I'm looking for the unexpected.

I'm looking for things I've never seen before.

(Robert Mapplethorpe, 1946 – 1989)

The Hobbits guided Lothíriel downhill towards the lower areas of Edoras, past the training field, across the stable yard and towards the grand stables.

This part of the city was even busier than the Great Hall or the places of the craftspeople. One only had to watch the bustling activity down here to cast off any possible doubt that the life of the Rohirrim was centred on their horses. The smell of the animals couldn’t be ignored and, from the impatient neighing and bristling snorts, one had to deduce that the beasts were as headstrong as their masters.

Stablehands were all over the place, mucking out stalls, grooming horses and assisting Master Ulger, the blacksmith, whom Lothíriel had met when he had presented her with the slim dagger. She felt a trace of guilt because she had failed to wear the gift. Or rather the dagger had slipped her mind. She simply wasn’t used to wearing a weapon.

It appeared that a couple of Swan Knights had seized the opportunity to have their horses shod before they set off back to Gondor. They were easily to be identified as they were wearing their lord’s colours. Sitting on barrels, they were leisurely watching the blacksmith at work. When Lothíriel approached, in the company of her short friends, the men jumped hastily to their feet, obviously caught off guard by the unexpected appearance of the Queen of the Riddermark in the vicinity.

Lothíriel returned their respectful salutes, blissfully unaware that her presence in the area around the stables – more or less on her own - caused some attention. A few eyebrows rose in surprise, not to mention the gaping stares. She followed Merry and Pippin around the stables to the rear where Gimli and his fellow dwarves had put up stone houses directly below the dyke and the wall.

“There it is,” Merry gestured towards the new, somehow outlandish looking constructions. “Let us ask around and find the captain for you.”

“That is not necessary,” Lothíriel declined his offer with a friendly smile. “I think that man over there is Ceorl, who acted as the ‘ōretta’ yesterday. He will be able to tell us where we can find Captain Éofor.”

She had caught sight of a man sitting on a chopping block in front of one of the dwellings, his back turned to them, obviously enjoying the warming rays of the sun. He was in shirtsleeves and had his long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He was occupied with some task. Lothíriel couldn’t make out what he was doing, but he was so engrossed, bending over something in his lap, that he didn’t hear them approaching. The famous vigilance of the Rohirrim appeared to have left him for the moment.

“Gōdne dæg, Ceorl.”

The man’s back stiffened. For at least half a dozen heartbeats nothing happened and Lothíriel began to wonder if there was something wrong with Éomer’s standard-bearer. The young Rohír began slowly – really slowly – to turn his head so that he could look at her over his shoulder, his expression revealing both disbelief and embarrassment.

“Cwēn mīn?” That sounded as if he wished he had first suffered a bout of mishearing – and that now, furthermore, something was seriously wrong with his vision.

“Iċ grēte Þē,” he rasped his greeting belatedly, and whatever had dumbfounded him so profoundly made him not only forget his command of Westron but also his courteousness. He stayed on his makeshift seat and made no move to rise. He just stared at his queen, his neck twisted in a way that had to be rather uncomfortable.

To save him from keeping up his cramped position, Lothíriel stepped around him and caused another unexpected response.

The Rohirric warrior, esteemed member of Éomer’s Royal Guard, actually shrieked. “Nā! Iċ bidde Þē, neart!” Frantically he tried to cover himself with a piece of clothing . . . his breeches to be precise.

Now, standing in front of him, Lothíriel could see what he had been concentrating on. He had been attempting to make some repairs to his breeches with a needle and thread. For that endeavour he had taken off his leg clothing and was now sitting on the chopping block clad only in his braies and chausses. He was eyeing his king’s new wife about as happily as if he were facing the biggest and ugliest of Saruman’s Uruk-hais.

Lothíriel thought his reaction slightly overdone. The undergarments covered him as completely as his breeches would have. And as a healer she had seen her fair share of unclothed male bodies.

The two Hobbits giggled and Lothíriel cast them a warning glance.

“I apologize,” she said, hoping to appease the Rohír with her soothing tone. She had had plenty of opportunities to practise this particular one on his kinsmen, back at the Houses of Healing. “I did not realise that this was an inconvenient moment to address you. Nevertheless, would you be so kind to point me towards where I can find Captain Éofor?”

“Why?”

Lothíriel frowned. She had certainly not expected her intentions to be questioned by the young warrior, who was still sitting on his piece of log rather tensely - the breeches pressed against his groin and giving the impression that he was tempted to make a bolt for it. And she wondered why he sounded so suspicious.

“I wish to inquire after his injury.”

