The Lion and his Lady

From dutiful daughter to virtuous wife

Chapter 1

Following the path set out for her by wiser minds, upon her marriage the maiden will pass from the shelter of her father's protection into the hands of her husband. Bringing with her as the most important gifts not a pretty face or a rich dowry, but rather decorous manners, a chaste heart and the willingness to let herself be guided by her new lord.

(Belecthor: The Gondorian maiden's guide to proper deportment)

*

Freckles. They had tried everything. Cucumber extract, parsley and lemon juice applied liberally, buttermilk poultices, raw onions... Ivriniel sighed as she surveyed her niece. Lothíriel had strict instructions to stay out of the sun in order to preserve her fair skin, but although the freckles had faded they refused to go away completely. At least she no longer resembled a peasant child, running barefoot along the beach in Dol Amroth. Ivriniel shuddered at the memory of her last visit there. Why, the girl had even brought a pair of breeches with her when she came to Minas Tirith, refusing to give them up. Only her father's intervention had persuaded her to have them locked away in her clothes chest. All her mother's fault of course for dying early and leaving the child to be spoilt rotten by her brothers and doting father. Ivriniel had never understood why Imrahil had not remarried, especially as she had presented several very suitable candidates to him.

Lothíriel cleared her throat. "You sent for me, Aunt Ivriniel?"

Speaking before being spoken to. Typical. Ivriniel let the silence stretch a moment longer to show her displeasure before giving a sharp nod. "Yes, I did. Take a seat."

As her niece sat down on one of the high-backed chairs provided for visitors and folded her hands in her lap, Ivriniel looked her over critically. The white woollen dress she wore was pleasingly high-cut, well suited to the maidenly modesty expected from a pupil of Belecthor's school. Added to that, Lothíriel had a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders, which she pulled closer when a gust of autumn wind entered through an open window. Soon they would need fires lit in the evenings, but not just yet, for Ivriniel did not believe in mollycoddling her girls. Then she frowned when she noticed a straw trailing from one of her niece's sleeves. "Lothíriel, have you been in the stables again?" she asked sharply.

The girl lowered her eyes. "I'm not allowed to."

That did not answer her question, as Lothíriel full well knew. Ivriniel drummed her fingers on her desk. "I have told you before that the stables are no fit place for a princess, being frequented by all sorts of lowly persons. What would your future husband think if he found out that you consorted with such riff-raff?" She did not give her niece the chance to answer, but continued at once. "He would lose all respect for you and as Belecthor writes in The Gondorian maiden's guide to proper deportment–"

"–mutual respect is the foundation on which a successful marriage is built," Lothíriel supplied the quotation in a colourless voice.

Ivriniel felt irritation well up within her at the silent rebellion evident in every line of her charge's body, from the carefully lowered eyes to the stiff way she held herself. Two years of being instructed in the writings of the finest mind of Gondor and no appreciation. No doubt the girl still cherished romantic notions of being swept off her feet and falling in love with her husband. Well, the news she was about to impart would put an end to such silly ideas. "I've received a letter from your father," she said.

Lothíriel looked up at that, half rising from her chair. "For me?"

"No." Ivriniel could not help experiencing a certain satisfaction when she saw her niece's disappointment. "He requests me to inform you regarding certain...arrangements...he has made pertaining to your future."