One should expect that the expected can be prevented,

but the unexpected should have been expected.

(Norman R. Augustine 1935 -)

"I cannot put her down in Meduseld and then just let her be. Somebody must look after her, and I do not have the time. And I do not want to imagine what she would be able to do if she was left without proper supervision.”

(Éomer talking to Elfhelm about Lothíriel in “Imrahil’s Daughter”)

Lothíriel eyed herself critically in the large looking glass that sat on a chest containing winter clothing. She assumed that Winfrith had placed the oval mirror with the heavy bronze frame on that particular coffer because she wouldn’t have to move it again before the cold season. The way it looked, however, she could have set it on any of the chests except the one containing her riding habits. Her third day as the Queen of the Riddermark and she was wearing for the third time breeches, boots and a gown with a split skirt. The heavy winds which seemed to belong to the Riddermark as much as its horses made the wearing of breeches under one’s skirts extremely practical.

Lothíriel turned around and looked over her shoulder, contemplating the lavish fall of the pleats across her behind. Not that these garments weren’t becoming. Arwen’s taste was flawless and she had known precisely what would suit her reluctant protégée. After having worn the simple and unflattering healer’s garb for the better of four years and now and then - to please her father – a gown she had mostly had stitched together on short notice, she had to admit that it was amazing what a dress chosen with adequate thoughtfulness could do for one’s appearance. Instead of looking – as Amrothos had once put it – as if she had dressed in a hurry in the gleaming light of a nearly died down candle, she looked . . . good. And this was just a riding gown and not the most elaborate she owned; it was quite comfortable and when wearing it she appeared to have a waist, and even breasts above and hips below it.

Of course, Winfrith’s braiding skills contributed to her flattering looks. The eternal winds of the plains demanded her to wear her hair in a style that kept it from being blown in her face all the time. A simple plait from the nape of her neck would have been decent enough, but the handmaiden seemed to have the ambition to show off a new hairdo every day. Lothíriel pulled the thick braid forwards over her shoulder, admiring it. She wouldn’t have known how to do that kind of herringbone plait.

A last glance into the mirror told her that – unfortunately – the whisker burns Éomer’s beard had left around her mouth hadn’t faded yet. There were a few more parts of her body sporting the reddish marks that his sandpaper cheeks tended to cause. She was certain that Winfrith had noticed them when she had helped her dress. It was rather embarrassing but she didn’t believe that the young widow was a gossip and would let such intimate details go beyond her bedchamber. And as she doubted that Éomer was willing to shave off his beard, and refraining from kissing him was out of question, she’d better resign herself to the fact that she would be, on a good many mornings, the very picture of a woman who had been - at the very least - thoroughly kissed.

With a resolute movement of her hand she tossed her braid back over her shoulder. It was time to follow Éomer.

He had left their bed at the break of dawn. Or . . . it was rather that he had intended to leave it at the break of dawn but somehow become enticed into coming back and making love to her. He had accused her – unfairly, she had to say, especially as he had not appeared overly repentant about it - of having lured him back into her arms. Granted, she hadn’t been completely awake but she couldn’t think about anything she had done – on purpose or unintentionally - to prompt him to abandon his intention of getting up bright and early to look through all those tasks he had to leave unattended due to the wedding and which now had to be taken care of.

Later this morning he was to meet with King Elessar and her father and she expected their council to last the entire day. Since the Gondorian entourage had arrived in Rohan the three men had only been able to trade the most essential information about the way things stood in both realms after the winter and the situation along the borders of the two kingdoms.

And Rohan still needed food aid from Gondor; that was until this year’s harvest, which was still a good three months ahead. But from what she had overheard, the prospects were promising. After years in which one disaster had been chasing the other, at last the weather seemed to be on the side of the Rohirrim. The frost had left the ground early, precipitation had come as rain instead of snow and now a mild sun was warming the land and luring the crops out of the soil. The next six weeks would be essential for the yield. Sun and rain needed to be well balanced.

In the past she had never paid great attention to husbandry. The production and distribution of foodstuffs had failed to raise her curiosity, as in Gondor food had always been in more than adequate supply. But the accounts about the severe food shortage in the land of which she was supposed to become queen had caused her to do considerable research not only into farming but also into the problems that would follow in the wake of a famine, especially the health effects malnutrition caused. She had heard that the Westfold had been particularly hard hit and she needed to talk to somebody who could describe to her the state of health of the people living beyond Edoras.

She had had the intention of addressing Éomer about the issue the previous night but they had become distracted almost as soon as they had been alone in their chambers. And this morning the same had recurred. If she wished to have a purposeful talk with her husband, perhaps she had better approach him in more public surroundings.

Lothíriel herself did not intend to spend the day idly. The wedding and the festivities lay behind them; from today on the normal course of life would take over. She just had to figure out what her everyday life would look like. She had certain ideas about her future role; however, she wasn’t quite sure how those ideas were going to agree with her new people. She would have to talk to them, to many of them, but to do just that she had to master their language first. That was the least the Rohirrim could expect from their queen - that she was able to converse with them in their own tongue. And to begin with they had to see that she was making an effort. Finding a tutor and starting to learn Rohirric had to be given priority.

