I'm absolutely thrilled how many of you are reading this story and would like to thank you all for your interest, especially those of you who took pains to tell me about their impressions.
I just hope, you will enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.
Chapter 16
Approaching the castle again after a two-hours ride that had given horse and rider the exercise their bodies had craved for, they passed the training grounds of Dol Amroth's famous archers. Éomer was intrigued. Using bows not as large as those of the rangers of Ithilien, they still had quite an impressive range and were famous for their accuracy. Standing in a line before the targets, their bows lowered in one hand, they seemed to wait for a signal from the chief-archer.
And then Éomer spotted her, clad in simple grey raiment, her black hair combed strictly out of her face, her back straight, the bow in her hands only slightly smaller than those of the men beside her. Only now he noticed a target a bit closer to the base line, adapted to the lesser range of her bow. She did not see him, deep in concentration, set on the task before her.
Then the signal of the instructor came. Hands flashed to the quivers, nocked arrows, pulled bowstrings, shot, and without a second of hesitation reached for the next arrow. The twanging of the strings, the swishing of the arrows, the thudding noise as they hit the the straw butts filled the air till the chief-archer whistled to announce the end of the training sequence.
Lowering their bows, the archers went to the targets to count their hits. Éomer could not help a chuckle at the rush of pride he felt, seeing that Lothíriel's arrows had all hit at least close to the mark. Fast and effective. She was certainly impressive.
When the chief-archer greeted him respectfully, the princess became aware of Éomer, and handing her bow and quiver to one of the assisting boys, she came over, greeting him with a friendly smile. "I see you made good use of the morning's coolness."
Dismounting he returned her smile. "There's nothing like a ride at the break of day."
She nodded, the corners of her eyes crinkling, as she was trying to hide the taint of mischief that stole into her smile. "Some exercise is truly useful and keeps from harm and embarrassment."
Éomer groaned inwardly. How fast did servants' gossip travel in Dol Amroth or was she merely referring to Firefoot's antics? He felt the treacherous heat of a profound blush crawl up his neck. She truly knew to hit the mark, not only on the practise field. In an attempt to change the subject, he pointed at the training grounds. "Do you come here often?"
She nodded. "As often as I can afford. It's traditional for Gondorean noblewomen to do archery, though I have to admit that most of them would not practise with the soldiers. But Dol Amroth's chief-archer Edrahil is the best teacher of archery you can get all along the Falas. So if I really want to be good, I have to practise under his administration."
"You put a lot of pain into being good, don't you?" Where did the urge to push her off her balance, make her lower that mask of polite confidence, come from?
She shrugged. "If something is not worth being done as well as you can, it's not worth doing it at all." Giving him a wry smile, she continued: "Once I have decided to do something, I like to be as good as possible, no matter what it is."
"Oh, do you? No matter what it is?" Raising his eyebrows, he grinned at her, satisfied as she coloured under his gaze. But though her cheeks glowed with embarrassment, she never lowered her eyes, but rather lifted her chin in challenge, locking her gaze with his. Challenge accepted! He realised she would not back down and it exhilarated him like a swig of some rich mead. The dance was up, or rather the duel? No, he corrected himself, she certainly would give battle, but this was no fight to the death but the play of power of the sparring ground, their very own personal battle of words and wits.
Her next remark was pointed like a stabbing dagger, though her voice remained cool as a mountain stream. "There might be arts I don't know much about, but I'm sure that can be altered. And I have been told that the key of success in any art is practise." Parried and charged! She surely was bold. He had to strike the mark soon, or he would be lost. How far would she dare to go?
Grinning rakishly, he nodded his approval. "True my Lady Princess, but not only in archery you should never underestimate the importance of a good teacher."
Éothain desperately cleared his throat behind him, but Éomer was already too deep in the verbal sparring to heed the warning. She had accepted his challenge … or had he accepted hers? It did not matter any more. She had accepted him! No polite "Gonorean princess attitude " this time, but cutting wit instead, a parade, a display of wits and will. Enjoying himself tremendously, Éomer squinted his eyes, waiting for her next charge.
She did not snort, as he had expected her to do, but her nostrils twitched, as she threw her head back, raising her eyebrows in fake arrogance. "You may rest assured I never would. The best will be just good enough."
Éomer found it difficult to keep his breathing even. That toss of the head, like a mare's, summoning the stallion to follow her over the plains. And Béma, follow her he would! He was grateful he was wearing that mail shirt, keeping his incipient arousal from display. Yet he would not step back either. His voice little louder than a low purr, he countered. "I'm not sure if I am up to your request but I would be delighted to be of service."
