Wild Monster

by Matthew Harrington

  "And, if the opportunity should arise for me to subtly work it out of Lord Boromir—provided he does not forget a simple run-in with a minor noblewoman by Tuilere—I ought to take it."

  Túiel's hands clenched at her cutlery, but she didn't speak.

  "Yes," Badhor nodded reluctantly. "With caution."

  Winter met his gaze squarely over the decanter of wine upon the table, a little offended. "I think I have learned the value of caution after my last mistakes. I will not forget that lesson."

  Her byrath gave a slight smile. "I am certain of it, milady. To be truthful, knowing what Lord Denethor conspires might provide us with a future advantage. And we have ample time to establish the best way to do this, for Tuilere is over a week hence. Now, milady; shall you tell Túiel and me all you know of the Spring festival?"

  Winter tilted her head, placing her knife and fork on her now-empty plate and swallowing her final mouthful.

  "As you wish. Tuilere is the celebration of the coming of spring—" the approximate time that Frodo destroys the ring in ten years' time "—and an important event in the Gondorian calendar. On the first day of spring, there are parades and merrymaking in the lower parts of the city among the common folk. It is a holiday, and all shops are closed, save the florists'. Unlike in the autumn, commoner and noble do not mingle at Tuilere. Instead, the women of Lord Denethor's court gather to contribute flowers to a great wreath. It is woven all together as a symbol of the work of the Valar, as one. Throughout the day, it is custom for those who are courting or married to exchange wreaths, which are worn on the head for the duration of the day and evening. In the afternoon, the children of the court are called upon to perform a dance about a pole. This ritual is also performed in the lower levels, among the common folk. After this, the Steward and his family gather in the gardens near the Houses to plant a new tree, in honour of the growth of new life.

  "In the evening, the Steward hosts a great ball. It is customary for the Steward to present to each lady attending a single lily. There are a great number of ceremonial dances, and later in the evening there is a coming together of all couples to perform a final dance. Of course, there are other instances scattered throughout the day; gift-giving is common between lovers. In the lower levels, many give lilies just as the Steward does, amongst themselves. There are—bawdier traditions, also," Winter said, slowly. "It is said that any man who manages to convince a woman to accept a jasmine flower from him is entitled to a kiss. Many couples place this flower in their wreaths willingly, whilst other gentlemen attempt to conceal it within other gifts to ensure themselves this display of affection." She paused, unsure whether to continue.

  Badhor read her glance. "You have remembered well, my lady. I do not believe there is much else of import."

  Túiel affirmed his statement with a nod.

  Winter wished she didn't feel such a childlike flush of pride at having pleased her byrath and companion. "I presume, then, that I shall be involved in all of the customary activities for the nobles in Gondor?"

  Badhor replied. "Indeed. Lord Denethor shall hold court the day before Tuilere, in nine days. You will thus be presented to the noble folk. It is unfortunate that Lord Denethor could not hold court earlier than the morning before Tuilere, for then you could cultivate acquaintances with other nobles to ease the burden of appearing at the festival. As it is, even letters of introduction from your father, Lord Lossemen, are not enough to allow you to simply visit their homes. You must be introduced in a public place, ideally court, or a ball. We are effectively bound motionless until Tuilere."

  "Nay, Badhor, for Lady Faenil may learn, and she must occupy her days in the Houses," insisted Túiel, with a slight smile. "We must be cautious, Lady Faenil must practice her skill at the harp, for after Tuilere she shall be expected to play in company, perhaps. How is your work with the harp going, Lady Faenil?"

  Winter permitted herself a low laugh. "I am afraid it is going poorly. I have only been learning a few days."

  "Do you expect to be able to play well enough to perform in company in a fortnight?"

  "No," said Winter, firmly. "Even in a fortnight, I shall still be clumsy and inexperienced. I would not feel comfortable playing in public for months."

  "Hm," frowned Túiel. "Lord Calaron assured us you were musical."

  "I am—I just don't play the harp," said Winter, a trifle tartly.

  Badhor finished his meal and placed his fork upon the porcelain plate. "Do you sing, Lady Faenil?"

