Chapter 3. Some Were Pleased, Some Less So
Dol Amroth Town House, Minas Tirith, May 3019 T.A.
“Have you heard the news?” Lothíriel asked breathlessly as she sank down onto the settee.
Amrothos eyed his sister. She must have been walking very fast, faster than her dress allowed. Patience was never a strong suit in the Dol Amroth family.
“Which news?” Erchirion asked, without looking up from the arrow and feathers in his hand. “There has been a lot happening in the City lately. The stone mason guild is unhappy about the Dwarves. The chief of the Easterlings is coming to thank the King for his pardon. Adanel broke her betrothal to Turgon in favour of Haldan, after...”
“None of those trifling matters,” Lothíriel interrupted. “The King is making Faramir a prince.”
Erchirion and Amrothos looked up, now giving her their full attention. She smiled smugly, pleased with the effect.
“A prince?” Erchirion repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I did not realize one could create a principality. Being a king has its privileges, I suppose.”
“Please talk some sense, brother,” said Amrothos. “Of course a principality can be created. How else did our forefather become the Prince of Dol Amroth? It is mentioned in the Statutes of Gondor that... o, never mind.”
Turning to his sister, he asked, “And how did you hear this? Father has not told us anything.”
Lothíriel pressed her palms together and flashed a knowing smile.
“A lady has her sources. O, is it not simply wonderful? Prince of Ithilien, Lord of Emyn Arnen, the whole thing sounds so poetic.”
“What is so poetic about it? It makes sense: Faramir has been the Captain of Ithilien Rangers for years, he has practically lived there, and he descends from the ancient Lords of Emyn Arnen.”
Lothíriel rolled her eyes but did not answer.
Instead, the levity faded from her face and she said, “The King seemed to recognize Faramir’s worth—I am so glad. Faramir deserves all the good things, after all he has endured.”
“I wonder how the King convinced Faramir to agree to it,” Erchirion quipped. “If I know our cousin, the mention of reward would have thrown him off balance.”
“By telling him it is his duty to make Ithilien flourish, I suppose,” Amrothos said. “Speak of reward, and Faramir will recoil. Speak of duty, and he will give his all.”
“Dear, dear Faramir,” sighed Lothíriel.
She added, “Aunt Ivriniel is not impressed. She says this is the least the King can do, after taking Gondor from Faramir.”
“I doubt even the sight of Valinor could impress Aunt Ivriniel,” said Erchirion. “But she has a point. If one were inclined to be cynical, one might see this as recompensing a realm with a small portion of it. But we are not cynical—one such person in the family is more than enough, and our Aunt plays the role admirably. So I say we toast to Faramir, and to our wise King.”
Lothíriel’s eyes brightened, as they often did when an idea struck her. “What do you think about inviting the King to supper, to thank him properly? Do people invite their King to their house? Or should we wait for him to invite us?”
Erchirion shrugged. “You can check the book of decorum if you wish,” he said. “Or consult our Aunt, the final word on propriety. But the King does not strike me as someone overly concerned with such matters. I believe he would be glad to share our table.”
...
An excerpt from the journal of Lord Hador of Anórien, head of an ancient noble family in Gondor.
What is the world coming to?
I had little love for Denethor, but at least he upheld the dignity of Gondor as I had always known it.
The new King has pardoned the Easterlings and made peace with Harad. How could he squander such an opportunity to make Gondor an imperial power, a realm before whose name all others would tremble?
He has also pardoned a guard who left his post during the siege. Well, I should not be surprised, after what he did with the Easterlings.
And do not get me started on the Steward.
For all his mild manner and lowly bearing, I have always suspected that Denethor’s second son is devious. An apple does not fall far from the tree. I was proven correct in the end.
In the Council discussing the claim to the crown, he acted so disinterestedly, and spoke so loftily, declaring that he “will not negotiate with the King”, eliciting sympathy from all. Even I was compelled to bow deeply to him, thinking that would be the last time we bowed to the Steward of Gondor.
‘Will not negotiate’, indeed!
It is not words, but facts, that count.
See what has happened? Not only did he remain the Steward, but the King also declared him chief of the Council and his vicegerent. And now, the princedom. I wonder what other agreements they had struck—to plight their children in marriage?
Alas for Boromir!
Out of the Steward family, he was the only straightforward one. He would have made an excellent ruler: victorious in battle, and one who would have listened to his Council.
