Guest: Thanks for your feedback. I learned that expression just a week ago and I simply loved it at first sight/ hearing. ;D I feel very flattered by your kind compliments, am blushing and therefore need a Schnapps now (Walnut/Vanilla/Vodka), made last year with our own walnuts. And as for having lived for twenty years in the Riddermark: I'm living in a village in Niedersachsen. Just have a look at the flag of that country. ;D

Anon(Guest): Thanks for your feedback. You see, the kind of romance I prefer is the more Rohirric practical one that survives messy hair and snotty noses. ;D I may be old-fashioned, but I firmly believe it is up to me what I see as important and I will not let anybody interfere with that.

GuestQuest: Thanks for your feedback; and no, I don't expect anybody to just tickle my ego in a review. ;-) As for "sharpening" the characterization of Botild: This entire story had been planned to consist of nine ;D chapters. So in the beginning she was nothing but an episode, and in the end I simply did not have enough time to go back and add passages with additional information. That certainly is something that would have been done had the thing been published.

So here comes the last chapter. I am relieved I stood the gaff and I hope you'll find it a plausible, fitting and enjoyable ending. I'd like to thank all of you for reading, reviewing, subscribing, "favouriting" (I know it's not an English word, but it really should be! ;)) and lurking. I'm feeling a bit more peaceful after all your kind comments but I still think that it is the right time to quit writing, at least for the time being, as there are so many things that I would like to do and I can't help the feeling that I will need every moment of the time I might still have to try to make my weird ideas come true or to find out that they can't be realized. (And yes: I know that this is one of the boa-constrictor sentences typical of me and one that Lady Bluejay would mercilessly cut into two. ;D )

A very big THANK YOU goes to Lady Bluejay, who helped in the demanding battle against Germanisms.

Clouds Over Isen

Chapter 23

Future

When Éomer entered the royal chambers after his morning ride, he found his wife awake, but still in bed. She sat propped up against the headboard, drinking tea from one of those ridiculously tiny cups her mother had given them for a wedding gift. Smiling, he bent over her and kissed the tip of her nose.

"Good morning, Lady Slugabed."

All she did was to raise her eyebrows mockingly. "Tell me one good reason to get out of bed when I have everything I want by staying in it."

Grinning, he sat down beside her. "Everything?"

She snorted with suppressed laughter, but then she waved imperiously towards the open window. "What else should one want? A nice view, a good cup of tea and all in a comfortable, warm bed."

Still grinning, he shoved his hands under the covers. "Do you want me to make you feel a bit warmer?"

She shook her head. "Not now, dear. I have been waiting for you to break our fast together and I'm really hungry." She wrinkled her nose. "And anyway you should get out of these clothes. I know you are a horselord and I don't mind the smell, but I do hate horsehair in my morning tea."

Looking down at himself, he noticed that the entire front of his russet-coloured shirt was covered in grey hairs of different shades. Laughing, he stepped back and pulled the shirt over his head. Letting it fall on the floor carelessly, he also doffed his breeches. Spreading his arms, he grinned at his wife. "Better?

"Hm..." Raising her cup to her lips, she gave him a scrutinising look and then nodded. "Yes, I dare say a naked horselord in front of the open window improves the view greatly."

"Minx!" With a growl, Éomer made for the bed.

"Careful! My tea!" Laughing, she lifted her cup, not showing the slightest reluctance when he took it from her and put it on the bedside table to be able to kiss her thoroughly.

It was quite a while later when he was able again to give any thought to the breakfast his wife had mentioned to be waiting for him.

Fetching it from where it stood on one of the chests, Éomer had a look at the contents of the tray. A tall, lidded tankard obviously held his morning-ale, there also was a nice loaf of what he knew to be wheat bread and a deep plate covered with a fine, white cloth.

Lothíriel grinned. "No porridge today, but I have a surprise for you." Removing the cloth, she looked at him expectantly.

The plate held small cubes of white cheese. Gingerly Éomer took one of the surprisingly soft cubes and put it in his mouth. Creamy and salty, with the typical tang of sheep's milk it was really a treat. He tore the crust off the still warmish bread, put a cube on it and held it out to his wife. "Have a bite, love. It looks like a piece of your homeland has come to the Mark."

