Morning mists crept to the roots of the Druadan trees, curled upward and dissipated while to the east, the pink fingers of dawn spread into the river valley. Thengel reined in his borrowed mount, having spotted his quarry, a circle of dripping tents huddled near the gray wood. The dark forms of quiet men moved between them or bent over small cooking fires. His squire appeared to lead the horse away before he dismounted. With a nod, Cenhelm and the rest followed the lad.
Wynflaed squatted before a small fire away from the rest, busy with a smoking kettle and a pan sitting on a crude iron rack perched between rocks over the fire. He sat down next to her with the woods to their backs, appreciating the smell of coffee and hot bacon fat wafting into the damp air.
His sister acknowledged him with a wipe of her nose on the back of her sleeve. Thengel saw her last in Minas Tirith over a month ago. They'd finalized their plans to meet Oswin's camp in the Anorien valley and then he'd made his way to Ithilien for a much needed retreat.
"You're late," she muttered.
"I know. The rain delayed us."
"Never mind," Wynflaed grumbled. "Oswin's not here yet either. He's more than a week late."
He gave her a puzzled look. "You didn't come together?"
She shook her head. "He had to finish up some talks with Lord Turgon, so I led the camp out of the Pelennor before I died of boredom."
Thengel squinted across the foggy valley toward the direction Ecthelion and his men had disappeared hours ago. His mind's eye followed along the line of the river where they'd parted at the sister fort overlooking Cair Andros from the western banks of the Anduin.
Wynflaed passed him a steaming dish of coffee. Then she used a rag to lift the pan off the fire and let the bacon cool on the bank of rocks surrounding the little pit she'd dug.
"I wish I'd known that. What's keeping him?"
Wynflaed shrugged. "Turgon, probably. Leave it to the Gondorians to drag out business of any kind. Besides, it's not exactly a hop and a skip from the city to Druedan forest."
"It's only fifty miles of good road, give or take," Thengel pointed out. "Ecthelion and I had to creep through thickets and muddy ravines just to get to the river, let alone cross it in a spring flood. We had to spend two nights on Cair Andros before we could make it over to the western side."
Wynflaed's brows furrowed. "Where's Ecthelion now? I thought he meant to send off Bard's men," she asked around crunching on a piece of slightly burnt bacon.
"Ecthelion meant to, but he had some news at Cair Andros. Now he's making a beeline for Minas Tirith."
"Bad news?"
Thengel smirked. "No, just very surprising news." Then he frowned. "If he'd come with me to the camp like he originally planned, I could've sent him on to give Oswin a shove out the door."
"Maybe he's not feeling well."
"Oswin is indestructible, you know that," Thengel quipped.
"That's what we'd all like to think, isn't it? What will we do when he's not around, do you think?"
Thengel shrugged. He preferred not to dwell on the reality of his aging uncle. Oswin had to outlast Fengel, that's all there was to it. Much as he grumbled about his uncle's methods, the house of Eorl wouldn't have weathered Fengel's reign without Oswin.
"Will you ride with us all the way to the border?"
Thengel snatched a piece of bacon since Wyn didn't offer him one. "Close enough to give Fengel palpitations. Maybe I'll dip my toe in the Glanhír when Oswin isn't looking."
"The Mering." Wynflaed grunted. "Are you certain that's wise? Oswin might not be looking, but as a shieldmaiden of Rohan, I'd be obliged to shoot you on sight."
Thengel shrugged. "Is that the order? Huh. I'd never heard. As you are a shieldmaiden, I will consider myself dually warned." He held out his mug for more coffee. "That reminds me. What's it I hear about you're abandoning post to travel to Esgaroth?"
"Oh, that." Her eyes flicked to where Rurik and Frar were debating the quality of a trinket the young man had purchased in Minas Tirith. They settled on the younger man with something like possessiveness. "I'm following a whim."
Thengel shook his head, thinking of the way Idhren had thrown the two together at that feast. His friend had been on point all evening, he realized.
"He's a lot younger than you."
She snorted. "Says you."
"Just making an observation." He cast her a sidelong glance. "What about your vow?"
Wynflaed puffed at a stand of hair that fell in her face. "I'm not breaking it, if that's what you mean. I'm just not one to translate shieldmaiden too literally."
Thengel smirked. "And what sort of diplomatic flap will seducing King Bard's nephew cause for Rohan, I wonder?"
"None, I expect, once news of your betrothal reaches Edoras. I'll only be too happy to be on my way to Lake-town when it does."
Thengel's eyes snapped away from Wynflaed's toward the empty plain. "You plan to be gone that long?"
"How long do you plan to keep Morwen waiting?" she challenged.
Thengel took his time answering while he scraped the mud off his boot with a stick lying nearby.
"I'm not going to ask Morwen to marry me, Wynflaed."
"Don't be stupid. Have you had a change of heart?"
"About Morwen? No."
