The day after the game of Thar-rhevia, Éomer took a somewhat hungover Amrothos and Erchirion to inspect the Rohirrim horses, with a view to coming to some sort of agreement about which horses they would like to breed into the Dol Amroth blood lines, and what sort of stud fees should be payable. It was as they were admiring a particularly fine bay stallion that the contingent from Minas Tirith arrived. Éomer watched, somewhat nonplussed, as a panoply of wagons, assorted riders on horseback and accompanying cavalry wound its way along the road which led from the south.
"What the hell's going on?" he asked Erchirion.
"The hunt has arrived," the Gondorian replied, somewhat cryptically.
"The hunt?"
"The flower of Gondor's knighthood, and not a few foreign heroes, yourself foremost among them, are currently held at bay in the small covert that is Cormallen. The hounds, in the form of the unmarried maidens of Gondor and their baying maters, have arrived to descend upon their prey, teeth bared for the fight, along with their jewels and cleavages," Erchirion explained, in a languid voice.
"Bloody hell," said Éothain, observing a somewhat buck-toothed young woman in an extremely frilly gown descend from a richly decorated covered wagon. Her face was slightly green (no doubt an after-effect of being bounced around inside the wagon on the rough road) and clashed horribly with the lilac silk of her dress.
Amrothos looked at his two new friends. A sudden jolt of fear clutched his guts. They were innocents abroad, completely unaware of the shoals and reefs lurking under the apparently smooth surface waters of Gondorian society.
"Come on, my dear chaps, let us retire quickly for a game of cards and a discussion of the minutiae of Gondorian court behaviour, before you have to meet the ravening beasts head on. Best to be thoroughly prepared," Amrothos said, waving the two Rohirrim towards his tent.
"What do you mean?" said Éomer in puzzled tones.
"Only that if you're not careful, you will find yourself having hopelessly compromised some young woman, and thus obliged to marry her so as not to cause a diplomatic incident."
"I'm not bloody stupid, you know," Éomer retorted hotly. "I know better than to shove my hand up some sheila's skirt. I'm quite capable of behaving myself decently round women. Contrary to what you Gondy bastards seem to think, we're not complete savages."
"Calm yourself, my good fellow. Of course I don't think of you as savages. But you see, actions falling a long way short of 'shoving your hand up a sheila's skirt', as you so delicately put it, are capable of compromising her."
Éomer's brow knitted at this cryptic remark, so Amrothos continued, "For instance, when you kiss her hand, your nose may brush her knuckles, but not your lips, and on no account must you kiss her palm, or, worse still, her wrist. And when it comes to conversation, stick to the weather. Do not share food with her – honey cakes or the like…"
Éomer and Éothain found their mood sinking as Amrothos outlined a long list of things they must not do, on pain of finding themselves unintentionally betrothed to the buck-toothed young woman in lilac or one of her equally unprepossessing companions.
Eventually, when Amrothos finished his lengthy list, with the rather discouraging words, "That'll do to be going on with – don't want to get you too confused. Obviously there are other, more subtle nuances, but that should help you avoid most of the obvious pitfalls."
It struck Éomer that the rules around dealing with women in Gondor were, if anything, even more complex than those of Thar-rhevia. Puzzled, he excused himself to fetch a stoneware jar of ale from his own tent, saying he would join the Gondorians in a moment. He walked briskly across the grass to the Eorling encampment, his mind swirling.
Béma! The last thing he needed was to find himself committed to marry some completely unsuitable sheila. But at the same time, an unwelcome thought popped into his head: maybe this was an opportunity to find a wife. Find a wife? He had no doubt that his advisors were more than anxious for him to do so. After all, at the moment, what was left of the house of Eorl? Himself, unmarried, without issue, his sister, unmarried, without issue (and currently recuperating from the black breath – Béma only knew when she would feel like marriage, given her history with Wormtongue, and her desperate unrequited crush on Aragorn – yes, he had eyes in his head, even with the desperate situation at Edoras at the time, he had noticed Éowyn turn into a moon-struck teenager). He could see their point, at least from a political angle.
