Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s notes: As far as I could find out, Stowburg isn’t a canon settlement. However, it’s widely accepted in various RPGs as the seat of Clan Éowain (also not canon), and thus serves as Lord Hengest’s (and Elfhelm’s) ancestral home.

To the Great Hall of Hradschin Castle, in Prague, there is an actual stair with flat enough steps for a horse to climb – apparently, they held tournaments within the Hall occasionally. The fountain with the horses was inspired by a rather different one I saw in Herxheim, Germany.

Time: about four years before the Ring War

Beta read by Borys, whom I owe my gratitude.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Fifteen – Stowburg

Unlike the Men of Gondor, or even those of the Long Lake, the Horse-lords of the Mark had no great cities. Even Edoras, the chief settlement of the realm and the seat of their King, was barely more than a town in the eyes of foreign visitors. And Stowburg, built by Éofor son of Brego, while almost as old as Edoras, was even smaller; a village at best, albeit a fortified one.

“We of the East-mark are of Clan Éowain,” explained Elfhelm, when the Rhunim commented on the lack of any large settlements. “Our people have kept many of the nomadic traditions that go back to the days of the Éothéod; our ancestors who lived in the far North, at the sources of Anduin,” he added, seeing their blank looks. “They travel with their herds from the edge of the East-emnet to the swampy area around the Entwash and north from the Great West Road and the White Mountains to the Wold and the northern fringes of Fangorn Forest. Permanent settlements are few and far between in these lands, and they are more farmsteads than larger villages.”

“Why would they do so?” asked Einarr with a frown. “Only lordless people live in tents, without permanent dwellings. ‘Tis a dangerous thing.”

“Not here, ‘tis not,” replied Elfhelm. “The horse-herders follow the horses, travelling from summer pastures to winter quarters, and the horses follow the mearas. Our horses do not live in stables, not even in winter; for the mearas always find the best places where the grass never fades. These are no mere beasts; they choose to live with us, and we respect their choices.”

“So all your people are led by their horses?” laughed Einarr.

“Nay,” answered Elfhelm, ignoring the slight challenge in his future brother-in-law’s voice. “We are led by the Maegtheow, the Clan Master, who happens to be my father right now. ‘Tis an arunk that has been inherited in my family from father to son since the days of Léod, the father of Eorl the Young.”

“So your father is the lord of the East-mark region?” clarified Eiríkr who had not been present when Elfhelm had been introduced to his father’s court.

Elfhelm nodded. “He is. Of course, he has to listen to the Clan Council, the Maegwitan, in most matters. We are a free people who decide about our fate in all things, and the Clan Counsellors, the Maegrads, are some of the most influential people in the Clan: craft masters, landed thegns or men and women of wealth and influence. Not to mention the respected Elders of the Clan, who possess great wisdom and experience. Their counsel is invaluable, as they live with the people and know of their needs and grievances better than the Clan Master could hope to know.”

Eiríkr shook his head in bewilderment. “They must be fighting all the time!”

"Nay, they are not; they are reasonable people who take their duty to the Clan very seriously,” Elfhelm smiled. “Besides, their regular meetings make life in Stowburg more interesting. You must understand that – given the nomadic nature of our Clan – Stowburg was mostly just the home of House Fréabold: our family and retainers. Only the horse-masters of the Clan live here permanently – breeders, horse-healers and trainers, who assisting my father in his duties. He is the Erkenstedamaegister, the Chief Stallion Master of the entire Mark; not even the King makes any decision concerning the breeding of horses without asking him first.”

“But you must have warriors to protect your land,” said Einarr with a frown.

Elfhelm nodded. “We do. Father has two éoreds that regularly patrol the borders, led by my older brothers, Iminric and Adhemar. However, those éoreds have their own garrisons near other villages, so that they can reach the endangered areas much faster than if they would stay in Stowburg. Father has his House Guard to protect the family, and that is more than enough. The village has good natural defences.”

