A/N: Once again, grateful thanks to everyone who's taken the trouble to review this story and encourage me to continue. Apologies for the delay in posting. I had friends visiting and so spent a lovely few days off work so I could chill out with them. Now, though, it's back to every day life, and back to the story...
Chapter 15 – A ride in the woods
"I have decided that you will appoint me First Marshall and give me command of your eored," Ceorl said as he helped himself to food from Eowyn's breakfast tray. Odd how he was always so hungry after a night with a woman. He bit into a piece of crusty bread as he waited for her reaction. First she pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders. Then she tilted her chin. So, this was how it was to be this morning. Still defiant after all he had done.
"It is not my eored, it is Eomer's, and I will do not such thing," she said, meeting his gaze with the cold fire of her blue eyes.
He chewed, swallowed and then sighed heavily. With a light step, he moved to the fire and paused in front of it for a long moment. It was a shame that he could not conjure up a beating for Eomer at will. Clearly he needed to speak with his mother and arrange a second lesson for Eowyn to witness. Her memory of the first had apparently grown dim. In the meantime he would pretend charity. "It is most fortunate for your brother that I am in a good mood this morning." He smiled at her, and then lifted the smoke-blackened kettle from its hook. "Shall I make tea for you?"
There was relief on her face as he moved back to the tray and poured hot water into the teapot. He knew she would be waiting for him to repeat his demand, and so he changed the subject. Keep her off balance. "Did you sleep well?" His smile widened when she didn't reply. "No? I did. I slept very well. Your new maid is most... accommodating."
"Your spy, you mean." Eowyn glared at him.
"Does she not serve you well?" He scratched his crotch, remembering the previous evening. Seducing one of the many young widows now sheltering in Edoras had been a good idea. Putting her in the place of the old harridan that was Eowyn's long-serving maid was an even better one. "She serves me very well. In many ways."
"Spare me the sordid details of where you spend your nights. As long as it is not in my bed, I do not care."
In two strides he was across the room and leaning over her, his hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her so he could place his face mere inches from hers. "Your time will come, Eowyn." He tilted forward, kissed her hard on the mouth, and then spun away. "But not yet. I would save that singular pleasure for when a crown sits upon my head." He picked up an apple and took a large bite. "Now, let us return to the subject of my eored."
She glared at him. "Even if I were to command it, they will not accept you as Marshall. Eothain has served with my brother for many years. They will answer only to him."
"Then you must persuade them otherwise," he replied casually. "Get dressed. I have something I want to show you in the Golden Hall." He took another bite of the apple, and then threw the remainder into the fire. The flames hissed as they consumed the sweet fruit.
Eowyn knew his action was a warning that she was pushing him too hard, that sooner or later he would once again strike out at Eomer. The thought made her feel sick. Her life grew more difficult with each passing day what with rumours that she was half-mad with grief, a spy as a maid and a constant watch over her door under the pretence that she needed protection. Ceorl was like a spider, wrapping her slowly in threads until she could barely breathe.
She got to her feet and moved behind the screen to change out of her nightwear. A brown woollen dress had already been put out for her. Ceorl's choice laid out by the maid he had appointed for her. She pulled it over her head, telling herself it did not matter what she wore. Appointing him First Marshall, however, that was something she would not do. Damnation. She had promised herself she would give Elfhelm a couple more days. Suddenly she realised that was a luxury she might no longer have.
She stepped from behind the screen, catching her hair back with a green ribbon as she did so. Her gaze fell on the dagger Ceorl wore at his waist. She could end it right here. Snatch the blade and plunge it into his flesh.
A smile twisted Ceorl's lips as he followed her gaze. "Let me guess what dark thought brings a frown to your pretty face," he said. He slid the dagger from its sheath and held it out to her. "Go ahead. Take it."
Her fingers itched to feel the smooth hilt in the palm of her hand. To feel his blood gushing over her skin - warm and sticky.
"Just remember," he went on. "You won't be thrusting the blade into me alone. You'll be doing it to your brother too. Except where you will want to be sure the first strike kills, his death will be made as lingering and painful as possible."