She would take up Mithrandir’s recommendation and approach Gléowine. When the Istar had suggested Théoden King’s old ‘scop’ would make a suitable teacher, Éomer had raised no objections. Therefore she could act on the assumption that he wouldn’t disapprove of her talking to the old man she had met briefly during the riddle-match. It was more likely that her husband would appreciate her not bothering him with every little thing. After all, it was part of her duty to take as much of the load off him as she could possibly manage.

But before she went to find Gléowine she needed to check on Amrothos and see how he had spent the night. His dizzy spell after the ‘behourd’ had surprised her. There hadn’t been the merest indication that besides the bruised face and broken nose more serious damage had been done. She had watched his duel closely and she was quite certain that he hadn’t received any heavy blows to his head during the fight. However, one of the first thing healers learnt was that nausea and vertigo should never be taken lightly even when an obvious reason couldn’t be established. Perhaps her brother had again just drunk more than he should have the night before the combat. Spirits tended to evoke the most puzzling effects on men.

She also wished to seek out Captain Éofor. She feared that Amrothos might have fractured the carpal bones of his sword hand, a serious injury for any warrior. She would feel bad if her brother’s excessively rough manoeuvre had caused some permanent damage. It would salve her conscience if she saw with her own eyes that he had been treated adequately by the Rohirric healers and she intended to apologize for Amrothos’s overzealousness.

Lothíriel inspected her satchel one last time to see if she had everything she might need. She had filled a tiny phial with a small quantity of the rare and valuable rose oil and had put it together with some gauze in a pouch. She would leave it with Amrothos so he could apply it to the haematoma around his eye himself, several times a day. She doubted that she would have to replace the tamps in his nose. Although his unexpected dizziness was still worrying her, she felt confident that the bleeding would have stopped.

Slinging the satchel over her shoulder she left the chamber. She needed to ask Mistress Ælfgyth if she could keep the leather bag. It was just the right size for the basic healer’s equipment.

Like the previous morning the buzz of activity in the Great Hall almost stunned her. It appeared as if half of the population of Edoras was in the habit of being present every morning, going about whatever business had brought them to Meduseld. Not only had many of the Gondorian Knights and Rohirric Riders assembled along the heavy, carved tables to take their morning meal – yesterday’s ‘behourd’ obviously hadn’t done any harm to their comradeship – Lothíriel also caught sight of a handful of citizens she had met during her walkabout through the city.

Just a few steps from her, supervising two serving wenches clearing the top table, Lothíriel caught sight of Meduseld’s housekeeper. Setting eyes on her queen, Ælfgyth gestured the two young women to get on with their task and approached Lothíriel, bidding her morning greetings.

“My Lady, good day. Have you already eaten?”

“Good day to you, Mistress Ælfgyth. Yes, I have. Winfrith has seen about my morning fare.” Lothíriel looked around to see if there was a familiar face in the hall. “I gather the kings have already gone into council?”

“Indeed, my Lady. They have retired to Éomer King’s study, and with them went my Lady’s father and Gandalf and the Marshals of the Mark as well as Master Gimli and Prince Legolas.”

“Have you seen my brothers this morning?”

“The Princes Elphir and Erchirion took their early meal here in the hall. I overheard them talking about going down to the stables to have a look at my Lady’s new horse.”

“Oh my! I just hope they do not get it into their heads to drag me out for a ride. I am going to be rather busy today.”

Ælfgyth looked rather incredulously at her for a short moment, before gathering herself and adopting a neutral expression. She didn’t seem to believe that there was much that could keep her new queen occupied – at least usefully – all day. Lothíriel sighed inwardly. Apparently her reputation as a woman of action didn’t carry much weight. She decided not to enter into the subject. After all, appreciation came from purposeful doings, not from threadbare words.

“Just in case somebody asks for my whereabouts, after I am going to inquire after my brother Amrothos’s well-being, I intend to call upon Master Gléowine to request for his help in learning your tongue. Mithrandir . . . Gandalf recommended him as a possible tutor. I might also venture down to the stables.” She didn’t mention that it wasn’t with the intention of paying her horse a visit. “However, I shall be back in time for our meeting.”

Last night she and Ælfgyth had agreed to get together after today’s noon meal so that the housekeeper of the Golden Hall could answer her queen’s questions regarding the organisation of the hall in general and the ordinary everyday routines. Not that Lothíriel planned to interfere in the running of the hall. Nothing could be further from her mind. Housekeeping, as such, wasn’t exactly her forte. And she wasn’t in the habit of dictating to people who had definitely more experience, in a certain domain, how to perform a task. But as the ‘hlæfdige’ of Meduseld it was her duty to be conversant with all details regarding ‘ðe cynelice hlafætan’.

“Shall we meet in the solar, my Lady?” the housekeeper inquired.

“There is a solar in Meduseld?” Lothíriel asked back, taken by surprise. So far nobody had bothered to tell her that there was a room other than her bedchamber to where she could retreat from the hustle and bustle and the noises and smells of the Great Hall.

It appeared there hadn’t been any particular scheme of how to install her to her new station. Well, she was pretty good in outlining schemes – and pursuing them. She’d better take the whole issue into her own hands from here on. Having a queen was obviously something the Rohirrim had to get used to again – and that included, to all appearances, Éomer as well.

