Chapter 10
Yet the night passed too quickly. Éomer woke up in the grey hours of the morning with the first light filtering through the bed curtains and turned on his side to watch his sleeping wife. He had not kept to his usual custom of wishing her a good night and seeking his own bed after making love to her, but had instead held her in his arms as she fell asleep.
He had to admit she was a pleasant sight to wake up to: snuggled against his side, with her hair spread across the pillow and showing creamy skin where her nightgown had slipped off her shoulder. A sight that he would not mind seeing more often, he had to acknowledge to himself. In retrospect, opting for separate bedrooms must have been one of the most idiotic ideas he'd ever come up with – only having proposed it, he couldn't very well suggest otherwise now.
Lothíriel sighed and murmured something in her sleep. Would she mind if he kissed her awake? It was their last morning together for a while after all. He bent over her and brushed his lips across hers, then paused to watch her face. Nothing. Her nose wrinkled in an adoring way, as if something had tickled it, and she burrowed deeper against his chest. He took a deep breath of her scent, all warmth and woman, wanting to store it away for the days to come.
His hands slipped inside her nightgown, finding soft curves, and desire rose within him. Very lightly, he kissed her again, then explored the elegant line of her jaw down to the hollow of her throat.
"Mmh?" she murmured sleepily.
Ah, but the Valar had given him a delectable wife! Easy, Éomer told himself. He didn't want to startle her as she woke up. "Morning, my sweet," he whispered, but in response she only sighed again.
That moment he heard the door open and firm steps cross the room. Éomer froze in the act of bending over his wife, his lips hovering inches above her exposed shoulder. No! This couldn't be happening to him! The steps went to the window, an instant later came the sound of the shutters being thrown open and the room beyond the bed curtains lightened perceptibly.
"Time to get up, Child," Dordes called, her voice gentler than he had ever heard it, "after all you'll want to look pretty for your lord."
Lothíriel's lord had a moment of sheer panic. He felt very much like that time Aldburg's housekeeper had caught him and Éothain trying to drill a hole in the back of the women's bathhouse. The memory, still unsurpassed in its awfulness after more than a decade of engaging in active warfare, paralysed him for a vital instant.
With a soft swish the curtains were drawn apart. "Oh!" Dordes exclaimed. "My lord!"
Feeling utterly foolish at being caught in his wife's bed, he closed his eyes for a second. "Good morning, Dordes." Finally his body decided to obey him again and he was able to draw back.
Lothíriel's eyes fluttered open and she blinked up at him sleepily. "Éomer?" she murmured. "What's the matter?"
He pulled up the sheets. "Nothing."
"I didn't realise, my lord king," Dordes stammered. "Please forgive me…eh, I'll just get your breakfast, my lady." She hurried from the room.
Lothíriel sat up and shook back her tousled mane of black hair. "What happened?" she yawned. Then she took a closer look at him. "Éomer, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he snapped. It was ridiculous to be embarrassed at being found in her bed, feeling amorous. After all, he had every right to be in it! Why was it that he would rather face a pack of Uruk-Hai, unarmed and with his hands tied behind his back, than an elderly servant! At least his ardour had cooled considerably. Éomer decided to retreat to his own rooms with whatever shreds of dignity he could gather.
"I was so tired last night that I must have fallen asleep in your bed," he said. "My apologies."
"Éomer…"
But he had already reached for the robe that he had dropped by the bed and now shrugged it on. "I will see you later," he said.
oOo
Some quiet time on his own and an excellent breakfast brought to him by his squire improved Éomer's mood somewhat and he resolved to put the morning's frustrating experience behind him and concentrate on the forthcoming expedition instead. They planned to ride as far as the Entwade the first day and spend the night there, which meant an early start.
Ceola was just laying out his weapon-shirt, the padded jacket that went under the chain mail, when there came a knock on the door and Lothíriel entered bearing a tray with two cups from which the aromatic smell of kahva wafted over.
She smiled at his squire. "I can help Éomer King with that," she said. "Why don't you go and grab something to eat before you have to get Firefoot ready?"
Ceola, who like most of the lads of Edoras was smitten with his beautiful queen, blushed hotly at her kind words. "Thank you, Lothíriel Queen, I will."
