Thank you for reading and commenting. Anon/Guest: Thanks for your feedback. I have to admit I viciously delight in staying as realistic as possible and there is nothing more satisfying than the occasional chip in the heroes' moral armour. ;-)

I would like to thank artura, Lialathuveril and sian22 for helping my to sort out the worst language mistakes and especially Lady Bluejay
for beta-reading this chapter.

Clouds over Isen

Chapter 4

Before the Storm

"I know it looks ridiculous, but it surely would look even more ridiculous if you toppled off that horse because your already battered brain got addled by the sun. So just shut it and let me put the thing on your bonce."

Giving the indefinable construction made from his cut-up tunic and some length of rope a dismissive glare, Frithuhelm started a last attempt to sway Alfric. "It'll frighten the horse, you know."

Alfric laughed. "Don't you worry. Scand has seen worse and is not easy to spook. And I promise you I'll take it off as soon as Appletun comes into sight."

With a grunt, Frithuhelm submitted to the old Rider's demand. Scand, a stout gelding with visible heavy horse traits, was led to one of the logs, and with Alfric's help the huge Westfolder clambered onto the horse.

"Now take care that you stay put, handsome. And tell me if you start feeling dizzy or anything the like."

Taking the pack horse's bridle rein, Alfric mounted and they took off at a slow walk, letting their horses find their steps on a waterlogged trail that in places resembled a muddy rill. Things improved little after they had crossed the main path and followed the narrow trail that led over the flat hill towards Appletun, except that now the ground had not been trampled into the consistency of bread dough by a troop of horses. The trail was little more than a deep rut worn into the soil by uncounted feet of animals and men over centuries but last night's deluge had eroded it even more, leaving puddles and loose stones that kept the horses at their slow pace.

Not that he would have been fit to ride any faster. Frithuhelm heaved a breath. Had he been uninjured he would have found the gelding's broad back comfortable enough, but as it was, the wound in his hip was throbbing, the bandage that held his broken collarbone in place was forcing him to sit unnaturally straight, and while he was thankful that he did not have to put his grazed foot into a stirrup, the abrasion itched and its moisture attracted blowflies. But his head was the worst of all. For every step the gelding took a drum roll seemed to echo in his temples. Now and then Alfric shot him an appraising look, but none of them spoke.

Frithuhelm hoped that things would get better once they had climbed the slope and reached the softly rolling plains, but found to his dismay that the ever so slight descending of the land was making him hurt even worse. And he realised that the old Rider had noticed his discomfort when Alfric reined his horse in after not even an hour's slow ride, pointing at a sparse cluster of birches and alder only half a yard off the path.

"We'll rest over there. There's a brook and it's shady; both will do you good."

Frithuhelm grimaced. "It will delay us. We are already moving like slugs and..."

Alfric shrugged. "Can't be helped. We are going as fast as I dare with you being a sore sack of rattling bones and you don't look as if you're up to more."

Frithuhelm tired to protest, but Alfric shook his head. "Don't be stubborn, boy. That Dunlending didn't just tickle you with his mace and if you fall off that dratted sawbuck of a horse I won't be able to get you back on it and Osláfa will skin me for it, not to mention Erkenbrand."

"Leave Erkenbrand out of this, will you?" Frithuhelm found it difficult to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "I've never tried to curry favour with him."

"No, that's certainly true. But the old badger cares for you nevertheless. But be that as it may: You need to rest and therefore rest we will."

In the end Frithuhelm was more than thankful to pause, and after Alfric had helped him dismount, he just stretched out on the wet ground and closed his eyes. His head was still pounding, but at least the dizzy feeling stopped. Unfortunately that did nothing to lessen the anxiety he felt. Erce help him if he could not overcome his weakness fast. He would be a burden to Osláfa instead of a help. And he knew only too well what comments to expect from Wulfrun should he need to stay abed for some time. He opened his eyes.

"Alfric?"

The Rider had scooped fresh water from the brook and now came over, helping him to sit up, before handing him a wooden mug. "Drink, and then lie down again for a while. It's useless to try to force things and you know it."