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Rhunim understood what he meant when they reached their destination on the next day. The village sat in a strategically chosen corner of the Eastfold, in the south-east of the Mark, among rolling hills that extended into the White Mountains, bounded by the Mering-stream, the Entwash and the mountain Snowbourn. Its outer walls while made of wood and of packed earth, were impressively high, strengthened with wooden watchtowers at regular intervals. The one gate they could see from this angle stood open, as it was custom among the Men of the Mark, from dawn to dusk, but guarded by two square watchtowers, made of heavy wooden logs.

As they rode through the gate, the wains rolling after them, the gate-keepers saluted with their spears.

“Welcome home,” one of them, a long-limbed, straw-headed youth, at least ten years Elfhelm’s junior, called out in heavily accented Westron. “Took you long enough to show your mug again. But you arrived just in time for the evening meal – as always.”

While the Rhunim were staring in disbelief at the disrespectful manner of the young man, Elfhelm dismounted and gave him a bone-crushing hug.

“’Tis good to see you, too, Raedwald,” he laughed; then, turning to the Rhunim, he explained. “This is my youngest brother who believes that just because he is finally capable of growing a beard he can be cheeky with his elders.”

The young man grinned, too, and now they could all see the family resemblance, despite the different colouring.

“Since when are you an old man, brother?” he asked. “And are you not introducing me to the ladies?”

“That must wait,” Elfhelm looked up to the gate tower where the flag of House Fréabold fluttered in the wind. “Is Father at home?”

 “He has just returned from inspecting the herds,” answered his brother. “Why do I not send a messenger to the Hall to announce your arrival, lest the sitting order at the High Table gets all disturbed in the last moment, upsetting Mother, while you make your way to the house?”

Elfhelm agreed with the idea, and soon they could see a messenger boy run off in excitement to bring the news to the Master of the Hall, while Elfhelm and the others followed the only true street Stowburg could call its own, which led from the gate straight to the ancestral Hall of House Fréabold.

Imogen and her brothers had never seen Meduseld, thus they could not know that this Hall, built in the same style, was not as big as the Golden Hall of the Kings of the Mark and far less ornate. They found it most impressive, as it stood on top of a flat green hill. Around it, several other houses stood, all built in the same manner of thick oak logs, though smaller than the hall. Their narrow fronts had gabled or horned roofs and were richly carved and painted.

“The second one on the left is mine,” said Elfhelm, leading his horse on the reins.

The Rhunim looked at him with growing respect.

“You have got a house of your own?” asked Imogen in surprise. Elfhelm nodded.

“Of course. I might only be a third son, but I am the son of the Maegtheow and a Marshal of the Mark. Mind you, I spend precious little time here, seeing as I serve at Edoras and must be with the troops in the most time, but yea, when I am home, I dwell in my own. Come with me and leave those wains at the foot of the hill. The grooms will take care of everything, and your belongings will be brought to the house.”

With some reluctance, the Rhunim did as he had asked them, leaving only the servants behind. Climbing the hill was no hardship, and the higher vantage point gave them a good view at the entire village.

Despite the late hour, life was still busy in Stowburg. Women were hurrying to and fro on the lively markets to make last-moment purchases. Children were running on the street, playing catch-me and dodging the occasional hound and pig that got in their way. Vendors were haggling with their customers good-naturedly. Men where returning from the meadows, having seen after their horses and ready to sit down with their families to the evening meal.

Everyone was well-fed and well-clothed, but Imogen could not see anyone wearing the distinctive armour of warriors, although all men were carrying axes, spears or swords. Even most women had long knives on their belts. That surprised her; but then she remembered that the warriors were stationed outside the village, according to Elfhelm.

The arrival of the caravan had drawn a great deal of attention, of course. Everyone knew Elfhelm, as he had been born and grew up here, in Stowburg. And, despite the Nordic looks of Einarr and Eiríkr, people obviously recognised them as Easterlings… not surprisingly, considering that their lady, too, was one of them. Not one of the Khimmer nobles, true, just the daughter of a Morduin chieftain, but still born in the East.

The stares given the strangers were curious rather than hostile; the red-headed Birgid in particular drew more than a few interested looks, making Einarr scowl jealously. Still, all the attention made Imogen uncomfortable. She walked on Elfhelm’s side with downcast eyes, but her cheeks felt hot, and she knew she was blushing; it angered her to no end.

