Chapter Six
Misunderstandings
Edoras, Rohan
May 6th of the year 3020 T.A.
Lothíriel felt her eyes widen, staring at the awe-inspiring vista before her. The grasslands stretched out for at least a mile or more, and on the horizon an enormous hill jutted out of the otherwise flat plains. Buildings and rooftops dotted the entirety, the perimeter surrounded by jutting palisades, and at the top, an enormous building that was far larger than the rest. That would be Meduseld, the Golden Hall, ancestral seat of the King of Rohan.
They had reached Edoras at last.
Lothíriel could have wept with relief. At last, she could get a real bath in warm water, she could sleep in a real bed, and—for a few hours at least—she could escape the prying eyes of everyone around her and have a few moments peace to herself. Over the past few days she had become so confused and turned about she wasn't really sure which way was up anymore. Everything had become so complicated. She wasn't even sure when or why.
Following Elphir's visit, Lothíriel had promised herself that she would do her utmost to follow his advice and act more like a true princess of Gondor. She had conducted herself in a way that even her Aunt Ivriniel wouldn't have been able to find fault in, keeping her expression carefully neutral, her words few and kept a careful distance from all who were not related to her. Where before she might have sought out the King or one of his Riders to ask them about the land they were traveling through—eager to soak up any new knowledge like a sponge to water—she instead kept to herself and remained aloof and withdrawn, as ladies were expected.
Her father seemed intrigued by her change of temperament, her brother Elphir very pleased, and her other brothers threw her confused looks but said nothing. It was hard to tell what Faramir was thinking exactly, though Eowyn seemed troubled. Again, however, the White Lady offered no advice on what she found lacking in her behavior.
What worried her the most, however, was that it took no great scholar to tell that something was bothering her soon-to-be-husband. When they had stirred for travel that first morning, his face had been dark and distant. Even if she was inclined to approach him, his thunderous expression would have kept her at bay. His mood did not improve during their last week of travel, indeed it only seemed to worsen. Until he was growling and snapping at everyone but Eowyn and spending most of his time not in a saddle in ill-tempered solitude.
Lothíriel was terrified that she was the cause. Perhaps his Éored had begun speaking ill of her to him, telling him that they didn't feel she was a worthy Queen of their land. Perhaps he was even now brooding on a way to break their betrothal before the wedding could take place, binding him eternally to a horrid mistake.
This thought only firmed her resolve to do everything in her power to act properly and show the people of Rohan—including her betrothed—that she could do this right.
As they neared the city, three of the Rohirrim raised horns to their lips and released a deep and strangely eerie sound, one that sent the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck to stand on end. Amrothos and Erchirion had told her of the sound of Rohirrim horns, last heard on the Fields of Pelennor when the Horse-Lords had come unexpectedly to their people's aid. They had laughed and said it was a sound that the Orcs of the Black Land would not soon forget. She now had no doubt of it.
Moments later, an answering bellow sounded from within the city, and then the enormous gates of Edoras began to open.
People lined the main street to see their procession pass. Most were yelling and cheering at the return of their King, but also at the return of Lady Eowyn as well, Lothíriel suspected. Both of them were smiling and waving to their people as they passed. Lothíriel watched it all enviously, wondering if she might one day garner such a loving and devoted response. Not even in Dol Amroth were the people so openly affectionate of their sovereigns.
As they traveled through, the Riders began breaking away in groups, heading off to their own stable yards she assumed, until only the King and everyone from Gondor remained. They continued through until the streets of Edoras gave way to the base of a higher plateau. Here there was a huge stable and what Lothíriel guessed to be guard houses and watch towers. Eomer led the procession into the stable, where several hands stood ready to attend him.
"Have the horses unsaddled, rubbed down and stalled," Eomer called out as he dismounted. "Haleth, show Prince Imrahil's men where they can bed down," he continued as he handed Firefoot's reins to one of the stable boys. The young, armored Rohirrim at the door motioned, and the Swan Knights slowly filed out behind him.
Eomer led everyone else out of the stables and then up a lone, broad stair, which led up to a wide green terrace and a paved area on which sat the Golden Hall itself, it's thatched roof gleaming like pure gold in the afternoon sun. Guards stood at every corner, two at the huge carved doors themselves that faced northward and would lead inside. They were carved in the shape of several beasts and birds with jewels for eyes and golden claws—a truly magnificent sight. Several of the white horse banners and pennons flapped madly in the strong breeze that blew, and also tore mercilessly at her cloak and skirts. Lothíriel bowed her head slightly against it and hurried after the group, not wanting to be left behind.