Grunting a thank you, Frithuhelm obliged, but when the old Rider sat down beside him, leaning comfortably against the trunk of a birch, he came back to his initial thought.

"Alfric, once we reach Appletun, can't you take Wulfrun back with you to Acwuld's ?"

Alfric snorted. "I'd rather take a rabid warg bitch with me than that spiteful hag. But we'll see. If she really wants to go back to the river I am willing to let her ride Scand on my way back, but I will not accompany her to the Fords or anywhere else. I'm bound for the bridge. They need the provisions there."

He scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. "She'll be safe enough anyway. Ulger should have reached the garrison by now, and I'm sure the captain will send word to the Hornburg at once."

With a sigh of relief Frithuhelm closed his eyes again. At least there was a chance of getting rid of Wulfrun and anything else Osláfa and he would manage between them.

ooooo

When he woke again he found the sun already high in the sky and the birches giving little shade. With a curse he tried to sit up, but immediately Alfric's hands stopped him.

"Don't be daft and undo what good your little nap might have done you by moving too fast."

For a split second he felt like smacking the old Rider, but then his peaceful nature prevailed. Alfric was right, but that did not ease his anxiety. What had Wulfrun told Osláfa? Whatever it was, his wife would certainly be uneasy. Had they left for the hideout? He heaved a breath.

"I'm worried, you know."

Alfric shrugged. "Why? We told Wulfrun we would deal with the Hillmen, and that we did."

"Except for the one that gave me the slip." Happily enough Wulfrun did not know about that or he would hear no end of it.

The old Rider raised an eyebrow. "You expect him to come back and try his luck again?"

Frithuhelm carefully shook his head. "No. But still Ulger is right, there is something odd about that raid or whatever you can call it. What if it was just a distraction?"

Alfric nodded his head. "But from what should it distract, and who? They didn't expect the patrol, that's for sure. And if they'd killed you and the crone it would have taken days until anybody would have become suspicious. And anyway why did they cross at the river's knee? The two of you had nothing worth to risk one's arse for."

"Perhaps they didn't even know we were there and they just found it convenient to cross there to get into the Mark unseen."

Even as he said those things, they were not making any sense even to himself. Frithuhelm felt at his wits' end. If only that bloody throbbing in his head would stop so he could think straight!

Alfric shot him a doubtful glance. "But why?"

The searing pain in his shoulder reminded Frithuhelm that it was better not to shrug. He suppressed a groan. "I don't know. All of them were armed, so breaking the oath Erkenbrand made them swear. And when I spotted them I was afraid all the time that they might only be a vanguard or scouts or, well, some poor buggers they had sent across as a distraction while the main force would cross later or somewhere else."

"Nah!" The old Rider shook his head. "You were worried and a bit overwhelmed I'd say and that made you get funny ideas. You'll have a bite now and some more to drink and then we'll plod on."

He fished a chunk of stale bread out of his satchel and handed it to Frithuhelm together with the freshly filled wooden mug. "Dip it if it's too hard for you to chew with your bruised face. We'll try to ride for at least half an hour and then we'll have another break." Seeing that Frithuhelm was about to protest, he shook his head. "Spare your breath, handsome. I promised Ulger I would get you to Appletun in one piece, and that I will."

It took them two more breaks, and he had to admit that he was thankful for each of them, until they were riding up the low hillock that separated them from the wide vale that harboured his farmstead.

The closer they came, the harder he found it to suppress his growing anxiety until at last, reaching the rim of the slope that led down to his homestead, he saw the thin streak of smoke, spiraling from the baking oven behind the small house. Laundry was flapping on a line in the breeze, the orderly fenced off patches of the kitchen garden looked like the patterns of a slightly crumpled homely blanket in their different greens. South of the building the stream that provided the farm's water supply widened into a low-banked pond the overflow of which was blocked by a sturdy weir. A girl of about six was sitting on its stony curb, her feet dangling in the water while she watched a group of geese and goslings feeding on the lush patches of grass.

