AN: Apologies for the huge gap between chapters. My internet was hit by the Mirai worm, then my provider turned out to be worse than useless at fixing it (you know it's bad when the BBC is carrying articles saying "why are these guys pretending there is no problem when there patently is a problem affecting tens of thousands of their customers...") Anyway, eventually it turned out that the only realistic way of fixing the problem was to change supplier, so I'm back... At last.
Later that day, after lunch, Éomer strolled across the short green turf, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. It came as a considerable relief after the luncheon with King Elessar and Prince Imrahil. He was still getting used to calling Aragorn "King Elessar". It seemed a million years ago that the scruffy stranger had risen like a ghost from the grasslands of his home.
The meeting had been taxing. For a start, Imrahil had been bending over backwards to be diplomatic and not offend him, which in its own peculiar way became almost more offensive than if no effort had been made at all. Éomer was shrewd enough to realise that Imrahil had some sort of half-baked idea that if he didn't pussy foot around the subject, Éomer would be offended by the offer of help. The Rohir snorted quietly to himself: he might be a daft bugger at times, but he wasn't that much of a daft bugger. His people – that still felt like such an odd phrase – were (if the messengers from the Mark spoke truly) on the brink of starvation in some parts of the country. He needed all the help he could get, and he knew it. And, what's more, given how many of his countrymen had fallen on the Pelennor and before the Black Gates, he had no qualms whatsoever about accepting help.
No, the bit that had given him the headache was working out exactly what it was they needed. He realised with a shock just how much knowledge his Uncle must have had about his realm, and how little he, in contrast, knew. It was at times like this that he wished he hadn't left Elfhelm behind to guard the routes to the north and protect Minas Tirith. There were no flies on Elfhelm – and although he hadn't run the kingdom himself, he had been one of Théoden's most trusted advisers, and had long experience of running very large estates. (Though to be honest, Éomer wasn't quite sure whether Elfhelm ran them or the Lady Hilde). He would have been a mine of information on what the country needed. Instead, he'd had Éothain at his right hand during the negotiations, and Éothain, while handy enough in a fight, was about as much use as a kettle made from butter when it came to discussions about trade agreements.
Still, they had managed to rough out a fairly good starting position, and on being told of the terrible state the Westfold was in, Imrahil immediately sent for messengers, wrote a list (starting prominently with provisions of grain and salted fish) and dispatched it to his regent in Dol Amroth. The private lunch had thus proved useful: unfortunately, afterwards, politeness had dictated that Éomer stay while Aragorn dealt with an interminable queue of petitioners, mostly bringing (what seemed to Éomer at any rate) an endless string of petty complaints. Sprinkled among the petty complaints, and even more discomfiting for one tired of warfare, were some older, shrewder heads who pointed out that while the war against Sauron was over, it would not serve to forget the merely mortal enemies still on their borders. With Haradrim and Corsairs on one flank, Easterlings on the other, and large numbers of orcs still at large within Mordor, the current peace was a fragile one.
Aragorn responded with extreme shrewdness, and it rapidly became apparent to Éomer that the man had, in earlier times, travelled extensively and knew the situation in most of these places from within. His take on the situation was that there political problems within the various countries which had made alliances with Sauron attractive to the rulers of these countries, and that these political problems both pre-dated the recent war and were still in place after it. At the very least minor skirmishes were still likely; more probable still was the chance of renewed war within a handful of years. As he sat listening to the discussions, Éomer reflected that the situation in the Mark was equally precarious – he had the remains of Saruman's accursed Uruks to deal with, and also the Dunlendings, left bitter by defeat and desperate from hunger themselves. As the meeting went on, it was hard not to grow despondent, or to become exhausted by the sheer mental effort of keeping track of the various arguments. He had expected leading his people to involve considerable physical prowess; now he was coming to realise that it required almost more mental effort.
However, at long last he was able to make good his escape. He heaved a sigh of relief at finding himself free from being a spectator to the political machinations of the Gondorian nobility as they jostled for position in the new order brought about by the arrival of the new king from the north, Aragorn. Though in truth that was almost preferable to being the prime target in the political machinations of their wives, as they jostled to place their daughters in prime position with regard to the other king from the north, Éomer himself. He could feel a frown, a nagging tension growing between his brows. One thing that the luncheon and subsequent discussions had brought home very sharply was the fact that should he marry, it could not be to a woman who was simply interested in acquiring rank and privilege. He needed a woman who could rule the country as his regent when he was at war – and he feared that over the next few years there would indeed be war. Sadly, he thought, that not only ruled out ambitious socialites, but also a slip of a girl who was delightfully pretty, endlessly entertaining but far too young to be the sort of queen he needed. Not, of course, that she had given any indication of having taken a fancy to him. Unlike the Gondorian matrons.