Thengel poured himself a third cup of coffee so he wouldn't have to look at his sister while memories of his last vision of Morwen drifted into his thoughts. What had possessed her to run out of her house in that flimsy shift? He could see the line of stitches above her hip through the gauzy material and more beside. It was the 'more beside' that had caused him to be so gruff with her on parting and which haunted him during unguarded moments in Ithilien. The desire it evoked had shaken his resolve to leave her alone in peace to enjoy the life he had saved for her. He hadn't given back her hand so that he could hold the rest of her in his arms. Had he.
What would he do now without Morwen in his life? He could imagine year after year of her walking toward him with blossoms in her hair, glowing from within with that passion for her work and her homeplace. She possessed that mix of strength and uncertainty of a young person coming of age and discovering her world and all the promise in it. Thengel didn't want to miss out on that. And yet. He wanted her but he wanted her to have the life intended for her — which could not involve him.
"Not a change of heart, per se, but you know Morwen is not for me."
"That's more than I know." Wynflaed studied his profile with an inscrutable expression, which he caught as he briefly glanced he way. "Time will tell. As I said, I don't want to be in Edoras when they announce your betrothal."
Thengel contemplated the steam rising from his cup for a while. "You think Fengel would take it badly if it ever came to be?"
"You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. At least Father's consistent. He hates everything you do."
"Thanks," Thengel muttered.
"Mother would be pleased. She likes to pretend you have a perfect little life here. It helps her deal with not watching you grow up."
Thengel bowed his head and fell quiet for a time.
"She's going to wish she could be here on your wedding day. If there ever is one."
"Fengel would never allow it," Thengel said through gritted teeth.
Wynflaed shrugged. "Probably not."
He felt the usual tremor in his hands whenever his temper flared. "How does she put up with him?" he groused.
Wynflaed gave him an incredulous frown. "You always idealized Mother. Did it ever occur to you that she knew what she was doing when she married Father?"
He pulled a face. "That's one way to disillusion me forever."
"Consider also that Morwen knows too."
Thengel drained his mug and set it on the ground by his feet. Then he rose. "What is keeping Oswin?"
...
On the third morning since he arrived at the forest eaves, Wynflaed dashed into Thengel's tent just as he started pulling a fresh tunic over his head. If she had come a moment or two earlier, she would have caught him with his trousers down.
"Béma, Wyn—"
"Oswin's here," she said, breathless. "Watch out. He's wearing his marshal face and he's headed this way."
Despite his thirty-seven years, Thengel felt some of the blood drain from his own face and hastily finished dressing. Before Wynflaed could back out, Oswin pushed his way inside the cramped tent. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest and glowered at his sister's offspring.
"Wynflaed, out," he finally barked.
"Happily, Uncle." She had ducked halfway between the flaps already.
Thengel slipped into his boots. "You're late—"
"Where is the heirloom I left in your keeping?"
Thengel's mouth snapped shut, racking his brains till he recalled what his uncle meant. The horn? He'd forgotten…
Righteous anger made the Marshal seem to swell to twice his size. "You left a priceless treasure in that benighted southern fief where you had carried it without my permission. Are there any other discarded items you wish to tell me about before I have to face Fengel King with an explanation?"
Thengel swallowed. "My comb?"
Oswin cuffed him upside the head.
Thengel cupped the back of his head with his hand. "Ow! Béma."
"Upstart. You'd better go get that horn," he said, already turning away from Thengel to make his exit.
Oswin disappeared through the tent flap. Thengel stared at the blank canvas for a moment before belting his trousers and grabbing his saddle bag. He followed his uncle outside into the morning sunlight. Spotting his squire, he tossed the bags at the boy and made signs for his horse. Then he caught up with Oswin.
"You mean you don't have it?" he asked when he caught up. "Uncle?"
Oswin turned from giving orders to his men to strike camp.
"Of course I haven't got it. It's still in the possession of that impertinent young woman."
Thengel's jaw went slack for a moment. "Morwen?"
"It alarms me that you can identify her by that description alone," Oswin groused. "That's the sort of woman you've take up with, is it? That's the woman I'm to bend my knee to in future?"
Thengel tamped down any number of retorts, suddenly aware that the ear of the camp had bent toward his uncle and himself. He lowered his voice. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I haven't taken up with anybody. I carried the horn with me to Lossarnach and forgot it, that's all. How did you find out?"
Oswin sniffed. "I may have encountered this so called person in Minas Tirith."
"Morwen went to Minas Tirith? Why?"
"I believe she had business with the Steward…seeing as how our carefully laid plans went to nought."
Thengel felt alarm like ice water in his veins. "What does Turgon have planned for her now?"
Oswin shrugged. "Search me. I've no interest in the young woman apart from the horn. And you had better go straighten things out, get those ideas of grandeur out of her head."
"Grandeur?"
"Yes. You put this idea of marriage to a prince in her head."
"But…"
"Now that I've seen her, she's completely unsuitable for a princess. You need a wife, not a cutthroat."
Unsuitable! Cutthroat! Was the man an idiot? The ice water in his veins began to heat to a low grade boil. "Did she tell you that she had the horn in her keeping?"
"In her keeping?" Oswin blustered. "This is a hostage situation. It's rank piracy!"
