Imrahil's Daughters

Chapter 4

Lady Ivriniel walked slowly, pausing every now and again to catch her breath. Éomer paced beside her, slowing his steps to hers and waiting patiently as she stopped at the top of some stairs to lean on her cane. The old lady had seemed quite sprightly really, but she had to be over seventy years old.

Imrahil's palace was a bit of a maze, with the oldest part in the centre and annexes built on haphazardly. He didn't know his way around it yet, but the route Lady Ivriniel took him on seemed rather circuitous.

As if reading his mind, she paused on a walkway connecting the keep to the outlying battlements. "We don't want to set any tongues wagging, you know," she said in a dignified manner. "Gliwen might be a little wild, but she's a good girl."

This was accompanied by a sharp glance cast his way that made him feel like a little boy caught filching honey cakes. Their housekeeper in Aldburg had often fixed him with an identical look!

Éomer reminded himself that he was a grown man now. And a king. "I know, my lady," he answered.

She resumed walking, her cane tapping the wooden floor lightly. "She consented to see you as a favour to her sister, but only briefly."

He nodded in agreement. "I only want to clear up a small misunderstanding."

They descended from the walkway and passed through a small postern gate watched by a couple of bored looking guards. A path led along the foot of the walls to a kitchen garden filled with orderly rows of vegetables. Beyond that a meadow sloped down gently, dotted with apple and cherry trees that were in full bloom at this time of the year. A low stone wall bordered the field, with a weathered tower looking out over the salt marshes spreading to the north of Dol Amroth. Suddenly Éomer spotted a figure sitting on the wall, huddled in a large cloak, and with the wind tugging at her loose black hair. So she really existed!

Lady Ivriniel took his arm to steady herself while walking across the grass. "Poor Gliwen is often mistaken for Lothíriel," she commented. "The two look as much alike as two peas in pod. Of course her mother resembled poor Sílavain, my brother's dead wife, which is probably why he..." she coughed delicately.

"I understand," he assured her. Next time he saw Princess Lothíriel, he would have to apologize for doubting her!

"I can tell them apart with no trouble," Lady Ivriniel chattered on, "but then I've known them from birth. You see, I brought Gliwen up after her mother's death. Lothíriel is a couple of inches taller and her eyes are bluer, whereas Gliwen's face is rather rounder and her hair darker." She gave him a triumphant smile. "And they smell different."

He blinked. What a strange thing to say. But then the girl turned her head towards them at their approach, watching them from her perch on the crumbling wall. Grey eyes regarded him gravely and impulsively he smiled up at her.

She didn't smile back.

His smile faltered under her penetrating gaze. "Lady Gliwen," he said, "well met."

"King Éomer."

Lady Ivriniel had watched the two. Now she pointed her cane at a bench next to the entrance to the tower. "I'll sit there and warm my old bones in the sun for a moment. Don't be too long."

Éomer would have assisted her, but she waved him away. "I'm not decrepit yet, young man." And with livelier steps than she had yet displayed, she crossed the lawn.

He looked back up at Gliwen. Now that he'd had the differences pointed out to him, he thought he could spot them, but the resemblance between the two sisters was really most remarkable. However, Gliwen's faded red dress and sturdy working shoes clearly belonged to no refined lady. And Princess Lothíriel most certainly had never in her life sported a streak of dirt on one cheek as her sister did.