“You are really
enjoying this, aren't you,” he grumbled as she handed him a bar of
newly milled soap. It was no accident that she had taken up the art
of soap making as a hobby, he thought. As if sweetly smelling soap
would ever entice him into daily bathing.
Eowyn sat on a stool chuckling, remembering.
It all started when she woke
up feeling so much better. She had been in bed for two days and
surely that was enough. Now she had to put her plans for departure into action. Unfortunately, when those plans included demanding her clothes, Nurse Gertrudis revealed their sad state. The warriors'garments that Eowyn had worn when she was brought to the Houses of Healing were essentially unwearble. Her leather armor was destroyed. Only her coat of mail had
survived relatively intact, and it was at the armorer's being cleaned.
“And what of the clothes
in my pack?” Eowyn asked, feeling very impatient. She thought, I
need to speak to someone in authority and don't want to approach him
dressed in a hospital chemise and blanket.
But when Gertrudis and her
assistant, young Thera, brought in Eowyn's pack, all three gasped to
see that it had been opened, most likely by scavengers on the
Pelennor Fields. Most of the contents were gone, save the only
women's garments that Eowyn had packed. Her brown surcote was ripped
and blood stained. Her simple white under tunic had fared better, but
the upper arm of the sleeve was too fitted to accommodate her accursed
cast.
“I've got to get something
to wear,” Eowyn muttered through clenched teeth. So that I can get out of here. So that I
can be on my way to join Aragorn's host. Every moment I spend
here is a moment lost.
Gertrudis looked at her with
one skeptical eyebrow raised, “I don't understand, My Lady. You
don't need more than hospital clothing for your bed. Are you
expecting a high visitor today?”
“No. I expect to get out
of here today,” Eowyn controlled the urge to stamp her foot in annoyance.
“But my Lady, the Warden's
orders are for you to stay abed for a week,” Thera's timid little voice insisted.
Eowyn would have none of
that. She sat up with great determination, steadied her muscles, and
said in her most icy, authoritative tone,
“Then you bring the Warden to me and tell him that I demand to be
released from his cage. And find me some respectable women's
garments, for which I assure you that you will be well compensated.”
Gertrudis
and Thera gaped at her for moment, as though aghast that such words
could come from someone who--no doubt from their perspective--seemed
too fair or too womanly to have such resolve. Then they scurried out
of the room as though all of Saruman's Uruk-Hai were in pursuit.
When
they left, Eowyn hung her head. She was running out of time. The
Captains of the West were moving farther and farther from Minas
Tirith with every breath that she took. But that was no excuse for
her behavior toward the nurses. Eowyn, you are acting
downright haughty, just like a royal witch, she
berated herself. The very
type of person she had promised herself she would never become,
despite her birth and her position. No reason to be so high-handed with the nurses, who have given you good care so far. They
were just obeying orders, after all.
She got up from her bed and
settled down on the window seat. Her view was of the courtyard below, surrounded on all sides by three-story buildings. To her left, a patio was raised about three feet above the courtyard level.
Two nights ago, the courtyard had been filled with cots containing groaning bodies. Today, however, just a few unoccupied cots remained. Most of the wounded that she had seen earlier had either been released, or died, or removed to wards within the Houses of Healing. For a moment, her
curiosity about the great hospital challenged her strong desire to be
free of its stifling environment
Then Eowyn heard Thera at
the door. In her hands, the nurses aide held a cream-colored garment. The nurses aide
lowered her head and moved into the room cautiously. Eowyn got
up as quickly as she could and went to Thera's side. “I am so sorry
for my words before,” she apologized, “but I am in great unrest.” And
as she said these words, Narmar, Warden of the Houses of Healing
walked into her room, followed by Dame Ioreth and Gertrudis.
“Lady, you are not healed
yet, for all that you say that your arm is at ease,” Narmar
concluded after examining Eowyn's arm and listening to her
entreaties. “I really cannot give my approval in the matter that
you ask. “You cannot mount a horse with your arm in such a cast,
or ride any distance until you regain your strength.”
Eowyn sat upright on the
bed, her back stiff and straight, refusing to be weighted down by
his words or the unwieldy device on her left arm. “I will sicken
far worse than I am now if I am forced to remain in this room,
condemned to my bed,” she spoke coolly, though her words were
defiant. “There must be something I can do within the City. If
you refuse to let me join the Captains, then perhaps I can help
Ioreth and the nurses?”
