Chapter Thirty-Three
An Audience with Lord Denethor
When my feet had carried me perhaps ten feet from his chair, I mustered my voice. "Hail Denethor, Lord and Steward of Gondor!" My voice cracked, but I hid my blush by bending my head as I knelt.
He did not answer immediately, but when he did, his voice was heavy with grief and despair. "I am told you bring me news of my son."
Not sure whether it was a request or simply a statement, I said only "That is so, my lord," aware that answering unasked questions was tantamount to speaking before being spoken to: a no-no for all good esquires.
"Then do you come to explain this?" Sable rustled, and I looked up as he lifted from his lap the Horn of Gondor, split, as I had last seen it, in two halves. Weary eyes met mine, demanding an explanation.
I composed myself to give one. "In some part, my lord. I stood beside your son on Amon Hen, where he fell, and where Orcish arrows split the horn as they took his life."
"How is it that he is fallen while you stand whole before me?" Denethor leaned forward, brows beetling in suspicion. "What were you to my son, that he should protect you thus?"
I thought I'd explode if I had to explain this to one more person. "His esquire, my lord, and then. . .we were handfasted." The Steward snorted, but his frosty eyes held no disbelief. I pressed doggedly on. "Would you have the tale from the beginning, lord?"
"I would. Speak and be not silent."
Wonderful, I thought, taking a deep breath and wondering how to tell this story in summary without mentioning either the Ring, which might affect the father like it had the son, or Aragorn, whose appearance would cause enough upheaval without my warning Minas Tirith in advance. I'd just have give the Steward a lot of what he'd asked for: Boromir details. With a brief prayer that my tears would remain unshed, I began.
"The Fellowship numbered nine when it set out from Imladris, where Boromir's riddle had led him. Their leader, Mithrandir, they lost in Moria, for they took the path under the mountain rather than the Gap of Rohan and the road to Minas Tirith, as Boromir suggested. Now numbering eight, the Fellowship rested for a time in the Golden Wood of Lorien, where I joined them. A ward of the Lady of the Wood, she sent me with the company to make their number nine once more. But in truth, my lord, I accompanied them to stay at your son's side, for he had taken me as esquire."
I told about our journey up the Great River, dredging up memories of Boromir's words and actions from where I'd buried them. As I lifted my eyes to meet the Steward's, I founded detail pouring from my mouth, as though the cold gaze compelled me to tell all. He stopped me twice to clarify events, which I did, apologizing all over myself.
Voice steady but chin wobbling, I ended my tale at Amon Hen, explaining Boromir's last words and the oath I had sworn. "I have ridden in haste from the seat of Théoden King of Rohan to fulfill my oath. In any way you see fit, lord, I would serve Gondor." I bent my head again, hoping he could see Celetirmar and believe I knew how to use it.
That was not the issue the Steward chose to address next, however. I felt his gaze boring through my forehead as I tried not to wobble on my knees. "So. Daughter. Do you bear my son's heir?"
My mouth worked silently for a moment, and then I shut it abruptly, after squeaking out "We were handfasted only, my lord!"
Denethor shrugged. "My Council would uphold it a binding marriage. No grandson of mine will carry the stigma of illegitimacy."
Even as I remembered what Aragorn had said outside Edoras about Gondorian law, I could not believe I was being asked this. "There was only love between Boromir and me, my lord," I protested, determined to be polite.
"That is often all that's needed." He fixed wolf-gray eyes on my midsection, as if to discern whether a child grew within.
Gritting my teeth, I tamped my outrage down. "No, my lord. I am a maiden still."
"Ah." I could not tell if the answer pleased him or not, but I rather thought he had wanted a grandson. Not much could be done about it now.
The Steward rose, and I thought I heard the metallic rustle of mail, but could see nothing under his voluminous robes of state. He raised me to my feet with a hand craggy with age but still calloused from the sword. "Walk with me."
Slightly puzzled, I took his arm and matched his measured, though not feeble, step. His presence filled the entirety of my awareness, so that I scarcely noticed our leaving the great hall, and did not even protest when he bade me hand Celetirmar over to the guard, saying it would be put in a guest chamber with the rest of my things. My resentment had not disappeared, but I realized that the Steward reminded me of Aragorn, when Boromir's presence was absent and I could notice the Ranger's aura. Denethor even looked a bit like him, though I was careful not to point the resemblance out.
He took me to the battlements, to the very edge of the Citadel. The sheer drop of the view from the embrasure stole my attention completely from the man at my side, as he had known it would.
The fields of the Pelennor lay before me, traversed by tiny figures and wagon leaving the City in various directions. I squinted north to the River and Osgiliath, but could not make much out, even though the climbing sun made inroads on the morning's fog. I looked out to Mordor, into the growing shadow and darkness, sending up a silent prayer for Frodo and Sam, somewhere in that bleak land. Saddened, I let my eyes plummet to the Gates, seven hundred feet below, wonder if Boromir had made a habit of standing here to survey the promise of his land.
Turning to the Steward, I opened my mouth to ask this, only to have the words die in my throat as I looked back toward the Black Land and saw what my companion's eyes were fixed upon.
A phalanx of five winged figures swooped and banked above a collection of hills I knew to be the Emyn Arnen. "They are come," the Steward muttered again and again, hands convulsing on the stone ledge.
In the middle of my terror, I yet remembered Mithrandir's words. "No, my lord," I said, catching at his sleeve. "They will not cross the River!"
I noticed black-clad figures moving frenetically on the levels below us. The soldiery of Gondor had noted the Nazgul as well. The Steward pulled away from me. Transfixed, we watched the beasts wheel and bank, but not stray from Anduin's eastern shore. Finally, with a flap of the bat-like wings, they turned back to Mordor
Denethor straightened slowly, fingers unclenching. "So they remain at bay." He turned to me, evaluating, appraising, eyes calculating. "An oath you have sworn, and to that oath I shall hold you. As you were Boromir's esquire, so you shall be mine."
I bowed to hide my dismay. "As you wish, my lord."
The Steward looked me up and down once more. "Attend me at the evening meal. In the meantime, you will be shone where you may rest from your journey and find more. . .suitable livery."
I smelled a skirt, but bowed again and offered my thanks anyway. Trailing the Steward back inside, I once again thought I noticed the clink of chain mail, but dismissed it. Perhaps one of the guards had shifted position. Once in the great hall, Denethor stooped to ring a small silver gong beside his chair. Servants appeared from either side of the doors, and he ordered them to show me to my room and provide me with the midday meal, as well as garb suitable for the Seward's esquire.
One of the dower men who'd stepped forward at his lord's call led me across the Fountain-sward and down white-paved, white-walled streets to what I supposed must be a guesthouse, standing by the Citadel's northeast wall. Though the ground floor appeared unoccupied, the lackey led me to a chamber at the top of a set of spiral stair, and left me.
Relived to see that both my saddlebags and Celetirmar had made it to the room before me and appeared unharmed, I kicked off my boots and went to wash in the porcelain basin provided. Thinking that I'd have to see about a more thorough bath later, I unbuttoned my over-tunic and crossed to a window. The view behind the shutters was a vista of the River, past the Pelennor and not quite to Mordor. I still had not tired of the city's view. 'My city.'
Inside, the surroundings were bleaker. The room tried to be Elvish, but fell short, mired in the heavy-handed furnishings of Men. Still, the table and single chair were well made, and the bed tucked into the alcove looked soft and inviting. I had just sprawled on it to prove this true when I remembered my transportation and longsuffering companion. Tugging my boots back on, I went to check on Simbelmynë.