A sudden ear-splitting whistle followed by the frenzied barking of a dog led his attention to the more rugged north-eastern part of the valley and he grinned as he spotted the wildly waving boy amid a small flock of goats. Raising his unbandaged arm high over his head, he waved back. At the pond the geese had started to honk agitatedly at the boy's whistle and the girl had sprung up, looking in the direction her brother was looking and waving. Now she waved, too, and forgetting about the geese, started to run towards the riders. Frithuhelm heaved a breath. Acwuld's children. What a pity his friend could not see how much they had grown these last two years. He pressed his lips together, swallowing the upcoming sadness. They were alive, they were thriving, and he would do what he could for them.

It was then that the door of the cottage opened, and Osláfa stepped outside, a toddler on her hip, shouting something Frithuhelm could not understand to her son. The boy answered, pointing the slender hazel rod he was carrying to control the goats in their direction, and then he started to jog down to the cottage, the goats in tow.

"Your welcoming committee," Alfrid chuckled at his side.

The horses made to trot down the beaten track, when Frithuhelm realised that something was odd, something he had not thought of in the first moment of relief at seeing his family. Why were they here, so obviously not expecting any danger from the direction of the Isen? Had Osláfa decided to stay at the farm instead of hiding near the crags when Wulfrun had given her the reassuring information that the patrol had taken on the raiders? Or had the crone forced her to stay? But would she then have sent out her children to herd the animals as if nothing was amiss? And where was Wulfrun anyway? Not wanting to see him? Probably, and he certainly did not miss her scowling face. But where was Stapa? Should the gelding not be out on the pasture on the other side of the garden?

His pondering was stopped by the little girl coming close enough to notice his bandaged torso and bruised face. She stopped in the middle of the track, mouth agape.

Having reached her, Alfric dismounted. "Never you worry, Lytle. Frithuhelm had an accident, but he's fine. He'll mend soon, just needs some rest, you see. What about having a ride on Brūn? He's a good one with little girls."

The girl nodded, but when the old Rider helped her into the saddle and started to lead the horse towards the cottage, she never took her eyes off Frithuhelm. And then she said with an odd little snuffle: "Did Wulfrun do that to you, Frithuhelm Fæder?"

He saw Alfric's brows go up, but the old Rider held his tongue.

"Wulfrun? No Stanfleda, I was hit by a falling tree last night in the thunderstorm. But why do you think Wulfrun did it? Has she ever beaten you?"

The girl shook her head. "No, mother would never let her. But she thwacked Gudram when he did not obey her and gave her sauce, and once she hit mother with a big ladle and mother's face was almost as bad as yours."

Frithuhelm clenched his fist. That cursed woman! No matter how old she was, she had no right to treat her dead son's wife like this. Forcing his voice to sound calm, he asked:

"When did that happened? Still back at Acwuld Fæder's farm?"

The girl shook her head. "In spring. When you had gone to fix the cottage for us to come. Mother said we should not tell you, because you would be so angry."

"With yourself," she added after a moment, obviously recalling her mother's words without really understanding them.

When he had been away to fix the cottage… He had known only too well that Wulfrun had not agreed with her former daughter-in-law's marriage to him, but he had never expected her to get rough. And to think that she had had the gall to insist he built Acwuld's farm first for her to dwell there because her grandchildren would inherit it! If only Osláfa had told him! He would have treated the spiteful old harpy quite differently! But he would give the crone a piece of his mind as soon as he saw her and send her back to the river with Alfric, no matter if she wanted to go or not. Let the Hillmen kill her, he would not move a finger to hinder them!

"You are angry now, aren't you?" Stanfleda's worried voice pulled him out of his violent thoughts.

He sighed. " Yes, love, I am. But not with you. And so you did not tell anybody because mother told you not to?"

The girl gave him a shy gaze. "I did not. But Gudram went and told Airik, for she is mother's friend. And then Airik came and told me to take little Eadger and to go to the kitchen of the burg and to stay there until she came to fetch us. Gudram was also there and Umirok and we got boiled eggs and buttered bannocks."