The chief nurse had been
standing patiently behind the Warden, holding her tongue. Now Eowyn
could see Ioreth's kind but mobile mouth spring into action, “You
need two good hands to set bones and replace bandages, dearie.
Give your arm a rest, or it will trouble you greatly later, when you
need it for important activities.”
“Like embroidery?” Eowyn said archly. “My left arm IS at ease, as you must admit, my Lord Warden.
It only troubles me when I remove the sling or jostle it the wrong
way. All I need is a horse and an assistant to help me mount.
Together we could find the path of the great host."
The Warden sighed and sat
down on the bed beside Eowyn. “I am a healer. It is not my wish to
also be your jailer. I only ask you before you go off is to be
realistic about your own limitations with a large cast on your arm.”
“Well, then, tell me who
commands in this City, that I might that I might take my request to
him?”
Narmar paused for a moment,
as though unsure of the proper response to her last question. Then he
said, “So much has changed due to the siege that I don't really
know. Under normal circumstances, by right it is the Steward of the
City who commands.”
“Then will you speak for
me to the Steward?” Eowyn said earnestly. Could it be that
someone in this infernal institution was willing to take an action to
do more to help her than to condemn her to that cursed bed? Freedom.
A horse. And as far as the cast was concerned, she'd demand that it
be replaced with lighter bandages.
Narmar cleared his throat.
“I will not speak for you, Madam because I cannot support your
mission. I would not have you set foot outside the Houses, let alone
the gates of Minas Tirith. You must speak for yourself. The Steward
is resident in this building. He was sorely hurt but is now on the
path to health.”
Eowyn paused. The thought of
actually asking the Steward to redress her complaint suddenly filled
her with dread. Her uncle had told her much about the formidable
Steward of Gondor and how he had let the alliance with Rohan fall
into neglect. Would he think her a hysterical woman, not worthy of
his time? Would he find her little more than a whining child, though
she was years past her thirtieth birthday? Nevertheless, she would
speak to him and do her best not to be intimidated, “Tell me of
Lord Denethor.”
“Why Lady, he is dead,”
Warden Narmar said, evidently with some
surprise, as though he expected her to have been informed of this
matter. “Lord Denethor fell in the siege
some three days ago. His son Faramir is here. He was gravely wounded
in battle, and in fact, like yourself, was healed by Lord Aragorn.
By the laws of our country, Faramir is now Steward of Gondor. He is
still quite weak, but insists that starting tomorrow he will meet
with various officials of the city. Perhaps he will have enough time
and enough strength to consider your request-if you have enough
strength to speak that request in the first place.”
Eowyn noted the continuing
look of disapproval on the Warden's face as he continued, “Really,
My Lady, you tell me that you have long worked with the injured and
sick. Would you advise someone in your condition to have a meeting
with the Steward of the land, who is in even worse health than you
are?”
She answered resolutely. “If
it meant that she could be free to fight beside those she loved, then
I certainly would. Warden, our very world could collapse in a matter
of weeks. We could be dead or taken into slavery by Sauron. It is not
always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Would you be a
slave? For myself, I don't expect to live long enough to see my arm
thoroughly healed.”
Narmar seemed shocked at her
words. He hesitated before finally responding, “Then I will take
you to Lord Faramir. But I must warn you to be forthright and not use
any method of deception to get your way. Faramir has the clear sight
of the Numenoreans of old, which the old
wives and Dame Ioreth insist has not been seen so fully in a man for
many a century.”
These Gondorians have
strange ways and obscure words in their Westron
speech, Eowyn thought. What could the Warden mean by clear
sight? She said, “I am a friend of Lord Aragorn, who, I might
remind you, is of the highest Numenorean blood. If he too has clear
sight, then he has not chosen to frightened me with this unusual
gift.”
“Well spoken!” Ioreth
applauded. “Well spoken, indeed.”
The Warden gave Ioreth a
warning glance before continuing, “My wife and her company of
gossips chatter about the Steward and his family day and night, for
want of better entertainment. According to them, Lord Denethor
considered Faramir's ability to perceive events at great distance as
a weakness and despised his son for it. I personally have witnessed
how Faramir can look deeply into the hearts of men. I warn you that
he might be perceptive enough to understand the hearts of women, too,
although such a feat is difficult, in my opinion. So heed my warning
and do not use guile or women's wiles when you treat with him.”
