"Your highness, excuse me for interrupting your journey. Your brother the prince requested that you accompany me to the King's tent immediately."
Ivriniel surveyed the ridiculously young page boy who had leapt to his feet by the side of the road, where it met the edges of Cormallen fields. He sketched an awkward bow.
"Young man, surely it can wait for a moment or two while I make a small detour by my tent."
"The prince was most insistent, Ma'am. He said you were needed right away."
"Very well. Lead me to him. Lothíriel, I shall find you later. In the mean time, return to your mother." Ivriniel watched her niece swallow slightly. Clearly Lothíriel was not looking forward to seeing her mother. Ivriniel mentally shook her head at the confusion and emotional turmoil of youth. A lesser woman would perhaps have used the journey to lecture her niece on her wayward behaviour and the need for propriety in future. Ivriniel had contented herself by remarking that as far as she was concerned, events had unfolded thus: Éomer had gone on ahead with Amrothos and Éothain; Lothíriel had followed on behind, chaperoned by her aunt. Society would not believe this, of course, but society would have to pretend to do so, because Princess Ivriniel of Dol Amroth would announce that it had been so and not otherwise.
Regardless of the existence of this hastily reconstructed version of events, Lothíriel was in for a roasting from her mother, and she knew it.
"Erin, would you accompany the princess to her parents' pavilion, while Aelfred attends to the horses? Thank you." And with that dismissal, Ivriniel set off across the meadow to find the king and her brother.
On arriving at the royal tent, the page held the tent flap to one side and ushered the princess through the gap.
"Ivriniel, dearest. Thank goodness you are here. We are in dire need of your intelligence about the Haradrim, and your advice as to what to do next." Imrahil, normally so urbane, looked almost flustered. Ivriniel rapidly took in the rest of the assembled party: King Elessar (of course), Prince Legolas the elf and Gimli the dwarf (never far from the king), her nephew's aide de camp, Úron (more suprising; she had expected him to have returned to Minas Tirith by now), and (to her immense surprise) the duke of Pinnath Gelin. Pinnath Gelin was definitely not a man she expected to see at a strategy meeting. Rumour had it that Castamir had once suggested he be given the Order of the Rose of Imloth Melui, only to have Denethor veto the suggestion on the grounds that he was so asinine he might eat the rose in question. However, the duke's presence was soon explained.
"We received news, but an hour ago, that crown prince Alazar, heir to King Amudin, has escaped from captivity. It would appear that he was released by none other than Lady Errisil, who has of late been visiting him under the pretext of offering charity to a poor unfortunate languishing in captivity. However, it seems that her interests turn out to have been moved more by that form of love best described as eros, rather than disinterested agape. The two of them have eloped, stealing a pair of thoroughbred horses."
Ivriniel noticed Úron's eyes flick from her face to that of the duke's and back on mention of the word eros. However, if he expected a reaction, he was to be sadly disappointed. The princess did not shock easily, and the duke's grasp on classical languages was far too weak for him to pick up on the implications. She took a moment to settle down on one of the low couches provided in the royal pavilion, looked round at the assembled group, then to everyone's surprise, smiled broadly.
"How splendidly convenient."
Imrahil gasped. The duke, finally catching up with the situation, made an outraged snorting noise. Elessar looked at her intently, a slight answering smile playing about his lips.
"You interest me enormously, madam. Do tell us why this situation is convenient?"
"Did I not say, your majesty, that Aluzar and his father Amudin could make useful allies if handled diplomatically. But that Aluzar's greatest fear was the ignominy of being returned, a ransomed prisoner, captured on the battlefield? Well, now we have a situation where he returns to his people, not as a coward in chains, but as a daring and romantic hero. Accompanied by a Gondorian lady of fine social standing whom he has swept off her feet, and carried off to become his bride, from beneath the noses of the flower of Gondorian knighthood. And thus conveniently providing us with the basis for a diplomatic alliance cemented by marriage."
Elessar gave Ivriniel a sharp look. "You sound not entirely surprised by this development."
Ivriniel steepled her fingers, and pursed her lips. "Well, in conversation with my niece and lady Errisil over tea and cucumber sandwiches, the lady did reveal a depth of understanding of Haradric society, mores and culture which made me wonder how she had come by this knowledge. And it did not take much in the way of enquiries to discover that she had adopted the persona of Lady Bountiful and taken it upon herself to pay visits to the prison to bring succour to those unfortunate enough to be incarcerated. I must admit, though, that I had not thought her enterprising enough to effect a jail-break. How did she do it?"
