

“His conduct towards my sister,” Amrothos clarified, slanting her a testy glare.

She made a rude noise. “Hypocrite! What a preposterous case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Excuse me!” Amrothos looked seriously bemused. “My memory appears to fail me, because I certainly cannot recall having philandered with a wedded woman . . . lately,” he added as an afterthought.

Lothíriel chose to ignore such rhetorical subtleties. “Then I suppose we shall count ourselves grateful that the lady I heard in your chamber this morning was not in possession of a husband.”

“Aha!” Amrothos drawled, a glint in his eyes. “That is why we are so huffish today. You have a fit of pique because I found some distraction last night?”

“You were not supposed to be able to conduct . . . whatever you were conducting,” she said, not even trying to keep the tinge of contempt out of her voice.

“I think you know exactly what I was conducting last night.” He put a taunt in his words. “However, before you had the chance to conduct yourself for the first time, what I was conducting, you had appeared to be more broadminded about the subject. You didn’t take offence over my conduct towards the female gender in the past; in fact, at one point you were pretty curious and attempted to interrogate me about the details of such conduct.”

“You are appalling.” Lothíriel hissed. If he used the term ‘conduct’ one more time she would throw her satchel at him.

Amrothos just grinned in response. “What did you think? That I was leading some kind of double life - pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time? Now, that would be hypocrisy, would it not?”

The trouble with Amrothos’s twisted logic was that - when he put it forward - it always sounded so . . . logical. But today Lothíriel was not willing to yield to his logic.

“It is not just your abominable behaviour of last night . . .” she began but was interrupted by her brother.

“I did not behave abominably. I only accepted the kind offer from a lady - quite pleasing to the eye, by the way - whom you,” he jabbed his finger at her, “had sent to me.”

Lothíriel’s chin nearly hit her breastbone. It took several up-and-down movements of the jaw before she managed an intelligible sentence. “I would have never . . . I can assure you, I sent nobody to service you.”

“Oh yes, you did,” Amrothos dissented; brown eyes alight with naughty humour, apparently beginning to enjoy this scene. “After I had retired to my chamber, the lady in question arrived, loaded with a tray of food and with best wishes from my sister who had sent her to keep me company.”

“Nobody was sent to keep you company. I asked Mistress Ælfgyth to find somebody to watch over you in case the dizzy spell you had experienced after the ‘behourd’ returned during the night.” Bewildered, and feeling the slow burn of irritation heating up, she frowned. “But I should not have worried, should I? That fit of dizziness only occurred after I had announced that I wished to look after your adversary: after Captain Éofor.”

His lips pursed for a moment. It was an expression she’d seen countless times on his face. It appeared when she finally saw through one of his silly mind games.

“Congratulations, Amrothos. Once again you have succeeded in poking fun at me.” Lothíriel let her exasperation colour the words.

“Very well, the fainting was nothing but a distraction,” he admitted, not sounding particularly apologetic about it. “However, it was not meant to ridicule you but to keep you from doing something perfectly stupid.”

“My intention was to look after an injured man,” she retorted impatiently. “That is what I was trained to do.”

His chin jutted out contentiously. “There were other healers around. That man was not accountable to you.”

“My brother made him my responsibility when he damaged his sword hand.” Lothíriel didn’t even realize how furiously her eyes flashed. “Do you know how much force is needed to break the third metacarpal bone?”

“Of course, I know,” he bit back. “At least I know now. I had to put quite some pressure on his hand before I heard the bones crack.”

“What a flattering appraisal,” Amrothos replied, his smile mocking to the extreme. “My favourite sister pronouncing such a devastating judgement on my character. Now I am truly crushed and I think I will sob into my pillow tonight.”

Lothíriel shot him a supremely irritated look. This was not the familiar jesting Amrothos deployed in his dealings with her. This was more the biting sarcasm he saved for those he detested. Not that he used it often. He had declared that dealing with disagreeable people was much too tedious to bother with. But she was determined not to let him rattle her. If she had to, she could pay him back in his own coin.

“Just make certain you do not wash away anybody you have persuaded to rest her head on that pillow.” She was quite satisfied with her tone, which had transformed into pure, scornful sweetness and light.

She was about to turn her back on him and continue her aimless march through this rather undistinguished part of the city - she had to explore the whole of Edoras sooner or later anyway - but Amrothos wrapped his hand around her upper arm and stopped her. Taken aback by this unexpected manoeuvre Lothíriel stared dumbfounded: first at the hand and then at its owner.

It had been many years since her brothers had manhandled her - or rather since Amrothos had stopped scuffling with her. She had never been the type for brotherly/sisterly tussles. Elphir and Erchirion had always treated her as if she was something exceedingly breakable. Her bruises and scratches had come from Amrothos investigating how much a little girl could bear. However, she couldn’t even remember the last time he had touched her with something resembling force. Probably not since he had to face their father’s anger about a lump the size of a hen’s egg on her forehead.

She gave another rather pointed look at the hand that was still holding her but her brother chose not to acknowledge the hint. Gazing up, she found the taunting gleam gone from his eyes. She looked at an Amrothos in one of his rare serious moments. And that was even more surprising than his firm grip on her arm.

“Lothíriel, this is not about me. Nobody cares with whom I cultivate acquaintances. But I can promise you it will attract plenty of attention when you pay a wifeless man a visit in his living quarters. Especially after people have witnessed his conduct during the ‘brydealoþ’.”

Lothíriel felt her jaw clamping together. His words rankled. And the fact that they did rankled some more. “I did nothing but treat an injury to one of Éomer’s riders. That would have not been necessary if you had not hurt him,” she told him, sounding a lot more brisk than she felt because her position undoubtedly began to weaken.

Lothíriel assumed that this was a purely rhetorical question and therefore didn’t require a reply. Her assumption was confirmed when Amrothos continued without the least delay.

“That captain got hurt because he made my sister the subject of some bloody dare. After I rescued you from his brash attentions on the dance floor . . . not now, Lothíriel,” he hushed her when she opened her mouth to protest against the claim that she had needed rescuing. He went on then, “I had a bit of a chat with a couple of slightly inebriated riders of Éomer’s guard. - I hope this is not going to inflate your vanity, but you are considered to be quite fetching. - Éofor made a bet that he would attract your interest and dance with you. He even wagered that he would kiss your hand, and that the size of the wineskin to be won would be dependent on whether he kissed the back of your hand, your fingers, your palm or the inside your wrist.”

“You could have simply told me,” she defied him, not at all pacified. “I am certain there would have been a way of retribution which did not include bloodshed. A tiny bit of common sense would have saved you from a broken nose and the Royal Guard from the fact that – after the indisposition of its Marshal – now its second in command is unfit for service.”

Lothíriel heard a sound she couldn’t quite identify. Then she realized that it was made by Amrothos’s teeth, which he was grinding together.

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel, you are usually not that dull-witted.” Instead of releasing her from his tight grip he brought his free hand to her other arm. “You are no longer a mere healer – you have never been a mere healer, by the way – you are the wife of a king in a foreign land. Or rather you are the foreign wife of a king, surrounded by people who will watch you, appraise you and form an opinion about you. The last thing you want them to begin with is that you are the subject of some lewd bet induced by a commonly known rake.”

“Perhaps . . . certainly,” Amrothos said almost to himself but then looked at her with a trace of sympathy. “But is certainly something ridiculous you should take seriously.”

Lothíriel snorted in response, “Of all the moronic pieces of advice you have ever bestowed upon me that is undoubtedly the most imbecile.”

“On the contrary, it is the most sensible,” he told her, keeping his tone matter-of-fact and even. “You are a Gondorian princess, having just become the Queen of Rohan and you still have to win the goodwill of the people of Rohan. Those peculiar charms of yours, which have obviously enchanted Éomer, bear no guarantee that they will win over his kinsmen.”

Lothíriel swallowed because she suddenly had a sour taste in her mouth. “You make it sound as if I had done something nefarious.”

He gave her smile, which today was even more lopsided than usual because of the swelling of his nose and right eye. “Midget, you would not know how to do something nefarious if you tried. I know that and Éomer knows it as well.”

“No, it is not,” Amrothos retorted even more forcefully. “Unless you were living on a remote - very remote island.” He frowned. “But then, Rohan has no coastline and therefore that is out of question anyway. You would have to opt for an almost inaccessible mountain peak.”

Lothíriel rolled her eyes. One should not expect Amrothos to indulge himself in sobriety for an extended period of time. At last he loosened his firm grip but only to begin waving his finger in front of her nose instead.

“You are Éomer’s wife and the Queen of Rohan. Let the Rohirrim get to know you before you begin to turn everything upside down. I know you are very fond of them and their ways, and they certainly are less presumptuous and doctrinaire than our own dear fellow countrymen. But they have prejudices of their own and those are not so very different from ours. There are things you, Lothíriel,” he emphasized, “simply cannot do, without giving the wrong impression and bringing damage to your reputation.” He rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “I had never expected that one day I would feel inclined to give a homily to . . . anybody.”

“True,” Lothíriel said, sounding almost amused although she definitely didn’t feel that way. People misreading one’s actual intention, and drawing their own distorted conclusions, was certainly not restricted to her country of origin. She forced an ironic smile. “My brother Amrothos as the upholder of moral standards is definitely a contradiction in itself. Or shall we rather call them double standards?”

“Call them double standards; call me a hypocrite. Both are accurate – the latter at least concerning this matter. But you also have to accept that you cannot walk around and do things as you please and expect that everybody will judge your doings as they have been intended. When behaviour, such as the captain’s, puts your reputation at stake, it is a brother’s duty to ensure it stays above reproach.”

“I have a husband,” she reminded him, hoping nobody had told him – or Elphir or Erchirion – yet, about the significant roles of brothers in Rohirric tradition.

“Indeed,” Amrothos said slowly, giving his sister the impression that he was considering to prevaricate. “A husband who was not overly pleased that he had to watch his wife dance with a man who didn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.”

“And Éomer agreed that you of all people,” she ignored his inaudibly mumbled protest, “should take the matter into your own hands?” That rang as rather hard to believe.

“Not exactly,” Amrothos admitted, sounding a bit surly. “Erchirion was able to convince him.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but the sound that came out was not precisely Westron. All she managed was something along the lines of, ‘Oooooh’, in a rather irate voice. She had to take a deep breath before she managed the next sentence. “Erchirion was involved as well? Who else? Elphir? Father? King Elessar?”

“Do not exaggerate,” Amrothos said for a second time that day and Lothíriel began to wish she had Master Ulger’s dagger with her. She would use it. She would hurt him. Not too badly, of course. And she had dressing material in her satchel. Therefore she could tend to him immediately after she had hurt him.

“This was entirely between Éomer, Erchirion and,” here he executed a hinted bow, “little me. However,” he continued quickly, obviously not willing to let her cut him off right now, “I decided not to notify your husband about the wager his captain and a few more riders of his guard had made. I feared it would mean somehow a loss of expectation of life for the aforementioned members of the Royal Guard.” He tried to appear modest but rather looked pleased with himself. “Therefore you can see that I did my utmost to keep any bloodshed at the lowest possible level.”

Lothíriel was tempted to concede when he made the mistake to add, “And I had a bloody good time.”

“You had a good time having your nose broken?” Angrily she reached out, jabbing her forefinger in his face. Amrothos howled and staggered back. She had pained him. Very good. “You had a good time making me worry about you?” She was about to poke him in the chest. Hard. But she got interrupted by a cheerful,

The siblings turned towards the voice to find Merewyn and the two Hobbits approaching in single file from the direction of the stables.

Amrothos held his hand protectively over his nose and muttered nasally, “Not another one.” Whatever that was supposed to mean.

When she had reached them, Lord Elfhelm’s daughter beamed at him. “There you are,” she stated, ignoring her queen.

The sarcasm bypassed the young girl. “I have been looking for you all over Edoras.” She tilted her head. “My, I must say. You look even more wretched than yesterday.”

Lothíriel bit her lips to keep from chuckling. “He had a somewhat agitated night,” she said sweetly.

“Could you not have given him some sleeping potion?” Merewyn asked her accusingly, all concern.

Her assurance appeared to satisfy Lord Elfhelm’s daughter. “What are you doing in this part of Edoras? It is not considered to be an agreeable area.”

“What do you mean by not agreeable?” Pippin inquired with obvious interest. “Do you mean it is of ill repute?”

“Yes, I think so,” Merewyn replied cheerfully. “I am not supposed to come here.”

The girl wasn’t in the least impressed by his trenchant tone. “What are you doing here?” she asked back.

Only listening with half an ear to the subsequent dispute – Amrothos and Merewyn really seemed to suit each other quite well – Lothíriel had a look-around. She couldn’t detect anything ill-reputed, except that the whole area appeared to be rather shabby. There were no people around, only the guards on the wall-walk above them.

“You will have to ask my sister,” she heard Amrothos say. “She led the way.”

When Lothíriel turned towards them, she saw Merewyn looking at her expectantly. What was she supposed to answer? That she hadn’t really known where she was going, because she had been so cross with her brother? Her eye fell on the city’s fortifications in the background.

“I came here to have a closer look at the at wall construction,” she improvised and was rewarded by the perplexed expressions of her companions.

“The wall construction?” Merry asked dubiously, and like the others he turned around to examine the structure.

“Indeed,” Lothíriel confirmed. “It is built without any mortar to bind the stones together.” She had indeed planned to explore this distinctive feature of the fortifications of Edoras – just not today.

“How interesting,” Amrothos remarked in a voice that indicated exactly the opposite.

“I have always known that it was built without using any mortar,” Merewyn contemplated, “but it had never come to me that that is something remarkable.”

“Such ideas only come to my sister,” the object of the girl’s admiration said pointedly.

“If you wish to have a closer look you’d better climb up to the wall-walk,” Merry stated pragmatically, searching the area for the nearest staircase or ladder.

“Perhaps you three could have a look around for some way of ascending,” Amrothos suggested. “We will join you shortly. I just need a word with our Lady Queen here.”

The other three gazed at them with open curiosity. Lothíriel expected that at least one of them would demand more details about what this word was supposed to be about. But Merry only gave an obliging smile and nudged the two others forward with a non-committal, “’Til then.”

Lothíriel’s and Amrothos’s eyes followed them: not doubting that the threesome would indulge in some speculation and gossip as soon as they were around the next corner. The prince just waited to be sure that they were out of earshot before he tried to appeal again to his sister.

“Lothíriel,” he began with quiet intensity, “I just want you to understand . . .”

“I do understand, Amrothos,” she interrupted him. “I do understand quite well that a woman doesn’t have to do anything, but she can still be judged and condemned, while a man can do whatever he pleases and it will be neither noticed nor reprehended. I understand that, but I do not accept it. It is wrong, and I am not willing to yield to something that is not only wrong, but also stupid.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Just look at us. I, propriety incarnate, have to listen to my brother - who dallies with women indiscriminately - reprimand me about my conduct. That is ludicrous.”

