It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, 'wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon 'twill leap up and show the world a rose.
The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moon's a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.
-Mid-March, by Lizette Woodworth Reese
There was a stain on his cuff, and it would not do. He had been in such a hurry to leave his house this morning that even the close attentions of his wife had missed it, and now there was nothing to be done about it. Arthion, the Warden of the Houses of Healing, sighed and tried, once more, to scrub the stain out of his sleeve with a rapid fingernail and was once more unrewarded. Any more attempts and the cuff would fray, and that would look even worse.
Why are you so concerned? He heard his wife asking, as she had asked a half a dozen times that morning as he fussed and fretted about what he was to wear to court that morning. It is just the Lady Rhoswen you are seeing this morning, not the Steward, and she has seen you in a good deal worse.
Yes, yes, all of that was true. But all the same, it was a matter of personal and professional pride that he should appear at his best before the woman who would one day be the wife of his sovereign. And there was talk that the Lady was much changed since she had returned from Dol Amroth, that she had taken on the airs and graces of a great lady and would not reply favorably to those whose clothes she did not think smart enough or whose gifts were not sufficiently grand. Some said she was going beyond her station, that the daughter of a minor lord from a coastal fief had no business whatever with the haughty show she was putting on, future wife of the steward or not, but Arthion had a hard time believing that the young woman he had met several months ago, the woman who had ground herbs and dug furrows in gardens and held basins for children to be sick into, would ever be really, truly haughty. But then, most of the gossips had not met the Lady Rhoswen. Although there might be new fuel for the fire, after today's meetings with the craftsmen.
The back of the Great Hall was crowded with representatives from the city's various crafting guilds, each wearing their finest clothing and each carrying a petition for the Lady's perusal, as well as a gift to ensure she would remember to read them. Arthion was here for the apothecaries, though his post was mainly ceremonial – they had asked him to take their petition for obvious reasons, that he knew the Lady already and she was known to look favorably upon his voice and opinion. The Favoring Fair, this was sometimes called, and Arthion knew all too well how its outcomes could change the life of a man, or his guild.
After all, had he not won his appointment as Warden of the Houses of Healing from the Lady Finduilas, after she had asked for his services after her own Favoring Fair as a young bride?
He had been a young man then, and Finduilas a young woman, newly brought from Dol Amroth, glowing with the certain kind of beauty that comes out of nervousness and careful manners, and he had been completely won over by his lord's delicate bride, smiling and blushing as her husband, sitting at her arm, lead her through the forms and wordings of the event. It had been easier then to bend his knee and offer his gifts, but it was still easy to admire the sights of the assembled guildsmen and women, and the Lady who sat at the end of the hall, waiting to receive her supplicants. But no husband sat at Rhoswen's side to moderate her words or smiles– Boromir, they said, was still gone in the wilds of the North. Denethor, too, was absent, though he would have little enough role to play in these proceedings anyway. It was a wife's task to keep relations between the Lord and the guild amicable, and a young bride's responsibility to meet the men with whom she would have to treat and trade as a married woman.
Rhoswen and Boromir were not yet married, but she had taken it upon herself to hold the Favoring Fair anyway – a bold move, some might say, but Arthion admired her for it. Finduilas had been overwhelmed by the great circumstance that seemed to surround her every move in the city, the fanfare put on for her by a husband who, knowing full well the twenty years between them, sought to show his love in great displays and grand gestures, and it had shown during her public appearances with him. Rhoswen, however, was different – different even from the woman who had left the city before the winter. Arthion could see that even from the back of the room. She sat in a modestly draped chair with a low back, a concession to the height and power that the Steward's, and, higher still, the King's, chair implied. Unlike Finduilas, whose gaze had flickered back and forth between her husband and her audience, Rhoswen gave off an air of enormous calm, as though she did this frequently and without effort. Her brother Erun stood behind her, and several of her friends moved between her chair and the table where the guilds' gifts were being laid. A small strongbox sat at the foot of her chair, and it was into this fierce looking chest that she herself was placing the petitions – a sure sign to the guilds that she took her duty to them seriously.
The Warden could see who had already submitted their appeals from a simple glance at the table, already heavy with gifts – a set of ink-black sables from the furriers, bolts of cloth in a myriad of colors from the dyers, and a multitude of weights from the fullers and the weavers. A pair of shoes, embroidered on their uppers with roses, from the cobblers, and impossibly tall white wax tapers from the candlewrights. The foodstuffs that the guilds of the millers, butchers, and bakers had undoubtedly been put away, although there was still a box on the table that Arthion thought might contain spices.
The apothecary's guild was being called, and Arthion made his way through the press towards the front of the hall, trying to moderate his step and not appear too eager. From far away the Lady had looked regal, but as he approached, it was the same face and the same ready smile that greeted him as it always had.
"We are glad to see you again, Master Arthion," Rhoswen said without an introduction from the chamberlain, whose job it was to read the list of applicants, or from Erun, who was doubtless helping her remember all the names and faces. "And I look forward to returning to my work in the houses very soon in the coming months."
Arthion nodded, returning her smile and handing over the gift the guildmaster had given him, a pot of beeswax carefully rendered into a salve smelling wonderfully of roses. The perfume escaped the pot without the lid being removed, though Rhoswen did so for effect, and her smile broadened at the smell. "What a lovely gift," she said, and, passing the pot to one of her attendants, took the tightly bound scroll, sealed with the guild's mark in heavy wax, and laid it in her coffer.
And it was over. Arthion stepped away, dazed for a moment that she would only have the barest of moments for him. He stepped back through the crowd, feeling very ready to return home to the honest comfort of his wife and a different pair of shoes that did not bite his toes as these court pair did. He had very nearly left the hall entirely when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Maireth, the lady's handmaid, lurking quietly at the back of the hall. "My lady asks that you stay your leave a while, if it is convenient," the servant whispered in his ear, her face passive. Arthion nodded, suddenly understanding that Rhoswen was playing this game of state far better than he had realized. She had not cut him short, only kept her remarks brief so that she would not be seen to show anyone undue favor while the hungry eyes of the other guilds were watching. When all the others had left, then they would talk.
The Warden lingered in the hall as the crowd dwindled and the table grew more and more crowded and the chest ever fuller. When the last supplicants had make their gifts and departed, Rhoswen waited until the last man had made his exit and the door had shut behind him before she sighed and let her shoulders relax, letting her brother rub them for her for a moment as they exchanged a little bit of laughter.
"Did you see how uncomfortable the man from the tanners looked in his suit? Poor man, it had to have been much too small for him. And that nervous boy from the smiths who rattled on about how it was his father who should have come, but he had been forced since his father was ill and the guildmasters said was his work anyway, and he should present it?"
"It was a very fine piece of trelliswork," Erun admitted, gathering up a loose scroll and setting it back inside Rhoswen's box. "Would you like these in your room, or shall I read them first?"
The lady considered. "Read them first, and leave them for me. I shall look at them before dinner and we will discuss them afterwards. The linen, there, we shall give to the almshouse, and I don't know what we shall do with the wool. The Guards, perhaps, can use it for their families. Faeldes, will Miriel want these shoes?" she asked, businesslike, pointing to the rose-covered pair. "They are far too small for me – I suppose they meant it as a compliment, but even fair ladies in poems cannot be expected to have feet that small."