The men standing sentinel all snapped to attention at Eomer's approach. He acknowledged them with a weary nod, then allowed them to push open the doors for him. The heavy portals gave way with a loud and thunderous creak, telling of its immense size as well as its age. The Gondorian princess was suitably subdued by it and what came next.
The entryway opened up into an immense grand hall. The high roof was supported by pillars that were decorated with carvings painted gold and green. There was a louver in the ceiling high above their heads that let out smoke and let in light. Light also came into the hall through slitted, unglazed windows under the eaves on the eastern side. All around them, great tapestries hung on the walls depicting scenes and people that were no doubt important to the Rohirrim's history. Lothíriel was as of yet unfamiliar with any specifics, but she suddenly itched to discover their secrets. The woman in her also took note that many of the beautiful pieces looked as though they had gone too many years in neglect, showing the dust of time and faded with age.
In the middle of the hall was a long hearth, currently cold. And finally, at the south end of the hall facing the door was a dais with three steps, and on the dais was a great gilded chair; the King's Seat, throne of the Kingdom of Rohan. Eomer paid it little heed as he turned immediately to two large, armored men. One was red-headed with a great, bushy beard to match. The other possessed fairer chestnut blonde locks.
"Erkenbrand, Elfhelm, how fares Edoras?" The men, though at least a decade or more older than the young King, both gave him a deep bow of respect.
"My Lord, it is good to see you returned safely," the redhead announced. "All has passed peacefully during your absence. Only a few minor details need your attention, which," he hastened to add, at Eomer's pained look, "certainly may wait until you have bathed and rested at least."
Eomer smiled slightly, the first time in many days, and reached up to clasp the older man's shoulder a moment in a show of thanks before he gave the other the same, then turned to make introductions. Eowyn and Faramir were both met warmly, and then Eomer led them to where Lothíriel stood at her father's side.
"Prince Imrahil and his sons you have met," Eomer was saying, his face devoid of any real emotion and his voice neutral, "but this is his daughter, Lady Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Also the lady who has accepted my suit. My Lady, might I present to you two of my most loyal men. Lord Erkenbrand, Marshall of the West-mark," he indicated the redheaded man to his right, then the blonde on his left. "And Lord Elfhelm, Marshall of the East-mark."
Both men bowed respectfully, and she nodded in return to their deference.
"It is an honor to make your acquaintance my lords," she returned, voice a little soft with her nervousness. Neither man showed any real outward reaction, and she found herself terrified, wondering if they were finding her lacking in some way. She was also very disconcerted with her betrothed's piercing stare, his dark eyes strangely intent and pinning her to the spot.
She was therefore very grateful when Eomer turned away at last and motioned for a woman who had been hovering near the edge of the hall to come nearer. She moved forward, her long auburn hair mostly loose with only the top layers secured in a small braided chignon at her crown, dressed in a plain but cleanly olive green dress. She bowed her head low to the King.
"Freca, see them all put in rooms with warm baths fetched," he ordered, taking firm charge of the situation in a way one might expect him to bark out battle orders to his Éored. "Also perhaps a light repast before dinner," he continued, "as we rode straight through the midday meal in our haste to return home."
Freca nodded to indicate she had heard, then turned to call out her own orders to the army of servants who had seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Eowyn and Faramir were led off in one direction, Amrothos and Erchirion in another. Elphir, Riana and their two children were taken down a separate hall, and her father another still. Until, finally, Freca came up to her at last and offered her a warm smile.
"I am pleased to meet you at last my lady," she murmured pleasantly. "I am Freca, originally of Westmarch. Before Lady Eowyn left for Ithilien, she named me head of the maids here in Meduseld." Here her dark eyes fell away somewhat uncertainly. "I hope that I please you enough to continue in this endeavor."
Lothíriel gave the woman a serene look, fighting to keep her utter exhaustion off her face. "I trust the White Lady's tastes as well as her discretion. I am sure she would not have appointed you to such a position if she did not feel you were capable of completing your tasks efficiently."
Apparently she didn't do a good enough job of playing serene. Freca's expression became chiding.
"Oh listen to me, jabbering your ears off with you about to wilt to the floor from fatigue. Come, follow me milady. You'll have a hot bath straight away, and a soft bed to rest in for a few hours at least."
Her control slipped just a little, her shoulders drooping. "Oh that sounds divine."
