To the King

Chapter Fourteen

The Meeting of the Marshals

“I want people to know my life philosophy, to remember to play after ever storm.” Mattie Stepanik

“How can I celebrate a victory that has cost me so many of my friends?” The Duke of Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo

It was afternoon of the fifth day following the funeral for Théoden Ednew, seventeenth King of Rohan. In the capitol city of Edoras, as accorded by custom, a great festival was being held to honor the fallen king and signify the close of formal mourning throughout the Mark.

Walking down the hill from the Meduseld with seven year old Márta upon his shoulders, Faramir looked around before stopping at a stall to get two apples from a young woman, who blushed furiously and batted her eyes at the Lord of Gondor. After thanking the young woman, he handed one up to the child atop his shoulders, before taking a big bite of the fruit, relishing the tartness of the taste. Smiling, he wiped apple juice from his chin with the back of his hand and continued walking. Above his head, he could hear Márta chomping contentedly on her apple and he wondered idly whether or not he’d need to wash apple juice from his hair tonight.

Faramir reflected upon the gaiety going on around him. How very different it was from the more formal atmosphere that would be observed in Gondor. Before coming to Rohan and actually spending so much time here with Éowyn, Éomer, and the people, he would not have understood their ability to grieve hard and then move on about their lives. Life in Rohan was marked by difficulties and often tragedy, yet this remarkable people had learned to make every possible moment of their lives be filled with living and loving, celebrating the times when they could have peace and happiness. Perhaps that is what made them able to not only endure, but triumph over every adversity that fate seemed to throw against them.

It was not that life in Gondor had been without its difficulties, the minions of Sauron had seen that there was enough misery to go around for all the free peoples of Middle Earth, but the people of Gondor, with their more cosmopolitan ways, seemed to wrap layer upon layer of formalities and protocol upon every occasion. He could still remember the long walk down the Rath Dinen, the silent street, following the bier bearing his mother’s body to where it would rest forever in the Hallows. Dressed in identical small uniforms, 5 year old Faramir and 10 year old Boromir had walked solemnly behind their father, their heads held high, unable to shed a tear in public. Boromir had actually broken protocol by holding Faramir’s hand, for even at this young age, Boromir had loved and protected his baby brother.

‘Boro-mir.’ The vision of golden hair, keen green eyes and a ready smile hit the steward like a sucker punch, stealing the breath from him and bringing quick, hot tears to his eyes as he almost staggered to a halt, mindless of the curious glances from those around him. It was always like this. Just when he thought he was beginning to adjust to the loss of his brother, something would happen …some random thought would enter his mind and the reality of his loss would hit him all over again. Boromir, it meant faithful jewel, and he had been that and more to a little boy who lost his mother too early in life and whose father had turned away from him, weighed down by his own grief and the responsibility for governing and protecting Gondor from the growing threat of Mordor. It was the faithful jewel that had become both mother and father to Faramir, loving him, rocking him when the nightmares came at night, and filling his world with as much love as was possible for one sibling to give another. He was the rock upon which Faramir had anchored his life. He was the idol upon which Faramir had gazed, striving always to be worthy of his brother’s respect.

A small, sticky hand reached down to wipe the lone tear from Faramir’s cheek. “Faramir, are you sad? I will give you my apple if it will make you happy again,” offered Márta, and true to her word, the half eaten fruit was waved in front of his face.

“No, Márta, thank you,” breathed Faramir, thankful for the little girl to divert his attention and pull him back to the present. With her ginger hair and sparkling green eyes, he had been drawn to her from the moment he had set eyes upon her, for she could easily have been Boromir’s child, or even his own. With his beautiful Éowyn, she and the other children had come to represent the future to which they had all sacrificed so much. It was for the innocents that so much blood had been spilt and so many lives torn asunder, and it was the innocents which gave meaning to all they did, for they were the future.

Faramir took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly as he became mindful of the concerned looks he was receiving.

“Are you well, my lord?” inquired a one legged man leaning on a crutch. “Why don’t you step into the smithy here and have a seat. I’m sure Bergfinn won’t mind.”