Elfhelm, feeling her discomfort, squeezed her hand encouragingly.

“Worry not,” he said in a low voice. “They are good people and mean no harm. You are not the first bride coming from the East; they are merely curious.”

Imogen nodded silently; for truly, what could she have answered to that? To her relief, they soon reached the house they were heading for. Its gilded and carved double-winged door stood open, and a fair, long-boned man came striding out of it to meet them.

He was perhaps in his late thirties, of light built, with a short, neatly trimmed beard the colour of ripe wheat and a thick mane of collar-length hair of the same shade; perhaps only the warriors of the Mark were allowed to wear their hair long? He had a ruddy, open face, in which the blue Northern eyes shone brightly. His tunic and breeches were of good yet simple cloth; a clear sign that he was some sort of servant.

“Wilcume, hláford mín,” he greeted Elfhelm in the tongue of the Mark; then, measuring the other newcomers with one experienced glance and recognising them as guests, he added in Westron. “Be welcome in the home of Lord Elfhelm Hengestsson. I am Cenred, the steward of his house. I shall have a bath ready for you shortly, and food brought to the hall while you get settled. Will my lord have the evening meal here or in Heorot Hall?”

“The Lady Imogen and her brothers will come to my father’s table with me,” Elfhelm told him. “I shall leave the others in your care. See that they do not lack anything they might need.”

The steward bowed. “Everything will be in readiness as you ordered, my lord.”

His voice was loud, solicitous and warm, making everyone feel welcome and safe indeed. Preserving calm he had servants running here and there, preparing beds for the weary travellers, bringing food to the hall and wine and ale.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They all had a refreshing bath first, and Wulfgyth, Elfhelm’s chatelaine – a tall, wiry, elderly woman with the free and authoritative manner of a trusted servant who had spent many years in the confidence of her lord – had clean clothes laid out for them.

The ones meant for Imogen fit surprisingly well and were most beautiful and comfortable: a pale blue gown of the finest wool, the wide sleeves of which revealed the tight-sleeved undershirt of rough silk worn beneath. Two vertical stripes of black velvet embroidered with gold thread and set with small yellow gemstones run from the shoulder to the seam of the gown; the sleeves were adorned above the wrists in the same manner. The gown was cinched right below her breasts with a chain made of interlinked gold rings. Unga combed her lady’s hair and put it in a knot on the nape of Imogen’s neck, covering her head with the thin yellow veil that came with the dress, fixing it with the jewelled golden disks Khimmer noblewomen wore on their temples.

“My sister, Hereswith wore these clothes before she left Stowburg to marry her childhood love,” explained Elfhelm, when he was capable of speaking again, as the truly stunning sight had taken his breath at first. “She was of similar build as you… until her first child, that is. But she never looked this beautiful in them, I must admit.”

Imogen just smiled and shook her head in good humoured exasperation. But she had to secretly admit that the compliment had warmed her heart, just a little.

For Einarr and Eiríkr, the servants had brought simple yet well-made clothes of a fashion the lesser nobles of the Mark would wear on an average day: breeches of undyed wool and fine woollen tunics in moss green, the neckline of which was trimmed with black ribbon and embroidered with a meandering pattern in white. They were provided with soft leather belts that could be buckled in the front and had a soft leather pouch hanging from them, for the personal necessities.

“We do not touch the baggage of our guests without permission,” explained Wulfgyth stiffly. “These should fit, though. I have clad enough young men in my time to have a good eye for what would fit and what would not.”

And indeed, although a bit long in the sleeve and tight in the shoulder, the clothes fit the Khimmer warriors well enough. Their bondservants then opened the travelling chests to bring out their best cloaks and dressed them properly for the evening meal at the High Table. Elfhelm, who was clad similarly, had to admit that they looked fairly impressive with the jewelled bronze bands, set with many-hued gemstones, placed upon their blond heads.

