UNTOLD TALES OF THE MARK: THE BANISHMENT OF ÉOMER
Chapter 14: Confrontation
EDORAS
The sky was as grey as her thoughts when Maelwyn moved through the marketplace, barely able to concentrate on the stands and the displayed goods. Instead of memorizing what Lady Glenwyn had asked her to buy, she found herself more and more distracted by the faces of the people around her. Most of them were familiar and belonged to people she had known for years, and yet their expressions were strangely guarded, and hardly any words were exchanged between them at all. It was an eery caravan of people too afraid to look each other in the eye, lest they be drawn into a conversation. The threats made by Counsellor Gríma had thoroughly stifled the usually lively atmosphere, and an oppressive silence hung over the big open space.
The sight of it sickened Maelwyn, and so she hurried to fetch the few things she needed and be gone. Yet when she put the loaf of bread into her basket next to the eggs, apples, cheese and a package of meal she had already bought, a sudden idea reared its head in her mind. She stopped and looked up to where the Golden Hall towered above the city in stark contrast to the grey sky; the image unusually sinister and forbidding.
For as long as Maelwyn could think back, Meduseld had always been the centre of their peoples' pride, and the sight of it and its shining golden roof had always rekindled a spark of hope in their hearts even at the most difficult times. Today though, a thick layer of clouds shielded the sun from their eyes and its rays of light from the thatched roof. So often its gleam had been like a beacon, a sign of their unrelenting will to live for leagues to see, but now it looked dull and tarnished, and the sight of it cast another shadow on the faces of the desperate citizens of Edoras whose gazes went up in search for comfort in vain.
Maelwyn hesitated. Would it be too great a risk to go and visit Yálanda and Bergfinn? The winding path that snaked up the slope to the smithy looked forbidding despite the crowd that populated it on their various errands. There were so many people there, but somehow, the scene of apparent normality felt staged, and involuntarily to her, her hands balled into fists at her sides.
'I only want give them my condolences. I will not do anything unlawful. Surely that cannot be forbidden?'
A first cautious step finally broke the spell that had rooted her to the ground, and with her heart hammering a frantic beat against her ribs, Maelwyn slowly ascended the hill. Her widened eyes darted over the people around her. Their faces were guarded wherever she looked; and there were several strangers among them whose eyes told her nothing. Her fingers involuntarily tightened around the handle of her basket as she felt herself being scrutinised by a man to her left. Was he a spy, only waiting for her to do something suspicious they could whip her for? Did she look guilty? She noticed how her pace slowed even furthere as insecurity threatened to overwhelm her. But wouldn't she appear even more suspicious to them this way?
Angry with herself, Maelwyn forced herself to accelerate. Another four switchbacks ahead, she could already see the thatched roof of her destination, and she walked on, eager to reach its relative safety. If only she could be off the street soon! Once she was there – a sudden jerk yanked her around, and the contents of her basket flew into the street as strong fingers dug painfully into her upper arm.
"Where do you think you're going, little witch? On your way to weaving your nets again? You will not fool me twice!"
She recognised the ruffian as one of the men who had been on duty when she had left Meduseld to fetch the healer for Éowyn. The man had a square-jawed face with bushy dark eyebrows and a wild thicket of an even darker, unkempt beard... and he looked very angry. The shock of the assault rendered her temporarily unable to speak, and the muscular guard shook her and shouted into her face.
"You think I want more problems because of you when I am not yet even with you for the last time? Come! I will teach you a lesson you won't forget so soon!"
He pulled her along like a naughty child in the direction of an empty back street, and her heartbeat accelerated even more.
"Where are you taking me? I have done nothing wrong!"
From the corner of her eye, Maelwyn realised that people had stopped to watch, and she looked at them pleadingly, silently begging for help. Yet to her dismay, she found compassion and anger over the abuse of one of their own on their faces, but much stronger were the deep insecurity and fear. They wanted to help her, but they were too afraid.
"Please, don't you see what they are doing? Don't let them hurt me!" She dug her heels into the ground, but found herself no match for the brute's strength. His comrades laughed at her desperate attempts to free herself.
Suddenly, a hand landed in her face with a sharp slapping sound and threw her head around. Stunned by the sudden pain and the realisation that the man had just hit her, Maelwyn could only stare at her assailant. Numbly, she reached up with her free hand in reflex to feel her burning cheek.