“Hah,” Eowyn laughed and
then winced, as her arm complained. “I was educated in the ways of
the soldier and the doctor. I do not know of women's wiles. I insist
on seeing this Steward.”
“Then I will come for you
mid-day tomorrow. You can take your petition to the Steward.”
At last, at last. Eowyn
thought. Someone will finally spring me from this trap. She got up
up from the bed, about to head out into the hall, but the motion
caused her shattered arm to complain again. Eowyn let slip a string
of Rohirric curses upon the aggravating
limb. Why, oh why, had she consented to remain in this prison for yet
another day?
“Women's wiles? Of all the
nerve.” Eowyn grumbled to the nurses. “Does Narmar expect me to
simper and cry or pout until the Steward does as I bid? I cannot do
that.”
"No doubt,” Ioreth laughed. “Still, the warden warns you true, when he
says that Lord Faramir can see what lies in men's hearts. My husband
was once Faramir's commanding officer. Supposedly, the clear
sightedness scared poor Faramir as much as it did his fellow
rangers. Nevertheless, I doubt sincerely that he can understand the
hearts of women. Though, he probably thinks he can.” Gertrudis
laughed as she carefully assisted Eowyn into the luxurious, cream
colored robe that Thera had brought.
Ioreth continued, “Come,
dearie, we do have something to keep you occupied as well as
sufficiently rested, I should think. Right, ladies?” Thera giggled
a little as Ioreth continued, “We have a beautiful hamam with
gifted attendants who can pamper you with
treatments so that you can go to the Steward looking beautiful.”
“I don't need to go to the
Steward looking beautiful,” Eowyn stood riveted, not moving though
the nurses were about to head down the corridor. “I want him to
listen to my words, not dwell on my face or form...And what is a
hamam? I've never heard of such a thing.”
“It's a bath, Lady,”
Gertrudis said, wrapping a guiding arm around Eowyn's back and gently
steering her down the corridor. “Or rather, it's a hall with two great baths that ten women can sit in at one time.”
This was more than Eowyn
could possibly imagine. In Rohan, those of royal blood bathed in
wooden tubs that their servants filled with hot water. The lesser folk had no
such fine facilities. The thought of immersing herself in a hot bath
filled Eowyn with delight, though she wondered how she could do this
with a massive cast on her arm.
The nurses walked her
outside the building in which she dwelled, though Ioreth was quick
to point out that the bath was part of the Houses of Healing complex.
The day was so intensely bright that Eowyn's spirits began to pick
up, despite her best efforts to remain impatient and remote. When
the nurses took her inside the hamam, she marveled at its beauty. The
walls were completely decorated with murals, painted scenes of people
of long ago, walking in a breathtaking forest so real that the walls
seemed to expand beneath the forest eaves.
The baths themselves were
not enormous wooden tubs, as Eowyn had expected. Instead, they were
pools of blue water sunken into the blue tile
floor.
Thera pointed out that the
long, narrow bath contained cool water, “We often come here after
work on hot days for a swim. But surely you want the heated pool for
your bath.” This pool was shallow and shaped in a large square;
steam rose from it in inviting wisps.
The nurses helped Eowyn to
disrobe and showed her how to immerse herself with her cast resting
along the bath's edge.
Two attendants,
one young and one middle aged, entered the room. The young attendant,
who introduced herself as Selenet, poured a mixture of sweet smelling
herbs into the water. “To soothe your aching muscles, my lady,”
she said. The older attendant Visme
introduced herself as the hairdresser.
Eowyn resigned herself to
enjoying the bath. Her muscles, which had been strained and wracked
from warfare and her own frustrations, gradually eased and loosened.
It felt as though they were saying, “thank you, thank you very
much.” She closed her eyes.
Then she heard a man's voice
speak rather loudly a short distance away: “What you are really
saying is that I need a bath.”
Eowyn looked up but no man
entered the building.
“Is that anyone
interesting?” Visme asked. Eowyn noted with minor curiosity that
Selenet was climbing a staircase to a narrow walkway above one of
the murals. Along the walkway was a row of open lattice-work windows.
Eowyn recognized Narmar's voice, apparently floating in from the
other side of the windows.
Gertrudis seated herself on
a stone bench beside the hot bath. She explained to Eowyn, “That wall separates
us from the men's quarters.”
“Why how odd?” Eowyn
said curiously. “Why don't they just come in here? Hmm, do the men
have finer quarters?”
