Any human anywhere will blossom

in a hundred unexpected talents and capacities

simply by being given the opportunity to do so.

(Doris Lessing 1919 - )

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.

“Ulger.”

Queen and blacksmith had looked up, frowning at the interruption.

“Éomer King?”

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.

“What are you doing with so many swords with unsharpened edges?”

“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.”

“A surprise indeed,” Éomer had muttered with a hint of exaggeration.

“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.

“Careful, my Lord. I am armed now.”

“But you are a healer, my Lady. You heal wounds; you do not inflict them.”

“For you I will make an exception,” she had assured him sweetly.

“And you think you are able to overpower me armed only with a knife?”

“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.”

“Her loss. You made and still make the best riding boots.”

“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.”

“So I have gathered.”

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.”

The cooper just bowed his wordless farewell.

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

“I have a surprise for you,” Éomer announced.

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

“If I told you now, it would not be a surprise.”

“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?”

Both named looked at Éomer with quizzically raised eyebrows. He grinned.

“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.

“Do you wish me to call it off?” Éomer asked him.

“No, do not interfere. Why not let them have their merriment.”

“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.

“This is the stable yard.”

“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.”

“Oh! I had not realised that it is supposed to be a public affair.”

“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.

Éomer looked down at the woman beside him. Black and red.

“That is a horse,” Lothíriel stated dubiously.

“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.”

“Cad.” The tone was low and pointedly amiable.

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.

“This is Osmund. He will take care of your horse.”

“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.

“Oh!” She tilted her head in surprise. “This is elaborate.”

“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.”

Éomer stepped closer, running his hand over the mare’s crest.

“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.

“What is her name?”

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.

“Léohtymbhwyrft.”

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.

“I beg your pardon?”

“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.”

“It would have simplified matters if one had just named her ‘Ræfn’.”

“How do you know the Rohirric word for raven?"

“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.”

“Now I am certain you will soon have mastered the tongue of the Rohirrim.”

“I thought we had established that my ability to learn is not in question.”

“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.

“Now?”

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.

“I do not think this is a good idea.”

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

“Care to elaborate?”

“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.

“I will take my chance,” he said with a wicked grin.

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.

“To your regret.”

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.”

“Are you willing to place a bet on it?”

“I will bet you anything you like.”

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.

“Who says Amrothos is not?” Lothíriel protested.

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.

“A surprise.”

“By now that word makes me suspicious.”

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.”

“Captain Éofor.”

“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.

“We will be back shortly after nightfall,” he addressed Imrahil.

“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.

“I think we better set off now.”

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.

“Where are we going?”

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.”

“And what is there waiting for us?”

“Rocks.”

“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?”

“We are not going to view the rocks. By the way, how does this horse feel?”

“Like a horse.”

Éomer suppressed a chuckle. He kept silent and waited.

“She is very beautiful.”

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.”

“It is not a horse that serves as my model for beauty.”

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

“No, I am hoping to make you blush.”

Her eyebrows shot upwards. “Why would you want me to blush?”

“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?”

It was Éomer’s turn to laugh out loudly.

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.

“Are you up to a faster pace?”

“If it cannot be avoided.”

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.

“Now we are going to climb up there.”

Her head jerked around. “You are jesting.”

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.”

“There is nothing up there.”

“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.”

“You are talking in riddles.”

“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.

“I am not a mountain goat,” she tried a last protest.

“I will assist you. You will find the ascent quite easy.”

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.”

“I would love to see the Eldest one day.”

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

“And between the Thrihyrne and the Dol Baran, that is the Gap of Rohan?”

“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.

“You hate them?”

“I hate the Orcs; I despise the Dunlendings.”

“They aided the wizard’s forces to slay your cousin and his men.”

“Yes.”

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.

“What?”

“You smell like a bake house in the winter.”

“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.

“Your riders can see us up here quite clearly.”

“They are discreet. They will look the other way.”

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.”

“Who?” Ceorl asked, looking blank.

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

“You are jesting,” two of the men chorused.

“Erkenbrand’s daughter?” Ceorl obviously needed additional clarification.

“The very same,” The Captain of the Royal Guard grinned.

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.

“Who?” Acwulf asked rashly.

“Well, not the Queen.” Torold snapped.

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

“Hey, you two,” Ceorl warned. “Leave the Queen out of this.”

“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?”

The other four men let out exaggerated groans and ignored the youngest of them.

“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.

“As long as she does not sport a beard,” Acwulf said pragmatically.

“But she does.”

“A beard?”

“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.

“Éomer is not here.”

“She is our queen.”

“And I am not blind.”

“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.

“Sunset,” Acwulf enlightened him.

“Sunset?” The puzzlement became more severe.

“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.

“What?”

“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.”

“And a sunset is romantic?” That sounded very doubtful.

“Well, what would you consider to be romantic?” Ceorl asked.

“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.”

“Just do it from afar.”

“Do not worry. I have no death wish and know my boundaries.”

“Good to hear.”

“But . . .”

“There is no but.”

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

“You cannot ask the queen for a dance.”

“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.”

“You are a worrywart.”

“No, I am just not a lunatic.”

“I bet you that I will dance with the queen tonight.”

“And I bet you that you will get into trouble.”

“It will be worth it.”

TBC

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.

 Old English

ðe cýfwyrhta – the cooper

ðe treowyrhta – the carpenter

ðe webbestre – the weaver

ðe isensmið – the blacksmith

ðe leðerwyrhta - the leatherworker

ðe morgengifu – the morning gift

ðe isigfeðera – the wing feather