The best things in life are unexpected

because there were no expectations.

(Eli Khamarov 1948 - )

Éomer sank down on his chair, his gaze wandering between his captain and his brothers-in-law. He felt, at the same, time irritated and irritable. Last night Erchirion had insisted that they dealt with Éofor in their way. Had they changed their minds, not taking the occurrence seriously enough, and just decided it was not worth a wholehearted effort? No, he didn’t really believe that. Both Erchirion and Amrothos had been angry, although they didn’t tend to display their emotions the way he was used to. So what were they up to? He held the conviction that the punishment not only had to match the offence but also should be carried out without delay.

“Greetings Éomer,” an amused voice interrupted his musings. “What have they done?”

With a sheepish laugh the Rohír turned towards his friend, whom he had absent-mindedly ignored. “Do you fear for your subjects?”

Aragorn gave him a wry look. “I know by own experience that brothers-in-law can be pests, though I have to admit I am much less dogged by fate than you are. However, you should consider that your wife’s brothers would make far finer allies than foes.”

“I have neither reason nor aspiration to turn those two into adversaries. It is just that they, well mainly Amrothos, make me feel as if I were walking next to a mûmak on a starless night. I fear every step the beast makes.”

The King of Gondor laughed with a good portion of malicious joy. “That serves you right, brother. Your wife was handed to you on a plate. You barely had to lift your little finger to win her. Some burden attached to such a price is only fair and just.”

Éomer didn’t get the chance to reply as Elfhelm approached the high table and bowed his greetings to the kings.

“My Lords.” The Marshal of the East Mark gave the impression of a father who had to announce, with the appropriate stern face, the latest misconduct of an obstinate child whilst inwardly having a whale of a time. “I suppose that you have already heard the rumour that the Royal Guard of Rohan wishes to challenge the Knights of the Royal Gondorian Guard to an exhibition bout?”

“Yes, I heard it through the grapevine,” Éomer answered, pulling a face. “Or rather, I found the evidence at Ulger’s place yesterday.”

“Éothain put the order for the unsharpened swords with the blacksmith,” Elfhelm supplied the information. “But as he had the bad fortune to take an arrow, I have been requested to approach the Kings and gain their consent.”

“They actually remembered to ask for permission?” his sovereign remarked, clearly feigning his surprise. He turned to his Gondorian counterpart. “It is your decision, Aragorn.”

“Are you trying to pass the buck to me?” his friend protested. He gestured towards the gathered crowd, made up mainly of the Rohirric riders and the knights of Gondor and Dol Amroth. “If we do not let them have their ‘behourd’ they are going to sulk for weeks. And I would rather go back to Gondor with some of them sore and bruised in tow, than have to deal with them at their grouchy best.”

“In that case,” Éomer nodded to his Marshal, “let them send the ‘ōretta’ forward to issue the challenge.”

Elfhelm left to deliver the glad tidings.

“I think I am getting old,” Éomer stated.

As he had just taken a sip, tea spewed from between Aragorn’s teeth. He made a grab for the napkin and dabbed his mouth and chin. He slanted the Rohír next to him a disbelieving glance.

“Two nights as a wedded man and you have already begun to feel the strain?” he taunted the friend who, not even a couple of days ago, had reminded him that he could be his grandfather.

Éomer rolled his eyes. “I am beginning to see Lothíriel’s standpoint. After all the battle they have experienced, one would think they would tend to recoil from any form of combat. Instead they are just dying to hit out at each other.”

“Feud is all most of them have known during their lives. Many find it hard to change their ways and we cannot promise them that there will never again be warfare.”

“No, we cannot,” Éomer agreed gloomily. He watched the men sitting at the tables down in the hall. Warriors who received the message that their kings had consented to their exhibition bout were behaving like youngsters having been allowed to participate in a particularly exciting game. Just a few years back he would have been one of them. He would have been as eager as them to fight just for the sake of a good fight. He did not have the taste for it any more. He had lost it together with the many friends and brothers-in-arms he had seen die.