"It appears," said Úron, speaking for the first time, "That she used the excuse of needing repairs to an ornamental dagger, in order to purloin a number of locksmith's tools while the craftsman repairing it was occupied."
"Ingenious."
"What should we do?" asked Imrahil.
"Do? Why, nothing. Though obviously we must be seen to attempt to do something, but it needs to be ineffectual. Might I suggest sending, say, a score of horsemen in pursuit? A score feels about right for the gravity of the situation. But make sure that they are not equipped with particularly speedy horses. Then, in a day or two, send a messenger under a flag of truce to Amudin."
The King nodded, and said, "The message should make a show of us being outraged. Perhaps a demand that the lady be returned. Expressions of worry for her well being. With subtle hints of disappointment that Aluzar's behaviour should have brought dishonour on so noble a lady, whose family are in high standing with my royal self."
"Exactly. See if you can draw out a proposal of marriage," replied Ivriniel.
The King was obviously picking up on Ivriniel's plans and running with them. He added, "At which point a delegation should be sent to exchange engagement gifts, and check as to the lady's well-being. This check obviously requiring the presence, as part of the party, of a woman of nobility, and sufficient maturity that her own virtue is not called into question."
"Of course. I shall take my nephew Amrothos. I think that should be about the right level of minor royalty to satisfy Amudin that the correct level of dignity is being accorded to the situation."
Imrahil looked slightly affronted at this point. Ivriniel fixed him with a gimlet eye. "Oh, for heaven's sakes, brother. You must start getting used to the fact that we have a king again, and you now play second fiddle. And now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I should quite like to change out of my travelling garments. Have we any entertainments laid on for this evening which will require my presence?"
Aragorn gave a slight shudder. "Yet another court ball. I begin to feel the urge to ride off on an expedition to near Harad with you. A few nights sleeping rough beneath the stars would do me the world of good."
"Alas, noblesse oblige," retorted the princess. "A ball, you say? Then I must prepare myself. My wayward niece's reputation is in need of rescue, so I must look my best. I bid you good afternoon, Sire, brother, gentlemen." She got to her feet, inclined her head imperiously, and made her exit.
~o~O~o~
Éomer arrived back at Cormallen somewhat later (his progress having been slowed by Arodon's dizziness, Chang's dodgy leg, and Merilwen's occasional fits of the vapours along the way). He felt tired, grumpy and rather low. Somehow the return journey felt much longer, even though the road had been an easier route than the outward journey through the forest. Éothain and Chang had bantered a bit and kept his spirits up, though by the end of the journey the Easterling had become quiet, tired out by the long ride. Éomer could see that Laerwen was worried sick about him.
The grumpiness stemmed largely from Merilwen's incessant complaints. She really put the "whinging" into "whinging Gondy bastard." Arodon was simply a bit wet, and his wetness, Éomer decided, could not entirely be blamed on his head wound. The young man was just naturally… well, a bit wet. And as for Amrothos. Éomer felt his fists ball every time he caught a glimpse of the young man from the corner of his eye. He held the young prince entirely responsible for the total cock-up that had led to his ill-fated proposal.
That in turn had led to his low mood. He was desperately trying not to think about it, but the more he didn't think about it, the more he realised that for all his long list of reasons why Lothíriel would not make a suitable queen (too young, too flighty, too much book-learning and not enough practical skills, too… Gondorian), she was, in fact, precisely the woman he wanted as his wife. And furthermore he realised (the more he didn't think about it, didn't think about it at all, oh no), his lengthy list was just so much donkey dung. In fact, everything about her (her rabbit-dispatching skills, her horse-stealing skills, her courage in the face of danger, the rumours he'd heard about her being the de-facto ruler of Dol Amroth while her father was at war) seemed to argue that in fact she would make a very suitable queen indeed.
Once he'd finished not thinking about all of that, he switched to not thinking about the other things about her that he wasn't going to allow to cross his mind. Her beauty. That long dark hair, the colour of midnight. Her obvious feminine charms, the curves in all the right places. The creamy skin above the neckline of her dress. Her ready wit. Her spark and fire, whether in competition over a board of pebbles, or in anger. Béma, she was magnificent when she was angry. He just wished she wasn't angry with him. And wished that he hadn't obviously hurt her very much.