  Fortunately for Winter, her reaction to this question was not nearly so severe as when James had made his innocent inquiry those weeks before.

  Her palms were suddenly sweaty on the fabric of her skirt. Winter stared down at her plate, stomach suddenly regretting the mutton. Her white crockery was smeared with sticky brown gravy. Dots of oil were like nauseating pools. A sprig of parsley, which had garnished the dish, lay half-drowned to one side. Her eyes glazed.

  This time, Winter shut down the hideous flashback before it completely eroded her composure. Still, it took several deep breaths for her to regain her calm, and reply,

  "No, Badhor, I do not."

  The byrath gave Túiel an apologetic half-shrug.

  "In which case," the latter said, "we must simply put off any requests for music until a later date. That can be managed."

  Winter nodded mutely, lips pressed together. Fortunately, neither Túiel or Badhor pressed the issue.

  They sat in silence for the remainder of the meal.

  11th March, 3007

  Make sure you go and have a look at the treasure-horde for me, Jimbo. At least one of us needs to slip into the Lonely Mountain and take a look at that pile of gold, and have a chinwag with King Dain. At least, give it a fair crack of the whip, and see if you make it in. I mean, you can't really beat having a one-on-one with Lord Boromir in the store room of the Houses of Healing… but you can try.

  Looking forward to hearing more of your exploits soon! Thanks for sending the pictures last time. I wish I had something I could send you, but the only thing I'm willing to part with—that blasted harp—won't quite fit in the envelope. So, you'll just have to satisfy yourself with my rad jokes, and

  All my love,

  Win.

  Ps. Stay off the amber nectar.

  Winter signed the letter with a flourish and a smile. Composing her reply letter to James had been a breezy spattering of ink and looping quill-strokes. Truthfully, the ink blots had come from Winter's uncontrollable desire to chuckle as she penned each joke.

  Her replies to Sarah and Elizabeth had also been written, folded and sealed. They awaited their respective journeys upon the desk beside her. Leaving James' letter to dry, Winter rose and began to wander about the room.

  She stood within the drawing room of her manor house.

  Lord Lossemen's manor house, Winter corrected herself. She really ought to relate her fictional father to her life more. Poor Lord Lossemen had almost been forgotten in previous days.

  The drawing room was beautiful. Aside from her bedchamber, with its view over the Pelennor, this was the nicest part of the house. The floor was of dark timber slabs, covered with a grey carpet so pale that Winter was almost afraid to walk upon it. It was furnished with a dainty writing-desk, several richly-upholstered armchairs, large oil paintings, and a generous scattering of green pot plants. The walls were bare, alabaster stone. The room felt tranquil and airy, yet comfortably warm in the new spring days.

  Winter skirted the carpet carefully, her eyes roving about for some form of distraction.

  Today was her designated day off from the Houses. Without six hours of running errands for Ioreth, her hours were depressingly empty. It was scarcely midmorning, and she had already exhausted her meagre supply of amusements. Her letters were done—not all of your letters, silly—she had practiced dutifully at the harp for an hour, dressed neatly according to Aeglossel's taste, and had breakfast.

  Perhaps, Winter mused, as she completed anothe
r lap of the room, Túiel will allow me to go out for a walk with Sam and Will later today… She says it's fashionable to go at around three. That's only… five and a half hours. Great. Sometimes I wish I could just get up and wander out whenever I pleased. Why must they restrict young noblewomen so much? There are umpteen places around Minas Tirith I long to explore.

  Winter rubbed her palms across her face, glad that the noblewomen of Minas Tirith only wore makeup to special functions.

  Waiting until Tuilere for any form of action was beginning to grate on her nerves. True, it was necessary, but Winter didn't have to like it. She despised sitting about, playing Lady Faenil, prevented from finding out what her scolding of Boromir might cost.

  If I knew he was angry and about to have me publically shamed, at least I could brace myself for that. Instead, it's all waiting, waiting, waiting. Lord bloody Boromir. About as helpful as a screen door on a submarine.