Bull's eye! A furious blush shot over her features and ebbed away, leaving red spots on her cheekbones and throat. But she did not leave him much time to relish his victory. With just a hint of hoarseness in her voice she stated: "I'll think about it. Perhaps we could reach some agreement, and I could teach you something in exchange."
With the fighter's instinct Éomer realised the looming danger. She was proud, not willing to retreat, but that made her reckless, advancing on treacherous ground. He would not have her embarrass herself unduly, even if that meant to back down himself. He had to take the tension out of this, had to change the direction of their talk. Cocking his head, he asked: "Like swearing in Quenja?"
The diversion worked, making her snort with laughter. "Oh, it's not only Quenja. I like to collect … certain expressions, so perhaps you could teach me some Rohirric ones."
Relived and strangely disappointed at the same time, he took her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. "I would love to, my lady, but I have to admit that I would prefer some other words to be the basic ones in your vocabulary of my language."
Sensing his change of mood immediately, she grew serious. "And which would that be?"
He felt his heart beat in his throat, challenge, banter and power play seeming insignificant and petty all of a sudden. His voice steady and firm, he enunciated what he judged to be the cornerstone of martial life: "Bieldu and truwa."
Looking at him with a grave expression, she tilted her head. "Bieldu and truwa," she repeated in a low voice. "It sounds convincing the way you say it, yet was does it mean in Westron?"
"Reliance and trust," he replied, still holding her hand.
Squeezing his hand, she nodded. "That truly are words I would like to base my knowledge not only of your language on."
At that moment the boy came up with the princess' horse, and pulling her gloves from her belt, where she had tucked them away, she made to don them, only to be forestalled by Éomer, with one smooth move.
"May I?" Taking the gloves out of her hand, he first presented the opening of the left one to her. "Please, hold out your hand, my lady," he said softly, pulling the suede leather glove over her left hand, before repeating the same procedure with the right one, his fingers sliding along her palm ever so lightly.
Her eyes widened at the subtle caress and her hand trembled slightly, but her bearing remained proud and erect, her mien even, not giving away anything. Half-heartedly he scolded himself for exploiting the opportunity, but then shrugged his misgivings off. Was he not to woo her? Had she not signalled her content. It was no longer "if", it was "when", and he desperately wanted an answer. Stepping besides her horse, her turned to her. "Let me help you mount."
She nodded her consent, and pulling on his own gloves, he bent down, folding his hands for her to step into them. Straightening up, he lifted her into the saddle, and for a short moment her thigh pressed against his chest, this time making him regret he was wearing mail. Their eyes met again and with a jolt he realised that hers mirrored the same odd mixture of triumph and uncertainty he felt himself. He swallowed, realising that her touch had not been accidental at all. Truly a pirate princess, bold and reckless. He felt another wave of desire rush through his veins, causing his groin to tighten in a most precarious way. How could that woman agitate him like that? Bowing his head slightly, he turned to mount his own horse, and only then he noticed that all along they had been in the centre of about the complete archery unit of Dol Amroth.
ooo
Riding silently side by side, they made for the castle, Éothain and Winfrid following behind, together with two guards in the colours of Dol Amroth who accompanied the princess. Following the bridle-path through a shadow-flecked copse of pines, they reached the upper meadows, which were welcoming them with an impressive view over Cobas Haven. The sun was already covering the horizon in a veil of haze, but the breeze from the sea still kept the heat at bay.
It was only now that Éomer noticed that Lothíriel's horse was by no means one of those amble gaited palfreys, but a rather spirited young gelding only slightly lighter in frame than his own destrier. Out of the corners of his eye he watched her posting to the trot and found himself regretting that her thighs were obscured by her raiment, one of those quite voluminous Gondorean riding skirts. Upbraiding himself, he tried to direct his thoughts in a different direction, but found it extremely difficult. Even staring straight ahead, he sensed the up and down of the lithe body next to him, his fantasy doing somersaults, imagining the firm pressure of her legs.
For a split second he thought to lead his own horse closer, just for a chance of their knees to touch, make it look like an accidental move, but the thought of the guards following behind made him change his mind. Éothain would never believe in anything accidental as long as handling a horse was involved.
With a wry sense of humour he realised that his thoughts were affirming every single prejudice those Gondoreans ever had had about the Rohirrim. But then: How dead had any entire man to be not to get thrilled through a sight like that? Realising he was unashamedly justifying his own boorishness, or rather his imagination running wild only partly sobered him, and only the thought of the gossip Lothíriel might be confronted with brought him to terms.