She took a hearty bite of the proffered crust. "It's lovely, isn't it?"

Shoving the rest of the crust into his own mouth, Éomer nodded. "Tastes even better than the stuff Erchirion went mad about last year."

A proud smile appeared on her face. "It simply is better. I tried it yesterday afternoon when it was brought to Meduseld. And guess what: This is no feta from Dol Amroth, but the first batch of sheep's cheese we got from Snowbourne. Two of the women went over to Morthond to learn how to make it in spring, and they obviously have the knack for it."

Her smile deepening, she reached for some more cheese. "The only thing that's missing now is some spiny lobsters."

Grinning, Éomer followed her example. "I'm afraid it has been proved impossible to catch spinies in the Mark, but we might be lucky and get some crayfish."

Lothíriel nodded. "And if not this summer then perhaps in the next." She sighed happily. "It's such a wonderful feeling to be able to imagine and plan the future without the overwhelming danger that everything might be destroyed any moment because of a looming war."

Éomer reached for his tankard. "I hate to spoil your happiness, Loth, but from what Aragorn writes he's more than sure that we haven't fought the last battle yet."

His wife shrugged. "I know that, dear. But things somehow have become manageable as more and more trouble spots have been dealt with." She ticked the realms off on her fingers. "Harondor has sworn fealty to the King of Gondor, the tribes of Umbar have thrown out Sauron's last allies, the Masters of the port of Umbar are eager to conclude a treaty to get back into business with Gondor, Khand has dropped out of the game for the time being with the defeat at Harondor." She grinned proudly at him. "Well, and your agreement with the Dunledings certainly is nothing to sneeze at, as it does not only secure peace at the Western borders of the Mark but also helps the passage between Gondor and Arnor."

Éomer grimaced. "I have to admit that I found those negotiations much more demanding than leading the entire Éohere of the Riddermark into battle."

With a sigh she motioned to him to hand her the now cold tea. "I fear your strategic ability will be needed sooner than we might want."

Taking a swig of ale, he merely grunted. "Aragorn thinks that it will take some years for Rhun to overcome their losses, but understandably he does not want to sit and wait until they feel strong enough again to march upon us." He rose and went to the window. The lush green of the garden met his gaze, the sweet smell of roses and honeysuckle wafting up from it in a faint, invisible cloud. Their little private idyll, and yet, at the edge of his view the mountains loomed, dark grey giants, their heads in clouds and everlasting snow, a constant reminder of the threat of winter. He heaved a breath. "I'm planning to raise the number of our standing forces. We lost too many men and horses in the war and it can't be overlooked that a lot of them were untrained farmers. Farmers who are missed dearly now when the Mark needs to get back on her feet."

"Which means that a lot of the resources we actually need to make the Mark prosper will be used to build up that army." She sighed again. "But I know that you are correct. In the long run the Mark and her people will profit from it."

Turning round, he inclined his head. "I'm sure of that, but in the beginning more than one lordling will grumble because of the new tasks and expenses they will have to face."

Lothíriel snorted. "Not those who have been under constant attack during these last years."

He nodded. "That's what Elfhelm says. He supports me and Aedhelmaer of Snowbourne does, as will Bealdric of the Wold, not to say anything about Erkenbrand. He and Sigward more or less have already started the new system with the garrison at the Fords."

Her mien thoughtfully, she reached for some more cheese. "Egefride is convinced that in less than three years time there will be a permanent settlement at the Fords."

"She might be right." Thoughtfully, Éomer scratched his jaw. "Traffic will no doubt increase once the bridge over the Greyflood is finished, and I can imagine that some of the craftsmen and soldiers will stay at Tharbad and even persuade their families to join them once the news gets about that the road is safe now. And who knows? Some might also prefer to settle at the Fords."

"How long does it take from the Fords to Tharbad?"

Éomer shrugged. "That depends. It's more than three-hundred miles. One of my messengers could do it in three days I think, but for the average traveller a fortnight is much more likely, and even more if they have carts."

