Faramir was relieved.
In all the small, oddly important details, it transpired that being Steward was not so very different from being the Steward's son. He had not tripped upon Merethrond's wide stone steps, no councillor had taken offense at the order of the service, he had not forgotten the names of pretty and pallid young things who vied for his attention. There were even a few benefits. The Steward could, it transpired, ignore the grumbling of the court, the looks, the whispers, and every faintly disgruntled glance, to do exactly as he chose. It had been glorious. Below the warm glow of the hall's mellow candlelight, he had held Éowyn in his arms and let his heart sing with happiness. Dance until the music, the bursts of happy laughter, the whole world fell away before the shine of carefree joy on Éowyn's lovely face.
The feeling had lingered- like the soft spring's warmth after the sun dipped behind a cloud- for a little while before reality settled in.
A Steward, especially one preparing for the new King's return, had little time to himself.
The days following the service had passed in something of a blur. Minas Tirith might no longer be under threat but she was certainly besieged- by half the kingdom. With three short weeks before Aragorn arrived there were endless meetings and reparations, concerns of food and housing for the folk flooding through the ruined gate. No detail was too small for the Steward to consider and Faramir had truthfully begun to feel a bit stretched out, like a piece of taffy pulled six different ways. Varan, grumbling at their brief consult, threatened him with tonics, and observed that his healing shoulder needed more exercise than scribing. So when Amerith suggested going for a ride, he leapt at the chance. The Marshal's men warned of a problem in the Haradi camp south of the City's walls, and while it did not strictly need the Steward to oversee, the change and air and sun would do him good.
They set out in the late afternoon with a small contingent of the White Tower guard, far after he had hoped, but at least while the golden haze of westering sun still lingered on the mountain tops. Amerith rode her pretty white mare and sported a modest (for her) riding habit. Faramir sat an exuberantly jouncy Mithros and wore his Ranger uniform and uncle's sword. It felt almost normal, and blessedly so; for a while they chatted of nothing more serious than Spring's gentle air and the shoots of green that rose up amidst the ruined fields.
Fortunately, the distance was just enough to give the stallion some proper exercise.
Unfortunately once the conversation flagged it was also enough for Faramir to begin to brood.
He was concerned about Éowyn.
In the scant days since the ball Rohan's White Lady had not been herself. She had become noticeably quieter and more distant. Cool almost, and even Lothíriel had worriedly remarked upon the fact; it was as if a sudden spring storm had brought unwanted snow and left the land both somber and fretting- so much that a tight ache of unsettledness had nestled in his chest, uninvited and reluctantly ignored. He could not shake a pang of guilt. His time was consumed for every moment of the day: a sparse lunch eaten at his desk, dinner in consult with various lords and captains. Their time together had become a mere trickle compared to what it had been before. Two brief but cherished meetings were all that could be managed, for under pressure from Ivriniel he had moved his things to Dol Amroth House. It made sense, for company and planning, but now he regretted the decision. It also meant they had no chance for walks in the calm and quiet of the evening.
"You are being very quiet," observed Amerith pointedly, when he fell soberly silent for the second time. "Are you tiring?"
Faramir laughed. "Not likely! This is far less taxing than arguing with Harlond's harbourmaster over barge tariffs. The man is beyond pedantic. He does not seem to understand waiving tariffs will speed the traffic up!"
Amerith raised an auburn eyebrow. "Forlin? My butler's wooden leg has more imagination than he does. That man must see and touch something before he can appreciate it. You have your work cut out there." She looked across with a sharp apprising gaze. "Then pray tell me why you are being so unlike yourself. A goshawk just darted past and I swear you hardly noticed."
He blushed, knowing she was right. He had not noticed the hawk or the prey it chased and Mithros, sensing his unsettled mood, tossed his head. Faramir patted the stallion's dappled wither. Something would have to be said for he knew that look: Amerith would not give up.
"Éowyn has been unusually quiet since the ball. She hardly replies to my messages and Lothíriel says she has declined all offers to dine or visit."
"Ah." Amerith, seemingly unsurprised, dropped her voice a little lower, just loud enough for him to hear but no so loud their entourage need know of what they spoke. "Could she have overtaxed herself? Could the Black Breath be stealing back?"
"Nay. I enquired. Neither Aunt Rini nor Varan are concerned."
"Then this listlessness is more of the heart than body?"
Faramir frowned. Trust his friend to get straight to the point. Shrewdly, she had plucked the thread that lead to an uncomfortable core. "I worry that she is lonely left in the Houses," he admitted.
"Quite possible, but then would she not accept offers of company instead of declining them? When exactly did this start?"
He cast his mind back to the evening of the ball. There had been a glimpse across the hall of an ashen face and blue-grey eyes darkly smudged from fatigue. Or so he had assumed, as Marshal Elfhelm escorted her through the door. "After the midnight on the service," he answered finally. "My note the next morning was returned with an admonition to not trouble myself over her."
A pair of green eyes widened. "Well, that certainly is a change. Although I would not say it is for lack of attention at the dance itself." She grinned at the wry quirk he could not hide. "I thought the night went rather swimmingly up until that point."
"It did! But then she suddenly excused herself and insisted on retiring. I don't know why." Faramir dropped a rein and ran a hand worriedly through his hair. "She did not even stop to take her drink."
Amerith tapped her cheek thoughtfully. "Hmm. I remember glimpsing her when Marshal Elfhelm escorted her through the door. She looked pale and wan. From fatigue, or so I had assumed." She briefly glanced askance. "I had not thought to connect it to the gossip making rounds with the canapes."
His fingers tightened on the rein. "Gossip? What gossip?"
