The Calm

Éowyn laid the board before her Uncle, and busied herself finding the chalice that he must drink from.  It bothered her that this chalice seemed to go missing with such regularity, for her Uncle could drink from no other, and as byrele it was her responsibility to have a care for the heirlooms of Meduseld.  Still it always turned up in the end, and until she had time to discover the mystery behind its vanishings, that would be enough to satisfy her. 

Théoden looked at his meal with disgust, and in truth, Éowyn did not blame him.  It was made up of the purest and blandest of foods – soft white bread, something of luxury in Rohan, a fact her Uncle failed to appreciate now that he had eaten it for three months solid, pale and creamy gruel that had little or no taste and finally milk, sometimes flavoured with cinnamon, for a treat.  She did not blame Théoden for being frustrated – even ale was only rarely permitted him – and she imagined he was longing for the taste of mead or red meat.

She wished she had not had to restrict him to such dull fare, but Edoras’s healer, Cynefrid, had suggested it, as a way of purging the ill humours that wore down his body.  She was a little doubtful of the efficacy of his methods, for in the three months past her Uncle had shown little discernible improvement.  Edoras had once had a very brilliant Healer by the name of Diancecht, who was known throughout the land for his healing hands, but he was apprenticed in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, and so far all of Éowyn’s letters to him had gone astray.

Being dissatisfied with the current Healer’s efforts Éowyn had sought other knowledge.  She had gone to the library, much as she hated it, and dug up those few texts on Rohan’s Kings.  She had read tales of the King’s back to Fréaláf Hildeson, the first of the second line of Kings, but had found nothing useful.  Most of the Kings had died in their sleep, and had been hearty and hale until their deaths.  Some others had died from the wounds they received in battle, but none had suffered from a decline such as the one her Uncle laboured under. 

Though as for that few of the records were of much use.  They were chronicles of the realm, and were not particularly detailed – taking brief note of the major deaths, births, marriages and battles in particular years.  Éowyn often found herself wondering who Eadwig Marshal of the Mark had been exactly, and why his death had brought ‘much rejoicing’, and still more if he had been hated, why his son Wybert had been ‘greatly beloved’; but the chronicles offered no clue.

All save one.  Covering a ten-year period of her grandfather Thengel’s reign, it was beautifully written – unusual since all the chronicles were written in Westron, a language not native to Rohan.  The writer was Éowyn’s favourite of all the chroniclers, for he described Morwen Steelsheen’s stand and even took note of the birth of Éowyn’s mother, Théodwyn.  The position of Chronicler had once been one of great honour – for at the end of each reign, a copy of the chronicle would be sent to Minas Tirith for inclusion in its great libraries (one of the reasons why the chronicle was written in Westron) – but it was not so now.  It seemed to Éowyn that after the departure of the great captain and chronicler Thorongil – who she vaguely remembered meeting in her own childhood – the office had declined.  It was considered scut-work and was consigned to the lowliest of scribes.

Fascinating though the chronicles were, they were of no help to her.  All they told her was that no one in Théoden’s line had ever suffered from the illness that was aging him, which was not, all things considered, particularly useful. 

Théoden laid down his spoon, and Éowyn hurriedly said, “Are you finished Uncle?”  He nodded, and Éowyn smiled at him, and said, “I have something for you today Uncle.”  He looked up at her, and she smiled and produced an apple with a flourish.  Théoden’s eyes widened and he said, “How did you convince Cynefrid?”

“I simply mentioned to him that for you to eat fruit was probably not as dangerous as if you do not eat at all.  Shall I cut it for you?”

She unsheathed her short knife and cut the apple into segments, cutting as little from it as possible.  When she was done she handed them to her Uncle on a plate, and tucked her knife into her boot once more.  As she did so she could not restrain the surge of frustration that cramped her stomach – she was a Shieldmaiden, not a dry nurse!  She did not begrudge the time she spent with her Uncle, but it was not what she had trained for.  She felt like a tool that rusted due to lack of use – she could not cure her Uncle, she could not even stay his decline, try as she might, and she must stay and sit beside him always, hiding her frustration behind a mask of content. 

So far none had divined the frustrated desire for action that seethed within her, but it was only a matter of time she was sure.  Still Théoden had seemed a little better for the past week and perhaps she might, after all, be able to visit Aldburg for a few days.  Summer had nearly begun and the warm days might mean that her Uncle would require less care.

Théoden grinned at her and said, “What else is there today Éowyn?”

“Well Hama wishes to meet with you regarding the re-enforcement of the walls around Edoras, and Théodred has sent a messenger from the field.  And of course, Grima wishes to speak with you.  Hama can wait if you are feeling tired.”

“No, no.  But I shall speak with Grima first.”

“Of course Uncle.  I shall find him for you.”

“No need Lady Éowyn.  I am here.”

“Well in that case I shall leave you till I am needed.”

“Actually, Lady Éowyn, if it’s not too much trouble…”

“Yes?”

“I would hear your voice on this.”

“Of course Hala Grima.”  Éowyn sank down beside her Uncle, her skirts billowing out around her.  Perhaps later she could go riding. 

Grima bowed to Théoden, and drew up a stool beside the throne.  He spoke softly, and Éowyn had to strain her ears to catch every word.  “I have heard, my lord, that of late, freocwene Aegyth has been taken ill.”  Théoden bent his head attentively, “How long has she been ill?”