"My lady," Maireth interrupted, "The Warden of the Houses is waiting for you."
Rhoswen turned, distracted from the delights of the gift-laden table, and nodded, smiling again when she saw Arthion. "How terrible of me. Bring a flagon of wine, and some cups, Maireth, and another chair for Master Arthion. He has been patient waiting for his audience, and even more patient with me after. Master, my apologies for making you wait so. A necessary evil, I am afraid."
"Completely understood, Lady," The Warden said, drawing closer and taking the chair a black-clad servant offered him silently.
"The salve was lovely," she reiterated, and Arthion knew, now, that she had been sincere with him as she may not have been with others, like the well-meaning cobblers. "I shall probably need it when I begin planting my garden again this spring."
"If you have need of more, lady, we can certainly provide it."
"Oh, you shall have to teach me how to make it myself. Ioreth, I am sure, knows how. She is still with you in the houses?"
"Indeed, my lady, and still as talkative as ever she was. She has been looking forward to your return, as we all have been,"Arthion said sincerely.
"I have been looking forward to my return as well, and I hope I will still be welcome in the houses as I was of old. Have you begun planting the herb beds? I had hoped to help with those this spring."
"We would be glad of the help, lady – it has not been attended to, yet," the Warden said. "We have been a little busier of late."
"Busy?" Rhoswen asked politely, pouring the wine and handing the first cup to Arthion before she filled her own.
They talked of this and that as the wine was brought. Rhoswen wanted to know about the weather, about Arthion's children and their friends, about the patients they were seeing now in the houses and what the gardening prospects looked like for the spring. It was everything and nothing at the same time, just little bits of life in Minas Tirith, the price of bread and the shortage of good firewood. It wasn't until Arthion found himself in the middle of a very expansive catalog of the soliders and the injuries they had been seeing coming in from Osgiliath that one of Rhoswen's ladies coughed, and the healer realized how long he had been going on.
"Forgive me, lady – I lost track of the time. I must have been boring you." So focused and committed had been his audience's gaze that he had not seen the others. He had been speaking solely to Rhoswen, caught up in her attention.
"Forgive nothing," the Lady said quickly. "I was intrigued, and shall have to hear more about it at another time. I fear I am keeping you from your patients – and your nuncheon," she added with a smile as Arthion's stomach, empty after skipping the morning meal, grumbled audibly. "Please send my best respects to your wife and daughters. Faeldes, have we something we could send home with Master Arthion? That fabric there will do nicely. Two growing daughters must have new dresses sometime."
Arthion accepted the wrapped bolt of rich russet brown with surprise. "Thank you, Lady! They will be glad of the gift, I am sure."
Rhoswen smiled. "I must be sure to come to the Houses when they are helping you – I am sure they are delightful young women, and I should very much like to meet them."
Arthion nodded again, holding the bundle close to his chest as he bowed his way out of the room, the great doors closing heavily behind him. It was a long, strange walk back to his house with his overlarge bundle, thinking as he went about all the little, unimportant things the Lady had asked about.
"What kept you so long up at the King's house? Your nuncheon's got cold – I didn't know when you'd be back," his wife Luineth said, rising from her seat at the table as her husband appeared in the door. She dismissed the maidservant tending the fire and began laying a bowl and spoon out for her husband herself as he sat down, his stomach giving another audible grumble.
"The Lady Rhoswen wanted to talk with me," the Master of the Houses said, easing off his court shoes and flexing his toes. "But she could not be seen to do so by the other guildmasters. It was a matter of an extra hour, Luineth, nothing more."
"Talking - What about?" Luineth wanted to know.
"Everything," Arthion said, still somewhat bewildered by the whole ordeal. "The price of food, the weather. She asked after you – I told her you were doing very well."
"Oh, and very nice of her ladyship that was, though it doesn't keep your meals warm." Luineth said sharply, swinging a pothook back onto the fire to reheat her husband's stew.
"She sent her apologies for keeping me late, and a bolt of cloth for the girls," Arthion countered, carefully folding back one corner of the wrapping to show his wife the color.
"My word! And you going on about the price of food! I suppose you bored her about the healers and how you've all been overworked lately with all these new casualties from Osgiliaith, too?"
"She seemed most interested in that," Arthion countered, sipping slowly on the soup, still very cold despite its time over the fire. "She asked every kind of question you could think of – how many, and what their wounds were, and their disposition. I could answer very little."
Luineth sniffed and nodded. "Well, then she's not as silly as some, then. She can learn a great deal about the state of the City from what goes on in the Houses – and it sounds to me as though she has."
If Rhoswen had learned a great deal, it was another task entirely to decide what to do with it. The candles in her rooms had already been changed once, and they were burning still as the servants, stifling yawns and trying to keep their tired eyes open, shuffled around Rhoswen's apartments doing a last bit of the days' work while their mistress and her friends sat around the fire, reading the day's documents.
"The weavers complain here about the roads between the city and Anfalas," Erun read aloud in the privacy of Rhoswen's chambers. "They cannot make their cloth if the spinners have no fleeces because of the problem of transport. The blacksmiths, too, complain of the roads, here, and here, though they say the charcoal burners will not provide enough wood because of them."
"Then roads must be on our list," Rhoswen said. "Blacksmiths must have wood to burn, and weavers yarn to make their cloth. We hear nothing from the carters on this? Surely they would be the ones to know?"
"They have no guild," Faeldes said. Rhoswen nodded, rubbing her eyes.
"I will see about the carters, Lady," Iorlas volunteered. "I know what taverns will house them, and a little ale makes anyone a talker."
"Thank you, Iorlas," Rhoswen said sincerely, smiling at the troubadour. "I will make sure you have money for your endeavors. Ale is an expense, however happy you may be in the spending of it." She put her hand to her mouth and yawned again, opening her eyes wider as if to remind herself she was still supposed to be awake. "Now, the next petition, Faeldes-"
But Faeldes would have none of that. "No next petitions for you, my girl. It is a warm sleepy posset and bed, or nothing at all. You are half-asleep in that chair, and so is Lord Erun, though he is trying to hide it for your sake, or the sake of his honor, I know not which."
Rhoswen turned sharply around on her brother, who was just at that moment stifling a yawn, and sighed. Erun shrugged and gave her an apologetic smile. "Oh, very well. But tomorrow—"
"Tomorrow we shall go outside and work in your garden," Faeldes went on. "All work and no water makes for a dead plant. One thing you shall learn when you are married, my girl, is that if you do not take some time for your own problems your husband's become insufferable. So. Let us have no more talk of petitions or petitioners until tomorrow afternoon when we have had some sunshine to cheer us."
"Yes, Mother," Rhoswen said jestingly, getting a knowing smile from Faeldes for her trouble.
"If your own mother were here, she'd say the same."
Rhoswen began piling the petitions back into the chest, but Maireth shooed her away from the work and herded her towards her bed, unlacing a part of her gown so Rhoswen could manage the rest on her own. By the time Maireth had begun braiding her mistress's hair, Rhoswen's eyes were already closed, nodding off to sleep in her chair. Maireth finished her work and shook her charge awake, tucking her into bed as though she were a child of four again. Faeldes lingered at the door, waiting for Maireth to return.
