Downstream, the black waded in the river, shaken and blooded, but not broken. It was late afternoon and the town, perhaps half a mile away, was growing quieter, as folk left the horses to rest and retreated within the gates to attend to the serious matters of drinking and eating. They would not go abroad again tonight. But the young horse was uneasy. He had never ventured so far from the group before and still he could taste the alien odours of smoke and leather and human sweat. Restless, he looked back up the river but could see no sign of his dam. Instinctively he knew that he could not return to her, for today everything had changed. And as the sun began to drop towards the mountains west of the town, his solitude closed in upon him and for the first time he knew desolation and felt suddenly very young again. He picked at a few coarse blades of grass, but was too wary to get on with the task of feeding.

Something stirred on the breeze, a scent, or the faintest trace of a footfall. The colt lifted his head and looked about him, sniffing the air. Nothing came to him, but he heard again a noise from a rocky outcrop a few yards downwind. It was no horse that he had heard. As he stood like a stone, straining for a scent, a strange sound came to him. It was akin to the voices of the men that had disquieted him that afternoon, but this time it did not change or cease, but flowed softly like water in a stream or spring birds in the evening, rising and falling to some inner rhythm. It was not harsh to his ears like the shouting of the men at the town, and certainly it was not frightening. Somewhere in his heart he seemed to know it and it reassured him like his mother’s call; at the same time it roused in him a sense of longing that drew him towards it.

He took a few steps towards the rocks, and then stopped, caution overcoming his curiosity. The sound continued and then confusion took him as he saw a figure rise up seemingly straight out of the ground, but he did not flee. It was a human, for that much he could now smell; tall, hands outstretched, mouth slightly open as he continued to sing. Slowly he approached, and the black stretched out his head until his nose was almost touching the man’s fingers. This was different from his previous encounters with men. This human seemed already to know him, to be calling his name, though he had not realised that he possessed one. He felt safe.

The nightwatch at Meduseld was just beginning. Inside, the feast continued and the king was holding forth in fine style. He was as ever generous with his table and all the household was seated in his thrall. Morwen had sung of Gondor in her own tongue and captivated the guests. Now was the time for tales in honour of the fallen, as the ale wound its way about men’s heads and gently disarmed them. Théoden had been the whole evening in the king’s stables with his mearh and only now came into the hall. He had felt all day the growing thrill of this new phase in his life, this rite of passage. But he looked on his father and felt spurned for a boy again, while, when he saw Gálmód flirting drunkenly with his mother, he realised the true meaning of contempt. He stayed a matter of minutes and then made his excuses to Ælfhere and left, ignoring his father’s joking insinuation that he could not hold his drink.

Sitting on the steps by the horsehead fountain, he watched the last vestiges of red as they stained the western sky, as red as the gifts of wine that guests brought from Mundburg, he thought. The sound of hooves made him look down and in the fading light he made out Thorongil coming up the path, leading a horse. He decided to speak to the foreigner, whose company he was to join in the autumn, and followed him casually into the stables. It was then that Théoden recognised the black colt.

‘How did you catch the black mearh?’ he asked in surprise.

‘I came upon him down river. He was tired and a little hurt, but he came to me easily enough.’

‘I do not understand. He was wild this afternoon, like an otter in a trap. No man has ever handled him.’

Thorongil smiled enigmatically. ‘I think he was waiting to be found.’ He hung a haynet in the stall and gently began to rub the colt’s coat, taking care where he had been bitten.

Théoden cautiously held his hand under the animal’s muzzle and, seeing no reaction, rubbed his nose. But the black instantly pulled away at his touch and moved to the corner of his stall, watching him guardedly. The yearling eyed them from his own stall nearby.

‘I never thought the mearas would challenge each other like that,’ said Théoden.

‘They may be remarkable beasts, but they are still horses and they live the ways of other horses,’ answered Thorongil. ‘This one learned his lesson today. He is growing up fast, but he will not try the strength of Shadowfax again, I think.’

