Musical accompaniment: The overture to the Marriage of Figaro
Lothíriel strolled across the turf, revelling in the warm rays of the sun, feeling calm and at ease with the world. The lush grass was springy beneath her feet, the trees encircling the field of Cormallen a deep, verdant green, and in the distance the river babbled gently. A contented sigh escaped the Princess. She had breakfasted with her eldest brother Elphir and his wife, her two younger brothers being slightly under the weather, having got foxed (again) the previous night. Still, she supposed, they needed to drown their sorrows after their ignominious defeat by the Rohirrim in the game of Thar-rhevia.
Lothíriel smiled at the memory. The game had been rather good fun, the Rohirrim, with their blond hair, made an exotic sight, and the roast boar afterwards had been excellent. And the polite attentions of the King of Rohan had been more than welcome. Exotically blond like his subjects, tall and handsome – definitely a man on whose arm she was happy to be seen. She wondered if he could dance, then decided with a sigh that he probably could not – at least, not dance the complicated, courtly measures favoured in Minas Tirith. She could, however, imagine him dancing a sailor's hornpipe outside a pub on the quayside of Dol Amroth. She chuckled at the absurdity of this thought, then gave her head a shake as if to rid it of the image. What nonsense her mind seemed to be conjuring this morning. Perhaps the wine last night had been stronger than she had realised at the time.
Spotting a soft-looking patch of grass, Lothíriel sat down. She gathered up her skirts and tucked her feet beneath her, then drew out the letter she had tucked into her sleeve and began to read.
Dearest Little Lothi,
Lothíriel wrinkled her nose. Nearly twenty, and her cousin still affectionately referred to her as little Lothi! Still, she supposed, for one nearing his dotage at the grand old age of six and thirty, she probably did still seem little to him.
I should imagine this letter will be waiting for you when you eventually get to Cormallen, but I thought I would write anyway, even if it was likely to be some time before you arrived and were able to read it.
Thank you for your solicitous enquiries as to the state of my health. I am much recovered, bless the Valar, though occasional struck by attacks of the megrims – the healers assure me this is only to be expected having been subjected to the black breath. I have however managed to escape from the clutches of the healers long enough to engage in the much needed task of starting to set things to rights. There is so much to do: supplies to be arranged (the city was on the brink of starvation); detailed notes of damage and a plan of priorities for repairs and rebuilding; and of course, the coronation to be organised. Oh, and unfortunately, also repairs to the sewers. Surveying the damage to these was not an enjoyable task. Fortunately I am surrounded by some excellent administrators who are helping me. Unfortunately, I also have Lord Castamir to offer his advice. But the less said about that, the better.
I have no doubt you will make the acquaintance of the King of Rohan. Could you let him know that his sister (whom I was privileged to meet while in the houses) is making a good recovery? I know that she wrote to him to tell him that she was unable to come to Cormallen, but he should know that although not up to the journey at present, she has made great improvements and should in time be restored to full health.
As for your question in your last letter concerning games of chance: what a fascinating problem you set. A pair of dice, thrown successively, four and twenty times. Does the chance that on at least one of those throws, the pair will turn up a double six, exceed evens? As you said in your letter, we could simply put it to the test repeatedly, but you are right: it would be so much more satisfying to have an argument constructed from general principles and universally applicable. Alas, I have been somewhat preoccupied of late, and have not had much time to devote to the matter, but I shall try to find a spare moment to ponder the issue, if for no better reason than to see your brothers' faces when you relieve them of their silver next time we play Hazard together.
With fondest regards and love,
Your cousin,
Faramir.
PS the White Lady of Rohan is rather wonderful, albeit somewhat terrifying when annoyed. I think I angered her by being overly solicitous. I am trying not to repeat that mistake. Fara.
PPS Perhaps best not to mention to her brother that I find her wonderful. F.
PPPS She is, though!
Lothíriel found herself laughing out loud at this last sentence. So, after so many years dedicating himself to the service of Gondor, immersing himself in books of poetry and geometry, and trying to avoid the notice, and hence the ire, of his father, her bookish cousin had finally discovered women. She decided that this information was definitely best kept private: never mind the reaction of the King of Rohan – her brothers, were they to find out, would be merciless in their teasing. And she was much too fond of Faramir to allow that to happen.
Besides which, one never knew when the threat of revealing his secret might provide useful the basis for profitable negotiations. She knew he had in his possession a book (originally Boromir's) of rather racy poetry. Admittedly, the book was in Quenya, but nonetheless... She knew how to translate 'pukku'; how hard could the rest of it be? She had always wanted to get a closer look at it, but Faramir had always said that it was much too explicit for her delicate feminine sensibilities. Pah, delicate feminine sensibilities be damned. The book was wasted on her cousin, and since her father would no doubt be actively looking for a suitable match for her now that peace was established, a thorough grounding in the theory of the marital arts seemed like sensible preparation. Not that she intended to go down without a fight: she had much more interesting plans for her life than marriage. After all, Aunt Ivriniel had never married, and look what she had managed to make of her life...