She shuddered. The image of Eomer being held by two men while a third punched and beat him flooded sharply back, and with it came the knowledge that such men were no doubt capable of far worse. Reluctantly she dragged her gaze from the dagger and moved silently towards the door. Just a couple more days, she promised herself.
He led her through the Golden Hall and then up the stairs to the minstrel gallery that ran across the width of the hall, high above the raised dais on which sat the throne. "Is this not a wonderful view?" he said, gesturing over the balcony to the open expanse of the hall. "One can see everything from up here."
"Fascinating I'm sure," she snapped.
"Do you know what else I've discovered?"
"I have no idea."
"Let me show you." He clapped his hands together. Down in the hall, two men appeared with carrying straw bales, which they distributed at various points on the floor.
"Are you planning on turning the Golden Hall into a barn?" Eowyn asked. However, her sarcasm died as two men in blue liveries stepped into the gallery. She glared at them as they bowed to her.
"Pray tell me who are you and what is this uniform you wear?"
"We belong to Lord Ceorl's personal guard, my lady."
"Personal guard?" she spluttered, turning to Ceorl. "Since when have you had a personal guard?"
His smile was oily. "Since you signed the order granting me permission to set one up."
"What?"
He pulled a piece of parchment from his tunic. "Do you not remember, my lady?"
Eowyn stared in disbelief at the signature at the bottom of the parchment. "You dare to forge my signature?"
"I dare a great deal," he replied smugly. "As this demonstration will reveal." He caught her by the arm, and pulled her towards the balcony. "Watch."
Horrified she realised the two men both carried bows. Expertly they set arrows against the strings and then in a display of rapid shooting, they fired down at the straw bales until each one was impaled with a mass of arrows.
"Imagine if those bales were men," Ceorl said. "Men of your brother's eored, for example."
"You wouldn't dare," Eowyn said. "You would murder them in cold-blood?"
"I would not need to if they were to swear oaths of loyalty to me," he replied. His smile widened. "As I said before, you will appoint me First Marshall and give me command of your brother's eored. If you do not, well, these two men are not the only ones in my... personal guard."
No. This could not be. With a personal guard at his command and an eored sworn to loyalty, there would be no one in Edoras who would move against him. Other than herself.
With a cry of outrage, she spun away. Act. She had to act now. Her gaze fixed on the sword hanging at the hip of one of the two guards and she didn't hesitate. Her right hand closed around the hilt and with one smooth pull, it came free of its sheath. One last thought flashed through her mind as she balanced the blade in her hand and simultaneously elbowed the nearest guard hard in the stomach. He dropped to his knees with a grunt and she slammed the hilt of his sword down on the back of his neck. Bone cracked and he fell lifeless to the floor. The second guard was behind Ceorl, staring at her in horror, an empty bow in his hand and fear on his face. No threat, she realised immediately. Her gaze shifted to Ceorl and her hatred for him washed over her.
Eomer, forgive me!
She lunged forward. With a yell, Ceorl threw himself desperately to one side. She felt the sword bite into flesh. Saw blood on the blue-grey metal as she pulled the blade free and readied herself for a second strike. And then she was struck from behind.
Pain exploded in the back of her head. The sword fell from her hand, and she dropped to her knees. She couldn't think. Couldn't see. Could barely breathe.
She realised someone was cursing her, and was horrified when she recognised it was Ceorl. He wasn't dead. Damn him. Why wasn't he dead? She forced her head up, blinked away tears of pain, and saw he was leaning against the wall, clutching his upper arm. She'd failed. Failed.
He pushed himself upright, and stood over her, a sneering smile on his face. "I warned you I had more than two guards." He addressed someone behind her. "Get that body out here."
She turned her head, wincing at the pain, and saw yet another blue liveried guard. The man refused to meet her gaze as he began to drag his dead companion towards the door.
"What about her?" the other guard said, finally finding his voice.
Ceorl's smile turned cruel. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "I think her Majesty is about to suffer a fainting fit. The stress of her brother's loss has clearly taken a much worse toll than we imagined."
Eowyn flinched as she saw him draw back his arm. Even though she tried to prepare for it, the blow sent her sprawling to the floor. Unconsciousness seized her.