To reach Heorot Hall – the Hall of the Stag, named after the enormous antlers of some long-dead animal that adorned the roof right above the entrance – they had but a short walk to the crown of the hill. There, upon a high platform above a green terrace it stood like a ship riding the crest of a high wave. A few broad and flat steps – flat enough for even a horse to climb – went up the terrace, leading to a small, stone-paved courtyard with a round, water-filled basin in the middle of it.

The water filling the basin came in high, criss-crossing arches from the mouths of horse-shaped statues, carved only partially out of large blocks of granite. Squat and powerful, the heads, chests and front legs of the horses gleamed wetly in the spray, the silver nails in their pupils making them look almost alive.

“Dwarf-made, if I ever saw Dwarf-work in my life,” judged Einarr, and Elfhelm nodded.

“And much older than Heorot Hall itself, according to family legend. The fountain and the stair had already been ancient when Éofor son of Brego began to build the Hall. We know not whom it originally belonged, but we are happy to have it, for it is unique. Come now!”

He led them up the stair, to a small portico with wooden pillars that looked like mighty trees – and trees indeed they had once been, hewn in the nearby forests and left in their natural form after cleaned from the smaller branches, yet carved with the figures of running horses in high relief; horses with flowing, gilded manes and tails and jewelled eyes. It was an amazing sight; and so were the heavy wings of the wooden door, too, adorned in the same fashion, only with leaping stags with golden antlers instead of horses.

A tall, erect, elderly man with a full head of thick, grizzled hair stood in front of the door, his face long, austere and bearded. He was handsome and well-clad in a dark grey tunic of fine wool, yet unsmiling, with a high-ridged nose and a grim set to his mouth and jaw that spoke of great hardships that he had overcome in his life.

No easy man, and perchance not easy to please, Imogen decided, wondering who he might be. He was in his mid-fifties, by the looks of him, but his dark, deep-set eyes seemed much older than his overall appearance. Much older. Those eyes had seen much in their time, little of which could have been pleasant.

Elfhelm greeted him with special courtesy, which showed the man’s importance in Lord Hengest’s Hall.

“Uncle Leoric, ‘tis good to see you again!”

“And you,” the older man replied. “We feared this hour may never come; unlike most others, we knew what you were about to face. In you go now – the household is about to sit down to evening meal. We have only been waiting for you.”

With a light touch of his hand, he tossed the door open, allowing the light of the settling sun to stream into the central hall of Heorot. It was of moderate size, with a large fire pit in the centre and richly carved wooden pillars held up its roof that – from the inside – looked like a turned-over boat, with its carved and painted arches.

A small dais against the wall held a canopied double chair, ornately carved with the figures of stags – clearly the place of the lord and lady of the Hall. Before that stood the High Table, while the lesser tables, meant for the household and the retainers of Lord Hengest, were placed in the middle of the hall, above and below the fire pit.

The man whom Elfhelm had called Uncle Leoric – most likely the brother of his mother, as he was clearly not a Man of the Mark – went straight to the High Table, where several seats were still empty, kept for Elfhelm and his guests, no doubt.

“Your son has finally returned, Lord Hengest,” he said. “Rejoice and let him be welcome at his father’s table again.”

Imogen watched the parents of her future husband with great interest. The Lord Hengest, even while sitting, seemed to be quite tall – easily the tallest man she had ever met, save for the Lord Aðalbrandr, but the people of the Sea-kings were all ridiculously tall anyway. His fair hair, as-yet untouched by silver, was braided, and his short, neat beard and his moustaches were full. He had the blue Northern eyes of most Horse-lords, yet his features had little in common with those of Elfhelm. He was dressed in the style favoured by the Men of the Mark: in a knee-length tunic of rich green wool, embroidered with red and gold on the neckline and the sleeves, with a long, sleeveless surcoat of the same cloth over it. His breeches were of soft grey leather, and he wore comfortable ankle-boots, meant to be used within the house.