Thoughtfully Lothíriel shook her head. "I don't understand why Botild insisted on going west. Gondor would have been much safer, and..."

Éomer snorted. "You have never seen your own safety as the ultimate touchstone for your actions, dear. Why do you expect others to be less reckless?"

She gave him a wry smile but did not answer. Slipping out of bed and coming to his side, she put her arm around his waist. "Today she will have to leave the Mark the latest."

He pulled her close. "I know. And I'm convinced that Erkenbrand will make sure that she does." Somewhere in the back corner of his conscience was a tiny smudge of embarrassment at feeling so relieved by the mere thought of Botild's departure, but when his wife snuggled up to him it was washed away by the pure joy of having this woman at his side. He breathed deeply. There was a future ahead of them and he would do what he could to make it worth living.

ooooo

A gentle breeze swept over the softly sloping space where the road from Edoras reached the Fords of the Isen. From the area behind the garrison the snorting and whinnying of the horses could be heard as well as the shouts of the Riders at training while the Gondorean craftsmen that had spent the night in the vicinity of the garrison were striking camp to continue on their way to Tharbad. Here and there farmers sat behind trestle tables or simply on mats on the ground, offering their products for sale as word had gone round that the travellers were eager to buy supplies, especially fresh bread and fruit, and paid in coin.

In the shade of a reed awning Frithuhelm stretched his long legs. Beside him on the lid of a low, bulbous barrel several small bags of different sizes were arranged. All the cheese he had brought to sell had already disappeared into the forage bags of many of the Riders as had quite a number of the tiny salt sacks Osláfa had sewn of waxed linen. That excellent salt the Hillmen had sent him truly was a boon. If only the damned sling were not so bothersome!

His hand went to the pouch at his belt. He had made enough coin to buy as much grain as Stapa would be comfortable with, having already to carry his not inconsiderable weight. Now he only needed to persuade one of those farmers or perhaps the quartermaster or cook of the Gondorean craftsmen to buy one of the larger bags, and he would be able to not only buy the set of sewing needles he knew Osláfa would be delighted to have but also the copper brooch he had seen at the same stall.

He glanced over to the Gondoreans with a calculating eye. There was little hope that they had not supplied themselves with such a necessary item as salt though. Most of them were loading their folded tents on some carts, while one of them was stirring what looked like a kind of stew in a big kettle, obviously for an early lunch before they crossed the Isen. He grimaced. If they were already packing there would be no chance of any trade with them, so perhaps he better have his own lunch now and then try to barter the items he wished to buy for Osláfa for some salt.

He reached for his satchel which was holding his bread and cheese, when he noticed two men making straight for his stall. One of them was Wiglac, a wealthy farmer from near Céapham, well-known and also well-liked for he had taken in and fed quite a number of people the first winter after the war. He walked with a heavy limp after his hip had been broken when his horse had been taken down at the battle of Mundburg, but those Stoningland healers had worked wonders on him, and not only had he returned home, though limping, but also was he able to sit his horse again. The middle-aged man beside him Frithuhelm did not know.

"Morning." The farmer grinned, patting one of the small sacks. "How's the salt business?"

Frithuhelm shrugged. "That depends on how much you want to buy and at what price." He opened one of the bags and shoved it over to let the men have a sample.

"Not bad." Wiglac smacked his lips. "But I'm not here for a barter today as most of my grain has not been threshed yet. Are you interested in some bushels of the Southern grain? Wheat, that is? I had a good harvest this year and it's sweet fare. My brats love it, and the wife too."

"Bring it over, let me have a look at its quality and then we'll surely reach an agreement."

Wiglac nodded and nudged the man who accompanied him. "You see, this is Aelbert, my wife's brother. He's breeding pigs at Forham." Again the grin stole onto the farmer's face. "He could do with some salt for curing his little grunters."

"Well, it's not as if I've run out of supplies." Frithuhelm turned to the man. "How much do you need?"