‘They say you ride well for a stranger. Where did you learn?’

Thorongil frowned. ‘The Eorlingas are not the only folk who love their horses, my lord. I learned to ride in the north. The customs of my people are different from yours and our horses must tread the mountain paths and the cold heath, but we cherish them next to our children.’

They regarded one other, the king’s son with clear blue eyes in his fair, open face and the tall soldier, dishevelled from the long day’s toil, the mane of dark hair falling half across his face, but not concealing his penetrating gaze, which disconcerted Théoden, though he knew not why. For a moment he recalled a great stone hall filled with statues and tall, stern men like kings, with noble faces and eyes of grey; but it was a memory from distant childhood that he could not place and he put it from his mind.

‘I shall stay here with the horses tonight,’ said Thorongil, pulling hay from his tousled hair and wrapping a discarded horse blanket round his shoulders. ‘Tomorrow we shall hear what the king has to say.’

‘I hear strange news this morning, Eardstapa.’ Thengel tore some fresh bread and placed on it a piece of blue veined cheese. ‘They tell me that the black colt was brought in last night as calm as an ass. What would you say caused such a change in him, I wonder?’

Aragorn studied the king’s face. He sometimes found Thengel’s wry humour difficult to read when added to the burden of translating his Rohirric. He had never dared confess that he knew the speech of Gondor, which Thengel habitually used at court in deference to his queen.

Then Gálmód broke in. ‘I think you know, captain, that it is unlawful for any man not of the royal line to ride one of the mearas.’

Aragorn ignored him and addressed the king. ‘I found the colt down river and brought him to the stables, lord, but I have not ridden him. He followed me of his own accord.’

‘There is none here who can lawfully tame him, now that my son has bonded with the grey yearling. But, if he remains riderless at Edoras, a time will come when he will have to leave the Mark. He cannot go back to the herd for Shadowfax will not permit it. So how is this matter to be resolved?’

‘My lord,’ said Aragorn softly. ‘As to who may ride the children of Felaróf, there are no rules, but the king’s rules. Therefore the king is at liberty to change them without the leave of others, be they the dead or the living. It seems to me that the fate of the black colt is yours alone to determine.’

‘You would do well to remember it.’ The king inclined his head and eyed Aragorn as though he were a magpie examining a newfound treasure. ‘You say that you have not tried to mount this animal?’

‘No, lord. I have not.’

‘Then let us make trial of you. Yesterday I made you Marshal. Today you shall aspire to a much loftier distinction. You shall attempt to ride a mearh. Ælfhere and Gálmód shall bear witness. You shall mount the black at the fountain and ride out of the town. Then you shall try him for one hour. If at the end of the hour you are still astride him and he has done your bidding, you may show yourself worthy of the horse, and I shall give him to you and you will be bonded, as I am bonded to Shadowfax.’

It was a little after noon and Ælfhere and Gálmód could be seen by the horsehead fountain, already mounted. The misshapen foot that had hampered Gálmód since his birth troubled him not at all on horseback. Soft rain was falling, brought down from the Misty Mountains by the north wind.

‘Isn’t it enough that he is made marshal of Westfold?’ Ælfhere’s Westemnet burr was laced with resentment. He was of an age with the foreigner and, as Gálmód predicted, had taken the news ill.

Gálmód smirked behind his hand. Uniquely among the king’s men, he enjoyed the privilege of the freedom to speak his mind without fear of reprimand. And as ever he made the most of it.

‘He may not have your blood, but he has twice your brains when it comes to leadership, young man. If my own son of just nine summers can best you at chess I would not give much for your chances against Thorongil.’

Ælfhere squirmed, for he knew that Gálmód was right. Outstanding archer as he was, he had no head for strategy and lacked authority when it came to the decisions of battle.

