Chapter 4

A Walk in the City

[January 3003, T.A.]


I woke up on a midwinter morning shaking with cold. The draperies on the windows of the Southwest tower of Meduseld and the many layers of woolen blankets wrapped around me did nothing to muffle the drafts of freezing air seeping through the stone. From the depths of my foggy chill I sensed Bircwine shuffling about the room. I heard her humming a children's song so greatly jumbled over the years that it was scarcely more than mindless babble now. Yet it comforted me, for it was my favorite song, and her sweet Eastfold accent reminded me of home....

I moaned softly, the cold having numbed my ability to form words. Bircwine stopped humming.

G'morning, Éowyn, she said cheerfully, scuffling over to my bedside.

Good morning, Bircwine, I mumbled, rubbing my eyes and pulling myself into a sitting position.

Wake ye'self up, lass; I've got ye clothes picked out already, she said briskly, and began to hum again, this time throwing in some words at the rhyming parts. She tugged at the corners of her veil and tried in vain to wrap it all the way around her chin. Best wrap ye'self up warmly as possible, for today's weather could freeze the summer sun if it had a mind to.

Oh, bother, I muttered groggily with one eye open, may I not go out today with Éomer? I glanced nervously at the plump young commoner. If my clothes had been specially chosen, it meant a formal occasion was to take place that day. But I could think of no occasion that ws likely to be of importance to me at the time.

Oh, ye may, child, don't be worrying! Bircwine laughed, and tossed a worn pair of breeches and a particularly lumpy tunic at me. Due to the stiffness in my limbs brought on by the intense cold, I could only move from my bed very slowly.

What news from the servants' quarters? I asked as I pulled the breeches on roughly. They were an old pair of Éomer's and were much too large for me. I rolled up the ends three times before they were the correct length, and the waist was simply a lost cause. Bircwine laughed softly before answering.

Not much as appened of late. Æspe cut a finger with Afæst's cooking knife, nowt else. But my, did she holler and my, did the little lad scream!

Clumsy Æspe. He was the son of a servingmaid and the scandal of Court. His mother was an unmarried lass of seventeen who had borne Æspe while in the intense training for the Royal Éored. I had heard a lad telling Éomer of her curious position as a Shieldmaiden. She had once been a noble but was, after her pregnancy, cast down among the common folk. Loose women, he called these Shieldmaidens. That scared me; would one day my limbs loosen and fall off? Did all women become loose? I stared calculatingly at Bircwine and noted that her arms and legs looked quite attached to her body. But then, she was no Shieldmaiden.

Fædera Théoden in his kindness had hired Æspe's mother as a servingmaid when no one else would, for she was shamed throughout the City. I saw her sometimes, scrubbing the floors or tending the fires in the kitchens. She never looked up; her eyes were always cast downward as if she were afraid to meet another's eyes. Her face was sad and darkened by the sun, and there was no love in her for her son who had ruined her reputation and chances at the noble position of a Rider of Rohan.

I pity the lad, Bircwine said with a sigh, for now he must grow up the unwanted bastard of some Rider he'll never know. Those lasses in the éoreds are quite the talk of the servants' quarters at times, I'll ave ye know. They're nowt more than loose women, some are saying. Only want to surround themselves with desirable men, they say, no matter what the hist'ry tells us. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly, and I could not decide whether it was at the Shieldmaidens or their slanderers.

But I want to be a Rider, Bircwine, I said enthusiastically, meeting her eyes. I want to lead an éored to battle against Mordor and the Orcs and the Dunlendings, maybe, if we haven't found peace with any of them when I am grown.... Bircwine's expression changed; she laughed and ruffled my hair.

Ye may be whatever ye're wanting to be, tho' I ave a mind to believe ye'll be wanting to be a lovely lady at court before long. I said nothing but pulled my tangled head through the top of my coarse tunic. Now, let me braid ye hair, child, so as ye don't get it tangled into one giant knot. You have come quite close to that this morning, I'll ave ye know. I consented and sat in the embroidered chair by the small window, gripping the roots of my hair so as to lessen the pain of the comb scraping my scalp. Bircwine descended upon my hair like a hawk to its prey, hacking violently at every last tangle and knot until my scalp was pink and raw and my hair gleamed with the rays of distant winter sunlight through the window. Then, abandoning all her former vigor, she separated my hair gently into six sections and wove two long braids from my brow down my back.

Before I left the room, I grabbed my close-fitting leather cap and tucked both braids inside. I felt more a part of the group when I did, for if I let my braids hang down, I was more usually treated like a fragile young lady instead of another little Rider out for the day in Edoras. I strapped my wooden sword to my belt for the sheer joy of having my own, said goodbye to Bircwine, and pattered down the tower steps to the Great Hall.