But from a personal angle? That buck-toothed girl in the hideous lilac frock? He suddenly thought back to a comment Elfhelm had once made, about a revolting piece of frippery the housekeeper's assistant had tried to hang in the king's chambers in Edoras. Elfhelm had sighed, and said I'm sure Anorien tarts' knickers look very nice on Anorien tarts, but I don't think much of them hanging in windows. Éomer couldn't help but think that the lilac frock was akin to a dress-sized version of tarts' knickers. (Not that he had ever seen such garments, having only passed through there once, and at great speed, on the ride to Minas Tirith. Mind you, given how terrifying Hilde was, and how clearly devoted to her Elfhelm was, he rather doubted that Elfhelm had actually seen a pair of them either. But it was a good image nonetheless).
What about girls back home? He could imagine his advisors coming up with a list, some of them quite pretty lassies, and nice enough, but to spend a whole life with them? Not to mention the fact that if he married a girl from the Westfold, the nobility of the Eastfold would feel snubbed, and vice versa. Really, if the whole issue of finding a wife could just be put off for a year or three… He had a kingdom to set in order before he got round to thinking seriously of marriage. Sighing, he pulled back the flap of his tent, and fetched the stoneware jar. So, he thought, no kissing palms of hands, no sharing honey cakes and definitely no hands up skirts. Though at that moment, he suddenly recalled the feel of Princess Lothíriel's hand in the crook of his arm. Now there was… he grinned… a palm he'd like to kiss, if that was the right phrase round these parts. On the other hand, she was (he realised in the cold light of day) far too young. It wouldn't be fair to dump the running of a country on her. And it wasn't as though he could just have a flirtation with her – not with the sister of his closest friends, not with a girl so clearly young and inexperienced. Nah, that would just be playing with fire. Hastily he tried to set the thought aside.
Looking around to keep an eye open for any approaching mother-and-daughter pairs of hunting dogs, he made his way back to the cluster of tents beneath the swan banner of Dol Amroth, and nodded to the guard at the entrance of Amrothos' tent as he made his way inside, ducking his head beneath the canvas flap. Inside, Prince Imrahil's younger sons had already arranged themselves ready to play, with Éothain sitting next to them.
"So, what're you playing?" Éomer asked Amrothos, pulling up a chair to the cleverly designed table Erchirion had unfolded in the centre of the pavilion.
"Caer ar minib," said Amrothos, shuffling the cards with an expert flourish. "Literally 'ten plus eleven' – you draw cards from the bank, aiming to get a hand as close to twenty-one as you can, but if you go over, you lose. Aces are one or eleven, at the holder's choice."
"Ah, sounds like a version of Black Squire," said Éothain, before adding, "More importantly, what are you playing for?"
"Well," said Amrothos, "Seeing as how we're playing with friends, and wanting to stay friends, minimum stake is a castar, ceiling of twelve castars. Don't want the play to go too deep."
A firth man lifted the flap of the tent. Éomer turned to look at him. He was tall, dark haired with a great beak of a nose – typical Gondy bastard, in other words. About forty, insofar as you could tell with a Gondorian. Bloody Elven blood. Clean shaven, well turned out, thin scar on one cheek which gave him a somewhat raffish air. Quite a handsome bugger. The sort who would be popular with the ladies.
Erchirion gestured to him. "Éomer King, allow me to present Lord Bronaer. Lord Bronaer, his liege the king of the Rohirrim, whom I am privileged to call my shield brother."
Bronaer bowed low, saying simply, "Sire, honoured to make your acquaintance," before pulling up a chair.
The five men cut. Amrothos drew the highest card and therefore became "bank", and play commenced. Bronaer turned out to have a lucky streak and to start with gathered up quite a large heap of coins before him. He and Erchirion obviously knew each other well: they talked as they played, a kind of boastful banter.