The king's Dunlending hostage! Yes, the way she had taken to Osláfa she would not have tolerated anybody harming her. That did not bode too well for Wufrun. Despite his bruised face he tried to smile encouragingly at Stanfleda.

"And Airik stayed and talked to Wulfrun?"

The girl nodded. "To Wulfrun and mother, yes. But I don't know what she said. Mother never told us and Wulfrun had taken her things to sleep somewhere else when we came back."

By then they had reached the cottage, and seeing her mother's shocked expression at the sight of Frithuhelm's injuries, the girl crowed full of self-importance: "He was hit by a falling tree, Módor."

"A falling tree?" Even the freckles that were scattered so abundantly over his wife's nose seemed to blanch.

Alfric shrugged and then turned to help him dismount. "Yep. The only one those damned wizard's hordes had left standing. Just his luck."

Frithuhelm was thankful that he did not feel dizzy when he got his feet back on the ground. Stepping up to his wife, he put his arm around her shoulders, feeling a bit disappointed as the toddler on her hip, obviously frightened by the disfiguring bruises, hid his face in his mother's dress. "It got hit by lightning, Láfa and I happened to be in the vicinity. Nothing serious, really, just a broken collar bone and a bit of a bruise."

"Frithuhelm Fæder!" The boy had reached them and now stared at him, panting from his run. "Blimey, that looks really wicked. And where is Stapa?" He hesitated and then added, his voice sounding oddly small now: "He's alright, isn't he?"

Frithuhelm felt his heart miss a beat. Stapa and with him Wulfrun seemingly had never arrived at Appletun! He heard Alfric clear his voice and hoped the old Rider would not blurt out anything in front of the children. Forcing himself to smile, he tussled the boy's unruly hair.

"No worry. He certainly is. I was not riding him when the tree came down"

"The tree?"

While his sister plunged into a wordy description at the top of her voice, Frithuhelm bent down to his wife's ear. "Has Wulfrun come here at all last night?"

She shook her head. "I thought her to be with you."

"She was, but..." His gaze went to the children, and understanding him, she nodded in the calm way so typical of her and turned to address her son.

"The goats, Gudram. You have greeted Frithuhelm Fæder as is proper, but now back to your work."

The boy pouted, but seeing that one of the nanny goats was already busy pulling some tendrils of pea greens she could reach through the picket fence, he swiftly raised the hazel rod, yelling at the sweet-toothed goat.

Chuckling softly, Alfic turned to the girl still perched on his gelding. "Well, Lytle, if the goslings don't need you, you could show me where I can let the horses graze for a bit. And perhaps you can even lend a hand at grooming them. But certainly only if you are already big enough for such a task." Winking at the girl who proudly tried to sit as straight as possible, Alfric led the horses away.

Taking the opportunity, Osláfa ushered Frithuhelm into the cottage. The dim coolness of the low room felt soothing after the blazing sun outside and he removed the ridiculous headgear Alfric had made him wear. Almost hesitantly Osláfa's hand reached out, her fingers tracing the lump on his skull, and then she took him by the elbow, made him sit on the bench that stretched along the wall, put down the child, and went to moisten some rags. Having put one of those on his head and the other around his grazed foot, she sat the toddler beside him on the bench.

"Be a good boy, Eadger. Frithuhelm Fæder hurts, so be careful. I'll go and fetch you some cold milk."

For a moment they sat there, the little boy watching the huge man at his side doubtfully. With a sigh Frithuhelm closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. How far had things come that a man scared the ones he had sworn to protect? And little Eadger to boot, born seven months after his father had fallen to Saruman's orcs. And then suddenly he felt a small hand on his bruised face. It was warm and somewhat sticky which made the touch uncomfortable, but he did not move to evade the toddler's hand.

"Fithuhem Fæder boo-boo."

Slowly, carefully, scarcely touching him, the boy started to stroke his bruises and then to Frithuhelm's utter surprise, the child started to sing, mangling the words but carrying the tune of the old song with remarkable skill.