“The healers have splinted his arm.”

This was the second time today that somebody was not only rather short-spoken with her but also left her with the feeling that he’d rather see her from behind.

“I have no doubt that they have done well. However, I wish to see for myself that my brother’s unreasonably rough manoeuvre during that passage of arms yesterday did not have any lasting after-effects.”

“Rest assured, my Lady,” Ceorl declared stubbornly, “his injury is nothing to speak of.”

By her very nature Lothíriel relished an exchange of arguments or a full discussion of a matter - except when the opposite number was a dog, a small child or an obstinate warrior. Under those circumstances it was advisable simply to give an order if one wished to achieve a result in the short term.

She locked her smile into place. “Ceorl, you will take me to Captain Éofor.”

The Rohír knew an order when he heard one, but he virtually bristled with reluctance. Lothíriel couldn’t understand why he looked so pained at her demand. It wasn’t certainly that unreasonable. Or it was rather that he looked highly uncomfortable – not exactly like a man in pain but rather like one suffering from a full bladder.

“You do not have to bother Ceorl, my Lady,” Pippin butted in. The Hobbits appeared to wallow in the situation. “Let him stay with his breeches.”

“Yes,” Merry added gleefully, “let him finish the repair work. I am sure he does not want to sit around in his undergarments all day.”

“We will have figured out the whereabouts of the Captain in no time,” his cousin assured her.

“My breeches are done,” Ceorl rejected their proposal resentfully. “I will accompany my Lady Queen to Captain Éofor’s quarters.”

“With or without your breeches and boots on?” Merry inquired with cordial interest and landed himself a murderous glare.

“If you insist, I will welcome your guidance,” Lothíriel said to pacify as she turned her back to him. She was quite certain that Ceorl wished to accompany her properly dressed and that he wouldn’t get into his breeches as long as she was facing him. Men sometimes turned out to be amazingly prudish. For instance when they were confined to a bed and one was trying to give them a wash.

Behind her she could hear the standard-bearer pottering about, expressing his disapproval – or whatever - by some needless huffing and puffing.

“The needle is still hanging from the seam,” Pippin pointed out helpfully. The Hobbits didn’t obviously feel it necessary to show the same discretion as Lothíriel.

“Yes, I would be careful if I were you,” Merry supplied. “A pinprick in that region would be painful.”

They were not given the honour of a reply.

“If you will follow me, my Lady.”

Lothíriel turned around to find Ceorl back in full gear, making up for his earlier lapse by bowing now to his queen. He gestured her to follow him and led her . . . to the next house in the row. She raised her eyebrows in bemusement.

“Not that I do not appreciate your courtesy, but although I am still not familiar with the locality, I think I would have found this place if you had simply pointed it out from where you were sitting.”

Ceorl refrained from a direct reply. “I will announce your visit,” he informed her and beat with his fist so forcefully against the front door that his queen took a surprised step back.

“Why do you not just kick it in?” Merry asked.

“Éofor, are you decent?” the young Rohír shouted instead of an answer.

“Hwæt?” came the curt reply from inside.

“Are you decent?”

“Ceorl, hwæt is hit wiþ ðē?” Lothíriel recognized the voice of the Captain of the Royal Guard. From its tone she would say that there was another man who was not at his best this morning.

“I am not alone. You have a visitor.” Ceorl opened the door only a little and shoved his head through the gap. “The Queen wishes to enquire after your health.”

There was a pause. “Sēo Cwēn?” Éofor finally asked, disbelieving. “Éomeres wif?”

“As far as I know that is the only queen we have,” the other Rohír retorted with a good portion of sarcasm.

Lothíriel began to lose her patience. “Have you been able to come to a conclusion on whether Captain Éofor is clad in an appropriately decent manner so that I might see him now?”

Her own sarcasm didn’t bypass Ceorl. He pulled his head out of the house and shot her a glance, which left no doubt that he was in a huff. “It is just that I value my life.”

His queen thought that that remark made no sense but she didn’t get the chance to reflect on it. The door was pulled open from the inside and the Captain of the Royal Guard stepped out. He bowed respectfully.

“My Lady Queen, good day.”

“Good day, Captain Éofor.”

Lothíriel appraised the man. Despite the rather artless splint that covered his entire forearm from his elbow down to his fingers and made that limb totally useless, he was fully dressed in the usual garb of the riders. And although he appeared to be surprised by her presence here at the guards’ quarters, unlike Ceorl he looked quite pleased to see her.

“I am honoured by your visit.”

Lothíriel returned his smile with a fleeting one of her own, her concentration focused on his injured arm. “As Ceorl mentioned, I am here to see for myself how serious the damage done to your hand is. Are you in pain?”

