To the King!

Chapter Eighteen

Patience and Panic

“We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal.” Tennessee Williams

“Here, Éowyn, place your hands this way,” instructed Elena, “and then move gently down the length feeling for any deformity.”

Her brow knit in concentration, Éowyn’s smooth, young hands followed Elena’s gnarled ones down the length of Meela’s leg, sending the little girl into a fit of giggles.

Bouncing on the bed nearby, Thela watched the entire procedure with great interest. “When is it my turn to play patient?”

“Soon darling,” replied Éowyn distractedly. Once more she followed the ancient hands down Meela’s leg, imagining the bone beneath her touch and allowing her fingers to learn the feel of properly aligned bones.

“Very good, child,” praised Elena. “You will make a wonderful healer!”

Éowyn blushed slightly at the unexpected praise and blessed Elena with one of her beautiful smiles.

“When did you become interested in the art of healing?” questioned the old woman. “All I ever remember you doing was following your brother around with a sword in your hands.”

Éowyn chuckled at the memory these words evoked. “All I ever wanted to do as a girl was to follow Éomer to war and fight orcs.” Her face clouded slightly at the images her memory replayed of the Pelennor.

Elena, too, saw the change in her demeanor and led the woman over to sit on the bed. “Thela, would you and Meela go and ask Hildegard to send Miss Éowyn some tea? I am sure that she could find some seed cakes for the two of you as well.”

“Seed cakes!” shouted Thela, with a huge smile. “Come on, Meela, let’s go ask for Eowyn’s tea and get some cake! We can find Márta too. She loves seed cake almost as much as I do.”

Meela scooted off the table onto the chair and down to the floor so that she could follow Thela towards the kitchens of the Meduseld.

“There now,” soothed Elena. “Now that we’ve a bit of privacy and quiet, why don’t you tell old Elena what has so darkened that sweet face of yours?”

Elena simply patted the younger woman’s hand as she patiently waited for her to gather her thoughts.

“It wasn’t like I expected it to be…battle that is,” began Éowyn, so softly that Elena had to lean closer to her to catch all the words. “It did things to me…marked me in ways that will never go away.” She stopped talking for a moment as her mind recalled images that she had hoped would never surface. “When I was in the House of Healing in Minas Tirith, I watched the healers as they brought comfort and care to the wounded. I was the recipient of that same skill and compassion, and I decided that I wanted to learn how to do those things…how to save life as well as take it.”

“Healing is a noble art, my lady,” replied Elena. “As a child I lived in the Wold, where there were few healers. My mother was the only healer I ever knew growing up. She taught me and I shall teach you.”

Éowyn smiled at the woman’s words. “Thank you, Elena, but are you sure I can learn?”

“Oh yes,” smiled Elena with shining eyes, “you can learn, for I am a very good teacher.”

O-o-O-o-O

Dageth escorted the small contingent containing his Marshal and the Chief of Knights Gamling to the front of the Snowbourne fortress. Gone were the people who had been seen earlier going about their daily business and the fact registered by the tingling Dageth felt in the small of his back. Red headed with guileless blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the scout looked far younger than his years as he glanced over at his Marshal.

The Rohirric mounts picked up on the man’s anxiety and bristled with tension, their flanks shivering with the anticipation of action. These great war horses were trained to defend their rider and would never leave him should he be dislodged in battle, but instead would protect their warrior to the best of their ability. In truth, the Rohirric horses were almost as deadly a foe as their riders, for their large iron shod hooves could mete out death and destruction with ease.

Erkenbrand dismounted from his sorrel and soothed her with a pat of his hand. “Shush,” he crooned softly as he stroked her muscular sides. “Easy Lancer, we’ve no battle to fight…yet.” His eyes looked across his saddle to meet those clear blue ones of Dageth.

“You feel it too then,” said the young scout.

“Aye,” confirmed the wily Erkenbrand. “For now stay with the horses.”

“What is it?” asked Gamling, glancing from one to the other.

“Probably nothing,” replied Erkenbrand blandly, “just a niggling at the nape of my neck.” Then he chuckled to himself. “I have spent my entire life at war, my friend. Perhaps I simply see shadows where none exist.”

“Let’s get this over with,” sighed Gamling, “and get back to Edoras. In case you have forgotten, the king is not a patient man.”

“No,” agreed Erkenbrand wryly, “I have not forgotten. How many times did he attempt to stow away in my éored? Ten, was it?”

“Eleven, I think,” smiled Gamling fondly at the memory. “It was only your fury that last time, coupled with Théoden’s guidance that dissuaded him from trying again.”

Flanked by their escort, the pair climbed the steep steps to the manor house. The afternoon sun was warming the day nicely, though the wind still held a bite. The shadows of the surrounding mountains were beginning to cast long, deep shadows across the landscape.

Scaro waited on the terrace by the large oak door. He frowned as he noticed Dageth waiting with the horses, but quickly recovered to offer a welcoming nod to the Marshals. He opened the door and motioned for the men to precede him.

Erkenbrand, Gamling and the other five guards entered the vast room, their eyes immediately taking in the surroundings as Dageth’s had earlier. Unlike earlier, twenty or so men stood around the perimeter of the room. That in and of itself did not raise concern, but there was a certain roughness to their demeanor that, at the very least, lent itself as something of which to take note. A huge fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, belying the malevolence which seemed to permeate the room.

At the far end, Gilmóod stood regally from his chair. “Welcome to Snowbourne.” He smiled and beckoned the small group forward. The table before him was spread with an abundant supply of succulent smelling foods and Gamling felt his stomach rumble at the pleasing aromas.

Erkenbrand in the lead, the group walked down the center of the room until they were at the end of the table opposite Gilmóod. Scaro followed them at a discrete distance.

“On the king’s business, we seek Marshal Garoth,” said Erkenbrand formally.

The smile on Gilmóod’s face dimmed fractionally, but he forced his voice to remain neutral, masking the fury he felt at the mention of the king. “My uncle has taken ill…a stroke I believe. He is unable to communicate well or leave his bed.”

Erkenbrand’s eyes narrowed at the news. It was somewhat convenient, given the reason for their presence.

“You!” blurted Gamling as he finally pieced together where he had seen this man before.

“Seize them,” ordered Gilmóod, and the cadre of thugs around the perimeter of the room jumped to do his bidding.

The Rohirric warriors all had their daggers drawn. They would not go down without a fight. The seven men formed a tight circle where each could defend the other’s back.

From outside, Dageth heard his Marshal’s bellow of rage. For a split second his instinct was to charge inside, but his training and better sense took over and he leapt onto the back of his horse.

“Get the one outside,” hissed Scaro as he fought with one of the Rohirric warriors.

Immediately one of the ruffians rushed to the door. From the terrace he took aim with his bow. He loosed the arrow which flew swift and true towards the back of the fleeing man with deadly accuracy.

Dageth felt the arrow pierce his back like the blow of an anvil. The force knocked him forward onto the neck of his steed. Impossibly the young warrior managed to stay mounted. As his consciousness fled his last thought was regret that he had failed to protect his marshal.

TBC