"Well, of course the court noticed how much you danced together. How could they not? You both shone like stars, sable and silver-white; it would take a blind-man to not see how happy you both were. Most were delighted to see their Steward returned to health and thriving, but some I believe were discomfited that their precious Chloes were not good enough for him." Her mouth bunched in a moue of distaste. "A 'barbarian Shieldmaiden' is less acceptable as a mate than an inbred, simpering ninny."
"Damn them!" Faramir smacked his spare hand upon his thigh, making the unflappable Mithros twitch an ear. "That they would be so ungracious as to speak her that way!"
"Yes! It is not beyond the realm of possibility that she overheard something unpleasant. Those who were disgruntled were not being particularly discreet."
Faramir let fly a string of less than pretty words. As Steward he was appalled that citizens would be rude to an honoured guest. As Eowyn's friend and suitor he was enraged she might have been so hurt.
He shot Amerith a worried glance. Rohan's proud and self-contained shieldmaiden was not one to share such insults. "If 'tis true Éowyn would not wish to speak of it. To me, or any other."
Amerith nodded, looking southward, past the sprawling camp now in view toward Anduin's first great west bend.. "You shall have to read the undercurrents." she remarked. "Like a barge captain coming up the River."
Indeed. Faramir sat and silently ground his teeth, wondering how to best to draw her out. Reading her feelings on the matter was tempting, but also the rudest of intrusions in someone so very close. A proper discussion, carefully framed to avoid more arrows of mortification on her part, required time, the one thing he did not have, but was truly the best approach. He sighed, knowing that for now all that he could do would be to tackle the duties that flocked liked noisy starlings as quickly as he could. Make more time to see her and hope that they could find their way back to where they were.
It was unsatisfying but he could see no other option.
After these rather frustrating ruminations there was no chance Faramir to plan, for soon enough they were upon the camp and its stockade of Riders. Faramir drew rein and passed Mithros to a young blond bearded man he did not recognize, knowing the grey would be well watched. Amerith joined him. After a few short words with the tall, grizzled captain of Rohan who stood guard, they wended their way into the maze of small tents and cooking fires. The reek of smoke and sweat and mud was strong and though he approved of Hurin's instinct to keep the prisoners outside the City gates, what he saw was disheartening. Though most of the prisoners were men: hard-eyed and marked with tattoos of their rank, nursing injuries or waiting sullenly for the King to mete out their fates, some were women. Followers of the camps, abandoned when their men melted like ghosts back across the river. Some were pregnant. A few had babies at their breasts.
He frowned, watching Amerith converse with a dark veiled, wizened woman in who seemed to speak for the rest. The makeshift city of canvas set on straw pallets kept rain off and was just warm enough in the night's lingering chill but not for all. The woman's bracelets chimed musically as she gestured to two women who had recently given birth.
The new mothers sat hunched, swaddled babes clutched to their breasts, huddled beside a fire for its warmth. One babe mewed and rooted eagerly. The other, smaller and too poorly to suckle, had not the strength to cry.
Praise the Valar, for once the decision he had to make was a simple one. "Take them to the Houses," he ordered. "Ask Master Varan for the best Healer-midwives, who can help them. " Several carts were quickly found. He watched one young guard lay a woman and her infant tenderly on blankets on the boards. Her thick black hair was streaked with grey but her eyes were young, no older than the guard's. Hardship, not age, had silvered her locks and lined her face, yet still there was gratitude in her warm dark eyes.
"Araw smiles upon you," Faramir murmured, pleased to find the benediction came easily again, but then another language came to his ear: Rohirric. In the gruffly lyrical tones of Marshal Elfhelm.
He turned in time to see the Rohir reach down to clap the troop's captain approvingly on the shoulder. And offer his companion a small half smile.
It was Éowyn! Blessed Valar! She sat tall and straight backed as an arrow upon a strong war horse; a fine light grey, bright-eyed and bearing a healed slash across his rump. What a wonderful surprise! He had not thought to see her for hours or days more!
Faramir nodded to the guard to move on their way, took Mithros's reins again, and swung up into the saddle. A short amble brought him into earshot.
"Westu Elfhelm hal," he hailed. "And my lady! This is a happy and unlooked-for reunion."
The older Rider bowed low from the saddle. "Lord Steward, well met on this good afternoon. And to you Duchess," Elfhelm added, for now Amerith had now joined them.
She adjusted her riding gloves and smiled most enigmatically. "Thank you Marshal. What a most pleasant surprise. And Lady Éowyn, it is indeed a good omen to see you on horseback once again. Do you not think so, Faramir?"
"Of course!" It was a very good sign if Varan had let his patient ride; his heart leapt like a deer to hear her name and see the breeze shift her golden hair.
Faramir smiled, wide and encouraging, but Éowyn did not react. She sat unmoving, stiffly formal and with grey eyes guarded. "Lord Steward," she finally replied in a tone so curt it could cut glass.
Nienna's mercy! Faramir stared, shocked and grieved, while Amerith frowned and bit her lip and Elfhelm stared bleakly across the rustling tents. There were bare acquaintances he would not greet so! Was she truly angered so very much? Had she judged his busyness as a lack of caring? Frantically he cast his mind back to her messages of the past few days. Yes they had been but a few bare words on tiny notes of parchment, but nothing to suggest this-this cold fury?
A moment's awkward silence ensued. Finally Amerith gave a little cough and spoke in a tone both overbright and forced. "Marshal would you be so good as to come with me a ways? I am afraid I could not quite catch young Sorjen's point about the rushes."
Faramir narrowed his eyes. She had used the tone employed when cajoling particularly stubborn councilors This was obviously an excuse to absent them both and the Marshal was only too happy to oblige.
"Certainly my lady," Elfhelm replied, looking vastly relieved as he kneed his mount forward. Amerith swung her mare around and for a longer moment Faramir watched their two retreating backs, more than a niggle of suspicion creeping in. She had been most insistent that they set out after the mid-afternoon watch had changed. Did she know the Marshal would also be visiting his Men?
