They arrived at Carandol's castle the next day. It was a mighty fortress, circled by a moat. Most of the moat was frozen, but some poor sod had clearly been sent out to break some of the ice, for in a small area of open water, a single swan was circling morosely. The news when they got inside matched the swan's mood.

Éowyn had apparently escaped again.

It was Éothain who eventually got the story, from Lord Carandol's daughter, Galadwen.

First, however, the riders had been entertained to dinner. Once Lord Carandol established that these were no mere passing band of sell-swords, but the third Marshall of the Mark and his distant younger kinsman Lord Éothain, together with their party, he could not have been more hospitable, and insisted they dine in the hall and sleep in the guest quarter. He regretted to inform them, however, that their runaway had, to cut a long story short, run away once more. The precise means of his escape were unknown. Furthermore he had, apparently, released from captivity a collection of swans – seven to be precise – earmarked for the Mettarë feast. Only one was left, which would make entertaining on the grand scale difficult.

Despite the bad news, the dinner was excellent, and served with fine wine. Éothain found himself seated next to Lady Galadwen and her duenna. Galadwen was a pretty young woman, with the auburn hair common in Anorien and a fine figure. Her duenna was not so – plain as a pikestaff and with greying hair tightly drawn back beneath her widow's headdress. Éothain, however, was sufficiently bright to realise that the way to a woman's heart – or at least, a little light flirtation – lay through her duenna, so he made polite chit-chat to the older woman first.

His strategy paid off. After they had supped, the duenna announced that her gout was troubling her and she would have to retire early, and the lady Galadwen seized the opportunity to invite Éothain to take a turn round the long gallery.

"Is this your first visit to Gondor?" she asked, brightly.

Éothain did a double take. Surely she couldn't be that dim? As levelly as he could, he said "First time since the war."

She obviously realised she had put her foot in it for she turned bright red. "Oh, I'm sorry… I didn't mean… Oh dear, that's what comes of resorting to small talk because I feel nervous."

"Nervous?"

"It's not every day I get the chance to take a turn around the long gallery with a handsome young knight." She gave him a sidelong glance from beneath long eyelashes.

Éothain decided she was pretty enough for him to forgive her faux-pas, and certainly pretty enough to push his luck, given the undoubted invitation she had just offered him.

"It's quite all right. Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth explained all about Gondorian etiquette, so I know how to behave myself with a gently bred young lady."

"And what sort of things did he explain?" she asked in a coquettish tone, shifting a hand-span closer to him.

"Well," said Éothain, taking her hand, "He explained that one might kiss a lady's knuckles with the briefest of touches, thus…" He brushed his lips, the briefest and softest of touches, across her skin. She giggled and swayed just a little bit closer still. Éothain turned her hand over.

"But he said that one shouldn't kiss the palm of a lady's hand as that would be far too forward." He pressed a kiss to her palm. "And that one definitely shouldn't do this…" He brushed his lips more lingeringly on the pulse point on her wrist.

"Of course, that was all by way of illustration. I wouldn't dream of…"

But he was interrupted by Lady Galadwen seizing his doublet in two small fists and pushing him backwards with surprising strength against the wall, before launching herself at his lips.

Several minutes of fervent (and most enjoyable) kissing later, Éothain felt those small hands reach for the fastenings of his doublet and the laces of the shirt beneath. With more than a little regret, he covered her hands with his own.

"Hold, sweetheart. We should stop here while we still can. A little dalliance is fine, but I would not compromise your honour." Bugger, he thought. From the feel of her, it would be such a nice honour to compromise.

She gave a sigh of regret, and let him lead her to a low couch beside a suit of armour. She rested her head on his shoulder and they sat in silence for a few moments.

"It was me, you know." Her voice was so low he barely heard it.

"You… what?" Éothain said.

"Let your deserter go. No, hear me out. I felt so sorry for him when the gamekeepers brought him in because he seemed so young and the thought of a whole week in the stocks in the snow. So I went to see him in the chamber where they had him locked up. And it was half way through talking to him, when I caught a glimpse of the buckle on his sword belt – they'd taken the sword of course – that I realised there was more to him than we'd guess.

"The buckle was the emblem of the house of the Steward. He was a bit cagey about it, but I'm guessing he was maybe some sort of by-blow of the old Steward (though he seemed a bit uptight for that sort of thing) or maybe the eldest son, the one who died – he used to go to Rohan quite a lot. Anyway, it seemed wrong to see the son of such a proud house, even one born the wrong side of the blanket, brought so low. So I helped him to escape."

"Ah," said Éothain. "You don't happen to know which way he headed off, do you?"

"No, but he was kind enough to do me a favour – the swans. I can't bear the idea of slaughtering beasts so beautiful just for a dinner so that daddy can impress his terribly dull neighbours. Your runaway helped me set them free from their cages before he left."

~o~O~o~

The next morning, at first light, the party set off. The lord, his lady and his daughter came to see them off. In a moment of sudden impulsiveness, the young girl detached herself from her duenna and hurried over to Éothain's horse.

"Elbereth speed you, my lord. Here…" She held up a silken handkerchief. "A token of my esteem to spur you in your quest."

"You've got in way over your head, haven't you lad?" said Elfhelm, as they rode out through the gate.

~o~O~o~

AN: The release of the poacher because he's a nobleman fallen into misfortune (allegedly) is stolen from John Buchan's novel "John Macnab", one of my favourite feel-good books of all time. (What do you do when you're a successful man at the height of your career, suffering from a severe case of ennui? "Steal a horse in a country where they still hang horse thieves.")

Thanks for the review, Earthdragon. Great to know you're still around. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story. And thanks for the heads up on the duplicate chapter - should be fixed now.