“It is nothing to speak of.”

Lothíriel nearly sighed at those words. By now she should have become used to the obviously customary reply of the Rohirrim when it came to injuries.

“From what I observed yesterday I would have thought that the bones of your wrist or perhaps your hand were broken.”

Éofor lifted, with the help of his sound arm, the heavily splinted damaged one. “That is indeed so, my Lady. A couple of bones in my hand have been broken.” He didn’t voice it but his gaze said something along the lines of ‘. . . by your brother.’

The counter argument would have been that, if he didn’t want to risk injury, he shouldn’t enter a ‘behourd’, but Lothíriel did not feel like standing up for any of Amrothos’s actions at this particular moment. Besides, other matters held more immediate interest for her.

“Bones of your hand, you say.” Unwittingly her customary frown appeared above the bridge of her nose. “Carpal bones or metacarpal bones?”

“Ah?” The captain looked taken aback. Apparently he had never come across those specific terms. “Well, just bones,” he said vaguely, indicating his palm.

“I see,” Lothíriel nodded. “So your metacarpal bones are damaged. That concurs with what I witnessed. But why are you wearing that overlarge splint? It must be rather uncomfortable.”

Éofor made a noise through his nose that might have been a laugh. “You can say that. The healer who put it on my arm said it is supposed to keep my hand from moving.”

“Indeed, your hand has to be immobilised but certainly not your entire forearm. A stiff bandage should have been sufficient.”

The Rohirric rider looked at her contemplatively, obviously deliberating about something. “If I were seriously wounded,” he said slowly, “and had the choice of being treated by either Berenwald or Ærwin, I would choose Berenwald. And Berenwald left it to you to cut that arrowhead out of Éothain. So the rumour is true that the noblewoman from Gondor who is now our queen is also a healer.”

“That is no rumour. I am a healer.” Lothíriel had lost count of how many times in the past she had to reassure doubtful patients about her status – a considerable number of them Rohirrim.

“And you would not have fitted me with such a monstrosity, my Lady?”

“Éofor!” Ceorl exclaimed in a sharp tone, surprising his queen. It appeared the difference in ranks was not as pronounced in the Royal Guard of Rohan as it was in the Gondorian forces. There a standard-bearer would have never dared to adopt such an attitude towards his captain. The young warrior caught her surprised gaze.

“I apologize, my Lady Queen. But Éofor should not trouble you with his ailment, which is really not worth mentioning.”

“Says the man who has not a heavy splint on his arm, cutting off the flow of the blood and causing excruciating pain,” his Captain accused him in a fretful voice.

“Believe me, Ceorl. It is no trouble at all to look at Captain Éofor’s injury,” Lothíriel assured him, carefully taking hold of the splinted forearm, not aware of the looks the men exchanged. She heard the standard-bearer mutter something like ‘dwæser’ but didn’t pay much attention. She was concentrating on examining the weighty support.

“I think a stiff bandage for your hand from the wrist to the joint of the fingers should provide adequate support.”

“Can you take the splint off me and put such a bandage on, my Lady?”

This time Ceorl only grunted his protest and was generally ignored.

“A simple task. I have all I need with me, except half a dozen eggs.”

“Eggs?”

Four pair of eyes stared at her. There seemed to be considerable doubt that she had been heard correctly.

“Are you going to make some pancakes?” Pippin asked – with a hint of hope in his voice.

Lothíriel laughed. “No, I am afraid there will not be any pancakes, Master Took. Actually, I only need the whites of the eggs to soak the bandages in. Then I wrap them around the hand and as the egg white dries, it hardens and the stiff bandage keeps the injured limb immobile.”

“And that is supposed to last?” Ceorl asked sceptically but nonetheless curious, having forgotten his objection for the moment.

“As long as it is kept from the rain – or any water in general – it should last for the month the bones will need for mending.”

“Be that as it may,” the young warrior absentmindedly scratched his brows, “we do not have any eggs here. We riders take our meals in the Great Hall.”

“There is a yard with chickens not far from here,” Merry butted in. “We can go and ask if they will give you half a dozen.”

“Those must be Rimhilde’s chickens,” Éofor conjectured. “She is our ‘horsþegn’s’ wife. Their place is right next to the stallions’ stables.”

“Pippin and I will go and ask the lady,” the Hobbit offered and without waiting for an affirmative reply he turned on his heels and hurried away, his cousin in his wake.

“Master Took, my satchel,” Lothíriel called after them, prompting Pippin to come scampering back, thrusting the leather back into her arms and doing a hasty about turn to catch up with his fellow.