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Cold. So very cold. Eomer tried to still his trembling limbs. Tried to remember where he was. There was warmth against his back, and a strong arm around his waist. The air was damp against his skin and filled with the musky aroma of leaves and wood. He could smell horses too, and leather and the sharp tang of his own sweat.
Horses? He focused in on that, welcoming the familiarity. Now he was aware of the steady rhythmic motion of his body. He was on a saddle, but not alone. A face drifted into his memory. She was beautiful, so very beautiful. Dark wavy hair. Soft, full lips that begged to be kissed. Long-lashed eyes that were filled with concern whenever she looked at him. She'd been riding in front of him. Unwittingly distracting him from his pain and misery with the scent of her hair and the press of her body against his.
Forcing his eyes open, he stared in confusion at the arm around his waist. Muscles rippled beneath tanned skin that was dusted with coarse grey hair. A heavy leather glove covered a hand that was far from feminine. Had she just been a dream? The thought sent an unexpected wave of loss through him. Then it was gone. Full consciousness returned – sharp and painful.
"Eomer? Fare you well?" A familiar voice growled his name, and the arm around his waist relaxed slightly. He raised his head and discovered himself looking at world shrouded in mist.
"Elfhelm?"
"Aye, my lord. It is good to see you wake."
He remembered now. They were riding for Edoras. But why was he now sharing a saddle with Elfhelm? He turned his head, caught a glimpse of the other horse and its two slender riders. The answer to his question was like a blow. Of course. Only Elfhelm was strong enough to hold him in a saddle. He silently cursed Galwyn and her poison. Was this how Théoden had felt as Wormtongue stole the strength from him? Weak. Powerless. Barely able to summon up the energy to form a coherent thought.
He felt Elfhelm shift behind him. The arm around his waist moved, and then reappeared, holding a water skin.
"Drink," Elfhelm commanded.
Obediently he took the skin, but to his dismay found himself struggling to remove the stopper. Elfhelm reached for, but he shook his head, paying for the action with a painful display of internal fireworks. "I can do it," he snapped. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and he dashed it away before tugging at the stopper. Suddenly it came free, jerking his hand as it did so. His fingers slipped on the smooth leather and the skin slipped from his grasp, sloshing water down his leg as it fell to the ground.
Elfhelm swore and pulled the horse to a halt.
"I'll get it," Lothiriel said, drawing the horse to a stop next to them. She dropped lightly to the ground and scooped up the skin.
"Thank you." His hand was shaking as he reached for it, and he couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. He knew what he would see. Concern masked by sympathy, and a total absence of confidence in his ability to care for himself. He tipped the skin to his lips, aware that it required an absurd amount of concentration not to spill any more. The water was icy and he felt it travel through his body. He was shivering again. His confused nerves telling his brain he was cold when actually he was burning with fever. He saw Lothiriel look at Elfhelm, her face worried, and then suddenly she turned away.
"Did you hear that?" she hissed.
"Aye," Elfhelm replied
Eomer peered into the mist, and then he caught the distinctive sound of horses' hooves. Who ever it was, they were close. Very close. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
"Nay, lad. You are in no fit state for a fight," Elfhelm whispered in his ear.
Lad? It had been a long time since Elfhelm had called him that, and was yet more proof of how his companions currently viewed him. Frustration burned in his stomach, but he didn't let it show. Elfhelm was right. If he couldn't handle a water skin without making a fool of himself, he was not to going to have much success with a sword. "What do you propose?" he asked quietly.
"I will lead them away. You stay here. Protect the women."
"I think we both know they are currently more capable of acting as protectors," he replied. "But I thank you for attempting to soothe my pride."
Elfhelm swung down from the saddle and then helped him do the same. Standing proved to be an interesting challenge as his legs had apparently forgotten that their primary purpose was to keep him upright. Erika swiftly slid under his right shoulder, taking his weight across her own. She jerked her head towards a tangle of broad-leaved shrubs. Eomer's frustration notched higher at the prospect of hiding from his enemies. It seemed more cowardly than prudent, despite the fact he could barely stand.
