Chapter 5. Warrior-lady
"They are calling you 'our lady' now—and making songs, of course," Elfhild said when she came the next day, bringing word much like the Prince's—though rather more embarrassing, if somewhat less flamboyant. "You will hear them soon enough, once you are out of here."
Éowyn was a little abashed. "You would have done the same, had you been there. And folk must have done such deeds before—they were simply not of the King's—"
"No need to make light of it," Elfhild cut in. "You risked yourself and saved a life, and so they love you for it." She made a gesture, then grimaced—almost in spite of herself.
"What is it?" Éowyn noticed her stiffness, and guessed. "You were out again." It was no question.
"Aye," Elfhild admitted.
"Were you hurt?"
The elder girl winced as Éowyn's bandaged hand brushed her side. "Not badly—just a bruise," she said. "I took a spear-haft when I should not have, is all."
"You ought not to be out there alone," Éowyn said, her worry deepening.
"I am not alone," Elfhild replied. "I always know where the men are—those under your brother's command, and mine. And I do not go far. I mean to be a marshal, not die before I have earned it, so of course I am careful. But you are not, it seems." She nodded toward Éowyn's hands.
"One day, they shall see you," Éowyn said after a pause. "Ride safely, Hild."
"Rest assured," Elfhild said with a grin. "If not safely, then at least swiftly. That much you can believe."
Éowyn's burns healed in time and left only faint marks. During the days she was ordered to remain indoors, she nearly finished reading the entire journal—though she was still often unsure of the exact meaning of certain words (alas, Sindarin was no small feat). She was greatly relieved to find no trace of unbearable sorrow, though she also felt a flicker of disappointment—thus far, aside from a few entries at the beginning, it seemed largely… ordinary.
It spanned a wide stretch of years, with entries growing sparser—often weeks, at times even months apart. There were notes about the children (she glimpsed mentions of the King and of her own mother, though she had great difficulty imagining the King as a five-year-old boy—noisy and particular about which horse should be his in the stables, declaring he would ride only the finest of the Mearas—and her mother as a little girl who always stumbled at the doorstep, and quarrelled with her elder sisters over whose hair was fairest; she and the King being the only two among the five with bright golden hair); and other notes, on the goings-on of the court, both great and small.
Occasionally, there was a faint wistfulness, a trace of remembrance—a mention of the flowered vales and the warmer airs of the South—but no regret, and no resentment, as Éowyn had at first feared.
Until, leafing once more through the journal near its end, she came upon a small slip of parchment, nestled between two pages—folded, worn, and nigh hidden in the spine. She had almost missed it. The paper was finer than the rest, the ink faded, the hand, by the feel of it, not one she knew.
Both stirred and uneasy, she unfolded it with care.
Only two words were written upon it: "Thank you."
There was no signature, but the script was neat, spare, and steady—like runes carved in stone. A man's hand, Éowyn guessed. She turned back to the journal. Just before the place where the note had been tucked, the writer had set down only a single line:
"Grain, tributes, and routes must be reconsidered. The lords will gather tomorrow."
Nothing more. No elaboration, no tone—naught seemed amiss.
After the page where the note had been hidden, the writing resumed—and was still plain:
"Fair skies today. The wind from the West carries the scent of the high fields. We rode beyond the wall this morning, he and I. He laughed again, as he did when we first met."
Fortune favoured her—there was a date.
Intrigued, Éowyn slipped the note into her pocket and made her way to the eastern wing of the Hall. There, in a small chamber lined with scrolls and bindings, Gléowine was sorting his charcoal sticks.
"Master Gléowine," she said—with courtesy, though little delay, for they were well acquainted by now, and more so of late—"Have you the court records from the year 2974? In the spring?"
He lifted his brows. "Aye. We kept few written records before that time; it was only with the return of King Thengel that such matters were set in order."
This did not surprise her, yet her curiosity stirred. "And before? How were such things remembered?"
"We wrote them not," the scholar said. "We sang them. What do you seek?"
"I do not know," she answered. "Yet I may know it when it lies before me."
"At your service, Lady," said the scholar with a smile. From the depths of the archives, he brought forth a bundle of parchment and set it before her. A dry scent of dust filled the room.
"Ah, that year," he mused. "I fear it shall bring little cheer. The years before were hard, and folk grew ill at ease. Quarrels and tallies, mostly."
There, amid the formal records, she found it:
"Dispute arose between the lords of Eastfold and Westfold concerning tribute and the grain-routes. The debate grew contentious, and questions were raised concerning the Queen's lineage and her right to be present in the King's hall for such matters. Remarks were also made alluding to the King's favour toward Gondorian counsel.
"Then the Queen rose, and with a steady gaze and a calm voice, said only: 'The Lady out of Gondor, as you name her, knows enough of the Mark to know that pride does not feed the hungry.'"
There were no details of what followed—only that judgment was swiftly rendered, and the matter was laid to rest.
Éowyn sat back. The mystery, it seemed, was answered.
"Thank you."—the note must have been written by Grandfather, she thought. For her grandmother had stood before the lords of Rohan—not as a stranger, nor as a daughter of Gondor only, but as their Queen; and her words had cut clean through pride and grievance alike. Perhaps a blade beneath fine silk is the sharpest of all.