The Gondorian matrons all hankered after seeing their daughter as queen of Rohan, as most insisted on calling his country. Unless of course they had actually bothered to do their homework, in which case they would actually remember to call it Riddermark, though, unaccountably, they almost always left out the definite article. He gave a wry half smile, which faded as he recalled his earlier assessment that this extra homework simply made them more dangerous.
They really would stop at nothing. Thank heavens for Amrothos' friendship with Éothain. Without the young Gondorian's advice, he would have unwittingly wandered into various situations which would have left him honour bound to marry the woman in question. And the thing that was frightening was the way such situations tended to blind-side him: even the most innocent set-ups seemed capable of being misread. If it was like the Mark, he could understand. No-one would be daft enough to think he could get caught with his hand down a sheila's neckline and not expect some consequences, not if she was a decent girl. But the subtleties of asking for a second dance, or offering a woman certain foodstuffs, or helping her to reattach an elaborate jewelled hairpiece which had come adrift (as one girl had requested) – all these things went right over his head.
But for the moment he contented himself with enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Then a horrible thought struck him: here, in the middle of the greensward, he was horribly exposed. It could only be a matter of time before some bejewelled and befrilled matron descended on him, the light of battle in her eyes. Anxiously, he scanned the surroundings, and his gaze lit upon a figure seated in a canvas chair in the shade of a large chestnut tree. Next to the chair there was a small folding table with a silver tea service. Salvation! It was Amrothos' aunt. Quickening his pace, he strode over and bowed deeply.
"Your highness, how charming of you to honour an old lady," said Princess Ivriniel, a slight twinkle in her eye.
"You make it sound like some kind of a chore," answered Éomer. "I just wish I had aunts with tales as interesting as yours."
"Added to which," the old woman said dryly, "I have no daughters."
Éomer laughed, tickled at being read so easily. "May I sit down?"
Ivriniel signalled to a servant who was standing in the entrance of a nearby tent; the retainer bustled over with a second canvas contraption which he unfolded with an expertise born of long practice. Éomer sat down and stretched his legs. The retainer poured him a cup of tea.
"I am afraid my commissariat does not run to ale," said Ivriniel apologetically. "Actually, my commissariat is sadly depleted, for I am reduced to borrowing servants from my brother – my aide de camp, to my great sadness, fell before the Black Gates, and my maidservant has decided that country life does not suit her and has returned to town. So tea is the best I can offer."
"Tea is fine, your ladyship, so long as it doesn't have milk in," Éomer replied.
"So, how goes the game of cat and mouse? Are you finding sufficient holes to hide down?"
"You think it's just a game of cat and mouse? You're underrating the good ladies of Gondor. Military strategy of the highest order, and the main problem is I don't know the rules of engagement."
Ivriniel inclined her grey head. "Any rules in particular?"
"It's not so much the rules I already know about that are the problem – dances, spicy foods, helping with fancy hair clasps. It's the ones I haven't yet discovered that really worry me."
"Ah yes, the unknown unknowns. Always the most difficult aspect of intelligence work. Well, let me see... Always address a lady using her title, never simply by her given name. On no account do more than the slightest of brushes of your lips against a lady's knuckles – never her palm and most definitely not the inside of her wrist..."
"Rothos already told me that one," interjected Éomer (privately reflecting that the young Prince obviously subscribed to the philosophy of "Do as I say, not as I do.")
Ivriniel continued, "Good, good, glad to see you are amassing information from a variety of sources. Always the first principle of intelligence work – get cross bearings from as many directions as possible. But, the rules of engagement... Let me see… what else? Do not assist a lady to mount her horse, or even worse, catch her as she dismounts." At this point, Éomer could not help but remember Éothain doing just this for that flighty young woman… the young woman it appeared Amrothos was also pursuing… and she a married woman too!
"Woolgathering for a moment?" Ivriniel asked in an amused voice. She continued, "If she gives you a favour, you may wear it round your right arm, but never your left, for the left side is the side of the heart, and would signal clearly that your heart was engaged. If you feel yourself moved to write poetry, address the lady obliquely by means of pseudonymous references to one of the Maiar or some mythical arcadian shepherdess, not in any way that would identify the lady directly..."
Éomer interrupted. "I'm in the clear on that one. I think I can safely say there's as much chance of me writing poetry as there is of finding tits on a bull."
Ivriniel gave a silvery laugh. "I am relieved to hear it. The poetry of enamoured young men is rarely of any quality. Let me see, what else? Oh yes, be wary of offering assistance – usually safest to get one's servants to do it."
Éomer's face clouded. "So that was what was behind that girl on the hunting trip yesterday claiming her horse had shed a shoe... Lucky for me I could see there was nothing wrong with the nag – well, beyond its being a typical Gondy nag, that is."
"Yes, if one is going to use that ruse, one has to do it properly..."