"Enough of it, little witch! You either-"
"A feisty little thing, isn't she, Gûthlaf? Perhaps too feisty for you? Should I handle her?"
"That wench is more mule-headed than a real mule! Just throw her over your shoulder!"
One of them turned around to glare at the dismayed bystanders.
"Yes, look closely! This is how we deal with traitors, see? If you don't follow your ruler's orders, you will be next! Now go and be on your way, there is nothing to see for you here!"
And still, the people stood there with their fists balled in helpless frustration, battling with themselves as they weighed their chances and the dangers of an attack on the four armed guards. Their inherent sense of justice commanded them to interfere, but what was there they could do without weapons against trained members of the Royal Guard? The Royal Guard... it was their first duty to protect the King's household, but were they not also meant to keep the people under their care from harm? In the second row, Maelwyn suddenly saw a woman bend over to whisper something into a lad's ear, and the boy took off like a horse in full flight, but she could not follow his path as there was suddenly development in front of her.
"Yes, there is!" a deep voice growled, and all heads turned around. It was one of the carpenters, Maelwyn realised, even though she didn't know him by name, and as he stepped through the ever-growing crowd, she saw that he held a hammer in his hand. He was strongly built and tall, and in his piercing blue eyes, she detected no trace of fear. Two more heavily muscled young men followed him, both equipped with sharp-looking instruments in their hands. A chill travelled down her spine. Béma, they wouldn't kill each other over her, would they? Planting his feet firmly on the ground and squaring his shoulders in open challenge, the first man stared at the guards menacingly. "I do not care what she did, but you will not hit a woman in my presence."
Gûthlaf granted him a dry laugh.
"And you will stop me, I suppose?"
"That is right."
Upon a short nod to his companions, the other guards unsheathed their swords to dismayed murmurs and gasps from the crowd. Maelwyn barely dared to breathe.
"You and what army? Or do you think you can take on us with those two dimwits behind you?" He snorted "Go back and build your chairs and tables, simpleton, and keep clear of affairs of which you have no understanding."
His words did not have the intended effect: instead of scaring the people into scattering, their expressions suddenly darkened in growing anger, and two more men stepped over to the carpenter and his apprentices, to stand by their side.
"We do not need an army to teach you and those scarecrows behind you a lesson. We may not have swords, but you will find yourself hard-pressed to repel the charge of thirty people armed with hammers, hayforks, sticks and chains. All that is at my workplace. It will only take a moment for us to get it."
A grim promise flickered in the man's eyes, and as he advanced another step, Gûthlaf suddenly drew a knife and pressed it against Maelwyn's throat. Too scared to breathe, she closed her eyes.
"Try it, peasant, and she will pay for it. I am saying it for the last time: all of you will leave now and take—"
"Leave her be!"
It was a voice Maelwyn hadn't heard before; but it was also a voice she recognised and which cut through her fear like a ray of sun through the dark clouds of a thunderstorm. She opened her eyes and saw Éothain and his men stride through the crowd. Behind him, the lad she had seen leaving earlier slipped back to his mother with a satisfied expression on his young face. Suddenly, her heart beat even more furiously.
"Éothain, please help me! I have done nothing wrong!"
Béma, only yesterday, the son of Céorl had barely been able move after the whipping! What was she asking of him? All the more as Éothain had still not been given back his weapons. But there was a sword in his hand now, and behind him, his captains likewise held deadly-looking steel in their hands. How was that possible? Behind her, Gûthlaf, too, sounded irritated… and nervous.
"Stay out of this, Captain. This is none of your business."
"He was hitting her!"
"And he threatened her with a knife! And he insulted—"
Raising a hand to silence the angered people behind him, Éothain focused on the group of suddenly very uncomfortable looking guards.
"So… what have we here? I doubt that it was the King's order to assault the people of Edoras. Does he know what you are doing here? Or should I go and report it?"
Gûthlaf narrowed his eyes.
"Who gave you those swords, Captain? Whoever it was, he will wish he never did!" And then, after a short break, he added: "Those are training swords. They are blunt."
Éothain granted him a brazen grin.