Ælfgyth’s next words just confirmed her in her intentions. “Why, of course there is a solar. It is located in the eastern corner tower. Originally it was decorated for the Queen Morwen and in the last years it has been used solely by Lady Éowyn. I thought my Lord Éomer would wish to show it to you.”

“It must have slipped his mind,” Lothíriel said dryly. “Perhaps you can arrange for a light meal that we can take together, Mistress Ælfgyth. I would enjoy that.”

“It will be my pleasure, my Lady. Shall I ask the Lady Cynewyn to join us?”

“That is a very good idea.” Lothíriel wondered briefly if the housekeeper wanted to avoid eating with her alone but she discarded the very idea. She must be gravely mistaken if she hadn’t a good rapport with the steadfast woman. She used her thumb to lift up the satchel slightly from her shoulder and draw Ælfgyth attention to it. “I hope you do not mind me keeping it for today?”

“Not at all, my Lady,” the tall woman assured her. “I found it when I had the solar cleaned. Nobody claimed it. It might once have belonged to the Lady Éowyn.”

“Very well then. I will see you later.”

Lothíriel walked down the centre aisle towards the open doors of the Great Hall. She nodded her greetings to the men who were sitting to the left and right and who all got to their feet to return her salute. What a fuss. Losing her anonymity as just one amongst many healers had its drawbacks.

The very moment Lothíriel stepped outside onto the high platform, on which Meduseld stood, it was confirmed that she had chosen wisely when she had decided to wear another riding habit that morning. The inescapable wind of Rohan’s plains – today even more severe than over the last few days - caught hold of her skirts and blew them up around her legs. Without the breeches she was wearing underneath, it would have been an embarrassing moment. If she were ever to make use of all those gowns that had been made up for her, she needed to think of something. Perhaps she’d better sew lead into the hemlines.

The weather was beautiful, despite the windy conditions. The strong breeze chased ragged clouds across the sky and the sun sent warming beams to the earth. A group of youngsters was lurking around the foot of the platform. Lothíriel walked down the steep stairs.

“Gōdne dæg!” she greeted the children and her words were echoed by about a dozen young voices. A few of the older ones even gave an unpractised bow and most of them were surveying her so inquisitively that she might have wondered if she had some dirt on her face, had she not decided to resign herself to those bold and direct gazes she got from virtually every one of her new people. But on the other hand, she remembered quite well the stares the citizens of Minas Tirith used to send after the Rohirrim who had been so utterly peregrine to them. It was just that Gondorians gaped less openly.

“Hū sind gē?” she tried a bit of idle chatter. Encourage by a positive response – it appeared she had been understood – she decided to rope in the youngsters to help her locate Amrothos.

“Iċ ðearf ēower fultume. Iċ sēċe mīn brōðer.” She tipped against her nose to clarify whom of her three brothers she was searching for. If she interpreted the answering giggles of the children correctly, they had actually got the point of her gesture. - Or they were just sniggering at her awful pronunciation. 

“Hwǽr is his gesthūs? Gē magon mē ætīwan?” Lothíriel wrinkled her nose at her own stammering. She badly needed to speak to the former ‘scop’ and persuade him to become her tutor.

However, the children had comprehended what she wanted from them – which only spoke for their intelligence – and gestured talkatively to the houses which stood on the western slopes below the Golden Hall. They began to move in that direction, gesticulating for her to follow them. Complying with their request, Lothíriel suddenly felt tiny fingers fumbling for her hand. She looked down into the shy smile of a little girl, the same that had given her the sadly crushed flowers the other day.

“Ēalā, lēofesta,” she greeted and was rewarded with a wide grin and a firmer grip on her hand.

The group of young Rohirrim escorted her to one of about a dozen guest houses, which all looked very much alike. Built of weathered wood and thatched, they all had a narrow porch; a door in the centre flanked on each side by a window with bull-eyes-panes and carved shutters.

Out of the stream of words they lavished on her, she thought she understood ‘Æðeling Amrothos’. The oldest of the children, a boy of about twelve years, pointed at the door.

“The Prince,” he said, choosing his words in Westron carefully, “. . . sleeps here. In the back.” His forefinger he drew an arc to the right. “That side.”

“Thank you.” She nodded at him with a smile. “Iċ Þoncie Þē.”

He was a rather handsome boy with wavy, wheat-coloured hair and large, blue eyes. And an innocuous smile that reminded Lothíriel disconcertingly of one of Amrothos’s.

“Hwaet is þīn nama?” she asked him, having the uneasy feeling she was just being led up the garden path.

“Iċ eom Cerdic, Cwēn mīn,” he replied with an expression on his face harbouring between innocence and earnestness.

“Cerdic,” his queen repeated. Perhaps she was doing him wrong, but for some reason she was certain she would remember his name. She let go of the little girl’s hand and stepped onto the porch, opening the front door and finding a short corridor. It had two doors on each side, leading to the guest chambers. Amrothos had apparently found accommodation in the back on the right-hand-side. Lothíriel took the few steps down the windowless passage. She could hear some noises coming from behind the door, the boy had indicated; the creaking of a bed. She knocked. After a brief delay Amrothos’s voice rang out, rather disgruntled.

“Who is it?”

“It is me,” Lothíriel answered. Obviously somebody in there hadn’t slept that well.