One has no choice but to adapt to the changing times, I suppose. I will not let my family, who can trace our descent from King Anárion himself, be pushed aside and forgotten.
I must quickly introduce Írimë to the King—union through marriage is the true and tested way. Surely the heir of Elendil would seek a pure-blooded Númenórean for his spouse, unlike that wayward son of Denethor.
He would have been an easier mark, for he and Írimë grew up together. Though she had enough sense to set her sights on the heir rather than the spare.
But no, not a Númenórean lady for the Steward. Not even a lady from the realm. A bright-haired, sword-wielding lass from Rohan for the Steward of Gondor! Rohan, rolling fields that dare call themselves a kingdom.
True, Rohan succoured us in the siege. But still!
What is Gondor coming to? Will my children’s children have to bow to a yellow-haired Steward?
In this matter, again Denethor’s son showed his cunning. For though Rohan is of lesser lineage, King Elessar holds them and their young king in high regard. A union with the sister of the King of Rohan would certainly cement the Steward’s position in King Elessar’s court.
A backup plan is necessary, should my daughter fail to secure the Queen’s crown.
Trade? Wealth will be the new route to renown, I foresee, now that the age of peace has come. Trade with Eriador will soon be re-opened—I must get my son to find opportunities there. Or perhaps an ambassador position in Arnor—certainly that position will be created.
What a hassle, to start again at my age! Would that Denethor had endured a little while longer. He would have denied the heir of Isildur entry, and Gondor would remain as I have always known it, but without the Shadow. That would have been the golden age indeed.
...
Minas Tirith, May 3019 T.A.
“Master Halfling, I am sorry to disturb you, but are you the one renowned for your cooking skills?”
Frodo looked up from his book to find a short (by Big People’s standards), plump woman with a kindly face standing before him. From her warm expression, the faint aroma of herbs she carried, and the question she asked, Frodo deduced she was a cook herself.
He smiled, rose, and gave a bow. “Frodo Baggins at your service, Mistress. I fancy myself a decent cook, but the best among us is Samwise.”
The woman gave a practiced curtsey. Her crisp skirts brushed together with a soft sound. Must be a select staff of the Citadel, Frodo thought.
“I am Erien, cook in the Steward’s household,” she said.
“Then you must be a great cook,” Frodo said. “You were looking for Sam, Mistress Erien?”
Erien nodded. “I heard the King is partial to the mushroom soup made by the Master Halfling, and I would like to learn to make it. I know cooks are seldom willing to share their recipes, but everyone says the Halflings are courteous and kindhearted, so I thought I would try my luck.”
“Sam will be happy to share his recipes,” Frodo said, amused. “But I am curious. You are not in the King’s household. May I know, Mistress, why you wish to learn to make the King’s favourite food?”
“So it is true, then, that the King loves the mushroom soup?”
“Among other mushroom dishes Sam whipped up,” Frodo replied, chuckling softly as he recalled their shared meals in Cormallen. “Mushroom is rather underused here in Gondor and in the North beyond the Shire and Bree, we discovered. Ah, here comes Sam now.”
“Hullo, Sam,” Frodo called. “This is Mistress Erien, Captain Faramir’s cook. She would like to learn how to make your mushroom soup, as a gift for Strider.”
After exchanging greetings, Sam and Erien joined Frodo beneath the old tree where he had been reading. The air smelled faintly of earth and flowers, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves above them.
“I am very fond of Lord Faramir,” Erien explained. “Not only because I have cared for him since he was born, but for the man he is. If you spend but a few days with him, you will understand what I mean.”
“We know what you mean, Mistress,” said Sam. “We stayed with Captain Faramir for a night in Ithilien, and I’ll tell you, he’s the finest man I’ve met—wise, noble, and all that. And that’s saying something, considering the company I’ve kept lately!”
Erien looked at him with approval and gratitude.
“I am deeply grateful to the King for treating Lord Faramir so well,” she said. “He deserves it, of course, but not everyone treats him as he deserved, and kings—who knows what they would do?
“Thus I am very grateful, and I wish to do something for the King, even if it is just a small thing.”
“Strider will not think it small,” said Frodo. “You will see, Mistress, that the King has a heart of gold.”
“Why don’t we go to the kitchen now?” said Sam. “If you don’t have other duties, that is. No? Good! Follow me, and before you know it, you’ll have a whole spread of Shire dishes ready for Strider.”
...