“They seem to be very obliging,” Éofor observed.

“Or they are just hungry again and hope they can cadge the egg yolk.” From what she had seen over the past days the Hobbits had a constant need for an astonishing amount of foodstuff, especially considering their size. “I think we should begin with removing the splint,” she addressed the Captain. “Perhaps there is a place inside where you can sit down?”

“Ahem!” Ceorl apparently found it was time that he made himself heard again.

“The door will be left open,” Éofor reassured him.

That statement was probably meant to put his comrade’s mind to rest – and hers, but Lothíriel saw that that provoking, overconfident grin from the night of the ‘brydealoþ’ was back in place and she thought this was the perfect opportunity to have a word with the good captain. So when Ceorl announced that he had the intention of keeping them company, he received a gracious smile from his queen.

“Would you be so kind as to get me some hot water? It must have boiled.”

“Hot water?”

“A whole bucket full, if you please.”

One was not born a Princess of the Realm of Gondor and worked at the Houses of Healing for four years without acquiring the ability to issue orders. It did help that even a rather obstinate Rohírric rider was - to a certain degree - used to taking orders. He was just not used to taking them from dark-haired, delicate-looking women. On the other hand, she was his queen but that was something he wasn’t used to either. Lothíriel could almost see his thoughts travelling to and fro behind his forehead.

“Ceorl, the water.” It was entirely a matter of the right tone of voice.

Grudgingly, the man finally yielded and set off, dragging his feet as if they were weighted down with lead. Sweet Elbereth, what did he think his captain could do to her? She turned towards her patient.

“Shall we go inside?” she suggested

“After you, please, my Lady.” Éofor bowed, all politeness, and let her go ahead.

Lothíriel entered the quarters and found herself in an unadorned room. There was only a hearth opposite the door with a stack of firewood next to it and in the centre a square table flanked by two benches. On either side of the room there were doorways with coarsely woven curtains. One was pulled back and she could see a chest and one end of a pallet covered with furs and some blankets.

“How many men does a house like this accommodate?” Lothíriel asked, stepping to the table and putting her satchel down.

“I have the privilege to share this house only with Marshal Éothain. But it is the smallest one. The others are bigger: however, up to eight men have to live together in those.”

Lothíriel took another look around, wondering if all the quarters were as sparse and unaccommodating as this one belonging to the Marshal and the Captain of the Royal Guard. The only personal thing she noticed was a board game set up on the table. The rectangular board was split into differently coloured squares; the pieces were simple and barrel-shaped, obviously carved from bones.

“You have been playing against yourself?”

“Not much else I can do for the next month, as it looks.” Éofor raised his – still – splinted arm.

“We will see. Take a seat and put your arm on the table,” Lothíriel ordered.

The Rohír obeyed and perched down on the bench. Lothíriel took a couple of rolled up bandages from her small leather bag, and, while she groped around in it to find her surgical knife, she watched the man from under lowered lashes. The gaze he kept locked on her was avid, but at the same time toned down by some self-mockery.

What had Éomer explained? That her unfamiliar looks alone meant an allure for a man like Éofor, and although he knew she was strictly out of reach for him – both as the wife of another man and as his queen – his ego induced him to treat her with presumptuousness instead of with courtesy. Lothíriel’s hand had found the knife and pulled it out of the satchel. A protective sheath covered the razor sharp instrument.

“Captain Éofor, as we have a moment to speak to each other in private, I would like to take the opportunity of asking you to cease continuing acting in this impudent manner towards me. It is tedious and abhorrent in equal measures.”

As a surprise attack went, it was perfectly executed – no doubt – having come truly unexpectedly. The rider froze, staring at her in non-comprehension. Lothíriel was tempted to advise him to close his mouth. It was early in the year, but in the immediate vicinity of the stables there could already be plenty of horse flies around. But she had to grant him that he recovered quite quickly.

“My Lady, I regret that any of my recent behaviour should have given such an impression.” He managed to sound aghast and offended. It surprised her that he didn’t put his hand on his chest in a gesture of anguish. “I can assure you that I have always only wished to demonstrate my highest regards for my queen.”

“And you do so by asking lewd riddles in the presence of your queen?” Lothíriel inquired pleasantly and freed the sharp knife from its sheath.

Éofor blinked doubtfully at the sight of the short, glittering blade. “You were told the correct . . . I mean the other answer?” he asked cautiously.