“Is that you, Lothíriel?”

“No, it is Vána.” She regarded the door with a bit of bemusement. Had Amrothos just sounded somehow uptight? “Are you still in bed? I am here to have a look at your nose.”

There was some unintelligible muttering before Amrothos called out again.

“Just a moment. The door is locked.”

More noises - including her brother’s hushed voice – came from the inside. Then she could hear the latch being pushed back and the door opened just wide enough for Amrothos to squeeze through. He was barely outside when he pulled the door closed behind him. He was barefooted, wearing his breeches and a wrinkled linen shirt that hung down to his thighs. His hair was mussed and the right side of his face, including the swollen nose, was sporting a rather interesting palette of colours.

He greeted his sister with a rather pretentious looking smile. “You are up and around early.”

“By no means.” Lothíriel gave him an assessing look. He didn’t look ill, just tired. “It is well into the morning. How was your night?”

“Insignificant.” He was definitely short with his answer, close upon impolite. Lothíriel was struck by the impression that he would have preferred to get rid of her. He might be suffering from a headache. She took the satchel from her shoulder to pull out the pouch with the rose oil and the gauze.

“Are you still experiencing dizziness?”

Before Amrothos had the chance to answer somebody inside his chamber banged into a piece of furniture and a clearly female voice gave a cry of pain, which was choked off rather belatedly.

Lothíriel watched her brother puffing out his cheeks to give a soundless whistle. He was looking rather sheepish. Her eyes widened with dismay. “Have you got a woman in there?”

For an instant it seemed as if Amrothos was going to rebuff this assumption, but then he just bestowed one of his cocky grins upon her. “If I have not, I just wasted the entire night.”

The flippant remark left Lothíriel first dumbfounded and then caused her tongue work quicker than her mind. “How could you? Your nose is broken.”

She had the feeling that this statement was somehow off the mark as soon as the words were out of her mouth and even before the brow over Amrothos’s healthy eye shot upwards. She assumed that he only stifled a laugh because it would have hurt him too much.

“If after three nights as a wedded woman you think the nose is absolutely essential, then Éomer must have been doing something wrong. Or . . .” he suddenly contemplated her with interest and a wicked glint appeared in eyes, “ . . . he has been doing something I should perhaps ask him about.”

Indignation surged up in Lothíriel. “You oaf!” She pushed the medicine pouch against his chest, striking him unexpectedly and making him stagger backwards against the door. He just managed to catch the small leather bag before it dropped to the floor.

“You hare brained oaf - you can treat yourself.”

She spun around and marched along the short corridor to the front door, which she had left open. She stepped out on the narrow porch and slammed the door shut with enough force to rock the wooden structure. From the inside she heard her brother’s muffled voice.

“Lothíriel, I am sorry.”

Sorry? About what? Certainly not that he had found female company to help him soothe his battle wounds. Sorry that she had found out? In the past it had been some kind of implicit understanding between her brothers that any hint of carnal knowledge had to be kept away from their innocent sister. It appeared that with her new station as a wedded woman this accord was no longer valid. This was the first time that one of her brothers had ever made such a vulgar innuendo in her presence. And she didn’t like it. She didn’t like that her bond with Éomer, their lovemaking, had been equated with Amrothos’s tryst with some . . . leman.

That was what he should be sorry about.

Uncommonly annoyed, she took the two steps down from the porch and came abruptly to a halt. Erchirion was supposed to be sharing that chamber with Amrothos. If there had been a woman with her youngest brother, then where had Erchirion spent the night?

Fresh indignation erupted and Lothíriel couldn’t prevent her throat from making some growling noise. Why, she thought grimly, did men always chase women?

Of course she had known that both Erchirion and Amrothos indulged themselves in liaisons. It was just that never before had she been confronted with the evidence so directly. Unexpectedly, she felt awkward about it. Until three days ago she hadn’t quite comprehended what truly lay hidden behind the simple term lovemaking. – The phrase marital act had for some reason both taken aback and amused Éomer. - She hadn’t understood anything about the intimacy and the closeness, the passion and the intensity that could erupt between a man and a woman. How could anybody treat such an exquisite fusion of emotions so casually? Unless Amrothos’s nightly activity had nothing to do with making love. He had just sought – what he had once called – carnal gratification. And to obtain that - a mere act – a carnal act – was certainly quite sufficient. To associate such a quest with love was an abomination in itself. How could any woman bring herself to take part in the act without true feelings for her partner? Men were different. That was common knowledge. But what made a woman fall into bed with a man she barely knew and who would leave her as soon as he left the aforementioned bed?

Bewildered and still bothered by her brother’s frivolous manners she made her way back to the main path. She nearly overlooked two short figures approaching her from up the hill. It took her engrossed mind a score of heartbeats before it registered that their lively greeting was directed at her.

“Good day, my Lady. Are you taking a stroll through Edoras?”

Over the past days Lothíriel had marvelled on several occasions that the Hobbits seemed to be endued with the enviable talent to conjure up smiles on virtually everybody’s face. Now she found herself answering Merry’s cheerful salutation with a genuine smile of her own, relieved that he was taking her mind off Amrothos’s loutish conduct.

“Greetings, Master Meriadoc. And to you, Master Peregrin. I have a few errands to do around the city.”

