IX. Dance
Note: for those interested, all the dressage figures mentioned in the current chapter can be found easily enough on YouTube with the appropriate keywords: shoulder-in, piaffe, spanish walk, pirouette, one-tempi flying changes and pesade.
"That's it!" Faramir exclaimed fiercely. "You are so going for a dunk in the stream! Lady or not!"
She squealed and ran off. Damn, he would have had a better chance if she did not wear her skirt-pants! She had an unfair advantage: everybody's collaboration. They often blocked his path with false innocence, but Faramir did manage to catch Lothíriel quickly enough. Even with her skirt-pants, his strides were longer than hers, and he had much more experience running over forest terrain.
When he caught her, he lifted her bodily from the ground, just like he used to do when she was a girl, and he carried her, roaring and kicking, to the stream. The Swan Knights and Rangers looked on, laughing good-naturedly.
"Faramir! You ox! Let me go!" she screamed. She did manage to land a fair blow to his ribs with her right foot, but he disregarded the pain. He held her over the edge of the small stream at its deepest – which could not be much more than two feet.
"I think you deserve an un-lady-like punishment for your un-lady-like behaviour! Throwing things at a Lord of Gondor! What would your father say?"
"I was just making my cousin pay for his snide remarks!" she roared back.
"I second that!" Ethail exclaimed.
"Oh you do, don't you? You want a dunk in the cold water too?" Faramir shot over his shoulder.
"I second Her Highness too!" Ésuthain chimed in. "Be careful, now, Lord Faramir, with my armour you're going to have a harder time pushing me all the way to the stream!"
Everyone roared with laughter.
"Please, Lord Faramir, think of us before you throw Princess Lothíriel in the water," one of her ladies-in-waiting pleaded. "We'll have to wash the mud out of her clothes and brush her hair dry in our frigid cold tent if you do."
"Please, have pity on us!" the second lady added, barely containing her laughter.
Faramir heaved a heavy sigh of mock surrender. "All right, all right, I'm outnumbered." He put Lothíriel down and her laughing eyes and smile told him his stratagem had worked beyond his expectations. She had forgotten about wargs and dead brood mares. "But be careful now," he admonished, "I won't be called 'ox' again by the likes of you, rascal! You're lucky to have all those champions, but how you acquire them with your manners is beyond me!"
She grinned. "Maybe that's because you're the only one who ever deserved to be called an ox. Aside from Amrothos, of course."
"What didn't Amrothos ever do? Come now, dear, let's go eat something, and let's try not to break into a fight on our way, this time."
"If you promise never to mention hazelnuts to me ever again," Lothíriel purred with a troublesome smile, "my ladies-in-waiting and myself will wash the cherry juice from your tunic."
He huffed. "What? And risk having scratching powder planted all over it? I'll do my laundry myself!"
She laughed back and invited the winners of the day's challenges to Faramir's table. Faramir, Ésuthain, Gerând, Barethen and Ethail sat with Lothíriel and her two ladies. The girls did nothing to hide that the young archer had struck their fancy, although a stern look from the princess reminded them to keep their manners even if they were dining on a plank of wood in the middle of a forest. So the two women merely showered Barethen with their most sophisticated, cultivated and reserved flatteries. The young man did not really know how to answer besides blushing and muttering shyly that he had had an excellent instructor.
About half-way through the dinner, rangers lit bonfires around the camp to ward off darkness. Faramir turned to his little cousin and refilled her wine cup.
"So, did you like your day, my dear?"
She smiled exuberantly. "Of course I did! All the challenges were marvellous and there was so much impressive riding to watch!"
"Are you very tired?"
She shrugged. "A little, of course, but not too much. I'll be more than ready to go in the morning, if that's what worries you."
He shook his head. "Actually, I had something else in mind. Maybe you'd like Sathil to dance tonight? We could light torches around the ring we used for the sword duels. You'd have a sixty yards circular track. Would that be big enough?"
"You want me to make Sathil dance? For everyone to watch?"
"Why not? I'm sure my men would appreciate the poetry of dance. We don't have that many occasions to see it. It's a rare enough discipline."