"Do not come over-early tomorrow," Maireth said wisely. "We will let her sleep, and let her be none the wiser of it."
Faeldes nodded. "Does she have trouble sleeping still?"
"Sometimes," Maireth acknowledged. "She is a worrier, and the world has troubles in it she cannot solve. That is what keeps her awake now – not Boromir. She is tired tonight, though – she will sleep enough for tomorrow."
Rhoswen blinked for a few moments at the pattern of the bed hangings, her eyes adjusting to the half-light seeping in through the curtain-ties. It was brighter than she had expected outside the fabric, lit up with a rosy glow so that every turn and curve in the pattern was illuminated in strange shadow. Sitting up and nudging aside a curtain fold, a blast of sunlight hit her face and she instinctively drew back into the darkness of the bed, eyes smarting.
Is it really so late that the sun is already up?
"Maireth," she called, just a little vexed as she pulled herself out of bed, careful to go the other way and avoid the sun for a few moments longer. "You let me oversleep. I told Faeldes – "
"You told Faeldes nothing, my love, except that you would go outside today. Nothing was said of the hour," her maidservant said, helping her into a robe and guiding her half-asleep mistress to her worktable, where a tray filled with food was laid out. Rhoswen opened her mouth to protest, but Maireth was not having any of it. "Complain if you like, lovely, but even the Queens of Numenor ate breakfast before they went and settled affairs of state. And so shall you eat, and get your work done afterwards, if you will stop wasting time with this nonsense of waking up too late."
Rhoswen frowned and bit dutifully into a piece of the cold meat pie in front of her. "I am not five any more, Maireth," she said, swallowing and frowning at the older woman, who had half-way disappeared into a clothes chest. "You do not need to threaten me over a little thing like eating."
"Ah, but it seems I do, little bird, when you do not eat and refuse to sleep and run yourself ragged chasing after the world's problems. When you stop doing all of those things, then I will stop treating you like a child. Until then, or until you give me a baby of your own to chase, I am afraid you are quite trapped with me. Now," Maireth planted her feet and stared down the younger woman. "You are not leaving this room until you have cleared that plate. The Gardens at the Houses can wait at least for that, or you'll be in their care yourself."
She is right, you know, that annoyingly pragmatic side of her mind said. Empty stomachs never worked as well as full ones.
"Has Faeldes said where she will meet me?" Rhoswen asked, focusing on getting a little more information out of Maireth if she had to spend the time here eating instead of rushing off to help plant seedlings.
"It was thought you might do a little work in your own garden today, but Master Arthion left word this morning that if you wanted for employment today they would be glad of your help with the transplanting, as you asked to do. You have not missed much," Maireth counted a rising complaint before it was voiced. "It was but an hour ago, and the sun has a ways to go yet before it is too hot to safely do more. He said his daughters would be there, if you would like to meet them."
"I should like that very much," Rhoswen said, taking another bite of cold pie and mentally rummaging through her wardrobe, trying to remember where her gardening dress had gone.
Late or not, she received a warm welcome in the Houses of Healing that morning, work-smock in hand and hair tied back to begin what promised to be a long day of plantings. Long, but honest, Rhoswen thought to herself, smiling as she dug her fingers into the still-cool dirt and felt it bunch into the creases of her palms as she prepared a hole for the first of the little seedlings in her planting basket. She had missed this in Dol Amroth. It had been winter, true enough, but she had not started her own seedlings as she would have done here, and though Lottie loved to dirty a dress with some adventure or another, gardening was not really something she would go out of her way to do. Another young woman came to join her at the same bed, out of the way from the other gardeners, and set down her tray with a huff. Looking up, Rhoswen could see she was not more than sixteen, and had that look common to all girls who have been asked to do something they don't like.
"A long morning so far?" Rhoswen asked sympathetically, catching the girl's attention through the silence.
"I've told my father a dozen times I'd much rather be inside with the healers, not out in the sun," the girl said sullenly. "Or better still, not here at all."
"Well, we shall have to find some better way to pass the time," Rhoswen said with a smile. "Planting alone and in silence is no fun at all for a girl to spend her days. Will you not work with me for a little? I would be glad of the company, at least."
The girl's frown did not go far, but she at least sat down again, toying with one of the leaves on a planting in her basket but making no move to get her hands dirty. "I don't think I know you," she said, studying Rhoswen's face as the older woman dug her hands into the ground again. "You have a coastal accent. Are you new here?"
Anonymity – what a blessing. "I recently returned to the city," Rhoswen said, bending the truth a little. "I was visiting my cousin out in Dol Amroth for a while, at the Court of Prince Imrahil." A little truth, a little falsehood. Let us see what she makes of that.
"Dol Amroth! Is it really as wonderful there as people say? With the parties and the Courts of Love and all that?" the girl asked, a sudden change from the sullen creature she had been earlier. "I heard the Lady Lothiriel is lovely."
"She is, very lovely," Rhoswen said, forgetting for a moment that in this girl's eyes, she was merely another healer with her hands full of dirt. "Her house is full of songs."
"I wish our house were full of songs," the girl said with disappointment in her voice. "Or the King's house, at least. Was the Lady Rhoswen there while you were there?"
"She was," Rhoswen said with a benign smile, reaching for another plant and expertly picking off a few scraggly leaves before setting it into the next hole and patting the earth down around it. "Though I did not see her much," she added for the benefit of the story.
"She's just come back to the city, too," the girl informed her. "My father the Warden went to see her yesterday. He said she was very much changed from when she was here before, but I don't know if that's true." Ah, so this is one of Arthion's daughters! I knew I recognized the face! So he thinks I have changed. Well, that is not so bad as some.
" I've never met her," the girl went on, "But I've heard she's a bit of a bore. At least, she seems that way. She's got a troubadour-guardsman who's absolutely the handsomest man in Gondor and head-over-heels in love with her and she doesn't care at all for him! His name's Iorlas – have you met him?"
Rhoswen, who was taking all this in with a generous measure of good humor and amusement, could only nod, wondering what Lottie would think of this girl-child's assessment of Iorlas and his disposition towards her. "I've heard one or two of his songs, I think. They were very popular in Dol Amroth. "
"Do you have a favorite? I like 'Who Wished to Hunt' the best. I think it'd be romantic to have a song written about you," the girl opined, the sullen attitude of ten minutes prior almost gone.
"I think it might be a good deal of bother, too," Rhoswen said, totally truthful for a moment. "And not all men can write love songs, either."
"If I were the Lady Rhoswen I'd be after Iorlas in a heartbeat. He's so much more interesting than the Lord Boromir."
"I'm sure the Lord Boromir has many fine qualities that Master Iorlas does not," Rhoswen said fairly, prickling a little bit inside at the slight to her beloved. "He is the Steward's son, after all. Would not a great deal of money and power be preferable to a life lived with a penniless troubadour?" That is not why I am marrying him, but let us see what she makes of that.
"I suppose," the girl said, considering. "But he's so much older than she is! He's practically ancient." She dragged the last word out as though it were the decrepit Denethor that Rhoswen were marrying, and not his virile elder son, and Rhoswen had to smile again, remembering how far off forty seemed when she was only sixteen years old. Not that nearly four years made a great deal of difference, but still.