"Deliberately lame a horse!" Éomer was shocked beyond belief.
"Of course not, young man... merely loosen a shoe."
Éomer eyed her with suspicion. The worst crime had been ruled out, but he was still shocked that she might, in her youth, have stooped to trying to entrap men into marriage with that sort of ruse. Ivriniel eyed him shrewdly, then said, as if reading his mind, "Of course the circumstances were quite different."
"In what way?"
"Well, it was back in the days of Steward Ecthelion – grandfather to my nephew Faramir, the current steward. I had gone to one of the ports on the Umbarian coast, ostensibly because of a fascination with a certain type of musical instrument the region was famed for. I was on my way home, accompanied only by my maid and an elderly manservant, when I spied a large group of light cavalry behind me. Of course one's first instinct is to gallop for the hills at that point, but I knew I couldn't outrun them. So instead, I dismounted, pried my horse's shoe loose, and looked suitably helpless. They arrived, looking very fearsome, scimitars drawn, but when they took in the scene, rapidly sheathed their swords, and thereafter couldn't have been more solicitous. They very kindly mended the shoe, and even topped up my provisions for the journey before sending me on my way."
"Which I'm guessing they shouldn't have done?" said Éomer, who had long since realised that where Princess Ivriniel was concerned, nothing was as it seemed.
"I'm afraid they were in grave dereliction of their duty. For you see I had detailed plans of the coastal defences and the strength and disposition of the Umbarian navy tucked down my bloomers."
Éomer burst out laughing.
~o~O~o~
While Éomer was enjoying tea and anecdotes with Princess Ivriniel (or, at any rate, enjoying the anecdotes: whether he was enjoying the tea was rather more of a moot point), the delightful young girl who was in his opinion much too naive to make a queen was out riding, blissfully unaware that she had been assessed for such an exalted position, let alone assessed and found wanting. In the early evening, Lothíriel arrived back from exercising her palfrey expecting a quiet family supper with her parents and brothers. After the previous night's excitement, she was rather looking forward to an evening without feeling herself on display. However, her expectations were quickly dashed. There, sitting engaged in animated conversation with her father, were (of all people) Bronaer and Siliveth. And to Bronaer's left sat a second man whom she did not recognise, a tall, reasonably turned-out man, perhaps ages with her cousin. With a sinking heart, Lothíriel approached the group.
Her mother greeted her with a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Lothíriel, dearest, isn't this an unexpected pleasure? Lord Bronaer and Lady Siliveth have come to call. And it seemed, given the timing, to be such a delightful opportunity to ask them to join us for supper." Lothíriel correctly read into her mother's tone of voice the fact that given the timing of their arrival, Princess Isteth had felt duty-bound to offer them a meal. Her mother continued, "And they have brought their charming friend… Lord Mabglor."
"At your service," said the man, rising to his feet and bowing.
Bronaer also got to his feet, and gave a bow, smiling at Lothíriel with a curiously knowing impression which somehow entirely undid the effect of the bow. "Lord Mabglor is a dear friend of mine, who acquitted himself with great honour upon the field at Morannon. With such great honour, and such tactical flair in commanding his troops, that he has come to the notice of our new King, and, it is to be hoped, will rise to a position of some prominence in the new administration."
Lothíriel found herself feeling more than a little bit uncomfortable. Why was Bronaer here, and why did he find it necessary to sing his friend's praises to the heavens? She had a strong feeling that the man did very little on a whim: there was always some ulterior motive, but what? Her train of thought was interrupted by her father.
"I remember your performance on the battlefield well: you did indeed show a remarkable composure in the face of what seemed at the time to be desperate odds."
Lothíriel heaved an inward sigh of relief and settled down on the day bed beside her mother. She listened to her father discuss military strategy with Mabglor. The man was civil and polite, and obviously able to hold forth on matters of tactics with some confidence, though Lothíriel (who had grown up listening to her father discuss such matters) could not shake the feeling that his knowledge was perhaps not quite as extensive as Bronaer's introduction might have led one to believe. Still, the man did not push his opinions on her father, but rather listened attentively and deferred to Imrahil's greater expertise with a good natured affability. Perhaps, despite being Bronaer's friend, the man might turn out to be a pleasant enough chap.
Resolving to give him the benefit of the doubt, she considered his appearance. Neatly dressed, fashionably even, though not to the point of excess. His tunic was chosen well and set off his complexion and eyes quite nicely – he was actually quite a handsome man. Dark haired, of course… for a moment, a feeling of slight disappointment flitted across Lothíriel's mind, but she batted it away. She certainly was not going to fall into the habit of pining over a man simply because his hair was a pleasing shade of blond. Really, that would not do at all. Fortunately for her peace of mind, further reverie was forestalled by the arrival of her father's butler.
"Your royal highnesses, lords, lady, dinner is served."
