This chapter is quite short, so it comes a bit earlier! ;-) Thanks a lot to all of you, who are still with me and this story and a big hug for sep 12, who even with a lot of work made time to help me with the language.

Here's to all who have missed Winfrid. ;-)

Chapter 21

Stomping their feet in front of the side entrance to the kitchens, Éomer and his squire tried to rid their boots at least of most of the snow that clung to them. Overnight a thin dusting of flakes had covered Edoras and its surroundings, though with the current temperature there could be no doubt that it would melt fast as soon as the sun was up. Éomer gave the small figure beside him a scrutinising side glance. It had been the first time after his accident that Winfrid had accompanied his king on his morning rides, and Éomer was not sure if the boy was already up to it.

But all he could see in the dim light of the torch near the door was a handsome face, ruddy from cold and exercise that split into a broad grin as the opening of the door brought a waft of warm air and with it the delicious smell of freshly baked bread. The expression of delight immediately changed into one of utter concern though, when upon entering the large room they could hear the discontented wailing of a small child.

"Stop fussing now Lynet, and get your work done." Frithuswith's voice audibly had an angry strain. "Leofa is teething, and there is not much you can do."

Lynet was sitting on one of the benches near the wall, her crying daughter in her arms, and visibly close to crying herself. The little girl's face was tear-smeared and swollen, and she desperately tried to stuff her little fists into her mouth. Stroking and kissing her, Lynet desperately tried to calm her to no avail, until Winfrid went over and took the child out of her arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a lad of his age and standing. "Do your work, Lynet, lest Frithuswith gets angry. I'll hold her, while I'll have a bite."

Eyeing the boy warily, the child stopped crying, as if uncertain what to expect. Soon king and squire were served a bowl of porridge with cream and honey, and Winfrid tried to feed Leofa some of it. The toddler moved her tongue around the warm pap awkwardly, but eagerly attempted to chew the wooden spoon. Gently the boy made to feel her gums with his forefinger, only to be barked at by a rather irritated Frithuswith. "Get your dirty digits out of the child's mouth, will you? You are going to make things worse."

Giving the housekeeper an appraising side glance, Winfrid took the child and walked over to the hearth, were the women were picking the meat off a sheep's carcass that had been cooked the day before. Selecting a flat rib bone, he handed it to the child who immediately shoved it into her mouth and started to chew vigorously. Grinning he came back to take his seat besides Éomer again, the little girl covering his shoulder in slobber.

Reaching for his bowl, he started to eat again, trying to ignore the looks of the people around him. "How did you know about it?" Éomer finally asked, impressed by the effect the bone had on Leofa.

Winfrid swallowed a mouthful of porridge and explained: "Grandfather's lurchers used to have problems when changing their teeth, and they chewed anything, from boots to boards. Certainly there cannot be much difference between a whelp and a baby."

Frithuswith appeared at Éomer's side, bringing the king his usual breakfast ale. Looking at Leofa, she frowned. "We gave her a spoon to chew on, but she remained fidgety."

Éomer laughed. "Certainly a fat bone tastes better than some dry wood." He raised his mug to take a swig, when the child, seeing the mug, let go of the bone and stretched out her chubby arms, making little impatient noises.

"She's thirsty," Winfrid exclaimed, stating the obvious. Turning to Lynet, he asked her to fetch him some water, and watching Leofa gulp it greedily, he turned to the woman, shaking his head: "Lynet, how come she's that thirsty? Didn't you give her to drink today?"

To his utter dismay and to Éomer's surprise, the woman dropped down on her knees beside the bench and broke out in tears, covering her face with her hands, babbling incoherently in between her sobs. "I'm so sorry. Oh, poor you. I'm so sorry. He will be so angry. Why did I go? Oh, Dear, I'm so sorry. I did not mean to hurt you. It's all my fault. And he will be so angry."

"For Erce's sake, Lynet, shut up!" With a few swift steps, Frithuswith came up, grabbed Lynet's shoulders and shook her forcefully.

Éomer had never seen the old housekeeper that thin-nerved before, and he wondered what made her react like that. She certainly had dealt with more than one ailing child in her long life, let alone with nervous kitchen lasses.

Her mother's wailing caused Leofa to start crying again and Frithuswith angrily pulled Lynet to her feet. "Stop snivelling, you silly cow. She's teething and that naturally makes her thirsty. It's like that with all babies."

Yet Éomer could not help the impression that Frithuswith's statement was a bit too insistent, as if she was trying to convince herself. Something obviously was making the old housekeeper uneasy and twitchy.