“Not indiscriminately,” Amrothos emphasised. “Look, sister dearest, if you want to rebel against women’s lot in life and common hypocrisy in general, rebel. You have got my blessing. But before you call upon all females in Rohan to join you, inform your husband. Spouses, especially when they are kings, like to know about such endeavours beforehand.”

“They are wedded men,” Lothíriel explained smugly. She had been dealing with a wedded man for a few days - and nights – now and that gave her certainly more experience in that matter than Amrothos. And just to peeve him – after all, he had been peeving her all day today – she added, “You should try it.”

Lothíriel allowed herself an inner smile. “For instance, you would not have to hope for a kind offer in the evenings.” She began to enjoy this conversation, despite herself.

She went on, delighted that she was able to gall him. “We only need to find a suitable candidate.”

“She is going to turn eighteen this summer. That is a suitable age. And she is in love with you.” It was somewhat uplifting to see – just for once - Amrothos speechless. “Do not tell me you did not know,” she added complacently.

“If that is true then it is some kind of puppy love. If she is in love with me, then it is because she does not know anything about love. That is why she is in love with me.”

One could always count on Amrothos to come up with an enlightening and perfectly confusing explanation.

“She might be of suitable age,” he continued, obviously more rattled than Lothíriel could have hoped for. “But I am not of a suitable age. I am not ready to wed. Wedlock: I do not even like the word. The emphasis is – for my taste - too much on lock. As in lock of a chain. As in chain around your neck. The chain of wedlock. A chain that is said to be so heavy that it takes two to carry it - and sometimes three.”

Lothíriel just blinked, surprised by the agitation with which he put his argument forward.

“I would not mind getting bonded myself one day. - After all, it must be so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. - However, I doubt that wedded bliss will be waiting for me in the foreseeable future. So do not dare to mention that ever again in public. It might put the wrong idea in certain people’s heads.”

“I have mentioned it only in private,” his sister reminded him, to ask belatedly but with interest, “In whose heads?” Surely after this tirade she was entitled to a more extensive explanation.

“Forget it,” he snubbed her and set out to catch up with their companions. Lothíriel looked thoughtfully after him. It seemed she had stepped on somebody’s toes. Somebody with corns on said toes. Suddenly she felt much better. How often did one emerge victorious from a cross-talk with Amrothos? Going after him she felt like skipping. It had been many years since she had skipped.

Amrothos was a few long strides ahead of her. When he reached the next corner, where the footpath curved around a house that shielded its further run, he came to an abrupt halt.

“What the heck . . .?” he called out and in the next instance tore off. “Have you gone mad?” Lothíriel could hear him shout. She started to run after him. Scampering around the quoin of the slightly crooked dwelling, she couldn’t quite make up her mind if she would find the sight that greeted her alarming or amusing.

There was not a staircase or ladder leading up to the wall-walk in sight, so the Hobbits had apparently decided to climb directly up the dry-stone wall. They were both lightweight and agile, and their bare, strong looking feet had undoubtedly found an easy hold in the gaps between the flattish stones. Unfortunately it seemed they had encouraged Merewyn to demonstrate her climbing abilities as well. However, riding boots – obviously the regular Rohirric footgear for both genders – had proved to be rather unsuitable for such an endeavour.

The girl was hanging like a fly on the wall, whilst Merry and Pippin were lying flat on their bellies on the walkway above her, holding her by her wrists. Wriggling desperately with her legs, their collaborator tried to find her footing.

Merry was shouting reassurances, Pippin was shouting constantly, “You are slipping; you are slipping,” Merewyn was more shrieking than shouting, “I am falling; I am falling,” and Amrothos was shouting useless instructions.

Amrothos was attempting to support her from below but the girl’s feet were dangling just outside the reach of his outstretched arms. The Hobbits didn’t seem to be able to pull her up to them and Merewyn’s wriggling didn’t make it any easier for them to keep hold of her.

Lothíriel looked around for help; searching for the guards she had seen earlier on the wall-walk. She saw them about forty yards away, leaning against the palisade on top of the wall and probably watching out over the plains. They had yet to notice the drama – or perhaps farce – that was happening behind their backs.

She sighed. This would be a good moment to draw their attention with a loud whistle. Unfortunately she had never – despite Amrothos’s childhood attempts to teach her – mastered the art of blowing a whistle on her fingers.

He had neither the chance to inquire what she was talking about nor to just do as he was told. It was that very moment that Merewyn slipped out of the grasp of the Hobbits and fell . . . and landed on Amrothos, dragging him to the ground.

The yelps of the hobbits mingled with the girl’s shriek – one more of amazement than of fright - and a cry of pain from Amrothos when he was thrown onto his back, with Merewyn’s full weight on top of him. Lothíriel could see clearly how the back of her head collided with his face. That couldn’t have done any good to his broken nose.

“Amrothos.” She rushed forward and hauled the girl off him. Her fall had been well cushioned by his body and Lothíriel doubted that she had suffered any serious injuries. Her entire concern at the moment was for her brother. He made agonizing sounds, his face was pain-racked and this time she was absolutely certain that he wasn’t putting on an act. She dropped to her knees next to him, ignoring Merewyn’s moaning that she hadn’t done it on purpose.

Well, of course not. Who would purposely squash a man one thought one was in love with?

“Amrothos, where does it hurt?” Lothíriel asked, remembering to use her soothing, matter-of-fact healer’s voice

She didn’t get an immediate answer. He just wheezed and grunted and pressed his hands against his ribs. She pushed them aside so that she could palpate his ribcage, proceeding as gently as possible.

“Evenly?” he hissed. His healthy eye was open now and flashed at her in outrage. “Try evenly yourself after the calf of a mûmak has been dropped on you.”

At this Merewyn aborted the torrent of words that pledged how very sorry she was and gave an affronted snuffle. Lothíriel nearly grinned despite her concern.

“If you can get out such a sentence you can breathe deeply and evenly,” she told her brother. “Try to match my rhythm.” Catching his gaze with her own she breathed slowly in and out, in and out until his own respiration had calmed down again. Meanwhile she continued with her examination, palpating his entire upper body and his arms.

Behind her she heard, in quick succession, two plops. The Hobbits had joined them again.

“Your ribs do not seem to be broken but they are certainly bruised,” she resumed before taking her examination to his legs. Her fingers widespread, she slid her hands down his thigh. She had barely reached his knee when he yelped.

“Bloody . . .,” he howled but swallowed the curse he had had on his tongue. It was almost ridiculous that, even in this situation, his upbringing apparently prevented him from resorting to swearing in the presence of females.

Carefully, Lothíriel examined his lower leg, feeling her way over his shin with just her fingertips. When she touched his calf she could make out the offset of the bone.

“Excuse me, but I think it is my prerogative to announce the outcome of my examination,” his sister reminded him, reassured by her findings. “It is not your leg that is broken, just the fibula.”

“Just the fibula?” Amrothos echoed, full of outrage. He tried to sit up, but sank back with another groan.

“The fibula heals more quickly and you will not need a heavy splint, also, you will not be confined to bed for the entire time the bone takes to mend.” She was hit by his glare and added in an attempt to cheer him up, “Is that not some good news?”

Well, apparently not. The look at his face told her that her brother was considering sororicide.

“You have to be taken up to Meduseld where I can tend properly to you,” Lothíriel decided.

Amrothos started to protest and Lothíriel made haste to interrupt him before he said something insulting. She certainly didn’t think that it was commendable to have the Hobbits drag him all way up to the Golden Hall – more injuries could happen that way - but it was certainly possible to phrase it somewhat less offensively.

“I think we will need a bier to carry him all the way through the city. Perhaps one of you can run ahead and inform Mistress Ælfgyth,” she sighed, “and you had better also tell Éomer and my father that there has been an accident. They will have to arrange for a suitable means of transport.”

“But we cannot let Amrothos lie here on the ground,” Merewyn insisted, obviously no longer huffy about his earlier contempt.

Lothíriel knew he was in pain not only from his leg – his nasal bone had at least been dislocated again when colliding with the back of Merewyn’s head – but he had no reason to be so rude. The poor girl looked like a kicked puppy.

“Amrothos, there was a short rain shower last night and the ground is still soggy.” Peering around, she wondered if it would not be better to let the Hobbits carry him to the rider’s quarters. “You cannot lie on the bare earth for too long or I might have to treat you for a common cold on top of everything else, possibly accompanied by a fever.”

“You are so reassuring,” Amrothos muttered with more than just a touch of sarcasm. “Your patients must really take comfort from your bedside manner.”

In the meantime Merry had wandered a short way further along the path and was now leaning with his forehead against a window, shielding his eyes with his hands against the reflection from the glass.

“My Lady,” he shouted, looking back at Lothíriel over his shoulder. “This is a drinking house. We can take your brother here where he should be more comfortable while Pippin and I run to the Hall and inform everybody about his mishap.”

Before Lothíriel could agree, Merry began to thump against the door of the house in question.

“You there! Open up!” he shouted loudly enough to draw the attention of anybody inside, but nothing happened and Merry resumed his hammering.

The Hobbit returned to the window to peer once more through the dull glass. “I can see a hearth and an open fire. Who would leave their house with a fire burning unattended?”

Before Lothíriel could decide what to do next, Merry gave an exultant, “Ha!” He pointed at the window, or rather something inside the house. “Somebody is coming.” He made his way back to the door, which Lothíriel could hear opening with a creak. The mountings were in need of some grease.

“Good day, Mistress,” she heard her short friend greet whoever had answered the door. “There had been an accident and we have to seek help from Meduseld. For the time being we must ask you to grant the victim your hospitality.”

“‘Wel, gīese . . . gewiss,” a woman said with a breathy voice, sounding like somebody who had just been awoken from deep sleep. “Who . . .” the lady of the house cleared her throat. “Who had the accident?”

“Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth,” Merry informed her and hastened back to Lothíriel’s side.

“Hwæt?” Utmost disbelieve in her voice, the speaker stepped out of her house.

Only fleetingly, Lothíriel slanted her a gaze over her shoulder and nodded her greetings, wondering why somebody should be wearing only a chemise in the middle of the day.

But for now she had to attend to relocating Amrothos, making sure the Hobbits handled him without adding to his present injuries.

“Peregrin, you take him at his shoulders. Slide your hands under his armpits,” she commanded, not wanting to leave her brother’s welfare to chance – or the discretion of the Hobbits. “Meriadoc, you will take his thighs just above his knees.” She put more confidence in Merry to exercise his task with reasonable care and caution and therefore let him carry the injured limb. “I will try to brace his lower leg.”

“What can I do?” Merewyn asked obligingly, keeping herself in the background

“Nothing, thank you,” Amrothos rebuffed her. “You have done enough already.”

“Amrothos,” Lothíriel admonished him. “That is unjust. Nobody asked you to stand below her when she fell.”

She ignored his disgruntled retort. “All set?” she addressed the Hobbits. “Well, then . . . together.”

They lifted up the Prince, who hissed and bit his lips. Lothíriel was relieved to see that the Hobbits had no problem carrying Amrothos. They were much stronger than they appeared at first sight. One tended to forget that they were grown men.

Keeping her brother’s leg as immobile as possible, the three of them swiftly took him towards the house, where the landlady still stood just outside the door, watching them with a perfectly stunned expression.

“Where can we put him down?” Lothíriel asked her whilst she and Merry made an effort to manoeuvre through the narrow door without inflicting additional pain to their burden.

Probably the best idea, Lothíriel considered. Amrothos wouldn’t be here for very long. There was no reason to prepare a bed for him.

“The one next to the hearth,” she decided and her helpers placed their patient with astonishing carefulness on the roughly made, decrepit furniture.

For a healer the snappishness of those under one’s care didn’t bear any surprises. One had learnt to disregard it.

“We are off now to get help,” Merry announced. “We will make haste. You will not have to wait long.” And both Hobbits pranced out of the house with their customary agility.

Lothíriel thought it was time to thank their hostess for her hospitality. She turned towards the woman, a movement which alone seemed to prompt a rather ungainly curtsey. The woman was indeed only wearing a washed-out chemise under a shawl of coarse wool, worn around narrow shoulders. An untidy braid of yellowish blond hung down to her waist. Her features were harsh and worn-out, showing a tiredness not due to lack of sleep. Her pale blue eyes were looking at Lothíriel with a mixture of awkwardness and suspicion, as if she was expecting something unpleasant to happen.

Lothíriel smiled at her. “It is very kind of you to harbour my brother until he can be taken to the Great Hall.”

The woman only acknowledged her words with a timid nod and Lothíriel began to wonder if her knowledge of Westron might be insufficient. So she tried her rudimentary Rohirric.

“Iċ Þoncie Þē,” she said, and added after some thought, “for ēower fultume.” The woman just gave a surprised blink. Lothíriel nearly frowned. The woman didn’t give the impression that she was daft and she had talked earlier to Merry. Perhaps it would be easier to communicate if she knew their hostess’s name

The woman cleared her throat once again. “I am Brictwen. I speak the common tongue. A little.”

Her attention was drawn by Amrothos who appeared quite agitated, moving around on the table. She put her hand on his shoulder to calm him.

“I know you are in pain, Amrothos, but it will only make it worse if you fidget.” She put her satchel next to the table-leg. The furniture gave a rather ramshackle impression.

“Lothíriel, you and Merewyn should really go back to the Hall,” her brother suggested, very much to her surprise. “I am certain Merry will soon bring somebody to take me there.”

“You cannot seriously think that I will just leave you here,” she retorted annoyed. “Let us see if we can it make more comfortable for you.”

As a sister of three overbearing older brothers she had gained plenty of experience in just ignoring them.

“Mistress Brictwen, do you have a cushion or perhaps a blanket we can roll up to prop his head?”

Their hostess’s gaze focused on something behind her back and when Lothíriel turned around she found two other females hovering in the shadows of a doorway. Behind them was obviously a bedchamber because both women were also only wearing chemises as if they had been disturbed in their sleep by the unexpected arrival of their equally unexpected guests.

Well, this was an alehouse and the women were therefore quite likely tavern wenches who probably had to work until the wee hours of the morning and slept during the day.

“Iċ brenge ðīn hwæthwugu,” one of the women said and disappeared inside the bedchamber.

Lothíriel turned back to their hostess. “Mistress Brictwen, I regret that you are obviously losing your sleep because of our calamity.”

“Calamity is a very good choice of word,” Amrothos muttered loudly in a tone somewhere between impatience and desperation. The pain he was experiencing must be more severe than Lothíriel had thought; otherwise she couldn’t understand his agitation.

With an uncertain glance at the injured man, the landlady finally decided to respond with more than the bare necessary words.

“It is nothing to speak of, my Lady Queen. Is there anything else we can get you?”

“Only if the Valar eventually decide to grant me at least a grain of mercy today,” Amrothos announce pungently.