"How quick the young are! Perhaps there's something to be said for marrying an older man," she proposed fairly, sitting back on her heels and turning to look at her companion for a moment. "My betrothed is a little older, but it seems no great difference to me. My family chose him for me because they thought he could provide well for me, because they knew he would keep me safe."
"Your family chose him for you? That must have been awful. Not romantic at all." the girl declared, suddenly sympathetic again to the plight of a fellow-sufferer in the world of womanhood.
Rhoswen had to shrug. "Not much romance at all, to be fair, but not awful, either, though I am sure I thought so at the beginning. We found we could love each other after we met, and I think we shall do all right in time. We may not have any grand songs, but we will have each other, and love between us, and I think that will suffice."
"When are you getting married?"
"When he returns home," the White Rose said, digging down for another planting. "He is away now on a long journey, though, and I do not know when that return shall be."
"What's he like? Do you miss him terribly?"
"I do," Rhoswen said, truthful to the core. "I miss him every day. As for what he is like…" She sat back again and pondered for a moment, imagining Boromir as she remembered him best – in his traveling clothes, riding away from Osgiliath alone. She liked the image - but not the story it told. "He is tall, and fair-haired, with a beard that makes him look very distinguished." She glanced at her young friend and saw her frowning. "And it is not so bad to be kissed by a man with a beard as you suppose, before you ask," she teased, making the girl blush. "He has a broad chest and strong hands with a little bit of callus, just here, from his sword," she gestured across her own palm, grimy with an hour's dirt. "And his eyes – his eyes are blue, and they make me feel as though standing with him I am in the safest place in the world."
Rhoswen suddenly felt girlishly young again, thinking of Boromir in the love-sick terms of a girl in her adolescence. How often she had played that game with the other girls of the castle and the village, talking of the boys they liked, and what made them desireable. She did not remember the particulars of those dreamed-up men of long ago, but she did remember they were not much like Boromir in her mind's eye. Lottie had played the same game sometimes, with her younger companions, but Lottie was very much kin to this young woman – caught up in the idea of great songs and stories.
"Is there someone you like?" she asked her companion, and the young woman thought for a moment. "Some young lord you wish would catch your eye?"
"I think Lord Erun's very handsome," the girl said fairly, and Rhoswen had to laugh, nodding.
"There are a great many women who would agree with you on that score. He was well-talked of in Dol Amroth. But is there no one of your own acquaintance, not one of the guardsmen or…" she cast her hand towards the main body of the Houses, where several of the apprentice healers, tall, gangly youths just coming into the flower of their adolescence, were working with their teacher, "One of the young men of this house?"
The younger woman ducked her head as if she was ashamed and shook her head. Her glance flickered towards a sound outside in the courtyard, and Rhoswen watched with a little bit of amusement as the younger girl tried quickly to look busy. But it was not quick enough for the voice in the courtyard, which approached their patch of garden with quick and angry steps.
"Thariel, I brought you here to be useful, not spend your morning idling and keeping others from their work! " Arthion called angrily from outside the garden, coming in to curtail his daughter's tongue looking every inch the displeased father. He turned to leave and saw Rhoswen, and his face turned apologetic. "Lady, a thousand apologies. I did not know you were working here. I would have sent her elsewhere if I had known. She has some very wild opinions sometimes, and an overeager tongue to spread them," he added with a dark look at his daughter. Thariel, for her part, had been red in anger at being found by her father, but that color was fading quickly as she realized that Arthion had addressed her new friend as 'Lady', and there was only one person in the city he could mean.
"And I have heard a great many of them in the past half-hour," Rhoswen said, rising to her feet and brushing her dress off, "I was glad for the company. Though I think you may have frightened the girl a little overmuch, Master Arthion. She did not know to whom she spoke," she said kindly.
Thariel looked totally bewildered, and her father scowled, a look that Rhoswen thought the world did not see very often. "Oh, Thariel, what have you been speaking of?"
"Nothing harmful, Master Arthion," Rhoswen cut in, before Thariel, shame-faced and secretive, was forced to say anything in her own condemnation. "We talked of young men, and betrothals, and the songs of Dol Amroth. Nothing terrible. As I said, I was glad for the company." She said all of this lightly, before Thariel had a chance to respond beyond a frightened peep, her gaze shifting between her father and the woman she now knew to be the Lady Rhoswen. "I would be gladder still if Thariel were allowed to stay here for a little while. I will make sure she makes herself useful," she added, exchanging a knowing grin with Arthion's still terrified daughter.
"If she is not, you will send her straight back to the nursery. Where it seems she belongs still," Arthion said solidly, giving his daughter one last glare before turning on his heel and returning to the rest of the Houses. Thariel did not seem to know what to do with herself, and remained standing in the stone archway that served as an entryway to this garden.
"Lady, if I had known..." she finally said quietly, her voice shaking.
"It is a lesson learned, Thariel, and one I hope you will not forget. It is better to think before speaking – and to know your table companions when you do. But I was glad for the honesty," Rhoswen admitted. "It was refreshing. Though I cannot think what Boromir would say to being thought 'ancient'," she said with a smile. It did not seem to reassure Thariel, but she said nothing. "Now, let us get these plants in the ground before your father comes back and browbeats us both!" She picked up the basket of plants Thariel had forgotten earlier and moved to another planting bed, an island that the two of them could work on across from each other in. Arthion's daughter knelt down tentatively, digging into the dirt much slower than Rhoswen did, still processing all that had just happened.
"I am sorry I called you a bore." Thariel said a few moments later, still obviously very much in the throes of shame. Rhoswen had to chuckle at that one.
"That is one apology I will accept, though I suppose next to Lottie I do seem rather boring," the older woman admitted.
"Lady…Lothiriel?" Thariel asked, wondering aloud who 'Lottie' could be.
"Yes, Lothiriel. Lottie is the name her family calls her by. And she is very lovely – I was telling the truth about that. She is very much like you – very strongly opinionated. And she thinks Boromir is rather too old for me, too, but she also knows that he is very much in love with me, and that has made it a little better for her. And she made me confront Iorlas about his songs," she added, in the way that all girls have of conveying secrets they deem to be of great value to their listeners. "You see, I did not like him at first, and I had to be convinced of the value of a troubadour and his wares."
"You didn't like his songs?" Thariel asked, amazed. Rhoswen shook her head.
"Perhaps when you are older, Thariel, and the world is better known to you, you would understand my reasons. It is enough to say I had them – and they are gone now." Yes, I trust him and his reasons now. He loves my betrothed just as much as he loves me – and he would not betray his captain. A man who sets so much by a courtier's code could not do that.
Both sets of eyes turned towards the doorway to their little patch of garden as the gravel crunched a little ways away, taking in the sight of a man in a plain gray tunic overwhelmed by a bright blue and heavily embroidered cloak, obscured ever so slightly by the bulky package strapped over his shoulder, round at the bottom and tapering to an elongated point.
"Lady, I have been looking all over the city for you," Iorlas announced, bowing slightly. "You are a hard woman to find when Maireth has her way. I have news about the carters and the roads, if you will hear it."
"Faithful Iorlas! We were just speaking of you. Save it for later, or Maireth will have your head and mine. I was told not to think on affairs of state today, and I mean to follow her directions exactly. Now, sit down and sing a song for my friend here. This is one of Arthion's daughters, Thariel, and she says she is a great admirer of your works."