Lothíriel found herself seated beside their new acquaintance. Despite her resolution to give Mabglor the benefit of the doubt, and not judge him on his friendship with Bronaer, she still could not find herself at ease in his company. Furthermore, the dinner was a strange affair from Lothíriel's perspective – she felt oddly off balance throughout. There was nothing one could pin down about any precise aspect of the conversation. The topics themselves seemed ordinary enough: the recent hunting trip; court politics (those parts considered frivolous enough for ladies' ears – this in itself was irritating, for had Bronaer and his party not been there, her father would undoubtedly have told them all the details of both domestic and foreign affairs, as he always did); the latest fashions and dances from Minas Tirith; the beauty and strangeness of elves. But there was something Lothíriel could not quite put her finger on in the way they were tackled, something that made her feel like a spectator rather than a participant.
Eventually, as the evening was drawing to a close, Mabglor made a rather anodyne (and somewhat simple minded) remark about the post-war settlements likely to be drawn up between not only between Gondor and her allies, but also between Gondor and her former enemies. Bronaer turned to Lothíriel with his customarily bland, somewhat smug and irritatingly condescending smile, and said, "Surely you must agree with that excellent assessment of the situation, Princess?" And suddenly the pieces fell into place, and she realised the source of her discomfiture. All night long Bronaer had been trying to set up the conversation so that she was constantly being expected to defer to Mabglor's opinions.
Lothíriel started to respond, somewhat heatedly, that she thought Mabglor's assessment of the situation was rather jejeune, and was about to enlarge upon her reasons for thinking so, when Bronaer spoke over her as if she were not there. Instead, he turned to her father.
"I realise you must think that perhaps Lord Mabglor's opinion is too straightforward, but I rather think after so long at war, with Lord Denethor (may the Valar rest him) weaving such complex webs and playing such an involved long game of strategy that he himself eventually lost sight of the wood for the trees, there is a lot to be said for a straightforward and honest approach."
And with that simple trick, Bronaer contrived to remove the opportunity for her to respond. He had pre-empted her response, and furthermore, she could not very well interrupt her father without coming across as angrily unreasonable. She sat there seething quietly for the rest of the final course. The party then withdrew to the rather more comfortable chairs and couches nearby, to partake of sweetmeats and fortified wines. Lothíriel's discomfort grew as she found herself seated next to Mabglor, and realised that he was now trying to pay court to her. Normally this would have been like water off a duck's back, but following on from the conversation over dinner, his remarks reduced her to a silent fury. He made no effort to engage her in conversation, to draw from her any insight into her own personality. Instead, he alternated between talking of himself and offering up the most trite, predictable compliments on her appearance, which felt almost as though they might have been taken from some sort of treatise, perhaps A primer of the gentle art of courtship for noble knights, or similar.
The whole situation was made worse by Bronaer's behaviour. He sat on the couch opposite, affecting a look of bland benevolence, and occasionally sharing knowing glances with Siliveth as he drew attention to some kind gesture or other of Mabglor's. It was as if he were playing the part of the kindly uncle watching indulgently as his young niece succumbed charmingly to the attentions of her attentive suitor – and his performance was a bravura piece of acting.
Eventually the dreadful charade came to an end, but not before Mabglor delivered his coup de grace. At the entrance to the tent, the lord bowed deeply, took Lothíriel's hand and instead of merely bringing it close to his face, actually pressed his lips to her skin. He said, "I hope I may presume to call upon you tomorrow, and claim at least one dance from you at the ball that evening." The way he said "at least" made Lothíriel's heart sink. With another bow, he left the tent. Lothíriel breathed a sigh of relief, but her relief turned out to be premature, for to make matters worse, at this point Siliveth chimed in.
"What a delightful evening. And how lovely," she added archly, "To see you finally meet a gentleman of such noble bearing and valour. And such a refreshing change to find a man of such firm opinions that you find yourself free to defer to him in a more feminine way than is your customary style. A truly manly man indeed."
"You cannot believe..." Lothíriel began, but she found herself addressing Siliveth's back as the latter turned to thank her mother for her hospitality. The whole evening had somehow turned into something which felt very like one of those dreadful nightmares where the most embarrassing things imaginable keep happening, but one somehow cannot change one's actions, and is struck utterly dumb every time one tries to explain. As Siliveth and Bronaer left, Lothíriel saw her parents looking at her with utterly puzzled expressions. Suddenly it all felt beyond bearing, as though the fabric walls of the tent had wrapped themselves tightly around her and were suffocating her. With a quick bob of her head and few hasty words to the effect that she suddenly felt very tired, Lothíriel fled to her own sleeping quarters.
~o~O~o~
Thank you for all the reviews - by the way, it is great to hear what people think of the story, so if you have any thoughts on it, please do let me know.