She returned to her chamber as the sky darkened. Reaching the end of the journal, she felt a reluctance, and a quiet, inexplicable sense of loss. Standing before her mirror once more, she gazed at her reflection. But this time, the dark-haired lady was no longer there—though she bore her stature, and held her strength within.
She told herself she would leave the last few pages, and the letters, for another day.
As autumn came to an end, the troubles at the borders seemed to ease. Théodred and Éomer were in the city once more, and life appeared to have returned to its former rhythm. Elfhild, too, had returned—no longer venturing out in secret, for it had become harder to conceal the use of war-horses. Éowyn was relieved—only then did she realise how deeply the worry had weighed on her—and they spent time again in the training yard, as they had before.
Time flies when one is growing, they say. And so it felt—for in the blink of an eye, two years had passed since the fire. Folk still called her "our lady," and the tale was told at hearth and forge, in stables and kitchens alike. She had long ceased to count how many versions there were—or how much they had been embellished. The King now brought her more often to council, and the court had grown accustomed to her presence. Yet with Éomer come into his own and Théodred often at her side, she still listened more than she spoke.
For a time, she thought Elfhild had given up. The maiden had not taken up those pursuits "more fitting for young women," yet neither did she openly challenge the common understanding. Fully grown, Elfhild shone like the sun in Edoras, drawing the eyes of young and old alike. She laughed and teased, playing the part as expected—as though her ambition had been set aside—but in truth, she waited for her chance.
And at last, she found it.
When spring came and word spread that the Dunlendings had begun raiding again, she disguised herself as a rider—clad in her carefully fitted mail, her face hidden beneath a helm—and rode with her brother's éored when they were called to the Fords to scatter a raiding host.
No one knew it was she until the battle was near its end. She had unhorsed their chieftain in single combat and lost her helm, revealing her face—yet she drove her blade clean through that fierce wild-man. The tale spread swiftly: the bold young warrior was none other than the marshal's sister, and Elfhelm, they said, stood gaping like a fish freshly hauled from the river.
"Will she be allowed to ride as a Rider now?" Éowyn asked Théodred. "Might she one day become a marshal?"
"She has earned her place. As for becoming a marshal—that remains to be seen," Théodred answered. "It is no easy road, little sister." Then he grinned. "But for now, I mean to collect my wager from Elfhelm. I laid it years ago, that Hild would have her way. Will you come with me?"
Later, Éowyn offered her praise to Elfhild in private, and asked, "How did it feel?"
"Free," the young woman answered, with a light in her bearing that Éowyn had not seen before. "Not from judgment of worth—that shall ever remain, for any one—but from the burden of proving it could be done."
Then she turned, and her eyes met Éowyn's. "What is it you seek, my lady? For what end have you trained these many years?"
Éowyn opened her mouth—but no answer came.
With no clear purpose in mind, she arrayed herself in the guise of a Rider and rode out behind Éomer's riders as they passed beyond the gates. He caught her, of course. Now full-grown, a man of renown not lesser than their late father, and already proven in the field, it was only natural that he would see through her.
Yet still, he did not wholly understand her—for he had deemed she sought to follow in Elfhild's path.
"If that is your intent," he said, "then at least let it pass as such. Your hauberk fits poorly, you still wear earrings, and your hair is not braided fitly for a helm. If I turn a blind eye, how will my Riders regard me?"
Though it was almost comical to see him strive to mimic Théodred's tone and bearing, he had reason, and so she held back a smile and yielded. Yet neither of them had looked to hear a voice from nearby.
"Long have I heard tell of our lady, Éowyn, daughter of Éomund. Were Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnach to walk once more in the Riddermark, she would be as this."
It was a man of no great stature by the measure of the Mark—pale and slight of frame, with more wit than might. She saw Éomer stiffen, but she raised a hand to stay him, unwilling that her brother should answer.
"The fault was mine. Let it rest." With that, she turned Frathwyn and began the ride back.
Behind her, she heard Éomer's voice—low and stern—as he addressed the man ere riding on.
"My sister is not for your idle speech."
Somehow, she did not urge her mare to trot. Something was amiss. The name—Steelsheen—he had spoken it out of place: as far as she had learned, there should be little likeness between herself, in this guise, and her grandmother; Morwen had not been a warrior. Yet he had spoken it with a surety that carried a weight too deeply settled to be cast off lightly.
The man caught up with her on foot before long, and they walked together toward the city gate.
"What is your name?" she asked, her tone kept even.
"Gríma, my lady," the man replied. "Gríma, son of Gálmód."
The name sounded familiar. "Are you the leech?" she asked, thinking back to the night of the fire two years past, a vague memory stirring. "And—Gálmód, you said? Did your father serve my grandfather?" she asked further, the name now rising from the pages of the journal to her thoughts.
"Aye, lady," the man replied, a strange gleam in his dark eyes.
Notes:
For Morwen's heritage, and her influence on her descendants with King Thengel in terms of height and hair colour, see Unfinished Tales.