Chapter 11

The next morning, Éomer woke to the smell of kahva. For a moment he felt disorientated – the hard ground under him, the stamping of hooves and the low talk of men warred with a vivid picture of Lothíriel having breakfast in her bed, called up by the aromatic smell.

He sat up and blinked. Unfortunately his first impression had been correct – they were camped above the Entwash. The weather being dry, he had not bothered with having his tent erected the evening before and had just settled down near one of the campfires, so now he had a good view of the camp coming to life under the rising sun. Wafts of mist rose from the river, where already some of his riders watered their horses, and the sky stretched above them streaked with pink clouds. Then the smell came again.

Turning round, he saw his squire crouched over a fire, watching a pot of something with a frown of fierce concentration. Surely that couldn’t be…

“What’s that you’re brewing?” he asked.

Ceola looked up. “Your kahva, my Lord King. Mistress Dordes gave me precise instructions how to prepare it.” He bit his lip. “Only the fire is hotter than I thought and I burnt the beans. But only a little! You won’t tell her, will you?” He sounded anxious.

“No, of course not.”

In fact the beverage his squire served him was a vast improvement on the herb tea they usually made do with on campaign. “I’m surprised Dordes let you in on the secrets of brewing kahva,” Éomer remarked. He had got the impression the elderly woman considered herself a cut above the other servants, let alone a lowly squire.

“Oh, it was the queen’s idea,” Ceola said. “I don’t think Mistress Dordes was too pleased about it, but she had to agree.” The lad beamed at Éomer. “Lothíriel Queen particularly thanked me for my efforts.”

So his wife made her influence felt even when he was far from home. He took a large gulp of hot kahva, savouring the invigorating taste. The married state definitely had its advantages!

Just how advantageous it was, he found out the next day when they got caught in a rainstorm and he discovered he possessed a new cloak, made from oiled cloth and lined with soft wool. Whereas his old cloak would soak up the water after a while and hang heavy and limp from the shoulders, this one just shed the rain like a duck’s feathers. All the riders of his personal éored had one of these miraculous cloaks and stayed cosy and dry, much to the envy of the other men.

“Lothíriel Queen ordered them from Dol Amroth specially,” Ceola informed him. “She said that sailors wear overcoats made from this cloth in heavy weather.”

His wife had been busy! Everywhere he turned, he found small signs of her touch, from Firefoot’s new saddle blanket embroidered with swans and horses, to an ample supply of fresh shirts – a completely novel experience on campaign for him.

And when after three days’ riding they reached the Anduin, there of course lay the largest proof of her efforts: what his men just called ‘the queen’s ships’, a small army of flat bottomed boats lately emptied of supplies and now ready to ferry them across the river. Also awaiting them impatiently was Amrothos, who had been sent by Aragorn with the latest news to coordinate their attack.

They crossed the Anduin the next day, loaded up their pack horses and then set out along the narrow strip of land between the uncertain ground of the Dead Marshes on one side and the clefts and fissures of the Emyn Muil on the other, sending their scouts out before them. Though nobody lived in this barren land, this was enemy territory now, which meant constant vigilance and cold camps.

Éomer found he missed his morning kahva, but to his surprise even more he missed his wife’s company. During the day he was busy enough with the concerns of a large host on the move, but at night he often lay watching the stars twinkling through the fetid mists rising from the marshes and his thoughts turned homeward. Did she think of him at all, he wondered, or was she content just going through her daily routine? Without really noticing it, he had got used to her presence in his life, her company over breakfast, the rare glimpses of dry wit and the even rarer smiles of genuine warmth. And disconcertingly, his body chose the most awkward moments to remind him of the feel of her silken hair gliding through his fingers or the smooth softness of her skin.

As they continued east, the marshes slowly fell behind and the land opened up. It was a desolate place, parched by the sun in summer, scoured by icy winds in winter, where nothing much grew except withered grass and scraggly bushes. What forests it had once possessed had long gone to feed the insatiable furnaces of Mordor until it served mainly as a passageway for Gondor’s foes. Éomer knew of course that eventually their presence would be discovered, but he hoped to outrun the news of their coming and surprise the enemy nevertheless. But for that they needed more certain information of Aragorn’s movements!

They got it six days after crossing the Anduin. One of his scouts galloped up with a tall, grim faced man with the black hair and grey eyes of the Dúnedain riding double behind him. Éomer recognised the man at once as being one of Faramir’s rangers.

Éomer reined in his horse. “Mablung, well met! What news do you bring?”

Mablung dismounted gingerly. The rangers had no love for horses, though they saw the use of them. “My Lord King, it gladdens my heart to see you and your men!” he exclaimed. “King Elessar has sent me to make contact with you.”