"Be good and calm down, Lynet." Winfrid's voice was soft and calm, and yet it held an authority that did not match with his delicate frame. "You are upsetting Leofa."

Puzzled, Éomer looked at his squire, who had again gathered the little girl's body against his chest and was now patting her back softly, as if patting a scared pup. The wailing ebbed away, and Winfrid again offered her the bone, but Leofa just buried her face into the crook of his neck and seemed to doze off. Carefully the boy rose and put her into the case near the wall that served as her bed. The baby started to squirm again, but Winfrid sat down on the floor beside the box, and putting her on her belly, he continued patting her back. Soon she was soundly asleep, and the boy returned to his now cold porridge. Without a word, Frithuswith removed the bowl and motioned to one of the girls to fetch him a fresh and warm helping.

Éomer grinned. The old dragon was doubtlessly impressed. The atmosphere having lightened considerably, slowly the usual bustle of the kitchens set in again. On their bench they were well out of the way, and having finished his porridge, Éomer turned to his squire. "You're astonishingly good with babies, Winfrid. You truly put any nurse to shame."

Blushing profoundly, the boy swallowed to empty his rather full mouth before answering. "It's most easy, Sire. My grandfather always told me that you have to think like the dog or the horse you want to master." His blush deepened. "He dealt with dogs and horses, you know, but there is not much difference, as I said before. Especially if the child is too small to understand, I believe." He took another spoonful, before continuing. "Grandfather says that when we care for our animals we have to make them understand that we accept them into our herd or pack. The one we are the leader of. We feed them, groom them, stroke them... And we use the curry comb like a horse would use his teeth, nibbling a beloved partner's coat. And does not our stroking hand imitate the bitch's tongue, caressing her whelps?"

Éomer nodded. There was some truth in the rumours that Winfrid of Westfold could touch a horse's soul. "And the patting?" he asked, feeling intrigued in earnest.

"Ah, well..." Winfrid hesitated, shoving the last glob of porridge around in his bowl. It was obvious that it cost him quite an effort to continue, and when he finally did, his voice was a little shaky. " I was about five years old when I first understood that I had no mother. I mean, that she was not there. Grandmother told me then that she had died and that I had been born early. In simple words, so I could understand." He stopped, drawing a ragged breath. "I know it is stupid, but I had the idea then that she had left me because she did not love me. Ealder Modor found out, and she told me that my mother had loved me very much and had given me all the strength she could and only because of her love I lived."

The boy paused for a moment, looking at the bowl in front of him with unseeing eyes. "She said that as the drums call the dancers to the village square, a mother's heartbeat urges her child on to join the dance of life." He gave his king a shy side glance. "That's why at Erce's rituals the drums are beaten in the rhythm of a heartbeat. And my mother's heartbeat had been so strong and full of love that I had strength enough to live, even when being born two months before the natural date."

He clumsily put the last spoonful into his mouth and swallowed. "I wanted to give Leofa comfort and ease, and therefore I patted the rhythm of a steady heartbeat on her back. Lynet is too nervous herself at the moment, she can't comfort her child." He shrugged. "I suppose you have to imagine yourself in the other one's position to understand what they need."

Éomer nodded, but did not say anything. Frithuswith had been right, that boy certainly would be an expert counsellor in his time. If he only were not that small!

Silently Frithuswith stepped up behind them and put two small bowls with still warm stewed fruit in front of them, and Éomer was quite taken aback when he saw the the boy reach out and grab the old woman's hand. "Frithuswith." Winfrid's voice was little more than a whisper. "Frithuswith, you'll take care of them, won't you?"

The housekeeper sighed. "I'll do what I can, boy, but I'm afraid that won't be much. Life's a bitch, you know." She tousled the boy's hair and then left, taking the empty porridge bowls with her.

Slowly Éomer started to eat his fruit, pondering. Strange, how two people so different could be so alike: The young boy and the old woman, noble born and common, the midget and the tall Eorling, and yet, being both bereft by fate and having lived through hardship and sorrow had not made them hard, but strong and full of compassion for the weaker ones around them. He looked down at Winfrid, who was tucking in as eagerly as any lad still growing could do, and he could not help a grin. Given the amount of food he was consuming there certainly was a fair chance that Winfrid of Westfold would become quite tall.

ooo

He had just finished his letter to Aragorn when there was a knock at the door of his study. Expecting Eáldread with the official missive, he barked a short "cum in", but instead of the old counsellor Hereward entered, accompanied by a rather embarrassed Winfrid.