“I might not be familiar with everything concerning Rohirric life yet, but I do not need anybody prompting the answer to some imbecile riddle. Of course, I knew the other answer.” However, she did not have any intention of telling the captain what actually gave her the vital cue. Let him assume that she had solved the riddle correctly that night at the bonfire and had just chosen to keep quiet about the mere cheekiness of his behaviour. “What I had to be told,” she continued, taking a grip of his injured arm and bringing the surgical knife into position, “was that although Rohirric customs and practice are less stringent and demure than those of Gondor, your conduct during our dance together was anything but respectable.” With a dexterity acquired through lots of practice she began to cut off the bandages which held the splints in place. “That will not recur.”

The Rohír followed the procedure with a certain uneasiness. “You cannot expect me to disagree with you, my Lady, whilst you are wielding a deadly weapon.”

Lothíriel sent him a short, deliberately blasé gaze before she concentrated again on her work. “It is certainly sharp enough to cut your throat, Captain.” She had to stifle a smile when she felt him twitch. “But this knife is irrelevant. My words are not a matter of agreement or disagreement. I am telling you and you will conform.”

By mere chance, with her last remark the bandages were cut and the splints that had kept Éofor’s arm immobile came off. Abruptly the injured hand lost its support. The Rohír hissed in pain. “You Gondorian healers are not a straw more sensitive than our sawbones,” he complained.

“My sensitivity depends entirely on my patient.” Back at the Houses of Healing, Ioreth would have had her head on a platter for that statement, not to mention for her rough treatment of the captain. But then, she had learnt that occasionally it was helpful if she deployed blunter measures to ensure getting the attention of the men of Rohan.

For the time being their intriguing conversation was interrupted by Merry who came bursting into the room, carrying a bowl in front of him.

“Here are the egg whites. Mistress Rimhilde has already separated them from the yolks and beaten them.”

“That is perfect,” Lothíriel took the bowl from him. “Precisely as I need them.”

“I am off again.” Merry executed a swift turn on his heels.

“Where to?” Lothíriel called after him.

The Hobbit came to a halt under the doorway. “Mistress Rimhilde suggested that she makes some ‘crompeht’ from the egg yolk for Pippin and me.”

Finding her earlier guess confirmed, Lothíriel couldn’t help laughing. “Have you paid for the eggs?” she asked.

“I told our kind hostess that Captain Éofor would take care of the recompense.”

“What?” The rider glared at him. “I am supposed to pay for eggs you are going to gobble up?”

“We would not have to eat the yolks if you did not need the whites for your bandages,” Merry pointed out, and was gone.

“And I may rest assured that Rimhilde will not forget about it,” Éofor grumbled. He seemed to have a streak of pettiness.

Lothíriel cut shorter strips from the rolls of bandage and dipped one after the other into the beaten egg white and soaked them thoroughly.

“Now that we have come to the agreement that your behaviour will be - as from today – as exemplary as can be expected from the Captain of the Royal Guard, there is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

The glance she received told her that her patient did not share her assessment that they had reached an agreement, but rather that it had been forced upon him. But that was just fine with Lothíriel. Unlike other recipients of his platitudinous attempts of philandering she certainly felt neither flattered nor flustered by them, in all likelihood an unprecedented occurrence for the boastful captain. As long as he had understood his place, it should be possible to deploy him in a perfectly useful fashion.

“Even without your arm being impaired by the splint, your hand – your sword hand - will not be of any use for at least the next month.”

“If you say so, my Lady. You are the healer.”

His words were noncommittal, his tone still vexing. Lothíriel looked up and caught his eyes. She saw a mixture of emotions flaring in them. It appeared to be difficult for him to see her as somebody who commanded obedience rather than a young female. The concept of having a queen – albeit one from a foreign land - seemed to be, for the time being, disconcerting for the Rohirrim. She would have to prove herself worthy of her station, but in this particular case she simply had to impose her will on this man. She held his gaze with all the inbred confidence of her noble breeding and the assuredness acquired through her work as a healer. And in the end the rider yielded and lowered his eyes.

Lothíriel continued with her task.

“You have seen the horse the King gave to me, Captain Éofor, and you have certainly seen that riding is not one of my stronger points. It will require some practice to become proficient enough so that I will be able, by summer at the latest, to travel Rohan on horseback – without holding anybody up. I intend to begin daily exercise rides in the vicinity of Edoras as soon as King Elessar’s company have left in five days time. By then your hand should have settled so that you will be able to accompany me on those rides.”

“Hwæt?. . . Ah, I mean, what?” The Rohír cleared his throat. “I mean . . . I beg your pardon, my Lady?”

So he was educable after all.

“Which part of my explanation was not plainly comprehensible?” Lothíriel asked, clearing away the old bandages and the wooden splints, which had done their part.

