So here comes the next chapter. A bit later than usual, but I hope you'll find it worth waiting for. It has not been betaed yet, as the last couple of days were extremely busy with making hay and the barley harvest, not to mention the fruit and vegetables that are ripe now, but I hope I have not violated the English language overmuch.:-/

Thank you for your lasting interest in the story and for all your reviews that really make me swell with pride and grin like an idiot. (I'm just afraid, one might become addicted to them... So you had better be merciful and spare me the pain of a withdrawal syndrome. ;-DD)

Chapter 25

While Erchirion and Éothain went back to the barracks after the meal for further preparations, Winfrid strolled off to the stables and Éomer walked up to where Calimab was again spreading out his utensils to continue copying a certain tapestry.

"Master Calimab."

The old carpenter looked up, and recognising the king, rose and bowed respectfully.

"Prince Théodred's picture arrived today, and I handed it over to Frithuswith." Seeing the old man turn pale and then blush furiously, Éomer found it hard to suppress a grin. "You need not worry. She liked it exceedingly and found it very lifelike. And she is glad you portrayed him in a moment of happiness."

Still visibly embarrassed, the carpenter cleared his throat. "I am very pleased to hear that, my Lord King, as I would have hated to displease Mistress Frithuswith."

Éomer raised his eyebrows. "And yet displeased her you have, though not by this picture."

Calimab swallowed. "I know she is angry, but it eludes me why." He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "She all but bodily threw me out of the kitchens and I never had a chance to ask her why." He looked utterly miserable. "I tried to ask the staff, but she seemingly has not talked to anyone about what caused her anger."

Moved by the old man's emotion, Éomer tried to explain. "Master Calimab, I think you have found out that there are elementary differences in the ways of Gondor and Rohan."

The carpenter nodded.

Éomer doubted that any Gondorean would truly understand what it meant to be an Eorling, but he was at least convinced of the old man's good will. "So while Frithuswith is not at all offended by the picture you drew of the prince, she highly is by your portraying her without her leave."

"But...," Calimab shook his head. "I don't understand why, Éomer King."

Éomer noticed the adjustment of address and understood the old carpenter's attempt to be polite, using the traditional Rohirric title. An intelligent man, who was as well sensitive enough to understand a person's emotions and motives. But at the moment Calimab obviously was at a loss as far as Frithuswith's behaviour was concerned.

"I assure you the sketch does her honour and I in no way attempted ..."

Éomer raised his hand. "I know that, Master Calimab, she never accused you to have drawn anything indecent. But being a people that largely lives without the use of writing, we believe written or carved signs to be symbols with magic power."

Calimab opened his mouth, but said nothing, staring at the king in disbelief.

Wonderful, we are back to uncouth barbarians, aren't we? Feeling his ire raise, Éomer wanted to shorten the conversation. "We believe that carving a thing or the symbol for it, we can get hold on it, can bend fate to our need and desire." He sharply looked at the Gondorean who in the meantime had closed his mouth again, but still was staring at him dumbfounded. "Frithuswith fears that by drawing her you might have attempted to captured a piece of her soul and thus tried to influence her." Calimab opened his mouth again, but before he could say anything, Éomer forestalled him. "I demand you give her the sketch before you leave for Minas Tirith."

The carpenter swallowed and nodded. "If you would be so kind as to wait a moment, Éomer King, I will get it and give it to you immediately. I would not like Mistress Frithuswith having misgivings any longer than absolutely necessary. I assure you I had no idea that she might be displeased when I sketched her." The old man's voice was unsteady, and he was visibly troubled, but nevertheless he added: "I have to admit though that it certainly is more than flattering for a artist to be believed able to capture a person's soul."

Vain git! Éomer felt furious. And yet... had not he himself felt that there was something special about the old carpenter's works? Suppressing his uncertainty, Éomer nodded curtly. "You'll find me in my study."

Only a little later the guard announced Calimab, who was carrying a case made of brownish paper. Reluctantly he put it on the king's desk, and opening it, Éomer was amazed at the number of sketches it held. Some were in silver point on vellum, others were drawn on paper in the same dark pen the Gondorean had used for Théodred's picture. They were of different sizes and spreading them out on his desk, Éomer counted eleven pictures, all of them showing Frithuswith. But it was the last one in the case that made Éomer blink. It showed Frithuswith's face, her keen eyes looking at the beholder with mocking challenge, one eyebrow slightly raised, her lips curled in a faint smile. It was not sketched in black, but in a warm, brownish red which added softness and vividness. Béma, she truly was a beautiful woman, despite her age!