"Sire," The courier bowed respectfully and only now Éomer noticed the small scroll he held in his hand. Noticing his king's glance, Hereward fidgeted uneasily. "I'm having a problem, Sire." He cumbersomely cleared his throat. "You see, leaving around noon I would not make it further than Aldburg today." He hesitated, and Éomer raised a brow.

"Nobody expects you to, Hereward. How can that be a problem?"

"Well," The courier lifted the scroll now. "Winfrid asked me to take a letter for him to Aldburg and I agreed. But only when he handed it to me I learned that... "Again the errand rider paused, looking at his king an uneasily.

Éomer felt his patience grow thin. "Make it short, man. I haven't got all day."

Hereward swallowed. "It's addressed to your daughter, Sire."

"What?" The chair toppled over as Éomer rose. That insolent whelp!

The courier raised his hands in an attempt to calm him. "Winfrid assured me that it contained nothing dishonourable, and I'm convinced of that, Sire, but he also confessed that he had not asked your permission, and therefore..."

Angrily Éomer snatched the scroll from the courier's outstretched hand, shooting Winfrid a murderous glance. The boy was pale but met the king's eyes unwaveringly. The scroll was sealed with ordinary beeswax and bore no signet, just Winfrid's rune, scratched into the makeshift seal. Éomer removed it with one angry flick of his thumbnail and opened the scroll. The letter was short, the boy's hand slightly clumsy and irregular, but nevertheless clearly legible. He had cramped all he had written into the upper half of the vellum, and also his phrasing clearly showed the inexperienced writer.

Westu Gytha Éomer's Dohtor hal.

I hope this letter finds you well. I do not have much time. Hereward is leaving for Aldburg and he promised to carry a letter for me. Gytha, I need your help. That is I need Ceadda's help, but you have to tell him. It is because of Lynet. Frithuswith thinks she is with child again. Leofa is teething and crying all the time. And Lynet is crying because she fears that Ceadda will be angry because she did lay with the lads again. Please tell Ceadda. But do not tell him I told you to do so. Frithuswith says he has to make up his own mind and he is a stubborn mule. Make him come to Meduseld. Only he can help. Lynet is driving herself mad, and everybody else in the kitchen, too. Frithuswith does not know I am writing to you. How is your filly? Give her my regards. Please tell him soon. Winfrid Erwig's Son

Éomer stood dumbfounded. What had he expected? He realised that he had not even thought about that, but just reacted in a blind rage. Simply to gain time, he turned to pick up the chair, pondering the incidents in the kitchen he saw now in a completely different light. True, the baby was teething, but Lynet being pregnant again would explain her nervousness and fear... and Frithuswith's foul mood. It did not sit well with someone like the old housekeeper to watch a person she had taken under her wing go to the dogs. But what could she do? And Ceadda? After Frithuswith's bitter remark in the kitchen Éomer understood that Winfrid turned to the herder for help, but was it fair to burden the man with a halfwit, who was unable to see what was good for her? Sitting down again, he looked into his squire's pale face. "You should have informed me beforehand, Winfrid."

In the quietness of the room he could hear Hereward release the breath he had held.

"I had not realised, Sire." The boy's voice was tight, but his gaze was steady. "When I heard that Hereward was stopping at Aldburg I saw the chance to inform..." He hesitated, giving Hereward a quick side glance.

Éomer nodded. "I see. Next time you want to write to her, you will hand me the letter first. Should I not be here to check it, you will send any letter to Gytha to Marshal Elfhelm or Lady Hrodwyn. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sire." The colour was coming back into Winfrid's cheeks, and Éomer dismissed him, before reaching for his quill. Spreading out the vellum, he made use of the empty space at the lower part of the page.

Gytha Dohtor, be careful. Ceadda is a good man and he deserves his feelings not to be hurt. Winfrid is right to want to help, but there are things that cannot be forced. Give my regards to your grandparents and of course to Sundergiefu.

Your father É.

PS. Should you want to answer, your letter will have to be directed to me and I will pass it on. É.

Having sealed it with the royal signet, he handed the scroll back to Hereward, who took it with a relieved grin and left. Sucking his teeth, Éomer went over to the window. Certainly Frithuswith would have laughed her head off at his overreaction, but he did not feel like laughing at all.