Both Hobbits were in shirtsleeves, wearing only waistcoats of heavy velvet. Although she knew that the Halflings never put on footwear, the sight of their bare feet momentarily gave her goose bumps.

“Perhaps we can keep you company,” Merry offered. “We have nothing better to do.”

“We just planned to walk the last meal off with a stroll to clear the space for the next,” his cousin chipped in.

“I gladly accept,” Lothíriel replied dryly upon Merry’s complimentary proposal. “Your company is welcome.” She looked around. The children kept themselves a dozen yards away from them. Cerdic was eyeing her cautiously. That brat had known that Amrothos had been in dodgy company. Sweet Elbereth, the boy could be by no means more than twelve years old. Yes, she definitely would keep his name in mind.

She turned her attention back to the Hobbits. “Actually, I am hoping for your help to locate Master Gléowine, Théoden King’s minstrel. You have been to Edoras before on more than one occasion and I assume you know your way around.”

Merry happily nodded his confirmation. “I know where he lives. It is easy to find. The gables of his house are decorated with carved lyres instead of with the typical horse heads.”

“Easy indeed, if one is knowledgeable about such little details.”

“Shall I take your satchel?” Pippin asked courteously.

“Thank you. That is very kind of you.” Lothíriel passed him the leather bag although it was anything but heavy. Men of every size had this need to do things for women. It probably made them feel able-bodied.

Lothíriel let the Hobbits lead her down the hill. After barely more than fifty yards Merry pointed out a house directly off the main path. If she had kept her eyes open, she should have come upon it by herself. The former minstrel’s abode had no garden, but its surroundings were immaculately kept as was the wooden structure itself. It was not large; perhaps the size of the guesthouses of the Golden Hall, but there was no porch. The front door opened directly onto a short path of raked gravel.

“I do not think it will take long to present my request to Master Gléowine.”

“Do not mind us,” Pippin assured her. “We are at leisure.” From somewhere he conjured up a couple of wrinkled apples, tossing one to his cousin. Content, the two settled on a flagstone step, devoting themselves to their snack. It was said that the Hobbits were an easy-going people, comfort-loving but unobtrusive. Lothíriel saw no reason to have doubts about this appraisal.

She knocked at the front door of the minstrel’s home, which was opened instantly, as if somebody on the inside had already seen her approaching. However, she didn’t find herself face to face with the old man she had met during the ‘brydealoþ’, but unexpectedly with a young woman about her own age, who had a pair of the most unusual eyes she had ever seen in her life. Their shape and the clear green colour of the iris reminded Lothíriel of the eyes of a cat.

She caught herself staring at the comely face. She was quite certain that she hadn’t met this lady before. One did not overlook  - or forget - eyes like those, even in a crowd. To her surprise the young woman sank into a formal curtsy. “My Lady Queen,” she murmured in a melodious voice, casting down her remarkable eyes.

“Good day,” Lothíriel greeted, for some reason bemused by the other woman’s presence and demeanour. “I am looking for Master Gléowine.”

“Gardryð, hwā is hit?” The minstrel appeared behind the young woman. When he saw Lothíriel he stopped short, but his smile – though surprised – showed genuine delight. “My Lady Queen. To what do we owe the honour of your visit?”

“Greetings, Master Gléowine. I hope I do not call upon you at an inconvenient time?”

“Not at all, my Lady. It is an honour.” Gléowine gestured to the entrance to his house. “May I invite you into our humble abode to partake of some refreshment?”

Lothíriel accepted his friendly invitation with a nod and the woman – Gardryð – stepped aside to let her pass. The ‘scop’ led his queen into a large, rectangular room that took up the entire width of the right side of the house. It had a wooden floor, a hearth at the small end of the room with a door next to it that probably opened to the screens passage and the kitchen house beyond. The walls were hung with tapestries; the furniture was simple: a couple of iron bound chests, shelves, a loom and a large table in the centre flanked by benches and two richly carved armchairs. One end of the table was piled with parchment rolls; a quill and an inkpot lay waiting to be used. Different musical instruments were spread out over the room.

Gléowine pulled one of the armchairs back from the table. “Please, my Lady, be seated.”

Lothíriel thanked him; however she remained standing next to the chair, looking quizzically at the young woman, who had followed them. The minstrel understood.

“Forgive me, my Lady. I neglected to introduce my granddaughter. This is Gardryð, my ‘dohtordehter’’, my daughter’s daughter.”

“I am delighted to make you acquaintance, Gardryð.”

“I am honoured to make yours, my Lady Queen,” the minstrel’s granddaughter answered politely. Her voice was soft and obliging, but her gaze cool, confident and spoke of intelligence. “May I offer you some refreshment? I have just made bramble tea.”

“I would love some.”

Whilst the young woman left the room through the backdoor, Lothíriel took her seat in the armchair. Master Gléowine sat down next to her on a bench.

“I am honoured to welcome you to my house, my Lady,” the minstrel repeated, a warm smile on his wrinkled face. “The tale of you visiting the workplaces of Edoras’s craftspeople did the rounds. They certainly felt flattered that you showed such interest in their livelihood.”

“What people are able to create with their hands had always held great fascination for me. I had a good time visiting those workplaces and you will certainly find me there again in the future. But having given it some thought with the benefit of hindsight, I fear I must have bored the Kings and my poor father to tears.”