Reaching the main road towards the castle, they had to slow down due to several wains and carts heading for the town at a much slower pace, and while walking Firefoot besides her, he decided to at least try to apologise for the embarrassment he had caused her in front of the archers.
Clearing his throat, he tried to get her attention. "My lady, please forgive my previous behaviour. I did not intend to embarrass you." He felt himself sounding wooden and formal.
Facing him squarely, she asked: "So you regret what you said and did?"
Béma, could that woman say anything without challenging him? Aiming for a casual tone he said: "No, not in the least. But I regret having done so in front of an audience."
She did not lower her eyes, and the corners of her lips twitched. "That did not keep you from doing it."
She had a point there, he grudgingly admitted to himself. There was nothing but a forthright answer. "True, and therefore I deserve censure. I had simply forgotten they were there."
She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. "That from a skilled warrior can certainly be taken as a compliment." Shaking her head lightly, she continued after a short while: "As it is, it was me who started the banter, and I suppose it got awkward because I did not want to yield."
So she knew! And yet she had held on, like during that mad race outboards the heeling boat. His gaze went to her bandaged wrist of its own volition. Rohan's colours … No, she would never yield. "You don't like to give in." The admiration he felt rang in his statement.
She shrugged. "I don't like to lose control. And yet that exactly was happening. I was out on unfamiliar ground, but I didn't want to admit it."
He was amazed at her open self-criticism. "Were you?"
She snorted. "Éomer of Rohan, I might be quite forward, and being with my brothers I truly don't mince my words, but I assure you, it's not my habit to trade suggestive remarks with foreign men."
She truly would call a spade a spade! He vainly tried to suppress a grin. "Oh, I thought it was. You were quite good at it."
She lifted her nose in the air with exorbitant haughtiness, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "I was just about to thank you for keeping me from making a fool of myself as I was most relieved about your changing the topic, but I'll reconsider that."
His grin deepened. "I thought I had already embarrassed you enough."
Laughing she bent forwards to pat her horses neck. "As a matter of fact the only one you probably really embarrassed is your guard."
"You are a keen observer." Something Imrahil's offspring had obviously in common, Éomer thought, remembering Amrothos' remark on Tol Cobas.
She nodded. "I have been trained to be since I was a child. Supervising a royal household is in many aspects comparable to leading an army into battle; and it has to be done daily. And to be able to accomplish that task you have to be informed. You have to watch the people around you if you want to know what is going on first hand, to watch and listen, though certainly servants' gossip... "
She stopped abruptly, tilting her head to avoid his eyes, and he saw the blush creep up her neck, reaching her cheeks and ears. That much for pondering if she knew!
It took her not more than a short moment to regain her composure. Still blushing, she turned to him, waving a hand in Winfrid's direction. "Well, among other scandals I was informed that your standard bearer broke his hand, knocking out another one of your guards who was obviously trying to get under Aerin's skirts."
"True, but all of them were totally intoxicated, thanks to some of the dratted swill Amrothos provided them with." If she had aimed at distracting him from his own mishap she certainly had succeeded, though he would have preferred any other topic.
"I doubt my brother was any better off himself," she said, her face and her voice concerned. "He has not turned up at his rooms yet. It's not easy for him. All his life there had been a constant rivalry for my affection between Erchirion and him and now you turned up and … "
"There is another rival?" Her nod made him remember his own feelings towards Faramir those last months. He had liked the man, known that Éowyn loved him dearly, and yet there had been moments he had hated him with all his heart for taking his sister away from him.
"Anyway, he should not have given that brandy to the people," she continued, her voice sounding vexed. "It's always difficult to maintain moderation with it. It must have been a true shock for poor Magor to find his wife in such a state."
Éomer found his palms starting to sweat. "My man did not know she was married, and I was informed that she did not reject him."
Looking at him, shook her head. "Nobody said so. She should not have drunk after all, what with being pregnant."
"What?" Firefoot tossed his head irritatedly, as Éomer in his shock had pulled the reigns tight.
Lothíriel waved dismissively. "She's in her fourth month or something and plump as a robin. There's still nothing to be seen, so your man can hardly be blamed for not considering. But an expecting mother drinking is not good for the child, and Aerin should have known about the urge."
"What urge?" Éomer was flabbergasted how matter-of-factly she was taking the event. Was this not Gondor anymore? Though, he had to admit, the bottom line was that anything seriously offending had been forestalled by Folcred's well-placed punch.