  Perhaps the thought summoned him. Perhaps Winter was just a painfully unlucky woman. Regardless, as she made her eighth circuit of the drawing room, she heard the sound of metal striking cobblestones. The hoofbeats of shod horses echoed along the quiet fifth tier street, causing Winter to turn towards the windows.

  As she glanced through the distorted panes, a huge bay destrier burst into view and halted noisily outside her house. It was soon joined by several other horses, who stomped boisterously upon the ground as their riders pulled them up.

  What in the name of Nicolas Cage is going on?

  Frowning, Winter strode towards the door to the drawing room, her skirts breezing about her with a soft swish-swish.

  As she reached for the handle, the door was wrenched open before her abruptly. The jolt caused Winter to stumble backwards.

  "Lady Faenil," cried Túiel, in a sharp whisper. She positively jumped inside the drawing room, tugging the door closed behind her with feverish speed. Winter stepped back in bewilderment as Túiel planted her back firmly against the door as if to ward off an unseen enemy.

  "Túiel! What's wrong?"

  For what felt like a full minute, Túiel merely gaped at her mistress. Then, someone rapped on the other side of the door.

  "Lady Faenil?" came Badhor's inquiry.

  Túiel's face was pale and stricken with horror. Nevertheless, she peeled herself away from the door and strode resolutely to the far end of the room.

  Baffled, Winter called out, "Come in!"

  Badhor opened the door, his face an impassive mask. "Lord Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor to speak with you, milady."

  Struth.

  Winter's head snapped to Túiel at the far end of the room. Her companion was standing behind an armchair, clutching at it with white-knuckled hands. Winter swivelled back to look at Badhor, who had schooled himself to impassivity with a monumental effort.

  My. Goodness.

  Winter gulped, her eyes locked with Badhor's. For an instant, the latter's mask faltered. She saw the sheer amazement in his face, the confusion. Somehow, it lent Winter resolve.

  You will not screw this up. You will not screw this up.

  "Tell Lord Boromir he is most welcome," she replied, moving away from the door. Her chest echoed with the throbbing of her heart as she placed herself firmly upon one of the armchairs.

  Why? What on earth is he doing here? she wanted to scream. He can't come and visit yet. We haven't even been intro—

  "Lady Faenil." Boromir filled the room with his bulky form. Somehow, it seemed to Winter that the drawing room was no longer quite so graceful and airy as Denethor's eldest son moved into the doorway with his hulking, six-foot-something frame.

  Breathe.

  "My Lord Boromir." Winter rose from her armchair politely and dropped into a low curtsey.

  Legs, if you betray me, I will amputate you myself.

  Not necessary, her other half retorted, as she stood to her full height once more.

  In response to her civilities, Lord Boromir inclined his head slightly.

  Maybe I should teach Túiel to swear. That might help her release some of that anxiety.

  "Please, make yourself comfortable, my Lord." Winter gestured to another armchair, which Boromir took. She sank gratefully back into her own chair and dared a glance at the man's face.

  Boromir of Gondor was even more lordly in full daylight. His raven hair glistened as if freshly washed. Heavy brows overset deep grey eyes, which seemed to take in everything with a hefty intensity. He sat with the ease of a born athlete. His mammoth frame seemed to fill half of the room, but it was a graceful filling. His limbs were not kinked about in lanky fashion. Rather, he sat leaning backwards, one palm resting on his thigh whilst the other curled over the engravings on the arm of his chair. Coarse, battle-worn fingers splayed over upholstery and timber as if they owned it.

  He was effortless.

  And the steely eyes watched Winter's every move.

  Knowing it was her duty as host to begin conversation, Winter forced a light smile.

  "How do you fare this morning, my Lord Boromir?"

  He smiled with a Gondorian's typical reserve. Still, the expression was noticeable.

  Better than Gaerel the statue.

  "I am well, Lady Faenil. I hope you are also?"

  She nodded politely. "Certainly, my Lord."

  For an instant, Winter was filled with sickening fear that they would run out of conversation within ten minutes. She despised small talk. It made her think of Emily from back home, tittering on about next to nothing.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately—Lord Boromir seemed to care for small talk as little as she did.