“You hold grave misconduct against me and at the same time wish me to act as your riding instructor? There is a lot not to be comprehended, my Lady.”

His queen sat down next to the baffled rider. “This might hurt a bit,” she warned and aligned the man’s hand. He hissed but didn’t flinch. Seeing to it that the straightened bones of his hand stayed in place, she carefully slipped her own left hand under his to give it support.

“Your third and fourth metacarpal bones are broken,” she murmured, more to herself. The fourth was rather weak, but it required some pressure to break the third. She needed to have a word with Amrothos. So much force had been unnecessary. His broken nose had been accidental; the Captain’s injury had been done on purpose.

With her free hand she fished the first strip of egg white saturated linen from the bowl and began to arrange it quickly and skilfully around the injured limb. Putting a stiffened bandage to brace a broken bone was one of the first practical tasks the healers’ apprentices were allowed to do on their own. She had long ago lost count of how many times she had done this. In a city made entirely of stone, people were inclined to fall heavily.

“May I remind you that your misconduct is a matter of the past?” Carefully applying as little pressure as possible, she began to smooth out the different layers of the bandage so they would merge into a tight brace. “You are the Captain of the Royal Guard,” she continued. “I imagine that you have not reached the position without having demonstrated numerous outstanding attributes. That fact does qualify you as my escort.”

“And how does your husband feels about your choice of guard?”

“I have not had the opportunity to inform the King, but I am certain he will be in concordance with my reasoning as well as with my decision.”

The captain gave a grunt, which didn’t sound as if he was convinced. However, Lothíriel was quite sure that her logic was simply compelling and that Éomer would understand.

“And what about your brothers, my Lady?”

“My brothers?” Lothíriel asked uncomprehendingly, applying another layer of linen. “What do they have to do with this matter?”

“You are just treating their disagreement with my . . . recent conduct towards you,” Éofor enlightened her. When she raised her eyes from her task and stared at him, he had the grace to look rather sheepish.

“Are you saying this whole ridiculous business yesterday - the duel between you and Amrothos - was some kind of punishment?” she demanded, incredulity emphasizing the last word.

“That is what your brother told me before he struck the first blow.”

Now it was Lothíriel’s turn to forget to close her mouth, being speechless for a couple of heartbeats. The first words that came to her puzzled mind were, “How dare he interfere in my affairs!”

The extent of her outrage obviously surprised Éofor, but as he watched her a mixture of gloating and hope crept into his gaze. “He is your brother, my Lady, and this is Rohan.”

“Do I have to understand the connection?” Lothíriel lashed out impatiently.

“In Rohan, when a woman weds a man, naturally she will live with her husband’s people but her blood-kin will continue to watch over her and her children. It is her brothers’ duty to protect her interests and those of her offspring.”

“That is a custom of Rohan?” She tipped her head back and looked towards the ceiling. With a groan she closed her eyes. “I only hope that nobody will ever tell my brothers about that.”

“Tell us about what?”

Lothíriel’s eyes flew open and she turned towards the hard, cutting voice coming from the open doorway. Beside her Éofor jumped hastily to his feet. Amrothos was standing there, his shoulder propped casually against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest. However, there was certainly no casualness in his air. With the sun behind him, his sister could hardly make out his face. But it came to her mind that the peacock blue of the tunic he had chosen would emphasise unfavourably the rainbow colours currently decorating his features.

“Sister dearest, would you be so kind as to tell me what you are doing here?”

Amrothos’s trenchant inquiry made Lothíriel blink in astonishment, and she couldn’t have said that she appreciated his sarcasm. But she recovered quickly.

“I am here to alleviate the effects of the damage you have done.” Her tone matched his. Today she did not feel overly affectionate towards Amrothos.

“Why should you feel it necessary to take the pain of alleviating that damage after I went through all the trouble of causing it?” One of Amrothos’s more irritating character traits was that he never tried to deny his wrongdoings or to excuse them.

“I cannot have my brother breaking the limbs of Éomer’s guards,” she accused him, making certain the tone of her voice indicated clearly the annoyance she felt with him.

Her brother’s jaw was set in a grim line. “It is not as if I am doing it indiscriminately. I restrict that treatment only to a carefully selected number.” His chin jerked in the direction of the rider. “He knows what I am talking about and I thought we had come to an agreement yesterday.”

“It is amazing what your family understands by ‘coming to an agreement’,” Éofor dared to interject, at the same time shooting the prince an edgy glance.

Lothíriel saw Amrothos flex his fingers as he would have flexed them around the hilt of a sword. Fortunately he hadn’t felt the need of donning one. With his remark the mangled rider had exposed himself to the not improbable danger of having just another of his body parts broken – possibly his neck.