Embarrassed at the prospect of causing any more of a scene, Faramir thanked the man, whose name, he said, was Felor, and followed him into the shadowy barn.

“Here, Bergy,” called Felor, “we’re in need of some water here.” He pointed to a bail of hay. “There, my lord, just have a seat now and I’ll be getting you something to drink.”

“Thank you,” stammered Faramir, chagrined to be such a bother. He sat down gratefully onto the hay, for his legs had suddenly become a bit wobbly, as they often did after one of his more vivid visions from the past. Lifting Márta over his head, he sat the little girl on his lap and soothed her, for she had become frightened by the sudden turn of events.

“Well,” greeted Bergfinn, entering the smithy from a side door which led to his house, “what have we here?”

“The lord became indisposed at the festival. I brought him in here to get ‘em away from the crowd out there.” He jerked his thumb towards the door emphasizing his point. “You know how nosy people can get when they are looking for something to wag their tongues about.”

“Indeed I do,” agreed Bergfinn. “I’ll fetch some water and be right back.” He disappeared through the same door from which he’d just entered and, true to his word, was back within a minute with four mugs of cool, fresh water.

‘Thank you,” murmured Faramir as he took two of the mugs for himself and Márta.

Wise eyes studied him a moment. “Sit, Felor, give that leg a rest. It’s not often that we have the chance to visit with such esteemed guests,” said Bergfinn as he settled himself down as well.

Felor sat back onto a bail of hay and, with a sigh of relief, set the crutch aside as he stretched his leg out in front of him.

“And who is this pretty thing?” asked Bergfinn. “It's been a long time since I had such a beautiful young visitor to my smithy.”

“I’m Márta,” answered the child, calmed now that she was cuddled on Faramir’s lap. “My sister and Thela are taking a nap, but I am big enough to stay up,” announced the proud youngster.

“So you are,” agreed Bergfinn, nodding sagely, “so you are!” He smiled at the little girl as she drank her water and finished her apple.

“I must apologize for the intrusion,” said Faramir. “Your hospitality is most appreciated, however.”

Felor leaned back against a sturdy beam located behind his current seat. He chuckled as he looked from Faramir to Bergfinn. “Most everyone in Edoras ends up here at one time or another, so I guess it’s just your turn. Right, Bergy?”

Bergfinn turned indulgent eyes to his friend. “What Felor is trying to say is that I like people, and I like to talk.”

“But don’t you worry now, Bergy knows how to keep things to himself,” interrupted Felor. “You won’t find ‘em out chatting to the noseys about your business.”

“Enough,” laughed Bergfinn, “Let Lord Faramir get a word in himself, why don’t you.”

“Well someone’s got to talk until the man decides to,” exclaimed the veteran.

“Felor!”

“Gentlemen,” Faramir laughed, “Enough!” He was quite enjoying the easy banter of the friends and not unaware that this was their attempt to put him at ease and make him feel welcomed. “I am most appreciative of the opportunity to sit in your fine establishment, Bergfinn, and grateful for your kind assistance, Felor.”

“Well, well,” smiled Bergfinn, “you must be feeling a bit more yourself now. I am glad to see it. I could never face Éowyn again if I did not show the proper welcome to her intended. Many’s the time she sat right there,” he pointed to the bail of hay Faramir now occupied, “watching me work and talking up a storm the whole while.”

Faramir smiled fondly at the image of Éowyn as a little girl, chattering and carefree as she watched the smithy work.

“Éomer was always the quiet one,” added Felor. “I used to catch him staring at my leg, or rather at where my leg used to be. He would turn all red and pretend he was looking at something else when I caught him, but I did not mind. A boy is curious, that is all.”

“Éowyn and the King used to come here when they were little?” asked Márta, intrigued now that she thought about Éowyn as a little girl.

“Indeed they did,” said Bergfinn, “when they were just about your age, too. Let me tell you about the time Éowyn nearly set the smithy on fire.”