He cleared the hoarseness in his throat. No point in avoiding the obvious implication. "We seem to have been maneuvered by a pair of deft old hands. They wanted us to meet this day."
Éowyn pulled her glance back to his face. "They are not subtle."
"No, this is most unlike her. Normally she is not so blunt."
Was it his imagination or did Éowyn grip her reins suddenly a little tighter? The big grey stallion stamped once, too well trained to object more.
"You are well?" Faramir asked, hoping for a simple pleasantry to thaw the cool air between.
"Yes."
Again a stilted answer. Where had their former ease vanished to? Éowyn sat, lips pressed together, too much the proud daughter of a king to be outright rude but clearly wishing she had other company.
It hurt. Her glance that came out of a depth of stony silence pierced him like a dart.
"Éowyn?" Her chin tilted a little more his way and the tight band in his chest lessened to a duller throb. What could he say to show how he regretted the past few days? "Is it so very bad a thing? To meet, even if they have arranged it? Forgive me. I know I have been too chained to duty, but I have missed you so terribly. Can we not begin again?"
There was no answer, just the jangling of the horses' tack and the rustling of the dying wind through the ravaged grass. Was she so angry that there was nothing he could say? With a sinking heart he tried again.
"We have yet a little time before Lothíriel takes ship soon for Cormallen. She said your brother called for you."
That received more of a reaction but not the one he hoped. Her nostrils flared, like a horse readying to bell a challenge. "I am not a saddle bag to be shipped to and fro," she answered bluntly. "Nor do I appreciate being thought a pawn to be moved where others will."
"I did not mean…." He sadly shook his head and let his shoulders fall. They were speaking at cross purposes and not for anything would he risk the gulf between them getting worse. Sometimes time healed, where words only pricked. Perhaps it was best to let her be. Apologize again—later, when they had not been thrown together by misguided but well-meaning friends.
He bowed low from the saddle. "My Lady, I will take your leave now and bid you well until the morrow." A gentle nudge at Mithros's flank set the stallion ready to turn but then a quiet voice piped up.
"Faramir?"
Praise Este. His name! Finally she had used his name. A little flame of hope flared up. Did she too regret the tangle they found themselves in?
Éowyn glanced briefly to the carts that lumbered slowly back north toward the City gate before looking back. "It is…. good of you to help them. It is not always required to succor the children of the enemy."
He looked up, surprised. What did she mean? That Gondor, proud and victorious, would turn away those that needed aid? That she had not expected them to be merciful? Faramir backed Mithros up, frustration colouring his next words darker than he meant.
"You think that we would not? Are we so very different? Some of them were conquered. Are we to blame them for their weakness? And," his jaw tightened convulsively, "we are not uncomplicit in their fate. Gondor could have supported them against the Serpent."
For a moment he thought her also grieved for something soft glimmered in her gaze but then she looked down and a grey wall fell back again, face set and white like a mask.
"No…I did not mean that Lord Steward."
Damn Angband's halls! He had misunderstood her! Their leisurely conversations whilst strolling on pretty garden paths under Shadow suddenly seemed an Age away. This was a slog. Like walking through a swamp with logs and pitholes underneath. There must be more: this could be no simple spat. He could feel it. She was hurt. And frustrated. As aggrieved as he by the loss of easiness between them, but simply flinging words at each other could not see them through.
Deliberately Faramir took a breath and let the tension drain from his face, like water from an ewer. "Éowyn... I understand that you are upset, that I have not paid you the attention that I should, but please, tell me what else is here? What have I done to so wrong your heart?"
Éowyn leaned back in the saddle, stiff and defensive, turning to look at Amerith and Elfhelm gathered by the knot of fair haired men.
Her jaw clenched and her brow creased as she picked out the bright red hair amidst the black and gold.
Was that it? Was she somehow jealous? "Amerith is here because she is fluent in Haradi," he explained. "And the women will be easy to speak with her."
"Then why don't you go ask her!" He flinched at the hurt and angry tone, but it was her next words that truly left him floored. "She seems to have a surfeit of information. It should be easy. After all, you keep rooms there."
An uncomfortable understanding dawned. oh lord it was that and worse. Someone had told Éowyn of their unorthodox arrangement and she naturally had misunderstood. He kicked himself for not speaking of it sooner. Of course she would think it inappropriate.
Beyond relieved that at last he understood he hastily began to explain the situation. "Yes, I do, but they were only for times I needed to avoid my father's wrath. not because of any liaison. Éowyn, honestly you need not be jealous."
"Jealous?" Two spots of colour blazed high upon her cheeks. "Of a woman who held you in her arms?! Whom you once thought to marry? Whom the whole City thinks is your paramour? Of course not, my lord. Or did you think by telling half of the truth about your 'infatuation' it would convince me not to care?"
Faramir's cheeks flamed in embarrassment. "No... I didn't mean to. It is just that it was so very long ago. And the liaison was never real. It started as but a scheme."
"And that is supposed to make me feel less aggrieved?!" she cried. "That you lied to all? People I heard at the ball certainly assumed it to be true."
Abashed, he looked down a moment before looking up to catch her gaze. Was it better that he saw fire there, where before there had been ice? Not to his sinking heart. "Éowyn, please. It was a rumour created for a purpose. Not a falsehood. We let it run. It is not finest thing I have ever done and I did not correct a wrong impression but I did not lie."
She looked singularly unconvinced. "What is she to you? A dalliance to take up again once you are safely affianced to me?"