It was a little put-on, this hospitable merriment of Rhoswen's, but it did no great harm – Iorlas for his own part noticed it, and swept a bow for her that would have impressed the most practiced of courtiers, settling himself down on a bench nearby to take his lute out of its carrying case and tune it for a moment. "And what song would you have me play, fair lady," he asked, just as much a charmer as when he had performed in Dol Amroth for the adoring sighs and smiles and perfumed handkerchiefs of Lothiriel's coterie. The young woman laughed nervously and shrugged.
"You will have to forgive her, Iorlas, she did exactly the same thing you did when we first met and said a few things she later regretted," Rhoswen explained. "And I think she is a bit star-struck by you and your zealous charm." Iorlas dropped a fair bit of his 'zealous charm' and nodded knowledgably at Thariel.
"She is terribly clever at hiding herself when she chooses. Did you ask her to come to your bed later?" he asked baldly. "Because that is exactly what I did, and she still tolerates me. Whatever you have said cannot be much worse."
That, at least, got Thariel to laugh and loosen up a little, and Iorlas leaned back on the bench, still plucking his lute strings experimentally.
"For our new friend Thariel, then… a new song! One you will have to share with your friends, if you like it," Iorlas decided. "I just composed this last week, while we were on the road home. We had stopped for water, and the Lord Erun had picked a flower from the side of the road and put it in his sister's hair, and she looked radient. And the song came to me." He gave another experimental chord and then began.
"Springtime is in my mistress' face. Springtime is in my mistress' face!
And summer in her eyes, her eyes! And summer in her eyes, her eyes, her eyes!
Within her bosom – within her bosom autumn's changes.
But in her heart, but in her heart, her heart are winter's rages."
He finished with a flourish and smiled while Rhoswen clapped politely, smiling a little to herself as she reflectd on the song.
"But that seems so cruel!" Thariel exclaimed. Rhoswen glanced at Iorlas with an interested smile and then back at Thariel, eyebrow raised inquisitively. "That the woman you love doesn't love you back!" Thariel exclaimed. "Her heart is as cold as winter storms! Are you sure you couldn't love him?" she asked Rhoswen sincerely. "It would make a good song! Better even than marrying the son of the Steward!"
"Cruel? Would it not be crueler to abandon the affection of an absent lover?" Rhoswen asked. That silenced Thariel as she found she had not considered that possibility at all. "In the tale of Beren and Luthien, does not Luthien remain true to her love for Beren even when her father forbade her to see him? Does not Amroth delay his parting from Middle Earth so that he could once more find Nimrodel, and throw himself into the sea rather than parting with the land where she might be buried? Is constancy not also something a poet may sing about?"
Thariel looked sufficiently cowed by all this evidence, and she nodded, awed, it seemed, by Rhoswen's ready knowledge of the old elvish romances.
"These are all good questions," Iorlas said as Rhoswen returned to her replanting, evidently trying harder than Rhoswen to capitalize on the teaching moment he saw in play, "And well worth the asking, little Thariel. These are the sorts of things which we discuss at the Courts of Love. You have not chosen your first opponent very well, though – the Lady Rhoswen was the victor in Arguments at the last convocation of the courts, and she had especially good teachers in Dol Amroth."
"But I thought that was you!" Thariel said, looking from her poetic idol to the woman who was quickly becoming far more than the daughter of Arthion could have imagined previously.
"I merely finished what he started," Rhoswen said humbly, smiling to herself at the compliment Iorlas had given her. No one said anything, and Rhoswen suddenly found the silence stifling. Noticing that nearly all the plants in both her tray and Thariel's were gone, she rose, dusting the front of her dress where she had been kneeling in the dirt, and walked quickly off to procure some more. Thariel's growing awe of her was frightening her, a little. But Iorlas would talk her down. Had not he done the same thing when they had first met?
Steady yourself, or you'll begin to think like Serawen does, some little cautious corner of her mind whispered. You are a woman like any other, and Thariel is a girl trying to find her way in the world with what knowledge she's been given. Which seems to be all songs and stories from her friends, if this time with her has been any judge.
When she returned, new seedlings tucked under her arm in a long, low basket, Iorlas and Thariel were again deep in conversation, and Rhoswen paused for a while at the doorway to the garden to listen – it seemed they were still discussing her.
"But how does she know so much? It's like she sees what you're about to say before you say it. My mother does that, but she's ages older than her."
"She listens," Iorlas said wisely. "A trait all young women would do well to cultivate at an earlier age, I think. And young men, too, for it would make us wiser in the ways of the world. Yoneval taught me that."
"Yoneval taught you? The Yoneval? The greatest troubadour in Belfalas?"
"Certainly. Everything I know about song and story I learned from him. Did your friends not tell you that? I thought it was quite common knowledge."
"Well, they told me, but I didn't think it was…well...true. Sometimes when we tell each other stories we…add things in. To make it more interesting. They wouldn't be very interesting stories otherwise."
"I take it, little Thariel, that you do not like helping your father here?" Iorlas' voice was calm and without a hint of judgement in it - he was obviously trying to get a better feeling for the young woman as well.
"It's always very dull in the Houses," Thariel said. "Nothing interesting ever happens here. Except today, of course." She paused, and then said, tentatively, "So, the Lady Rhoswen does know a great deal about songs and stories and the Courts of Love, doesn't she?"
"Indeed she does – far more than me, though she will not say it. And she is a good teacher, if you would listen to her."
"Then why does she come here? Why does she not stay in her rooms and compose songs? Other ladies do that!"
"Other ladies do not need to know the workings of an entire city," Iorlas countered. "And the Lady Rhoswen does not like to be idle. Usefulness is always her intention – she argues in the courts because it helps her learn the nature of the law. She plants in your father's garden because it helps her learn the nature of our wars."
"It does?" Thariel sounded shocked.
"What better way to know how a battle fares than by how many wounded lie within these walls? How better to know the morale of the soldiers than by listening to them when they are at their weakest and most vulnerable, and unable to fight back?"
"I never thought of that."
"You would do well to stay a little while here with her, then," Iorlas suggested.
"Are you leaving?" Thariel asked, with the voice of a girl hoping for more from a man she admires. Rhoswen bit back another bemused smile.
"Where my lady commands me, I must go, and I have business of hers to attend to."
"What sort of business?"
Iorlas must have smiled at her interest – there was a brighter note in her voice, and his, as he answered. "I gather intelligence for her in places she cannot hear. And you might do the same, and learn by it," he added. There was a pause – Thariel was obviously thinking. "Where might you go where the Lady Rhoswen cannot?" he asked innocently, without any lead in his voice that she could follow.
" Oh!" Thariel realized. "The kitchens, and houses of the widows on my street, and the market places, and –"
"Now you see the usefulness of many friends," Iorlas said, interrupting her trail of thought, the gravel crunching under his feet as he rose to leave. "Perhaps I will see you again here, little Thariel, and we will sing a song together."
"Oh, Iorlas, are you leaving?" Rhoswen asked, as though she had only just come up to the doorway as her troubadour passed through it. Iorlas, beyond the reach of Thariel's eyes, seemed to realize what his mistress had been doing, and his smile widened.
"Indeed, Lady," he said, playing his part very well. "But I think Thariel will stay a little. I will give my report later, then, after the evening meal, if Maireth will let me pass."