O-o-O-o-O

The Meduseld

While festivities proceeded outside, the Golden Hall was the setting for the meeting of the Marshals. Erkenbrand, of course, was headed for Snowbourne with Gamling, but attending in his stead was his former second, Fingol, who stood warming his hands over the center fire pit and chatting with his cousin, Liam. The other Marshals and their seconds stood talking around a long table, which had been set up for the meeting.

Éomer entered unannounced from the side door. As soon as the men became aware of his approach, Fingol and Liam joined the other marshals as all talking ceased until the King had taken his place at the head of the table.

As the senior marshal present, Marshal Elfhelm offered the blessing for the new king. “Éomer King, may your reign be blessed with the peace of Goldwine’s, and may you be beloved of the people as Brytta Léofa.” He spoke, of course, of former kings of the Mark Brytta, eleventh King of Rohan who reigned for 44 years and was called Brytta Léofa meaning Brytta Beloved, and of Goldwine, the sixth Lord of the Mark whose reign, while only 19 years, was marked by peace and prosperity.

“May it be,” echoed the other marshals.

“Thank you, my friends,” answered Éomer. “Please, be seated.”

As the marshals and seconds were taking their seats, Hildegard led in a bevy of serving girls bearing tankards of ale. She personally served the king and observed as the other marshals were each given a beautifully crafted tankard. The mithril tankards belonged to the king’s service and had been a gift from Steward Cirion to Eorl to mark the first anniversary of his gifting the Calenardhon to the Riders of the Mark in reward and gratitude for their bravery in answering Gondor’s call for help and defending the Southern Kingdom. The king’s own tankard was crafted with the white horse emblem and adorned with emeralds. The tankards had resided with the ruling house ever since and were now only used on state occasions.

Worth a small fortune, Éomer would gladly have sold or traded the tankards – tradition or no – to feed his people, but money was not the issue. The problem was that food was in short supply due to the length and destructive power of the war. The tankards held only sentimental value to the Lords of the Mark, for money and possessions were of little use to the Horse Lords.

When all of the men had been served, the ladies withdrew to the kitchens to continue preparations for the feast to be held later in the evening. To allow the king and the marshals privacy, the golden hall had been cleared of all except those in attendance at the meeting, the doorwards, and, of course, the king’s personal guard.

After a moment, Éomer rose and hefted his tankard. The marshals quickly came to their feet to match the movement.

“Let us begin by honoring those of our group who are absent from us. Théoden King, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Théoden,’ repeated the group); Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark, fallen at the Fords of Isen (‘Théodred’); Grimbold, Marshal of Grimslade, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Grimbold’); Dúnhere, Lord of Harrowdale, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Dúnhere’); Déorwine, Chief of the Knights of Théoden, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Déorwine’); and Guthláf, proud banner bearer of Théoden King, fallen at the Pelennor (‘Guthláf’). May they be welcomed into the halls of their fathers with honor; may their names be forever remembered and cherished in the Mark; and may the Simbelmynë grow abundantly over them until we are joined with them again. Hail the victorious dead!”

“Hail!”

As the marshals took their seats, Éomer sat down his tankard and moved to stand behind his chair. He found it difficult to sit throughout an entire meeting such as this and much favored being able to move around the table and even pace when the conversation warranted it. He decided to begin by formally recognizing the marshals, new and old.

“Marshal Erkenbrand of the West Mark is on an official errand for me. Accompanying him is the Gamling, who I have named to be the Chief of Knights. Marshal Grimborn is replacing his father as the Marshal of Grimslade. Marshal Elfhelm of the East Mark will now be working with Marshal Ceorl of the Eastemnet.”

“You are a most welcome addition, Ceorl,” said Elfhelm, reaching over to grasp the hand of Ceorl. “With so many of our people moving about the vast plains of the Eastemnet, security for them has always been a problem.”

Éomer continued after Ceorl had nodded his acknowledgement to Elfhelm.

“I recognize Marshal Brandhelm of The Wold. Welcome to Edoras, my old friend.”

“Thank you, my lord,” responded Brandhelm.