"Éomer King."

Looking up, he found the old carpenter watching him with a determined expression on his face.

"I don't know if Mistress Frithuswith knows about all these sketches." Calimab blushed slightly, and pointing at the reddish one he explained: "She caught me at this one, and … well..." His blush deepened. "I thought it better to leave the kitchen before things got out of hand. I... I would very much like to regain her good opinion, so please, would you be so kind and hand these sketches over to her as a token of my esteem." He bowed in the grave Gondorean manner, his right hand covering his heart.

Éomer frowned. Despite all his vanity the man seemed sincere, but should he really support the old peacock in his attempt to make amends? But then: Frithuswith had a right to have her portraits back. He nodded, putting the sketches back into the case. "I will give these to Frithuswith, Master Calimab, but don't expect me to speak in your favour."

The carpenter inclined his head. "I thank you, Éomer King. But may I ask you something?"

"What?" Éomer did not even try to appear friendly.

Though visibly nervous, Calimab proceeded. "My Lord King, you said that Mistress Frithuswith might have misgivings about my intent for sketching her."

"Well?" Folding his arms in front of his chest, Éomer waited.

"As an artist and craftsman I truly believe that a good piece of artwork can mirror the very soul of what is pictured, but it cannot snatch away even the tiniest piece of it. And even if it could, I would never have attempted anything like that." The old man swallowed. "I would very much like Mistress Frithuswith to realise that."

"Then giving back all of the sketches you made might be a good start." Grudgingly Éomer had to admit that the quiet earnestness of the man's behaviour was impressing him.

"You say you will not speak up in my favour, but will you allow me to try and speak for myself?"

Éomer all but growled. "Master Calimab, I do not know what your plans are concerning Frithuswith, and certainly she is her own mistress. But be careful. She is a member of my household, and what is more, she not only fostered Prince Théodred but also me and my sister when our parents died. Should you cause her any grief, be sure you will have to answer to me."

"I do not aim to cause her grief, Éomer King, quite on the contrary." A faint smile crinkled Calimab's eyes. "But I'm afraid I'll need your help."

"My help?" Éomer was stunned at the Gondorean's brazenness.

Calimab simply nodded. "I beg your pardon, but yes, Éomer King, for I need a mirror, and I have none."

"A mirror? What for?"

Smiling, the greybeard pointed at the case. "If Mistress Frithuswith fears that I have tried to manipulate her by taking her picture, I will attempt to ease her misgivings by handing over a picture of myself to her. She then may decide if I can be trusted or not."

ooo

Opening the door to the queen's solar, where he knew he would find Frithuswith to hand her the case, Éomer could hardly suppress a groan. Amongst the women, busy sewing multi-coloured ribbons to the thick felt cushions that were to cover the benches, he immediately made out the quite prominent figure of Eorthwela. How could he have forgotten to talk to her about Mildgydh's wish? There were only three days left until the Yule festivities, so he better had take his chance now. Stepping into the room, he greeted the women, causing a chorus of female voices to answer.

"Ah, Éomer King, have you come to check on the progress with your queen's room?" Lady Mildred's voice rose above the general noise and suddenly all eyes looked at him expectantly.

The room had changed visibly since the last time he had seen it. Not only were the benches covered with cushions, but the entire room looked different with the women sitting around, their needlework on their knees, and a bright fire burning in the hearth.

What hit him as the most impressive change were the curtains that now framed the windows. The women had chosen a deep yellow that seemed to be glowing as if it had absorbed the beams of the low winter sun, giving the room a warm and cosy atmosphere. The walls were still naked, as the women wanted the queen herself to decide what kind of hangings she preferred, but the floor was covered with rugs in all shades of brown, green and yellow, their fabric and their colour likewise providing warmth. The large table was strewn with different ribbons, threads and needles as well as some cups and a couple of smallish baskets holding soft buns.

Bowing with a smile to the women of the royal household, Éomer could not but praise their efforts. "You made it a nice and cosy room, ladies, and I am sure the queen will love it."