"I will see to it that she does," Rhoswen said, continuing into the garden as Iorlas made his bow and departed. "Did you talk to Iorlas, then?" she asked, as if she had not heard most of the conversation. Thariel nodded quickly, busying herself with the new seedlings to give her hands something to do and, Rhoswen suspected, to avoid looking at the woman she and Iorlas had been discussing. "He is a most interesting man, Master Iorlas," she continued, digging another hole for one of her own seedlings. "Would you like to meet him again?"
"Oh, yes please!" Thariel said excitedly. Then, remembering she was nearly a young woman, and of course supposed to be disinterested in anything according to some strange, unwritten rule, she rearranged her face and nodded, slowly and seriously, "Of course, if he would come back, I would only listen a little."
"Of course," Rhoswen said with mock seriousness, smoothing out the ground around her latest planting. "You know, I think this is my favorite season," she said suddenly, smiling as a cloud rolled away and the sun came out again, turning the ground suddenly warm again. "Everything is new, and growing, and green. Every plant that failed last year is gone, and every seed that did not sprout gets a second chance." She smiled at Thariel. "Will your father need you here tomorrow?"
"He has not said, my lady. It is likely there will be something for me to do. He likes us to be busy."
"Your sister as well? Remind me of her name."
"Thangwen, my lady. She is but fourteen – two years younger than me."
"I will begin the spring cleaning of the King's House in the next days," Rhoswen said, as if she were only now thinking this through and realizing she could not accomplish what she wished to on her own. "It has been neglected for far too long, and I have need of quick hands and high spirits, if your father will let you come and help me. Your sister, too, if she would like such a thing. And perhaps there will be a little singing, to pass the time, and a little storytelling at the end of the day."
Thariel's face lit up. "I would like that very much, Lady!
"Good. I shall ask your father before leaving."
It was a soft night, and the moon was high and full, reflecting down on the river beside the bank where the Fellowship was passing the night. Boromir watched the moon's reflection ripple and bend in the river's current, his mind far away from the joint of meat between his fingers, the remains of his dinner. It had only been a matter of days since they had left Lothlorien, but it seemed like years for all the distance they had traveled. Boromir had forgotten what life on the road was like while they were in the Golden Wood, with its beds and sheets and softly perfumed breezes, and the feeling of safety and comfort at every turn. There was no safety or comfort here, of that he was very certain.
He had not realized how heavily the Ring had weighed upon him until he was in Lorien, and the Ring's magic could not touch him – a heavy weight seemed to have been lifted from his shoulders while he was in the Lady's domains, though the Lady herself gave him cares to think on besides. Now that they were beyond her powers, the old shadows had returned, and Boromir found himself glancing at Frodo in odd moments, wondering how troublesome it would be to simply take the ring.
And it was becoming harder and harder for him to find himself again when the sudden malice receeded.
Rhoswen, too, did not answer him as she had of old when he turned to memories to sustain him. Her voice was becoming faint, and her face was fading, replaced too often by a nightmarish version of herself that Boromir did not know and could never be consoled by.
He was beginning to see that something weighed upon the rest of the company, too – only Rinnelaisse and Aragorn did not show it. But they were old campaigners, well-accustomed to being far from the comforts of home for years on end. For the hobbits especially, Lothlorien and its many delights had reminded them all what it felt like to sleep soundly, and it was an experience that made them doubt even more the road that they were now on.
"Pippin, you look troubled," Boromir observed, joining the young hobbit on his log overlooking the river. Usually the youngest member of the fellowship was the first to sit near the fire and the last to leave, but there was something different about tonight. He had picked at his food – very unlike a hobbit – and had soon abandoned the cheery expanse of the fire's glow for a view of the river.
"It all looks so dark out there," the hobbit said helplessly. "There should be stars. Something friendly."
Boromir nodded. "It is often thus in Ithilien, when the Mountain of Doom sends out smoke. It will soon pass. This is friendly ground – Gondor as it was in the days of old."
Pippin looked at the larger man and smiled. "We are finally in Gondor?"
The Captain-Heir laughed. "No, not quite yet in Gondor as it is now. Long ago, all this belonged to the Kings of Gondor – but they gave it away to their allies, the Rohirrim, and to the Horse Lords it belongs still, though they seldom come this far north. But once, all that lay between the Argonauth and the southern reaches of the Anduin was Gondor. And may be so again, for all I know. No, Pippin, here is where our road gets easier," Boromir said reassuringly. "From here, we go past the Falls of Rauros, down to Cair Andros, and then to Osgiliath, the great fortress of the Kings of Old, and there we will be in my country."
"Will we see your home?" Pippin asked. "I should like to see someone's home again, regardless of where it is. I've been gone from mine so long I've forgotten what a home feels like."
He said this with such sincerity that Boromir had to laugh, though he quieted himself soon enough. "That is for Aragorn to decide," he said deferentially, glancing over to the fire, where the Ranger had just turned back to the flames, obviously having just been watching them. "For my part, I am going back to Minas Tirith."
"You would leave us?" Pippin wondered aloud in that manner common to children who think it is personally their fault for a person's actions.
"There is a woman there that I miss dearly," Boromir said with a wistful smile, refusing to remember the other part of his reasoning. "And I would see her face again before I go into Mordor and the mouths of hell."
"Is she your sweetheart?" the hobbit inquired.
It was Boromir's turn to laugh again. "She is a deal more than that, Master Peregrin, though her heart, without a doubt, is sweet. No," he continued, smiling to himself, "She is my wife." Have we not had a year since our engagement was read? Married in all but ceremony, and that only for the celebration of it in the eyes of the people. "And I have kept her waiting too long in Gondor for my liking," He added.
Pippin nodded in a moment of masculine solidarity. "There's a girl at home that I like," he volunteered. "Well, actually, there's a few, but this one's special. I never thought about it before, but when Sam talks about Rosie, about…marrying her," (he said this phrase as though it were a different language to him) "I think about Diamond, and I wonder if she'd have me. Though I don't know why," he added with bemusement.
"You'll know it soon enough. No need to rush these things. When you are in Minas Tirith, you must meet my wife. You will like her, I think. She is goodness itself," Boromir said quietly, remembering so many things that made it true. "And I work every day to deserve her."
They dwelt on this for a few moments, watching the slow, inky blackness of the Anduin before them, and finally Pippin, the day's seriousness spent, returned to the fire for a chance at more sausages. His companion remained at the river, wondering where Rhoswen was and what she might be doing. Galadriel had said that time passed quickly in her country, and it was so – the land around them showed small signs of spring. Rhoswen might be planting her garden now, or she might be in the houses preparing tonics for the changing spring weather, or cleaning the house while the weather changed. Boromir couldn't remember a good housecleaning since …since his mother died. He recalled being a boy of eight, rooms thrown open and carpets out on walls being beaten free of dirt, floors scrubbed clean, all in the space of week. But after that…the memories were hazy, but the spring after his mother died there had been no large cleaning – just one room at a time, no one very busy as they had been when Finduilas had been alive to oversee it. Boromir thought of his own room and cringed a little at the thought of Rhoswen scrubbing floors. But surely she would get someone else to do that, as his mother had done. No, you fool, she would scrub floors with the maids. She is too proud to refuse to work with the rest. It is what you love about her.