"Shame about your 'groin-strain' – though your loss was my gain. That tart of yours... Quite a goer. Will do literally anything. If you had her on a billiard table, she'd let you pot the brown as well as the pink, if you catch my drift. What became of her chum, though? I was looking forward to that inventive double act you mentioned."
"She seemed quite taken with Éothain's sergeant," Erchirion replied. "I must admit I was somewhat surprised he could afford her. Must have taken his entire bounty for both Pelennor and Morannon in just one night – in fact, one hour, I'd have thought."
"Capital fellow. I like a man who has his priorities right," said Bronaer.
"Yeah... nah," drawled Éothain. "I think she gave him a freebie. Took quite a shine to him."
"Good grief," said Erchirion. "I thought she had a better business head on her than that."
"From what you told me," Bronaer leered, "her head was one of her better talents."
Éomer watched this exchange with amusement, though he began to see why Éothain had formed a friendship with Amrothos rather than Erchirion: he himself like a tumble with a willing woman as much as the next man, but Elfhelm and Theodred had brought him up to think that you enjoyed the pleasure of the event itself rather than blabbing about it afterwards. For some reason he had never been able to put a finger on, he'd never been quite comfortable with men who boasted of their conquests with women. Maybe it was something to do with having a sister. Though of course – and here he lost concentration and several more castars – Erchirion had a sister too. Despite his earlier attempts to convince himself that she was much too young for him, much too young to be a suitable queen, he couldn't stop his next thought: And what a sister.
The gods must have read his thoughts: the tent flap opened to reveal Princess Lothíriel. She swept into the tent, her raven hair falling in curls about her shoulders, her dress of richest Haradi silk rustling around her as she walked.
"Caer ar minib – how splendid. Deal me in, brother dearest," she said in a languid voice, drawing up a chair. Éomer raised an eyebrow. In the Mark, though women placed bets as avidly as men, the two did not tend to play cards together. Lothíriel caught his expression and fixed him with a steady, uncompromising gaze.
The princess sat down as Bronaer politely held her chair. She pushed her elaborately embroidered sleeves up to her elbows and tied them out of the way with ribbon, then tied her thick, dark hair back with a length of leather twine. Éomer tried desperately not to stare as her bodice tightened across her breasts as she stretched her arms behind her head. He failed. That same steady gaze now regarded him with a detached amusement. He rather suspected that she was all too well aware of the effect she had on men, but at the same time he got the impression that rather than trading on it, she viewed it as a kind of curiosity.
"So," she said, in a conversational tone as her brother dealt the cards, "It seems that mother and I have set something of a fashion. Half of the ladies of the first circle of Gondorian society have arrived at Cormallen. I met your dear wife and your sister-in-law earlier this day, my lord Bronaer. I rather think she expects to see you at her father's soiree this evening."
"How kind of you to bring such delightful news, princess," Bronaer responded. Éomer still found it hard to read Gondorians, but there was no missing the chill in the lord's voice. Clearly he had been quite enjoying his extra-curricular activities and regretted their curtailment. "And how nice for you that you have my dear little sister-in-law for company. Two charmingly naïve chits from the schoolroom together."
Lothíriel gave a smile that Éomer could only think of as dangerous. She said, her voice a feminine version of her father's urbanely diplomatic tones, "Quite. So nice to have one's good friends around one. I note that the Lady Eressil has also made the journey. She is, if I remember aright, a particularly good friend of yours."
Amrothos made a slight, choking noise and changed the subject. "Did the evening dispatch rider bring any news from Minas Tirith, sister?" He dealt the first set of cards rapidly. Lothíriel picked hers up and assessed them coolly, then replied to her brother.