"But does she like needlework at all?" One of the younger women had spoken up and was now frowned at by all the other women present. Blushing, she tried to defend herself. "Lady Éowyn did not like it at all and was more than reluctant. And we don't know much about Princess Lothíriel's preferences."

"Well," a plump woman near the fireplace chimed in, "Why not ask the king himself? He has talked to her, he should know, shouldn't he?"

Frithuswith snorted. "Berchthild, the king had little more than a sennight in Dol Amroth. He certainly has talked to the princess but I cannot imagine him to have had his focus on the princess' interest in needlework."

According to the women's differing temperament various sounds of mirth arose, from shy giggles to guffawing laughter. Poor Berchthild blushed in embarrassment, but once the mirth had died down, Eorthwela's calm voice could be heard. "I don't suppose Éomer King might have initiated a talk about needlework, but perhaps the princess had. And I do not think that she is interested in weaponry like Lady Éowyn. I never heard about Stoningland having shield-maidens."

"No, they don't. But the princess is an expert archer." Éomer found it hard not to laugh out loud at the horror-stricken faces in front of him.

"But why did you never say so?" Frithuswith's voice clearly showed her disappointment. "It would have saved us a lot of work had we known that she does not like needlework."

Smiling Éomer shook his head. "She does, Frithuswith. She loves doing embroidery and she also is very good at sewing." That wonderful shirt... her smell... Bema how could the simple thought of it unhinge him thus? He cleared his throat in an attempt to brace himself. "I don't know about weaving, but she is also interested in dying fabrics." After the short moment it took them to digest the news, all women present seemed to start talking at once and Éomer used the general commotion to hand Frithuswith the case. "Take that to your room," he whispered into her ear.

The old housekeeper looked puzzled. "You really...?"

Grinning, Éomer nodded. "He delivered all the sketches he has taken of you."

"All..." Frithuswith stood speechless and then grabbing the case, she hurried out of the room.

Having carried out that task, Éomer turned to the one he deemed much more difficult. With a polite smile he addressed Éothain's wife, asking her to accompany him to the nursery where Gytha's carpet had been put, as far as he knew..

Entering the chamber, he held the heavy wooden door open for Eorthwela to follow, while by warrior's habit, he scanned the room. The changes in the solar had already been surprising, but those in this room simply took his breath away. The nursery was furnished now, holding two large chests on both sides of the window, a shelf of light coloured wood and a narrow bed for the appointed nursemaid to use, besides the richly carved royal cradle that he had already seen at his first visit to the room. But what really took his breath away were the tapestries on the wall opposite to the fireplace, the only wall of the room that was not interrupted by any door or window.

The entire length of the wall was decorated with hangings, every piece sporting horses of different positions, age and coats, the single pieces being hung that close to one another that it seemed as if a herd of mares and foals was wandering at ease along the wall of the nursery, led by a cautiously winding old lead-mare, while the stallion was displayed in the last piece of tapestry, securing the rear guard as he would on the plains.

Stunned he turned to Eorthwela. "Béma's almighty horse, when did you make that?"

The woman laughed. "We did not make it, Éomer King. You don't seem to know how much time such work needs."

"But where did you get it from? I've never seen it before, and it is marvellous. Certainly such a treasure has not been hidden in Meduseld and not been on display." Stepping closer, he let his hands slide over the wool, taking in the details of the motive.

Eorthwela shrugged, her face serious now. "Frithuswith had this made when Prince Théodred got married and she prepared the nursery for the offspring she hoped him to father. She kept the tapestries in her personal chest once it became clear that the prince would not marry again."

Éomer found it difficult to get over his surprise. "She never talked about it."

Shaking her head, Eorthwela stepped up beside him. "I believe there are quite a lot of things Frithuswith has never talked about."

Éomer swallowed. How many expectations, how much hope had the old housekeeper put into this? How deep must her grief have been when she had to realise that there never would be the children she had been craving for? She, who had always been there for the needs of others. Swivelling round, he cleared his throat. "Let's hope that there soon will be children to fill this room with life."

Eorthwela smiled again. "I don't doubt that there will. But you certainly did not bring me here to talk about Frithuswith's tapestry."

"No, I did not even know that they existed. Some time ago I talked to Mildgydh about her wish to work the large loom." With some unease he noticed a deep furrow appear between Eorthwela's brows. But then, that was to be expected, he told himself. "I promised her to talk to you."