“I cannot speak for the Lords Aragorn and Imrahil. However, Éomer King will certainly benefit from being coerced into paying some regard to the lives of the ordinary citizens. He has the ability to keep things in mind even when they are not of immediate interest to him.”

“Is that so?” Lothíriel asked with a glint in her eye. It appeared she had come across somebody who could tell her quite a bit about her husband – and who wouldn’t mind doing so - after all, she didn’t know much about Éomer. The ‘scop’s’ next words confirmed that thought.

“When your husband first came to Edoras as a young lad, his uncle instructed me to teach him until a proper tutor could be found. Like all boys of his age he was more interested in horses and swordplay than in his lectures. However, although it would have been easier to herd a sack full of fleas than to prompt him to sit quietly on his chair for an entire morning, he never failed to keep up with his lessons.” The old man chuckled. “And they must have bored him to tears back then.”

“Mostly the poetry, I gather. At least Gondorian poetry.”

“I have to confess that there was not much poetry taught but to our defence one has to concede that your husband has learnt how to sing the traditional ballads of the Mark as well as any Rohír.”

“Éomer can sing?” Lothíriel wondered if she didn’t sound too disproportionably astonished at this revelation. She herself couldn’t hold a tune if her life depended on it.

Gléowine nodded affirmatively.  “He has a fine and strong voice.”

She contemplated the old man. “The strong I have no trouble in believing,” she murmured.

There seemed to be some truth to the tale that the Rohirrim sang during battle. It was hard to imagine though that somebody who had to carry the weight of all the armour Éomer wore and fight a superior number of foes would find a sufficient amount of air to bellow out a song.

“Mayhap you should ask your husband to sing for you.” The suggestion was gently dry.

Lothíriel could imagine Éomer being just overjoyed by a request to prove his musicality to her. Thinking about it, a prospect truly to look forward to. “I will . . . first thing tonight.”

The old minstrel wasn’t able keep a sparkle of amusement from his face but refrained from further comment, perhaps because his granddaughter reappeared, a tray with an iron teakettle and earthen beakers in her hand. Lothíriel caught the aroma of blackberries. Silently Gardryð placed the tea set on the table and filled the mugs with the steaming brew. Then she settled – still wordless - next to her grandfather.

“Master Gléowine,” Lothíriel began, “I must admit this is not merely a courtesy visit. I have come with an ulterior motive.”

“Some hidden agenda?” Her host furrowed his brows in feigned disbelief. “What ambiguous purpose could it be that makes our Queen seek the company of an old man?”

“Nothing dubious, I assure you.” Lothíriel took a sip of her tea. It was generously sweetened with honey. “I have a request to make. Like my husband, when he came to live in Edoras as a child, I am in need of a tutor; one who will guide me in learning your tongue. Mithrandir advised me to approach you, Master Gléowine.”

The minstrel spread his hands in surprise and exchanged a quick glance with his granddaughter.

“My Queen, your request and the reliance on my abilities you evince by asking, do me great honour. But I must declare this comes all of a sudden. I hardly know what to say.”

Lothíriel searched his face. He did indeed look very surprised but not necessarily reluctant. And that was certainly a good starting point.

“Master Gléowine, I do not expect you to give me your answer immediately. I am aware that a request of this kind requires some measure of consideration and I suppose you wish to discuss the situation with your granddaughter.” She contemplated if there was anything she could say that would carry additional weight and persuade the old man to decide favourably upon her suit. “Mithrandir did not clearly elucidate why he felt you were the right tutor for me, but it is known that he never does anything without good reason.” She watched the minstrel closely to see how he felt about being advantageously singled out by the Istar. He had taken note of it without any visible reaction. At least he was not a man to be easily flattered. “I need to learn the language of the Mark as quickly as possible – for a start, just well enough to hold a basic conversation with those who are not well acquainted with the common tongue. Like the children,” she added.

Grandfather and granddaughter exchanged another – surprised – glance. “You wish to converse with the children of Edoras, my Lady?” Gléowine asked, apparently subduing an impending laugh to a smile.

“Yes, of course I do,” Lothíriel answered with a light frown, not quite sure why such a notion should invoke astonishment. “The children seemed quite willing to talk to me. We have already attempted a chat earlier this morning, but I am afraid my poor efforts caused some merriment amongst them.”

“It is not that I am surprised they want to talk. They certainly are highly curious about you, my Lady.” The old man’s smile became a touch cautious and he shot his queen a searching glance when he added, “We all are rather curious about the wife Éomer has chosen.”

“Indeed?” Lothíriel tilted her head and returned his smile with one of her – unconsciously endearing – own. “You cannot be more curious than I am. There is so much to learn about Rohan and its people. I have so many questions to ask, and I want to ask them in your own tongue. And it seems that with every answer I get, new questions occur.” She frowned reflectively at her own words. “I think I’d better begin taking notes,” she murmured to herself.

“Then you have something in common with my granddaughter, if you do not mind me saying so, my Lady.” Gléowine patted affectionately the young woman’s hand. “Gardryð is interested in virtually everything."