Freca smiled, taking her by the shoulder as Riana might have—in an older sister sort of way—and led her from the great hall. They made their way down several halls, all with doors of varying size and shape and decoration. Probably the largest difference between the building she found herself in now and the ones she was more familiar with were the fact that Meduseld seemed largely comprised of wood, where-as buildings in Gondor were almost all made of carved stone. Even the palace of Dol Amroth—while more airy and open than the city of Minas Tirith in order to let in the cool sea breezes—was still mostly made of lavender blue granite. Meduseld was sealed and closed in tightly, no doubt to ward away what promised to be quite a fierce winter chill. The darkened halls were lit by grand iron braziers and torch scones that lined the walls.
It wasn't long before she felt completely turned around and lost. Freca must have interpreted her wide-eyed, nervous glances for she merely chuckled and gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze.
"Worry not, my lady. In time you will grow to know Meduseld as well as you do your former home. It can seem a bit intimidating at first, but do not despair."
They came to one of the larger doors, and Freca lifted the iron handle and pushed inside. Lothíriel followed a little more slowly, taking in her surroundings.
Her room at home had been very spacious and airy, few furnishings, lots of plush velveteen rugs and silk wall hangings that would shift and sigh with the sea breeze being let in from her enormous balcony window. This room was very much different. There were no windows, and the space itself was much smaller, no doubt in order to conserve heat. The walls were covered with more wall tapestries rather than silk banners, these in slightly better repair than the ones in the hall but not by much. And on the floor, no rugs of thread or velvet, but rather stitched animal furs of tan and cream. The bed in the center of the room was a lot larger than the one she had back home, covered as well in furs as well as blankets of deep green and gold.
Near the foot of the bed, a young girl no older than twelve or thirteen at most was struggling to fill a large wooden tub with steaming buckets of water. She hesitated at their entrance, and then quickly straightened up, smoothing down her rumpled red and blue skirts. She had blonde hair secured haphazardly behind her, big brown eyes and a winning smile that reminded Lothíriel of the woman who had led her here.
"This is Freda, my lady," Freca announced, smiling. "My daughter," she then confirmed. "Freda has been given the duty of filling in as your lady's maid, until you appoint someone of your own choosing to the task." She turned to quirk her daughter's chin. "She is a bit young yet, my lady, but she is eager to please and a fast learner. She will have your needs well memorized before the end of the night, I guarantee it."
Lothíriel could tell they were both nervous that she might disapprove a maid so young. Quite honestly, she really had no preference, just so long as she got to strip her grimy dress off and sink down into that steaming tub at all haste. She gave them both a reassuring smile.
"I am sure she will suit just fine, mistress Freca. Be at ease." Freca bowed her head in acknowledgement, then turned to her child.
"Finish filling her bath, Freda, then begin airing out the lady's gowns. She must have fresh clothes for supper tonight. Put the rest of her things away."
"Yes mama," the girl breathed, her voice airy and sweet. Freca gave one last smile to Lothíriel, then turned and hurried out of the chamber, closing the door solidly behind her.
Freda immediately turned back to her task, so Lothíriel took this moment to divest herself of her riding gloves, boots and cloak.
"You can set your things there beside the door, my lady," came Freda's pleasant voice, only slightly strained a she hefted up a full bucket and added it to the tub with a splash. "I will take them to be cleaned along with all of your other soiled clothes while you sup tonight. I took the liberty of setting out your bathing salts," Freda suddenly announced, motioning to the small blue velvet drawstring bag. She bit her lip a little. "I hope you do not mind my presumption."
"Oh no, it is fine," Lothíriel quickly assured. "Saves me having to search for them." The girl giggled, then emptied the last of her buckets.
"Do you have a preference, my lady?" Lothíriel hesitated, then,
"The small blue bottle, I think."
Freda fished out the bottle she had described, then uncorked it and added a small bit. Instantly the room began to smell of chamomile.
"Apples!" Freda exclaimed, utterly delighted. She gave a giggle, then seemed to remember herself and recorked the bottle with a small gasp. She replaced it in its bag, then hurried around the tub and approached her. Lothíriel was a little disconcerted to discover that the child was very nearly as tall as she was. "Shall I help you with your gown, my lady?"
"Just loosen the ties at my back please," she bade. "I think I can manage the rest on my own. I would not like to keep you from your other chores."
Freda nodded in agreement, then did as she was told, with nimble and efficient fingers. She seemed remarkably well possessed and mature for her age, turning at once to start hanging Lothíriel's gowns and putting everything else away. If Freda gave her no reason to decide otherwise, she just might decide to keep the precocious blonde on as her maid permanently. She could find no fault with her so far. Indeed, so far she was proving even more efficient at her tasks than Dolwen—her former maid in Dol Amroth—had been. And Dolwen was nearing her nineteenth year.