The man had to be both brave and skilful to make his way through the lines of their foes. “Where are Gondor’s forces now?” Éomer asked and passed his water skin to the ranger.

Gratefully, the man took a deep draught. “I left King Elessar five night ago, encamped in the foothills of the Ered Lithui.” He pointed southward, to where the land merged with the horizon in a grey haze. “But it was slow going, for I had to hide during the day. The land is crawling with companies of Easterlings, you won’t be able to stay undetected for much longer.”

So the Son of Sauron was rallying his forces. Well, they had always intended for Aragorn to attract the enemy’s attention. It looked like their plan had worked better than they had anticipated!

“What does Aragorn intend to do?” he asked.

“He has found a position that is defensible and means to dig in. Hopefully the Easterlings will decide to starve them out, rather than attack at once. However, you need to make haste.”

Éomer drummed his hand on his thigh. “How many days’ riding to reach them, do you think?”

The man did not hesitate at all. “Two days or less, my lord; it’s mostly flat, open country. Only, once you make contact with the Easterlings, there’s the danger that they carry word of you to the enemy.”

Éomer nodded. They knew that of course, although sometimes a bit of panic spreading ahead amongst the opposing ranks could be useful.

“What about water?” Erkenbrand asked, leaning forward. “Not so much for us, but for the horses if they have to make a run.”

“I’ve scouted out the riverbeds and some still run with water. Also, as we get closer to the mountains, there will be more.”

“And how are you set for supplies?”

“Don’t worry, we have yours with us, my Lord King.”

“Mine?” Éomer stared at the ranger in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The ones you purchased in Minas Tirith and sent with the army? I think Queen Lothíriel arranged for transport with Lord Faramir.”

“I see.” Maybe next time he went to war, he would just leave the whole organisation to Lothíriel and lean back and watch! He came to a decision. “Very well. Pass the order to dump everything we do not need and get ready to ride.”

While the men sorted out any unnecessary gear, little as that was, he dismounted to stretch his legs and give his horse a rest. It was one of his remounts, for he intended to keep Firefoot fresh for the actual battle. Ceola ran to take the reins and he noticed his squire’s white face. It would be the lad’s first fight.

“Remember, Ceola, the most important thing is to stay on your horse. And no heroics! That’s an order.”

Ceola smiled weakly. “Yes, my lord. Lothíriel Queen said the same.”

Lothíriel… Éomer touched the green scarf he still wore tied to his arm. He had been in battle too many times to have any illusions about his own mortality. What if he never saw her again? A pang of regret swept through him that he had only really begun to get to know her a little. But then he shook his head and pushed the thought aside. He had promised her another match of hounds and boars and had every intention of keeping his word. Come back safe and sound, she had told him…

He gave Ceola a sharp nod. “Listen to your queen.”

As the sun began to sink behind them, they set off, alternating walking with trotting and a light canter, a pace that ate the miles yet fell short of an all-out run. During the brief summer night they rested, then turned south as soon as it got light. That morning they met the first scattered companies of Easterlings, luckily all on foot, and rode them to ruin without pausing.

The familiar excitement began to mount in Éomer at a battle looming. If he had timed it right, word might spread before them, but would just serve to throw their foes into disarray without giving the Son of Sauron the time to get ready for them. In the early evening they rested in the shelter of a river valley for a few hours and watered the horses before setting out again.

And as the sun came racing up over the rim of the world to greet them, they finally sighted the camp of the enemy. It was crawling with frantic activity, busy as an anthill that somebody had stuck a stick in. Then Éomer gave the sign and the host began to move, slow at first, but gathering speed like a great wave that foamed across the plain.

Éomer let blow the horns.

***

And so once more he and Aragorn met in the midst of battle, and once more they returned from it together, riding back to the Gondorian camp in the late afternoon. But this time their losses were less grievous, for their plan had worked just as intended. Shocked by the sudden reversal of their fortune, the Easterlings had indeed been crushed between the Rohirrim and Gondor’s forces as between hammer and anvil. Even so they had fought hard and doggedly, but when the Son of Sauron had fallen to Andúril, his men had finally broken and run.

After a quick visit to check that his wounded riders were in good hands with the healers that Aragorn had brought in his train, Éomer joined his friend and their captains in the command tent to discuss what further measures were needed to sweep up the remains of the Easterling army. After a while he straightened up from the table strewn with maps and yawned.

“Do you think you could spare me a corner of your tent to sleep in?” he asked Aragorn.

“I can do better than that,” his friend answered, a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Why don’t you use the Rohan tent?”

“The what?”

Aragorn grinned. “Courtesy of your queen, I believe. It came with the Rohirrim’s supplies, including a very comfortable looking cot, and we pitched it in readiness of your arrival.”