"What about?" Despite her calling him King now, her behaviour had not change from when they first had met on the wind-swept plains.

Pointing at the thick, colourful weave that covered the floor under the cradle, he explained. "I can well understand her wish and I appreciate her eagerness, Eorthwela. Why, this has been woven by my daughter Gytha. Please, have a look at it."

Still frowning, Éothain's wife obliged, kneeling on the floor to examine Gytha's work. After a while she looked up. "So what do you expect me to say, Éomer Cyning? The woof is regular, the fringe tucked in orderly, but I don't understand what this should have to do with my daughter's wish to weave."

Éomer shrugged. "I don't know anything about weaving, Eorthwela, and I'm not able to judge the quality of the work. But what I can comprehend, looking at this blanket or carpet or whatever you want to call it is the joy Gytha felt, weaving it."

The woman's frown deepened. "Your daughter is two years older than Mildgydh."

He could not deny that. "True, but this is not the first cloth she wove on the large loom."

Again she ran her hands over the fabric, but did not say anything.

"Eorthwela, Mildgydh is strong and tall for her age. She's eager to weave on the larger loom. And her reasoning makes sense. Give her a chance."

She grimaced. "If you had a young son who wanted to use a real, sharp sword at the age of ten, would you let him?"

"Certainly not unsupervised, but I would at least let him have a try."

Eorthwela snorted. "Men! What did I expect you to answer?." But then a smile stole into her features. "What did that big oaf of a husband of mine tell you to make you feel obliged to change my mind?"

He could not but smile, too. "Nothing. As a matter of fact Éothain was not happy with me interfering, but Mildgydh promised me three ells of ribbon if I managed to sway you before Yule."

Chuckling, Eorthwela shook her head. "So between the two of you, the king and his captain, you taught my daughter that men can be twisted around a girl's little finger and bribed if that doesn't work. But I will think about it." Turning, to go back to the solar, she stopped once more, and grinning, winked at him. "I would not deprive my king of the possession of three ells of ribbon, would I?"

ooo

He made for his study, feeling he needed some time alone. He had to write an answering letter to Éowyn and Faramir, but his head swam with the news he had learned today. And what was even more important: He wanted to write to Lothíriel, wanted to assure her that he understood her feelings. He had tried to answer her letter several times during the past days, but each time he had read it again, he had got absorbed in daydreams that had left him hard and aching, impeding any attempt of a sober answer. Perhaps the Gondorean messenger had better stay in Edoras over Yule, as he would not make it back to Minas Tirith before the solstice festivities there anyway.

He was about to open the door, when he saw Frithuswith coming back from her room. Stopping close to him, she looked up enquiringly, and even in the dimness of the corridor he discerned how pale she was. Without a word he put an arm around her shoulder and led her into his study and over to one of the upholstered chairs near the fireplace. The fact that she let him do so without any at least verbal resistance showed clearly how shattered she felt, which worried him deeply. Pulling another chair close, he sat down beside her. For a while they sat in silence, until Frithuswith heaved a ragged breath, lifting her eyes from the peat fire she had been staring at.

"How could he have taken so many sketches without me realising it?" She shook her head. "He must have drawn one daily until I finally caught him at it. And he has been as busy as a beaver with all the requests for portraits. Every single scullery maid has got one and they worship him because of that. I never asked him for one, because... " A faint blush crept into her cheeks and she averted her eyes. "And he did not only draw in the kitchens. He spent hours in the hall every day, copying the carvings. And he sketched in the stables, too. Not to mention the whittling he does in his quarters."

"Whittling?"

She nodded. "He bought a pear-wood log from Alhstan the carver two weeks ago and since then has been working on it. Wraps it up that carefully that none of the maids that clean the guest-houses has dared to have a look at it."

Éomer smiled. As always, she was informed about everything going on in Edoras in detail. And obviously she had considered details of Calimab's occupations worth having. She certainly knew about the old carpenter's devotion. Could it really be that the dragon of Meduseld was not immune to it? Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, Éomer made an attempt to find out.

"Frithuswith, Calimab admires you. Your opinion of him is important for him."

She angrily shook her head. "I want him to leave me alone. There are enough things for him to draw and enough silly wenches who would kiss his hands or whatever part he wants to be kissed just for being sketched by him. He is an excellent artist, I'll give you that, but I'm happy he's going to leave soon."