On his left a dark-haired woman sat; a glance at her was enough to see where Elfhelm had got his colouring and his features from. She wore a gown in the same dark green as her husband, but with wide, trailing sleeves and a fine linen undergown beneath, the sleeves of which were richly embroidered in red and gold. Her hair, artfully braided and collected in a knot at the nape of the neck, was covered in a gilded net, scattered with small green and yellow gemstones. Once she must have been a great beauty, and she still looked striking, despite the silver threads in her dark hair and the distinct marks that age and more than a dozen pregnancies had left on her gentle face.

There were many other people in the hall but Imogen chose to focus her interest on the parents of her intended. Those were the people who needed to accept her first. The others would follow.

Lord Hengest rose from his seat to welcome his returned son with the usual warrior’s clasp of forearms.

“’Tis good to see you again, my son – and apparently well and hale,” he said in Westron, as a courtesy for the visitors who might not understand the tongue of the Mark. “You have brought guests with you?”

“Not guests, my lord; kinfolk,” replied Elfhelm. “You told me that you wanted me wedded by Harvest tide – so I have wed. May I present my betrothed, Imogen Ragnarsdaughter, and two of her brothers, Einarr and Eiríkr, who accepted the task of accompanying her in a foreign land, so that she would not be entirely bereft of her kin?”

One could have cut the heavy silence in the hall with a blunt knife.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lord Hengest was the least shocked of all. Not that he had expected Elfhelm to return from Rhûn with a Khimmer bride – and with the daughter of Ragnar the Smith, no less!  But he knew the stubborn pride of his third-born son too well to hope that he would bend under the pressure without resistance.

Well, this was a masterful stroke, he had to admit. Having known why Elfhelm was so reluctant to take a wife, Lord Hengest and his lady already had their eyes on a suitable match – one of Dúnhere’s cousins would have done nicely – but once again, Elfhelm had found a way to defy them all.

And in what way! Wedding the daughter of the chief Khimmer warlord would ensure the safety of the eastern border of the Mark, at least where the strongest, most powerful Khimmer tribe was concerned. With this marriage Elfhelm had made the first step towards a lasting alliance with Rhûn. They might not live to see it, but it would come, eventually.

Théoden-King will be most pleased – although Gríma Wormtongue likely would not.

The Lord of the Eastfold turned his eyes to the woman who made a future alliance possible and found her to his liking. She was clearly of mixed blood: more slender than Khimmer women usually were, raven-haired and grey-eyed and bitterly beautiful. Perhaps her mother came from the ancient people of Rhovanion who were all but gone by now? Her wide shoulders and strong arms that barely fit into Hereswith’s old gown spoke of someone who wielded the sword regularly.

A shieldmaiden, then. That in itself would not bother the Maegtheow of Clan Éowain. The Mark had its shieldmaidens, too, even some from the royal Clan. The shieldmaidens of the East, however, were maidens in name only – and Lord Hengest did find the thought that his son would not be the first man to know his future wife intimately a disturbing one.

As a rule, the Men of the Mark did not mind – very much – if their daughters had dallied a bit before they would find their true match. No-one liked to talk about it, but all knew that it happened, and bridegrooms generally did not expect their brides to be untouched (even less so as usually they had been the ones doing all the touching before the wedding feast). A shieldmaiden of the East, though, was a different matter entirely – and quite a few knew that.

Well, that could not be helped. Elfhelm had made his choice, for whatever reasons, and bought, hopefully, a few more years of peace for the Mark through it. Therefore Lord Hengest did the only thing he could do: he extended both hands towards the daughter of Ragnar the Smith and greeted her as one would greet one’s close kin.

“Welcome, daughter,” he said. “Welcome to Clan and family. May your stay with us be richly blessed by Béma, the Hunter, and Nogyth, the Earth-Mother.”

Imogen answered him with the time-honoured words of respectful gratitude, allowing the Lady Imoleth to embrace her with heartfelt warmth. Lord Hengest, in the meantime, was studying her brothers – or half-brothers more likely, given their different features and colouring.

Unlike Imogen, these two showed Khimmer traits beyond any doubt. Tough, square-set young men they were, brawny and bull-necked, broad in the shoulders and bowed legged from years spent as much on horseback as on their own two feet. That, at least, was promising. Good horsemen had a better chance to fit in with the Men of the Mark, assuming they learned to respect their horses as well as to ride them.

