"So, do you think Éomer King will give us a quick death, or use Fengel's preferred method of pulling us limb from limb with a team of horses?" Éothain dunked his bread into the thick ham and split pea pottage. "Might as well enjoy my final meal. This is damn fine."
"Nice to get a decent tankard of ale, too. Too much bloody hops in that southern piss." Elfhelm paused, then replied to the main question. "He'll shout a bit, well, a lot, threaten all sorts of stuff, then reflect on the trail of chaos his sister left behind her and probably decide Gondor is welcome to her."
"And there was me thinking the Steward was all prim and prissy and proper."
Elfhelm raised an eyebrow. "I know you never fought with the bloke… mind you, neither did I for that matter, but are you daft or something? He spent nigh on twenty years defending Ithilien – must have been like sitting on a termites' nest only with orcs. Then he managed to hold his troops together on that final retreat from Osgiliath. Do you know how many men he lost? More importantly, how many he saved against the odds. No, let's not go there. Anyway, he's a brave bastard, as brave as they get, and a bloody brilliant tactician and strategist. So, no, doesn't surprise me that he isn't in the slightest bit prim and prissy and proper."
Éothain mulled over this for a while, then commented, "I suppose you're right. Besides which – and this does not get back to the king – if Éowyn threw herself at you… well, you would, wouldn't you."
"Well," said Elfhelm, taking another thoughtful draft from his tankard, "I wouldn't, because I've got daughters coming up to her age, and Hilde would feed my bollocks to the wolfhounds, but I can well see why her Gondorian did – any red-blooded young man would."
"High maintenance, mind."
"Lad… the ones worth having are. Well, maybe not exactly high maintenance. But if a woman hasn't got a mind of her own, she's not worth having."
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Éothain finished his bowl and pushed it to one side, before draining his tankard.
"No doubt about it, the Mare and Spare does the best beer in the borderlands. Another?"
"Aye."
Éothain signalled to the barmaid, who collected the empties and refilled them.
"So," said Elfhelm, "You didn't fancy a detour via Lord Carandol's manor, return his daughter's hankie."
Éothain laughed. "Yeah… nah."
"Shame. She seemed a pretty enough lass."
Forward too, Eothain almost said, but stopped himself in time. "Bit too many complications. Besides I'm too young to settle down."
"If you ask me…" Elfhelm paused for a pull on his pint. "You need a wife to steady you. Rather than fooling around with other men's wives…"
"Ah, you heard."
"I think all of Gondor and half the Riddermark heard."
The lamps in the Mare and Spare cast only a dim light, but Elfhelm could have sworn Éothain flushed. Encouraged, the Marshall warmed to his subject.
"Still, she seems happily settled with her new husband now. They've had twins, I hear." Elfhelm kept half an eye on Éothain as the latter raised his tankard, biding his time till the optimum moment. "One blond, one dark haired I hear."
His timing was perfect. The younger man spluttered beer across the table.
"Fatherhood does tend to settle a man… Makes him reassess his priorities. So, Lord Carandol's daughter. I'll wager there's a brain behind that pretty face."
"Her father's a tosser though, the man grinds his peasants into the mud, and the manor looks like it's on its last legs. And from what I gathered, her mother never recovered from the death of her son on the retreat from Osgiliath."
"Well there you go, she'll be looking for somewhere to escape to."
"Give it a rest will you?"