"Well." Giving him a side glance, she cleared her throat. "When pregnant, most women seem to feel some kind of increased desire, at least that's what the midwife told my sister in law."
If that's true I'm expecting twins. Éomer had to chuckle at the ridiculousness of his own thought. How good it felt to have her at his side, how easily she was dispelling his misgivings.
"What are you chuckling about?" Her frown dug a deep crease right above the root of her nose, contradicting her laughing eyes.
"Nothing in particular, I'm just being silly. But then you said it was becoming to me. Remember: "boyish"?" He gave her a wink and could not help but laugh at her display of fake indignation.
Giving a convincing example of affected prissiness, she stated snootily: "As a matter of fact your current facial expressions would rather deserve the labelling "rakish".
He had to admit to himself that that was exactly what he felt like: rakish, irresponsible and incredibly happy. Grinning at her, he found his own mirth mirrored in her face. Béma, he wanted to do something stupid, like kiss her nose, nip her earlobe …
The pothole that came into sight right ahead of them in the middle of the road offered just the opportunity he was looking for. Leading Firefoot to pass it on the left, it would bring him close enough for their legs to sideswipe. He was just about to nudge the big grey to the left, when the princess' gelding abruptly swerved, as if to pass the hole on the right side. Checking his stallion immediately, Éomer managed to avoid a headlong collision, but the gelding, not being fully trained yet, did not react likewise to Lothíriel's cue, consequently bumping with his right shoulder into Firefoot's side. The destrier sidestepped, snorting angrily, but pulling her horse back, the princess kept the gelding out of danger area.
Having sped to the princess' side immediately, Éothain shot his king a sour look, before falling back again to keep the befitting distance. Cursing under his breath, Éomer shot her a worried glance, but Lothíriel seemed totally unimpressed, and just nudged her horse forward, speaking reassuringly to the still skittish gelding. Feeling rather deflated, Éomer pulled up beside her, and only then he noticed the mirth in her eyes, she obviously found difficult to control.
"Shall we discuss who embarrassed who now?" She was looking straight ahead and her voice was still cool, but like sunbeams reflecting in a stream, there was laughter hidden closely below the surface.
"I think we both embarrassed our horses this time," Éomer said drily.
"Oh, we certainly did!" She was giggling like a little girl now. "We should make amends once we are back at the castle and visit the kitchen gardens for some treats."
"No doubt we should. Though I would suggest to go there without our mounts, lest the cook becomes suspicious." He wondered if there still were any carrots left after the old groom's raids.
Hiccuping with laughter, she turned to face him: "Éomer King, do you realise that we are being silly?"
"My Lady Princess, I assure you I have never been more serious, except perhaps when suggesting the official footwear at state visits in the Mark to be bare skin." Éomer deadpanned.
Beaming at him, she gave a funny little sigh. "I have truly never enjoyed embarrassing myself that much in all my life."
ooo
The stable yard was buzzing with life now, horses being watered and groomed, stablehands with wheelbarrows carrying horse-droppings to the dungheap, while others were still mucking stables and feeding horses. On their appearance in the yard, stable boys ran up to them to retrieve their horses, but Winfrid, after an encouraging nod from his king, proudly took Firefoot's reins and led the destrier away.
Éomer turned to assist the princess, but Lothíriel had already dismounted. Smiling she turned to him. "We'd better adjourn our excursion to the kitchen gardens, as it is already quite late and I would not like my parents waiting for us".
Nodding his consent, he proffered his arm to her, and as she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm, she said in a playful tone: "You should teach me some more words in Rohirric. Will you?"
Motioning to Éothain to follow them, as he would need some help to remove the mail, Éomer led the princess of Dol Amroth towards the archway that connected the stables and general working areas to the main yard, the central area of representation. "Certainly, as far as you desire anything apart from colourful curses and swearwords, for those I'm sure you will learn soon enough."
"I bet I will. But no, tell me the words for fun and laughter." Her head cocked, she gave him a side glance.
Smiling he complied with her request."Glíeg and hliehhan, and you should also know wynn, which means joy."
Her face showed sincere interest. "Oh, so Éowyn means...?"
"Joy in horses, eoh meaning horse."
"So Éomer means what?" Her head tilted, she eyed him with a smile.
"Maerlic means famous"
Jerking to a stop, she looked at him, one eye squeezed shut. "Famous horse?"
Éomer guffawed. "Not exactly, it's rather famous for horses, but your version would fit in wonderfully with the image the Gondoreans have of the Rohirrim, wouldn't it?"
Totally unabashed she joined in his laughter. "Ah, I would rather have a name including horses than that meek and mild flower-garlanded maiden."