"Our cousin sends his greetings. He is very busy running the city, getting supplies laid in to all the settlements hard hit by the war, and preparing for the coronation. Altogether too much for him while he is still convalescing, I would have said, but that's Faramir for you." To Éomer's surprise, she turned to look at him and gave him a dazzling smile. "He has spent some time with your sister, and has asked us to pass on the news to you that she is recovering well, though still understandably she has still not fully regained her strength. She is apparently sad not to have been able to come to Cormallen, but other than that is in good spirits.."
Éomer found himself smiling. He had been very worried when he received a brief note from Éowyn a few days earlier to say that she would not be able to join him. Only now, with Lothíriel's news, did he realise how much he had been worried that she'd been more severely affected than she had let on.
His smile died on his face a few moments later. Lothíriel laid down a two, a three, a four and two sixes. "Caer ar minib," she said, her face giving nothing away, and coolly scooped up the money from the table.
A couple of hours later, Éothain, Éomer and Bronaer found themselves completely cleaned out. Bronaer looked absolutely furious. Amrothos threw back his head and laughed.
"My sister is something of a mathematical genius, and a regular wizard with the cards. Nothing cavey, you understand, she's not a card-sharp. She simply has the most incredible memory for which cards have already been played."
"Comes of spending so much time in the schoolroom," Lothíriel added, sweetly.
~o~O~o~
An hour or so later, Lothíriel called in on her friend Merilwen once more, to see if she wished to join the Dol Amroth party for the hawking expedition planned for the next day. She found Merilwen looking most upset.
"Mama caught me sneaking out to try to meet Arodon. She will no longer let me go anywhere unless accompanied by Siliveth and that beast Bronaer." Both Merilwen's eyes and the tip of her nose were red. Lothíriel offered her a handkerchief.
"Would it cheer you to know that I have just won almost as much as Siliveth's monthly dress allowance from the beast?" the princess offered, in the hope of taking her friend's mind off her plight.
"Oh no, you haven't been gambling again, have you, Lothíriel? Mama does disapprove so of women playing games of chance, and in male company too. What if she gets wind of it, and says that I am not allowed to meet you either? I simply couldn't bear it if I was denied the companionship of both the love of my life and my dearest friend."
"Rather over-egging the pudding," said Lothíriel bluntly. "And besides, you forget that your mother, though a lovely and well-meaning woman, is also the most fearful snob. My shortcomings must surely be more than compensated for by my parentage in her eyes."
"But Arodon," wailed Merilwen, returning to her original complaint. "What am I to do? He was expecting me to meet him beneath the willows down by the waterfall. He will think I have jilted him."
"Nonsense," Lothíriel said. "He has been courting you for how long now? Nigh on a year? He will not think you have thrown him over in an instant. I think he has the sense to realise that some external circumstance must have prevented you. And if he doesn't have that much sense, well then, he is hardly worth having."
"Of course he's worth having," sobbed Merilwen, grasping the wrong end of the stick entirely and clinging to it with a firm grip. "How can you say that he is not worth having?"
"It was a conditional statement… oh never mind." Lothíriel back pedalled rapidly on catching sight of her friend's utterly bereft expression. As usual, though, she found it easier to come up with a practical plan than to sit and utter meaningless platitudes. "Look, is there anything I can do? Take a note to him, for instance?"
Merilwen instantly brightened. "Oh yes, that would be wonderful. But… won't you get into trouble for being seen going down to the soldier's camp? I know that you don't give a fig for the opinion of others, but surely that would be a step too far, even for you?"
But Lothíriel now had the bit between her teeth; she sensed an opportunity for subterfuge and adventure. "I have an old cloak of my cousin's. I shall put some breeches on, and my riding boots, and draw the cloak over my head, and no-one will know I am anything other than one of the Ithilien rangers."
It was as if dark rain clouds had suddenly lifted, leaving a sunlit blue sky. Merilwen smiled and clapped her hands together in delight. "Oh, thank you so much! Let me just pen a note to him. Oh, truly, you are the best of friends… But are you sure the plan will work?"
"Of course," Lothíriel replied breezily. "Like all the best plans it is so simple that there is no room for anything to go wrong."