Amrothos had listened in disbelief. “What! And is there a Dol Amroth tent as well?”

Aragorn shrugged. “I’m afraid not. But perhaps you can have a corner of your brother-in-law’s. It’s big enough.”

By that time Éomer was so tired, he would have dropped off anywhere, but he had to admit it was a wonderful feeling to lie down on fresh sheets and have a soft blanket cover him. Seldom had a bed been more welcome! With a whispered thank-you to his wife, so many leagues away, yet so close, he let sleep claim him.

***

Again the smell of kahva woke him. For a moment Éomer stared up at the unfamiliar green roof of canvas before the memory of the past few days came back. Now that he was rested, various aches and pains called for his attention, bruises and grazes that he had not even noticed in the heat of battle. With a groan he sat up and became aware of his surroundings for the first time. A rich carpet covered the floor, there was a table with a couple of folding chairs and on a chest by the bed fresh clothes lay ready for him. Most welcome of all, an alcove in the back held a basin of water.

As clean as could be expected on campaign, he strolled out the tent soon after. He found Aragorn, Faramir and Amrothos sitting round the fire, lifting cups of kahva to him in salute when he appeared.

“Good morning, Brother,” Amrothos greeted him. “I’ve decided to attach myself to the Rohirrim contingent. After all, we’re family and have to stick together.”

Faramir grinned sardonically. “The food has nothing to with it, has it?”

“Of course not!”

Éomer accepted his own cup of kahva from Ceola, who sported a purpling bruise on his face from his first battle and seemed immensely proud of it. Then the squire brought him a plate of trail bread and scrambled eggs.

Éomer blinked down at it in surprise. “Eggs? Where have they come from?”

“From your hens, of course,” Faramir answered. “The merchant who brought them assured me he had only selected the best pullets for the Queen of Rohan.”

“Lothíriel sent hens?” Éomer asked in disbelief.

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged an amused look. “Two dozen, plus a couple of goats for milk,” Aragorn confirmed. He gave a deep sigh. “Faramir and I must be doing something wrong, our wives expect us to manage on trail rations.”

“That’s because they know that we’re hardy,” his steward threw in. “We don’t need to be cosseted like Éomer.”

Aragorn nodded sagely. “You’re probably right. This delicate flower of Rohan’s manhood needs careful looking after.”

Éomer joined them at the fire. “If you two aren’t careful, I’ll have that kahva back,” he said and dug into his food. It tasted heavenly.

“It’s only envy,” Amrothos threw in. “I’m with you absolutely, dear brother. Could I have some of that scrambled egg too, do you think?”

When he was thoroughly replete, Éomer put the plate down and stretched, loosening his abused muscles. Several of the captains had come to report, but so far the Easterlings were in full retreat and there was no danger of a counter strike. The camp meanwhile seemed quiet, the mood subdued after the battle. He knew they would rejoice in their victory eventually, but at the moment the memory of fighting, of enemies falling to their blades and friends dying was still too raw.

“Have you sent couriers to Minas Tirith with news of the battle?” he asked Aragorn.

“Not yet,” his friend replied, “but I left the palantír with Arwen, so they should know by now or at least very soon.”

Éomer nodded. How strange to think his friend’s Elven queen might be watching them this very moment! Bemused, he threw an enquiring glance up at the sky, though he could not possibly have sensed her of course.

“Do you think she’ll remember to tell Éowyn?” Faramir asked with a frown of anxiety marring his face. “I don’t want her to worry, not in her condition.”

Amrothos rolled his eyes. “Will you stop fretting, Cousin! Remember, the woman faced down the Witch King.”

“And will Arwen send the news on to Rohan?” Éomer couldn’t help asking in his own turn.

“I’m sure she’ll remember,” Aragorn replied. “My queen is really quite competent, you know, even if she didn’t think it necessary to send me chickens.”

There was a definite twinkle in his eyes, which Éomer had to acknowledge with a chuckle. “Perhaps next time,” he said.

“I will go for quails,” Amrothos threw in suddenly. “And those pickled eels Father’s cook does to perfection.” His eyes went dreamy. “Not to forget my own tent with a proper bed. Oh yes, the Dol Amroth encampment will be unrecognisable!”

The other three exchanged a grin. “I’m not sure I can authorise that,” Aragorn said. “I don’t want my warriors to get soft.”

“Bad for morale,” Éomer agreed, which earned him a look of outrage from Amrothos.

“Soft! What about you and your chickens then!”

Éomer took another gulp of kahva. “My hardy northern soul can withstand such blandishments, unlike you tender southerners.”

“Tender, eh?” Amrothos shot back. “Just wait until your first visit to Dol Amroth. I’ll take you sailing and show you how soft we are.”