Pain go away

It will rain for a day

It will snow for another

Pain shall not bother

Frithuhelm swallowed. How many times had his mother sung it to him as a child, when he had come with grazed knee or hands or been stung by one of the bees she had kept.

The song and the stroking ended and then he felt a soft but very wet kiss on his cheek.

"Better?"

He opened his eyes, meeting the boy's cerulean gaze. "Yes, Eadger, much better. Thank you."

The boy nodded seriously. "Eadger good boy."

Coming in from the stream where she kept milk, and other food that might go off in the summer's heat, cool in a waterproof keg, Osláfa put a lidded jug on the table.

"Mik!" The boy's attention was immediately absorbed, and having emptied a mug with obvious delight he curled up on the bench beside Frithuhelm and almost immediately fell asleep.

Smiling at the sleeping child, Osláfa refilled the mug for Frithuhelm and then sat down across of him at the sturdy table, propping her head with her hand, waiting until he too had emptied the mug. But when he put it down on the table, she sat up, her expression turning determined.

"Well, Frithuhelm, and now you had better tell me what really happened."

ooooo

When Alfric and Stanfleda entered half an hour later what needed to be said had been said and with her usual calm Osláfa offered them some milk, before she sent the girl off with a filled mug for her brother.

"Well," gazing from one to the other, Alfric cleared his throat. "So I guess the old harpy never attempted to come here and warn you at all, Osláfa. And she obviously made off with your horse. Not something I am inclined to tolerate."

Osláfa frowned. "But if she has been thrown? Something might have happened to her. Frithuhelm said that at least one of the Hillmen escaped. He might..."

Alfric shook his head. "No. I admit I have been distracted because I feared that your dear bear of a husband might slump off that nag any moment, but if Wulfrun's horse had bolted I would have seen the traces along the path, even after yesterday's rain. And where would he have run if not to Appletun? And if he had thrown Wulfrun, where would she have gone? If she had not been able to go anywhere, we would have found her on the path or at least near it."

"And if that Hillman has taken her..."

Alfric laughed. "Béma's horn, the poor bloke! But no, Láfa. That bloody nag is trained, as you know quite well. He would not let anybody handle him without his master's orders." He shot Frithuhelm a wry grin. "As some blokes at the Ford's had to learn the hard way last winter. Nobody would have got her and the horse."

Frithuhelm heaved a breath. "I don't know what to think about it. Even if she hated me, and perhaps even you, how could she be so unfeeling towards her grandchildren?"

The old Rider shrugged. "She has never really cared for anybody save for herself, boy. And if you took her to task she could always say she believed that the patrol would take out the Hillmen." He scratched his beard. "But if I were you, I would collar her for taking your horse. She was told to make for Appletun, and only for that she was given the horse. And I'll be buggered if Erkenbrand will not take your side if you inform him."

With an angry grunt, Frithuhelm tried to straighten his shoulders. "Leave Erkenbrand out of this, Alfric. You are only making things worse."

The Rider shrugged. "If you say so. But I would be really keen to learn what that Dunlending woman said to Wulfrun last spring to make her leave the quarters Osláfa and the kids had been given in the burg and demand shelter with Botolph, the old codger being nothing but her dead mother's cousin."

ooooo

It was almost mid-day when Éomer closed the door of the royal chambers at the Hornburg behind himself. For a moment he just stood, a wide grin spreading slowly over his face. Who would have fancied that everything would go so smoothly? Had Erkenbrand only ruminated the fact that the dwarves were building the gates of Mundburg over night or had he held counsel with his mother? Old Egefride certainly was one of the cleverest women Éomer had ever met. But why should he bother if so obviously everything was going according to his plan? The marshal of the Westfold had dragged him through the Hornburg, pointing out every single crack in the walls, no matter if they had been caused during the assault of Saruman's orcs or if they had existed for ages without causing any trouble at all so far. And what for? Only to come up with the conclusion that, though the Westfolders were certainly able to repair everything themselves, it nevertheless would not be amiss to have an expert's opinion and that it might be useful to bring the King's connection into action to see under what conditions those dwarves would be willing to at least give some counsel.