"Go," Elfhelm hissed.
Eomer glanced back and realised Elfhelm was talking not to him, but to Lothiriel. She shook her head and swung back onto her horse. "I'm coming with you."
"No you're not."
"They are seeking two horses," she hissed. "If you go alone they may guess it is a ruse.
Elfhelm glanced at Eomer and then shook his head, keeping his voice low, so that only Eomer could hear his words. "This woman is as hot-headed as you and three times as stubborn." He thrust a foot into a stirrup, pulled himself into the saddle and then urged his horse into a trot, deliberately making as much noise as possible as he rode away. Lothiriel glanced at Eomer, her expression indecipherable. The aching loss of his dream world bit at him again, and he wanted to tell her to stay, not to risk her life further on his account, but with the pursuers near by conversation was dangerous, and before he could speak she too kicked her horse into action. The mist swallowed her before her mount had barely gone ten strides.
"Curse this weakness," Eomer murmured, as he lay on his belly beneath the thick foliage. The few paces he had walked had completely drained him. He felt Erika's hand against his forehead and he was dimly aware that she was saying something. The words refused to make sense, though. There was a buzzing in his ears, and the mist seemed to be closing in on him. He turned his head and pressed his cheek against the cool, damp earth. Tendrils of soft, white cloud swirled around him, calling him to let go of the aches and pains of his body, to close his eyes and rest. Just for a few moments. Just while they were waiting...
Erika watched in dismay as the king passed out again. He had not awoken when they'd hauled him onto the horse early that morning, and she had feared then that the poison had all but done its job. When he stirred and spoke Elfhelm's name, she had been amazed that he'd regained consciousness, and even more so that he had found the strength to hold a conversation and walk to a hiding place. The fever that burned him was fierce and might already have taken a weaker man. If he woke again it would be a miracle.
His sword was clutched in his hand, the blade glistening with condensation as it rested against the earth. Gently she uncurled his fingers from its hilt and felt the weight of the blade for herself. It was a heavy sword, probably too heavy for her to swing even if she had known how to handle such a weapon. However, if Selred discovered them she would do what she could to protect the king with it. The memory of her first encounter with Selred made her feel nauseous. She had always known he was a violent man, but she had never truly understood how evil he was. Hopefully, though, Elfhelm would do as he had promised. He would draw their pursuers away. He would keep her safe. Please, let it be so.
Yes, that was a more pleasant thought. Thinking of the Marshall steadied her nerves, making it easier for her to accept that she was hiding under a bush with a desperately ill man for whom she could do nothing. Elfhelm was a good man. Strong. Loyal. Caring. It had been a long time since she'd suffered from a case of hero worship, but ever since Elfhelm had saved her from Selred, she'd found herself watching him, learning to read him, looking beneath the gruff surface that he presented to the gentle man hidden beneath. She'd liked what she'd found, and had even begun to compare him favourably to the few young men of the village that were yet to wed. Now she laughed silently at herself. What foolish thoughts. He was old enough to be her father, and it would take a blind woman to call him handsome. Yet still she could not deny that the thought of his return was like a light shining in the dark as she cowered beneath the foliage and prayed that Selred would not find them and that the king would live long enough to reach the holding.
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When Lothiriel was growing up, her brothers would sometimes let her join in their game of horse-mounted tag. Being the youngest and a girl, they naturally saw her as an easy target, and most of the time they were right. Hours of futilely chasing them through the woods had, however, made her a far more competent rider than lessons alone would ever have achieved. Now, as she trotted through the trees with Elfhelm, she tried to tell herself this was just another game. One in which, unusually, she was the quarry.
Her pulse quickened as he raised a hand and pointed between the trees. She squinted into the mist, seeing nothing at first, and then catching sight of a shadowy figure of a horse and rider. "There are at least four," Elfhelm hissed. "Maybe more."
Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to take a moment to calm herself. This was no game. These men were armed and seeking blood. They would not hesitate to kill her, Elfhelm and Erika in order to take Eomer prisoner once again. The skills she had learnt as a young girl were now all that would keep her alive, and for a moment she regretted her impulsive decision to join Elfhelm.