"No!" he cried, wondering what vile creature had put that in her head. "Not ever! Amerith and I are good friends. And yes when I was young, and nothing I did could please my father I felt hemmed in and wanted something for myself. She was open and carefree, absolutely utterly herself and everything that I thought I wanted at that time. The total opposite of what I had. And yes, I fancied myself in love but that was but an image of her in my head, not the real person that I saw. I do not know what you have been told, but there is nothing there! We are but good friends. You have my word. I have never cared for anyone as I care for you!"
"The word of a man who knowingly spread a lie." The knowledge of her scorn fell heavily as a blow. "I have my dignity and my pride. I will not battle for the court's entertainment. Nor will I be anyone's second best. And I do not need your pity or your charity."
Appalled, abashed and afraid that she would turn away, be forever lost, he reached out and quite unthinking placed a hand upon her arm.
"Éowyn, will you not see?"
She stiffened as if struck. Emotion flooded him. Upset. And grief. A futile longing and shards of white chill fury. Roughly she jerked her arm away. "Get out of my head!" she cried, and wheeled her mount, kneeing the grey hard. In an instant she was away and beyond the startled Riders.
"Éowyn! Éowyn!"
He called, but she did not look back. Rode stiff and swift across the endless flats as the dappled violet and gold and red of sunset painted the city walls all the colours of a bruise.
.
~~~000~~~
.
"Béma, what was he thinking?"
Windfola's mistress kept up a steady stream of angry words but he merely cocked an ear, leaned into the unusually hard strokes of the curry comb and whickered happily. At least someone appreciated the force of her words, Éowyn thought to herself. The short teeth of the tool were perfect, loosening every patch of mud before the brush's stiff bristles swept away the dirt. She moved methodically- flank, barrel, and then down to his hocks. The Mearh blew out a gusty sigh, enjoying the attention, but too soon it stopped. Éowyn straightened up. She had just begun to set the brush and comb back in a waiting metal bucket when he whinnied and shook his plaited mane.
"Not enough for you, my friend?" She turned and pushed a drooping sleeve back up. "Let me see."
Her nimble fingers followed the ripple of muscle to an itchy spot, found yet another patch of pale clay dried into Windfola's sleek grey coat. "How did this get everywhere?" she muttered. The soil of Minas Tirith's southern flats was sticky and oddly fluid when churned up, not clumped and tawny like Edoras. She applied the brush with force, scrubbing in careful circles and flicking the specks into the straw. There, much better. "Hai over, Win." She lightly tapped the stallion's rump and obligingly he shuffled forward in the stall. The sound of contented chewing began. Éowyn balanced the brush upon the wooden lip of the stall's side aisle and pulled a curved hoof pick from the pocket of her breeches. The space was narrower than she was used to, but she could manage. Bending and lifting his near pastern up, she cupped his hoof firmly in her hand.
"Interfering. High handed. Sāmwīs. Man!" At each word a clod of mud flung from Windfola's hoof to land with a satisfying plop on the hay-covered stones. Éowyn bent lower to her task and shoved her braid roughly back across her shoulder, keeping up the litany and the rhythm. Outside the stall the stable lads listened curiously but, adroit at knowing when not to interfere, sensibly left her to herself. The subject of her ire was most likely somewhere about, tending to Waltrun as any good Rider should, but still she fumed.
Elfhelm! Drat the man. He'd best keep well clear of this side of the block for she had half a mind to take the pick to him. The cheek of going behind her back like some conniving tūn frōwe. And with that woman!
Éowyn jerked the tine a little deeper as a sudden pang of hurt throbbed sharply in her chest. Béma, thinking of Amerith did not help. Somehow she must keep her mind off her, for that led to uncomfortable thoughts of him. Faramir. Looking so hurt and surprised (and impossibly easy on a horse) it almost ruined her resolve. Not one to give heed to the prattling of angry tongues, she found herself in a predicament. His hurt had poured across her once again and left her confused, beguiled. Unsure what to believe or not. It made her want to soothe his pain, but then how could she trust that feeling as her own? Born in some sorcerer's trick how could it be real?
No more.
She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. It would not do to weaken, succumb to the heaviness that dragged at her chest like lead. They had played her for a fool and no matter that he explained (most convincingly, a little corner of her heart protested) she, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, had learned her lesson.
Letting down one's guard to another soul always led to pain. Aragorn had taught her that.
The cleared-out hoof dropped back to the straw and she began again with the off hind one, so intent on mentally skewering her old friend that that she missed the sound of hooves clopping hollowly on the cobblestones.
"Are you trying to carve a hole in his hoof?" came a cultured drawl from just beyond the arched stall door. "Your scowl could almost take the place of that pick."
Éowyn peered up and stifled a sudden curse. Morgoth's balls. it was the smug harpy herself. Here to gloat, no doubt, but she would not give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Éowyn bent quickly down, hiding the sudden flush of anger in the stall's half shadows.
"The mud of the ruined fields is sticky. The river at times floods even to the City walls," remarked Amerith smoothly. "It is part of why the Townlands are so fertile."
"Really?" Annoyed, barely holding her temper in, Éowyn slowly straightened up and crossed her arms against her chest. There was straw stuck to her cheek and manure on her boots but the duchess looked perfectly neat and tidy. The cow. She raised a brow skeptically. "And this is why you are here? To teach me about Gondor's agriculture?"
"Well, no." Amerith inclined her head and rested one gloved hand upon the door stile. "I wish to talk. But this is a far from private place." She frowned, turning around and peering into the filtered lamp light before spotting a tall, gangly boy who swept near the high wooden door.
A perfect, polished smile of entreaty was quickly plastered on her face. "Mor, is there somewhere where Lady Éowyn and I may sit?"
Whistling a low tune, the boy hustled over and Éowyn rolled her eyes. The woman had every male in the city at her beck and call.