“Quiet!” she snapped at him. “And sit down. I am not finished with you.” With a vigorous motion she turned towards her brother. “And you will wait – without making trouble - until I have finished with him and then we are going to have a word – in private.”

Éofor glared at her but obviously thought the better of whatever retort he had intended and took his seat on the bench.

Amrothos looked thoroughly baffled for a moment, but then he raised his eyebrows mockingly and cocked his head. “I see. This is your - only recently - acquired queenly tone of authority, am I right?” He came into the room, up to the table and contemplated her handiwork on Éofor’s arm. Having him standing in an advantageous position above him the Rohír made a move to rise again. Absentmindedly Lothíriel waved her hand in a gesture commonly used to signal a dog to stay down - and was obeyed. She masked her vexation over Amrothos’s words with a bright smile, hoping that it would peeve her brother as much as he was currently peeving her.

“Do not tempt me to give my queenly authority a trial by asking any other riders who are around to remove you from their domain.”

Amrothos laughed humourlessly. “That should be interesting. Giving your husband’s guards the chance to witness a spat between their new Queen and her dear brother. Talk about first impressions are important.”

“They will be given the opportunity to learn that their new queen does not accept others meddling in her affairs.”

“Your being approached improperly by some puffed-up would-be debaucher is quite certainly not merely your own affair.”

Although Éofor did not seem overly pleased to be described in terms such as ‘puffed-up’ or ‘would-be’, his eyes darted back and forth between the royal siblings, no doubt fascinated by the exchange of words.

Lothíriel again took up her place next to him on the bench and dipped her fingers back into the bowl with the soaked linen strips, fishing for another piece. “It is not up to you to decide which are my private affairs and which are not,” she rebuked her brother. “At the very most Éomer has the right of a say in such a matter.” She straightened the dressing and applied it to the brace. When she looked up from her work she saw Amrothos watching her with an expression residing somewhere within an obscure triangle of patronization, pretended pity and amusement. She sat in silence for a moment, digesting what she had just heard.

A vexing thought jumped up in her mind. “Éomer was not in on this!” Disbelief mingled with outrage in her voice. She received an omniscient grin and an unappreciated portion of sarcasm.

“It is a rare mind indeed that can comprehend the blindingly obvious.”

Infuriated Lothíriel slapped another strip of linen rather carelessly on her creation, which produced into a moan of pain from her patient. She didn’t pay him any attention.

How dare they! Éomer usually pretended to be exceedingly annoyed by Amrothos’s antics but he apparently hadn’t minded drawing on him to carry out . . . what exactly? She remembered his words after having admitted that he was angry about his captain’s conduct. ‘What do you expect me to do? Pummel him?’ Oh, no! He had downplayed the matter and arranged for her brother to do the pummelling, with the effect that both Amrothos and Éofor had got hurt. And she had been kept in the dark like some imbecile.

Lothíriel growled in frustration, a not entirely lady-like sort of noise. It earned her a befuddled look from Éofor and a gleeful chuckle from Amrothos.

“I do not think I would like to be in Éomer’s riding boots tonight,” the latter declared, his formerly severe tone having become more moderate. For the moment the danger of him going for the captain’s throat seemed to have diminished.

“Do not believe that I am finished with you yet,” his sister threatened.

“My knees are trembling.”

Ceorl’s timely return enforced a temporary ceasefire. The unimpeachable rider swept into his captain’s quarters, carrying a bucket with steam rising from it. He came to an abrupt halt when he found himself unexpectedly face-to-face with Amrothos. A good quantity of the hot water slopped over.

“Oh oh,” he remarked.

Lothíriel cast him a glance over her shoulder. “Considering his behaviour earlier I gather he also knew about this act of vengeance?” she asked, addressing no one in particular.

“You are exaggerating,” her brother asserted whilst the young Rohír wisely refrained from any comment.

Being accused of exaggeration by Amrothos of all people had a certain irony to it.

“Put the bucket here on the table. I have finished with Captain Éofor and wish to cleanse my hands,” she instructed the standard-bearer.

“You sent me off to get boiled water only so you can wash your hands in it?” Ceorl asked, riled. “It is not as if we have buckets full of boiling water standing around.”

As much as she appreciated the straightforwardness and blunt honesty of the Rohirrim, this was a moment when she would have preferred this one to have kept his mouth shut.

“Your Lady Queen just wanted to daff you aside,” Amrothos clarified with a thunderous glare at his sister. “Because for some reason that I fail to comprehend, she felt it necessary to have a chat in private with our dearest captain here.”