The tavern wench returned with a knitted plaid. Lothíriel accepted it with thanks and rolled it up as a makeshift pillow.

“Amrothos, could you please try and be less ill-mannered.” She placed the cushion beneath his head. “Pain does not excuse everything.”

He glared at her, which looked actually - because of his swollen face - quite comical. “Sister dearest, sometimes I really do wonder what sphere you live in.”

“I am talking about . . .” he began but was interrupted by a man suddenly bursting through the door. Dim as it was in the low room and having the daylight behind him, Lothíriel was only able to identify Ceorl when he spoke.

“That my brother broke his fibula?” Lothíriel asked, taken slightly aback by his somehow freaked behaviour. Why should he be so worried about Amrothos? “I can assure you I am perfectly able to recognize a broken bone. But it is really only half as bad as it sounds.”

She had expected an offended protest from her brother, that she was playing down his injury, but instead Amrothos twisted his neck so he was able to look at Éomer’s standard-bearer.

“Is there a particular reason why the two of you are talking in riddles?” Lothíriel demanded impatiently.

“My Lady, Merry and Pippin told us that they were on their way to get help. I think that soon somebody will come with a bier and take your brother back to Meduseld. You really do not have to wait here and neither does Merewyn. Why do you not let me accompany you and her to . . . anywhere else?”

Ceorl sounded rather urgent and just before he had arrived Amrothos had tried to get rid of her – or rather to get her out of here. Lothíriel looked around. Was there something uncommon about this drinking house? Something other than it just being shabby with decrepit furniture and an unpleasant smell of stale spirits? It was certainly not inviting but she had never been to a drinking house before. Females – at least the unwedded variety - were not supposed to go there and her father or brothers would have never given thought to taking her to one. There had been no reason to go there anyway. Drinking houses were meant for men who had the wish to consume strong spirits.

However, at the moment there weren’t any drinking men around. Therefore why were they so insistent upon removing her from these premises?

“What brings you here?” Lothíriel asked. She hoped that Merry and Pippin wouldn’t tell everybody they encountered on their way through the city about Amrothos’s mishap. In that case it could take until dark before they returned with a bier and a couple of bearers. “Has your bandage already dried completely?”

“Mostly,” Éofor came inside. “I felt I had to see with my own eyes that you, my Lady Queen, are indeed under the roof of Brictwen’s ‘drynchus’.” His tone of voice could only be described as gleeful through and through. “And that because of your brother. Éomer King will not be pleased.”

Éomer had the unpleasant feeling that he was going to get a headache. Over the past year he had experienced this sensation quite regularly. It always came when he had to spend a considerable amount of time in confined spaces. Spaces he was confined to because somebody needed to hold counsel with him. And those counsels tended to last most of the day, because everybody attending them wanted to take an active part.

That somebody said something didn’t mean necessarily that that particular somebody had actually something to say. Or something new to say. People - especially members of a royal council – apparently, not only repeated themselves constantly but also repeated what others had already said. Perhaps they would phrase it differently but the contents were simply the same.

Not that those who had come together today in the council chamber of Meduseld were blethers. At least not Aragorn. He kept his contributions clear and brief and he had the undisputable talent to take others, who digressed, back to the actual subject.

Legolas didn’t say a lot anyway. Most of the time he restricted his activities to sitting nearly motionless and listening. Éomer hadn’t made up his mind yet if he should envy him for this ability. He himself began feeling restless almost as soon as he had settled down behind his desk or at a meeting table.

In regards to Imrahil: Éomer gradually began see from whom Lothíriel had inherited her disposition for unorthodox trains of thought. Granted, those of the Lord of Dol Amroth were more methodical, but he came up with approaches and demurs nobody else would have considered. At least he, Éomer, wouldn’t have and from the reactions of the others one could detect that they felt similarly. No wonder Aragorn preferred to keep the Prince at his side in Minas Tirith.

Elfhelm and Erkenbrand were warriors. They were accustomed to the short-spoken, firm, sometimes even gruff communication between riders. Erkenbrand didn’t feel compelled to adapt his tone to different situations, but it appeared that everybody could live with it. And Éomer knew his Marshal of the Eastmark well enough to guess that Elfhelm only said what was absolutely necessary because any needless word spoken would only keep him for longer inside this council chamber.

It was Gandalf who took up most of the time. He tended to deviate from the subject, reminiscing about occurrences that had taken place hundreds of years in the past. He appeared to be in a rather nostalgic and wistful mood these days. Éomer wondered if that was caused, as it was for men, by old age.

And Gimli simply loved telling tales - tales about dwarfish greatness and of course about his own exploits. Nearly anything one said made him remember something remarkable he needed to share. Usually Éomer enjoyed his short friend’s lively storytelling, but his own thoughts were drawn in increasingly shorter intervals to another subject; he was thinking about Lothíriel. He wouldn’t go as far as calling it daydreaming.

He felt a bit guilty. He had failed to inquire this morning what she had planned to do all day. Thoughtlessly, he had left her to her own resources. He should have made certain that somebody, preferably Cynewyn, would keep her company. But she had not given the impression that she felt lonely or abandoned and he had already had his thoughts focused on the day ahead. He still needed to get used to the idea of having a wife.

He wondered what she had done to occupy herself. Lothíriel wasn’t somebody to sit around idly all day.

Aragorn’s amused voice startled him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw seven pairs of eyes watching him quizzically. Was he supposed to answer a question he had missed?

“Wool-gathering?” the High King asked mildly, but with a hint of mockery in his voice.

Éomer cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should call a break, stretch our legs, take a bite to eat?” he improvised and found grins appearing on his companions’ faces.

A forceful knock at the door forestalled any further remarks. Without waiting for an answer, the door was pushed open and the two Hobbits stumbled into the room.

“My Lords, I am sorry to interrupt,” Merry began, but Pippin chipped in immediately.

It felt as if somebody had punched him in the stomach. Éomer shot up from his chair, knocking it over backwards. “Lothíriel has had an accident?”

Éomer allowed himself an audible sigh of relief. From across the table he heard Imrahil giving a groan of his own.

“Your lady wife examined him,” Pippin supplied, nodding at Éomer, who thought that it really wasn’t necessary to single him out. There weren’t any others around who had wives who were likely to examine accident-prone princes. “He broke his leg . . . or his lower leg . . . or a part of his lower leg, which is not so important,” the Hobbit added as further information.

“How did this happen?” Éomer asked, turning towards Merry from whom he expected a slightly less confusing account, “And where? Were the Queen and you with him?”

“We accompanied our Lady Queen all morning all through Edoras, and later, down at the stables, Prince Amrothos joined us . . .” Merry began his explanations but he was proceeding too slowly for Pippin’s taste.

That statement first needed to be digested by everybody present. Éomer caught himself slanting Erkenbrand an uneasy glance. Being hit by one of his daughters was – no doubt - likely to cause serious injuries.

“What?” This time it was the Marshal of the Eastmark whose chair got knocked over.

Opposite him sat the Elf, motionless. Only his facial muscles were twitching ever so slightly. His dwarfish companion also kept quiet – for a change. Under his bushy brows his eyes were darting from one speaker to the next.

From where Gondor’s King was sitting, his Rohirric counterpart heard a treacherous noise. He avoided looking at his friend.

“Merry,” he said sharply to get his shorts friend’s undivided attention and raised his hand to shut Pippin up. “Why did Merewyn fall on Amrothos?”

“She was trying to climb after us up to the wall-walk but she slipped. When she fell, the Prince tried to catch her, but she dragged him with her to the ground and he broke his leg.” That was certainly a rather rudimentary narration but had to suffice for now. He was not going to inquire why they had felt it necessary to climb up to the wall-walk. It would only distract from the true matter.

“Lothíriel was right,” Imrahil stated calmly. “He has his uses.” The others stared at him with different degrees of consternation, but the Dúnadan just shrugged his shoulders. “If he were seriously injured, Lothíriel would have wreaked havoc over this city in order to have him taken care of.”

“There is probably some truth to that,” Gandalf remarked with the same inappropriate calmness.

“Your lady wife sent us to inform you and to have a bier brought down to the stables,” Merry remembered his assignment.

That Lothíriel should have wandered voluntarily to the stables puzzled her husband. That was certainly not the first place he would have expected her to go.

“A drinking house?” Suddenly he felt collywobbles. “Near the stables?” He exchanged a troubled glance with Elfhelm.

“Yes,” Pippin confirmed, no longer able to confine himself to being a mere onlooker in this conversation. “The landlady’s name is Brictwen.”

Erkenbrand began to cough whilst Elfhelm uttered, “Bema, gemiltsest.” It sounded more like a curse.

Éomer found that he had to make an effort to think straight. Somehow his mind refused to accept what he just learnt. How Lothíriel had managed to end up, on the first day he couldn’t be constantly at her side, in the most notorious dive in the whole of Rohan was beyond him.

Having caught the strange reactions of the three Rohirrim, Imrahil’s gaze moved from one to the other, finally coming to rest on his son-in-law’s face. “Is there something out of the ordinary with that particular drinking house?” he asked.

How did you tell your wife’s father – any father – that his daughter had taken up temporary residence in a place that could with less goodwill be described as a bawdy house?

“It is certainly not a place where I wish my daughter to be,” Elfhelm took it upon himself to answer. He turned to set up his chair. He nodded at Éomer. “I will see to the appropriate means of transport. I suppose I will meet you at Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’?”

He left the council chamber. Imrahil looked thoughtfully after him. “And I suppose I also should not like knowing that my daughter is in that place?”

“Indeed,” Éomer responded grimly, getting on the move and leaving his chair where it lay. “And I better get her out of there without further delay.”

Éomer growled and refrained from answering what was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he snapped at Pippin just because he was closest to him.

The usually unflappable Hobbit took a step backwards and blinked under the ferocious glare of Rohan’s King.

“The Queen? She went to the riders’ quarters to apply a new bandage to Captain Éofor’s hand.”

This time Éomer felt like he’d been punched on his nose. Without another word he stormed out of the room before he could do or say something he would undoubtedly regret later. And he hoped that on his way through the city he would calm down enough so that he wouldn’t do or say anything to his wife he might regret later.

Courtly love (Minne) was in Medieval Europe a formalized system of admiration and courtship of a gentle knight towards an unavailable lady, usually a person married to someone other than the admirer, and generally of higher status. One way for the lady to acknowledge the – supposed to be chaste - courtship was to let her admirer kiss her hand. Depending on the degree of her affection, he would be allowed to kiss the back of her hand, her fingers, her palm or the inside of her wrist – where he could feel with his lips the beating of her heart.

To remove his boot, Lothíriel had to cut it off with Ceorl’s help because Amrothos’s ankle had swollen considerably. However – and not surprisingly - after that there was nothing much they could do but wait for somebody to arrive from the Golden Hall with a bier and carry the injured party back up the hill. Unfortunately the waiting had evolved into a trial of her patience.

She was quite glad that Amrothos had broken his fibula. Otherwise he would have jumped off the table he was lying on and gone for Captain Éofor’s throat by now. And she was equally glad that the man, though he had proved himself to be a rather spiteful character, had, so far, not attempted to hit her brother.

Lothíriel was sitting on a three-legged stool at Amrothos’s side and had to endure the two foes trading selected insults over her head. When it had been time to give out the attributes of reason and sanity, the Valar had obviously overlooked those two. Or maybe they had just overlooked men in general.

Her aunt Ivriniel had been right. She used to say that to quieten Amrothos, one had to resort to drastic methods – something like smothering him. It was not surprising her aunt should have known best as Lothíriel remembered having once overheard one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting telling a courtier that when the Princess Ivriniel of Dol Amroth died, her vicious tongue would have to be killed separately.

And in regard to the captain - perhaps she’d better reconsider her decision to appoint him as her riding instructor. It would provide an opportunity to employ him in a useful manner despite his injury; however, she wasn’t so sure any more if she could bear him at regular intervals.

By now, Lothíriel was ready to forget her vocation as a healer and rip the tongues out of both squabblers’ mouths. And Ceorl was no less nerve-racking than those two. First, he had shooed Mistress Brictwen and the other women out of the taproom, which Lothíriel considered to be rather impolite. After all, the overwrought looking woman was the landlady of this establishment and friendly enough to shelter them for the time being. But ever since, the young man had used a torrent of words to try to persuade his Queen and his Marshal’s daughter to leave the drinking house. Lothíriel expected him to begin wringing his hands in desperation at any moment.

The men stared at her, very likely less intimidated by her authority than surprised that she had raised her voice. Or perhaps it had even temporarily slipped Amrothos’s and Éofor’s minds, while they were quarrelling so amiably, that she was still present.

Amrothos was the first to open his mouth again, but his sister waved him quiet before an actual word had the chance to emerge.

“Make a sound, Amrothos, and the treatment is going to be painful. Very painful.”

She turned to the standard-bearer. “Ceorl, stop whining. No matter what you say, I am staying with my brother.” From the corner of her eye she caught the smug grin of the other Rohír. “I really do not know what that inane grin of yours is all about, Captain Éofor, but right now you are as dispensable as haemorrhoids. Have you not somewhere else to be?”

The man looked at her slightly bemused, probably having no idea what haemorrhoids were, although for a rider, particularly, they could become quite constraining. Not to mention painful.

Amrothos dared a gurgling laugh. He had been the brother of a healer long enough to pick up one or other terms of her craft.

The Captain of the Royal Guard overcame his befuddlement and tried hard to change his expression to what he probably considered an engaging smile. Lothíriel decided that he’d better practise in front of a mirror - he still looked much too complacent for her taste.

“As long as Éomer King stays in Edoras the duty of the Royal Guard is mostly confined to dull routine anyway,” he explained and raised his sword hand in a meaningful gesture. “And with my injured hand . . .”

“One reason I applied that stiff bandage is that you will be able to attend to the lighter of your duties.” Lothíriel didn’t even bother to hide her growing vexation with the man. “Try to make yourself useful and thereby justify being fed.”

Ceorl’s eyebrows bumped together above the bridge of his nose and he made a hasty retreat out of the line of fire.

“But I am attending to my duty right now,” Éofor assured his queen, all affable courtesy.

“You see it as your duty to attempt to bridge the time we are waiting for the bier, by acting as a jester?” Lothíriel asked, politely interested and earning herself a cheering hoot from Amrothos. Or perhaps it was a sound of pain. She usually did not agree with giving spirits to wounded men before their treatment but maybe she could make an exception and ask Mistress Brictwen for some brandy.

“. . . and as such it is my duty to shield our Queen from any threat or importunities.”

“Very commendable.” She inclined her head in mocking grace. “But I have my doubts that I am in imminent danger here, in the middle of a fortified city.”

“The danger you are exposed to here is not of the physical but rather of the moral kind,” Éofor informed her. His eyes glowed with uncalled-for triumph.