Young Mor stopped and pulled at his sable forelock. "Of course, my lady. The storeroom has some chairs." He gestured deeper into the stable, around the corner to the darker shadow of a half open door. Amerith nodded and produced a copper from the pocket of her velvet coat.
"Perfect. And would you watch Yslin for me for a little while?"
"Certainly, my lady."
The lad took the reins and Amerith stood back, watching him lead the mare to an open stall before turning with an expectant look. Éowyn blew out a breath. To speak with the duchess was the last thing she wished to do but perhaps it would be best. It could be months yet before the Rohirrim would leave and both needed to understand were they stood.
Head high, boot heels scraping the cobblestones, she carefully set Win's latch and followed the older woman down the hall and to a low ceilinged room just off the stable's washing stall. The square space was filled with bales and water buckets, a table and, quite practically, a stash of pikes and halberds. While Amerith closed and bolted a door that was scarred by an Age of hoof marks, Éowyn, without ceremony, brushed aside the detritus on the table top and sat
This was bound to be unpleasant but she would survive. Her fingers drummed a staccato beat against the wood. "Speak."
The duchess blinked but otherwise appeared unsurprised by the lack of convoluted opening. Amerith did not sit, but leaned, unconcerned about the dirt and dust, against a rough stone wall.
After a longish pause she spoke. "You alluded to a conversation at the ball. About my townhouse."
Nienna's mercy! Was nothing private in this City of wagging tongues? Éowyn threw her hands up in exasperation. "So of course he has run, like a boy in leading strings, straight to you!"
"No." The torchlight winked on a bauble in that auburn hair as Amerith shook her head. "It is not like that. He has told me because he is greatly grieved and confused by your sudden change of heart. He wants to understand. Not tattle tale." The duchess settled her shoulders flatter against the wall as if digging in to a warrior's post. "Do you member what was said?"
Did she remember? Béma, Éowyn wanted to laugh. Every word, every moment was burned into her memory: Faramir drawn away from their alcove at his cousin's quiet word; the feel of his lips against her wrist and still burning in her palm; the heavy swish of skirts and cloying scent of pomade before two equally mocking tones shattered her happy world.
"Well well. From look of things on the dance floor our Steward looks ready to exchange a mature woman for a younger girl. Did you see them flirt outrageously with each other? In full view of every decently modest maid."
"What can you expect? A man that would take up with Lossarnach. He obviously has an attraction to the exotic and scandalous. At least the catfight should prove entertaining. It will be most amusing watching Amerith be ignored, but I wonder what is truly going on."
"Hmmm. Ceri, you have a point. Obvious was never the case with the Duchess. And Denethor would never have accepted her but he is not here now."
"Exactly. The Steward's line has all but failed and he needs a wife. The duchess was married four years and still Taras' nephew is his heir."
"The foreign chit is better breeding stock. Pretty but a handful. I hope that she is worth it. Once they are wedded and bedded, he can go on as he is accustomed. Did you hear? He has spent the night at the townhouse once again?"
Éowyn's blood ran cold as the Snowbourne once again. Every word had fallen like hot tar flung from a catapult. Painful. Searing. Battering the faith she had in a man she thought to love. How could she have been so stupid?! So trusting?! Let handsome words and a yearning for closeness overthrow her carefully cultivated distance from the world? Even now it was hard to imagine Faramir capable of such subterfuge, but yet he had not denied the truth of the vile women's words- he had slept the night at Amerith's own house. And there was the evidence of her own eyes. There was no doubting the depth of feeling between them in the Steward's courtyard.
She clenched her fists and drew back her shoulders. She would not repeat the slurs. Give this..this spider any satisfaction.
"I remember it exactly," she retorted. "He spends the night underneath your roof."
There was a green flash of understanding. "Did you do him the courtesy of letting him explain instead of listening to gossip?'
"How dare you!"
"I dare because contrary to what your bruised pride tells you I care for you both."
"You expect me to believe that?!" Hah! What nerve! The notion was simply ludicrous. What did the woman take her for? A child of the schoolroom yet? "At least I have enough pride and self-respect to not settle for another woman's cast off!" she spat. "Or do you have no plan to actually do that? You will crook your finger when it suits and he will run."
Bright eyes darkened with sudden fury and for a second Éowyn thought that she would shout, but Amerith did not erupt. Carefully and slowly, she took in a deep and measured breath, clasped her hands within the habit's heavy folds. "Of course a man his age, attractive and high born, was likely to have been attached. But there has been no one, not I nor any other, for many years. He has been wedded only to Gondor's safety and his duty. As you have been." Her brows narrowed thoughtfully. "I do not believe that that is all. You are too smart to simply take the slander of disgruntled courtiers for truth. There is more here is there not?"
"And that is not enough!?" Éowyn cried.
Amerith frowned. "No. Clearly for some reason you are truly jealous. Faramir was young and I was but a way to break the chain of duty. It served two purposes: he chafed under a father so difficult to please that just to be out of the hall was a respite. And I needed information. But he was never mine. The rumour of our dalliance was just that. A rumour. Uncorrected yes, embellished on, but you may interrogate my staff. You will find nothing untoward."
Éowyn lifted her chin defiantly. There was no gainsaying the thrust of what was said. "He lied. Played a ruse. Allowed a falsehood to be spread. I thought him more honourable than that."
There was a brief impatient snort. "Allowing specific people their assumptions is intelligence. Your own cousin played that game did he not? Let tongues wag about his concubine and bastard. When in fact they were his wife and child."
Éowyn's mouth dropped open. "You knew!"
"Of course I knew." Amerith negligently brushed a piece of straw from off her elbow. "I make it my business, and Gondor's, to know. Knowledge is the most valuable coin in the realm. When Theodred's sword brother fell it was natural that both grieving souls found consolation in each other. But he was shrewd and knew Saruman could not be trusted. He watched Theoden's decline and kept what was most precious to him out of Grima's reach. Helm's Deep was far enough the lie could be made plausible, and with it his family less of a target." She grimaced. "It is assumed that men will not do rash things for just a concubine."