Wiglac cleared his throat. "You see, it's not the season for slaughtering yet and ready coin is a bit scarce." He put his beefy hand on one of the bags. "Couldn't you barter him one of these for some pork come Yule?"

"Or cured and smoked in early spring if that is more to your liking," the other man added.

Frithuhelm shook his head. "No, Aelbert, I have a better idea." He shoved one of the bigger bags towards the pig farmer. "This for three weaned piglets next spring. And I'll come and chose them myself."

The man gave him a lopsided grin. "You certainly know what you want."

Now it was Frithuhelm's turn to grin. "I do. But it's a fair bargain: good quality for good quality."

They shook hands over the bag and then Wiglac and Aelbert trotted off with their purchase. Frithuhelm scratched his head. He would have all winter to build a sty, and he would be able to use the stones from the burned down pig sty for the foundations, but he needed two good arms for that job and Alfric had warned him that he should not stress the damned collarbone for at least three more sennights. Perhaps he had better ask the carpenter to add a pigsty to the list of his commissions.

And then his attention was caught by two newcomers that rode down the road to the Fords: a man in Erkenbrand's colours and a woman, clad in breeches and a knee-long split tunic, a loaded pack horse tied to the horn of her saddle. He blinked. Could that really be Botild? He squinted his eyes. No doubt. It was her. Large as life, pointedly ignoring the stares of the people around her.

And then he recognised the rider at her side: Bedric of Erkenbrand's household. Rising in his stirrups, the man let his gaze wander over the scene in front of him.

"Frithuhelm!" Bedric raised his hand, grinning from ear to ear and nudged his horse towards Frithuhelm's stall. Botild followed with much less enthusiasm.

Dismounting, the man slapped Frithuhelm on his good shoulder.

"Westu Frituhelm hal! Good to see you are on the mend. How's the family?"

Frithuhelm grinned. "Alive and kicking."

Laughing, Bedric winked at him. "Talking of kicking: Anything on the way with your wife?"

Frithuhelm raised his eyebrows. "Why? Have you put a bet on us? I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. But what brings you here? You've always been one to stay as close to the kitchen as possible." Reaching over the barrel, he patted Bedric's paunch.

The man chuckled good-naturedly. "Aye, I have. And I'm keen to get back there as fast as possible. But first of all I have to make sure that Botild leaves the Mark before sunset. Says she wants to join one of the groups that are travelling to Tharbad."

Thoughtfully Frithuhelm eyed the woman who had dismounted likewise in the meantime. "There's only the one group over there, mostly craftsmen by the look of them. But it certainly will be rough fare being the only woman amongst them. And I'm not sure if they will be willing to take you on in the first place."

Botild lifted her chin haughtily. "I have coin to pay them. That will make them willing."

Bedric rolled his eyes. "I never understood why you did not take the queen's offer to go to Stoningland. It would have been much more convenient and safer too."

The woman's eyes flashed angrily. "It's enough that I already owe my life to her. No, I don't want to be told for the rest of my life how grateful I should be for the mercy she showed. Tharbad it is. And I'm not afraid of a handful of Stoningland wimps."

Pointing with his thumb at the Gondorean who went from cart to cart, checking the load, Frithuhelm grinned. "That bloke certainly doesn't look like a wimp."

The man was quite tall, with broad shoulders and wiry arms that showed with his rolled-up sleeves. His stubble-covered face under a mop of unkempt black locks looked weather-beaten and sported the typical beak nose and one of his eyes was covered by a piece of dark blue cloth. His garments were travel-stained and worn, but his poise and the way he moved left no doubt that he was the acknowledged leader of the group.

"Darn it! That watchdog will not be easily brought around to let you go with them." Bedric scratched his nose and gave Botild a worried look.

Frithuhelm shrugged. "At least he seems to be enough of a man to know what he's doing. Just talk to him forthrightly and don't try the haughty look on him or to wheedle him. Such things don't sit well with the likes of him."

Botild nodded. "I just don't want them to know why I have to leave, or even that I have to leave."

"Understandable, I'd say, " Bedric agreed. "Perhaps it's even a perk that they are about to leave. Won't give them any time to ask around who you are."