“How dare you!” Amrothos hissed so vigorously that Lothíriel put her hand on his shoulder because she feared he would try to get up from the table after all. And Ceorl also uttered some warning noise.

Lothíriel looked briefly disconcerted. “Not that I think it pertains to you at all,” she addressed the captain, “but why should my morals be in danger?”

“You really do not have the slightest inkling what this place is, do you?” The Rohír smiled with something resembling genuine amusement.

“I intend to learn Rohirric, you should think about following suit,” his sister advised him. “You will have plenty of time while your fibula mends.” She caught a glance from Merewyn. The girl was perched on a chair next to the door, looking rather discontented, even miserable.

“Are you not well, Merewyn?” her queen asked her solicitously. After all, Amrothos had been exceedingly rude to her.

Lord Elfhelm’s daughter levelled her gaze at her queen, appearing more apprehensive than one would have ever thought possible.

“I think I know where we are,” she said so softly that it was almost a whisper. “My mother will not be happy and nor will my father. I should not be here.”

“A fault confessed is half redressed,” Amrothos remarked with false cheerfulness.

“Why should your parents be unhappy about you being here with us?” Lothíriel asked. Over the last days she had received the impression that Lady Cynewyn was not precisely enthused about her daughter’s infatuation with Amrothos and had tried to keep her away from him.

“Not about being with you, my Lady,” Merewyn sighed resignedly. “If my mother learns that I have been to this place she will think of some really awful penance.”

Lothíriel frowned. “Do you not think you are exaggerating, Merewyn? It is not that reprehensible to sojourn in a drinking house. You are not even drinking anything.”

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the reaction of the men to this exchange was peculiar. She had the feeling that she was just contributing to the general entertainment, that even Amrothos had resigned himself to some sort of grudging amusement. She tapped her foot. The only thing worse than being made fun of, was not being sure if one was being made fun of.

“Merewyn, what is wrong with this place?” Lothíriel asked in a tone that didn’t permit any prevarication.

The girl squirmed. “It is the . . . loose women,” she finally said in a fairly loud whisper.

“Loose women?” her queen repeated bemused, looking around. Slowly the pieces came together, forming an overall picture. The shabby drinking house; women who slept in the middle of a day; the bizarre behaviour of the men . . . and, of the women when one thought about it. ”Mistress Brictwen and those two tavern wenches are considered to be loose women?” She turned to her brother. “Does that mean this is a brothel?”

“Sweet Elbereth, Lothíriel!” Amrothos groaned. “I am certain you could have phrased that with a bit more delicacy.”

“Since when do you concern yourself with delicacy?” she shot back. When he didn’t respond, she asked again, “Well, is this a brothel?”

“Yes,” her brother answered with yet another groan not caused by his poor physical condition. “I am surprised that term is part of your word stock.”

“My vocabulary is quite substantial and I prefer to call a rose a rose.” She sat down on the wooden stool again. “And I was beginning to wonder what was wrong with you lot. Most misunderstandings could be avoided if people would break with the annoying habit of beating about the bush.” She arranged the split skirt of her riding gown around her legs, blithely indifferent to Amrothos’s exasperated expression or to the odd stares she was receiving from the two riders.

“You do not appear overly discomposed about this revelation,” Éofor remarked with a certain disappointment in his voice.

“No, I am not,” his queen stated matter-of-factly. Why should she be discomposed? She was a wedded woman and nothing about this house was contagious. She turned toward the young girl. “Do not worry too much, Merewyn. I will explain to your mother how you came to be here. After all, I have been with you as your chaperone.”

Amrothos heaved a truly fatalistic sigh. “And I suppose you will explain it to Éomer also. The question is: before or after he kills me.”

“Do not dramatize, Amrothos,” Lothíriel dismissed his lament. “Why should Éomer be upset with you?”

“Perhaps because he will find his wife in a dubious establishment, and that it is all through her brother’s fault?” Éofor suggested gloatingly.

That man was a menace and in her vocabulary there were plenty of other apt epithets she could give him. But she confined herself to a false smile. “I am quite sure my husband will be even more upset when he learns about a certain bet circulating within the ranks of his guard. Do you care very much for your position, Captain Éofor?”

The other Rohír just stared at his queen like a cornered boar, which couldn’t quite accept that it had been hunted down. But then he surrendered – for the time being – with a snorting laugh. “My Lady, you have a cutting edge to your tongue that makes any dagger appear dull in comparison.”

“Good, then we have reached finally an understanding.” Her tone was soft and frosty.

A movement in the back of the taproom caught her attention. She saw the landlady – or whatever she was called – stepping hesitantly out of the shadow of a doorway. The woman had dressed, and was now wearing a dark gown with close-fitting sleeves and a modest neckline. A cord instead of a girdle was wrapped around her hips and her hair was tidily braided in a single plait hanging down her back. Her garb was perfectly prudent and indistinguishable from the clothing Lothíriel had seen worn by the other women of Edoras. She wouldn’t have attracted her attention had she passed her in the city, unlike – for example – Lady Cuillwen. Both her brother and her husband had shared a relationship with that woman, who could only be described as highly visible. However, although that voluptuous widow had never minded showing what she’d got and had been liberal with her affections, none of the gossip Lothíriel had heard about the lady had ever referred to her as being a loose woman. That left the question – what exactly was a loose woman? And why weren’t there any loose men?

“My Lady Queen,” Brictwen addressed her cautiously. “Is there really nothing I can do?” She watched the two riders as if she expected them to banish her again from her own premises, whilst they in return simply disregarded her.

“No, many thanks, Mistress Brictwen,” Lothíriel replied amiably. She wondered if the men also behaved in this disregardful manner when they came here to make use of the services offered. “I expect help to arrive from the hall at any moment. We will not cause you inconvenience for much longer.”

Her prediction seemed to be immediately confirmed. Footsteps announced the impending arrival of several other people. But to Lothíriel’s surprise the two men entering the dim taproom were not from Meduseld but were the healers of Edoras, who she had seen during the ‘behourd’ taking care of the injured combatants and who Éomer still hadn’t bothered to introduce to her. Therefore, she was slightly taken aback that they had been sent to aid them.

The one she knew had to be Master Ærwin was, by Rohirric standards, a short and portly figure. And if the tightness of his calf-length tunic was an indication, then he had gained some weight lately. An amazing fact considering the food shortage Rohan had suffered over the previous winter. The top of his head was bald and as if he tried to make up for this deficiency, he had grown a very bushy beard. The remainder of his hair was worn in a thin braid down from his neck. His sole greeting to those assembled in the taproom was a scowl, which did nothing for his sagging features.

The man who accompanied him, carrying a large leather satchel, was young, perhaps Ceorl’s age. He was tall and wiry, with his thick, dark blond hair cut relatively short and although Lothíriel couldn’t be sure in the rather dim lighting conditions, she thought that his eyes were brown. That was something of a rarity amongst the Rohirrim. On the 'wigræden' she had observed his pronounced limp, quite obviously not a temporary hindrance. The way he twisted his right foot outwards with every step she would have guessed that it was a disability he was born with or had acquired at a young age. He bowed his head before his queen in greeting.

There were more men outside the drinking house now, skulking in front of the door but not coming in. They were, to all appearances, riders of the guard. It seemed that their mishap had got around Edoras.

Lothíriel rose from her stool, awaiting the introductions. Ceorl took it upon him with the same ceremoniousness he had display in his function as the ‘ōretta’ of the ‘behourd’.

“My Lady Queen, meet Master Ærwin. He has been a healer in Edoras for longer than most can remember.”

“My Lady Queen.” The man appeared to have to force himself to make a remotely polite greeting. “I have indeed been a healer for many years,” he confirmed the introductory words of the standard-bearer in an euphuistic manner. “Long enough to remember the last queen from Gondor.” He didn’t have to elaborate on what he had thought about Morwen of Lossarnach. His tone left no doubt of his poor opinion and it was also hinting that he didn’t expect to become more favourably impressed by the new queen.

The remark came close to an insult. It was an insult. And Lothíriel had a fairly good idea why Éomer had so far avoided introducing her to this man who had – by the way – a rather unhealthy complexion. He needed less food and ale and more exercise.

“Oh,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “You are so old that you knew the King’s grandmother?” And just in case he hadn’t understood the innuendo, she added, “The mother of Théoden King?”

The man clamped his mouth shut into a tight line. Just as well. His teeth weren’t an overly agreeable sight. Master Ærwin didn’t seem to believe in undue dental hygiene.

“And this is Master Goðhold. He not only patches up any injury, but he is also well informed in plantlore and knows how to brew a remedy against anything.”

Lothíriel heard the older healer mumble something under his breath but she ignored him and offered the younger man a genuine smile, which was returned after a moment of hesitation.

“It has come to my ears that there has been an accident resulting in a broken leg,” Ærwin announced ill-humouredly.

“Indeed,” Lothíriel answered. Her immediate dislike for this man notwithstanding, he was a fellow healer and they had to work together in harmony and mutual respect. “My brother Amrothos has broken his fibula.”

The man acted as if he hadn’t heard her words and stepped around her. He was about to palpate Amrothos’s exposed leg, but he was barred from doing so by a bark from the injured Prince.

“I need to examine you, my Lord, so I can establish what your injury is.” The old healer had obvious difficulty in remaining polite.

“Then ask my sister. She has already examined me and will undoubtedly share her findings with you.”

This was not Amrothos’s day. His tone was getting more irritable with every word. He was in pain - not only from the broken bone - but also from his bruised ribs and the damage to his nose. Lothíriel was able to relate to his reluctance to have anybody else touch him, especially when it was not necessary.

“My brother has broken his right fibula, just above his ankle,” she addressed Master Ærwin in all friendliness. “The area around the fracture is swollen and, as you can see, is discoloured by a haematoma. But that is, of course, to be expected with this sort of injury. I palpated the leg before the swelling and I am certain that no damage has been done to the tissues and sinews connecting the bones. It is a clean fracture which requires the foot to be immobilized with a stiff bandage.”

“Nonsense,” the man contradicted rudely. “The bone is broken and needs to be splinted. I will do it right away. Goðhold,” he addressed his fellow healer. “Get some wood and cut some adequate cotters.”

The man was impossible. But they not only shared a craft, she was also his queen and therefore was expected to treat her subjects with caution and discernment.

“Master Ærwin,” she said patiently. “There is no need to apply a heavy splint to the injured limb. It would only constrict the entire leg and force my brother to spend the next six sennights lying flat on his back. I assure you, a stiff bandage will be sufficient. The bone will mend just as well and it will be much more comfortable for the patient.”

“What is this stiff bandage you are talking about all the time?” Ærwin demanded almost irascibly. If there was a Rohír who definitely needed to get used to the idea that there was now a queen and that one had to treat her with a modicum of civility, this was the one.

“Our Lady Queen is talking about this kind of brace.” Éofor decided to take a hand in the dispute and raised his arm with the, by now, completely hardened bond.

“What have you done with your splint?” the old healer growled and moved towards the Captain, quicker than one would have expected from a man with his paunch. The deepening red of his complexion began to worry Lothíriel.

“Our Lady Queen was so good as to replace it by this stiff bandage. It is - as she rightfully said – much more comfortable than the heavy splint you had burdened me with.” He held his arm directly in front of Ærwin’s face. “See? Dried egg white.” He knocked on his brace with his knuckles. “Perfectly hard and stiff. Great work by our Lady Queen.”

Under different circumstances Lothíriel might have believed that he only wanted to praise her, but not even she was of such a trusting nature. Éofor was doing his best – or rather his worst – to drive the irate healer up the wall.

“Master Ærwin,” she said with all the amiability she could muster – and that was actually more than she expected. “It is a simple but very effective method. Why not join me when I set the bone and apply the bandage to my brother’s leg, then you will see?”

The man stared at her, as if she were one of those creatures that crawled out from under a rock when you turned it over. There was no doubt that he believed it to be impossible that this wraithlike female in front of him, who his king - in a bout of mental derangement - had made his wife, had any idea what she was talking about. For the reason alone that she was a female.

“Egg white!” He obviously discarded the very idea. “Are we healers supposed to carry chickens around?” he mocked. “Or the riders, when they go out on the plains? Has everyone to take a hen with him in his saddlebag, in case one of them breaks a bone?”

“No, of course not.” Lothíriel fell habitually back in her healer’s way, which she had been taught at the Houses of Healing from the very first day of her apprenticeship. No matter how disconcerted or nervous you felt, you must never let it show. You had to soothe and you had to convince while wearing a mask of perfect composure. “But here in Edoras we have the good fortune to have chickens all over the place and therefore we can use this more convenient method without any effort. To the benefit of our patients.”

The entire stance of the man was one of disrespect and disregard. Sweet Elbereth, what an ass. Lothíriel was thoroughly proud of herself for staying so reasonable and calm. Not even the Warden would have faulted her if she had lost her patience.

Before the narrow-minded old healer had a chance to voice his contempt, a commotion outside the drinking house drew everybody’s attention. In the meantime, a small crowd had gathered in front of the open door, obviously riders and stable hands. All of them were men, probably because this was not a place where a respectable woman – no matter how nosey - would venture to come near. Nevertheless, those men appeared to be a quite nosey lot all on their own.

But now the onlookers retreated and then disappeared, obviously commanded by the deep, sonorous voice that was heard. From the corner of her eye Lothíriel could see Merewyn getting up from her seat and slumping all at the same moment. The girl had recognized her father’s voice.

But it was not the Marshal of the Eastfold who entered the shabby taproom and made it suddenly appear much smaller and much more crowded.

The King of Rohan graced the most unlikely place one would have expected him to be seen in the whole of his realm with his attendance. He ignored everybody present except his wife. He sought her gaze, his eyes so angry and intent that Lothíriel involuntarily swallowed. Amrothos’s apprehension seemed to prove true.

She just couldn’t quite comprehend why. Granted, her being here in this neighbourhood was, perhaps, a bit awkward, but she could explain the circumstances which had led to this situation, easily.

She held his thunderous glare and sighed inwardly. Whether he would let her or not was an entirely different question. When Éomer was angry he was not the most reasonable man.

Éomer averted his gaze from his wife and flicked it over the other people present. It lingered for a heartbeat when it reached the captain of his guard and his eyes narrowed. Moving on, he gave the keeper of the drinking house a curt nod. “Brictwen.” It was only proper to greet the mistress of the house first, no matter her station – or her profession.

He stepped next to the table Amrothos was lying on. “Each time I set eyes on you, you look more wretched,” he addressed his bother-in-law.

“It appears that the rough climate in Rohan does not agree with me,” Amrothos answered with a grim sense of humour. Contrary to his earlier words and despite the harsh tone he didn’t really seem to expect any act of reprisal from Éomer. Of course not. For once he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“We need to take him to the Golden Hall so I can take care of his broken leg,” Lothíriel said, aware that she was stating the obvious. Éomer’s gaze swung back to her. It told her that he had quite a few things on his mind he wanted to discuss with his wife. But not here, and that was just as well with her.