But not her Theo! Éowyn swallowed around a sudden hurtful lump in her throat. Min heorte. The Prince had so loved Godwyn and Malina that even her uncle had not known. Only she and Éomer knew the truth, the whereabouts of the seal and papers. How had the woman found that out? She wished to ask but held it back, for truly now it mattered not. Godwyn was widowed for a second time.
"He wanted me there, too, but Uncle would not hear of it."
Amerith spread both hands, palms up in a gesture of entreaty. "Theodred was a good and honourable man. Just like Faramir."
The first niggles of doubt began to chip at Éowyn's furious hurt. Was it so very different, one ruse from another? Could she have erred? Been too quick to judge? Could she actually trust what this woman said? That last in particular gave her pause. The duchess had disarmed her with kind, honourable words about her cousin, but the fact remained she seemed to do just as she pleased, when she pleased, regardless of anyone's else's tender feelings. But if that was so why was she troubling with a 'foreign chit' unless she actually cared?
Éowyn hesitated and Amerith took the chance to press her case. "I was the only loser in that play. I chose to let it sully my reputation because of the good it brought, but I have no design on him. Nor has he an eye for anyone but you."
Unsure if she believed because she simply wished it to be true or because there was more than a thread of truth Éowyn pushed off the table edge. Began to pace as doubts swarmed like locusts in her head. All the while watched by that shrewd green gaze. For many minutes the only sound in the stuffy warmth was the soft scuffing of her heels against the days-old straw.
At last Amerith spoke softly, gently, when Eowyn paused to stare unseeing at a carved tree and stars on a time-darkened post. "What did you mean when you said 'get out of my head?'"
"He told you," she breathed, fighting a tightness that bound her chest. As if a storm were about to break or a great wave about to crash upon the shore.
She looked back across her shoulder and caught the knowing nod. "Because he thought he knew but was unsure." Amerith strode forward, set her hands flat upon the table top, letting her head fall down. When she looked up again a flicker of deep sadness lined her elegant features. "In the courtyard I sensed another pain, but when I searched, too late, all I saw was white. That was you, was it not?"
What would it profit to deny? She whispered, "Yes."
"And he was too focused on his own pain to see." Amerith shook her head sadly. "This has happened more than once-you sensing him?"
Éowyn took a deeper breath, forced herself to let the mix of pain and green twining jealousy go. She needed to think. Clearly. Not clouded by a haze of dark emotion. "Yes. And hearing. I heard his voice though he did not speak."
Surprise jerked one auburn eyebrow up. "I think I begin to see at last how he has erred. It is Faramir's greatest weakness to keep his counsel too much to himself. It was learned from the hard taskmaster of his father's derisive tongue and difficult to let go. He did not query why you both so quickly had a rapport."
A pregnant silence fell. Éowyn, both jittery and yet oddly calm at once, as if some new wonder was about to open at her feet, felt her hands begin to tremble. Amerith regarded her with sympathy. "It was frightening and unsettling was it not? To hear another person?"
She nodded, haltingly. "What is it?"
"A gift. Bestowed by the Valar upon the Lords of Andúnië and Romenna. From Irmo to Imrazôr came the gift of foresight. From Ulmo to Galadar of Tolfalas came an affinity to read the sea. From Manwë to Elendil and his heirs came the skill to read the hearts and minds of men. The houses of Hurin and Lossarnach both claim it through Elendil's sister's sons, though in these latter days only those in whom the blood of Númenor runs true have the gift. Faramir has it, though his brother did not."
Éowyn could barely breathe. "But how could it come to me?"
"Your grandmother Morwen had the gift, for her foremother and mine was Nerilin, Elendil's youngest sister," explained Amerith. "And your grandfather's mother was also of Gondor."
This was true, and something of it gave Éowyn heart. It was to his mother's people in Minas Tirith that Thengel went when he could no longer stomach Fengel's greed and she had not thought on how many times the ruling houses of Gondor and the Riddermark had joined. Grandmother. The great-grandmother she knew only from a few old paintings. Both dark-haired and grey-eyed, with iron wills and high cheekbones to match. Could she have inherited more from them than her curiously mist-tinged eyes?
Amerith went on. "Sometimes the gift can out in stranger, smaller ways or lie dormant for many years. It is a sense to master, just as your own ears and eyes."
Truly? A sense that she could trust? Éowyn bit her lip. Then she already had her answer? She felt that she could trust Faramir and so should believe his entreaties of the afternoon? This was too tempting an explanation. So much that she knew not if she had the strength to fight it as she should.
"I... do not know," she stammered.
Obviously touched by the confusion in her tone, Amerith reached out to cross the bare few feet between them. She picked up Éowyn's hands in hers and looked up searchingly. "I do. What has it told you? To trust him, I expect. For he is a man who loves all things deeply, is kind in the way that comes from learning hard lessons well. Falling and picking oneself up no matter how hard the fall." The woman's fine fingers clasped harder, as if willing her to believe. "You are, I think, the bravest woman here, but in this I think you truly are afraid. Love we are born with. Fear of it we learn. It takes courage to trust another with their many flaws and quirks."
"I am not afraid," Éowyn replied, though her voice was far from steady.
Amerith smiled then wistfully. "No, not of the dark. Or fire. Or black and stinking wings. But the world has ever been ringed with uncertainty. I understand as well as you, better than most, that hardship makes us doubt it more. Will you stand by and let the doubt be self-fulfilling? Let him slip away because now you must leap and take a chance?"
The implication irked. She-Éowyn, Wraithsbane, shying from a challenge! "You do not rule my heart!"