“Many months, lord Théoden, and Cynefrid informs me that her illness is of the most chronic and pernicious kind.”

Éowyn’s ears pricked up at this, but she said nothing, waiting for Grima’s point to emerge.  In the past months she had become some what used to his convoluted speech patterns, although that did not mean she found them any less irritating.  Théoden spoke again, “And what is your counsel?”

“I believe lord Théoden that this illness freocwene Aegyth suffers from prevents her from performing many of the duties she has fulfilled with such excellence these past years.  I thought I might suggest that you could grant her land where she might live out her final years in peace.”

“Éowyn, what is your opinion?”

“Uncle, I…I must protest.  I do not doubt Hala Grima’s motives, but, Aegyth has devoted her life’s service to Meduseld, we can not simply abandon her now that she is old.”

“We would not be abandoning her Lady Éowyn, rather we would simply insure that her last years would be free of the duties at which she has laboured all her life.”

“Perhaps, but all her life is bound up in this hall Uncle – it would be cruel to take her away from it.  Surely we can keep her here, if we ease her duties somewhat?”

“I am sure lady Éowyn speaks from the heart, but I do not doubt that she herself could replace freocwene Aegyth in many ways, as she already has.”

Éowyn stared at him, not liking the implications of his remarks.  She spoke once more, “Uncle, think of the many years Aegyth has spent here – you cannot ask her to leave.  She has lived here longer even than you have.”

Grima smirked and said, “I am aware that Aegyth’s removal will necessitate the acceptance of many new duties on lady Éowyn’s part, but I do not doubt that she is able for the task.”

Éowyn made a move to argue once more but Théoden cut her off, saying, “I have not yet made my decision, Éowyn.  Grima and I have many affairs to discuss, and I am sure you have duties to perform.”  She stood and curtsied to the throne, “Of course Uncle.”  She walked to the doors, her back straight and her steps slow. 

Once she left the hall she sped up, reaching the stables as quickly as possible.  Her hands moved swiftly over Windfola’s saddle.  What was the purpose?  Why force Aegyth to leave?  She would pass in a few months anyway, so why the sudden desire to give her rest?  Éowyn lent her head against the pommel for a moment – she knew what this meant.  With Aegyth gone, she would be bound to Meduseld all the more – she could see where Grima’s scheme tended.  He wanted her to take up Aegyth’s duties in the Golden Hall on top of her own, which were numerous enough, even though no Lady of Rohan had done so in generations.  But why?  She could not fathom it.  Her fists clenched in frustration – her few hours with horse and blade would be curtailed even further, and Aegyth.  How could Théoden even think of sending her away?  It was wrong; he himself had taught her that retainers should be cared for in their old age, not send to die on some barren plot of land.

She did not doubt that Grima would succeed in convincing her Uncle to banish Aegyth, and she hated him for his oily policy.  It wasn’t right!  Théoden was an honourable man, how could he even consider such a thing?  Windfola neighed, and Éowyn swung herself into the saddle, hoping to pound out an answer on the valley floor with her hooves, or perhaps catch some flash of insight in the whistling wind – for herself she could not understand it.

Author’s Note:

1) Diancecht:  Now this is complicated.  When I researched Anglo-Saxon medicine, mention was made of a myth they’d adopted from the Celts they conquered, a myth that only survives in the Irish legend:

Long ago, in Erin, there were the Fomorians, and after them, the Tuatha De Danaan. The Tuatha fought to win the land from the Fomorians and they were helped by their god of medicine and physic, Diancecht.  At the last great battle, Diancecht took one each of every good herb in Erin, and threw them into a well. Then he took all those mortally wounded of the Tuatha De Danaan and threw them into the well. They each climbed from the well, whole again and fit to rejoin the battle; and in this manner, which I shall forbear to call cheating, the Tuatha De Danaan defeated the Fomorians.

Diancecht had a son called Midac; when Midac died, 365 different herbs grew on his grave, one for each joint and sinew of his body. Each herb was good cure for the matching part of the human body that it's position indicated on the grave of Midac.

Diancecht's daughter collected and dried the herbs and placed them in store in their proper order; however, Diancecht must have thought the Tuatha were getting it too easy, for in a fit of a temper he mixed all the herbs up; that is why mankind has to sort things out for himself."

Upon reading it I thought, what if Diancecht was an actual healer in Rohan, who after the War of the Ring, managed to revolutionise healing?  It’s a bit of a stretch, but I thought it was interesting.

The reference to ‘humours’ comes, not from Anglo-Saxon medicine, but from the theories of the body that had fairly common currency in Mediaeval Europe – ideas I imagined Rohan would have received from its more sophisticated neighbour, Gondor.

2) The Chronicles.  Even the most primitive of European cultures, once they attained a basic level of literacy, kept chronicles of major events.  There is nothing more simultaneously tantalising and infuriating than a mediaeval chronicle, and I hoped to capture some of that here - for example there is an English chronicle in which, after a gap of twenty years, Old English changes to Middle English, apparently without anyone noticing.

3) A final note.  At present Éowyn is just nineteen, meaning that we're between four and five years from the War of the Ring