In the past, arguments between Éomer and her had tended to become quite passionate and far-reaching, not something she necessarily wished to have an audience for.

Still without having muttered a single word to her, Éomer turned towards the door where his Marshal – after having dispersed the gathering outside – was making his entrance. He turned his mild gaze on his daughter.

The girl gave a heart-rending moan, looking at her father pleadingly. It was quite obvious that she would have preferred to stay with him – and to receive the looming punishment from him.

Elfhelm neither changed his expression nor his tone. “You know the way.” Watching her reluctant retreat, he added, “Do not tarry.” He then gestured two sturdy adolescents with a bier, inside.

Lothíriel was about to issue instructions to them, when she felt Éomer’s hand wrap around her arm just above her elbow. When she ignored the cue and opened her mouth, he squeezed. Hard. She flinched and slanted him a reproachful glance.

“Elfhelm,” her husband addressed his Marshal, “Please make certain that Prince Amrothos is taken safely to the Great Hall.” He turned to his captain and his standard-bearer. Éofor looked considerably less complacent at the moment, or at least he was smart enough to conceal his usual smugness. “You will report to me directly after you have left here.” That order was enough to prompt the riders to bid their farewell.

“My Lord King,” Ærwin rose to speak. “I feel I should set and splint Lord Amrothos’s leg at once.”

“That will not be necessary,” Éomer overruled his plea. “I am certain the Queen wishes to take care of her brother herself.”

While the second healer, Goðhold, acknowledged his king’s decision with a bow, Master Ærwin was about to protest.

Éomer quietened him with an upraised hand and Lothíriel saw how the face of the old man contorted in anger. She could even understand it to a certain degree. She was not overly happy about Éomer’s high-handed conduct herself.

“Perhaps . . .” she began but didn’t get the chance to repeat her proposal to the two healers to treat Amrothos jointly. Éomer again tightened the grip around her arm and yanked her towards the door.

But even as he half-dragged her out of the drinking house, his touch was surprisingly gentle, and Lothíriel found herself tripping along behind him, her gait forced into a half-run in order to keep up with his long strides.

“Éomer!” she protested. Slipping on the uneven path, she nearly fell. He steadied her and slowed down his pace. A little. “Why not throw me over your shoulder or put a chain around my neck so you can drag me behind you?”

“Would you have the goodness to explain to me why you are so upset?” she demanded breathlessly.

“I have no intention of having half of Edoras as witnesses when I explain to you why I am upset,” he growled, not looking at her.

“Why not?” she asked, a defensive note in her voice. “Do you not think that you dragging me around by my arm will give most onlookers a subtle hint that you somehow do not agree with me?”

His grip moved from above her elbow to her wrist and his gait slowed down to a sensible pace. But he stayed quiet and perhaps the innocent bystander might have assumed that King and Queen were just taking a stroll through the city. Well, innocent and shortsighted. Lothíriel slanted him a glance from the corner of her eye and saw a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“This is ridiculous,” she stated between clenched teeth but then remained silent. After all, she wasn’t interested either in creating a scene in public.

Finally they reached the high platform on which Meduseld stood, but Éomer didn’t let go of her hand. He led her up the high stairs and into the Hall. Not until they were a good couple of dozen steps inside did he set her free.

He turned to her, his eyes gleaming, his stare so forceful that is was only then that she realized she ought to have been grateful that he had abstained from voicing his displeasure on their way through the city. It could have become embarrassing.

“In the future you should consider thinking before you hurl yourself into a situation.”

Lothíriel decided to annoy him and take it as a compliment. She smiled sweetly.

Éomer closed his eyes for a heartbeat, giving the impression that he had to summon all the self-control he possessed. “Just stay in the Hall for the rest of the day and do not go anywhere.”

With this gruff order he turned on his heel and left her standing in the middle of Meduseld. Lothíriel stared resentfully after him. Having outgrown the natural urges of any child to bite and kick her siblings occasionally at a rather early age, she had despised any needless display of violence ever since. That was until she had met a certain Rohirric warrior. Since then she had – on and off – needed to suppress a desire to hit said warrior over the head with something hard. Combined with this was the wish that she were strong enough that he would actually take notice when he was hit.

Wishful thinking, because the principle problem was not her lack of physical strength but rather a constant, much more dominant desire to kiss him – to begin with - instead.

She sighed. She had neither time to hit him nor to kiss him nor to ponder about her conflicting emotions. Amrothos would be brought to the hall at any moment. She needed to find Ælfgyth and prepare for her brother’s treatment.

Lothíriel found herself staring blindly at the door of the Queen’s bedchamber, which had just closed behind her handmaiden, after Winfrith had wished her a pleasant night.

She had an inkling that this night was going to be a lot of things, but not necessarily of the pleasant kind.

Éomer had been furious ever since he had charged into Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’, which was – as she understood now - not an ordinary drinking house. He had tried to conceal his anger but – as her father once had said – the King of Rohan was rather unable to pretend. He had been – amazingly enough – fuming quietly, but highly visibly. It had almost surprised her that that no steam had escaped from any orifices of his body.

Everybody had easily been able to detect his foul mood, but had appeared to be rather unconcerned about it. After all, their king’s anger had been primarily directed towards their queen, so they had nothing more to fear than the occasional snarling.

Since he had dragged her uphill and left her in the middle of the Great Hall with the order to stay at Meduseld for the rest of the day – which she had done because that had been her own plan anyway; after all, she had to take care of Amrothos and still intended to meet Mistress Ælfgyth and Lady Cynewyn – they hadn’t exchanged a single word. Not even during the evening meal, when she had been seated next to him at the high table. Not that he had ignored her. His glares spoke volumes. Lothíriel had rather received the impression that he didn’t trust his self-imposed restraint. He didn’t want to yell at her in the presence of others. Rather considerate on his part. He was simply waiting until they were in private. Then he would have plenty to say – or shout.

That was perfectly fine with her, because she had quite a few things to settle with her husband on her part.

Lothíriel shivered, wrapping her arms around herself for warmth. She looked down her front with a sigh, wondering if Winfrith had picked out this short-sleeved, flimsy chemise with its low-cut neckline with an ulterior motive. If so, her handmaiden had just cast a pearl before swine. She had her doubts that Éomer was in the mood tonight to be distracted by so obviously flaunted charms. And besides, she was cold.

The answer was the noise of the door to the King’s chamber: first it was flung open and then slammed shut.

She had made only a single step towards the door connecting their chambers when it was pushed open so forcefully that it bounced against the wall. No wonder all the hinges in the Golden Hall were heavily made of bronze. They had to withstand the famous temper of the House of Eorl.

“What are you doing in here?” the - for the time being, anyway - last male descendant of Eorl barked.

He allowed his voice to become very mild. Those who knew him well generally ran for cover when he used that particular tone. Lothíriel pretended not to be overly impressed by the threatening undertone and, as she had intended to meet him in the King’s chamber anyway, she obliged him. Éomer followed her so closely that she could feel his hot breath against the back of her head.

She sat. It seemed a foolish battle to pick, when the larger war was clearly looming in the near future. For a moment he did nothing but stare at her, and she actually wished he would just open his mouth and yell. Anything would be better than this silent stare. The light in the chamber was just strong enough to illuminate the gold in his eyes, and she felt pierced to the quick by his gaze.

That seemed to spark him. “Do you have any idea what mischief you have caused today?” he demanded.

Lothíriel made no immediate reply. She didn’t think he really wanted an answer. And she was proved correct not three heartbeats later, when he continued.

“In the space of one meagre day you have managed to embarrass my standard-bearer by descending upon him while he was in his underclothing, . . .”

“How could I expect a man to sit outside his quarters wearing only his braises and chausses?” Lothíriel interrupted, but Éomer chose to ignore her – justifiable - protest.

“Furthermore, you paid a visit to an unwedded man in his living quarters, and even found a lame excuse to send a third party away so that you could have some private time with him . . .”

“Who told you that?” she asked annoyed, but her interjection was again disregarded.

“. . . a conduct I can neither comprehend nor approve of, particularly after I had warned you about that man only the other day.”

Éomer didn’t reply, but there was a clear threat in his thunderous glare, making it quite plain that it would be much better for her if she refrained from saying anything else before he had finished. Lothíriel sighed and decided to concede for the time being.

“And while he was accompanying you to a part of the city you should never had gone to in the first place,” her husband continued, the terrible even tone of his voice suggesting that he was trying very hard to keep his temper in check, “Amrothos broke his leg. Meaning: he will not be able to travel. Meaning: he will not be able to leave Rohan for the foreseeable future.” He took a deep, a very deep breath. “And on top of everything you had him taken to Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’, a place any woman of reputation should give a wide berth.”

“How was I supposed to know that there are any ill-reputed quarters in Edoras?” Lothíriel blurted out, forgetting that she’d meant to remain silent. Éomer was truly behaving unjustly. It was certainly not her fault that Amrothos had broken his leg. “And how was I supposed to know that there is a brothel around?”

“What do you know about brothels?” he demanded, his sharp mask of control beginning to crack.

“There is one in Minas Tirith. On the second level. Next to the rat catcher’s cottage,” she added for clarification, although it was rather unlikely that Éomer had any knowledge of where the official vermin exterminator of the White City resided.

“And how do you know so precisely where that establishment is located?” It was hard to read his expression.

“According to the law of the city, the women who inhabit that establishment have to be given regular physical examinations.”

“What?” He raked his hand through his hair, and then fixed a hard stare on his wife’s face. “Are you saying you had to examine those women?” Lothíriel opened her mouth, but didn’t get the chance to answer his question because he fired off another one. “Does Imrahil know that?”

Lothíriel caught herself sighing again. She remembered quite well that a major topic of her and Éomer’s earliest acquaintance had been the question of how much her father knew about her various activities – or her dealings with a certain warrior from Rohan.

“There is nothing for my father to know, because the Warden would have never let me close to such a place of ill fame.”

“That Warden,” Éomer retorted, “is clearly a man of impeccable wisdom and sense.”

His queen slanted him a sceptical glance. She was quite certain that up until this very moment he had never wasted a thought – favourably or otherwise - on the Warden of the Houses of Healing.

“Be that as it may,” she hurried to keep pressing her point, “as I have never been to that place – I do not even think I have ever been to the second level of the White City except on my way through to the Great Gates – I had no idea what a brothel looks like. Therefore, I thought the house that we took Amrothos to was an ordinary - albeit shabby - drinking house. I have never been to a drinking house before, either. Of course, I might have been able to recognize that house for what it is, had you told me that there is a brothel in Edoras.”

“Lothíriel,” he cut her off in a clipped, impatient voice. “First of all, I did not see the necessity to acquaint you within the first sennight of your residence in Rohan with its seedier places. And secondly, Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ is not a brothel – at least not exactly.”

At this Lothíriel frowned at him, slightly confused. “If it is not exactly a brothel, what exactly is it?”

Judging from his expression Éomer would have preferred to change the subject. “I have my doubts that you actually know what a brothel is,” he replied evasively. “Bema, I do not think I have used that word in my entire life up till now as often as I have used it already this evening,” he muttered, more to himself.

“You have used it only three times so far,” his queen pointed out and was rewarded with a scowl, but he remained silent. Therefore, Lothíriel assumed that he expected her to give a summary of what her knowledge of this subject was. “But of course I understand what a brothel is. It is a facility considered to be a necessity, a sort of lesser evil. It is generally accepted that men will seek out carnal relations regardless of their options, and thus the women working in such places serve to protect respectable women from seduction and – if the worst comes to worst – even from force.” Her frown deepened. She was quite sure that this was the first time ever that Éomer stared at her open-mouthed, but she felt she had to bring this particular train of thought to an end before she asked him why he looked so perfectly dumbfounded. “I suppose for the women in the brothels such activity is primarily directed towards the earning of a living, rather than the gratification of carnal desires.”

Éomer slumped down in one of the chairs in front of the hearth and rubbed both hands over his face. He gazed at her through his spread fingers so she couldn’t really read his expression.

“Listening to you, one could come to the conclusion that you do not condemn those sorts of women.”

“Why should I?” She leant back in her chair. “I doubt that they would have chosen that kind of life had they been given a choice. And I have never understood why the women are so much despised, but not the men who seek them out because they are unable to maintain a grip on their urges.”

Éomer gave a chuckle, half resigned, half unnerved. “Is there anything in this world you are unconcerned about? Anything that does not set you thinking?”

Lothíriel found herself shaking her head. “It is not that I search for particular topics, but when I come across something, of course I begin to think about it. I consider that to be quite natural.”

“You are certainly aware that respectable women – such as you - are not supposed to think about . . .” he hesitated, obviously looking for the right, non-offensive term before he continued, “. . . harlots.”

“You cannot prohibit somebody from thinking,” she contradicted him. “Respectable women – such as I – are just not supposed to discuss harlots or admit that they have knowledge of their existence.”

“And why are we going into the subject right now in such detail?” Éomer asked, probably wishing that he hadn’t mentioned Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ in the first place.

“You are my husband,” Lothíriel stated matter-of-factly. “There is nothing a husband and wife should not be able to discuss.” She tilted her head, gazing at him quite earnestly, “Would you not agree?”

She chose to ignore his sarcasm. “To come back to the initial question: what is Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ if not a proper brothel?”

“Is there something like a proper brothel?” Éomer countered, apparently still determined to evade answering.

“Quibbling.” Lothíriel gave an elegant shrug with her shoulders and then raised her eyebrows inquiringly to indicate that she was waiting for his explanation. Her husband shook his head in surrender. A strand of his hair got caught in his lashes and he pushed it out of his face with an impatient sweep of his hand.

“A brothel,” he began, speaking excessively clearly, “is a place where one seeks first and foremost – to borrow from your terminology – carnal gratification. At Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ the riders congregate together in their spare time to enjoy a decent brew and some company. When the opportunity arises and the parties involved reach a mutual agreement, they can retire to one of the back chambers.”

It was a perfectly impartial question but she wasn’t given the chance to word it completely before she got interrupted. Éomer acted as if his chair had bitten into his behind. He came out of it like the bolt off a crossbow.

There was as much indignation as warning in her name. She really hadn’t expected him to be so touchy. And besides, he had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

“How indiscreet a question is that?” Éomer prematurely interrupted again. He had begun to tear at the lacings of his amber coloured tunic – a colour that suited him quite well – so vigorously, that his wife feared he was going to rip them off.

“Questions are never indiscreet; answers sometimes are.” She got up and went to him. Pushing his hands aside, she set about undoing the tight knots he had caused. “I just meant to ask if you went there with the other riders to drink,” Lothíriel finished her exposition, completely oblivious to the next thunderstorm that was brewing in her husband.

“I was eleven years of age when I came to live in Edoras,” he pointed out, having obviously to force himself to stand still. “I left it shortly after my sixteenth birthday. I was sent back to the Eastfold and entrusted into Elfhelm’s care for training.”