Having a fair colouring would help fitting in, too. They had the light, icy blue eyes and bold, powerful jaws of the Northmen – the remote cousins of the Éothéod – framed by beards several shades darker than their hair, which was straw-blond and shorter than the Riders of the Mark would wear theirs. It had been shorn above the shoulder, presumably to give a potential adversary no chance to grab it. Their beards were trimmed short, too, likely for the same reason.

“You have come with her who shall be as a daughter to us, therefore you are cynn; and cynn are always welcome in our halls,” said Lord Hengest, clasping forearms with them and nodding in appreciation as he felt their strength; then, with a broad grin, he added. “Give us some time to learn which is which first, though.”

For albeit they were not twins, they looked very much alike.

“’Tis easy to keep them apart, my lord,” said Imogen, smiling. “The one who does all the talking is Einarr. The one with the ever-present scowl upon his visage is Eiríkr.”

Everyone laughed at that, and the tension in the hall was broken. Elfhelm and his newly gained kinfolk were given seats at the High Table, and then Lady Imoleth gave orders for the evening meal to be brought in, while the musicians played merry tunes to entertain their lord and his guests between dishes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After the meal Lord Hengest called Elfhelm and several other men – some of whom were obviously his sons – to his private chambers to ask him about his stay in the Halls of Nimwarkinh. Einarr and Eiríkr stayed in the hall for some more ale with the younger sons of the family – they were about to become kin, after all – while Imogen got invited to the Lady Imoleth’s chambers, so that they could talk undisturbed.

The women’s wing was on the east side of Heorot Hall, accessible trough a small door behind the dais of the central hall. It led to a small anteroom first, furnished sparsely yet comfortably with a trestle table and low, richly carved armchairs, their flat horse-hair cushions covered with soft, gilded leather. Drinking vessels and flagons of various sizes stood on a sidebord.

“My lord husband meets his counsellors here sometimes,” explained Lady Imoleth. “Or small groups of retainers, when a gathering in the main hall would not be necessary. Come, we shall go this way.”

There were two other doors, opposite the one they had just passed and to the right. Lady Imoleth chose the latter one, and they entered a surprisingly large, albeit somewhat narrow room, now a bit shadowed as the sun that doubtlessly lit it well in the first half of the day, had moved to the west. It had a hearth on the far end and several small tables with stools around them. The wicker baskets on the tables, with spools of thread and other sewing utensils, revealed that this was some kind of shared workroom where the women of the house did their embroidery.

There was, however, also a small writing desk in front of one window, and an open cabinet full of scrolls next to it between two windows, showing that at least some of the women could wield the pen as well as the needle.

Currently, only two of them were occupying the room, and Imogen vaguely remembered having been introduced to one of them during the evening meal. She was named Cwén, the wife of Elfhelm’s eldest brother, and came from some place named the Rómenmark. She was a lovely, mild-mannered woman in a simple gown of fine olive-green wool, her hair hidden under a crisp white wimple, stitching away on some indefinable piece of clothing – probably a child’s surcoat – at the light of a bright little oil lamp made of glass.

The other one, though… now this was how Imogen always imagined Elves must look like. A tall and slender young woman, perhaps a year or two beyond thirty, carrying herself like a queen in her dark green gown of heavy velvet, the wide, sweeping sleeves of which were embroidered with running horses in silver thread. Her hair, braided and coiled and gathered in a silver net, gleamed like the purest white gold. Her face was fine-boned and beautiful beyond measure, her skin dizzyingly fair and her eyes wide and of a clear, fierce blue. Her fine eyebrows, several shades darker than her hair, arched boldly towards her temples and her firm, stubborn chin spoke of a strong character. A stubborn one, even.

“This is Idis Théodensdaughter, wife of my second son Adhemar,” introduced her Lady Imoleth. “She could not join us for evening meal; but she wanted to meet you at the first available chance.”

Imogen stared at the young woman in awe. So this was the golden princess who had turned down Elfhelm’s courtship in favour of his older brother? Théoden-King’s own daughter? It was bad enough that she was of royal blood, but no-one ever mentioned that she would be such a stunning beauty.