Aragorn watched him pensively. “You are not getting old, Éomer,” he assured him with an empathetic smile. “You have just discovered that life holds much more in store than you have ever dared to wish for.”

“Speaking from your own experience?”

Gondor’s King only raised his mug of tea to salute him.

In the hall things got moving and Éomer’s standard-bearer, Ceorl, stepped forward. He bowed before the Kings of Rohan and Gondor.

“My Lords, with your consent, we, the Riders of Éomer King, will take the liberty of challenging our brothers-in-arms, the Knights from the Realm of Gondor, to a ‘behourd’.”

With both Kings nodding their acquiescence, Ceorl turned around to face the warriors of the two realms that filled the Golden Hall. “Knights of Gondor, what is your say?”

“Aye!” the answer roared through Meduseld. It was worthy of any battle cry.

The young Rohirric rider went on, “The ‘behourd’ shall be governed by strict rules which shall not be bent or broken. The man who does risks ridicule and shall be scorned and shunned.”

With another cheerful ‘Aye!’ at the top of everybody’s lungs, his words were confirmed. Nobody had the intention of disobeying any code of conduct. What all of them wanted was nothing but a good, entertaining fight.

“The ‘behourd’ shall be fought in the tradition of our forefathers with sword and shield; protection shall be given only by a shirt of mail. Each side shall name seven contenders and it shall be decided by drawing lots who engages whom in honest single-combat on the ‘wigræden’. Each duel shall, once begun, not be brought to a halt until the challenger or the defender declares himself satisfied and willing to make peace.”

Ceorl turned back to the high table and sought the gaze of Gandalf.

“Should it prove necessary to decide a winner by arbitration, we would like to ask Gandalf, once known in the Mark as Greyhame, to preside over the ‘behourd’ as an impartial arbiter for both parties.”

“I am honoured that I do enjoy the confidence of both the men of Rohan and Gondor and I accept the request.” The Istar leaned back in his chair. “This visit to the Mark keeps me once again on the go,” he remarked to no-one in particular.

The standard-bearer tried to hide his smile and to carry out his role as the ‘ōretta’ with the appropriate dignity. “With my Lords’ permission,” he addressed the kings, “The chosen combatants shall come forward and the drawing of the lots shall decide who will fight whom.”

During Ceorl’s speech, Éomer’s stomach had rumbled along and Aragorn’s grin told him that the protest of this food-demanding part of his body had not gone undetected. For a moment he considered putting forward the absence of the Queen as a reason to demand a postponement of the drawing . . .  but bugger! He was hungry and he intended to eat in peace.

“Ceorl, something tells me that the issuing of the challenge was a mere formality and that the combatants had long been selected from amongst the ranks of both parties. Do you feel that they will have a problem if I take the time to eat something before we go over to draw the lots?”

The young rider gave him a wide grin. “No, my Lord. I do not think anybody will object if you wish to snatch a hurried meal. We can spare a few moments.”

“That is very generous of you,” Éomer remarked ironically, his eyes already fixed on Ælfgyth, who was about to approach the head table. She was carrying a tray that promised a few culinary delights.

Whilst the housekeeper placed a bowl of porridge and plates of sweet breads and fruits before her King, Éomer heard a groan coming from next to Aragorn. He leant backwards to make good for having failed up to now to greet his father-in-law. Imrahil stared with a pained expression towards the group of Gondorian knights who would accept the challenge of their Rohirric comrades. Amongst them was Amrothos.

Despite Lothíriel’s words of the previous day that her brothers would relish some swordplay, he somehow hadn’t expected this Prince of Dol Amrothos to actually partake. His preferred weapon seemed to be his tongue.

Pouring cream over his porridge and sweetening it with a generous portion of honey, Éomer addressed the Lord of Belfalas. “Do you fear for his health, Imrahil?”