With her slim, nimble fingers Lothíriel had managed to disentangle the first knot. She moved around her husband to work on the other side fastening of his tunic.

“You are simply unable to let go once you have sunk your sharp little teeth into something.” It was not a question but a conclusion. And if the tone of his voice was an indicator then his mood was just about to shift from bad to foul.

Lothíriel looked up at him through her lashes. His jaw was set rather tightly and she wondered if it would be wise to point out that he was in danger of grinding his teeth into powder.

She had vanquished the second knot and loosened the lace fastening. As if not trusting himself, Éomer took a step back from her and, grabbing the tunic with both hands at its collar, he yanked it over his head. His wife could hear the tearing of the fabric. She followed the garment with her eyes as it was thrown across the room towards a chest, which it missed and fluttered to the floor. Caring for his clothes could become one of those small, constant challenges in life.

Now that Éomer had emerged from his tunic, he slanted her another irritable glance. Lothíriel just lifted her eyebrows once more in a wordless but unambiguous question. It was not so much that she desperately wanted to know about his exploits at a place that wasn’t exactly a brothel. But she was not willing to accept that Éomer chose, as he saw best, which of her questions he was going to answer and which not. If she gave in now, then soon he would choose the topics of their conversations.

He dropped back down onto his chair and began to attack his riding boots. His wife was quite relieved. It was unlikely that he would cause much damage to them. They were exceedingly sturdily made. The first boot hit the floor, the next followed, ending up separated from its companion by a good four feet.

“Yes,” he growled rather unexpectedly, making that one single syllable sound as if it had been pulled from him with red-hot tongs. “I have been to Brictwen’s bloody ‘drenchūs’,” he admitted. “To drink!” he added, placing as much emphasis as possible on those last two words. “But not since I became a Marshal of the Mark.”

She must have been wrong in her assumption that the difference in ranks was not as pronounced in Rohan as it was in Gondor. Obviously the higher ranks of the fighting-force of Rohan were not supposed to fraternise with the common riders. Of course, it could undermine the authority of a commander if he regularly got involved in drinking bouts with his subordinates. It was certainly not easy to accept the authority of somebody one had experienced being in drunken stupor.

Something else flashed up in the back of her mind and prevented her from following this train of thought further. Without thinking twice she asked, “If you went to Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’ only to drink, where did you go to . . . ?”

That must have been heard, if not in the Great Hall, than at least in the other bedchambers where her father and King Elessar had been accommodated during their stay. He looked at her as though she had just turned into some salivating beast before his very eyes.

“I cannot believe you are so sensitive about this matter,” she retorted with imperturbable calmness.

“A bit more sensitivity would be very becoming for the Queen of the Riddermark.” He had managed to subdue the volume of his voice, but his tone stayed tart.

“In public, in my role as the Queen of the Riddermark, I would never dream of mentioning something like this,” Lothíriel explained, astounded that she needed to set that right. “I thought, however, that when we are in private, as your wife, I could address anything of relevance.”

Remembering Amrothos’s words from that morning, she made haste to correct the assumption that she wanted to learn that sort of thing. “I really did not wish to go into details. I was asking for something more universally valid.”

Éomer stared at her in stony silence for a moment. Then he shook his head as if he needed to clear his senses and pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead.

“Brictwen’s ‘drenchūs’?” Lothíriel offered helpfully but the cue wasn’t appreciated. Her husband glared at her, thunder in his eyes.

“Indeed,” he snapped. “Where you wouldn’t have ended up in the first place, had you not gone to pay the Captain of my guard a private visit.”

“I felt it was my responsibility to inquire after his state of health after my brother – with the knowledge and, very likely, the approval of my husband – had done serious damage to his sword hand.” She wondered how many more times she had to say her little piece – and have it dismissed. Éomer looked even less impressed by her reasoning than Amrothos had.

“That man’s injury was nothing to speak of. He was defeated in fair single combat and certainly does not need to be nursed back to health by his queen.”

“At least I could rid him of that oversized splint I found him wearing. It had disabled his entire right arm. With the stiff bandage I fitted, he will be able to attend to some of the duties of the Royal Guard.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” Éomer remarked, suddenly sounding awfully complacent. “When I earlier specified your deeds for the day, I did not get around to mentioning that you managed to offend the sensibilities of your fellow healers.”

Lothíriel met this assertion with patent disbelief. “Granted, Master Ærwin was quite insistent upon treating Amrothos. But he must have certainly understood that I wished to take care of my own brother. And besides,” she added, “I requested him explicitly to lend me a helping hand in applying the stiff bandage to Amrothos’s leg. He appeared not to be convinced about this method of setting a broken bone and I hoped observing me would persuade him to consider using it in the future.”

Éomer gave an unflattering snort. “You have certainly not persuaded him to change his opinion by removing his splint from Éofor’s arm and therewith belittling his skills.”

“I would never malign a fellow healer,” Lothíriel retorted, aghast at this accusation. “The Captain asked me to provide a more adequate brace for his hand.”

“And how could he have known about such a thing?” her husband demanded curtly, beginning to fumble with the laces of his shirt collar.

“Which you should not have done.” He got up from the chair, stepping closer, hovering over her in an intimidating manner. “You should not have sought him out on your own, and certainly not in his quarters, in the first place. This nothingness of an injury was of no concern to you.”

Lothíriel had sincerely hoped that Éomer’s temperamental fit had begun to wear off, but any word she spoke, seemed to add fuel to the flames of his outrage, causing them to flare up again. She didn’t feel as if she had done anything wrong – at least not basically. And she was fed up being forced into the defensive.

“First and foremost, I sought Captain Éofor out with the intention of reprehending him regarding his behaviour towards me. His behaviour towards me,” she repeated with emphasis when Éomer made a move to interrupt her. She doubted that she could keep up with him in a shouting contest, but if she had to get loud to make her point, she would give her vocal best. “He tried to put me on the spot. He intended to boast of his maleness by trifling with me. Therefore it is my right to reprimand him as I see fit.”

“Wrong,” Éomer bellowed. “I am your husband. I have taken a solemn vow to protect and to shield you . . .”

“You are cordially invited to save me from marauding wargs or any other threats of the physical kind.” His expression told her he didn’t find her quip particularly amusing. “However, I will not permit you to decide over my head, how to settle any matters concerning me.”

She had seen this stare of pure incredulity once before - when she had dealt him a blow on his wound to convince him to let her treat it and subsequently barring his way. This warrior was still not used to having his way blocked. But she, Lothíriel, was not used to being passed over.

“Indeed,” she confirmed pleasantly. “You will not keep anything from me that pertains to my person, be it as your wife or as the Queen of the Riddermark. I am willing to discuss everything with you and to seek your advice. And of course, I will always take the reasons of state into consideration, but it will be me in the end who decides how my affairs are to be dealt with.”

The skin around Éomer’s mouth had whitened with the convulsive tightening of his jaw. There was no doubt that he was really angry. Lothíriel wondered if anybody had ever told him that with the change of his mood the colour of his eyes turned to blazing amber.

Anybody else might have faltered under his fierce glare and the iced fury in his voice. Lothíriel held out against it, unaware of her own expression of severe determination. She brought up her hand to wave him quiet.

“Before you reply, my Lord, you should perhaps remember your own words - that as your wife I will be allowed to make my own decisions. You said you might not always agree with them, but you promised that you would respect them.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts. “That was less than a sennight ago.”

With a muscle jumping in his cheek, Éomer kept staring at her. Slowly his features began to relax, gentling his expression. And then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It was a sound she had never before heard from him, something between a low growl and a gruff purr.

“I should have known that you are going to be a tough nut to crack, my sweet.” He made this term of endearment sound not exactly endearing. “Your father predicted that in all probability, you would be the last one standing in any argument. That your delicate looks are just camouflage.”

“Who says that I am the nut in need of being cracked?” she challenged, crossing her arms tighter in front of her and pushing her bosom unintentionally upwards to the low cut neckline of her chemise.

Éomer’s eyes dropped for an instant to that area below her neck before returning to her face. The corner of his mouth twitched as if he was fighting a grin.

“But you are not willing to back down - just for the sake of peace and quiet?”

“Of course not,” she said without thinking twice but then conceded, “At least not as long as my argument is sound.”

This time he broke out in a full laugh that made Lothíriel sigh. Not just in relief, but mostly because once again one of his unpredictable mood changes had happened. Only moments ago he had appeared to be giving serious consideration to throttling her. And now his shoulders were shaking with laughter. But then, Éomer without his shifts of temper just wasn’t Éomer, was he?

“Bema, Lothíriel! What am I going to do with you?” He speared his hand through his hair, and he seemed to look all around the room in order to gather himself and control his features.

“What did you intend doing with me when you stormed into this chamber earlier?”

His gaze raked over her body. A slow smile emerged, crooked and devastatingly seductive. It took a long time to reach his eyes. By the time it did, Lothíriel was breathless – annoyed at herself because his smile could so easily turn her into such an enamoured goose – but definitely breathless anyway.

Loosening the underarm laces of his shirt and drawing it over his head, he muttered something in Rohirric. The shirt was tossed aside negligently but Lothíriel didn’t care that by now his clothes were scattered all over the room. Besides that, a half naked Éomer was somewhat distracting and she thought she might have caught the meaning of what he had just said. She frowned deeply.

There was an ominous gleam in his eyes, and therefore she decided that the few snatches she had picked up of what he had muttered made sense.

“And I think you said ‘nýdnǽman’.” His surprised look confirmed her assumption. “Am I right?” she asked smugly.

“It means ravish, and together with bed . . .” She let trail her voice off. “I think one could say you are quite single-minded, my Lord.”

“Where did you pick it up?” Éomer interrupted her, a hint of dread in his voice.

“When Winfrith assists me in my toilet, we usually practise some Rohirric along the way.”

“And word-stock along the lines of ‘nýdnǽman’ is given preference?” His mouth curved briefly. “Who thought the term to be essential? You or your handmaiden?”

“I may have found him already,” Lothíriel told him. “I spoke to Gléowine this morning.”

“Your day was no doubt of bustling activity.” Lothíriel didn’t miss the vague sarcasm of his tone. “Be not too hopeful. Gléowine has retired from his service to the kingship. He was devoted to my uncle. The last years have cost him dearly, as they cost all of those loyal to Théoden. He is an old man who wishes to live in quiet and peace.”

Éomer crossed his arms over his bare chest. The movement accentuated the sinews along his muscular arms, which in turn distracted Lothíriel momentarily from the matter in hand.

“Well, yes.” She brought her eyes back to his face. “She wishes to become a healer.”

“So you have already said.” The patience of his voice appeared to be pretended.

“And as Master Ærwin is not willing to instruct females in our craft and Gardryð cannot move to Aldburg to be an apprentice to Master Berenwald, I thought it a good idea to take it upon myself to educate her.”

“A good idea?” he asked mockingly. “And you are absolutely certain that you do not intend to alienate Ærwin and the other healers?”

“Why should he feel alienated? I was told that he has no interest in taking on women as apprentices.” Hadn’t he listened?

“And they say it is us, the Rohirrim, who lack certain qualities such as subtlety and tact,” Éomer muttered wryly.

“And I always thought it was us, the Gondorians, who so easily bow to preconceived opinions.”

He opened his mouth, motioning with his hand before any words actually emerged. “Hold it right here. I do not need another exchange of verbal blows tonight.” He searched her face with a slightly uneasy expression. “Are there any more of your today’s activities I should be aware of?”

Lothíriel nearly pulled a face at him and then stood to attention, folding her hands behind her back like a child called before a parent. Her taunting stance earned her a frown.

“I set my brother’s leg and established him in Elphir’s bedchamber,” she reeled off, ignoring the warning in Éomer’s gaze. “Elphir will have to share with Erchirion for the remainder of his stay. I also conferred with Mistress Ælfgyth, to acquaint me with the different matters of the royal household and, of course, to find a solution to the problem of the redundant servants of the Great Hall.”

“Oh my,” he groaned. “I forgot that I have given you free rein in that matter. Do I need to worry?”

Lothíriel raised her chin in indignation. “For the moment I only asked Mistress Ælfgyth to describe this long neglected problem from her point of view, as the housekeeper of Meduseld. I will not decide on anything before I am thoroughly familiar with the situation.”

“Will I be informed before you put any decision into action?” Éomer asked noncommittally.

“Of course,” his wife assured him. “I told you earlier that I will discuss everything with you and ask for your opinion.” She smiled sweetly. “I am not in the habit of forgetting what I once said.”

“Right,” he said, in that way men – or at least her brothers – did when they were trying to cover up the fact that they were not sure what to say.

He reached for the poker and began to stir the fire. Standing in front of the hearth with only his breeches covering his nakedness from just above his hipbones to his ankles, he was quite impressive to look at. Lothíriel watched the firelight play over his muscles with growing fascination, feeling her heartbeat quicken. He was more handsome than he had any right to be.

After having added a couple of logs, he put the poker aside and without prior warning he pulled the lacing of his leg clothing open and pushed it down. Lothíriel got an eyeful of a tight, round bottom and a lean, muscular back. A sight to behold. Her lips parted but she managed to keep the sigh locked in her throat. Hard to believe that there had been a time when an unclothed male body had merely prompted her to check it for injuries.

Éomer turned around before she had a chance to conceal her appreciative appraisal of his assets or avert her eyes from the region of his pelvis. One of his slow grins appeared on his face, teasing her, and Lothíriel felt her cheeks colour. She cleared her throat.

“Ælfgyth gave me the names,” she rattled on. “The names of the servants. And I made a list. Of the servants. And Ælfgyth told me about their skills and their interests and how many children they have and how old they are and what their duties are in the household and I thought that after I have gathered all the facts I will . . .”

Éomer had stepped closer. When he reached out for her, she fell silent in the middle of her sentence.

“What does ‘lēasbrēda’ mean?” she asked incoherently after taking a deep breath.

Éomer caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Lēasbrēda’?” An amused grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Who called you that?”

“What makes you think I was called . . .” She stopped herself when she watched one of his eyebrows arching eloquently. “Master Gléowine.”

“Literally it translates to little trickster but the meaning is more along the line of sly fox.”

“Oh,” Lothíriel said, taken aback and uncertain if she should consider the term to be a compliment or an insult. “I do not think that is a good description of me. It is much more fitting for Amrothos. If you look at it . . .”

Éomer interrupted her by cradling her chin in his palm. “Tell me something.”

He kept his eyes on her face, studied it as if he had never done so before, or rather studied it like one regarded, time and again, an object of particular artistry or intriguing uniqueness.

A sudden fierce flare in his eyes was all the warning she got. He pulled her close, crushing her against his body and slanting his lips over hers. He took her mouth with a hungry sensuality that seemed to melt her bones. Lothíriel couldn’t keep her eyes open. This was what she had truly longed for since he had entered his chamber . . . their chamber. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her head spun. She kissed him back while everything turned upside down with excitement. There would be time to continue their argument later. Her arms slid up over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. She pressed close, flattening herself against him. Her breasts snuggled into the firm wall of his chest. She wanted to get closer, and there was only one way.

