Part 22

Yuletide at Newhome was awkward.

Legolas had warned the Reeve that he was honour-bound to tell the King about his ‘levy’ on the transportation of the blue, and the man was alternating between excessive friendliness and cold reserve. His wife, Lady Morwen, flitted about doing her best to entertain her guests whilst trying to keep her husband happy and to persuade her son to join in the festivities.

But Legolas and Eowyn threw themselves into the celebrations, feasting with the ordinary people of Newhome and attending the Yuletide ceremonies as guests of honour.

...

Towards the end of their stay, Eowyn awoke in the middle of the night to find that Legolas had gone for a walk and, unable to get back to sleep herself, she put on her velvet mantle and wandered down to the kitchen, found a bottle of apple brandy, poured herself a large glass, and settled in front of the fire.

The warm glow—from both the fire and the alcohol—was comforting, and she had just begun to feel drowsy when the kitchen door opened.

“My Lady!”

“Arador.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the young man closed the door behind him. “Where is Lord Legolas?”

“He has gone to walk beneath the trees. It is his way of coping when things are difficult.”

“I see...” Arador picked up the bottle and, pulling up a chair, sat down beside her. “I am thinking running away to sea,” he announced. “Maybe I can join a band of corsairs.”

“No,” said Eowyn. She shook her head, smiling. “I have had dealings corsairs. They would sell someone as handsome as you for a lot of money.”

“Are you, um... I mean... How much have you had to drink, my Lady?”

“Only one glass. Why?”

Arador blushed. Then, “If my owner,” he said, eyeing her surreptitiously, “was—you know—only a little bit older than I, and clever, and beautiful, being her slave might not be so bad.”

“What if your owner were a man?”

“Point taken...”

“Perhaps you could persuade your wife to settle in Eryn Carantaur?”

“I met her today.” Arador took a swig from the brandy bottle. “They had put a ribbon in her hair,” he said, “but there is no disguising an Oliphaunt.”

“Oh, Arador!” Eowyn put her hand over her mouth to stifle her amusement.

“Though I doubt she has an Oliphaunt’s intellect.”

“Then what are you going to do? I mean...” She shrugged.

Arador took another mouthful of brandy. “I have given it a lot of thought this past week, my Lady, and there is only one thing I can do.”

There was an ominous note in his voice, and Eowyn turned to him in alarm. “Not...” She drew a finger across her throat.

“Oh, no, not that.” He sighed. “But something almost as final.”