"Aye, Gûthlaf. You saw that right. They are." He weighed the weapon in his hand… and pierced the guard with a hard gaze. "And yet they are made of steel, and I bet that we could still beat you and your men within an inch of your miserable lives with them… or I could just make a bloody ruin of your mouth by smashing it against your teeth. Make an example of you."
"You can try," the guard growled, and yet his voice did not sound to Maelwyn's ears as if he was terribly certain of himself. "But only two days after that whipping, I'm sure that it takes all of your strength just to stand there. This is all a big, empty threat."
"So try me if you think that way." Éothain's fingers tightened around the hilt, and behind him Anlaf and Aedwulf likewise tensed. The crowd held their collective breath. No one moved.
Gûthlaf hesitated… and snorted.
"I find it strange that you do not seem to care about the fact that this wench sought to betray our King, Captain. Aren't you bothered by that thought at all? Or no, I understand why you are not: after all, perhaps you approve of her plans or are you even part of them, because they expelled your friend? Perhaps I should report you as a potential co-conspirator, what do you think? Perhaps it would be smart to banish you just like the Marshal, eh? After all, it seems that there are still too many crooked liars in this city."
"I agree with you on that last part, Gûthlaf," Éothain replied, and behind him, the crowd murmured angrily. Suddenly, the atmosphere was full of tension, just waiting to be ignited. "Just make sure that you tell the King the reason for our clash when you report this. Tell him you were planning to abuse a woman of Edoras. A former member of the Royal Household, even."
Still with his hand on the hilt of his sword, Éothain left no question that his threat was serious. And yet despite the spark of hope his appearance had woken in Maelwyn, she feared for him. A deadly promise seemed to sparkle in the eyes of Céorl's son as he advanced another step. She braced, certain that something bad was about to happen.
"Let her go, Gûthlaf. Your master pardoned her, and I will not allow you to exact your personal revenge on her. Leave her be and see what other things may require your attention; I am certain you have more important things to do than to hit women who can't defend themselves. This is my very last warning."
The ruffian spat, but did not loosen his grip. There was no reply.
Éothain's eyes found Maelwyn.
"Maelwyn, tell us what you were doing here. You did not seek to enter the Golden Hall, did you?"
For a long, terrible moment, the young handmaiden could not remember how to use her voice. Her head seemed empty, her mind entirely consumed by fear, and there was a big lump in her throat that blocked all effort to speak.
"No…" she whispered at last, and that seemed to do the trick. "No, of course not. I know that I am not allowed to go there. I wanted to speak with Yálanda and Bergfinn, as I heard that something terrible might have befallen their son." And perhaps that brute behind her had killed him. Oh Gods, what a horrible thought! "I have known them ever since I moved to Edoras. I only wanted to express my compassion."
"And I see nothing wrong with that," Éothain said, his gaze directed over her shoulder at the guard. "And since it is I who commands the city in Captain Céorl's absence, and you are a member of the Royal Guard, responsible for Meduseld alone and not even its chief, you either bring me Háma or Gamling to discuss this further, or taste my steel, because I will not let you go through with this. Enough of the talking. What do you choose, Gûthlaf?"
For a moment, the guard's grip tightened even more, and Maelwyn feared the worst, but suddenly, the hold was released and she was pushed forward with vigour, stumbling toward Éothain and falling over her own feet. Quickly, she was helped back up by two women and pulled into the safety of the crowd.
"Very well, if that is how you want it… Here, take her." Gûthlaf sneered, his eyes gliding over his adversary and the angry mob as if he wanted to remember each face for a time when they would not expect him to strike. "Be assured though that I will bring this before Counsellor Gríma. He will not be happy with your interference. Perhaps, the whip will get to drink more of your blood."
Éothain snorted. For a moment, his hard stare softened as he looked over his shoulder at the handmaiden, relieved to find her safe and unharmed, then he shifted his attention back at his opponent and raised his chin as he forcefully sheathed his sword.
"Do that if you think you must, Gûthlaf, but I do not believe that your orders were to abduct women from the streets and brutalise them. If one day the Counsellor utters such a command, he should bring his men with him, because I will fight him."
He took a deep breath and lowered his voice to an insistent, warning tone while his gaze wandered over the darkly glaring guards.
"Now go back to Meduseld, because the inhabitants of this city do not value your presence. And if I catch you one more time at terrorising them, I will bring it before Théoden-King. You have my word."