Frithuhelm opened his mouth to suggest how to proceed when all of a sudden everybody's attention was caught by one of the craftsmen's furious exclamation. Frithuhelm did not understand half the words the man yelled at the one who it seemed was the cook of the group, but it was not necessary to be sure about their meaning. Fuming with anger, the craftsman finally raised the bowl of stew he held in his hands and threw it at the cook's feet. Some Riders in the vicinity laughed and Frithuhelm joined them. Those Stoninglanders obvious were less patient with a bad cook than Erkenbrand's men.

The man he thought to be the leader of the group stepped up to the kettle and tried the food, spitting it out immediately. "What the fuck have you put in that soup? It's bitter as gall!"

Frithuhelm grimaced. "The idiot probably bought cheap cattle salt."

Bedric nodded. "Probably was on the take for his own profit."

Botild snorted disdainfully. "What a botching scrub! Every village idiot knows that bad cooking is the shortest way to make a gang of blokes see red. Looks like he's just been asking for a good thrashing."

Angry shouts raised from different corners of the group, fists were shaken, and then the first craftsmen started to examine the cart with the provisions, complaining loudly about the poor quality of the supplies. Things did not look well for the cook and no doubt worsened, when one of the men drew an earthenware bottle out from below some sacks with parsnips.

"Look what the bloody tosser smuggled in!"

"And there are even more!"

Throwing the sacks and crates down from the cart, they found a dozen bottles, their comrades getting angrier with each one.

"The swine bought his own supply of rotgut with the coin he set aside from our dues!"

"That or he thought to make even more money selling the stuff at Tharbad."

The men looked ready to pummel the cook, but the leader raised his hand. "Stop it!"

Reluctantly the men backed away, still muttering and glaring angrily. Facing them, he hooked his thumbs into his belt. "I am more than sure that you are right, but we can't prove it." He turned to the cook. "But it won't be necessary. Our contract says no booze, Bragol, you know that. I hired you to feed my brigade and your cooking got worse from day to day. Seeing your supplies, I dare say caused by your constant guzzling. I won't put up with you any longer. Pack your things and leave."

The man raised his hands nervously. "But I've a contract and..."

"And you did not fulfil the agreements. Simple as that." Turning his back at the cook, the leader motioned to his men to pack the scattered supplies back on the cart and then made to continue his inspection.

With a whine, the cook trailed after him. "But what shall I do?"

The leader shrugged. "Walk back to Gondor. Perhaps the booze can buy you nights at some inns or the like. I don't care."

While most of the craftsmen seemed to be well satisfied with their leader's decision, Frithuhelm could see a small group, talking amongst themselves with rather doubtful miens, and it was from that group that the complaint arose: "We need a cook."

The leader nodded. "We do. We'll have to share the duties. Any bodger is better than that crooked bugger."

While obviously most of them agreed with the latter, the men were visibly not happy with his first suggestion. Finally a grey-bearded man stepped forward: "It's not only the journey, Amarthon. We'll spend the winter in Tharbad, and nobody wants to do that, living on bodged meals."

"We'll find a solution until then. Let's get going or we won't reach the campsite Dagnir told us about until dark.

But the men were far from satisfied. Some simply grumbled under their breath and from somewhere at the back some one shouted: "And what about now? The damned tosspot spoiled our lunch."

More than a few men voiced their approval, but Amarthon only shrugged. "Chose someone to get some cooking going, or try to buy something to eat from one of the pedlars. Otherwise you'll have to leave with empty stomachs " He motioned towards the makeshift stalls. "We'll depart within the hour."

The men's grumble intensified and the grey-beard shook his head. "Look, Amarthon, we elected you, but being our alderman also means to care for our fare. We too have an agreement and it's your duty to fulfil it."