She considered for a while. "All right, I'll do it. But I'll have to be able to warm up in private, first. And don't expect anything too fancy. I'm not good enough yet at the airs above the ground to try them out here in the open and with a public."
He smiled. "Just your regular figures. Maybe a few changes of lead at canter to show how lightly Sathil does them, compared to the trudging jumpers of this afternoon?"
She rolled her eyes. "Faramir, I can make Sathil change lead with my eyes closed and without reins or bit. Of course I'll include that!"
"Then what about shoulder-in?"
"That shouldn't be too much to ask."
"What about piaffe?"
She rolled her eyes again. "All right! But that's everything you'll get. Pushy."
"I wasn't about to ask more," he denied with a falsely innocent look.
Once they finished the dinner and the wine, Lothíriel went with Ésuthain to brush and saddle Sathil. Of course, a white palfrey looked grand and all, but there were some disadvantages. Namely, the white coat. It easily stained green with grass when the horse rolled on the ground to scratch her back.
So, when Ésuthain and Lothíriel arrived at the paddock where the princess' mount had spent the day, they watched her in consternation. After a day of rest in the wilderness outside the confines of a stable box, the mare was in high spirits and neighed happily at her mistress, oblivious to the green spots marring her perfect white coat on the neck, back and croup.
"I'll give her a shower, Your Highness," Ésuthain said resignedly. "Let me do it, there's no need for you to spoil your dress. You can go and make sure Faramir arranges something so you can do your warm-up in private."
He wore his armour, so Lothíriel decided it was fairly safe to squeeze his arm in gratefulness. She did so, and left to go seek her cousin instead.
Faramir had already arranged for his tent to be dismounted. He directed his men to drive anchors in the ground, and they erected posts in a half-circle around the duel ring. They fixed them upright with a mix of anchors in the ground and ropes lashing them to nearby trees. Then the tarp of Faramir's tent was stretched on those posts and Lothíriel declared herself satisfied with the improvised curtain.
Ésuthain arrived just then, holding Sathil by the reins. The mare's white coat gleamed immaculate again in the torchlight, but her usually magnificent long mane hung rather miserably on the side of her neck, wet through and through.
Lothíriel took hold of the reins and gently rubbed Sathil's nose. The mare blew in her mistress' face and buried her face against her chest. The princess scratched her behind the ears with a fond smile.
"Captain?"
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Would you mind asking my ladies to stone some cherries for her? I haven't had time to, but she'll surely deserve it. As usual, she'll be a good girl."
Ésuthain smiled. "Thank you, Your Highness, not to ask me to do it. For a while there I was afraid! You make me shower her, what next?"
"Oh, I know you feed cherries with their stones to that Dulinéhar brute of yours, so I wouldn't put it beyond you to try the same with Sathil. Please, just ask my ladies."
Ésuthain chuckled. "Don't worry, I will do so, Your Highness."
He gave her a leg-up and she led her mare behind the giant curtain.
ooooo
The presence of the curtain worked up anticipation in the men. Some even tried to peek at the joints in the tent's cloth, but Ésuthain and his Swan Knights fiercely guarded against it.
After half an hour of warm-up, Lothíriel declared she was ready. Faramir's Rangers hastily dismantled the curtain and its posts and anchors. All the men fit around the wide duel ring easily, but some of the shortest ones climbed on logs or rocks to get a better view.
Lothíriel knew the crowd she faced was unfamiliar with horse dance, so she would have to try and make look spectacular something that was not meant to be. She would also have to keep her show short and finish with the most eloquent and sensational displays possible. To be easily spotted in the torchlight against the blackness of night, she had chosen white skirt-pants and tunic and had put a white scarf over her black hair. Even though fifteen minutes would have been enough warm-up, Lothíriel had waited until Sathil's mane had dried down. She had combed it as best she could with her fingers so it would wave with the mare's moves.
Lothíriel began with a circle around the ring at a slow, collected walk, and she asked Sathil to gradually pull her forelegs higher when she walked. It took some time before the audience noticed, but by the end of her circle, Sathil stretched her legs completely before her at each step and appreciative rumours ran in the crowd.