He could not help thinking of an event more than seven years ago. By a hair's breath he had almost killed Fréalaf, nearly drowning him in the trough in the stable yard when he had learned that the young Rider had been sweet on Éowyn. He heaved a breath. He would have killed him had not Théodred intervened bodily. That cursed rage! Rage fuelled by protectiveness... and perhaps by jealousy, the fear to lose her? He had known Fréalaf, had esteemed him, both for his personality and his skills, but the very moment he had come to know...

Éomer shook his head. He had been such an idiot, and Théodred had not failed to point that out to him. He had seen Fréalaf as the debaucher of his little innocent sister, not realising that not a few of the girls that shared his bed were even younger than her. To be told by Théodred that Éowyn welcomed Fréalaf's attention had been a worse blow than the one his cousin's fist had dealt him when he had refused to let the young Rider's head go. He simply had not been able to see that his sister was no longer the lonely child he had promised to care for.

He thoughtfully knocked his knuckles against his teeth. Théodred had been the one who understood her, not he, her elder brother. Théodred had been able to let her be, accept her, encourage her, whereas he himself had wanted to protect her from everything that might frighten her, without the slightest idea what that might be. Was he doing the same thing to Gytha now? But Gytha was twelve, not sixteen as Éowyn had been... She needed his protection. But not from Winfrid! It was no use to deceive himself. He had lost control, been swept away by his anger, without using his brain. Béma why did that always happen as soon as females of his family were involved?

Éowyn had called him an overprotective cretin then, and it had been well that Théodred had taken Fréalaf into his personal service as his squire and thus removed him from the range of Éomer's jealousy. The heir to the throne had made clear he trusted his cousin's sweetheart, and Théoden King himself had been content, agreeing that they were to get married at Frealaf's coming of age. That had been the last summer before he had started to ail under the Worm's evil influence. Éomer sighed. They had had three years all in all, and most of that time Fréalaf had been in the Westfold, but Éowyn had stubbornly clung to him. Fréalaf Aedhelmaer's son... His youngest, who then had given his life protecting Théodred in that cursed ambush only a sennight before his wedding.

It had only been then, being confronted with Éowyn's reaction to Fréalaf's death that he had realised how deep his sister's love went. Even now, knowing she had found a new love that held her soul in balance, he felt a chill creep up his back, remembering her forlorn face, her stupor, her unseeing eyes. And he had felt guilty. Guilty for being the reason that she had been bereft of so many days of the short time fate had dealt out to their love. Guilty for her lover being in the Westfold in the first place...

He shook his head. All this brooding, these ifs and buts were futile. Three sons Aedhelmaer of Snowbourne had had, and all of them had perished in the years of strife, all of them fighting valiantly for the Mark. And only a broken leg had kept his grandson at home when the Riddermark had ridden to Mundburg's aid, young Edric, now heir of Snowbourne.

But he should not have jumped at the most absurd conclusion when Hereward had told him about Winfrid writing to Gytha. Sure, it was his right as her father to control her intercourse, but had he really expected his squire to have anything indecent in mind? A boy of fourteen years, more than busy with the breaking of his voice at the moment? He must have lost his mind. And Gytha: Not more than twelve, and though certainly tall for her age, still a child.

He sat down at his desk, propping his head with his hands. A part of him wished she would stay a child, the chubby, grinning hoyden with the too large mouth and the tousled red-golden locks, while the other part looked at her development with paternal pride, cherishing the glimpse of the woman she would be in a few years. Elfhelm's granddaughter: Keen-eyed, with the straightest eyebrows he had ever seen in a woman, and tall... He could not help the chuckle that rose inside him. Béma, that would certainly have been a sight to behold: Gytha Éomer's Daughter, the tallest woman of the Mark and Winfrid Erwig's Son...

He stopped abruptly, realising how that lad, already suffering because of his delicate frame, might feel in a few years, when the eyes of the lasses would hold disdain, or pity if they were kind. His abrupt rise caused the chair to topple over a second time within one hour. He had to find something to help Winfrid. Perhaps Erchirion's idea about sending him to Faramir was not a bad idea at all. Though the descendants of the Numenoreans were tall, there were so many different people in the south...

He shook his head. Again he was making the same mistake: Planning people's futures without knowing what they themselves wanted, just because he felt responsible. And perhaps Frithuswith was right and they just had to wait for Winfrid to find his own way. He grimaced. It was a lot of waiting he had to do lately.

Annotations:

Sundergiefu: (Rohirric/Old English) Special gift. Gytha's filly. Ceadda's mare Hraefn, the foal's dam, is already old, and this foal, a sheer black, will most certainly be her last one. Therefore I thought that name to be quite plausible.