By now the Gondoreas were surrounded by a number of Eorlings who were waiting eagerly for the first blows. Frithuhelm raised from where he sat to have a better look. It immediately became clear to him that the group was no way as harmonized as he expected a group of craftsmen to be. There rather seemed to be two groups, the larger of them consisting of quite well-clad men of different ages, even with a number of old men amongst them, while in the other group there was nobody older than forty. And while these men were not clad as well as the others, only they were carrying arms. He quickly took in their weapons. Though by far not all of them had swords, he could make out long knives, several clubs and pikes and also the odd axe. And it was these men who clamoured the loudest. He passed his hale hand below his nose. A gang of sell-swords, hired to protect the craftsmen on their was to Tharbad, and probably being fed was a part of their pay. He was quite glad not to be in that Amarthon's boots as things seemed to get nastier by the second.

And then all of a sudden, Botild, who he had completely forgotten with the ongoing spectacle, shoved the reins of her horse into the hands of a flabbergasted Bodric, grabbed one of the salt bags and walked over, right between the complaining men and the leader. With a smile she turned to the two foremost sell-swords.

"Tip that mess over and help me clean the kettle. If I saw correctly you've got some groats, right?" Picking up a wooden bucket, she shoved it into the hands of another young man. "Be a dear and fetch some water and I'll get you a good mash in no time."

Turning to the leader, she gave him a scowl. "You should know better than ask your men to start a long march on an empty stomach."

Frithuhelm could not hear what the man answered, because all members of the group started to talk at once, but he could see that the men really made for the midden with the spoilt food while two others were rekindling the cooking fire and Botild had a closer look at the provisions. In no time the lad was back with the water and then even with his height Frithuhelm could not see her any more, for everybody closed in around her while she started preparing a meal for them.

At his side, Bedric chuckled. "Well, the damned vixen certainly grabbed her chance. The blokes will be lucky and get a decent lunch and I bet my boots she'll get herself the position of a cook."

Frithuhelm shrugged. "Cooking is one of the things she can do really well and she has done so for more and higher people than those craftsmen. They would be stupid not to take her on. But we'll see. Let them eat first, that will certainly help them to make up their minds."

Bedric nodded dolefully. "Yeah, they'll probably get a better meal than can be had here at the garrison. Every Rider coming to the burg tells me what a duffer the current cook is."

Frithuhelm laughed. "In my opinion he's even worse than anybody can put into words and I wonder why the lads haven't chucked him out yet. But if you are satisfied with bannocks and goat cheese you are welcome to share my meal."

The man was more than eager to take the offer, and while Frithuhelm unpacked the bannocks and cut the cheese into convenient pieces, Bedric handed the horses over to one of the boys lounging about, offering him a copper penny for watering them.

For a while they sat comfortably, munching the simple but tasty fare, but with the sting of his hunger taken out, Bedric grew rather talkative, supplying Frithuhelm with every detail of Wufrun's death, her attempt to murder the king and the trial itself. Praising the queen's insight to the skies, he finally commented on how unjust most of the burg's inhabitants thought it that Eanfled had to leave the Hornburg.

Taking another bite off his bannock, Frithuhelm shook his head. "You have to understand Erkenbrand's wife. I think it's the gossip from outside she's afraid of. You see, she's involved in that politics stuff, with the high and mighty sitting at her table. She cannot afford having a cook on her staff that is known to have handed tainted food to someone she didn't like, no matter how justified the action may have been."

Bedric grunted. "Perhaps you're right, but Botild worries for her. The poor woman had such a good standing as first cook and now, at the brink of getting old to lose everything…That's quite a hard blow. And that sister of hers will let her feel that, even if she has taken Eanfled in as any good sibling should do."

Frithuhelm sighed. What could he do but agree to that? He was folding the napkin that had held his meal, when the leader of the Gondoreans came over. The farmer did not fail to notice the man's long, forceful strides and the barely hidden scowl. No doubt someone was not happy with what he had to do. He waited, until the Gondorean addressed him.

"I'm Amarthon, the alderman of that group of stonemasons." He motioned over to the groups of craftsmen and sell-swords that were sitting in the grass now, gobbling down a steaming mush of groats. After a moment of hesitation he added: "You are Frithuhelm?"

Frithuhelm found it difficult not to grimace at the way the man garbled his name. He simply nodded. The Gondorean pointed back to where Botild was dealing out second helpings.