"Yes, it is," Boromir whispered aloud.
"So you will leave us in Ithilien?" Aragorn asked suddenly from behind Boromir's log, startling the Gondorian for a moment.
"That is my intent, if I have not told you yet of it," Boromir admitted. It was a solution he had been thinking on for some time, but he had not spoken of it aloud until just now. "I have done all my pledge holds me to do, and it binds me no further."
"You would leave us where you could do the most good," Aragorn accused quietly. "This is your country, and its paths are well known to you."
"I would rather we all went back to Minas Tirith," Boromir said, trying to moderate his voice so those by the fire would not hear. "But you will not have that, so I will go alone."
"Every hour we travel gives him time to find us," Aragorn reminded, his eyes glittering, "And every day spent traveling away from Mordor is another day after when we do not have strength to outrun him!"
"Then why not go to Minas Tirith and recover our strength a little before going on?" Boromir asked, feeling a fire of his own burning in his eyes. "Surely there is no foolishness in asking that!"
"Even you know the peril of Minas Tirith for one such as the ringbearer," Aragorn threatened. "But your selfishness will not allow you to say it." He scowled and turned away without another word, tracing his steps back to the fire and going beyond the circle of light to stand watch near the rocks upriver. Rinnelaisse called out to him in Elvish, but he did not seem to hear her, and she turned back to the fire, glancing at Gimli and the others in a sort of helpless way. Boromir turned back to his own view of the river, nearly white-hot with rage. Selfish, him? Had he not just said he would not demand that the whole company go to Minas Tirith with him? That would be selfish! But it would just be him. And what good could he do the company, anyway? Strength of arms would not avail them at the gates of the Morilrannon, or the towers of Minas Morgul! Was that not what he had said at the Council of Elrond? Had he not already told them of this?
But it would give them hope, to know that you were there, the conscience-Rhoswen reminded. You, who are always the first to the breach and the most tireless in the storm. Stay with them a little while. Have you so little faith in me, that you think I cannot wait for you?
Boromir's shoulders sagged, and he glanced down the shore to Aragorn, sitting on his own still. It was too late to mend the rift now. It was not for me alone that I would leave, he thought to himself, his eyes glancing over to the fire, where Frodo and the others were just starting to crawl into their bedrolls, Rinnelaisse staying to tend the fire. But I cannot speak of that to you. Too well do I know now the truth of what the White Lady threatened. And Pippin is not the only one who fears the nights without stars.
The night was too dark – and too cold. Boromir shivered a moment and then headed for the fire, pulling his pack away from the others to sleep with his back to the cliff, content for the moment merely to dream of home, if that would keep the other demons at bay.
Rhoswen had woken from the oddest dream, not remembering what it was or who it could have been about, only that she felt a certain cold dread upon her when she opened her eyes.
It might have been the body's shock of waking in a strange place, but she very much doubted that. She had passed the night in the Houses of Healing, tending the newly sick until one of the senior healers ordered her to bed. There had been a fever for the last few weeks in the city, building a clamor as more and more people fell ill. Some people, reading the growing clouds in the east as an omen, said it was the hand of the Enemy readying them for the killing blow, but Rhoswen blamed the slow trickle of refugees from the very outer provinces of Gondor, coming back to Minas Tirith as a place of refuge as their villages were set upon by Southrons and Corsairs. Little lodging could be found for them, and the press upon the city and its resources – for food, for water, for beds and blankets – was becoming evident. Though it was well springtime, the Houses of Healing were also seeing cases of serious damage done by cold in the dozens of refugees sleeping without adequate protection against the night-wind of the city. And then, of course, there was the fever, which seemed to sweep down on young and old alike, weak and strong.
War was coming – that much could not be denied by anyone, not even a merry party of girls intent on learning more songs and stories at the feet of their liege lady. But for the moment, she would put all of that aside, and play the gentle Lady, and forget that it was becoming less ordinary to see the sun still shine here. We will pretend we live in happier times, Rhoswen reminded herself, when our menfolk are here to protect us, and not far away adventuring. Or better still, that we do not need their protection at all.
"Well, come along, little bird, your audience is waiting for you," Maireth chided, ushering her mistress in through their private door as the voices of more than a few young women giggled and sang in the solar beyond. "What was so urgent Master Arthion could not let you home an hour sooner?"
"He bid me leave two hours ago," Rhoswen corrected. " I would not go. His own healers are overworked enough as it is – the fever has taken up quarters in every level of the city, and their ranks are stretched thin enough without accounting for the wounded that lie in the houses and those in need of care in Osgiliath. He has pulled healers home from the troops to help, but it is not enough."
"Then cancel the Court for today," Maireth brindled, listening to the young women in the solar chatter. "You needn't run yourself ragged entertaining."
"If I postpone the Court," Rhoswen said, her face flushing as she hurried out of her healer's gown and into a more elaborately embroidered court dress, "they will know something is wrong. I do not need a riot, Maireth, on top of a sick city. And you know how girls can be when they hear of calamity. No house in the city would be safe from rumors." Though what the rumors are already, I am sure I will hear from them, she thought to herself, scrubbing her skin down with a thin mix of soap and rosemary leaves to wash the smell of the sickroom away.
"Your skin is hot," Maireth observed with the backs of her fingers, reaching up to touch Rhoswen's flushed neck as she helped her mistress lace the back of her gown. Rhoswen looked over her shoulder and frowned.
"I am not sick, Maireth," she said resolutely, smoothing her dress and then sitting down to work on her hair, still braided back so it would not interfere with her work in the houses. "I ran home when someone told me the time – it made me warm. That's all – it will pass." She glanced at her reflection in her mirror and saw Maireth still glowering behind her. Rhoswen pretended not to notice. "Is there water in the solar? I find myself a little thirsty."
Maireth continued scowling but set off to make sure her mistress had water, and food as well – whatever her maidservant might think she did eat while she was at the houses, though it had been a little later than they might have liked.
The door to the solar opened, and a young woman peered around the edge of the door. "Maireth, has Rhoswen – Oh! Thank heavens you're here. The girls are a little restless today. I did all I could think to entertain them in the meanwhile," Merethel reported. "How does it look in the Houses?" she asked, her voice a little quieter as she watched her friend put the final finishing touches on her jewelery.
"Not much better," Rhoswen said seriously. "But they are in good hands. They have enough tonic for a while yet, I saw to that before I left this morning. And it will be cooler today, they have said."
"You might have sent Bergil back with a message and called the Court off today, you know. They would have understood," Merethel suggested lightly. Rhoswen shook her head.
"There are few pleasures for a woman in the City these days – I couldn't deny them one of them, Merry. See how happy they look?" She opened the door a fraction to look on the large room fairly filled with young ladies laughing and talking. "They have forgotten their brothers and fathers are gone for a while and are simply being girls. And aren't you enjoying yourself a little, too?" she asked, looking at the younger woman with a searching glance. Merethel smiled in concession and followed Rhoswen into the solar, clapping her hands for attention.
"Ladies, ladies, our good leader has returned! And with a new topic for the court this week!"