“His health?” His father-in-law gave him a faintly bemused look. “No, I do not fear for his health. My son is quite able to take care of himself. I fear for my peace and quiet.” Looking up at the ceiling, he gave an – only slightly - exaggerated sigh. “He will have a good time, no doubt, ending up bruised and bloodied. However, after the battle with the swords the battle of words is going to begin. Lothíriel will be upset, as she does not approve of this sort of entertainment, probably calling it a childish ruckus. Elphir is likely to comment along the lines of - impropriety and vulgarity, and Erchirion will make certain – with one or two carefully chipped in words – that the argument does not die down too quickly. All things considered, it looks as if my family is going to have a rather stimulating day ahead.”

The Prince of Dol Amroth did not turn a hair whilst he watched the Kings of Rohan and Gondor battling – unsuccessfully – with their laughing fits.

“Perhaps you can take comfort in the fact that your daughter might choose to voice any objections or comments she has to make to me?” Éomer tried to console his father-in-law.

“True. She is now for you to deal with.” Imrahil gave him a satisfied nod, and had Éomer not returned to his porridge, he would have noticed the conspiratorial glance the two men, whom he considered to be his friends, exchanged. And the guileless gleam in the eyes of the Lord of Dol Amroth would have given him at least some advance warning.

“I understand,” Imrahil again took up the conversation, “that my Liege-lord has already presented my request that you engage Amrothos in your service?"

This time it happened. The oatmeal went down the wrong way. Éomer choked in earnest. A violent coughing fit shook him and the exceedingly audible retching noise he couldn’t restrain helped him to get the undivided attention of the gathered crowd. Eyes watering, he grabbed blindly for the napkin which Aragorn held it out to him. Gondor’s king was watching him with a mixture of concern and amusement and Éomer buried his face in the cloth, trying to gain control of his breathing.

It appeared that Imrahil always waited until he had stuffed some porridge into his mouth before he announced that he intended to saddle him with one of his offspring.

Somebody slapped him on his back. “Drink something, Éomer,” he heard the voice of his father-in-law. At least the Prince sounded regretful. Éomer just waved one hand dismissively, still not able to speak. He cleared his throat several times, managing to cough the larger amount of the oatmeal he had inhaled into the napkin. Finally he dared to emerge from behind it and found that the hall had gone perfectly still and about a hundred pairs of eyes were staring at him, more bewildered than worried. He gave another single, rough cough, wiped his eyes and glared back – with success. By and by the men turned back to their own business and conversations.

Éomer decided to comply with Imrahil’s suggestion and drink some tea. He slanted his father-in-law, who had obviously jumped up from his seat to assist him and was now standing behind his chair, an accusing glance over his shoulder, but refrained from any comment. He didn’t quite trust himself regarding what he was going to say and anyway, he was equally uncertain if his voice would work. So he just sat there and drank small sips of his tea, slowly recovering from the indisposition of the choking fit and from the mental impact of Imrahil’s words.

“Are you feeling better?” Aragorn asked after having given his Rohirric friend a moment to gather himself.

“Yesterday I thought you were jesting,” Éomer croaked, once again clearing his throat. “I hoped you were jesting.” Somehow that particular issue had slipped his mind as well since the previous day. He scowled at his father-in-law. “What am I supposed to do with Amrothos?” At least his voice was returning to normal. Suddenly a thought hit him. “You do not feel it necessary to leave him behind as a minder for Lothíriel?” he demanded sharply, suspicion in his voice.

“Éomer, that is absurd,” Imrahil rebuffed him.

“Let me make a suggestion,” Aragorn intervened. “Why do you not discuss this later in private . . .” he gave Rohan’s King a meaningful glance,  “. . . and calmly.”

“Another piece of grandfatherly advice,” Éomer growled and pushed the bowl back. But then he sent the Prince a lopsided grin. “I apologize, Imrahil.”

“No apology necessary,” his father-in-law replied. “Anything involving Amrothos tends to provoke that sort of response.”

That remark caused Éomer to look around for the one who had the best prospects of becoming his nemesis. Instead he caught sight of the middle one of the younger Princes prowling the perimeters of the hall.

“Excuse me,” he murmured and got up abruptly from his chair, not caring about the bemused glances the Dúnedain sent after him. He had every intention of interrogating Erchirion about what he had planned to do about – or to – Éofor.