Lothíriel forgot about everything else as soon as she sank down into the blessedly hot water. "Valar be praised," she hissed, causing Freda to giggle.
"If you wish me to help wash your hair or your back my lady, you have only to call," she assured, her voice slightly muffled, as she was currently half buried into one of Lothíriel's travel bags.
While Freda continued to unpack, Lothíriel allowed herself to languish a bit in the bath, letting her sore and tired muscles relax. Finally, after a moment, she got started on the business of scrubbing the dirt and grime of travel from her body. They didn't have sea sponges like back home, but the slightly rough-textured cloth served its purpose just fine.
She was in the process of soaping up her tangled black hair when Freda's exclamation on the other side of the room caught her attention. She turned to see what was the matter, and smiled.
Freda stood, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, holding a brilliant silver gown. The swooping neck, flaring hem and long sleeves were embroidered with pearls and chips of sapphire. The cloth of the gown was made with ultra fine mithril thread, so that it gleamed and shimmered even in the dull light of the room's only brazier. The cape that attached to the neckline, sweeping back for nearly four feet in length, was decorated with a large white swan in flight, the eyes made of two sapphires the size of her pinkie nail.
"It is the dress of a fairy princess," the girl whispered. Lothíriel chuckled.
"It was my mother's wedding gown," she revealed softly. "I had hoped it might serve the same purpose for me."
Freda's movements were very careful—bordering on reverent—as she moved to hang up the gown so that the few wrinkles could be properly aired away.
"Dol Amroth must be a very fine kingdom indeed," the child murmured after a moment. Lothíriel gave her a questioning look, and Freda shrugged. "It seems only in dreams do people wear such wonders as clothing," she announced softly, reaching out to run a gentle finger down the embroidered neckline before she suddenly remembered herself and jerked her hand away.
Lothíriel bit her lip, glancing at the gown again. It was a bit much. Perhaps it would be too much. The kingdom of Rohan was fresh from war, after all. If not for her father's aide, they likely would not have survived the winter. Maybe such a blatant display of wealth would be seen as insulting? She winced. It probably would. But she had looked forward to wearing her mother's wedding gown. It had taken her nearly two months to alter the gown to fit her.
In order to take her mind and Freda's off of the touchy subject, she sat straighter in the tub. "I could use your assistance," she called. The Rohirrim girl turned immediately from the gown, then hurried over. Lothíriel allowed Freda to help rinse the soap from her hair, even though she was quite capable of doing it on her own. She endured the silence for a moment, eyes closed to keep the soap out of them, then,
"Your mother mentioned that you were originally from the Westfold. What brought you to Edoras?"
"The war," was Freda's immediate and easy answer. Lothíriel tensed uncomfortably, but Freda continued oblivious. "My papa was killed in the First Battle of Isen. Not long after, the Dunlendings burned and sacked our village. Mama sent me and my brother Eothain to Edoras to raise the alarm and worn King Théoden of what was happening while she fled to Helm's Deep. We rode Garulf, my papa's horse, all the way here, all by ourselves," she announced cheerily. "Afterward, we left with the rest of the city to Helm's Deep, where mama had gone. Then we were attacked by the Uruk-hai from Isengard. Me and mama were sent to the caves, but Eothain had to fight. He was hurt pretty badly, but he survived. He's serving as one of the King's Riders now," she then announced proudly. "And since our home was burned, Lady Eowyn offered to let mama and I stay on in Meduseld as maids. I must confess, it is much better than milking cows and chasing chickens all day," she then revealed with a conspiratorial laugh.
Lothíriel smiled with her, though inwardly she was cringing. Such horrors this poor little one had seen, and so young! No wonder she seemed so old for her age.
She sat up after a moment, and allowed Freda to dunk the last bucket of cooling water over her head, to help remove the last of the soap from her hair. Then she stood and let Freda wrap her up in a huge drying cloth. Lothíriel was suddenly grateful for the furs, as they protected her now freezing toes from the unforgiving stone floor while Freda took her comb and worked out the tangles.
"Your hair is so long my lady," she complimented cheerfully and she laughed.
"Aye, I have never cut it. It is my one vanity I think. Go ahead and leave it loose for now, it will dry faster that way."
After her hair was combed somewhat dry and her body toweled off, she dressed in one of her white shifts and then headed for the bed. Freda helped her pull back the heavy linens and furs.
"Get you some rest, my lady," Freda encouraged as Lothíriel crawled up into the large four poster like a child and practically collapsed into the softness with a loud groan. Freda giggled. "You have two or three hours or more before supper is called. That should refresh you I think."
Lothíriel was asleep before the last fur had been settled over her exhausted body.