Béma, he had never heard Erkenbrand talk that ponderously and long-windedly! And as soon as Éomer had assured him that that really might be a useful approach, the Westfolder had towed him first to the damaged wall and then to inspect the still roofless gateway, all the time asking quite detailed questions about what Éomer had seen of the dwarves works and results at Minas Tirith. Éomer scratched his jaw. He certainly would have to tread cautiously when approaching the dwarves, and there would be no quick solution, but he had better approach them as soon as possible. Perhaps he could do so through Aragorn. And in the end he might have to go to Minas Tirith to talk personally to Gimli. He grimaced. It meant weeks away from the Mark, but he deemed a first discussion on neutral ground better than inviting the dwarf to Helm's Deep without having come to a general understanding first.

All that would delay the repairs even further, but given the peaceful situation they had on their western borders at the moment with the Dunlendings having left the immediate vicinity of the Isen there was no real need to be in a hurry.

The Dunlendings… He wondered how Lothíriel was getting along with Airik, but certainly it was promising that she was not back yet from her meeting with the Dunlending in Lady Leofwaru's solar.

The noise of hooves on the cobbles out in the courtyard caught his attention and he went over to the narrow window. A troop of Riders were dismounting, obviously coming in from exercising their horses in the valley. Greetings and friendly jibes were exchanged and then the courtyard fell silent again as the Riders led their mounts over to the stables. He heaved a breath. How different everything was from the last time he had stayed at the Hornburg in the dead of winter, riven by anger and guilt.

It was far from being as hot as the day before and also there was a breeze which would make for a comfortable ride. And yesterday's rain had not only cooled the air; also the colours of grass and trees were looking brighter and the vale certainly was showing its best side. There still was a general taste of freshness in the air and given the torrents that had fallen there was a fair chance that it would last for more that just one day, making their stay much more comfortable. He grinned. With the moisture there was a fair chance that they would be able to sample at least one dish of the mushrooms the Westfold vale was famous for. Golden Horns, small crisp orange-coloured things with a wonderful spicy aroma and a slightly peppery flavour, very different from the horse- and birch-mushrooms he had gathered as a child back in the Folde. And the pies the Hornburg's cook made from them! He would even forgive her for being Bothild's friend for one of them. No doubt Lothíriel would like them. Imagining her happy grin as she tucked into the Westfold's typical dish, he shook his head. How could life be so utterly good?

Stepping back from the window, he went over to have a look at the garments his man had spread out on the foot of the bed for him to wear on his afternoon ride with Erkenbrand. Relieved he took in the linen shirt and tabard. Both were extravagantly embroidered, but at least they were light and would not make him feel uncomfortable. And with everything having gone so well he would spend a pleasant afternoon. He was inclined to be more than fulsome in his praise of the Westfolders' tangible progress, underpinning Erkenbrand in his assumption that it was just for some very special works they needed the aide of the dwarves.

But he had better braid his hair before their trip if he did not want to repeat last night's painful experience of ripping out tufts of snarled hair with every stroke of his comb. And perhaps then he should pay a courtesy visit to Leofwaru's solar. He had not talked to Erkenbrand's wife safe for the usual polite exchanges at dinner, so it would be a chance to make his interest known. At least that would be a most convenient excuse for his wish to see how his wife was doing. Braiding did not take him long, and soon he had tied the end of the last braid with a leather thong, thrown it back over his shoulder and left the room for the lady's quarters.

ooooo

The first thing that caught his attention when the servant opened the door to the solar for him was the delighted squeal of a child, and then he beheld a sandy-haired girl of about ten years, pulling a small ball of madder-red wool across the floor of the sun-flooded room, eagerly chased by the wobbly steps of a toddler.