“Erchirion!”

His brother-in-law, who was leaning casually against a pillar, turned towards him in a languid movement, not even attempting to hide the teasing quality of his smile. “Greetings, my Lord King. I hope you have fully recovered from that little incident just now?”

“Your family threatens to become a serious hazard to my health.”

“I hope you are not talking about my sister.”

“What I wish to talk about is the announcement you made last night that you would take care of the Captain of my Guard. Have you changed your mind?”

“Not at all. You may put your mind at rest. The captain will be given a thorough warning.” He put his most engaging smile on his face. “We will leave it to Amrothos.”

“Amrothos?”

Erchirion frowned at him. “Could it be that we had this exchange before?” he asked indulgently. “In that case, now it would be for me to say that he has his uses.”

“As a chess player?” Éomer gave an impatient snort.

“No, today he is going to play with a sword,” the Prince replied serenely.

For an instant Éomer was baffled. “Are you saying your inventive plan is that your brother is going to fight Éofor in the ‘behourd’?”

“Basically, yes.” Erchirion admitted.

“That is not inventive,” Rohan’s King pointed out. “That is perfectly unimaginative.” And he felt, somehow, disappointed about the fact. “Thus we could have straightened out the matter then and there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Listen, Erchirion. Let us forget about whatever you came up with. I am grateful that you saved me from making a fool of myself last night, but after having slept on it, I think it is for the best if I have a talk with Éofor in private. I intend to caution him to remember his place and make certain that he understands that he is not going to get away with such stupidity another time.”

“I am afraid you will have to talk to him after Amrothos has finished him off.”

Éomer groaned. Couldn’t he have fallen in love with an orphan? Or with somebody whose kin was demure and . . . boring?

“What makes you so certain that Amrothos will finish off Éofor and not the other way around? One has to give credit where credit is due and the last time I looked, my Captain was a formidable warrior.”

“Amrothos will best him.” Erchirion announced this opinion with the same sort of unflappable confidence Lothíriel had displayed earlier that morning. It must be a family trait.

“How do you know?”

“He is still alive.”

Éomer caught himself blinking. “Do I have to understand the logic behind that statement?” he asked, forcing patience into his voice.

“Amrothos began to talk at a very early age,” his brother-in-law set to explain, the gleam in his eyes revealing that he enjoyed the King’s visible impatience. “First, of course – as all children – single words, but as soon as he was able to put them together to form complete sentences, he began insulting people. That went by without serious retaliation as long as he was a cute toddler, but soon he had to learn to defend himself effectively and that necessity made him – over the years - an extraordinarily capable swordsman.”

Éomer contemplated the Prince for a long moment, pondering if he was trying to have him on. He decided not to go deeper into this little tale.

“Very well, let us act on the assumption that Amrothos is able to beat up Éofor. But the pairs are going to be drawn by lots. What is the likelihood that they are actually going to end up fighting each other?”

“We just leave that to Amrothos,” Erchirion stated in all simplicity.

Those words began to haunt him. “Are you telling me that your brother is going to cheat in the draw?” Éomer asked disbelievingly.

“He does not like the term ‘cheating’. He prefers ‘manipulating’,” Erchirion corrected his brother-in- law.

“I do not believe this,” Éomer muttered under his breath. “I begin to wish that I had knocked Éofor down last night. Then this entire farce would already be over.”

“I thought we agreed that it was for the best to spare Lothíriel the embarrassment of her husband acting in a fit of jealousy.”

Rohan’s King decided to ignore that assessment of his state of mind. “And you feel she prefers her brother beating up another man because of her? That is, if he truly manages to do the beating and does not get beaten.”

“A brawl on a dance floor is somehow more conspicuous than a quarrel on the battleground,” Erchirion placidly asked him to consider. “That is the entire point of it.”

“I remember quite clearly you saying that you were going to come up with a more inventive way of a riposte.”

“True. However, Amrothos insisted upon having some fun. And – as a rule - it is futile to try and change his mind. I am not in the habit of flogging a dead horse.” Erchirion stopped short. “I suppose that that particular manner of speaking is not very well received in Rohan?”