“I prefer to arrange my affairs verbally instead of resorting to the primitive means of violence, which is – after all – nothing but the last refuge of the incompetent.”

Lothíriel plunged both hands tempestuously into the water without having rolled back the narrow sleeves of her gown – with the result that she soaked them half way up to her elbows. “Would somebody be so kind as to get me a cloth to dry my hands with? – Not you,” she snapped at Éofor who made a move to rise. “You have to stay in that position and keep your forearm still until the egg white has completely hardened.”

Ceorl took his cue and disappeared into one of the adjoining chambers. One could hear him foraging around before he returned with a – reasonably – clean piece of flannel. Thanking him rather ungraciously – at the moment she was really angry with men in general – Lothíriel accepted the cloth to dry her hands and wring as much moistness out of her sleeves as possible.

Everybody kept silent. Lothíriel – and she assumed Amrothos, also – because she felt this spat between her brother and herself was a rather undignified affair and that already too much had been said in front of a couple of highly enraptured witnesses. And the two riders were probably uncertain what would happen if they provoked their new queen – a dark horse, after all – by another inconsiderate remark.

Lothíriel discarded the cloth – the men could clean up after her - and picked up her surgical knife.

“The bandage should serve you well for the time the bones need to mend. That is, of course, as long as you do not something stupid with your hand. In that case you may call upon me and I will have another look at it.” She returned the knife to her satchel. “Otherwise I will see you in five days.”

“What for?” Amrothos demanded.

“None of your business,” his sister snubbed him. “In five days you will be gone anyway.” She made it sound as if she could hardly wait to see the last of him. Wrapping the strap of the satchel over her shoulder, she gave a curt nod. “Captain Éofor. Ceorl. Good day.”

Ignoring Amrothos she marched out of the house. In order not be left behind, all her brother could do was to throw his adversary a last lethal glare and then make haste to catch up with a – metaphorically speaking - steaming Lothíriel.

Ceorl waited until he was absolutely sure that this unpredictable pair of siblings was out of earshot. Disgruntled, he turned on his friend.

“I warned you that this silly game of yours would only get you between hammer and anvil. And you can count yourself lucky that Éomer obviously did not regard the whole affair as serious enough and left it to her brother to teach you a well-deserved lesson.”

“Ceorl, if you assume that the danger comes from Éomer or that prince, think again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our Lady Queen sent you away because she had some orders to issue. She ordered me to behave myself from today on . . .”

“A highly sensible order,” the younger rider interrupted.

“ . . . and she detailed me to give her riding lessons.”

“What? Of course you refused.”

“I have not had the chance to refuse,” Éofor defended himself. “Frankly speaking, I have the feeling that this half pint Éomer made our queen does know how to get her way.”

“A half pint is she, now that you have learnt you cannot impress her?”

“I am not overly fond of obstinate woman,” the Rohír stated a fact that was not entirely unknown to his friends. “And I wonder if Éomer already has any idea what the Gondorians have foisted on him.”

“Unlike you, he might prefer her to a pretty shell filled with nothing but air.”

“You know as well as I do that he is used to having his orders obeyed. It will be interesting to see how he is going to deal with a wife who prefers to arrange her affairs as she thinks best.”

“I do not mind watching that spectacle either, but I’d rather do it from afar.”

“So you will not end up between hammer and anvil?” the Captain of the Guard asked wryly. “Perhaps that is the best approach,” he added thoughtfully, “because that hammer is likely to strike plenty of sparks.”

TBC

Iċ grēte Þē – I greet you!

Nā! Iċ bidde Þē, neart! – No! Please, don’t/I beg you, don’t!

Hwæt is hit wiþ ðē? – What is it with you/What is the matter with you?

Sēo Cwēn? Éomeres wif? – The Queen? Éomer’s wife?

dwæser - fool

horsþegn - stable master/horse thegn

crompeht - pancake

Braies - a pair of baggy linen drawers worn during the Medieval Ages by men (and possibly women) of all classes under their normal clothing. Laced to the braies was a pair of tight-fitting hose or chausses to cover the legs.

The relationship between brothers and sisters and between uncle and sister’s children - foremost the sons – was very special, almost sacred, in all Germanic societies. So it had a certain logic that the terms the Anglo-Saxons used for uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces specified the side of the family: for instance, father’s brother was ‘fædera’, mother’s brother ‘eam’. Éomer’s position at the court of Théoden was unique. He was not just another member of the royal household, he was the king’s sister son. Their relationship would have been considered more important than that between the uncle and a possible brother’s son.