"Poetry indeed," Faramir muttered to himself. Lothíriel held her back ramrod straight, and her mastery over her mount was so complete that she looked perfectly immobile. The slightest touch on either of the four reins she used, or on the flanks of her mount, were enough to elicit such figures. Lothíriel's long diaphanous sleeves waved gently with each of Sathil's steps. Both rider and palfrey gleamed with the pearly light of moonlight, and looked so light and otherworldly that they could have been a ghost or a vision.
Lothíriel pushed her mount to a trot, and faster until she had to work with every fibre of her abdominals to keep a sitting trot, which made the small crowd clap and cheer at her unshakable seat. Then, Lothíriel slowed Sathil to a collected trot and cut the circle in half, trotting on a straight line going through its middle. She inclined her mare's shoulders fifteen degrees to the right, but pushed her with her right leg and rein, so Sathil trotted diagonally, still heading straight for the other side of the ring instead of where her nose pointed. Daintily the mare crossed her legs at each step. More clapping saluted the dance performance.
Lothíriel repeated the same manoeuvre on the other side. Horses, like people, had a favoured side, and a good part of dance mastery consisted in eliminating it. Sathil performed the shoulders-in with as much light elegance on both sides.
Reaching the other side of the circle, Sathil fluidly slid into canter at Lothíriel's light touch of a shin on her flank. Lothíriel began another of those figures that inexperienced eyes took a while to figure out. Gradually diminishing the circle's diameter, she cantered calmly around the ring. The spiral ended with Sathil, never breaking her canter, making a full turn on herself at the perfect center of the duel ring. Her hind hooves rose up only to fall down on the same spot. Cheers exploded from the crowd.
Even though Sathil had come a long way from the frightful filly she had been when Lothíriel had bought her, Lothíriel let her gallop freely around the ring a few times to vent her nervousness about the clapping. Sathil's mouth, which had hardened nervously on the bit, gradually relaxed when Lothíriel gave her enough rein to stretch her neck.
When she had calmed down sufficiently, Lothíriel slowed her down and cut the circle in half again. Touching alternatively Sathil's left and right flank with her heel, she made her mount change lead every strike. People started cheering quietly after two changes, but after five, when she reached the other side of the ring, loud clapping saluted her performance.
Lothíriel, slowing her horse to a walk, went to the center of the circle, where she stopped. Everyone held their breath, trying to guess what she had chosen for a finale. The mare suddenly sank from the hindquarters, and calmly and gracefully rose from the forequarters, balancing effortlessly and lightly on her hind legs. White in the moonlight, she looked like she would grow wings and take off.
Such beauty lay captured in the image that it took a second before someone thought of clapping. Lightly Sathil's forelegs fell on the ground, and Lothíriel bowed over her mare's neck. Everyone followed immediately when Faramir stood to better clap. Tears of emotion on her face, Lothíriel turned Sathil around and bowed to the other side of the crowd.
When the cheering receded, Faramir went to help Lothíriel dismount.
"Now I wish I'd helped your ladies stone cherries," he said with a fond smile. "And I wish I'd found some hazelnuts nearby. I think both of you deserve a treat for such a performance."
Faramir could not be sure because of the torchlight colouring her skin golden, but he thought she blushed at the compliment.
"Thank you," she said in a subdued voice. Then she grinned triumphantly. "But you promised never to mention hazelnuts to me ever again! That means I can throw more bad cherries at you!"
He exploded into laughter. "Absolutely not! Now come, I'll help you rub Sathil down. I'd offer to do it alone so you can rest, but I know you'll never let me convince you to let someone else take care of your horse, so I won't even try."
Most of the horses were picketed on the other side of the stream, where Faramir and Lothíriel headed to take good care of Sathil. Lothíriel lovingly fed her mare the stoned cherries her ladies brought, and then headed for her tent, where she discovered a hot bath waiting for her. Even though she loved Sathil dearly, she felt extremely grateful for a bath where to wash off the smell of horse from her hair and under her nails.
A little pang of nostalgia hit her, knowing Ésuthain had probably arranged for such quantity of water to be heated just for her, but she did not linger on it. It was behind her, she told herself, and that was as it should be.