Elfhelm sighed.
He was getting used to the tales of outraged fathers, furious farmers, incandescent landed gentry and pissed-off pub landlords now; they seemed to far outnumber the occasional good deeds the lady had perpetrated in her travels. The latest in a long string of angry men, puffed up like a bantam, stood in front of him at the gate to his smallholding. Behind him, a bevy of teenage daughters milled in the entrance to the cottage, marshalled unsuccessfully by their mother.
"So your deserter, missing rider, whatever you want to call him. Dernhelm, he said his name was."
"Yes."
"When you catch up with him, I want him sued for breach of promise. And attempted bigamy."
"WHAT?" bellowed Elfhelm. Éothain slumped forward in his saddle, buried his face in his hands, and his shoulders began to shake.
"I let him buy his supper, I offered him the use of the barn to sleep in, I was as hospitable as any man could be."
Well, you would be, with eight daughters to shift, thought Éothain, though he wisely kept his counsel to himself.
"My Duinhir, he's the farm hand as comes up from the village, he got his fiddle out and the girls had a bit of a dance. And your deserter danced with each of them in turn. Then he takes my youngest's handkerchief and tucks it in his doublet."
"What," said Elfhelm, struggling to return to his more usual calm demeanour, "Does that have to do with breach of promise?"
"And bigamy," added Éothain in a muffled voice, struggling not to laugh.
"In this bit of Anorien that's the sign that you're interested in courting. The lady offers you her hankie to say she's noted your interest in her and returns it, and if you take the hankie, then it means you're walking out together and will be hand-fasted for a year and a day."
"Did… Dernhelm… understand this? When… he… took the hankie, I mean."
The man seemed to deflate slightly. "Not at the time." Then, finding new reserves of rage, he puffed his bantam chest out once more. "But he did when I explained it to him next morning and asked what he could offer by way of dowry."
"And what did he say," asked Elfhelm, levelly.
"He said he couldn't marry her because he was already affianced, then rode off, bold as brass."
From behind him, his wife chipped in with "My Miriel's heartbroken, she is."
Out of the corner of his eye, Éothain saw her dig her youngest daughter in the side with an elbow. The youngest gave a theatrical sob and dabbed at her eyes with a piece of linen.
"Bigamy, that's what it was," said the farmer. "Next best thing to, at any rate."
Elfhelm was anxious to get on the trail of his errant, and erring, shieldmaiden. He decided a bit of financial mollification might go a long way.
"It is a shame to see the reputation of the Riddermark brought low in such a way. I shall talk to my king about compensation for your daughter's lost dowry. What would be the going rate here?"
"A cow and calf, my lord," said the man, his eyes brightening.
Elfhelm suspected that for an eighth daughter the going rate might be more like a single heifer. Still, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to pay up or face the consequences.
"We have few cows in the Riddermark. Would a mare and foal be suitable?"
As they rode off, Éothain said, "How the hell are you going to persuade Éomer King to part with a mare and foal for a money grubbing little bastard like that?"
"I'm not," Elfhelm replied. "Lady Éowyn will be giving her betrothed a part of her herds as a Morgengifu. She can spare a mare and foal from that to clear up this mess."
"You clever bastard," said Éothain, finally giving way to the laughter he'd been bottling up for the past half hour.
"I don't know why you're laughing. Didn't Lord Carandol's daughter give you her handkerchief?"