Chapter 3

The Lady Mírwen rapped smartly on the door to Lady Hareth's parlor, while Míriel cast a baleful glance at her. They had argued about meeting with Hareth, and Míriel still thought the whole affair, a day spent sewing with older women, a waste of her time. She had thought to spend the day finishing up the illustrations in the Histories, so they would be ready as a mettarë gift for her father. But Mírwen's mind was made up, and Míriel knew better than to cross her mother.

A maid who seemed as old as Arda showed them into the parlor. It was a large and well-lit room, and Míriel thought the room was very similar in size and shape to the library. In one corner, in a large chair by the window, sat the Lady Hareth, her sewing basket in her lap and her feet propped up on a warming stone. Míriel wondered idly if Hareth could still see well enough to sew.

She rose slowly to greet her guests. "Ah, Mírwen, it is good to see you, after so many years." Hareth took both Mírwen's hands in her own, and seemed genuinely pleased to see the lady of Lamedon. "And this must be Míriel."

Míriel nodded politely and took Hareth's outstretched hands, surprised that the older lady's grip was still strong. "Thank you for inviting us, my lady."

Mírwen gave Míriel a sidelong glance and a slight nod of the head, as if to say she was pleased her daughter was at least being polite.

The ancient maid returned with tea and cakes, and Hareth motioned her two guests into the comfortable chairs set out near her own. They settled in, each lady picking up her sewing, and putting together a stitch or two every now and then, between sips of tea and small talk. It soon became apparent to Míriel that Lady Hareth's gatherings had almost nothing to do with sewing.

"Tell me, ladies, is all well in Lamedon? What news from the other fiefs?"

"Ah, my lady, there is not much to tell that you do not already know. You have heard, no doubt, that Galdor, the eldest son of Golasgil, is to be betrothed."

"Yes. Indeed, I think they intend to announce the match at the feast tonight. As if the feast were not already grand enough! Do you know the girl, Mírwen?"

"Not personally, no. I am told she is of old and good family, although not very wealthy. And quite pretty as well, from what I've heard."

Hareth chuckled. "Yes, it is good that she is pretty, although clever would be better. Especially since she is marrying the heir to Langstrand."

Míriel rolled her eyes and did not care that the other two might notice. She had first heard of Galdor's betrothal only a few days ago, from Galdor himself, and he seemed both happy and content with his own choice.

"I should think that neither pretty nor clever would matter much, when two people are in love, my lady."

Míriel felt her mother nudge her in the arm, a silent signal to hold her tongue. Hareth seemed not to notice, laughing heartily instead.

"You are very young, Míriel, and you think of naught but love and poetry, and all other such things. But there is more to being a wife than just love."

"Forgive me, my lady, she did not mean . . ."

Hareth waved her hand, dismissing Mírwen's words. "It is important for a wife to love, but it is not the only thing. She is not just the jewel of her husband's house, to be cherished by him, and admired by others. She is to be his helpmate, in all things, be he a great lord, or a simple farmer."

"The great tasks in a fief often fall to the lady, not the lord, after all," Mírwen added, her tone even, but with a slight hint of smugness. "It is the lady who maintains the lord's household, ensures the lord's men are properly paid, sees that his taxes are properly collected. . ."

"Ah, yes. Taxes." Hareth had been focused on Míriel when she spoke, but now her attention turned to Mírwen. "Is it true what I have heard? That Calembel has increased the taxes on salt from Dol Amroth?"

Mírwen's face fell, and she seemed momentarily speechless. Míriel, for her part, was impressed at how fast Hareth's mind worked, moving from topic to topic, her tone now commanding, where it had been softer before. She was also a little amused at her mother's obvious discomfiture.

"Yes, the taxes have been increased. But it was not done meanly. The harvest was not good this year, and we have had to buy more grain, from Lossarnach, and even from Rohan. Also, if we are to send men to the garrison in Pelargir, they will have to be properly provisioned."

"Lamedon sends men to Pelargir? I had not heard of this plan. Has the Steward agreed?"

"That I do not know, my lady, although I hear the idea came from Lord Boromir."

Ow! The needle slipped a little from Míriel's hand, and she managed to jab herself painfully in the finger, drawing a little blood. Boromir! I forgot all about him! She wiped her finger on her skirt, and wondered idly if she would see him again.

----

Míriel smoothed a wrinkle out of her dress as she walked into the great hall on her brother Hathol's arm. They were to be seated at the Prince's table for the feast, and she was more than a little surprised by this, for she had not expected her father to be so honored. It made her curious about her mother's earlier audience with Hareth, and about all the odd whisperings in the keep over the last few days. Something is afoot.

Her curiosity, however, was quickly suspended by her awe at her surroundings. As they were led to their place at the Prince's table, she noticed that the hall was magnificent, made even more so by the lamps and great banners that had been added for the feast. Feasts in Calembel are never quite so grand.

"It's so beautiful, Hathol, is it not?"

Hathol shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose. I am just happy there will not be any dancing."

"Nobody would dance with you anyhow!"

Their banter was interrupted by a gentle poke from their mother, who directed Míriel into the seat next to her own with a whispered admonition to be quiet. They stood and faced west for the Silence, and as they sat back down, Prince Imrahil stood and spoke in a clear voice, thanking all the lords for attending the council and sharing their wisdom. He then turned to Lord Golasgil, who announced the betrothal of his son, as expected. There was much polite cheering and murmuring at the announcement, and everyone raised their glasses to honor the new couple. Soon thereafter, the guests were served their meal.