Even the most grim-faced of Oswin's warriors were showing an avid interest in the debate between the Marshal and the Prince as they passed around them with packs and collapsed tents wrapped in oil skins. Thengel felt aware of them in the periphery of his senses, but the majority of his brain chugged painfully to translate the meaning of his uncle's words.
"What does that mean?"
"Go and ask her yourself. She'll tell you exactly what it all means. Béma knows I've been subjected to all manner of high-handed behavior from that young person." He began ticking off instances on his fingers with exaggerated relish, "I've had my methods criticized, listened to the family scrutinized, my warriors purloined, and now I've been reduced to a mere messenger! Here."
Then Oswin dug in his pocket and pressed an envelope against Thengel's chest before stumping away. Thengel caught the paper before it fell to the ground. Distracted by the falling letter, he missed Oswin allowing himself a grin as he turned away from his puzzled nephew.
"What's this?" Thengel called.
"Just forwarding your mail," Oswin grumbled over his shoulder.
Thengel looked at the envelope, then carefully broke the seal and read. It contained only two lines. A light appeared in his eyes. Only two lines, but they doomed and encouraged him.
"This is from Morwen. How long have you had it? It's dated from May and you give it to me now?"
"And which forwarding address did you wish it squirreled away to in that dratted forest?" Oswin retorted. "If you'd stayed in Minas Tirith like I told you to, you might have had that letter sooner and seen her for yourself instead of subjecting me to her whims."
Thengel clamped his mouth shut as his temper mounted to new heights. Not only had his uncle seen Morwen, he'd spoken to her, saying all manner of who knows what.
"Well?" Thengel demanded.
"Well what?"
"Is she well? Is she still in Minas Tirith?" Did she mention him?
"Is she well?" The Marshal enunciated each word, his voice rising in pitch. "Is Oswin well, that's the question! I've had my arm twisted behind my back by a stripling girl and you ask if she is well. And then there's you, my ungrateful nephew," he jabbed a finger at Thengel. "You've made a fine mess of things. I expect you to resolve this situation before it ends in a diplomatic flap."
"A what?"
"She says to keep your promise if you ever want to see the horn or your guard again. Now what kind of position does that put me in?" Oswin's voice dipped into a low vibrato. "This could mean war, Thengel, if the horn of Eorl isn't returned to the family."
War? On Lossarnach? Thengel rolled his eyes while Oswin mounted his horse. "She told you that? Verbatim? That she's holding Guthere and the horn hostage?" he asked skeptically. It wasn't possible.
"Well, I'm paraphrasing. The gist, Thengel, is to get that horn back. As for Guthere," he sniffed as he walked on, "I've permanently reassigned him to the princess's honor guard upon her insistence."
Thengel stared while several emotions fought for dominance. "Whose honor guard?"
Oswin glared at him over his shoulder. "You heard me. The princess's. I'm sending you a replacement."
"Then is Guthere going to Lake-town with Wynflaed?" he asked when he caught up. "Uncle?"
He regarded Thengel through glacial blue eyes. "Wynflaed? No."
Thengel scratched his chin, looking around for any sight of the rider. "Then he's going back with you to Fritha? But you just said Morwen had him—"
"What in Béma's name does Fritha want with Guthere? All she does is weave all day. Where's the danger in that?"
"Then who could you possibly mean? Fritha's daughters?" Thengel pivoted on his heels to look around the camp. "Is Guthere here?"
Oswin planted his hands on his hips. "Of course he's not here. I've just told you he's been reassigned to this Morwen of yours."
Thengel's jaw dropped. "But you said you've assigned him to the princess's honor guard."
"Yes. On her insistence." Then Oswin gave him another black look. "She seems to think some sort of protection is due to a future consort."
Thengel paused and glowered, beginning to understand his uncle's methods. Oswin might blame Morwen, but this whole thing smacked of the Marshal's scheming. Restore the horn to the family? Yes, and he thought he knew by what means Oswin meant for him to do so, no matter what he said against Morwen. Thengel had fallen for that, just as he had as a boy whenever they went out riding. Turn left when he meant for Thengel to turn right. Well. He'd made his mistake informing Thengel about Guthere. Thengel's better principles were already in place, as far as any marriage to Morwen stood.
"I see," he muttered through gritted teeth.
"You'd better just." Oswin turned back again. "And if I were you, Thengel, I'd choose another time for Fengling contrariness."
Thengel took several deep breaths to quiet the thoughts flying through his brain. Oswin's man brought his horse and he watched the Marshal mount. How long had Oswin been here? A quarter of an hour? What a peaceful camp this had been just a few moments before Oswin had come along to throw this bag of cats on his lap.
Thengel's squire led up Rochagar, who had been brought by Oswin's men. The saddlebags were already attached. He reached for the reins and began to mount as well.
"And where do you think you're going?" Oswin barked.
"With you," Thengel groused.
"No you're not. I'm for home. You're for Lossarnach."
"Is that a direct order?" he asked.
"Order?" Oswin repeated. By the light in his uncle's eyes, Thengel realized too late that his uncle had been laying down a snare and that he had stepped right into it. "You're bound by your own promise, sister-son."