She tapped on his shoulder and got his attention. Éomer lifted his mouth from hers, met her gaze with eyes that were narrow and gleaming with desire.

A sensual smile curved his mouth. “Do I detect a certain single-mindedness, my Lady?”

Instead of an answer he took the drawstring of her chemise to pull it open and hooked the forefinger of the other hand under the neckline to widen it. Lothíriel dropped her arms, gave a delicate shrug and let the garment slither down her body to her ankles. His eyes gleamed like hot gold. They seemed to scorch her as they followed the path of the chemise in a comprehensive sweep.

“You are beautiful,” he said and reached for her, scooping her up into his arms and carrying her to the four-poster. He put her onto the sheets and lay down beside her. The mattress gave under his weight, rolling her towards him. His hands slid down her back, forcing her gently against the length of him. He began to trace the delicately chiselled features of her face with the tip of his finger.

She tipped her head back, so that she was able to survey his face. Tenderly she touched the striking features, brushing her thumb along the edge of his lower lip. “Yes, that is true.”

He caught her fingers to pull them away, clearing the path to her mouth. He placed feathery light kiss on it and sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently.

She raised her lashes, which had dropped in anticipation and looked at him with an enquiring frown. She saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement before he lowered it again to hers and licked between her lips, touching her tongue with his, caressing it.

She tipped a finger on her nose and received a peck there as well as the Rohirric term. “Nosu.”

Kissing a trail from her forehead –“hnifel” – over her brows –“ēagbrǽw” – and cheek – “wange” – to her chin – “cinn” – Éomer made her squirm beneath him in delight. She wondered what she had to do so that his mouth would find its way back to her lips.

“You are a talented tutor,” she assured him, her giggles having become more of a hiccup. “I am quite certain your unique method of instruction will ensure that I am not going to forget any of those words.”

“That was the idea,” Éomer replied smugly. “I doubt that Gléowine has anything to offer that could make his lessons more . . . memorable.”

He rolled her onto her back and bent over her, but this time his target was not her lips. Instead, his mouth aimed for the sensitive spot just below her ear. Lothíriel practically swooned as he ran his mouth down the side of her neck, pressing tingling little kisses to her soft skin. He kissed her throat - “ðrotu,” he whispered – her collarbone – “wiðobān” – and finally her ear – “eāre”. The rasp of his beard was as arousing as the hot trail blazed by his lips.

“Éomer.” She lifted her hand to touch his face, savouring the strong lines of his jaw.

He caught it and pressed his mouth against her palm. “Handbrēd.” His lips captured the tip of her forefinger and sucked it into the heat his mouth, running his tongue around it. It was a simple, playful gesture but it made her skin tingle. “Scytefinger.” One after the other he took her middle finger – “hālettend” - her little finger – “ēarclǽnsend” – and her thumb -“ðūma” - between his teeth and nibbled them gently.

Lothíriel watched him. By now her breath was coming in flat little gasps through her parted lips and her lids were getting heavy.

“Are you still paying attention, my sweet?” he asked, kissing her knuckles, his smile pure teasing.

She dipped her chin in affirmation and put up the thumb of her free hand. “Ðūma,” she was able to answer unthinkingly, because there was this little part of her brain that refused to lose a thread, no matter the circumstances.

“Excellent,” Éomer praised her as some tutor might have done with a heedful pupil. He pushed himself up on his knees and let his hand run slowly down the length of her leg, exploring the shape of it.

Rocking back and sitting up on his heels, he grasped her around her ankle, circling it easily with his thumb and middle finger.

“Anclēow,” he murmured, taking his time to study her foot – so much time that Lothíriel lifted her head from the pillow to take a look herself at that particular part of her lower extremities.

“Is something wrong with my foot?” she asked, amazing herself with the raspy tone of her voice.

“Nothing is wrong. It is a beautiful foot – and lovely little toes.” Carefully he lifted it up and she gave a tiny squeal of surprise when he took her toe into his mouth and sucked softly at it, as he had done before with her fingers. He tickled her skin with his teeth and tongue.

“Tan is toes?” Whatever the right term for toes was, she would have never expected that one day somebody would kiss them. Who would expect to have her feet kissed? Not that it wasn’t a very toe-curling sensation.

Éomer rubbed with his thumb gently over a nail. “Nægl.” Her only response was some mewling sound that escaped from the back of her throat.

His lips had already found a new target that left a trail of goose bumps on her shin - “scīa” -, his teeth biting gently her knee - “cnēow” -, his tongue licking its way to the hollow of it “hwerofbān”. He pulled her lower leg over his shoulder and suddenly his mouth was inching up the inside of her thigh.

Breathing fast and feeling as light-headed as if she hadn’t eaten for too long, Lothíriel watched him, mesmerized, feeling as if lightning had struck her. Heart pounding, she felt coils of delight rippling through her, beginning at the place where his tongue caressed the delicate skin. Her breath caught and she threw her head back and closed her eyes. Clutching the sheets she lay supine, getting more and more dizzy and beginning to see stars.

And then he stopped what he was doing, stopped just like that, pulled his mouth back and heaved himself up.

Her eyes snapped open. The repressed air escaped from her lungs with a huff and she sucked in a fresh supply. She bit her lip and could not hide the shiver that took her. From under heavy lids she saw the teasing grin on Éomer’s face soften and he let her leg slide down from his shoulder to his elbow and placed it carefully onto the sheets. Leaning over her, he nuzzled his bristly chin across her hipbone.

“Perhaps not tonight. Some other day . . . another lesson. There should something be left for . . . soon.”

Now she seemed to be losing the thread after all. Confused she asked, “What?”

“Never mind.” He kissed her navel, his tongue darting quickly into it. “Nafela.”

But whatever she’d been going to say was lost when he pressed the hot wetness of his mouth against her belly and nipped it.

“Oh,” she said instead in a surprised tone, as the sheer pleasure of it made her shiver.

He crawled further up her body, his mouth pursuing its way through the valley between her breasts. Lothíriel trembled - it seemed she simply couldn’t stop those tremors waving through her. - Her hands wound tightly in his hair and she arched her back to press herself closer to him. But Éomer lifted his head and propped himself up beside her on one elbow. He trailed a gentle finger across the tips of both breasts.

Her nipples tightened in instant response to his touch and she had to gulp a couple of times before she was able to phrase her question. “Is that the word for breast or for nipple?”

He gave a husky chuckle. His hand curved around her breast and she arched into his touch. “Brēost”. The thumb feathered over the nipple. “Delū,” he repeated and then dropped a whiff of a kiss on each of the body parts in question.

“What are the plurals?” Lothíriel gasped, not really interested in the answer – at least not right now.

Without replying Éomer shifted his position and moved over her, caging her between his elbows and letting them carry most of his weight. With a will of their own her legs wrapped around his, her feet drawing down the back of his calves. The body covering hers felt firm and hot and powerful. And good – he felt so good. She quivered a little at the sheer goodness of it. She had never in her dreams imagined how exquisite the pressure of man’s body could be.

And he knew it. He looked a bit complacent but there was also a great tenderness in his gaze. He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Do you think there are still some body parts not accounted for?”

“Ah!” He bestowed one of his spine-tingling grins upon her. “Well, then we have to turn you around so I can make up for this neglect.”

Her breath faltered. “No. . . not . . . necessary,” she rasped. She brought her hands to his back, touching him, softly, tentatively. “I have a better idea.”

“If I remember correctly, I said only the other day that a king should always be receptive to suggestions.”

Had he been born with this grin or had he had to put it to the test over the years to refine it?

Oh, she was ready. She wanted to touch him; she loved touching him. Her fingers twitched in anticipation and she let them trail across the width of his shoulders – “sculdor” - and around the back of his neck – “hēals” -, conducting an idle survey of him. She let her hands slide down his back, her fingernails scratching gently over every single vertebra of his spine.

When her palms reached his well-muscled bottom she cupped the firm contours of it and squeezed.

“Botm.” The tone of his voice had changed. It had become more coarse – much more coarse.

One of her fingers lightly brushed the cleft between his buttocks. She felt his chest expand and heard a sound that made her think that he was sucking in air through his teeth. For the split of a moment his eyes closed.

She got the impression that he had barely managed to stifle a groan. It was good to know that she was having about the same effect on him as he was having on her. Somehow reassuring. And she was quite certain that the hard and fast beating she felt where their ribcages were crushed together was not only the rhythm of her own heart.

She drew in her stomach – which didn’t make breathing any easier – and wedged her hand between their bodies. Éomer made an inarticulate sound. – Or had it come from her? - Her loins clenched. Her heart gave a great, shuddering leap at her daring. She lifted her head and pressed her open mouth to the salt-tinged column of his neck and slid her hand over the tensile muscles of his stomach. Slowly her hand slipped lower. He was there, hot, damp and hard. She touched him, wrapped her hand around . . .

He said it through clenched teeth. Letting her head sink back onto the pillow, she saw that his face was hard and fierce, his pupils were so dilated that only a band of gold no wider than a knife’s edge remained and every muscle she could feel against her had gone taut as a bowstring.

She didn’t get an answer. Éomer had gone from playful caress to hard passion. Hot and hungry his mouth closed over hers. His kiss turned demanding and fierce and she felt the sensation like a burning brand. His mouth was almost aggressive, ravaging hers with wild, reckless kisses. His lips pressed against hers while his tongue constantly thrust and chased hers as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Escalating pleasure took control. She was racing with the wild beat of her heart into the centre of a storm and Éomer was guiding her, pushing her. Her senses exploded and hot-white heat flooded every pore.

Lothíriel stirred amid the rumpled sheets. Their lovemaking had left her feeling boneless and utterly content. Slowly she started to become aware of little things. The first thing was the scent of the man lying on top of her. The next thing she focused on was that she was trapped beneath Éomer’s full weight, and that he was heavy. Now that they were no longer caught up in the throes of passion, he was crushing her into the mattress, suffocating her and roasting her alive to boot. She felt the sweat-slickness of his shoulders beneath her hands, heard the steady rasp of his breathing – had he fallen asleep? – and saw the back of his head as his face remained buried against her neck.

She must have moved, or made some small sound, because he lifted his head then and looked at her. A long, slow smile curled his mouth as he surveyed her and she remembered all the things he had done to her with his hands and his mouth and his body. She felt perfectly relaxed, however, and at ease about being naked and that he was on top of her. She was getting used to this and – if she dared to say so – she was getting better at it.

“Are you well?” His eyes glittered with the age-old expression of a fully satiated male.

Éomer’s smile grew more pronounced. He looked quite pleased with himself. “Was it now?”

She nodded. Then, because she really couldn’t breathe properly, she gave a little shove to his shoulder. “Now that we are finished, would you mind getting off me? I can hardly breathe.”

“Oh, my apology.” He rolled off her and retrieved the quilt that had somehow gotten crumpled up at the foot end of the bed. He arranged the coverlet over them and reached for her, nestling her against his warmth. His arms around her in a possessive manner, he pulled her into the curve of his body, her back against his chest. He seemed quite willing to go straight to sleep, probably convinced that they had talked enough for one evening and normally she would have just cuddled even closer and savoured being held by him.

But there was something else Lothíriel felt she had to mention without any further delay. She wriggled onto her back so that she could look at him. Without raising his lashes, he frowned, obviously feeling disturbed by her fidgetiness.

“There is more?” he asked, mildly curious. “Can it not wait until the morning?”

He opened one eye. “Is this going to be another revelation likely to give me a fit?”

No response came. She realized he had every intention of escaping into the depths of sleep. Very well then, but there was something else to tell him and therefore she was going to do so.

“Today I also found a solution regarding the necessity of me becoming more proficient on horseback.” She watched the strong and even rise and fall of his chest for a moment. She was quite sure that he was still awake. Nobody could fall asleep that quickly. “I also found somebody to supervise my exercise rides.” She cleared her throat before she continued.

The fantastic and unexpected, the ever-changing and renewing

is nowhere so exemplified as in real life itself.

(Berenice Abbot, 1898 – 1991)

The next morning Lothíriel awoke when Éomer carefully untangled his limbs from hers and got out of the bed. Still feeling heavy with sleep, she was prepared to go straight back to the land of dreams. But there was this vague sense that something was not quite what it should have been. Snuggling deeper under the covers and seeking that warm spot on the sheets that Éomer had just vacated, she began to sift lazily through the wafts of mist clouding her mind for an answer.

Belatedly, it dawned on her that it shouldn’t have been necessary for her husband to disentangle their bodies, because after the last bout in their argument they had gone to sleep on opposite sides of the bed. She opened her eyes, just a slit, and found that she must have moved across the wide mattress while sleeping. She was now on Éomer’sterritory.

Closing her eyes again, she listened to him moving around. He obviously was trying to go about his morning routine as quietly as possible in order not to disturb her. Apparently he had picked up the pieces of clothing he had scattered to the four winds the previous night, before he disappeared behind the screen that separated the washing facilities. She heard a big splash and her body shuddered involuntarily before her mind even had fully registered that Éomer must have had just plunged into the cold water of the bathtub. Last night Ælfgyth had had it filled for his evening bath, but he hadn’t got around to making use of it due to their argument and the following lovemaking . . . and the further argument that flared up afterwards.

Hearing Éomer splashing about in the chilly water, she shivered again and pulled the coverlet tighter around her body.

After that bedlam all day yesterday, her final confession had unfortunately sparked another quite remarkable outburst.

When her brothers had given an account of the battle of the Morannon, they had spoken of how all of a sudden the earth had rocked beneath their feet, how it had groaned and quaked, how the air had roared and hissed. While, beyond the great doors of the Black Gate, and across Udûn and Gorgoroth, Mount Doom had thrown its red-hot glowing body against the leaden sky and poured out its fire over the land of Mordor.

They had assured her that there were no words in any language known, be it of human or of elvish or of any other imaginable kind, to describe the violent eruption of a fire-mountain. It was something one had to see with one’s own eyes, experience with one’s own senses.

Well, after she had told Éomer that she had appointed the captain of his guard as her riding instructor, she had a pretty good idea what a volcanic eruption would be like.

His physical reaction had literally rocked the bed. He had vaulted out of it with the force of a thunderclap and, by doing so, had disentangled her body from his and had sent her tumbling across the mattress. She had just managed to cling to the sheets and save herself from toppling over the edge.

What had followed had comprised of quite a bit of hissing and roaring. And she was not very hopeful that the commotion in the royal bedchamber had gone unnoticed. After all, Meduseld was built of wood and the sound absorption was not as thorough as in a palace with thick stone walls. There was only the Queen’s Chamber between the King’s Chamber and the one Elessar was presently residing in. And the next was her father’s and then came the one Amrothos occupied, now that he had broken his leg. Lothíriel feared that they couldn’t have avoided taking notice of Éomer’s recurring agitation. His voice tended to carry.