"No. But I suspect you hold his in your hands. Best decide what you want done with it."
.
~~~000~~~
.
The Duchess of Lossarnach climbed the great winding staircase to the townhouse's second floor, marveling anew at how it could seem that its exquisite marble risers grew tall as Mindolluin with every step. Stars... but she was tired. A day too full of too much to do, a brisk ride and then an entirely too delicate discussion; it was not surprising that hunger and thirst now clawed. Almost she regretted declining Willen's offer of a tray, but no. The act of actually eating food would be too much. A drink. A drink was what was needed to banish the pounding of her head, and so she turned at the landing toward not the day salon used for receiving guests, but her private study—the separate, far more austere working room where her (and often Gondor's) business was accomplished. This time of night, per her routine, the fire would be lit. And most important, its brandy decanter held the best that she could finagle from Prince Imrahil himself.
At an otherwise unremarkable panel in the hall's exquisite marquetry, Amerith paused, gently pressed beside an artfully hidden seam and stepped back as the hidden door clicked open. A relic from the suitably anxious time after the Kin-slaying, she had never felt the need to change its face—the security and privacy quite suited her and the idea that she had liberated it from its former life as a secret trysting spot (Taras' grandfather, the 200th Duke) was quite amusing.
Once inside, she shrugged out of the heavier jacket of her riding habit and tossed it and her gloves carelessly across a damask chair, warming her chilled fingers at the fire. The walk down from the stables had not been far but the clouds had gathered, a stiff wind blown up and with it an unpleasant shower or two. She was chilled and more than a little uneasy. Discussions had not gone as planned, and while the problems before her were far from unsurmountable, they were intricate. And crucially important. Both to Gondor. And to her.
Crossing to the sideboard, Amerith poured herself a generous measure of pale amber liquor and tossed it back in one startlingly heady gulp. Rings and bracelets chimed musically against the cut crystal of the glass as she stood and pondered what to do. Self-centred gossiping old kine. She was willing to wager every castar in the treasury that Langstrand was one of them. That woman had a tongue sharper than a Morgul blade and far too many whey-faced daughters to portion out. She sighed and paced round the heavy desk. What now to do? Encourage Faramir to keep trying to communicate of course, but therein lay the issue: his sense of honour would be bruised after today's set-to. It was unfortunate enough that one of her own plans had come back to bite her, but for that long-abandoned ruse to become a sticking point—the root upon which Éowyn's jealousy grew—Valar, what a mess! She took another bracing sip. The elation that he had truly found an equal (and a gifted one!) fizzled in the face of the young woman's ire. How to get past Éowyn's pride, to help her see what was truly there? Only Faramir could rebuild her trust, but in the interim, the least Amerith could do would be to squelch the rumours. Take another favourite perhaps. That pretty and puppyish Swan Knight was the obvious candidate—the whole court had already seen them dancing—and he had hinted he would be happy to squire her around.
She tapped a lacquered nail thoughtfully against her teeth, pondering the pros and cons. Haldan was honourable (all of Imrahil's men were above reproach), handsome, light of step for one so strapping. Word of her first obvious new liaison in years would tumble round the Circles swiftly as wind-whipped leaves. And most helpfully of all, the man was set to leave, at least sometime after the coronation.
Yes. A suitable choice all round.
So long as his conversation was not a total bore, it might even be quite fun.
Having arrived at the start of a solution, Amerith refilled her glass and sat down at the broad desk, turning her attention to other forms of action. She had shot her bow and it was time for another to help with Éowyn. Swiftly she scratched out a note, rang the bell and spent a few minutes anxiously pacing, staring at the fire's ruddy glow.
This was a risk, but one she judged it best to take.
When Willen, attentive and silent as ever, poked his head around the door she held the small square out. "Send for Kale. He is to personally deliver this to Dol Amroth House. Into the Princess's hands." A nod and the man bowed smoothly out.
She began to pore over the day's correspondence: a hasty, breathless note from Taras's nephew at Cormallen; accounts of the regiment's recovery; lists of such produce as could be sent from Lossarnach's upper vales.
Another discrete tap on the door interrupted her burgeoning concentration.
Sighing heavily, she set her new quill down. "Come!"
The panel cracked open and her seneschal's lined and placid face once more appeared. "Your ladyship, Lieutenant Vastred is below. Will you come down or shall I send him up?"
Amerith frowned. Vastred, one of her longest-serving and more irregular sources of information, would never interrupt unless it was of import. A visit this time of night meant something urgent.
"Up please," she answered, for the idea of changing and descending once again truly did not appeal.
With an admirable swiftness that hinted at experienced prescience, Willen ushered a tall figure in black and silver into the room.
"My lady." Vastred bowed the correct distance down, holding his stiff winged helmet at his hip. The cloak over his forearm dripped faintly from another burst of rain and his chilled toes dug thankfully into the plush of deep pile carpet.
He was doing his best not to stare. The last time the veteran had been in this room the walls were orange. This evening's mellow gold was something of a shock.
Amerith's eyed the item tucked neatly into his right elbow. "Lieutenant. You were not followed?"
"No, my lady. I took one of the usual routes."
She nodded. All of them involved some combination of main gate to barracks, barracks to the taverns of the fourth, before heading back 'up' the City's levels. If a guard stopped in the Sixth to check all was well, what of it? "The package?"
"A missive to be brought to the new Steward of Gondor. With no acknowledged sender."
"Really?" She held out her hand and swiftly he crossed the expanse of carpet to lay the scroll into her upturned palm. The wooden rollers were deeply nicked and the outer layers travel-stained. "The courier?"
"Dark. Northern. His accent and his coat. With none of the seals or passwords." The man smiled, a wry and grimly amused quirk. "I had to be…persuasive. He wished to deliver it himself."
