The Ring will come to Gondor by Varda

The Ring will come to Gondor

by Varda

Chapter Fifty-one: Once a Traitor

Boromir’s shoulders sagged, and his face looked weary. Would he ever be known as anything but Boromir the traitor? Boromir the oathbreaker, the man who had betrayed the trust placed in him? Stepping back, he swept a low, gallant bow and said in voice carefully neutral;
‘If I am your betrothed, then you must be the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, niece to King Théoden. I offer you my service, although if you hold me in such contempt, perhaps you will not accept it…’

Boromir straightened up and stood looking at the girl. In spite of the grime and blood on her face, and her tangled, dusty hair, he could see she was comely. Not pretty in the way of the noble ladies of Gondor, but as beautiful as a drawn bow or a fine steel blade inlaid with white mithril. Her cheeks were burning, and Boromir realised he was staring at her…he spoke quickly, hoping to deflect her anger…

‘If it makes you look upon me more favourably, Lady Éowyn, I can tell you that the…this thing which I unlawfully took from Frodo, the rightful bearer, this great and perilous treasure, I have given back to him. He has pardoned me. If Frodo can forgive me, can’t you?’

Éowyn stood glaring at Boromir, trying to regain her breath and master her thoughts. But the pain of her wound made thinking hard. She looked intently at Boromir's face. He had the weatherbeaten appearance of one who spent long days campaigning in the wild, but underneath he was fair, with large clear grey eyes and a mouth generous and quick to smile. His hands, which nervously gripped his sword hilt, were calloused from weapons practice, but the fingers were long and fine. He held his head high in defiance, but the hunched set of his shoulders betrayed his self-doubt..

Éowyn’s mind was in turmoil; this was not the man she had expected. He was too proud to apologise to her, but too imbued with a powerful sense of justice to deny his actions. At last he shrugged and said;
‘My lady, we are alone here. My father, who ordered our betrothal, is dead…’
Éowyn raised her eyebrows, but Boromir hurried on;
‘If you wish to be set free from this betrothal, tell me now and let us make an end of it here….’

‘Set me free?’ demanded Éowyn angrily. ‘And what of the wishes of my uncle Théoden the King? And of my people, who have rejoiced to learn their princess will wed with a lord of Gondor…?’
‘But you, my lady..’ interrupted Boromir gently. ‘what does your heart desire in this matter?’

Éowyn felt weak. It must be the wound, she thought, it is still bleeding. Or it might be something else. Looking at Boromir she thought to herself;
‘I loved you before I ever saw you, Boromir of Gondor. It does not matter what you have done…’

Boromir was staring at Éowyn, awaiting a reply. When none came, he said in exasperation;
‘How did you know about me and Frodo?’
‘I managed to wheedle it out of the hobbit, Sam….’

At the name of Sam, Éowyn suddenly remembered the loyal and brave hobbit, struck down in the fighting. She turned and began to run as quickly as she could with her wounded leg to the spot where he had fallen.
‘Sam!’ she cried as she went ‘Oh, where is Sam?’

Boromir ran after her and overtook her in a few strides. He noticed she was limping.
‘You are hurt’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter!’ gasped Éowyn. ‘Sam was at my side, defending me, and he was wounded. I forgot all about him…’
Boromir took her arm and said gently;
‘Slow down, Lady. Be comforted. I will find Sam ….’

And Boromir, not waiting for Éowyn’s permission, took her arm to support her and strode forward down the slope of the hollow. He asked Éowyn as they went;
‘This is not Samwise Gamgee, gardener of the Shire?’
Éowyn nodded then darted forward, seeing the little figure lying face down on the sand. She knelt quickly and gently turned the hobbit over…

Sam was unconscious, his face grey. A trickle of blood ran down his temple, and on his head was a deep, jagged cut. Éowyn gently parted his curly hair to examine it and drew her breath in sharply. Boromir knelt down beside her.
‘He has taken grievous hurt!’ Éowyn said to him in agitation. Boromir leaned over.
‘Let me see…’ he said.

Boromir had seen many men hurt in battle, and knew something of leechcraft. Gently he probed the wound. Éowyn watched him, noticing the care he took not to cause the hobbit any pain. At length Boromir heaved a sigh and turned to her.

‘It is a deep cut, nearly to the bone. Hobbits are sturdy and hard to kill but this is a grievous wound, and he needs skilled healing…’
‘Such as we will not find out here in the wilds!’ cried Éowyn looking round desperately.
‘And he was only just recovered from the wounds he took when a captive of Saruman..’
‘Sam was captured by Saruman?’ asked Boromir in astonishment.
‘Yes’ said Éowyn, looking at him without accusation.
‘When you took the Ring, in the confusion Sam fell into the hands of Saruman’s Uruk-hai, and he was tortured and beaten….’

Éowyn’s voice trailed off into silence. Boromir hung his head with a sigh.
‘You must despise me, Lady Éowyn’ he said in a quiet voice.
‘.. to betray someone as small and weak as this …’

Éowyn gazed at Boromir, and there was an amused twinkle in her eye.
‘Small, yes. But anyone who could call Sam Gamgee weak doesn’t know him…’
Boromir raised his head and laughed.
‘That is true, Lady…’
Éowyn laughed as well, and Boromir wondered at the change in her when she smiled. But the smile faded quickly and she said;
‘We must get Sam to somewhere he can be healed.’ she looked around, but this country was unfamiliar to her. She said at last;
‘Minas Tirith! Your city, Boromir! There are famed leeches there, wisewomen who keep a house of Healing, are there not?’
‘Yes’ replied Boromir reluctantly.
‘Well then!’ said Éowyn, starting to her feet. ‘Let us start out for Minas Tirith at once. We cannot be far from the river…’
‘I am afraid, Lady..’ said Boromir, getting to his feet in his turn ‘we cannot go to Minas Tirith.’
‘Why not?’ asked Éowyn in astonishment.
‘Because…’ said Boromir slowly ‘because..I am banished from the city. If I even approach the walls I will be slain. On pain of death, I cannot return to Minas Tirith…’