How was she, a rough-hewn shieldmaiden of the East, supposed to compete with that?

Lady Imoleth asked them all to sit, and while Lady Cwén continued with her stitching, the other two ladies did not bring forth their embroidery. They both watched Imogen with unabashed interest which, under different circumstances, would have made her uncomfortable. These two, however, looked at her with nought but honest curiosity, so she could endure it with a minimum of discomfort.

“Forgive me that I asked you to come here right away,” said the Lady Imoleth after a moment of thoughtful silence. “I imagine that you are weary after a long and perilous journey – believe me, I know that road and how it can drain one’s strength. But I was despairing whether my son would ever overcome his stubborn, wounded pride that had kept him unwed for far too long; and I wished to meet the one who brought him back to the path of common sense in private.”

“I fear I am not the wife you have always wanted for your son, lady,” replied Imogen with bold frankness. “Not when your other sons marry the daughters of the King himself,” he added with a sideways glance at the golden princess.

Lady Imoleth laughed. “’Tis a rare thing for most parents to agree with the choices of their children, unless they arranged the marriage themselves,” she replied. “Or do you think the Clan was happy when my lord husband chose me? For what was I back then? A fugitive from the East who had nought but the clothes on her back, way too young, didn’t even speak the tongue of the Mark – and looked like a starving rat. The outcry could be probably heard as far as Dunland. But they got used to me. They will get used to you, too.”

“Even if I prove unable to give him children?” asked Imogen doubtfully. “I am – was – a shieldmaiden. You know what that means.”

The lady nodded. “I do. But the Lady Aud, wife of Prince Théodred, the King’s only son, is also childless and yet she remains loved and respected by all. She rides into battle on her husband’s side and was the champion of tournaments for many years. The Men of the Mark are used to warrior women; they admire such women. Worry not, you will find your proper place among us.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Imogen. “If I live long enough to see the day.”

“Why should you not?” asked Lady Cwén in her soft voice. “Whatever grievances some might still have with your people, no-one would dare to raise a hand against you. As Elfhelm’s wife, you will be protected by the cynn-frith; you and your brothers and their families.”

“That is not what I meant; and it would take more than a few outraged men to kill me,” replied Imogen. “But as we are being honest with each other, you should know that I have caught the dry sickness, like so many of my people – and one usually does not live long with that condition.”

She expected shock, perhaps even accusations, anger and verbal abuse. But the three women simply nodded in understanding.

“Does Elfhelm know?” was all what Lady Imoleth asked.

“Of course,” answered Imogen wearily. “I would not mislead him in such grave matters… or in any other matter. I may be a barbarian in your eyes, but I am not a liar.”

“If you are a barbarian, then so am I,” said the Lady Imoleth with a shrug. “Let us forget any such nonsense. Having the dry sickness is a grave condition indeed, but not entirely hopeless. A few of my own Clan managed to recover from it fully. The air in the Mark is clean and wholesome; and we shall ask for healers from the Stanlendings who live in big settlements and have therefore more experience with such ailments. “Tis my hope that you and Elfhelm will have a long and happy life together; just like my lord husband and myself.”

“Will we though?” Imogen glanced at the golden princess again. “Will he ever be content with me, a mere pawn of peace between our peoples, while his heart still belongs to somebody else?”

“I never encouraged his… infatuation,” said Princess Idis calmly. “My choice was Adhemar, from the very beginning; and he always knew that.”

“There are many ways that can lead to a good marriage,” added Lady Imoleth. “Familiarity leads to closeness and closeness leads to feelings that may not be born of passion but could last longer and reach deeper. What is important is that you respect each other – more important than being madly in love, for it continues on even after the fires of passion have fallen to ashes. You have a long way before you; you and that stubborn son of mine. But I want you to know that you always shall have our support.”