With a contented murmur, much like a cat basking on a window sill, she lay down on the grass in the warm sunshine. Idly, she wove a strand of grass between her fingers and thought about the problem with the two dice. The key, she was sure, lay in the fact that the dice had no memory of what had happened to them the throw before. Yes, yes, she knew that habitual gamblers – her middle brother among them – were wont to say things like "Hasn't turned up six for ages: we must be due one!" But these sayings were, in her considered opinion, errant nonsense. The dice didn't care what the gamblers thought they were due, the dice didn't know, they had no memory, they just did what they did on each throw as if the world were remade anew each time.
She had just started to frame a reply to Faramir's letter in her mind, detailing her insight and musing on its mathematical implications, when the brash sound of bugles interrupted her train of thought. She sat up, shading her eyes against the sun, and looked across the grass to the road. There, a sizeable cavalcade of men-at-arms, cavalry, horses (including ladies' palfreys), carriages and wagons was wending its way towards the brightly coloured city of tents. It was quite a magnificent sight – the men at arms wore brilliant tunics of deep pinks and reds, the ladies on palfreys were attired in shades of stunning blues, primrose yellows and greens, and from each carriage flew the pennant of the noble house of its occupant.
Lothíriel squinted, then gave a squeak of joy when she recognised the bar sinister, azure, and lion, couchant-regardant, or, of Lord Borlas. There was a high chance that her dear friend, Merilwen, was among the new arrivals. She leapt to her feet and ran across the grass, silken skirts flying. She arrived just in time to see an esquire assisting the ladies of the party in descending from a covered wagon.
Merilwen was every bit as delighted to see Lothíriel as the Princess was to meet her friend once more, and the two embraced warmly. It rapidly became apparent that it would take some time for the servants to establish Lord Borlas' encampment, so Lothíriel invited her friend and her sister back to the Dol Amroth pavilion for a light repast and a chance to rest after their long journey. The girls chattered in delight all the way across the grass, and continued without drawing breath, once seated inside, and provisioned with cakes and fruit cordial.
"Oh Lothi, you have no idea how wonderful it is to see you. It has been beyond boring to be stuck up in the sticks out in Lossarnach. One simply cannot get a decently trimmed bonnet for love nor money, and all the dresses are last season's." Lady Siliveth, Merilwen's older sister, had hardly drawn breath since Lothíriel had managed to find the two of them in the elegantly decked-out carriage that had transported them to Cormallen.
Merilwen rolled her eyes in frustration. "Anyone would think, sister dear, that the lack of nicely trimmed bonnets was the worst privation of the war."
"Well, it certainly was most trying," Siliveth replied, her lips forming into a pretty moue. "At least you were in Dol Amroth, Lothíriel. It may not quite be up to snuff as regards the very latest couture, but it's a jolly sight better than Lossarnach."
"Kind of you to say so," said Lothíriel, blandly. "But actually I was a tad preoccupied, helping mother to run the principality in father's absence. You cannot imagine how much paperwork there is to do, preventing people starving and what not. Possibly almost as much as juggling your dressmaker's bills."
Merilwen stifled a laugh, but Lothíriel's words seemed to roll off Siliveth without making any impression whatsoever, rather like water off a swan's back, for she continued, "Oh my goodness, yes... the cost of a decent gown these days is entirely shocking. Still, one must look one's best, and despite Bronaer's many shortcomings as a husband, I can at least acquit him of meanness: he has never stinted on my allowance. Though I suppose that is in his interests – he does like me to look decorative, so as to do him credit."
"I really do not know why you put up with him," said Lothíriel.
"He is rich, he is handsome, he is powerful, and it would be altogether too tedious to get our marriage annulled," Siliveth said, in a languid tone, as if she really could not be bothered to think about the matter in any detail. Lothíriel reflected that for all Siliveth's superficiality, beneath the taste in fripperies, she had a deeply pragmatic streak. She was a little surprised then, when Siliveth continued, "Of course he has overstepped the mark this time. Discreet liaisons are only to be expected from a man, one doesn't expect them to approach their marriage vows in quite the same way we women are expected to, but to flaunt his current paramour quite so blatantly... well, it's simply beyond the pale."
Merilwen chipped in at this point. "Yes, would you believe, Lady Gwenneth has actually come to Cormallen."
Lothíriel looked from one sister to the other. She suspected that Siliveth was not quite as sanguine about her husband's behaviour as she pretended to be. And whatever a woman could expect from her husband in private (and the princess told herself she personally would expect a great deal more: after all quite a few men of her acquaintance, including her father and her eldest brother, seemed perfectly capable of remaining faithful to their wives) it was outrageous that Bronaer should parade his indiscretions quite so publicly.
"So what do you intend to do about his behaviour?" asked Lothíriel.