“We’ll see.” But Éomer made a mental note to take his wife along for protection if he ever stepped on a boat.

“So how long until we can return to Minas Tirith, do you think?” Faramir interrupted their verbal sparring.

“Another few days?” Aragorn suggested. “I’m hoping to wrap things up quickly here.”

“Why the hurry?” Amrothos asked.

“Some of us have happy homes to return to,” Faramir pointed out.

At that Amrothos shuddered. “Ah yes, all that wedded bliss waiting for you. I just hope it’s not catching.” He stood up. “Well, I’d better check if Erchirion is back yet from chasing those Easterlings.” With a casual wave he sauntered off.

Faramir followed his cousin with his eyes. “You know, I think Amrothos is starting to regret that his father let Lothíriel go.” He gave a small smile. “What a turn after years of taking her for granted.”

“His loss, my gain,” Éomer said flippantly.

That earned him a quizzical glance. “Yes indeed.” Ceola brought over a fresh pot of kahva that moment and filled up their cups. Faramir swirled the liquid round and sniffed appreciatively. “How this brings back memories of visits to Dol Amroth. For some reason the taste never quite caught on in Minas Tirith, though that might change now. Imrahil’s wife hailed from Pelargir, you know, and they have a long tradition of trading with Harad.”

He would have known Lady Arodwen of course. Éomer’s curiosity stirred. “Is it true that Lothíriel is a lot like her mother?”

Faramir studied his kahva. “Well, Arodwen was a great lady, elegant, refined, dignified. And always in control of her emotions in public, although Aunt Ivriniel once mentioned that if she ever got angry, Imrahil ran for cover. And grovelled.”

Éomer blinked at such an image of his father-in-law. “Really?”

Faramir shrugged. “For myself, I never saw her less than gracious and charming.”

“Like Lothíriel then,” Éomer said.

Faramir hesitated. “You know, some years ago I would have said not at all; Lothíriel was such an impulsive child, always up to mischief and in some sort of trouble. Usually instigated by Amrothos, of course. Yet though she and her mother were not at all alike, they were very close. It hit her hard when Arodwen died; she had just turned fourteen.”

What a different picture of his wife! “How did Lady Arodwen die?”

“Drowned. She had been to visit her family in Pelargir and on the way home they got caught in a storm. The ship went down with the loss of all life.”

Éomer caught his breath. I have no love for the sea, Lothíriel had said on their wedding night. And just on the cusp of adulthood, the poor girl! He remembered only too well the feeling of loss and even betrayal at being left alone upon the death of his own parents.

“Lothíriel changed after her mother’s death,” Faramir went on slowly. “There were no more childish pranks and she got so serious, almost as if she wanted to turn herself into the image of her mother.” He shrugged. “Mind you, I didn’t see her much these last years. She visited Minas Tirith a few times, but I was away fighting a lot. And then after the war…” He hesitated.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know… it seemed to me that she got even more withdrawn, as if she’d built a wall between herself and the world. Of course the times were difficult and she must have worried about her father and brothers.” He looked up suddenly. “You have to understand, Lothíriel has led a very sheltered life and has never encountered any violence.”

“None?” Then how had she seen the man she loved die?

“Dol Amroth saw no enemy action,” Faramir explained. “But they knew of course that they would be the corsairs’ next target. Umbar is not a pleasant place for women.”

Well, that was an understatement when Umbar fed the notorious slave markets of Harad! “I should say so!” He hesitated over the opportunity of sounding out Faramir, for he did not want to give Lothíriel’s secret away. Obviously she had not confided to her family that she had fallen in love. Had the man been unsuitable?

“Did she spend the whole war in Dol Amroth?” he asked. “Without being involved in any fighting?”

“Oh, after what happened to his wife, Imrahil was determined to keep her safe,” Faramir answered. “Although sometimes I wonder how well he succeeded.”

Aragorn had listened to their conversation so quietly, Éomer had forgotten that he was there, a deft ranger’s trick. Now he stirred. “You know, my friend, the first time I met her, Lothíriel seemed to me like somebody who had taken a mortal wound, but refused to acknowledge it through sheer stubbornness.” He sighed. “Whether that was caused by her mother’s death I cannot say, though you might know more.” He gave Éomer an uncomfortably shrewd look. “I had hoped that time and a fresh start would bring her healing.” His voice petered out, full of unvoiced questions.

Éomer thought of the woman playing hounds and boars with him, then of the cool, distant queen who had bid him farewell. Which was the real Lothíriel? Sometimes he felt as if he had married half a dozen women, like the chiefs of the Haradrim were said to do! And they were all different and he understood none of them…

He gulped down his kahva, lukewarm now, and rose. “Well, if we want to leave for Minas Tirith soon, I’d better check on my riders.”