His hand still on the hilt and broad shoulders squared, he stood and watched until guard and his men disappeared grumbling behind the next corner. Only then did the tension drop from him with a heavy sigh, and he shook his head as he turned around.
"Maelwyn, what in Eorl's name were you thinking to come up here? You know that Gríma is watching you closely. You ought to take his threats more seriously!"
Now that the danger was over, Maelwyn suddenly found herself shaking like autumn leaves in a strong breeze. Evading Éothain's gaze for fear he would see the tears brimming in her eyes, she squatted to pick up her goods from the ground and found that eager hands were already collecting them for her. Good wishes and soothing words were directed at her from all sides simultaneously, and more than one clapped her comfortingly on the shoulder before the people left to finally be on their way.
"I- I do take him seriously, Éothain. Really, I do. I only wanted to speak to Yálanda and Bergfinn, I swear it. I have known them for so long and they were always kind to me, I felt I had to express my compassion. How can this be wrong?"
"It is not wrong, Maelwyn, there is nothing to discuss. But you know how things are in Edoras these days. You must be more careful; you must stay out of their sight, at least for a while. Come to me if you have any business in the upper levels of the city, and I will see it done for you, but do not cross the guards' way again. Will you promise me this, Maelwyn?"
She nodded, not knowing what to say when the carpenter who had first come to her aid and thus turned the tide approached them, feeling the strong urge to embrace him.
"Thank you. Thank you so much! I cannot tell you how scared I was. If it hadn't been for you... and I don't even know your name! Isn't that a shame?"
The man's mouth curled into a smile.
"That can be helped. I am Béordric. I work at the carpentry across the street, and when I heard the disturbance, I had to see what it was." He looked at the dispersing crowd. "They are still good people, they are only afraid. They need a leader to remind them of their honour in these hard times, but once they've found him, they will follow him with fierce determination."
"Aye, Béordric," Éothain agreed, laying a hand on the man's arm as he realised the deeper meaning of the carpenter's words. "You are certainly right with this. We must stick together for now. They cannot overcome us as long as we stay true to each other. The people of the Mark were always known for their sense of justice and loyalty; as long as we can keep those two traits alive, there is still hope… as we have seen today. Please accept my thanks, as well. Your courage may very well have been the proof people needed to see that their fate lies still in their own hands: Just be careful after today. I do not know what those crooks might do to avenge themselves for the defeat."
Béordric laughed.
"I doubt that the filth will be back. They know that they will be in trouble once their ugly faces are seen here." He looked back over his shoulder, and then gave Maelwyn an acknowledging nod. "Yet I must excuse myself for now, I'm afraid. There is still a piece waiting for me to finish on the workbench which needs my attention."
"Of course. Thank you, Béordric. Without you, I don't know what would have happened."
Maelwyn followed the carpenter's path with her eyes until he disappeared inside the building, and then drew a deep, shaky breath. With the immediate shock waning, tears were suddenly on the verge of bursting out, and her knuckles turned white, so firm was her grip around the handle of her basket. Suddenly she felt Éothain's hand underneath her chin, gently lifting her head and turning it to the side to inspect the damage done.
"That brute," he muttered angrily at the sight of the red handprint on Maelwyn's cheek. "I wouldn't mind going after him and stick this sword into him very slowly. I will mention this in my next report. The King should know about this."
"No," she objected lowly, desperate to go home before she would fall apart before Éothain and his men. "Please don't. You would only stick your head out for the Counsellor to cut it off, and I could not bear it if anything more happened to you. Please, Éothain, I am fine. I am most grateful for your help, but there is no need for anything else."
Unconvinced by her statement, Éothain let his gaze travel over her slender, trembling frame before he extended his hand to take the basket from her.
"At least let me walk you home then, Maelwyn. You are shaking so badly, you can barely stand. Come, let me carry your basket."
She could not deny that he was right, and also could no longer speak as the words would have left her throat in the form of a sob. So she just silently nodded her agreement and gratefully accepted his steadying arm when the tears finally spilled over. Resting the handle of the basket in the pit of his elbow, Éothain gently laid his arm around her and lead her down the path, only briefly pausing once to look at Anlaf and Aedwulf.
"I will bring her home. Come to my house in half an hour. We must talk."