Éomer gave up. He raised both hands, admitting his defeat and walked off, leaving his brother-in-law standing there. Attempting to win an argument against Lothíriel’s brother was like trying to shoot an eel with a crossbow. Back at the top table he found that Imrahil had gone to talk to his Swan Knights – and probably to his youngest son – and the King of Gondor in conversation with Gandalf.

“Aragorn,” he interrupted them quite rudely, slumping into his chair. When the addressed looked up, he went on, “For once let it be me who gives a piece of advice. Do not do it.”

His friend frowned at him incomprehensively and then raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“After your child has been born, do not ask any advice from Imrahil. He must have done something wrong.”

Both the Dúnadan and the Istar laughed at this presumption.

“Do we have to conclude from your words that your dealings with your wife’s brothers are not to your liking?” Gandalf inquired, an amused twinkle in his pale eyes. “At least I hope this resentment had not been courted by the new Queen of the Riddermark.”

“Is there not a saying that ‘All Disasters come in Threes’?” Éomer replied, reaching for a piece of fruit bread and topping it with a liberal heap of apple butter. “That excludes Lothíriel.”

“That excludes me from what?”

Startled by the unexpected sound of his wife’s voice, Éomer dropped the slice of bread. Of course, it landed butter-side down. Turning around he found her gazing at him teasingly. She had been done with her morning toilet quicker than he had expected and was back to wearing blue - and another riding gown. They made some progress here.

“Well, for a change I managed to sneak up on you,” she remarked, sounding quite satisfied with herself.

Aragorn got up to adjust the chair next to Éomer’s for her. “It appears, my Lady, any dealings your husband has with one of your brothers are doomed to failure on his part.” There was no doubt, the Dúnedan felt highly entertained.

After having thanked the King of Gondor for his assistance, Lothíriel frowned at Éomer. “Have you ever considered simply evading Amrothos?”

“Are you saying there is indeed the chance of prompting him to get out of my way?” Éomer didn’t have to feign his amazement. He retrieved his bread and wiped the butter from the table with his napkin. “However, in this case my dealings were with Erchirion.”

“Erchirion?” Lothíriel didn’t have to say more. Her tone told him quite clearly that she considered it utterly impossible not to get along with that one of her siblings. If his wife had a fault then it was her bias regarding her brothers. He wondered if it applied to the eldest as well and for a moment felt tempted to probe it, but then abandoned the idea. He feared the outcome.

In the meantime Lothíriel’s mind had wandered on. “Why are all the men assembled in the hall this morning?”

“They are waiting for the draw for the ‘behourd’ to take place,” Aragorn explained. He had taken his seat on her other side.

“When is this draw supposed to occur?”

“As soon as your husband has finished eating,” the High King supplied helpfully.

Lothíriel regarded the food placed in front of Éomer with an assessing glance, then looked at him enquiringly.

“I got interrupted several times,” her husband defended himself, wondering why he felt the need to make an excuse. Could it be that he had already begun to adjust to wedded life? “It is not as if I had a leisurely meal.”

“You could have taken your ‘morgengrýtt’ in my chamber, in peace and quiet instead of going off to quarrel with my brothers.” It looked as if she had learnt a new word.

“It was just one of your brothers, and we did not quarrel.”

“So, what were your dealings with Erchirion about?”

He was saved from the answer by Ceorl, who had chosen that moment to step once again in front of the high table to fulfil his role as the ‘ōretta’. The man definitely had potential, not to mention a good sense of timing. Éomer decided to keep that in mind for the future.

The standard-bearer bowed respectfully before his Queen then turned to address the King.

“If you are agreeable, my Lord, we shall now draw the lots.”

“Are the warhorses already pawing the grounds with their hooves?” Éomer asked with a wry look at the gathered warriors.

“They feel . . . a bit excited,” Ceorl admitted. He held two worn leather pouches in one hand. His King knew them well. As long as he remembered they had been used to draw the training partners for sword practice.

“In that case, let us get going, before we have some damage to lament.”