"That woman…"

Something in the man's voice raised the farmer's hackles. "Her name is Botild."

The Gondorean simply nodded. "Well, she claims you are her cousin."

"So what?"

Giving Frithuhelm a scrutinizing look, the Gondorean cleared his throat. "She wants to join my crew."

Frithuhelm shrugged. "If she says so."

The man raised his eyebrows. "And you have no objections?"

Not letting his annoyance show, Frithuhelm put the napkin back into his knapsack and then said evenly: "Why should I? She's of age, has no duties towards any husband and is no thrall. She can decide for herself."

For a moment the man stared at him, his brow in a frown. "Why would a woman like to leave her country?

What a conceited bastard! But Frithuhelm managed to keep the bite out of his voice. It was no use picking a quarrel and spoil Botild's chances of getting to Tharbad. "I dare say for the same reasons a man wants to leave it."

That was obviously not the answer the Gondorean had wanted to hear. He glowered at Frithuhelm, but all of a sudden Bedric spoke up, his face in a sad frown.

"You see, they had been saving to buy an inn, she and her man that is. Well, and then the war got in between."

Frithuhelm found it hard not to grin. Not a lie and yet far enough from the truth. But that was not his business. The Gondorean at least seemed to accept Bedric's hints, for he nodded gravely.

"The war changed many lives. And yet a woman would be better to stay in the care of her family."

Frithuhelm snorted. "She's a proud one. And every person can only take that much pity, especially if one can feel the thorn of glee hidden under it."

That seemed to make sense to the Gondorean, but still he shook his head. "It will be a tough journey and Tharbad, as it is, is no place for a woman."

"She'll stick it out." The farmer felt that his patience was slowly slipping away.

For a moment the Gondorean stood, chewing on that answer. Finally he hooked his thumbs in his belt again as if that could support his authority. "You are keeping something from me."

Frithuhelm looked him right in the eye. "I am, Amarthon. But if you are worth it she might tell you herself one day. What do you want? She's a good cook, a mettlesome woman and an untiring rider."

The Gondorean heaved a breath that almost sounded like a sigh. "The first she proved and the last I take for granted, her being Rohirrim. But I fear there will arise rivalry amongst the men… She's quite a pretty one, you see."

Frithuhelm grinned. "Yes, I see. Make it plain to her that getting a contract means no favour to any of your men, no humping and no snogging and cuddling either until you've reached Tharbad or you'll leave her behind."

Now it was the Gondorean's turn to snort. "Do you really believe I could press that home if she really decides to take a swain?"

Grinning, Frithuhelm shook his head. "No way. But if you have her agree to those conditions, she'll keep to your agreement, come rain or shine. She's a true daughter of Eorl."

The Gondorean grimaced. "May the Valar prove you right. So I'll sign her onto my crew, but I'll not be responsible for what she does once we reach Tharbad."

"Why should you?" Frithuhelm shrugged his broad shoulders. "Take her on as cook, get her to Tharbad, and I have no doubt she'll move heaven and earth to open an inn there to make a living."

Reluctantly, the Gondorean held out his hand to Frithuhelm, and to keep up his pretence as Botild's cousin, the farmer shook it. Once the Gondorean had turned his back on them, Bedric could not hold his mirth back any longer.

"Blimey, the poor bugger does not know what he's in for. If Botild gets the idea that he's worth being friendly to he'll curse his own regulations long before they reach the Greyflood."

Amarthon had reached his group in the meantime, and eager to learn how the Gondorean would deal with Botild, Frithuhelm did not bother to answer, but he could not understand what the man said. Botild listened to him attentively and then a deep frown appeared on her pretty face. She asked something and at the Gondorean's answer her face brightened up again and she held out her hand to Amarthon who shook it and then turned to his men.

"Listen: I've got you a cook, but a cook only. No one of you is going to ask anything else than getting the agreed meals. There will be no fondling and no suggestive remarks or the idiot who cannot behave can do the cooking. Am I understood?"