"All the way from Dol Amroth," Rhoswen added, holding up the letter she'd recived from Lothiriel with its distinctive blue seal. "She is anxious to meet you, applauds your keen judgement in coming here to learn, and leaves you – this question." She pulled out the appropriate slip of parchment, hastily jotted down by Lottie in a cramped hand. "A woman has three men vying for her hand, and on a given day in court they are conversing amongst themselves whom she likes best. When she comes into their midst, she clasps hands with one, kisses the cheek of the second, and to the third gives only a piercing glance. Which, among the three, does she favor more?"
There was silence as the women contemplated, and then four or five girls began talking at the same time until Merethel took them in hand and began the more formalized debate, leaving Rhoswen, as chief arbiter, to simply sit back and watch the arguments take place, observing the girls.
They had come a ways since the last time they had met, a few of Thariel's friends and neighbors coming for the privilege of sitting with the Lady Rhoswen. So much talking had gone on about the Courts of Love that it seemed only natural for Rhoswen to invite them back with the promise of a real court. This, of course, was hardly like what had happened in Dol Amroth all those weeks ago, but it was entertaining for the girls, and for Rhoswen, too.
These were not the high-born of Minas Tirith who had attended her begrudgingly in her first days here as Boromir's betrothed. Those daughters of rank and fortune had already quitted the city long since under the auspices of well-meaning fathers who could read the meaning of the clouds and act upon them. but for those of less circumstance and no castles in the out-country to retreat to, little choice remained but to stay in the city. And these were their daughters, prosperous merchants, guildmasters, minor houses and court functionaries who wanted to curry a little more favor with the next Lady of the City.
Those in support of the kiss being the highest favor given seemed to be gaining ground – poems were cited, examples from older sisters' lives called in as evidence. Some girls, she was pleased to see, were more content to listen to the speeches of their friends before calling forth their own evidence – a goodly trait in law and love.
"Lady Rhoswen," Thariel said suddenly, quieting the group a little, "You are smiling as if you already know the answer, and know that it is not the one we have agreed upon."
Rhoswen sat up a little straighter, surprised that Thariel would notice such a thing. But she had been smiling at the answer she would have chosen, the answer none of them had even discussed at length. "Ladies, if you saw a friend of yours kiss one man and clasp another, you would perhaps form some pointed opinions about her relationship with both," she said, unable to hide her smiles any longer. "But you have not considered that perhaps the lady does not wish to make her love known, and that is the deepest kind possible, the kind that may kill. It may be that she has already favored this man far above hand-clasps and kisses, but does not wish to invite the opinions of others on the matter. I contend, therefore, that the man that she favors the most is the one she will not touch under the eyes of others – the man to whom she gives the piercing glance."
The girls seemed a little taken aback at this – a possibility they had not considered. "But I know a little of Lady Lothiriel, and I know the man she loves, she loves in secret," Rhoswen added with a smile and a little shrug.
There was a knowing gasp from some of the girls, some of whom now clamored for details of the Lady Lothiriel and her own secret lover, but it would have to wait for another time – there was a business-like knocking on the door, and Maireth navigated through the chairs and cushions to answer it, opening the door to one of the Lord Denethor's servants, a severe looking man clad all in black and wearing the badge of the clerk, a cloakpin of crossed writing pens.
"Lady Rhoswen, Lord Denethor bids you attend him in the hall," the clerk said blandly, a man schooled to show no emotion in the bearing of his messages to and fro.
"I was not aware the Lord Denethor was hearing petitions today," Rhoswen said steadily, slowly rising from her seat. Her head suddenly felt heavy, and she realized she had never had that drink of water that she had asked Maireth for earlier. Her maidservant must have not wanted to interrupt the debate.
"He is not, Lady. The Lord Faramir is returned from Ithilien."
Faramir! He had not been home in months, had not seen Rhoswen since she had left for Dol Amroth! And he was home now! But there was something strange about this homecoming.
"Why does the Lord Denethor ask me to attend him? Surely the lord Faramir's reports can have little to do with me."
She could feel the eyes of the room upon her, every girl watching her liege lady for some clue as to how she should act one day when summoned before her soveriegn.
"I do not know, Lady. I was bidden only to tell you to come."
"Very well then. I will attend him in a moment. Ladies," she said, turning back to her company, all seated in quiet amazement. "We shall have to finish this another time." The White Rose followed, wondering what sort of news or business would bring Faramir back from Ithilien at such a time. Reports came every day that there were new peoples marching to the east on the errands of the Dark Lord, and there were weekly skirmishes in Ithilien. What was so dire, that it would have made Faramir – Faramir, of all people – leave his post to come bring news to a father who despised him as a coward. But still – it would be good to see him. Her head was throbbing – Merethel would know to send the girls home. It would be good for them to think further on the same question for their next meeting, and Rhoswen could get some rest.
The Hall of Kings was very nearly silent - strangely so. Two figures stood out against the white marble of the room's walls, one seated in the jet black throne of the Steward, the other standing before it, his shoulders curved in defeat.
Evidently Faramir had been holding something back from his father; when she arrived, the younger son of Denethor glanced in her direction with something that looked like fear and cut himself short. And as he turned towards her, she could see that his eyes were red-rimmed, and he was holding something, an object Rhoswen knew all too well.
Boromir's horn was in Faramir's hands, and as Rhoswen took a step closer, not believing what she saw, it revealed itself to be broken, cloven in two as if by a sword or some other act of rage. But it was not so much the horn as it was Faramir's face – miserable and full of fear, waiting to tell her the story the horn silently told. Rhoswen felt the world begin to spin. The smell of blood and marrow filled her nose, and suddenly the floor came up to meet her, jarring against the side of her head.
"Send for Lord Erun, Maireth, her groomsman! She is weak, take her upstairs!" Faramir's face swam before hers, cradling her head and caressing the side that had hit the floor. "Rhoswen, can you stand?" In the background she could finally hear Denethor sobbing, but it could not be true, Faramir had not said anything, the horn could mean anything. And yet Faramir's face…
"Come now, sister, up you go," Erun was saying, shifting her into his arms and carrying her out of the room. She felt frozen, unable to move, weighed down by this terrible, unspeakable burden. People were rushing past her, Maireth was shouting something, doors were opening and closing, all of these going on around her as if she were in some kind of waking dream, terrible to the touch but real, for all she wished it not to be. Finally Erun laid her down on her bed.
"Gods above, she is burning!" "Raise that fire up and send to the kitchen for some warm wine."
Warm? She did not feel warm, rather, her face felt cold and wet. Why could she not see?
"Shall I send to Master Arthion for a posset? Does she need to sleep?"
Sleep? No, she did not want to sleep! Boromir was dead! She wanted to die! Anything to get him back! Anything to wash off this emptiness she now felt. It was her fault – he would not have gone if she had done something differently, if she had given herself to him that night and begged him not to go he would not have left her here like this. He would be home, he would be safe, she would have beautiful babies to play with and love and nothing in the world would be wrong. The emptiness flared out, her heart expanding into one greater, vast void, space that she should have filled with him, with her children and grandchildren and all the things which would now never be. The voices were still spinning around her, Maireth's stronger than the rest, telling everyone to get out, leave the lady to her rest, but she could still hear Denethor's cries ringing in her ears.
Her mind was stumbling now, as if she had fallen out of herself. She was spinning and sailing through a rainbow maze of color, falling deeper and deeper away from the light until there was nothing but darkness and cold delirium.