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CHAPTER 3

A Truce

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Early the following morning, Lothíriel found herself awake, dressed, and in the stables, saddling her mare for a ride. The dapple grey horse was as impatient as she was to be outside, though she knew not why her horse was suddenly so keen on being out of the stable. Still, the day was pleasant enough, she knew, and there was no reason for staying inside when there was so much beauty to be experienced in this land.

So Lothíriel rode away from the house, into the thick forest. She stayed away from the road, preferring to slip between the trees and plunge through the shallow creeks that wove their web across the land. And it was not long before she saw another rider in the forest.

He was dressed in black and riding a horse of the same color, but the golden hair streaming in the wind marked him as none other than the King of Rohan. He saw her too, and it was not long before they were racing, though to what end Lothíriel did not know. She rode hard, determined to show she was just as much a horsewoman as any woman of Rohan. Sitting sidesaddle, she was at a great disadvantage, of course, but her horse was smaller, and more able to take the abrupt twists and turns among the trees as they sped toward a bridge spanning one of the larger tributaries of the Anduin.

It soon became clear that this bridge was their target, and also that Éomer would far outpace her. The legendary Mearas had the speed which the tales prescribed, and there was no way in which her little mare could possibly keep up. When the King slowed to a trot some fifty paces from the bridge, Lothíriel was quite surprised. And then he turned a confident smile on her, and she snapped the reins, spurring her horse ahead. The mare dashed up the bridge, and, to her delight, Éomer was just behind her.

Slowly and with great caution Lothíriel turned her horse around on the apex of the wooden bridge, smiling at the surprise on Éomer’s face. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, nodding to him.

He nodded as well. “Shall I propose a race back to the house?” he asked.

Lothíriel laughed. “I would not care to tempt fate again, my lord,” she replied.

Smiling, he said: “Perhaps a quiet ride, then. You have proven yourself an adequate horsewoman, though you are a woman of Dol Amroth.”

The Princess lowered her head as she laughed softly. “I will take that as a compliment, my lord, as there seems to be none other to be had,” she replied. “Not twelve hours ago I was headstrong and insolent.”

“And you are still,” said Éomer. “But that does not exclude you from riding well. Perhaps it helps.”

She released the reins for a moment in order to pull the pins from her hair. The wind had mussed it, pulled some of her hair loose from its setting, so she simply let it free. All the while her horse stayed still, and Éomer watched her. When she arched a brow at his perusal, he said: “You keep your seat remarkably well.”

“Thank you,” she replied, somewhat bewildered by this courtesy. “I may never love riding so well as I do sailing, but my father did teach me how to hold my seat in all manner of conditions.”

He chuckled and shook his head, turning his horse to move away from the bridge so that she could leave it at last. “You people of Dol Amroth and your boats,” he said. “I do not understand your fascination with them in the least.”

“Ah, then you have spoken with my father on the subject,” said Lothíriel.

“‘Tis one of his chief reasons for wishing me to visit, to force me into the hold of one of his ships.”

She laughed lightly as they began a leisurely pace back to the house. “Nay, my lord, he would place you on the prow!” she cried. “But surely you do not fear the ships.”

“Fear it? No,” he replied, rather faster than would lend believability to his words. “I merely prefer being on the ground and in complete control of what conveys me from one place to another.”

“And you can be never be in control of your horse, any more than I could be in control of the sea, my lord.” She cast a sidelong glance at him to see him smiling. “Master of the Mark though you may be, I wager you have been thrown from a horse more often than I have fallen from a ship.”

“But of what use is a ship in Rohan?” he countered. “Practicality must be taken into account as well.”

“I can hardly argue that a ship is more useful than a horse,” said Lothíriel, “but I can argue that it is more enjoyable. To stand on the prow of a ship as she sails into port as the sun sets behind you, or to climb to the crow’s nest and watch the men below you in their work—there is nothing better, my lord.”

“Unless it be a ball on a ship’s deck?”

She laughed. “Perhaps.”

Éomer patted his horse’s neck affectionately. “Someday you will find a real horse, my lady, who suits you as well as you suit her, and you will never think of your pretty ships again.”

“Or you will find a little yacht which suits you, my lord, and will never wish to leave the seashore, no matter how much your duty calls you to the plains of Rohan.”

He made some reply, and as the conversation continued, Lothíriel was struck by how very different this was from the night before. Perhaps their memories had both been affected by months of separation, but now she remembered that this had been the substance of their friendship in Minas Tirith—friendly disagreements, unending debates of a benign and genial nature—not the caustic near-insults of the previous night. And it was not at all unpleasant.

They entered the stable side by side, still conversing, and before long Éomer had dismounted his horse and was at Lothíriel’s side. She rested her hands upon his shoulders, perhaps forgetting who he was, and as naturally the King placed his hands upon her waist to steady her as she dismounted. When her feet hit the ground she looked up, only to find Éomer backing away from her and taking her horse’s reins. “Oh, no, my lord, I will see to her,” she said, walking around him to take the lead from him.

As she led her horse into her stall, Éomer said: “As you wish, Lady.”

When their horses were secured, the two headed up to the house, rather quietly. Still perplexed by the sudden change in demeanor for them both, she suddenly commented: “My lord, perhaps it would be best if we were never in company after dinner.”

He turned an amused smile on her. “And why is that?”

“That seems to be the time when we argue the most, my lord, and if we avoided each other then we might never disagree.”

“We were just disagreeing five minutes ago!”

Lothíriel laughed. “Then perhaps we would not fight about it, but quarrel in some civilized manner.”

“It is easier with men,” he replied, “and easier still with Dwarves. Were you my friend Gimli, I would call for my sword while you call for your axe, and we would settle this ‘in some civilized manner’.”

“Perhaps I shall invite this Gimli and he shall stand up for me.”

“I doubt that very much, my lady.”

By then they had reached the top of the steps, and they glanced at each other and burst into laughter. When that had subsided, Éomer held out his hand. “Come, Lady, let us have a truce, until my sister’s child is born at least.”

A little reluctantly, Lothíriel placed her hand in his, and he shook it firmly. She replied: “But I make no promises after the child is come.”

“And I ask for none.”

The two walked into the house then, each concealing a small smile. They were just in time to see Faramir and Éowyn coming to the breakfast room, and the mischievous smile on Faramir’s lips did not escape Lothíriel’s notice. “Does something concern you, cousin?” she asked.

“Has my brother-in-law changed his mind about you?” he asked.

“Changed his mind?” she repeated. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Last night you were ‘the most headstrong, impertinent, insolent woman’ he had ever met, and he declared it rather forcefully.”

Imrahil entered then as Éowyn laughed and Lothíriel blushed furiously. “If that is what you meant to inquire after, cousin, then yes, we resolved our quarrel of last night.”

They all sat down at the table, and Faramir said: “A pity, then, for I spent half the night thinking of ways to torment you over it, while Éowyn’s tossing and turning would not let me sleep.”

Lothíriel closed her eyes before she could roll them. “A great pity.”