Suddenly the subject of Ælfhere’s discontent appeared before them, leading the black and moving so quietly that they had not noticed him arrive. The horse bore no harness, as was the way of the mearas except when they were going to war, but instead wore a soft headstall with a long rope. He followed the man without question, though he was watchful and regarded the townsfolk suspiciously. Off duty now, Aragorn was attired loosely in dark hose and a soft grey tunic, quite unadorned except for the ornate silver ring that never left his hand. The effect was to make him appear taller and more a stranger even than usual amidst the warm colours favoured by the folk of the Mark, accentuating his pale features and lending him an air both exotic and oddly remote.

He paused by the fountain and nodded in casual greeting to Gálmód and Ælfhere. Facing the black colt head on, he murmured to him words that no one else could understand, all the while caressing his face and ears. Then quicker than sight he was on the animal’s back. The black sidestepped and for a moment his ears tilted backwards, but presently he grew quiet and stood still, confusion in his face. But Aragorn placed gentle hands on his neck and whispered again and this time the black took a few hesitant steps down the slope.

Then Aragorn turned to the others and smiled broadly. ‘Shall we start, my lords?’

They permitted him to lead the way through the town. The colt looked ill at ease, but his rider whispered to him softly as they went, with the occasional light touch of hand or foot to guide him towards the gates.

They say that the mearas have little need of the conventional methods used in backing their less exalted cousins. For, since the days of Felaróf, they have understood the speech of men, and such is the love they bear for their chosen companions that they will carry them safely into any danger, not questioning or doubting, but trusting in their own strength and speed, and thus they meet whatever end with pride and determination. The black heard again the music in his new friend’s voice and felt reassured by the firm touch of thigh against ribs. Aragorn, for all his height, was lightly built, and in this man and horse were well matched. He sat perfectly balanced, accustoming the black to the slightest movement of heel or squeeze of knee, using not the ways of the Rohirrim, but skills he had learned from a people much older; touch without force, words that did not command, but rather coaxed and entrusted.

They made their way down the steep hill through the winding ways of the town, pausing frequently so as not to startle the colt, who flicked his ears nervously and occasionally shied a little, at a dog or child in his path. But when they left the town behind them the black began visibly to relax. Out here all was familiar, from the springy turf to the sounds of the river. He looked about him, seeking the mearas or even the Eastfold herd. But the Snowbourn valley, bright with spring sunshine, was empty of creatures bigger than the many rabbits, while the air carried no sound louder than the calls of the lapwings, that rose en masse and wheeled over head at the sight of the approaching horses.

Aragorn glanced over his shoulder at his followers, amused. He knew already that he and the black were bonded. The mearas were akin to the horses of Rivendell; that much was plain from the ease with which he had calmed the colt the day before. You remind me of Elenya, he thought. She has your long stride and your head too. He felt suddenly more at home with this wild young mearh than he had for a very long time.

In the valley bottom there was space enough for the black to show what he was made of. Gently Aragorn eased him forward, into a trot, then a brisk canter and seconds later the black was at full stretch, head and tail high, relishing the pace and open terrain and surefooted as a mountain goat. The horses of Gálmód and Ælfhere had no chance of keeping pace with him, so that at the head of the valley Aragorn had to work hard to pull him up, lest the others lose sight of him entirely. The black halted at last, scarcely blowing from the half-mile gallop, but overwrought and nervous from his first experience of bearing a rider. He had much to learn.

Presently the other horses caught up. Gálmód smiled grimly.

‘You make a fine pair, Marshal of Westfold. But who was in charge, I wonder?’

‘He is headstrong, it is true,’ said Aragorn. ‘It will take some time to learn his mind, but he is bold and swift as an arrow.’ The black backed away as Gálmód approached, and Aragorn had to turn him two or three times before he would stand. Gálmód laughed.

‘You’ll have your work cut out teaching him to run with the men.’

‘Give the beast a chance, Gálmód. He is not six years old and he doesn’t yet have even a name.’