The babble of voices in the hall had died down in anticipation. The young rider turned to face his comrades and took one pouch in each hand.

“In the presence of our Queen and the Kings of Gondor and Rohan the draw shall take  place now. The challengers must step forward and draw their lots.”

Seven of his Riders, one of them Éofor, came up to the ‘ōretta’, no doubt, with the exception of the injured Éothain, the most fierce and skilful fighters amongst his Guard. This was supposed to be a friendly exhibition bout; only these men weren’t used to playing with swords. He just hoped the Gondorians didn’t expect some chivalrous merriment.

The riders bowed their respects to their Queen and although Éomer saw the eyes of his Captain dart for an instant towards Lothíriel, his regard was considerably less impudent than it had been the previous night.

Ceorl loosened the string of the first pouch and each man slipped his hand in it and pulled out the small, carved figure of a horse. Every figure had been given a different posture and there was a duplicate of each in the other pouch. The seven challengers held their draws high above their heads for everybody to see.

Now it was the turn of the defendants. Amrothos was the first to reach inside the second pouch and it took him a heartbeat or maybe two more than the others had needed to get hold of one of the wooden figures. However, not so long that it would have made anyone suspicious. But when he brought it out he had the carving of the similar bucking horse between his fingers as Éofor had held up.

Éomer felt some sort of reluctant admiration. To the more dubious talents of his brother-in-law there now had to be ranked the dexterity of a pickpocket. A beneficial gift, no doubt. Amrothos caught his gaze and grinned. He seemed to be rather pleased with himself.

One by one the Gondorians drew their lots, presented them to be examined and the respective opponents had the first chance to assess each other. Good-natured taunts were traded, some backhanded compliments slipped in and there was no question that the men, now that the preliminaries were over, were eager to get on to the battleground, the fenced training field behind the stables.

Rohan’s King watched the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Captain of his Guard exchanging the salute of warriors, clasping their right forearms. Amrothos wore his most disarming smile and Éomer couldn’t help but think that he must have been a cute toddler indeed. If he interpreted correctly the smug grin on Éofor’s face, which was obviously already dismissing his opponent, then the man was in for a surprise – if Erchirion hadn’t over praised his brother’s skill with the sword, that is.

“What is going to happen now?” Lothíriel wanted to know, shaking him out of his reverie.

“Everybody goes down to the ‘wigræden’, the battleground, to watch the ‘behourd’.” Éomer suppressed his desire for more sustenance – at least his stomach wasn’t rumbling any more - and got up from his chair. His kinsmen would truly surprise him if they had not planned to combine the exhibition bout with another outdoor meal. So he wouldn’t go hungry for the rest of the day. And with seven pairs to fight each other in single-handed combat they might be down at the training fields all day.

He pulled out the chair for Lothíriel and whilst she rose, she announced, “I have to look for Mistress Ælfgyth.”

“What for?” her husband asked.

“She promised to find me a satchel for the dressing material and the salves and lotions I am going take with me to the battleground.”

Éomer caught Aragorn’s amused smile. “Lothíriel, be assured that the treatment of any possible wounds will be taken care of.”

“I would rather be safe than sorry,” she replied insistently. “Especially with that idiotic brother of mine finding it necessary to participate in this folly.” She abandoned the two kings and set off to find the housekeeper.

The Rohír shrugged his shoulder at his grinning friend. “I am not allowed to find fault with her brothers, but she may call them any name she considers appropriate in the heat of the moment.”

“Like ‘Damn Amrothos’?” Aragorn asked with a chuckle.

Éomer stopped short. “You heard?”

“Legolas did. He thought it to be a rather surprising remark for a bride during her wedding ceremony.”

The bride was already returning, carrying a leather satchel over her shoulder. “Ælfgyth had already packed everything I had laid out. She is very proficient indeed,” Lothíriel informed them.