At the broad oak doors Éomer waited for me. The doorward, seeing me arrive, heaved open the doors and we were greeted with a blast of icy wind and a few snowdrops flew into our eyes. I pulled my cap down over my ears and glanced at the impressive view of the city before acting on Éomer's cry of Race you to the stables!

Cheater! You started running before you finished the sentence! Éo-- I yelled after him. He was much too fast for me, being eleven years old and I only seven. But I tried desperately to catch up with him through the gates of the grounds of Meduseld and into the streets of the city. He was not even heading for the stables! Cheater, I thought good-naturedly of him.

Ay! Whoa, there, lad! Mind yer mismatched, ugly litle feet, why not! Ye near flew straight into me cart--! a gruff voice called after me as I wound between the masses of cityfolk and carts and horses and vendors calling from their small booths parked by the side of the road. I saw Éomer distantly ahead of me, his own golden hair whipping about in the swirls of fog and flurries. I saw him turn and check to see by how much he was winning, smiling despite the violence of the weather. His mouth moved as if he were calling out something to me, though I could not hear it through the wind. Growing weary, I finally sprinted to the side of the road where he stood, panting and rubbing his hands together.

What...was it...you said to me, brother? I said, tucking my fingers up into my cap in a lame attempt to warm them. Instead, my head grew icy cold. Bother.

I was shouting for you to stop running. You looked like you were having a bit of trouble with Old Anlaf.

Old Anlaf? Éomer still knew more of the City and its residents than I, though it had been near half a year since our arrival at Edoras. He was allowed more time away from Meduseld, after all.

The warty old vendor whose cart you near knocked over. Nasty old fellow. Wouldn't like to get in trouble with him myself, Éomer said casually, though his teeth chattered. Minutes passed and we began to stroll down the crowded street, somewhat sheltered by the bodies of taller people around us. Cursian, it's cold, he swore.

Mother hated it when you swore, I pointed out. He shook his head as if to be rid of thoughts about her.

Let's go to an inn somewhere and sit by the fire. I can't stand this cold, he said, shuddering. I was secretly glad he said so, for I never liked to be the one who caved in first.

Go to an inn where? There're no inns round this part of the City, I think, I said, hugging myself and closing my eyes so no more snowdrops could sting them. Winters in the Westfold, I had observed, were just as unbearably cold as those back in the Eastfold. Besides, Fædera Théoden says we are not to get ourselves tangled in the business of grown folk or commoner children--

Well, who ever said Fædera would have to know? Éomer said with a sly smirk. Just for a little while. Not like we shall make a routine of going into dark inns and conversing with dodgy folk. We just need a rest. Do you enjoy this dismal wind?

Well, no, and without another word we headed for the main road that would take us down the slopes into the district where pickpockets walked free and strange hooded men stayed in the shadows. As we entered the dark street, suddenly the wind seemed still and the snow fell to the ground without so much as a whistle in air. I craned my neck to see the tops of the buildings which blocked the wind from this certain street. They were of similar style to the others in the City, wattle-and-daub and very practical, yet they had an air of mystery about them with their dark windows and faded signs.

A chill went up my spine as I noticed the types of people we were walking among.

I faltered, seeing a woman with uncovered hair--a sure sign of a bad woman--and a very vibrantly dyed dress which was much too tight and short for her. Many men in dark hooded cloaks peered at us from shadowed corners, and the only children on the street were at least five years older than Éomer and had small bones and metal studs through their ears.

Oh, shush, Wyn, this is not so bad at all, he said, though I could sense his nervousness. We walked along for a little while, Éomer taking turns at random corners to seem as if he knew his way around. We had just entered a rather dim cobbled alley when I dropped down to re-lace my boot. On the snow-dusted street I saw the shadow of a figure standing still behind us. Trying to stay calm, I slowly laced my boot and drew myself up next to Éomer. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blurred figure in black who was now walking silently behind us to our left, careful not to get in Éomer's line of vision and staying just within the boundaries of mine. I dared not speak to my brother, bid him run away or lead me away from this dark place, for I knew the man would strike.

I took Éomer's hand and squeezed it tightly so that he looked down at me in concern. My eyes wide, I tried to mouth out a message, but he just tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

Sister, what's wrong? And as soon as it was uttered, I sensed the man's pace quicken so that he could be heard, and he sprung out of the shadows. I felt his arms entwine suffocatingly around my neck and his hand clamp over my mouth, muffling my scream. Frantically my eyes sought Éomer but my head had been stuffed into the man's cloak, and the smell of his sweat was almost overpowering. I heard Éomer's voice, yelling wildly for help, and felt him beating the man with his small fists. In the darkness I found his hand, which was cold and clammy. He pulled at my arm to try to help me break free, but with a swift movement from my captor his hand felt limp and fell away. My head collided with something cold and solid, and all became night.