His gaze at his granddaughter revealed quite clearly that he was very proud of her, but the beautiful and reserved woman appeared to feel awkward at his beaming. “Not everything,” she replied, her voice quiet, absent-mindedly running a fingertip around the rim of her beaker. “I like learning.”

“Gardryð is very interested in leechcraft,” the ‘scop’ enlightened his queen and his words inevitably grabbed her attention

“Oh! You wish to become a healer?”

Gardryð shook her head. “That is not an option.”

Something not being an option was an utterly foreign concept for Lothíriel. She put her own mug, from which she had been about to take sip, back on the table. “Why should it not be?”

The minstrel’s granddaughter lifted her unusual eyes and turned them towards the other young woman who was her queen. Lothíriel thought she saw a keen glint lighting up in them, but the answer came in a subdued tone. “Traditionally in Rohan leechcraft is practised by men.”

Lothíriel sighed. She had herself experienced the fact that the Rohirrim were – carefully put - rather reluctant when it came to being treated by women; especially by a very young woman. Back at the Houses of Healing she had had a lot of convincing to do – when her patients had been conscious – and had to resort now and then to unconventional methods to persuade them to let her take care of them. Éomer had not been a praiseworthy exception. At least a few days ago he’d undertaken the task of convincing Marshal Éothain – his methods in doing so even more unconventional than any of hers.

“You say it is a tradition that the art of healing is practised by men. That does not make it a law and therefore it can be easily changed.”

“Traditions are never easily to change, my Lady,” Gléowine contradicted her. “And there is a good reason why the healers of Rohan are men. They go out onto the plains with the éoreds and treat injured riders after battle; they also need to treat the wounded horses.”

“A healer does more than mend broken bones or slashed flesh. Surgery is just one part of the craft. A healer aids people in recovering from all kinds of ill health and brings them relief. He - or she - recognizes, identifies, treats and cures diseases, and has to know about the human anatomy and the organs inside a body. A healer has to be knowledgeable about herbs and has to be able to make potions. There are many aspects of healing and not only injured warriors need to be taken care of.”

She had got swept along by her own passion for her craft, and the minstrel regarded her with some amused puzzlement. His granddaughter’s expression, on the other hand, was, for the first time since her queen had entered her home, completely unguarded. She seemed quite overwhelmed by Lothíriel’s fervour. She didn’t take her eyes from the other woman.

“We had heard that the princess from Gondor Éomer King was going to wed was also a healer. Are there many female healers in Gondor?” There was a subliminal tone of hope in her voice.

“The field surgeons are men, of course, like here in Rohan. However, at the Houses of Healing the healers are women. They are responsible for the good health of the citizens of Minas Tirith from birth throughout their lives till death.”

“There is no place like that here in Edoras,” Gardryð remarked with obvious regret. “We have healers, naturally. The most experienced is Master Ærwin but he would never agree to take a woman as an apprentice.”

Lothíriel remembered the name of the Rohirric healer and also Éomer’s remark that the opportunity of introducing her to the man hadn’t arisen yet. She began to wonder if the Rohirrim nursed certain prejudices against female healers. But then, her husband had assured her that he didn’t disapprove at all of her wish to continue practising her craft. And Master Berenwald hadn’t objected when Éomer had requested her to treat his friend and Marshal. On the contrary, the healer of Aldburg had appeared quite interested in observing her and had accepted the surgical instruments she had given him with honest appreciation.

“Why should Master Ærwin refuse a female apprentice?”

“Traditionally there is an allocation of responsibilities,” Gléowine assumed the answer to that question. “The field surgeons, as you called them, my Lady, are men, the midwives are women. My granddaughter knows that.”

Lothíriel didn’t particularly like the slight reproof she recognised underlining the minstrel’s voice and which was directed towards his granddaughter.

“The midwives – there are only two in Edoras – are more knowledgeable in plant lore than the healers,” Gardryð pointed out as if she felt it necessary to stand up for those women.

Lothíriel watched the lush mouth of the other woman tighten with resentment. When she had argued with her father about becoming a healer, at least her gender hadn’t been up for discussion – rather her age and her station. And suddenly she felt a bond of understanding and affection towards Gardryð.

“If you really wish to become a healer, then there will be a way,” she assured her.

“And I wish it were that easy, my Lady. Master Berenwald might be willing to take me on as an apprentice, but I cannot leave Edoras.” Once again she cast down her eyes. “I cannot leave my grandfather.”

That sounded just sad. Her resentment, however, was not directed against her grandfather, whom she obviously loved, but against the circumstances and against the tradition.

Well, perhaps Gléowine had been right. It was not easy to change age-old traditions, but they were not chiselled in stone. They could be changed, just cautiously, with patience and not with a crowbar.

Apparently she ought to add a few more people to the list of those she needed to talk to: Master Ærwin and his fellow healers - and the midwives, of course. There was no point in waiting for Éomer to find some time to introduce her. Sooner or later she had to learn how to deal with her new people anyway.

“I can take you as an apprentice.”

“You, my Lady?” That came as one voice out of two mouths and it was hard to say who sounded more baffled by her offer – the old man or the young woman. Both their facial expressions reminded Lothíriel very much of a couple of beached fish. Gardryð was the first to remember to close her mouth.

Her grandfather cleared his throat. “But my Lady. You are the Queen.”

“And that bars me from training another healer - why?” his queen asked, conceding ruefully to herself that she savoured their bafflement.