Éomer took the satchel from her and slung it over his own shoulder. “She has to be. She held everything together and ran Meduseld efficiently even while it was under the sway of the worm.” He couldn’t prevent bitterness from creeping into his tone. The memories of those days were still too vivid and too strong. But he, almost immediately, regretted not being a better master of his emotions when he saw Lothíriel responding to his mood. He forced a smile, which became more relaxed when it was answered by one of hers that was both empathic and compassionate.

“Not today,” she murmured. “But soon you will tell me.”

He understood. “Yes, soon I will tell you.”

Aragorn stood waiting for them and somehow he seemed to have discerned what had been communicated between them. There was a calm watchfulness in his gaze that Éomer had always found comforting.

“I think we better start for the ‘wigræden’,” he suggested. “We are supposed to open the ‘behourd’ and our frightful warriors might get annoyed if we have them wait for too long.”

In a threesome they left the Golden Hall and joined the trek of the citizens of Edoras down towards the stables. Nobody wanted to miss this test of strengths and skills between accomplished warriors from two countries.

For longer then anybody could remember, men of Rohan had trained and demonstrated their skills with sword and spear, with axe and seaxe on the fenced training field behind the stables that housed their powerful warhorses. It was a large square, at one end dug into the slopes of the hill, so that from there spectators could easily watch the events on the field. Today somebody had, in preparation of the ‘behourd’, dragged half a dozen wooden armchairs and a number of benches onto this natural stand, so that the royal couple and the guests of honour at their wedding could attend the spectacle in some comfort. On the other three sides, which were fenced up to the height of a man’s shoulder by wooden palisades with blunt ends, there was already a great press of people.

Éomer let his eyes roam over the assembled citizens. It looked as if everybody had been awaiting this exhibition bout with expectation and probably known about it for quite some time – except him, of course. But then, an imminent wedding and a woman who had governed his thoughts for months could distract a man.

On their way down along the main path, Lothíriel had chatted amiably with Aragorn, telling him, on his inquiry, how she planned to approach the demands of her new station as Queen of the Riddermark. Her famous list of tasks had come up and to Éomer’s quiet amusement the point ‘riding’ had gone up by several places. He wondered if it had something to do with the charms of a beautiful, black mare.

Upon their arrival – it appeared they were amongst the very last – Éomer watched his wife bidding her greetings to those assembled. Her unstudied forthrightness was being met by a warm and honest welcome. She fitted in; she belonged. And his kinsmen – not even consciously – acknowledged it.

Aragorn had come to stand next to him, his eyes, too, on the young Queen who was moving, without pretence, amongst her new people. He put a hand on Éomer’s shoulder. “I think that also answers – among other things - your question: what it is she wants and what it is she needs?”

Éomer could only nod his agreement.

Then their attention was called towards the ‘wigræden’, where all fourteen contestants had taken station. Ceorl came up in front of them

“My Lord Kings! The challengers and the defendants have chosen sword and shield and now await your words to let this ‘behourd’ begin.”

Both the King of Rohan and the High King of Gondor stepped to the edge of the stand. Éomer could hear the dignitaries behind him settle and the voices of the spectators dying away. The men in the field went down on one knee.

And so he spoke those ancient words that, over the ages, had sent warriors into combat.

“Weorða ðe selƒne gōdum dǽdum ðeden, ðī Bema recce!”

And Aragorn repeated them in Westron. 

“Do honour to yourself with valiant deeds, while the Valar take care of you!”

The contestants rose and all but the two who would compete against each other first, left the ‘wigræden’. They took up position at opposite sides, Ceorl as the ‘ōretta’ between them, raising the truncheon.

“As it was the challenger’s prerogative to name the location, then the defendant has the right to the first blow,” he declared. He looked to his king to give the signal. Éomer raised his hand and the truncheon fell. Ceorl left the ‘wigræden’ and the contestants advanced to meet each other.

The 'behourd' had begun.

TBC

ðe ōretta – ‘one who calls’; a warrior who issued challenges

Once again I borrowed from the Anglo-Saxons, this time from an Old English poem:

“Weorða ðe selƒne gōdum dǽdum ðeden, ðī god recce!”

“Do honour to yourself with valiant deeds, while God takes care of you!”

Waldere

Verse I; lines 22-23