He could not see the child's face, but in the sunbeams that fell through the open windows the child's brown hair glowed with a golden hue and also the chubby arms and legs, left bare in the summer's heat by a short frock of green linen, looked rather golden than rosy.

"Umirok, catch me!" The elder girl turned as if to run, her thick braid swishing and the toddler immediately gave chase, crowing with delight. Éomer could not help the image of a squirrel and a round hazelnut rising before his inner eye, only that in the present case the nut hunted the squirrel.

He stepped into the room and the door closed behind him. Hearing the sound, the toddler turned round curiously, and losing the balance, sat down heavily on a swaddling-padded bottom. Éomer stared. Could this really be the Dunlendish baby he had picked out of the snow little more than eight months ago? There still were the unusually large eyes - but where they had been closed then, sunken deep into the sockets, they were open now, two vivid dark brown pools, gazing at him in scrutiny but without any fear. The exertion of the play had brought a flush into her cheeks. He swallowed. There really were cheeks, chubby, full of life, where there had been a mere skull, covered in greyish skin. The little mouth that has been distorted in a weak whine back then was rosy now, opened in surprise. A small track of drool trickled from one of the corners of the mouth, and then suddenly a smile flashed in the little face, showing four pearly teeth in each gum.

"Ou-u!" She raised her arms towards him, her voice holding all the authority of a one-year-old, and smiling he stooped to pick her up, when one of the women rushed up, scooping her up. Airik! She stood but a step away from him, glaring angrily. He swallowed to get over the initial shock to see both faces so close together. It seemed as if for the Dunlending woman nothing had changed since that cursed day in January. Haggard she was, skin drawn taught over chiselled bones, and yet there was no doubt of her strength, strength fed by an unquenchable pride and haughtiness, causing her dark eyes to gleam with a cold fire. Why for Erce's tits had she continued to starve herself? Not for the fear of poison for it was obvious that she had let them feed her child well. He was at a loss.

And then the tension broke as the child squirmed in her mother's arms and with a giggle tried to reach for one of his braids. Immediately Lothíriel stepped up to them and taking the child out of Airik's arms as if that was the most natural thing, she held the toddler closer to Éomer's face, enabling the little girl to grab the object of her desire. And grab it she did, tugging at it with a joyful giggle. Béma, that half-pint knew how to pull! Éomer grimaced, causing the assembled women to chuckle, with seemed to encourage the little Dunlending in her attempt to make the King of the Mark's braid her personal trophy. Still giggling, she patted his face with her other hand, never letting go of his braid. After a short while the patting stopped, and looking squarely into his eyes Umirok uttered something like "eee" and then without any other forewarning, a tiny, chubby forefinger was poked forcefully into his left eye.

Squinting his watering eye, Éomer tried to move his face out of the child's reach, but she held his braid like a vice. It was his wife who had to come to his aid, prying the toddler's fist open with gentle vigour. Everybody in the room was laughing openly now and even in Airik's arrogant features he could spot the hint of a smile. Putting up a brave front, he smiled and shoved the braid back over his shoulder.

"That's just a bit of training for what you'll have to deal with once your lady wife has given you the expected heir." Grinning widely, Erkenbrand's wife Leofwaru appeared at Lothíriel's side and soon he found himself in the centre of a group of women, chatting merrily like a flock of finches, outdoing each other describing what he would have to face only too soon. Under the laughing eyes of his wife he played along, feigning horror and thus egging them on, until to his utter relief the housekeeper entered to announce that lunch would be served.

Taking Lothíriel's arm, he followed the lady of the house to the hall. He had better prepare himself for Éothain's glee, once that plonker found out about what had happened in the solar. And find out he certainly would.

ooooo

The afternoon sun was already starting to hide behind the ragged peaks of Trihyrne when the group from the Hornburg reached the village of Beaccotlif. They had started late on their ride, Erkenbrand proudly pointing out the improvements made in the vale this summer. At every farm people had welcomed them with an odd mixture of honour and curiosity, but any trace of awkwardness had been dispersed the moment Lothíriel had talked to then in the language of the Mark, praising the courage and determination with which they had set forth to mend the scars of war.