Míriel was not terribly fond of the food in Dol Amroth. It was richer and saltier than what she was used to in Calembel. Also fishier. She picked at her food and chose instead to observe those around her. To her right, her mother and father sat, speaking politely with a lord whose name Míriel could not remember. To her left, Hathol was deep in conversation with Gundor, another of Lord Golasgil's many sons. She could not quite hear what they were saying, so she turned her attention to the rest of her dining companions. Across the table and a few seats away sat most of Prince Imrahil's family. Lothíriel and Amrothos were arguing about something, and next to them sat Elphir, talking to. . .to Boromir.

Well, this is interesting. Míriel had not expected Boromir to be at the feast, thinking that perhaps he had left Dol Amroth, for she had not seen him in days. She had heard a great deal about Boromir from his cousins, and had expected him to be as most soldiers often were, at least in Calembel: unkempt, worn, and a bit coarse. She had been surprised that day at the library to find that Boromir was instead a tall man, noble and handsome, but not the least bit coarse. In fact, he had been quite shy, which had surprised her even more.

Tonight, however, there was little of that shy man in evidence. Rather, he seemed to her to be taller and broader than he had been before, and there was something commanding about his presence, every bit a great lord and captain of men. He was speaking to Elphir, occasionally using his hands to make a point, and Míriel could not help but notice how strong the hands were, and also how gracefully he used them.

Just then, he must have realized she was watching him, because he turned a little and met her eyes. To her disappointment, he turned away almost immediately, pulling those lovely hands off the table and out of her eyesight. She was even more disappointed that there had been no look of recognition on his face. He does not remember me. The disappointment surprised her immensely, for she herself had barely remembered her meeting with Boromir until that day.

The rest of the evening passed in a sort of haze for Míriel, as she tried not to feel disappointed that Boromir neither looked in her direction, nor tried to speak to her. She began to feel annoyed by all the people around her, and felt even more irritated at her own silliness. I should take a walk, clear my head.

A few minutes later, she found herself walking in the keep's gardens. It was a dark night, with only a little bit of moonlight coming through the clouds, and Míriel could only make out shadowy outlines of the different plants and shrubs in the dark. She made her way to a small bench in the middle of the gardens and sat down, trying to sort through her scattered thoughts.

She sat facing the keep, wondering at its size and beauty. It was also a bit odd in its design. She knew the keep sat at the top of a cliff, circled by a stone wall, built long ago by the keep's first lords. There were windows on only the south and west sides, facing the Sea, but the north and east walls of the keep were completely windowless and formed a sheer face on the other side of the cliff. "It is an odd place. I wonder why they made it so?"

"It is built so to keep it safe."

Míriel jumped, startled to hear another voice. She turned around, only to find herself looking at Boromir.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to startle you, my lady."

It took a moment for Míriel to recover. "No, it is all right. I did not know anyone else was here."

He nodded and then shrugged, but did not speak, watching the keep as she herself had been doing. His face was partly in shadows, and she could not quite make out his expression; but just then, he turned around, and as she met his gaze, she noted something in it that she could not quite understand, but neither could she look away. He seemed to her very proud, and yet very sad. Great and noble and sad. Like Túrin Turambar.

The thought made her shiver, and she decided to break the silence around them. But before she could speak, he spoke instead. His voice was soft, very quiet.

"You did not tell me you were Lord Angbor's daughter."

"You did not ask, my lord."

He chuckled softly at this. "Very true. It pays to ask the proper questions, does it not?"

"Yes, it does." If I had not asked about the keep just now, you would not have spoken to me at all! "You were saying? About the keep? Why it's built so strangely."

"Ah, it seems strange to you, because you think of it only as a house. And it is that. But when it was first built, it was also a fortification."

He had turned away again, and when the moonlight caught his face, she could see the change in his expression from polite but distant amusement to a sort of fierce pride. His voice too was stronger now, and he spoke with great certainty.

"The sides facing the Sea have windows so that men may see attack ships well before they make landfall. The other sides have none, for those walls are meant to ward off the enemy. They are made smooth so none can climb them."

He pointed up to the top of the walls. "See? Those are ramparts, where guardsmen would stand and act as lookouts if an enemy approached from the north or the east."

"I did not know that Dol Amroth had ever been attacked."

"No. Dol Amroth has been fortunate in that respect." Míriel thought she heard a slight edge of bitterness in Boromir's voice. "Still, the keep was built long ago, even before there was a Prince here, and perhaps there was a true threat to Dol Amroth then."

"Where did you learn all this, my lord?"

"From a book, my lady." He met her eyes for a moment and then smiled at her, sadness and bitterness leaving his face. "A book without pictures."

She giggled a little. "Ah, not a very interesting book, then, my lord."

"No, I'm afraid not." He paused, hesitating. "And. . .you should call me Boromir."

"Only if you call me by name in turn."

He nodded, as if to assure her he would, and then was silent for a long moment. "You should return to the hall, my lady . . . Míriel. It is getting late, and you are here alone. Your family might worry."

She doubted they would worry too much, knowing her penchant for wandering within the keep's walls, but she did not wish to argue with Boromir. She did not particularly want to leave him yet either, so she held out her hand to him. "Will you walk me back to the keep, then?"

He did not take her hand, but instead politely gave her his arm, and they made their way back. At the doorway from the gardens back into the keep, he pulled away from her and gestured politely at the door.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Ah, I'm afraid not, my lady. I set out early on the morrow for Minas Tirith."

This disappointed Míriel. It would have been pleasant to take a few more garden walks with him. To find out what else he knows of the world, at least. "I am sorry you are leaving us so soon. But I wish you a safe journey. Good night, Boromir."

"Good night, Míriel."