"Why, show him that what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. I intend to find a handsome young man, preferably younger and better looking than Bronaer, and flirt outrageously. Don't worry, I shall not overstep the bounds of decency, but I intend to make my bastard of a husband a little bit worried and a little bit jealous, and see if that brings him to heel."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" The princess wasn't quite sure how to frame the idea rattling around her head, but somehow it seemed to her that without love there could not be jealousy. There could however be wounded pride at the presumed insult to his manliness, and anger at the prospect of losing his grip on his property. And Lothíriel had a sense that Bronaer might be a dangerous man to cross. But it seemed that Siliveth was determined to press on without a care for the consequences.
"You know, I think a dashing young favourite might be just the ticket. Perhaps," she added, "I might set my sights quite high. I hear that the King of Rohan is very good looking, and cuts a fine figure in the lists." And with that, she swept out of the pavilion, presumably to start her hunting expedition.
"Oh dear," said Lothíriel. "I do hope your sister doesn't find herself in play that is too deep!"
"Hah!" said Merilwen. "Siliveth is like a cat – always lands on her feet, and has nine lives to boot." She cast a glance at Lothíriel and said "So, the King of Rohan... Have you met him?"
"Yes, I was privileged to make his acquaintance yesterday." Lothíriel adopted her blandest expression.
"And? Do tell! Is he handsome enough and young enough to make Bronaer jealous?"
Lothíriel paused for a moment. For some reason she felt strangely reticent about discussing the man with her friend. She shook the vague feeling of embarrassment off, and answered "Oh yes, I should think so. Very dashing indeed. And quite personable in a slightly rough-round-the-edges sort of way."
"Oh, a handsome barbarian. How simply thrilling. Does he look like the sort of man who'd sweep a girl off her feet?" Merilwen nibbled a bit of honey cake.
"Well, he certainly looks strong enough to do so without effort." Lothíriel struggled to keep her face straight, as she recalled that actually there was no denying the fact that the man was very attractive. Blond hair in waves the colour of honey, a beard a couple of shades darker still... There was something about that beard. Men in Gondor were typically clean shaven, but somehow the beard reminded her that... well, that he was a man. Neatly trimmed – it wasn't bushy and overwhelming, just... there. Definitely attractive!
Lothíriel gave her head a little shake. Good mercy of the Valar, she was as bad as the tattling, tittering serving maids back in Dol Amroth, swooning over her brothers. The last thing she wanted was to have her head turned by a handsome face. For she had seen this game played out too many times – with her eldest brother for a start. Every single eligible maid of good social standing in Gondorian society would be circling round the king like flies round a jam jar. And Lothíriel had far too much pride to compete in that particular game.
It was undoubtedly time to change the subject. A counter-offensive, to distract attention from her unwanted train of thought.
"So, thinking of handsome young men, are you still pining for your charming but penniless second lieutenant?"
Merilwen blushed a deep pink.
"Ah, I see the answer is 'yes'. Your father will never allow it, you know."
"Oh, but Lothíriel, he acquitted himself so well upon the field before the Black Gates. He was mentioned in dispatches. And has been made lieutenant – no longer just a second lieutenant. And with the rank goes an extra six castars a month."
Lothíriel struggled to keep a straight face. Why, Merilwen's sister must spend at least a hundred castars a month on her dress allowance alone, before one even considered the costs of perfumes and paints, never mind throwing elaborate dinner parties and staging entertainments for her social circle. Rumour had it that one of her recent soirees had included pheasants stuffed with jewels, and Tolfalas wine sprinkled with flakes of gold leaf. Waste of good wine, thought Lothíriel. And think of the furore if someone had broken a tooth on one of the wretched jewels.
As if Merilwen had read her mind, she burst out, "But I am not like my sister. I do not aspire to the first circles of fashion. It would not make me happy. I would be happy in retirement on a country estate, proving myself a useful chatelaine to my lord and husband. And my dear Arodon has a large enough bounty from Pelennor and Morannon that he could afford to restore his father's manor house and the lands around it, well, at least, if everyone pitched in, and maybe if my father could be persuaded to part with a small dowry – nothing like the size of my sister's, of course."
"Why 'of course'?" asked Lothíriel. If truth were known, she sometimes found Merilwen's acquiescence in her family's low opinion of her a little wearing.
"Well, Siliveth was always the prettier of the two of us. And so much more accomplished. And mother says she has that certain indefinable something which makes her ever so appealing. Mother says I am charming but a little bland."
"Well, your mother is wrong – and I'm pretty sure the dashing lieutenant Arodon would agree with me about that. And much good her 'certain something' has done Siliveth. I mean, would you want to be married to Bronaer?"
Merilwen gave a little shudder. "Most assuredly not. But you see, Siliveth is much bolder than I am, and better able to handle him."
"I rather doubt any woman to be capable of handling him – he is a singularly unpleasant man, from what I have seen. But let us talk of more cheerful matters. I hear there is a to be a ball organised for the night after tomorrow." And with that, the two young women fell to talking comfortably of uncontentious subjects like the choice of ball gown and which hairstyles were all the rage.