OOO
It had taken them a while to reach the alley in the centre of the city, and by then, Maelwyn's trembling had subsided to a level that allowed her to walk mostly by herself. She no longer felt as if she would burst into tears in front of Éothain. What would happen to her composure once she had reached the relative safety of her home and its solitude until she felt ready to pick up her children from their neighbours, she dared not imagine.
"All right, here we are," her saviour murmured lowly, as he came a halt and turned toward her. "I will go and tell Torben to come home. I do not want to leave you like this."
She shook her head as she cautiously felt her throbbing cheek. It felt hot to her touch.
"No. No, Éothain, thank you." She looked up to him, deep thankfulness in her eyes. "Please don't. You did so much for me already, and I do not want Torben to worry. He already has much on his mind these days as it is. He needs not to know about this."
Éothain's gaze told her that he was not convinced.
"But he will see that print on your cheek. And the people will talk about what happened. I would, in fact, be surprised if someone did not already tell him?"
Maelwyn sighed.
"You are probably right, Éothain, but I will not make things better by causing him yet more worries. I will not mention it if he does not ask me about it… Really, I will be all right." She tried to smile as she rubbed her cheek. "It was just a slap."
Éothain's mien was still sceptical. He lifted an eyebrow.
"As you wish. But at least let me leave you with one of my men for protection for the next few days. I do not think that Gûthlaf and his thugs will come down here to take revenge, but I want you to be safe. I will send you Léod."
The son of Céorl seemed unhappy not to be able to do more.
"In the meantime, will you promise me to keep to the lower levels of the city for as long as the situation has not been resolved? I will try to have an eye on you, but I may not always be around. That I was today was a lucky coincidence."
She nodded, touched by his concern. "I promise. And I am sorry that you were drawn into this. But can you please tell Yálanda and Bergfinn—"
"I will tell them that they are in your thoughts and prayers, but believe me, they already know that." He handed her the basket. She shook her head.
"Take it with you. The things inside are for your mother." A weak smile tugged at Maelwyn's mouth. "But I fear that the eggs are no longer usable…"
"I will get her another batch on the way home." Éothain exhaled. "I must be on my way, but I will send you Léod right away. Do not send him from your side. He may be young, but he is an able warrior, and I would be relieved to know that someone is looking after you. Maelwyn?"
"Thank you, Éothain." She accepted his embrace gratefully and closed her eyes. "For everything."
She could not say more, and when at last he let go of her and turned away with a nod of acknowledgment, she followed his way with her eyes until he passed out of sight.
OOO
WHITE MOUNTAINS
The feeling grew stronger. Strong enough to alert him through his dark dreams and reach his subconscious. He was no longer alone. At first, Éomer thought it part of his dream, an echo of the attack he was reliving in grizzly detail again and again, unable to shut the images out; a vivid recollection of the first burst of anxiety in reaction to Théodred's warning. But the feeling did not wane, and the steady change from cold to warm air against his face seemed too real to be only a product of his imagination. It was the breath of a living being, and it was close.
With a gasp, Éomer sat up – and fell straight back when his strength gave out even before he had reached an upright position, hitting his head on the bare ground. Not seeing clearly in the diffuse twilight, he blindly groped for the knife even though he knew that he was in no condition to fight. Easy prey, that was what he was, and yet Éomer found to his surprise that his abrupt movement had apparently scared his unknown visitor away at least for now, the large shape retreating from him with a startled noise.
His heart pounding against his hurting ribs like a hammer against the anvil, he stared into the semi-darkness with the knife in his hand, ready to lash out… but suddenly, all tension fell away from him, and his lips curled upward in a weak and at the same time glad smile. He laid the weapon down and instead wearily raised his hand in greeting.
"Firefoot! Béma be praised…"
The stallion's long face looked almost comical as it hovered above him with an all-too-human expression of concern written all over it; widened nostrils quivering as Firefoot took in his master's comforting scent. Yet at the same time, the stench of blood made the horse skittish, and its ears flickered nervously to and fro as it cautiously lowered its head again to sniff at Éomer's hand, only to recoil again from him.
"It is only I, Grey One. No reason to fear me. I couldn't hurt a foal… not that I ever would."