With that, the Lady of the Eastfold embraced her future daughter-in-law in a warm, motherly embrace, and Imogen melted into her arms like a little girl who had finally found the way home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later Elfhelm rode to the capital to present his report to Théoden-King at court and to take up his duties as the Marshal of Edoras again. He was not expected to return before the wedding, which was planned to take place during the Harvest festival. In the meantime Imogen, her brothers and their future wives were left in the Lady Imoleth’s care, to prepare themselves for - and to be made familiar with - the life in the Mark.

That meant, first and foremost, learning the language of the Mark – or, at least, the basics of it. The rest would come naturally by hearing it all the time, they were assured. One of the Clan Elders took the task upon himself – an old warrior who could no longer fight actively, due to a crippling injury. As he happened to be lettered and numbered, not to mention well-versed in the traditions of his people, he usually taught the children of the family, but declared himself willing to take adult pupils for a change.

They were also in need of proper clothes, of course, since not even their best would be good enough for the kinfolk of the Maegtheow. The handmaids of the Lady Imoleth became very busy with stitching and sewing all day long. Imogen could do some basic sewing, of course – enough to mend her own clothes after a fight – but needed to learn the finer aspects of womanly skills, now that she was about to become the wife of a respected nobleman. Birgid and Hemma were all too happy to join her in the women’s workroom – they were much more skilled with the needle anyway.

She was allowed to spar with her brothers – or with the House Guards of Lord Hengest, who had a very different fighting style – to keep her warrior’s skills sharp, though, and for that she was grateful. Soon enough, those training hours became the main event of life in Stowburg. People came to watch them, awed by her skills, and Imogen slowly began to feel like herself again. She knew that no other people would accept her for what she was – a warrior born – but the Men of the Mark who had brought the tradition of the shieldmaidens with them from the North and had great respect for woman warriors indeed.

Lady Imoleth had also sent for healers from Gondor, and they arrived just two weeks later: an herbalist and a lady healer from a place called Lossarnach, both elderly, both of great experience. They examined Imogen thoroughly and declared that her condition, while serious, was not hopeless.

“Truly, I am surprised to see that you are already slowly recovering on your own,” the healer said. “Or has your condition been treated recently?”

“I was given medicine by a man from your people, not so long ago,” replied Imogen truthfully. “He also sang over me; I thought it to be an incantation.”

“Which it likely was, to Lord Irmo, patron of us healers,” said the older woman. “I wonder, though, how he could still remember it, as such songs of power have mostly got forgotten among our kin. Unless he was one of our northern cousins, ‘Tis said they still guard much of the forgotten wisdom of our ancestors and have remained in touch with the Elves, too.”

Imogen shrugged. She truly could not tell if Lord Aðalbrandr came from the long-gone North-kingdom or from Gondor itself. Nor did she care, to be honest. All she cared about was the chance to be healed, and she swore to do everything in her power to support her own recovery.

The healers then brewed her various types of medicine – all of which tasted vile – and advised her to cut back on the sparring and other strenuous activities, so that her body could use all its strength for healing. That did not lie well with her, but she remembered her promise and obeyed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“She is making considerable progress,” the female healer reported to lady Imoleth after a few weeks. “There is hope that she might fully recover. It will take time, but the ash free, wholesome air of the Mark will do her a wealth of good. She would not have lasted long back in Rhûn, where the air is full of poisonous fumes, coming from Mordor.”

Lady Imoleth, hailing from Rhûn herself, knew well that that was not entirely true. The Ash Mountains held the poisonous air of Mordor pretty much in Mordor itself. Only the border areas were contaminated to a certain degree. But she did not want to argue with the healers. Prejudice was not something that could be healed overnight.

“Do you believe she would be feeling well enough by Harvest tide to ride up to Edoras with us?” she asked instead.

The elderly healer nodded. “Without doubt. She is strong, and being outside is good for her. And we shall be of assistance. But why do you want her to ride to Edoras, my lady?”

Lady Imoleth smiled.

“Why, for her own wedding, of course. My son, to whom she will be wed, serves at the Courts. ‘Tis only proper for the wedding feast to be held in the same place. Our townhouse is more than sufficient to host such a feast. And as my lord husband is related to the royal Clan, ‘Tis tradition for his line to wed in the hof of Edoras.”

~TBC~