Thoughtfully Éomer scanned her face. She was again gazing into the fire, her lips clamped shut in an angry line, as if she had already said too much, but he could sense her uneasiness under the stern surface. "Frithuswith, why does he unsettle you so much?"

"What?" Her head flew up, but her gaze was unsteady, giving away her embarrassment.

"He has given back all portraits of you, so sure you can't claim that he might try to influence you in an uncanny way any more. He..."

She snorted. "How do you know he has? There might be more and..."

"Frithuswith, you yourself wondered where he found the time for all these pictures. How could there be even more? And I talked to him. I believe him." He shrugged. "I have problems to cope with his vanity – the way he dresses for example- and his pride as far as his art is concerned, though I think he is exceptionally good on his job. But I believe him to be a decent man, or otherwise I would not have allowed him to stay at Edoras, no matter what Erchirion said in favour of him.

Reaching for the basket beside the hearth, he put some more peat on the fire. "Nobody knew about those sketches, Frithuswith. Nobody expected him to have them. I demanded the one you caught him drawing, and he brought them all. It seems to be important for him that you do not think ill of him."

Her eyes sparkling angrily, she lifted her chin in defiance. "Tell me, Éomer Cyning, why are you taking that conceited Gondorean's side?"

Éomer groaned in frustration. "I'm not taking his side, Frithuswith. Quite on the contrary. I will never allow him to hurt you in any way, but I would like to understand your motives."

"And what entitles you to do so?" Her face was stern, and he felt that his patience was growing thin."

"I care for you, Frithuswith. I cannot bear to see you unhappy. And, "he added with a wry smile, "Éowyn would have my hide if she ever learned that you suffered any hurt and I did not at least try to prevent it."

Frithuswith shook he head. "Boy, if a pack of orcs or a horde of hill-men attacked Meduseld I would certainly need and expect you to defend and protect me. But as far as other things go... believe me: I'm old enough to cope for myself." Seeing his frown, she put a hand on his wrist. "Éomer, I'm thankful you got my pictures from Calimab, but there is nothing else you can do."

Grimacing he shook his head. Why did all the women he cared for had to be so headstrong? "I certainly know you are old enough to manage your own business, perhaps better than me myself, Frithuswith. But I want you to be happy." Putting his hand on hers, he looked at her seriously. "Frithuswith, after all you went through, after all you did for Éowyn and me... and for Rohan, you deserve to be happy."

Smiling she shook her head. "And to make me happy you try to pair me off with that grey-bearded peacock from Dol Amroth."

"No, not really, as I'm not sure if you want him." Squeezing her hand, he winked at her. "But if I knew you wanted him..."

"You would personally force him to marry me and stay in Rohan." She gave a low chuckle. "I'm not sure if you would need much forcing. He does not see reality at the moment because he idolises everything about Rohan, and I am part of that." Shaking her head, she looked back into the fire. "I don't know what I want, Éomer. But I know what I don't want: A man at my side who every wench on the premises bats her eyes at. " She swallowed, obviously trying to keep her lips from trembling. "I'm no fool, Éomer. I'm old, and my body does not cause a man to desire me any more. Perhaps he does not realise that at the moment, but he would soon get tired of me. There cannot be ..." Her voice having become shaky, she stopped and heaved a deep breath. "You yourself say that he's vain. How would he like to share his bed with … a crone like me?"

"Frithuswith, he is at least as old as you and..."

"No," she interrupted him, "He had more than one wench share his bed up at Beaccotlif, and who is he to resist temptation, if some strapping lass offers to lie with him? No, Éomer, I will not debase myself to a competition I stand no chance at. I had my life and I don't want anybody's pity. I'm not dead already and may still have some fun now and then with a nice bloke, given the opportunity, but I cannot bind a man to myself in earnest." Resolutely she stood, throwing her long silver-grey braid back over her shoulder. "The sooner he leaves, the less grief we'll cause each other."

He too rose, and halfway to the door she turned, a sad smile on her face. "Look, Éomer, there are things that can't become real, how sweet they may be as a dream. And believe me, once he's back in Gondor, he'll soon realise that."

Annotations:

I had red chalk on my mind when I thought of Calimab's last sketch of Frithuswith. I know it was not used in the Middle-Ages, but then Tolkien has buttons and potatoes in Middle-Earth, so I felt free to introduce it.