When the door had closed behind the squire, Lothíriel offered Éomer his cup of kahva. She had donned the same low-cut green gown that she had worn to the council meeting and which set off her slender form to perfection, but had wrapped a silk scarf around her shoulders. "Éomer," she said hesitantly, "I wouldn't want you to ride off in a bad mood. You're not annoyed, are you? Dordes wakes me every morning and she had no idea–"
"I'm not," he interrupted her, feeling guilty for his crossness earlier on. It suddenly struck him that out of the three of them, his wife was the only one who had acted as if finding him in her bed was entirely natural. "She surprised me, that's all."
Lothíriel did not look convinced. "What happened? Did she startle you awake? Dordes was most apologetic, but not very coherent…" Her voice petered off.
She must think him an ill-tempered bear! "It's not her fault," he said. "She just caught me at a disadvantage." When his wife kept regarding him with big, questioning eyes, Éomer sighed. He might as well tell her the truth. "To be honest, I…eh…had designs on your person and was… rather put out to be interrupted."
Her eyes widened. "Oh! I had no idea." She mulled over the information for a moment. "But I was asleep."
He felt himself colouring. "I'm afraid that does not stop me from finding you highly desirable." Now his gently reared Gondorian lady would probably think him a barbarian! Should he point out in his defence that he had intended to wake her up gently?
But only further surprise showed on her face. "You do?"
She must know! Then he realised he had never once told her he found her attractive. Did she think he was only doing his duty every night? "Of course I do!" he exclaimed. "Surely you must have perceived as much by now."
"Well, I'm not very experienced," she said in an apologetic tone, "although I do know that I'm considered quite pretty. But when I'm asleep?" She wrinkled her nose. "I probably had my mouth open and my hair is always a mess in the mornings." Clearly she did not think him very discriminating.
He sat down on the bed and took a much needed gulp of kahva. Should he say that it had been dark? But no, his instincts vaguely warned him such an excuse might not be well received. Outside, the clear tones of a horn sounded, a welcome relief. "I will have to get ready now," he said.
"So soon?" she exclaimed, but then the expression he had come to recognise as her 'queen's countenance', calm and aloof, descended on her face. "In that case let me assist you with your armour," she said.
She knew what to do, smoothing out the creases of his shirt so it wouldn't chafe before helping him into the padded jacket and lacing it up the front. Then he lifted the hauberk over his head and wriggled into it with a practised movement, letting the weight settle on his shoulders. Silently Lothíriel brought him his sword belt and fastened it round his waist.
He watched her lowered head. "Lothíriel, would you write to me?" he asked.
She looked up. "What? How could I, you'll be out beyond the couriers' reach."
"Yes, but if all goes well we'll be coming back through Minas Tirith." To deliver the wounded to the Houses of Healing, but he didn't say that. "You could send your letters there." He knew she kept up a busy correspondence with her family and former acquaintances, so why not with her husband? "Give me the news of Edoras."
"Of course, as you wish." Her face still showed no emotion and he wondered if she would miss him, or on the contrary looked forward to some time alone. There was no trace of the woman who had teased him over a game of hounds and boars the day before.
"I'll leave you in charge here," he said, "to look after our people."
She frowned. "Won't they mind that I'm a foreigner?"
Éomer sighed. "Lothíriel, you're one of the Eorlingas now, you belong here. My bard will advise you, but I trust in your judgement."
That earned him a small smile. "Thank you."
"I do not expect any trouble from enemies, but if there is, send for Elfhelm at once. He has full discretion where military matters are concerned."
She nodded and went to fetch his helmet and gauntlets. "I will."
"I'm leaving a full complement of guards here, so you'll be safe enough," he added. "Make sure you always have them with you, if for any reason you have to ride out."
"Very well."
"And no attempting the training course."
When she hesitated, he fixed her with a stern gaze. "Promise me. Else I'll give orders to have it dismantled."
"Oh, all right," she agreed.
He accepted his helmet from her, tucked it under his arm and took her hands. "And if anything should happen to me…"
Her eyelids trembled for a moment, but she showed no other reaction. "Éomer, is this necessary?"
"You never know. So if I don't come back…well, we might still have a child. And if not… I suppose Éowyn will continue the line of Eorl."
"Yes," she said tonelessly.
Well, she was taking this very coolly – but he supposed that at least he did not have to worry that she would wither away from grief like his mother had done! Éomer put on his helmet, fastened the chin strap and slipped on the gauntlets. Then he suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to give her the royal seal of the Riddermark.
"Just a moment," he said and went over to his desk where he had laid it ready. "This is for you to keep."
When he turned round Lothíriel was as white as a sheet. "No!" She took a step back.
What was the matter with her? "But you'll need it to prove your authority," he pointed out.
"What?"