Finally, he tried very hard not to think about the fact that, in Éothain's turn of phrase, he'd made a right faarkin' mess of everything.
Yes, tired, grumpy, low. That would have about summed him up at the moment, had he been allowing himself to think about it. Which he very definitely was not.
He felt intensely relieved to round the final corner on the dusty road (more of a cart track than a road, in truth), and finally catch sight of Cormallen with its green meadow and its clusters of brightly coloured tents. For the first time since Amrothos' infuriating display of needling his sister, Éomer steeled himself to speak to the young prince.
"Amrothos, go and find Lord Borlas and tell him we have his daughter, safe and well."
"Why me?" moaned Amrothos.
"Because you're a whinging Gondy bastard, but right now being a Gondy bastard makes you the right man for the job. Far better coming from one of his own countrymen. I trust you to tell Borlas his daughter hasn't come to any lasting harm." Éomer let his irritation show in his voice. Grumbling under his breath, Amrothos set of.
"Éothain, can you get that damn fool Arodon out the way before Merilwen's father gets here? Take him off to the healers or something. Oh, and make sure one of the healers comes over to have a look at Chang. Then go and see the quartermaster and see if you can rustle up a tent or something for Chang and Laerwen. Probably best if you put them somewhere near the Gondy servants' tents rather than the troops." Éomer's voice mellowed a bit. "Sorry Chang, mate, I don't think we'd better put you with the troops – we lost a lot of men to your side's soldiers, and some of them probably won't be thinking straight." Chang nodded solemnly, then winced as another wave of pain hit him.
Having dealt with the various people under his care, Éomer swung himself from the saddle and led Firefoot over to the improvised paddock where the Rohirric horses were loosely tethered. To his relief, his groom, Edric was there. Éomer saw to Firefoot himself, partly because he liked to see his horse properly tended to (and hadn't yet forgiven Edric for the colic incident) and partly because he needed a bit of time to himself. He handed the tack to Edric and told him to make sure it was placed safely under cover and cleaned properly.
Then he set to, brushing Firefox, and was just enjoying the solitude when a familiar voice hailed him.
"Your majesty."
He turned to see the Princess Ivriniel. Of all the people who could have shown up, she was one of the less offensive possibilities, but really he just wanted to be left alone. However he bowed politely.
"Your highness."
Ivriniel nodded. "I shan't take up much of your time." Very quickly, she sketched the discussion she had just had with Aragorn. "It has rather put the cat among the pigeons, but I think will work out for the best in the end. Meanwhile, I am also the bearer of some awkward tidings – there is, unfortunately, yet another ball organised for this evening, which I fear it will be incumbent upon you to attend. The official story is that Lothíriel and I made up one rescue party, with Lothíriel respectably chaperoned throughout. You, Éothain and Amrothos made up the other. No-one will quite believe this of course, but I am afraid it is vital that you attend this ball and put on a good show of being on entirely polite terms with our family. Complete stuff and nonsense, of course, but that is the way Gondorian society works."
Éomer swallowed hard. There was nothing he wanted less than to have to face Lothíriel any time in… well, in the next ten years or so. Perhaps twenty if he was lucky. And to have to do so with her fury so fresh in his mind. And in front of the assembled social butterflies of the Gondorian court (some of whom he suspected of being more vampires than butterflies). This was definitely his idea of hell. However, he could see that he didn't have a choice.
"Of course, your highness. I'll put on the best blaardy show those bastards have ever seen." He picked up the curry comb once more, hoping that the princess would take the hint and take her leave. She shot him a knowing half-smile.
"One more thing. I apologise for speaking plainly, but sometimes nothing less than plain speaking will help to clear up confusion. I realise you're suffering a bad attack of wounded pride, and helped along by my imbecilic nephew, you've made a bit of a fool of yourself, but for the Valar's sake, swallow your pride, apologise to Lothíriel and court her properly. There's no point the two of you being upset for the sake of overweening pride."
"And if Lothíriel doesn't see it that way?" Éomer asked, rather more sharply than he should have done.
"I shall knock her head against Amrothos' and see if I can instil any sense into them. Your head is, unfortunately, a tad too far off the ground. However, if needs be, I am sure I could sub-contract the task. Till tonight." She gave one of her tiny inclinations of her head, turned heel and headed towards Imrahil's pavilion.
~o~O~o~
Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews to the last chapter - they were greatly appreciated, and really encouraged me. I can't respond by PM to the anon/not-logged-in reviews, but it was great to read them.