A Mistake can be good a thing,

because it is an unexpected thing.

(Ken Hill, 1937 – 1995)

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?”

Éomer chuckled. “Why should it not make sense?”

“It seems a bit odd to call a black horse ‘Light’.”

“I have my doubts that she will object.”

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.

“My eyebrows?”

“Your eyes.”

“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.

“And your lips are beautiful, too,” she whispered.

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.

“Hail and salutations to King and Queen.”

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.

“Does he know something I do not?” Éomer asked, irritated.

“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.”

“Moving me around,” she told him accusingly.

“I move you around?”

“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.

“You shoved me out of your bedchamber,” she prompted.

“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.”

“That servant knew that I was in your bedchamber that morning anyway.”

“He knew?” His eyebrows went up in surprise.

“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.

His wife waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, but that is not the point now.”

“And what is the point?”

“You moving me around.”

“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 apologize, Lothíriel. I certainly did not want you to feel hassled.”

“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.”

Hand in hand they resumed their way uphill.

“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.

“What precisely is the meaning of brydealoþ?” she asked, intrigued.

“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.

“Hah! There you are at last. Come on, Éomer. Join in; dance; be merry!”

“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.

“He seems to be pretty vivacious as well as indefatigable,” she marvelled.

“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.

“My Lady, I will see to getting you a meal. Do you have a preference?”

“I would like to come with you and see for myself what is on offer.”

The two women left them without a second glance.

“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.

“Are you not hungry, Éomer? I can recommend this casserole.”

“I put my faith in Ælfgyth. She saw me approaching when she served you and will hopefully bring something for me as well.”

“What happened to your wife?” Gondor’s King reached for his goblet.

“I think she has taken the opportunity to interrogate the cooks.”

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?”

“So you did interrogate the cooks,” Imrahil stated.

“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.” 

“And what are you eating?” the Lord of Dol Amroth wanted to know.

“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.

“I will get you some wine, my Lord and for my Lady some morað.”

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.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked in a low tone.

“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.

TBC