"I think it's a rather nice name and I certainly like the sound of it, but if you want to change it, what about Éobeirnan?" Though he tried to keep his expression blank, she caught the mischief in his eyes.
Gazing at him suspiciously, she raised one elegant eyebrow. "And what does that beirnan mean?"
"Collide," he said, trying in vain to keep a straight face.
"You!" She rammed her elbow in his ribs, in a futile attempt to appear miffed.
"Ouch! Striving to live up to the new name? I think I prefer the flower-garlanded maiden." In mock hurt he rubbed his side, before adding: "But tell me, how did you come to ride that semi-trained charger at all? Don't tell me it's your own mount."
She shook her head. "No, it's Erchirion's. He has had him in training for little more than seven months now. He lost both his old charger and his remount in the war, and this one is a present, Mother gave him after the war. I don't have a mount of my own at the moment, but I never have been one for those palfreys anyway, rather preferring to ride any of my mother's rounceys. As it is, my own horse went to war as Amrothos' remount, and … We did not solely lose men in the war."
"No, we didn't." He took a deep breath. There it was again: War and death inextricably interwoven with their lives, none of them unscathed, none of them ever able to get rid of the memories, yet ready to face the future, never shrinking from the duty their past had laid upon their shoulders. Bieldu... There was no doubt of his reliance in her. And didn't she trust him? He wanted her answer, and they had only two more days!
Coming to a halt, he turned directly to her. "Lothíriel, I'm afraid I need to teach you as well another expression in the language of the Mark."
"And that would be?" Her eyes were grave, as she sensed his seriousness.
"Scéad," he said, "Leave-taking. I'm going to leave for Edoras in two days time."
Slowly she nodded, her face in a thoughtful expression. "You are needed there, and you would always reproach yourself for not using the months till winter comes as best as possible."
How her hand had slid into his own he never knew, but as they continued their way in silence, their fingers intertwined in mutual understanding.
Passing under the archway, they noticed Prince Imrahil standing at the bottom of the flight of steps that led up to the castle in conversation with a richly clad young noble man.
"Oh, no!" Lothíriel breathed, hesitating for a split second, "Radhruin of Pelargir."
"Who's that?" Éomer asked, alarmed by her uneasiness.
Before Lothíriel could answer, Imrahil lifted his head and looked in their direction. Not wanting to embarrass the princess, Éomer made to let go her hand, but she held on to it, giving it a short assuring squeeze, before squaring her shoulders, all nervousness now having left her .
"Are you up to taking the wind out of someone else's sails?" Her voice was low and she did not look at him, but her voice radiated confidence. Looking straight ahead, she faced her father and the young man, a polite smile on her face.
Éomer chuckled. "As ballast, my Lady Pirate?"
That typical snort, though slightly suppressed. "No, as booty." The laughter in her voice was unmistakable, yet her face remained unmoved.
"As long as it's not as anchor," he replied, trying to keep a straight face, remembering Amrothos' remark before the race.
"I would not count on that if I were you." It was a mere whisper, but her small hand twitched slightly in his big one before they stepped forward to address her father and his guest. The man at Imrahil's side eyed Éomer appraisingly, his features displaying obvious haughtiness.
"Wlanclic ears," Éothain muttered behind them.
A wry smile appeared on Lothíriel's face. Without averting her eyes from the men they were approaching, she whispered: "Obviously some most important expression, don't you think so, my lord?"
"One that would certainly fit into your collection, my lady, though I would advise to refrain from using it right now." Éomer struggled to keep a straight face.
The corners of her mouth twitching slightly, she let go of Éomer's hand and stepped up to the two men.
"Welcome, Lord Radhruin." Giving the young noble a short nod of the head, she turned to her father.
"My Lord Father," she said, with the meekest possible expression on her face, "I am happy to confirm, that King Éomer has agreed with your assumption to announce the betrothal at dinner tonight, though no feast should be held due to the casualty."
Not a muscle twitched in Prince Imrahil's face, as he bowed his acknowledgement to Éomer, while Radhruin of Pelargir had a visible problem to keep his countenance.
They had obviously sunk another status-conscious Gondorean noble's boat.
Annotations:
In this chapter some medieval expressions for different types of horses are used, charger being a common word for any kind of war horse, whereas destrier was used for a warhorse of the highest quality. (Destriers were always stallions.) A rouncy was some kind of all-purpose horse, a palfrey a riding-horse.
wlanclic ears: (Rohirric/Anglo-Saxon) arrogant arse