"There. To your left!" a voice shouted.
Abruptly it was too late to reconsider her actions. Touching her heels to her horse, she followed Elfhelm as he led the way in the dangerous game of cat and mouse. They twisted first to the right, and then to the left, heading deeper into the wood. Now they'd been seen, their pursuers made no attempt to hide their presence, instead they shouted and hollered to each other, encouraging one another to ride faster.
She saw Elfhelm look to his right and heard him swear. Her gaze followed his, and she muttered a curse of her own. Two riders were flanking them, close enough that she could see their unsheathed swords. Elfhelm veered sharply left, drawing his own sword as he did so. She reined her horses sharply in the same direction, wishing that her father had allowed her to train with weapons, rather than fussing over her ability with a needle and thread. Then again, she had enough to concern her right now without attempting to hold a sword too. Bent low in the saddle, she hissed as she narrowly avoided a low branch that Elfhelm had curled under with deceptive ease. He was easily twice her age, but he was clearly a lot suppler than he looked. She straightened up again and saw they'd reached what appeared to be a natural avenue in the trees. There was no telling how far it stretched, though. The mist limited their visibility to little more than a few strides.
Elfhelm glanced back at her, his face grim. She knew why. The two riders were still keeping pace with them, and were no doubt looking for a break in the trees in order to cut them off. "Give him his head," Elfhelm called, and then he turned away, his heels nudging his horse into a canter and then a gallop.
Her horse needed no prompting. It simply followed suit, charging after Elfhelm's mount with a powerful surge of raw equine energy. Fear grabbed at her. She was riding blind at a full gallop, and she wasn't at all sure her horse would respond if she tried to pull him up. Leaves flew into her face. Dirt splattered her skirt, kicked up by the hooves of Elfhelm's horse.
"Tree!" Elfhelm suddenly shouted.
Tree? They were in a wood. What a ridiculous thing to... Her mount suddenly changed his rhythm, bunching his legs together. Horrified she saw a large fallen trunk was lying directly across her path. A swearword that would've shocked her brothers slid easily from her lips. And then she was desperately trying to regain her seat as her horse cleared the obstacle and galloped on.
"Left!" Elfhelm shouted as he reined sharply to the right.
Still off-balance, she barely had chance to register he had shouted the opposite of his action in order to confuse their pursuers before her horse turned. Grabbing hold of a handful of mane, she pushed herself back with all her strength, and was relieved to finally find herself properly seated again. The trees were thicker here, and Elfhelm reined his horse back to a fast trot.
Gasping for breath, Lothiriel yanked on the reins and was offered up a silent prayer of thanks when her horse obediently dropped out of canter. It wasn't over yet, though. Elfhelm gestured urgently to her right, indicating that she should go ahead of him. "That way?" she asked.
"Now," he replied tersely.
Leading the way proved even more difficult than following. She ducked low in the saddle again, but not before a thin branch whipped across her face, stinging her cheek. It seemed like an eternity before Elfhelm softly called to her to walk. Moments later they halted. Elfhelm pressed a finger to his lips. Obediently she kept silent.
Around them the trees rustled softly. An insect chirruped happily to itself, but there was no birdsong, the thick mist apparently discouraging the usual symphony. Then, from a distance, came the sound of Rohirric voices - unhappy Rohirric voices. Elfhelm smiled coldly. "They've lost us," he said, keeping his voice low. He put his finger to his lips again. Gradually the voices faded away, until once again there was nothing but the gentle whispering of the trees and the sound of the horses breathing.
"They're gone," Elfhelm said with quiet satisfaction. "This way." He turned his horse to the right, and then glanced at her with grudging admiration. "You ride well..."
"Thank you," she replied, making a silent vow not to volunteer for anything ever again.
"For a Gondorian," he added.
She opened her mouth to snarl a retort, and then saw the look on his face. Elfhelm, Marshall of the Mark, was teasing her. She bowed her head in acceptance of the compliment and to hide her smile. The light-hearted moment was just what she needed to settle her nerves. With a deep breath, she turned her horse's head to follow him. Eomer and Erika were waiting, and there was no humour to be found in the king's condition.