“You will not have the time,” Gléowine claimed. “You are . . . the Queen.”

Lothíriel thought that to be a particularly lame argument but decided to refrain from pointing it out.

“And as such it is my duty to see about the well-being of all of my people and that includes their good health. It will be my task to ensure that in the future adequate care and attendance by healers is available for all Rohirrim.” When she saw the minstrel’s bemused expression, she added, “Éomer King agrees.”

At least she hoped that Éomer would back her plans when she found the chance to explain them to him and that he hadn’t meant that their people would just temporarily benefit from the healer’s equipment she had brought from Gondor. How would he react when he learnt that her intentions were to reshape certain traditions – like the limitation of the healer’s field of activities to the treatment of wounds and injuries? Or that she planned to establish a central setting in Edoras to take in the sick?

“At the moment it appears as if there is nothing for the Queen to do but learn Rohirric . . . and improve her skills on horseback.” Lothíriel wrinkled her nose. She would probably be in need of an appropriate instructor for that particular exercise, too. “The royal household runs smoothly under the charge of Mistress Ælfgyth. Therefore there is nothing to be said against me educating your granddaughter in the art of healing. We may come to a reciprocal agreement, “she suggested on a sudden notion. “You, Master Gléowine, become my tutor and in return I take your granddaughter as an apprentice.”

Yes, their open mouthed astonishment was definitely reminiscent of long departed fish.

Both Rohirrim had been left speechless by her unexpected proposition. Very good. If Gardryð wanted to become a healer only about half as much she once had, then – as luck would have it - she had found the perfect advocate for her request and the young woman would find a way to convince her grandfather to do the horse-trading. Did they call it that in Rohan, too? Very likely. And she, Lothíriel, would kill two birds with one stone. She would get a competent tutor and also her first dedicated aide for her main objective: to improve the overall health care of the Rohirrim.

Before her victims had the time to gather themselves, Lothíriel decided that perhaps a temporary withdrawal was the best advised action to be taken at this moment. Let grandfather and granddaughter digest and discuss the proposal in privacy.

Without warning she got up from her chair, causing her hosts to scramble hastily to their feet. “I must make my farewell. I do not wish to take up more of your time today.” She made her way to the tiny hall and opened the front door. Gléowine and his granddaughter followed her, still speechless – or at least wordlessly. Lothíriel smiled amiably at the young woman.

“I have enjoyed having made your acquaintance, Gardryð. Thank you for the refreshment, and I hope I will hear from you soon.” She turned towards the minstrel who was attending the door. “Master Gléowine,” she greeted.

When she stepped outside, the old man called after her.

“My Lady Queen.” The expression of his face had changed from the earlier dazed and then stunned look to one of genuine amusement. “Does Éomer know?” he asked when she raised her eyebrows enquiringly.

“Does he know . . . what?”

“That he’s got himself a ‘lēasbrēdan’ as a wife.”

“What does that mean – ‘lēasbrēdan’?”

The minstrel chuckled. “It might be one of the first words I will teach you.”

Lothíriel answered with a laugh of her own. “Then I will be patient and wait for my first lesson. I thank you, Master Gléowine.”

“It is my pleasure, my Lady.” The old man’s smile turned wistful. “’Mīn eald hlāford’ would have approved of you.”

“Your old Lord?”

“Many have forgotten, but Théoden King had a wicked sense of humour. He would have liked to watch his nephew deal with the woman he has chosen to be his wife.”

Lothíriel wondered what that statement was supposed to imply. The next moment her attention got diverted by Merry and Pippin, who found that their patience had now been stretched far enough. Cheerfully they greeted the former minstrel and after a few sentences of idle chatter they bid their farewell to Master Gléowine.

Quite satisfied that her first quest had been successful, Lothíriel was determined to tackle the next point on her list before she returned to the Golden Hall to meet with Mistress Ælfgyth and Lady Cynewyn.

“May I ask you to act as my guides once more, dear friends?” she addressed her small companions.

“Of course, my Lady. We are at your disposal,” Merry assured her, giving his cousin a nudge when Pippin chipped in, “As long as we are back in time for the noon meal.”

“Never mind him, my Lady. We know Edoras as well as our vest pockets.”

“Then you must know where the Royal Guard is housed. I need to find Captain Éofor.”

TBC

hlæfdige – lady/mistress of the house

ðe cynelice hlafætan – the royal household

Gōdne dæg – Good day

Hū sind gē? – How are you?

Iċ ðearf ēower fultume. – I need your help.

Iċ sēċe mīn brōðer.- I’m looking for my brother.

Hwǽr is his gesthūs?- Where is his guesthouse?

Gē magon mē ætīwan? – Are you able to show me?

Ēalā, lēofesta. – Hello, dearest.

æðeling - prince.

Iċ Þoncie Þē. – Thank you.

Hwaet is þīn nama? – What is your name?

Iċ eom Cerdic, Cwēn mīn. – I’m Cerdic, my Queen.

Hwā is hit? – Who is it?

Mīn eald hlāford – my old lord

lēasbrēda – Lothíriel would also like to know the meaning of it!

Solar – a room used in medieval times for solitary activities. The etymology of ‘solar’ is often mistaken for having to do with the sun.