Mystified, he showed her the heavy, round seal. "The mark of holding my power." And also a sign of his trust in her – at times, he might not be able to read her at all, but he did not doubt her ability to treat their people fairly. "Surely you have the same custom in Gondor?"
Some colour returned to her cheeks. "Oh! Yes, of course we do. So it's purely official?" She took the seal from him. "That's all right then."
"What did you think it was?"
"Nothing. Will you excuse me while I put this away safely in my rooms?"
Waiting for her in the ante-room, Éomer mulled over her reaction in his mind. What had got into her? She reappeared very shortly and he offered her his arm to escort her outside Meduseld, where his personal guard had assembled in the square at the bottom of the steps.
Then the cool morning air hit him, he heard the unmistakable sounds of the clink of weapons, horses' hooves stamping and the low buzz of his riders talking, and the familiar exhilaration at setting out rose within him, pushing the matter aside. A gust of wind whipped round them, billowing out Lothíriel's gown, as if it too shared in the excitement. His heart began to beat faster.
Wulfrith and the other women of the household came with trays of mead cups to fare the men well and Lothíriel took one of the cups and offered it to him. "Good fortune be with you, my king. Go and make an end to this Son of Sauron." It was the daughter of a long line of warriors speaking. But then she gave a forlorn little smile. "And come back safe and sound."
"I will," he said and accepted the stirrup cup. Standing there with her hair tousled by the wind, large, grey eyes regarding him gravely, she was quite irresistible.
Éomer downed the mead in one gulp and with the rich, sweet taste still on his tongue, he kissed her. At first she jumped with surprise, but then her arms crept up his back. His blood drummed in his ears. He should have done it earlier on, before he put his mail on! And the helmet was a distinct disadvantage too, though he tried not to butt her with his nose-guard. But how perfectly she fitted into his arms. He stored the feeling of supple, yielding woman away in his memory for the weeks to come.
The sound of his men cheering and calling his name brought them back to the present. Lothíriel's cheeks flamed at some of the good-natured suggestions of what to do when he came back from the war, but when he grinned down at her she smiled back reluctantly.
"I have not offended you, lady of mine?" he whispered.
She only shook her head.
The bright green scarf she had thrown around her shoulders had begun to slip and on an impulse he fingered it suggestively. "A token of your favour?"
She rolled her eyes at his exuberant mood, but complied by tying the scarf around his upper arm. "Wear it well."
His men loved it of course and Ceola grinned from ear to ear when he led an excitedly prancing Firefoot forward for him to mount. As he settled in the saddle and gathered the reins in his hands, Lothíriel put her hand on Firefoot's neck and looked up at him, serious again. "Westu hal, Éomer." She stepped back.
He smiled down at her. "Westu hal."
Then he took his horn and blew it hard. His riders took up the call as they clattered out of the courtyard and down the hill, waving to the townspeople who had gathered to see them go. Once past the royal mounds, they crossed the fords of the Snowbourn and Éomer looked back up at Meduseld.
On the edge of the terrace stood Lothíriel and though he was too far away to make out her expression, he knew she was following them with her eyes. A gust of wind streamed out her loose black hair like a banner and his heart contracted for a moment. His wife, his home, all that he rode out to protect.
But then he had to acknowledge the greetings of his captains as they took their place in the order of the march and his mind turned to the practicalities of sorting out a few thousand riders, some of whom had never been part of an ordered host. They slowed to a more sedate pace when they hit the road to the Entwade, alternating trotting with cantering, and the companies strung out behind him in a long, irregular shape.
It was only when Edoras was fading into the distance, solely a glitter of gold from Meduseld's roof marking it, that his mind returned to that morning's conversation with Lothíriel. Why had she acted so strangely when he had given her the royal seal? For a moment she had looked as if she had seen a ghost! Thoughtfully he stroked the silk scarf tied around his arm, his last link to his lady. And then his mind finally made the connection: had she thought he wanted to give her a token to remember him by? And had the last man to offer her a keepsake before going away to war never come back?
Of course! What a fool he had been not to realise at once. Éomer cursed himself for a nitwit not to perceive the truth sooner. However, then another thought hit him: had she reacted like she had because of the memories it brought back? Or because she did care for him – at least a little bit – and thought it a bad omen?
Suddenly he found that he wanted the answer to that question very much and cursed himself even more. Too late now! He grimaced as another thought occurred to him. What were the chances of getting a truthful answer out of his wife anyway?
Probably the same as being able to prise a limpet from its rock!