Her eyes snapped up. And one auburn eyebrow. That was unusual. "On horse?"
"Yes my lady. Shorter. Not of Rohan. Dunlendish I should have thought."
"Well done." Well done indeed. Vastred was not the first to have this post, but in her experience, he was one of the very best: keen brown eyes beneath a thinning fringe of grey saw everything. No note or beast or soul passed Forannest's busy gate without being logged, as if painted in a picture, by his sharp brain. It was a most helpful skill.
Amerith arose and came round the desk, proffered her hand and graciously inclined her head. "Thank you Vastred. Leave it with me. I shall see to it that the Steward receives it on the morrow. Willen will see that you are properly appreciated."
"Thank you, Duchess."
After a swift handshake the guard bowed out and the door closed with a quiet click. Amerith turned back to the desk, swiftly untied the strings and began to remove the outer cover of dark, blotched, water-stiffened parchment.
How very strange… The message had obviously been a long time on the road, and though words had wings, and ill words the widest wings of all, it seemed most irregular for the North to send messages so soon. Thank the Valar it had been caught. Not for the first time did she bless the day she set up the standing orders. All unverified correspondence came first to her and then to the Steward's hands. It had worked neatly with Denethor—helped to avoid some rather unpleasant scenes—but with the attempts upon Faramir's own life (four times across a dozen years, thwarted by her own corps) she had no intention of changing the arrangement.
Warming the inner seal over a candle by the window, she broke the yellowed wax with a fingernail and began to unwind the scroll. Its spidery, elaborate crabbed hand was of a style she had never seen before. In Sindarin. There was no date but an opening flourish gave Faramir by name, and beyond were platitudes to Gondor's health and longevity. Farther down, the airy, almost impersonal words began to take on a sharper tone, until at last the sentence unwound that sent a bitter chill through the room.
"Herein find a true account of how Denethor, son of Ecthelion, son of Turgon, Twenty-sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor, poisoned his own wife…"
A hand across her mouth could not stop the shriek of pain.
The scroll tumbled to the rug and with it the vile and malevolent words unrolled and could not be ignored. Amerith sank down in shock. Who would make such a perfidious accusation? It was abominable! Unspeakable! Hands trembling, she pulled the rollers to the very end and found the certh—a white hand, upraised. 'For S'. A shudder rippled through her bones.
There was one only it could be from. The wizard. Locked safely in Orthanc, ringed by enraged Tree-shepherds of the forest. How could such a message have got through? A matter to take up with Mithrandir when he returned, for here, in black lies spilling down the page, was undeniable evidence of his enduring scorn. A few last poisoned words. Meant to wound, to shatter a grieving man's whole world. A lie, surely, if an insidious one. There had been those who questioned the Princess's long illness, the perplexing way she withered after the joyous news of a second son's welcome birth.
The truth, an ailment that could not be stopped, was rather less dramatic, if no less heart-rending.
Disgusted, Amerith at first shoved the offending paper away, but then, her well-honed sense of thoroughness made her take it up again. Faramir would need to be warned—any overt actions by the wizard bore careful watch—and therefore, before she raised the issue, she must know exactly what was said. She scanned swiftly, mind denying every word, and then even as she sat, hands still faintly trembling where they tugged the ragged edges, a dawning horror grew:
It must be true.
The details splashed down the roll. The vial. Red ichor. The exact date of Finduilas' first decline. The fight the entire household could hear.
Amerith let out a hollow moan. She could, would not believe it, but the details were too precise. The woman who now sagged, red-eyed and tears threatening to fall, had been a proud lady-in-waiting then. Twelve years old, her first time at court, helping to welcome the new day and then anxiously running to find the Steward's lady's nurse. Cleaning up the broken glass by herself on Nera's whispered instructions. A cut finger bound and stinging oddly.
So much was clearer and yet more clearly painful.
Oh Denethor.
The tears splashed down, one by one, onto the velvet of her skirt and the wool of the soft rug. Had he understood? Could some sense of responsibility have turned to weathered stone a heart already begun to dessicate? No. No. She would not believe it! Denethor adored Finduilas with every fiber of his being. It must be some wizardly trick—from one hand to another. Denethor unknowing. The healers never made the link. Or Nera. And that last drew her sharply up.
The only other soul who knew the truth.
And Faramir far too perspicacious not to understand.
She made a swift decision.
It mattered not if t'were true or no. All the years of effort she had invested to bring him happiness were threatened. Both within and from without. Faramir and Éowyn could be happy, would be happy if only each could see. The White Lady was worth him fighting for…
Amerith climbed slowly to her feet, wiped the tears from off her cheeks and stumbled to the desk. She tossed the last of the brandy back. It seared, melted into a ruddy warmth that braced for what she had to do.
Sinking down onto the carpet she gathered the sprawl into her arms and crawled over to the priceless Dwarven forged firegrate, shoved the mass of wood and parchment in. The edges caught, coiled, and twisted; turning in upon themselves and exploding into little fireworks of spark.
She sat, unmoving, while the hungry flames reduced the truth to so much ash. Set another load, hard, mute, but so very necessary, upon two slim white shoulders.
Some secrets, some pieces of intelligence, were best kept.
Forever…
She loved him enough for that.
.
-
Please excuse the reupping: one day I will post an error free first draft! Grateful thanks go out to SusanneO, Nellie86 and marilyne2016 for following and to marilyne2016 for favouriting. Two chapters and the epilogue to go! We are almost at the end. I feel like a horse picking up its feet, smelling the hay of the barn. :)
A huge huge thanks this month to Wheelrider, Eschziola, Thanwen, Annafan and Carawyn for the wonderful comments and careful eyes cast out. As always I am honoured to have such insightful help.