He had paced their chamber like a lion his confining cage, tearing her off a strip with powerful eloquence. It had been – more or less – a repetition of all her misdeeds and wrongdoings of the day. However, as it had become clear over the course of his tirade, Éomer was first and foremost not concerned about what his kinsmen might think about his wife’s exploits – not that he would not have to consider it in the long run. Annoying as it was, Amrothos had made a valid point when he had reminded her that she was still a stranger in Rohan, who needed to gain the acceptance of the people. Listening to Éomer’s vocal diatribe, it had slowly come to Lothíriel that this was something very private, that he felt primarily both irritated and infuriated because she had sought out another man . . . and that her actual reason for doing it didn’t really matter.

That was something she first had needed to absorb and contemplate, but it had been somehow beyond her grasp. She had always believed she had a keen mind and that she was gifted with some intelligence. But her brain had apparently abandoned her. It had been unwilling to accept what actually had been happening.

She had taken a deep breath – after all, air was essential for the correct functioning of the mind - and suddenly her tongue had worked on its own volition.

“You are jealous.”

“What?”

Éomer had spun around – too quickly. He had crashed his small toe against the artfully carved leg of one of the armchairs that stood in front of the hearth and collapsed with a howl onto the same furniture.

For once Lothíriel hadn’t cared about a possible injury to another human being.

“Do you know how very insulting that is?”

“What?” He had squeezed the word out between his clenched teeth, having tucked up his leg onto the seat and holding his crippled foot in both hands.

“Your jealousy is insulting.”

He had given her a truly fulminating glare. “I am not jealous.”

“Do you know what jealousy at its heart is?”

“I am not jealous,” he had repeated, making an effort to keep his voice low but it had been unmistakably laced with a good portion of indignation. He had sounded genuinely affronted but she had ignored the hint of a ruffled ego.

“Jealousy is nothing but the deluded belief of one person that his valued relationship with another person is threatened by a rival.” She had sat up and wrapped the coverlet closely around her body. There were a few things you just didn’t want to do in the nude. For instance arguing with your husband. Sooner or later that would only prove distracting – as they had demonstrated so well earlier. “And do you know why that is so insulting?”

“I am not . . . I suppose I will not be able to prevent you from enlightening me,” he had muttered aloud, sounding thoroughly frustrated.

“Because with your jealousy you indicate that I am interested in such an alleged rival.” She had found her hands squeezed into small fists. “And I am not certain what I find more insulting: that you think I could have any interest – of whatever nature - in another man or that I am so daft that I do not recognize Captain Éofor for the wastrel he is.”

He had glanced at her for a heartbeat or two, his gaze ambiguous. Then he had put his injured foot down and crossed his arms over his chest. How many men managed to sit straight naked in an armchair, looking not only splendid but also regal?

“If you are conscious of the fact that he is nothing but a scumbag, why are you so insistent upon having dealings with him?”

“What about you? You think the worst of him. You do not even like him. Nevertheless, he is the Captain of your Guard. Why is that so if he is of such questionable character? ”

He had dismissed that argument with no more than an impatient twitch of his mouth. “He is an excellent fighter, a great horseman. That is what makes him an elite warrior and leader of the household troops, and not necessarily his unflawed character. That I trust him with my life does not mean I would trust him with my . . .” He had cut himself off.

“. . . wife?” It hadn’t been difficult to guess what he had been about to say. “The point is you do not have to trust him. You have to trust me.”

“Lothíriel, you are no match for a man like Éofor.” He had hurled his next assessment at her as if it were a brick. “You are simply out of your depth when it comes to men.”

“I know how to deal with men.” The irritation she felt had edged into her voice. “I have grown up with three brothers.”

“Who treat you like a hothouse bloom.”

She hadn’t particularly liked the implication of that assessment, especially as it wasn’t true. When had Amrothos ever treated her with consideration? But Éomer hadn’t given her the chance to answer back. He had got up from the chair and had limped to the opposite side of the bed.

“This debate is over, once and for all.”

He had lain down, grabbed the corner of the quilt and dragged it to his side to tuck himself in. She had to let go of the coverlet. She was definitely no match to him when it came to a game of tug o’ war.

“What do you mean by ‘this debate is over’? We have not come to a satisfying conclusion.”

“I have come to a perfectly satisfying conclusion. You had better get under the cover before to you catch a cold.”

With that he had turned his back to her, unmistakably making clear that he regarded the matter as settled and that now he definitely intended to go to sleep. Lothíriel had been so flabbergasted by his utter disregard of her opinion that she had just sat there, the surprise rendering her mute, something, which happened very rarely. It took a few moments before she became aware of the chill. Rather reflexively she had stretched out next to him and reached for the quilt. There hadn’t been much left for her to use, just the corner of the coverlet. With her back towards Éomer, leaving as much space as possible between their bodies, she had pulled it over her shoulders, curling into a ball for warmth. And while she had been lying there stiffly, her consternation had slowly given way to enragement, and the longer she contemplated the way he had treated her and dismissed her – sound! – arguments, the more his arrogance made her blood boil. But when she flung herself around to give him a piece her mind, she had been greeted by a single, soft snore.

He had been sound asleep.

She had been quite certain of it. He might have feigned deep breathing to make her believe he was sleeping, but he wouldn’t have feigned snoring. To her knowledge – based on her experience with the men of her family as well as with her patients - men were amazingly touchy when it came to snoring. Although all of them did – at least from a certain age on. Even her father had rejected emphatically that he did snore when she had surprised him just doing that while taking a nap during a midday break on their journey to Rohan.

That Éomer had fallen asleep so effortlessly after their disagreement, made her even angrier. It had made her so angry that she had considered giving him a good kick in the small of his back, which might – just might – have pitched him out of bed. She hadn’t been so angry, however, as to disregard his possible reflex action to such a sudden assault. She had been angry, not suicidal.

And while she had been lying next to a peacefully slumbering - and occasionally snoring - Éomer, fuming silently and trying to decide what to do next, she had felt her lids getting heavier and her thoughts getting more and more unfocused. After all, a quite straining day lay behind her, being on her feet since the early morning; running up and down the slopes of Edoras; caring for Amrothos; arguing with Éomer; making love to Éomer . . .

Just before she finally drifted off, she had briefly wondered if she should have perhaps relocated to her own bedchamber, gone to sleep in her own bed, just to emphasize her displeasure with his attitude.

Instead she must have, while asleep, sought out the warmth of his body and moved back into his arms.

Lothíriel turned her face into the pillow to muffle her frustrated growl. As a side-effect, she got a good noseful of the intoxicating scent that was so very much Éomer. It made her growl again. How vexing that, while her brain told her that she had good reason to still be cross with her husband, her senses told her something very different. She could hear him right now rising from his cold bath and her mind decided to play a joke by assaulting her with the mental picture of water streaming down a sculptured body—that didn’t help at all with this muddle inside her. It was truly irritating being torn by so many contradicting emotions that her brain was unable to take control. That had never happened to her before. Well, at least not before she had met the King of Rohan. She wondered – not for the first time - how things would have turned out, had she not insisted upon him taking a bath and having his wound treated.

She heard Éomer climb out of the tub and begin to towel himself off. He tried to do it quietly, not really succeeding. Eyes closed, her hearing concentrated on those noises coming from her husband, Lothíriel pictured him with her inner eye going through his morning routine. He put the towel aside, cleaned his teeth and brushed his hair. When he stepped around the screen, Lothíriel made sure that she lay perfectly still and relaxed. He paused and she felt his gaze on her, but he didn’t come over. After a moment he turned away. From behind lowered lashes, Lothíriel watched him as he walked across the chamber towards the chest that held his clothes and began methodically to dress. It seemed that all his garments were kept in that one massive chest.

Éomer was far from being a vain man. Cynewyn had told her that the obligation he felt towards his station and his sister’s urgings rather than personal preference had prompted him to have his wardrobe extended since he had become king. The warrior Cynewyn had known for twelve years, since he was a lad of sixteen, could have stashed his personal belongings in a couple of saddle bags at any time.

Lothíriel wondered what he had made of the abundance of gowns and finery that had been sent to Edoras in advance as his bride’s trousseau. She had thought the sheer number of dresses, cloaks, shoes and all kind of adornments as disproportional, if not downright embarrassing. She hadn’t owned that kind of wardrobe for all of the first twenty years of her life combined. Of course she knew that there was plenty of money from her dowry which Éomer had refused to accept. But wasting coins on all that frippery had gone against her basic beliefs. The noble ladies of Minas Tirith in all their shallow vanity had bred only disdain in her. And now she was in possession of the same sort of frivolous trappings.

Éomer had finished binding the crossgartering and was now retrieving his boots, which were still lying where he had discarded them the previous night. He pushed his right foot in the matching boot and stamped on the floor for a proper fit, then repeated the procedure with the left one. Each pound on the stone tiles was loud enough to have woken Lothíriel had she still been asleep. She decided to ignore the obvious purpose behind the noise and kept on pretending to be fast asleep.

She stayed perfectly still, not moving, just breathing evenly. However, Éomer also didn’t move. Actually, she couldn’t hear anything from him, not even his breathing. Although she was pretty sure he was watching her, there was not a single noise coming from him that would have indicted that he was still in the chamber and what he was doing. She couldn’t avoid a little frown appearing between her eyebrows. What kind of game was he playing now? He should either wake her or leave the room.

Finally, Lothíriel couldn’t endure this peculiar state of siege any longer. Abruptly she opened her eyes – and startled, flipped on her back with about as much grace as a landed fish flopping about on the river bank. Éomer stood directly in front of her. How a big man like him had managed to move that stealthily from the other end of the room to next to the bed, withal in those heavy boots, was beyond her.

Éomer’s mouth had curved in a smug grin at her affright. “I thought so,” he murmured.

“You are . . . ,” Lothíriel began but couldn’t quite come to a satisfying conclusion of what he was. Her husband raised his brows in polite interest.

She sat up and gathered her legs close to her chest and hugged them. With her chin propped on her knees she shot him a reproachful glare. “You are too imperious,” she ground out. “And you are too . . .” Her voice trailed off, not because she was too well brought-up to say what she meant, but because she couldn’t again find the words she sought. And that was rather unexpected.

“Too what?” he inquired.

“Too arrogant,” was what she settled for with a scowl and decided to continue right where he had broken off their argument last night. “You dismiss my opinions and my rooted objections.”

His eyes glinted with sudden, genuine amusement. “That makes us two of a kind.”

“Certainly not!” Lothíriel straightened her spine, indignant at the idea.

Éomer lowered himself on the edge of the bed and leaned over her. She inched back onto the pillows. He planted his hands on either side of her head, caging her. Lothíriel’s lips tightened, but before she could reply his hand came up to cup the side of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so tender that anything she might have been going to say was instantly forgotten. Her insides turned to liquid. Just like that. All it took was the slide of his thumb over her skin.

“I think I am going to kiss you,” he announced casually.

“You think?”

“I think I have to kiss you.” His nose touched hers. “It is rather like breathing. One does not have much choice in the matter.”

She thought about that for the briefest of moments. “Yes,” she agreed.

And then his mouth found her lips, and if he still felt any of the annoyance from yesterday towards her, it was not there in his kiss. He was soft and gentle, but so thorough that she was dazzled. Dimly she realized that his restraint was probably deliberate, that she was being tantalized right past the bulwark her good judgement should have erected, but she simply didn’t care.

He broke the kiss. Then, slowly, he moved his hand to touch her mouth. Just the faintest butterfly touch, his forefinger rubbing over the soft curve of her lower lip, which was still damp from his kiss, but it was enough to make her tremble.

“Cold?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

This time the kiss was harder, deeper, compelling a response that she was only too willing to give. She wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him closer and kissed him for all she was worth. Arching herself up against him, clinging to his neck, she wanted to provoke the same response in him as he was evoking in her.

It became some kind of duel.

Éomer let part of his weight shift from his arms onto the upper part of her body, pressing her deeper into the bedding. He kissed her soundly until she had to concede and free her mouth to catch her breath, but he was unwilling to grant her mercy and captured her lips again. He drew her tongue into his mouth, sucking on it. His mouth was warm and wet and devastating. Lothíriel shivered and fought back, stroking the warm skin above his tunic collar at the nape of his neck, running her fingers through the couple of cowlicks that were hid there under his thick mane.

He was right. One did not have much choice. She thought that she finally understood what wanting somebody truly meant. She wanted Éomer like she wanted food to eat and water to drink and air to breathe.

He lifted his head. Lothíriel’s lids fluttered up, and she drew in a shuddering gulp of air. His jaw was set, his mouth tight. She was pleased to see that he was breathing hard too. He watched her, his nose less than a hand’s-width above hers. He didn’t smile, but instead examined her face with a thoughtfulness that puzzled her. That unconscious little frown appeared above the bridge of her nose. Slowly his lips twisted to a smile.

“Min ælfscīenu dā.”

He was about to kiss her again, but Lothíriel evaded his mouth.

“Did you just say ‘my beautiful toe’?” she asked confused.

Éomer burst out laughing. For a moment he buried his face in the exuberance of tousled dark hair that haloed her head. Still chuckling, he turned his face and kissed her ear.

“Not ‘tā’, sweeting. I said ‘dā’, ‘mīn ælfscīenu dā’.”

“Oh. What does it mean?”

Gently he caught her hands, which were still locked around his neck and in an instant both her wrists were in one of his large hands and manacled above her head. He straightened up to run his eyes over her. The upward movement of her arm had bared her breast to his gaze and he was quite obviously savouring the view.

He smiled at her affectionately. “Iċ clyppe ðec, mīn frymdig lytle mūl,” he murmured before he let her wrists go and trailed a finger through the valley between her breasts. “I had better go as long as I am able to resist the temptation,” he paused and his smile turned wicked, “‘fram ðēos ēaðbyligne lybbestre’.” He kissed the tip of her nose and got up. “Before my morning meal, I wish to put an end to this nuisance once and for all.”

“What nuisance?” Lothíriel propped herself up on one elbow. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are talking about our disagreement. What do you intend to do?” she hurled the question after him, again at her belligerent best.

Unperturbed, he walked over to the door. “I thought I would assume your approach towards controversial matters and present you with accomplished facts.” His hand on the latch, he turned to face her, a confident smirk on his face.

“Éofor is not going to become your riding instructor,” he announced with finality and was gone before she had the chance to reply.

TBC

‘tā’ – toe

‘dā’ - fawn

‘mīn ælfscīenu dā’ – my beautiful fawn

‘Iċ clyppe ðec, mīn frymdid lytle mūl.’ - I adore you, my curious little mule.

‘fram ðēos ēaðbyligne lybbestre’ – of this irritating enchantress

Unexpected by Madeleine