There were a few jibes, but it was obvious that the men were content with the arrangements and while Botild and a young man washed the dishes the others packed their last luggage and in less than half an hour the group was ready to leave. Leading her two horses, Botild came over to where Frithuhelm and Bedric sat. Her face was serious, and given the way she licked her lips before addressing him, Frithuhelm could tell that she was nervous.

"I would like to pay for the salt. I want to keep it as they have only the crap that blighter got from I don't know where."

The farmer shook his head. "Keep it as my contribution to your future." He smiled at her. "Fare ye well, Botild."

She nodded, opened her mouth to say something and then just swallowed, her eyes becoming moist as she mounted her horse. All of a sudden he knew what to do to make things easier for her. He cleared his throat.

"Botild?"

She turned, and smiling he nodded to her. "I'll send someone to find Eanfled at Féowic. If she wants to, she's welcome to join us at Appletun in spring. And who knows? Given time, we'll also rebuild Acwuld's and she might end up living there, if only to spite Wulfrun.

A wide smile lighting up her features, Botild nodded her thanks. "She'll love that. You are a good man, Frithuhelm."

Nudging her horse forward, she took her place beside the cart with the supplies. Slowly the caravan moved down to the Ford. For a while the two men watched them until the last cart disappeared in the brushwood of the eyot.

Bedric sighed. "She never looked back. Béma, I do hope she'll manage."

Frithuhelm chuckled softly. "She'll manage, never you worry. She's a cat and she'll land on her feet as any good cat does." He faced Bedric. "What about a little detour on your way back to the Hornburg to tell Eanfled about my offer?"

The man grinned. "I owe you for the meal, don't I? And the poor woman will be more than relived, I dare say." He stood and stretched. "But I had better get myself going then to be back at the burg before supper."

Laughing, they shook hands, and as Frithuhelm watched Bedric mounting his horse, his thoughts went back to his own plans. He would try to barter salt for the needles and that nice brooch and better save the coin should an opportunity arise to get some Gondorean soap some day. And once they had made it through the winter things would start to improve at Appletun. He breathed deeply. It would be hard work to provide the wood, but he would manage: The main house would be rebuilt in summer. And perhaps one day there would be new life under that new roof. He grinned. It could not be said that he and Osláfa were not trying. And if that happened, what was better than some female company for his wife?

He rose and stretched his good arm. Just three more weeks of patience and he would be able to start using his right hand again. Alfric was right, it was no use to try to hurry things. His gaze went over to the eyot, where the massive form of Théodred's mound blinked through the trees. There was a future ahead of them, and it would be a good and peaceful one because the gods had seen it fit to pour some sense and mutual understanding into the two most important hotheads on both sides of the Isen.

Annotations:

for: (Old English/Rohirric) pig

ham: (Old English/Rohirric) small village

Forham: The village of the pig farmer. I simply could not resist a last wordplay. ;D

Who's Who? (Thanwen universe)

Éomer: King of the Riddermark, said to have a tendency to fly off the handle

Lothíriel: Queen of the Riddermark, for good reason called scipflota cwen (pirate princess) by her husband

Éothain: the king's friend and captain of the royal guard

Erkenbrand: Marshal of the Westfold

Egefride: his mother, a clever old woman, knows Dunlendic

Leofwaru: his wife, a sweet-tempered lady, but not the brightest candle on the cake

Botild: servant/assistant cook at the Hornburg; eager to serve and service if the coin is right

Frithuhelm: a young farmer (widowed), the gentle giant of the Mark who can get quite ungentle if need be

Osláfa: his second wife ( Acwuld's widow ) has three children and is some years older than Frithuhelm

Gudram (10), Stanfleda (6), Eadger (2): Osláfa's children

Wulfrun: (in "Winds" her name was Arild, but I changed that because otherwise there would have been too many names starting with an A .) Acwuld's mother; not the most lovable contemporary, to say the least

Acwuld: farmer, killed by Saruman's orcs, Frithuhelm's former friend and neighbour

Stapa: Frithuhelm's horse, partly cold-blooded and well-trained

Alfric: an old Westfold Rider, knows a few things about leechcraft; a friend of Frithuhelm