Before anyone could answer,
Selenet hissed down at them, “Why, it's the Steward. He's there
with the Boss and another man. Narmar's making him wear a towel
rather than walk about in the nude, and Lord Faramir is protesting.”
She began to chuckle. “Thera, get up here. The Steward is a fine
sight to see, although he is rather bandaged up and not walking
well.”
Eowyn grinned slightly as
she watched the young nurses aide clamber
up the stairs to take her place in front of the lattice work. Eowyn
asked Gertrudis, “Don't they see naked people of all shapes and
sizes and ages every day in this House? I don't quite understand all
the commotion. We of Rohan don't have great baths such as these.
Most ordinary people use the rivers or pools for bathing. In summer,
whole families typically make a holiday of cleansing themselves in
our lakes.”
“Without clothing?”
Gertrudis eyed her curiously.
“Why of course. The object
is to clean the body, not the clothing,” Eowyn shrugged and rose
out of the water, whereupon Gertrudis quickly wrapped her in the
enveloping robe and shuttled her over to row of basins where Visme
presided.
The hair dresser yelled up
to the women on the walkway, “You aren't telling us about the
Steward's most important characteristics.”
From the walkway, Selenet
said, “I can't until he drops that towel. Ah, there he goes to
cleanse himself in the fountain.”
Ioreth, who had been sitting
calmly on a bench by the cold pool, smiled as she warned, “Lower
your voices, ladies.”
Paying very little
attention, Selenet squealed, “Ah, hah, from the distance he
certainly is, ahem, larger than my husband. But then, I think that
the Steward is far taller than my husband. So I would say, judging
from the men I have seen pass through here, the new Steward is
endowed in proportion to his rather lofty height, though no larger or
smaller than one would expect.”
“Lady Eowyn, you must come
up here for a good look at the Steward before you meet him,” Thera
teased over her blushes.
“Is he so different
unclothed from any other men, that I must sneak such a peak without
his knowing of it?” Eowyn retorted. The steam had turned her
muscles to jelly, quite dampening any desire she had for walking up a
flight of stairs just to look at a naked man.
“Well, he is certainly
different from Lord Denethor,” Selenet laughed. “Lady Eowyn, your
husband must be a fine looking man for you to show such disinterest
...”
“Sssh, enough enough,”
Ioreth pointed a finger at Selenet. “I believe that Lady Eowyn is
unmarried, and so, Visme, note that her hair should be dressed as such.”
Eowyn could hear the audible astonishment from the other women, as if they wondered why a woman of her
title and her appearance should not be married and a mother many
times over. Suddenly she felt overwhelmingly sad. Young women like
Selenet and Thera, easily ten years her junior, had families of their
own. The pleasures and pains of marriage had not been for her, nor
would they ever be if she rode out from Gondor tomorrow. But then,
everything and everyone in this beautiful hall could be destroyed in
a few weeks time.
Following Visme's
instructions, she lay her head on the rim of a basin while the
hairdresser poured water and then soap on her hair.
A minute or so later, with
her shampoo complete, Eowyn was startled by a voice suddenly ringing
out from the men's quarters. The protester sent forth a chain of
particularly salty oaths, which provoked an even louder outcry from
Narmar. What a fine, descriptive language Westron is for cursing,
Eowyn thought. But the two women on the walkway put their hands over
their mouths, their faces red as they tried to stifle
laughs.
“Get down from there!”
Ioreth whispered as loudly as she could. “Narmar knows what you are
up to, and I'll have to answer for your silly behavior. Men can be
excused for letting forth oaths from time to time, particularly those
men who have fought in our defense.”
Ioreth got up off her bench and
wandered up to Eowyn, who tried to sit still as Visme combed her
three feet of soaking hair. “Ah, but we women know
better than to stoop to such language, don't we?” Ioreth beamed at
Eowyn.
Eowyn grimaced to herself,
Oh, for the opportunity to land a few choice words on Visme,
who shows no mercy while untangling a snarl.
Ioreth continued, in a jolly
mood, “One of my unmarried daughters is about your weight, though
probably taller. I'll see if I can borrow one of her dresses for you.
You can't go to meet the Steward in naught but a sling and hospital
shift.”
Eowyn sighed as she endured
her hair being combed and oiled. She would certainly be sent to the
Steward cleaner than she had ever been in her life, irregardless of
her attire. Despite her discomfort over all the attention made to her
appearance, she let the nurses fuss over her and finally return her
to her room. At least the rituals made her day go by, and kept her
mind off her arm and tomorrow's encounter with the Steward.