At last, Éomer was allowed to touch his steed's nose, and his smile deepened as he found himself thoroughly moved by the display of the horse's loyalty. Despite the horror of the nightly attack, and despite the stench of the fallen orcs around them, Firefoot had returned to this place he hated and wouldn't enter on his own earlier… to look for his rider. The thought brought a warm glow to Éomer otherwise freezing body as he gently caressed the soft skin beneath his fingers and lowly hummed a soothing melody. A raspy, but heartfelt "Thank you" was all he managed before lack of strength finally forced him to lower his arm.
What now? As Éomer stared upward, it seemed to him that Firefoot was at a loss of how to proceed as well. Clearly indicated by the way it restlessly shifted and nodded its head as it retreated for a few steps now to paw the ground, his horse was eager to leave these caves that reeked of danger and death. All its behaviour was a single, desperate plea for its master to stand up and mount and be gone from this evil place… and yet Éomer could not comply.
His head sank back as the last of his strength deserted him, and the smile vanished from his face as if it had never been there. As much as he hated the realisation, it could not be helped that they would have to spend another night in their compromised hideout. If more orcs came, it would be destiny. There was nothing he could do about it.
"I'm sorry, Firefoot…" His gaze found the fire…. the pitiful remainders of his fire. Of the four thick logs he had fed it earlier, most had crumbled to glowing ashes, and only small flames still licked at the little remaining food. The sight of it brought a great wave of disorientation. For how long had he been unconscious? Was it already night again? Trying to lift his head high enough to look in the direction of the exit, Éomer found that he could still faintly see the outline of the cave, if not too clearly. Either it was a very overcast day, or nightfall could not be far off. Furrowing his brow with discomfort over his finding, he lay back… when something else came to his mind.
Reluctantly his gaze went down to his leg, and Éomer braced to finally see the full damage done. The merciful twilight of the cave could not hide the glistening dark stain around the middle of his thigh where the blood had soaked his breaches around the small cut. Carefully turning the muscle to inspect the exit wound, Éomer gritted his teeth as he peeled aside the leather to look. He seemed to have been lucky: as expected, the tear had bled a while, but the flow seemed to have ended a good while ago. Only the movement now caused it to weep anew, but not exceedingly. No, the wound looked about as good as he could have hoped for.
Rolling on his back with an effort, Éomer fumbled in the diffuse light to find the stripes of cloth he had cut from his shirt earlier and with what little of his strength had returned, dressed the wound. At last, he rekindled the fire with four more thick branches and lay back, utterly spent and ready to pass out again.
As his hand fell down, his fingers brushed over a thing that clattered away underneath his touch, a bright noise that caught his attention through the leaden exhaustion, and he picked it up to inspect it. It was the arrow. Thoughtfully, Éomer ran a thumb over the delicate tip and was relieved to find it intact; there were no dents or sharp angles on it where they didn't belong.
Disgusted, he dropped it, and instead unscrewed his nearby water-skin to take a sip. Its lightness did nothing to improve his mood; the way it felt it could be barely more than half-full. Perhaps enough to last until the next morning, or noon, if he drank sparsely. But what then?
'You will have to crawl to the entrance and fill it with snow.'
A dry, humourless laugh. Yes, certainly. He already felt as stiff as one of the Pukel-men at Dunharrow, and by tomorrow, his mobility would be reduced to the point of non-existence.
'You did not tell me about this, Théodred! Step by step you said, but you did not say how many steps there were to take altogether. You cheated!''
There was no answer, and exhausted from the brief time awake, Éomer closed his eyes, intending to go back to sleep and forget about his hopeless situation at least for another few hours, when from the side, a deep, impatient whicker reached his ear. Unwillingly, he craned his neck to look at his restlessly shifting stallion.
"No, Firefoot. We stay."
He felt sorry for his animal companion. This was no place for a horse. The caves were too narrow for a creature of his frame; they stank of death and there was no fodder. The stallion had to be hungry and yearning for company of his kind. As was he, Éomer thought in a sudden fit of loneliness, and he listened into the darkness. Where was Théodred when he needed him? With another sceptical glance at the slowly reviving fire, Éomer carefully reached out to clutch the woollen blanket he had not had the time to wrap himself into before unconsciousness had claimed him, and spread it over himself.
Better. As miserable as he felt, at least he was no longer cold. Staring into the flames with unfocussed eyes and enjoying the warmth on his face, it did not take long for him to sink back into oblivion…