Turning in the saddle, Éomer glanced back to where she rode side by side with Erkenbrand's wife, the two of them in an intense and obviously amiable conversation. What would she say when she saw Beaccotlif' new granary, the first to be built with the timber she had sent last summer? They had not stopped in the village on their way to the burg the day before, due to the threatening thunderstorm and he felt his heart skip with joyful anticipation.

The village itself lay a bit to the north of the path that led up to the Hornburg and they would not go there but meet the villagers at the village green, a large meadow used as common grazing and for the annual rituals.

Soon the meadow lay before them, the cedar wood of the béowbur proudly gleaming in the westering sun. But something was wrong. The meadow was filled with people, but nobody paid any attention to the arriving group. Everybody was in a state of agitation, clustered around a huge horse that stood sweat- and mud-covered in the middle. People tried to push in front, questions were shouted, and just when he saw in the corner of his eye that Erkenbrand rose in his stirrups to obviously bark an order, a shrill female voice rose over the commotion.

"I saw it with my own eyes! With my own eyes! The Hillmen are back! They killed Frithuhelm, hacked him to pieces! They went for his wife, my grandchildren! They will come here, hordes of them. That's what you get for trusting the Dunlendings' vows! And Erkenbrand has that Dunlending bitch sitting high and mighty at the burg. Arm yourselves! She's a hostage! A hostage to make them keep their vows! Will you let her live? Let her live, given all vows being broken? Kill her! Kill her and avenge my grandchildren!"

Annotations:

Scand: (Rohirric/Old English) jester, here it's the name of the packhorse

Lytle: (Rohirric/Old English) little girl

Fæder: (Rohirric/Old English) Father

Módor: (Rohirric/Old English) Mother

madder: (Rubia tinctorum) a plant used to dye fabrics red

Erce: (Old English) Erce (mother of the earth); I took the name of the Anglo-Saxon goddess of the earth to represent Yavanna Kementari, just as Béma is a Rohirric version of Orome.

Golden Horns: invented Rohirric name for chanterelles

Beaccotlif : (Rohirric/Old English) beac: stream; cotlif: little village

béow: (Old English) barley

bur: (Old English) small house

béowbur is a construction of my own for a granary; if you want to know what it looks like, have a look on the net for a Norwegian stabbur.

The rhyme little Eadger chants is an adaption of a German "healing-chant" I learned as a small kid:

Heile, heile Segen,

sieben Tage Regen,

sieben Tage Schnee,

dann tut es nicht mehr weh.

Who's Who? (Thanwen universe)

Éomer: King of the Riddermark, said to have a tendency to fly off the handle

Lothíriel: Queen of the Riddermark, for good reason called scipflota cwen (pirate princess) by her husband

Éothain: the king's friend and captain of the royal guard

Eorthwela: Éothain's wife

Erkenbrand: Marshal of the Westfold

Egefride: his mother, a clever old woman, knows Dunlendic

Leofwaru: his wife, a sweet-tempered lady, but not the brightest candle on the cake

Frithuhelm: a young farmer (widowed), the gentle giant of the Mark who can get quite ungentle if need be

Osláfa: his second wife ( Acwuld's widow ) has three children and is some years older than Frithuhelm

Gudram (10), Stanfleda (6), Eadger (2): Osláfa's children

Wulfrun: (in "Winds" her name was Arild, but I changed that because otherwise there would have been too many names starting with an A .) Acwuld's mother; not the most lovable contemporary, to say the least

Acwuld: farmer, killed by Saruman's orcs, Frithuhelm's former friend and neighbour

Stapa: Frithuhelm's horse, partly cold-blooded and well-trained

Alfric: an old Westfold Rider, knows a few things about leechcraft; a friend of Frithuhelm

Brūn: Alfric's horse

Ulger: captain of a Westfold border patrol

Airik: Dunlending, taken hostage by Éomer in the last winter, clever, ruthless and famous for her bad temper
Umirok: her baby-daughter