Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 6

By unspoken agreement Lothíriel accompanied him down to the stables every night from then on. At first he thought that the novelty would soon wear off, but she showed no sign of getting tired of it. Tidhelm and his lads expressed their approval by reserving an old, dented mug for her exclusive use and having a supply of honey ready for her tea, while old Aedwulf swore that her presence calmed down the mares.

"Nothing like a woman's touch," he confided to Éomer one night. "At first I was a bit dubious at you taking a Stonelander woman to wife, but you did well."

"I'm glad you approve," Éomer answered dryly.

The old man chuckled. "Oh, I know you would have married her no matter what anybody said. And I can't blame you!"

The words gave Éomer a strange pang. Everybody assumed theirs was a love match, not surprising with Lothíriel's exotic beauty. Yet really, he told himself, there was nothing wrong with treating marriage as a business proposition. And a pretty successful one so far, even if he still had to fulfil his part of the bargain. He grinned to himself. Not that Lothíriel could reproach him for not trying hard enough.

She had even apologised for the suspicions she had harboured, blushing adoringly all the while. Éomer frowned at the memory. He had almost blurted out that he wanted no other woman but her – a realisation that had taken him very much by surprise – but he had hesitated to say so when all she wanted was a marriage of convenience and the moment had been lost.

So he still retired to his own rooms every night, though it felt a little silly to do so when he would only wake his wife again a few hours later. However, after all the arrangement had been his own idea and it might yet come in useful.

A few days later he was knocking softly on her door in the early hours of the morning, as had become his habit. But instead of slipping out of her rooms dressed in one of the simple linen gowns she had ordered for herself, she only opened the door a small crack.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But I think I'll stay in tonight."

Éomer fought a surge of unreasonable disappointment. He could not expect her to share all his interests after all. "As you wish. I suppose it must be getting a bit boring for you."

"It's not that!" She hesitated and he tried to get a closer look at her face, but none of the lamps in her room were lit. "I'm just not feeling quite the thing."

For the first time he noticed that her voice sounded rough. "Lothíriel, are you ill?" Alarmed, he pushed the door open and took a step inside. "Should I call a healer?"

She retreated before him. "No! It's nothing. I'm fine."

She didn't sound fine. Quickly he lit the lamp by the bedside from his own. When he turned round he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow to her stomach.

"Please, Éomer, don't fuss..."

He ignored her and felt her forehead. A little bit clammy, or was that his own sweat? He hated illness beyond all else, the feeling of helplessness, the slow deterioration. Unbidden, the memory of his mother during those last weeks came back to him. No! Lothíriel was young and strong; nothing would happen to her. He would not let it!

Her face was pale and the eyes rimmed with red. "You've been crying!" he exclaimed. A jolt of pure panic ran through him. She was so controlled, so brave, if the pain made her cry it had to be tremendous. "Where are you hurting?"

"I can manage," she protested.

Éomer came to a decision. "I'm fetching a healer."

"No! There's nothing a healer can do."