Éowyn stood staring at Boromir for some moments. Only a low moan from Sam, lying on his Elven cloak at their feet, roused her. She bent quickly to tend to him, then looking up at Boromir she hissed angrily;
‘What does that matter now? Sam will die if we do not take him to your city..’
‘You do not understand, Lady’ said Boromir desperately. ‘If I am seen approaching the city I will be slain…’

Éowyn stood up and said in a voice cold with fury;
‘So, having betrayed this brave hobbit once, you will betray him a second time, out of fear for your own life?’.
Boromir went pale. No man could have spoken to the son of Denethor in such a way and lived…
‘I am not afraid, my lady…’ he said quietly.
‘Then prove it!’ she cried. ‘Take us back to Minas Tirith. Let me beg you safe conduct from the defenders of the city. They will gladly do it, for this hobbit is the servant and companion of one you and others of noble rank allied to Gondor have sworn to protect and serve. Or will you be a traitor a second time?’

Boromir did not reply for some moments. There was pain in his eyes, not for what Éowyn had said about his treason, but because he saw she believed he cared less for Sam’s life than for his own….
‘I will take you to Minas Tirith, Lady Éowyn’ he said slowly ‘and we will find healing for Sam, never fear…’

And without waiting for a reply he turned and whistled. At once his great black charger Seabhac whinnied and trotted up to him. Éowyn tore a piece from the hem of her petticoat and bound up Sam’s bleeding head. Then Boromir wrapped the hobbit in his Elven cloak, looked for a moment into his pale face then taking hold of the reins he swung himself into the saddle and bore Sam before him still sleeping. Boromir looked down at Éowyn and said wryly;
‘I cannot take another on my horse, Lady Éowyn…’
He nodded at a couple of the brigands’ steeds which had not run off when their riders were slain. They were grazing the dry pasture a short distance away.
‘Do you think you could catch and mount one of them?’ he asked with a half-smile.

Éowyn’s leg was hurting, but the remark stung more than any wound. She drew herself up to her full height and snapped;
‘The palest, most timid maid of Rohan is a better rider than any prince of Gondor!’

Boromir could not suppress a smile. He gathered up the reins and inclined his head towards the nearest stray horse.
‘I pray you, then, my Lady, choose your mount and let us be off….’

Éowyn turned on her heel and walked as straight and quickly as she could towards the horses. Aware of Boromir’s eyes on her, she tried not to limp. But she felt her wound begin to seep blood again, and a cold sweat broke out on her face. She clenched her hands into fists; she would not show weakness before this arrogant prince of Gondor…

She walked up to the first horse, but it was tall and rough-haired with wild red eyes. Scenting her it snorted and turned and galloped away. Without looking back at Boromir Éowyn walked on to the other horse, which raised its head from grazing to watch her approach….

The brigands had ridden mean, half-wild steeds, but this was a fine bay mare of Rohan, stolen perhaps from the royal stables with some assistance from Wormtongue. The brigands had cruelly used her, there were long bloody gashes where they had buried their black steel spurs in her flanks, and cuts of the whip on her glossy hide. But the head that turned towards Éowyn was curious and the eyes were bright and kind.

Wishing that she had some bread or salt or an apple, Éowyn began to murmur the phrases of endearment that the Rohan had used to gentle their horses from time immemorial. The ears flicked forward and the horse snorted. Éowyn stopped in front of the animal and smoothed its sweat-streaked withers with her soft hand and tugging up a knot of grass she fed it to the beast. Feeling her gentle touch, the horse dropped its head and nuzzled her palm, licking the skin. Éowyn gently stroked her ears and looked at her ravaged sides.
‘So, so, arún, did they treat you badly? Now you are my horse, to bear me to Minas Tirith like the noblest of chargers, for you are a steed of Rohan, and slave to none. You will be Dorcha, for you came to me from the Darkness…’

Sensing Boromir watching impatiently, Éowyn led Dorcha round in a half-circle and when she was hidden from the man’s gaze by the horse she hitched up her skirt to look at her wounded leg.

The site of the wound did not look too serious, a large bruised area and a small cut. But Éowyn knew the stab wound went right through her leg, trapping dirt and perhaps poison from the enemy’s blade. Already a fierce pain had begun to shoot up her thigh when she moved. She tore another strip from her petticoat and bound up the wound as best she could. When she tied it tightly, the world wavered for a second, and she would have fallen had she not gripped the stirrup leather. The horse turned its head and nuzzled her gently.
‘It is all right, Dorcha. Come, let us not show weakness before this arrogant town-lord….’

And leading the horse to a clump of heather Éowyn climbed onto it then swung herself up into the saddle. She took up the reins and cantered Dorcha up to Boromir.
‘Well done, my lady!’ said Boromir with genuine admiration.
‘They say the Rohan know the language of horses. Never did I believe it till now…’
Too weak from her wound to speak, Éowyn just nodded. Not noticing her pallor or the beads of cold sweat on her face, Boromir said;
‘Sam does not have much time, let us away at once….’

And without waiting for a reply he touched his heels to Seabhac’s sides and the great black horse shot forward and Éowyn’s restless bay hovered for a moment then galloped after him across the dusty plain towards Minas Tirith….