“Squirming at his seat there,” continued Éomer, “is Marshal Liam, my former lieutenant, whom I have named as the Marshal of the Westemnet, and of course, Marshal Fingol, the new Lord of Harrowdale.

“Where is Marshal Garoth?” asked Grimborn. "Tell me not that my father's old friend was lost as well?"

Éomer met Ceorl’s eyes briefly before answering. “That question is being answered by Erkenbrand and Gamling. I expect them back in a few days. Until then, let us continue with the matters at hand. The war we just fought was long and bloody, and cost us many dear friends. What I want to hear from you now is what it has cost us in terms of our herds and our food production. Winter is upon us and I need to know how dire the situation is before I can know in which direction we need to move.”

The seriousness of the king’s words was matched by the looks on the faces of the marshals.

Marshal Elfhelm cleared his throat and spoke first. “As you know, Sire, Aldburg leads the Mark in food production. Our peoples are less nomadic and more given to the raising of food and livestock than in the other areas.” He paused while mentally calculating the supplies over which he was in charge. “While hit hard by marauding bands, much of our food stock remains safely hidden within the cave network we established in the mountains. With some stretching it might see us through the winter, providing we can move it securely throughout the mark. It should not be a problem here in Edoras or in the established villages, but for our nomadic peoples in the Westemnet, it will be more difficult.”

“I will arrange for food distribution in the Westemnet,” volunteered Liam. “Fingol will help me,” he added, prodding his cousin in the ribs.

“We’ll work out the particulars later,” said Éomer. “Now, what is the situation with our herds? How many of the brood mares and foals have we lost?”

O-o-O-o-O

Snowbourne

Barech shuffled a bit as he removed the food from the table spread before Garoth and his underlings. Long past his prime as a rider, Barech served tables in the Marshal’s house while his wife worked in the kitchens. Once proud to serve his Marshal in any way, the old man now bitterly regretted his service to ahouse long bereft of honor. Now he hated what his life had become, as he hated the men sitting at the table, feasting and laughing while so many of the men of Snowbourne languished in the prison Garoth’s despicable nephew, Gilmóod, had established.

How could all of this have happened, the old man wondered as he made his way around the table, and how could he ever help them? Everything had been fine until Gilmóod and his men had arrived from Edoras in the dead of night. Things had started to fall apart after that, as more and more outcasts and evil doers sought refuge at Snowbourne. Barech moved to resume his stance against the wall until such time as he was required to serve the table again.

The massive front door of the fortress banged open, crashing against the back wall as the messenger rushed through. Everyone in the room jumped at the sound except Garoth who was, as seemed normal lately, snoozing in a stupor, his head upon the table.

“You idiot,” hissed Gilmóod. “I just got my uncle to sleep. Are you trying to wake the dead?”

“Your pardon,” sneered the ruffian in answer, “but I bear news that cannot wait.”

“All right then,” snapped Gilmóod, “deliver your news and be gone, before I gut you for your impudence.”

He would, too, mused Barech. Dark of hair and features, Gilmóod, or dark man as the people thought of him, could easily have been considered comely had not his face borne all the warmth of a stone statue. It was as though there was no humanity in him, his eyes as empty of light and compassion as his black soul. Careful to control his features and reveal nothing of what he was thinking, Barech shuddered inwardly at the mention of Gilmóod “gutting” anyone, for he had seen Gilmóod’s knife work before. The man was not only adept at it, he enjoyed it.

“Riders approach. They bear the standard of the Royal House.”

“How many?” questioned the beefy man to Gilmóod’s left. Scar man is what Barech called him, in private of course, for the man had a hideous scar running the length of his face on the left. The deformity seemed to have warped his features into a permanent sneer and his looks were only accented by the meanness with which he treated everyone, except Gilmóod.

“Under a dozen,” responded the messenger. “They should be here in less than a day.”

“Under a dozen,” repeated Gilmóod. He looked at the men around the table and smiled his cold, statue smile. “I think we should prepare a special welcome for them, don’t you?”

Scar man’s laugh in answer sent chills down Barech’s spine.

TBC