  "I trust you have been enjoying your work in the Houses, Lady Faenil. I have not had the pleasure of seeing you there these several days' past. In fact, I sought you out there first this morning, only to discover you were not on duty there. You must forgive me for ignoring you since our first meeting; my Father has required my presence a great deal due to my brother's departure early this morn."

  Winter paused before replying, uncertain which aspect to address first. Eventually she smiled, saying, "It is of no import, my Lord. I understand perfectly the duties which must claim your attention, for I had heard of Lord Faramir's impending return to Osgiliath ere the week was out."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Winter saw Túiel shift uneasily. As was appropriate, Winter's byrath and companion awaited any summons at the fair end of the room. They were, in the most basic sense, chaperones, loitering close enough to provide visual supervision and far enough away so as not to overhear.

  Well, at least this meeting is proper and correct!

  "Ah, you are well acquainted with the goings-on of the city, then," Boromir nodded almost eagerly. "That is well. My father is much occupied with the administration of Minas Tirith at present. He attempts to draw me into these tasks, though I find I have little love for administration. That is my brother's domain."

  Winter hesitated, unsure how to respond.

  Boromir seemed to read her countenance amiss, for he held up his hands apologetically.

  "Forgive me, my lady. I shall not bore you with such details, having professed my own disinterest in them. I could scarce imagine that a lady from the provinces would find much interest in the politics of Gondor." He smiled briefly.

  Broad assumption.

  Truthfully, Winter would have rather enjoyed hearing about the working state of Minas Tirith's political system from Boromir himself. Caught between her own nerves and Túiel's eagle eyes, Winter knew she couldn't reveal her interest. As little as Boromir seemed to care about being aloof and distant, for Lady Faenil to be too forthcoming could produce poor results. Instead, she gave a demure smile.

  "I know little of the workings of the court in Minas Tirith, m'lord."

  "Why should you?" shrugged the Steward's son, shifting in his chair. "Yet let us speak of pleasanter things! Have you been forced to turn aside any other noblemen from your store room of late, Lady Faenil?"

  In spite of herself, Wint
er's cheeks stained pink at this. Exerting herself, she managed a tinkling laugh.

  "No, Lord Boromir, for I have not been at work in the store room for some days." She studied her sweaty hands, entwined in her lap. When she dared to glance up a few moments later, Boromir's eyes rested upon her kindly.

  "That is well! Such a pretty lady should not be ensconced in such a dim room."

  You blithering idiot!

  Winter did not have to feign the embarrassment which flooded her face.

  Do I look suitably demure for you now Lord Boromir, duke of idiots?

  The Steward's son was indeed grinning in satisfaction at Winter's discomfiture. His eyes glinted in amusement.

  Winter gritted her teeth as unnoticeably as possible. The man was making her feel like a blushing fourteen-year-old, and protocol dictated that she could not set the record straight.

  Preserve Lady Faenil. That is all you must do.

  Luckily, it appeared that Boromir had had enough of flirting. He leaned forward in his chair, bringing both hands together and clasping them as he watched her.

  "The purpose of my calling, Lady Faenil, was not to tease you so—as great a joy as it is for me to see you flush so prettily. Nay, I have come to inquire whether you might be free to ride through the city with me tomorrow, when you are no longer required within the Houses?"

  Winter gulped, forcing herself not to glance at Túiel or Badhor for some sign of approval. She must decide.

  Except that you don't refuse the Steward's son when he calls upon you so directly. What decisions is there to make?

  Winter gave a small smile. Her face felt creaky.

  "Certainly, my lord. I should be delighted to accompany you."

  Boromir grinned. The expression might have passed for an ordinary grin back on Earth, for it was far broader than Winter had thus far observed in Minas Tirith.

  She glanced down again, bashful.

  "Shall I call for you, my lady?"

  Winter nodded. "I am dismissed from the Houses at the third hour after noon, my Lord."

  "In which case I might expect to find you here at the fourth hour?"

  "Indeed."

  Boromir leaned back in his chair once again, appearing pleased with himself. "Have you a horse of your own, Lady Faenil?"