When night came and she
found herself finally alone in the modest hospital bed, Eowyn found
at first that she could not sleep. So she let her imagination wander
onto thoughts of Aragorn, as she had every night since he had
returned her from the brink.
Could he see into the hearts
of men, as this Steward was rumored to do? Aragorn had not seen into
her heart, or he would have known of her love. Or perhaps she was
wrong, Aragorn had indeed seen into her heart and knew he could not
return that love. She thought of him as he left her, before the
gateway to the Dimholt. She pictured his
fine face, his sharply etched features, and his quiet voice saying,
“I have wished you joy since we first met.” What joy, she thought
bitterly, still picturing his face as she fell into a restless sleep.
A dim figure of a man
penetrated her shallow dreams. A shadow, but she knew it was the
Numenorean, he who had drifted in and out of her dreams since she
became a woman. This night his face was agonizingly vague, but
sometimes it took on the distinct features of Aragorn.
Some time later Eowyn's
dreams were disturbed by the voices of men outside her window. It
must be very late, she thought, long past midnight. Who might be up
at this hour? She squirmed slightly, her eyes still closed, and tried
to get comfortable despite her bulky cast and thick hair that had
wrapped itself around her body. Yet the voices drew her from her
attempts at sleep.
“I can't thank you
enough,” one of them said. “I could not support my family without
my guardsman's pay. And this position is far more than I could ever
hope for.”
Another voice said, “I
should be thanking you. I obviously need an assistant. And for now,
you can also be my representative to the people. The blasted warden
won't let me out to represent myself.”
Eowyn grunted into her
pillow and thought, Does everyone held in this house feel trapped
like I do?
The first voice continued,
now scarcely audible, “The people are
afraid. I hear them whispering among themselves in the markets and on
the streets. They saw a high and strong man leading a host of
Gondor's finest fighters out on what to
them seems a fool's errand. I heard a few say that he is the restored
King of Arnor, now come to save Gondor in its hour of need. But most
are skeptical. And many think that the Steward's line is extinct-that
you are dead.”
Eowyn's eyes sprang fully
open. A faint light filtered in from the window. Compelled by the
half-heard conversation, she rose from her bed as she heard the
second man let out a mirthless exclamation, “I can see that I still
am alive and hope to remain so.”
She grabbed the creamy robe,
hastily draping it around her as she went to the window. In the
courtyard below, an extremely tall, heavily muscled man dressed in an
elegant black tunic and cape stood on the cobblestone patio. A thick
white bandage wrapped around his head, compressing curling black hair
streaked with grey. A patch covered his left eye.
From behind this fellow came
the voice of the second man, “At noon, then.”
The man in black gestured to
his companion with a hand wrapped in a cast. Eowyn studied him
carefully as he walked off with the limp of one suffering a back
injury. Then she returned her gaze to the patio. The second man, who
until now had been nothing more than a voice, was standing on the
patio and staring up at her. Relentlessly.
Her first inclination was to
toss her head at such an indignity and walk away. Then she told
herself, take the measure of this impertinent lordling
first. There was something about him that was oddly compelling. What
could it be? This rude man too was tall, though not as lofty as the
man in black. His coloring was not at all what she would have
expected from a Gondorian. In the hazy torch light, his shortish hair
waved barely past his shoulders and seemed to be the color of
sundried grasslands. But indeed, it was
his face that seemed so unusual--his beard. In the dim light it
appeared to be red. The few Gondorians she had met so far were mostly olive skinned and dark haired. But here stood a fair one with a red beard.
The stranger stood there,
humbly dressed in dark leggings and a plain blue shirt that could not
completely conceal the heavy bandages at his neck and chest. Despite
these modest garments, he emanated such a
commanding presence that she almost was intimidated. She fought the to turn away, overcome by
a shyness she didn't usually feel. Then he smiled just slightly at
her. It was not a challenge to her own quick appraisal, but more of a
gentle greeting. She felt her lips push into a grin before she turned
away, having had more than her fill of this strange encounter.
Eowyn sank into her bed, her
strength utterly drained and her arm feeling testy. I will speak to
the Steward tomorrow. Now that I have seen him, I feel more
reassured. But what of his operative, the Steward's assistant, who
had given her such intent looks. Who might he be? I must remember
tomorrow to ask the Steward.