The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Fifty-two: The Man Death Would Not Take
When
they at last reached the dyke that surrounded the Pelennor Fields,
Éowyn was nodding forward in the saddle, weak with pain. Ahead
of her Boromir rode steadily, not too fast, keeping all his care for
Sam, still unconscious in his arms. He did not notice Éowyn’s
plight, anxious as he was to find a path through country now made enemy
territory by the invasion of Sauron’s armies…
As they descended into the plain they passed a ruined and smoking guard
tower surrounded by the bodies of its defenders. Boromir slowed Seabhac
to a halt and leaned over in the saddle to look at the faces of the
dead men. Éowyn came up beside him.
‘Do you know them?’ she asked.
Boromir straightened up, gently shifting Sam in his arms, and nodded.
‘They are soldiers of Gondor who fought under my command many times, and with great bravery….’
His voice was sad, and his face downcast. Not sure of what to say, Éowyn murmured;
‘It is a sore grief to lose friends in battle…’
Boromir shook his head.
‘Not friends, exactly, Lady. Comrades in arms, at best. I was the
Steward’s eldest son, after all. I could not be a friend to anyone. The
son of a great lord must keep himself apart …’
There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. Éowyn said
‘You fight a lonely war, my lord Boromir…’
Boromir smiled.
‘So does every prince…’ he said. Éowyn replied;
‘I know something of that.’
Boromir looked into her face and she smiled. He inclined his head in a bow.
‘You are a daughter of kings, my Lady Éowyn. I have not forgotten that…’
‘And yet…’ said Éowyn pointing to Sam. ‘You, the son of the
Steward of Gondor, swore to protect this hobbit and his master, the
least of beings from a country without king or nobility?’
Boromir looked astonished, then threw back his head and laughed;
‘Well said, my Lady! I deem you miss little…’
Then he grew serious, and said in a quiet voice;
‘Not all princes wear crowns, nor do all leaders ride at the head of
great armies. The hobbit Frodo, master of Samwise here, is in truth a
prince of his people, but not one that will ever wear a crown….’
Éowyn nodded, but she was tiring and her face was pale. Boromir said;
‘Come, we must haste to reach the city, you grow weary….’
Now as they rode along they began to encounter the army of Mordor.
Great columns and squares of orcs, uruk-hai, trolls, wargs and men, all
armed and armoured in fantastic and hideous war gear. Éowyn
gazed about her with alarm, but the ranks of the enemy seemed uncaring
of their presence; their helms turned towards her and Boromir as they
rode past, but their eyes were blank as the eyes of dead men. Not one
of that fearsome host made any attempt to attack them as they rode by….
Éowyn urged her mount to come level with Boromir’s and said in a low voice.
‘What is happening? Why do they not make any move to kill or take us?’
Boromir shook his head, his brow furrowed.
‘I know not. They stood thus when I rode out of the city, and they
still stand like this. It is as if a spell has been cast on them, they
are puppets with the puppetmaster slain or sleeping …’
Éowyn looked about her and replied;
‘It is more as if some spell has been broken, and they are wondering why they are here, and what brought them to these plains…’
Boromir looked at them again and thought; the lady is right. Some power
has suddenly failed and left them here, like the tide going out leaves
a starfish on the beach….
In a flash it dawned on Boromir; someone had taken or used the Ring. He
halted Seabhac, his great black horse, and sat gazing down at the
ground. Then he spoke as if to himself;
‘Sauron is the great puppetmaster, and these are his puppets. Something
has befallen Sauron, something has taken his power and left him none to
control or direct his orcs. Only the Ring could do that…’
Boromir turned towards the city of Minas Tirith, towering white and splendid on the flanks of the mountains.
‘What has happened?’ he cried ‘Is Frodo dead?’
Éowyn moved her bay Dorcha up beside Boromir’s horse and leaning over she took his arm and shook it.
‘Boromir, Boromir, listen to me!’
Boromir turned to her in surprise. Her face was pale and glistened with sweat. She spoke breathlessly;
‘Frodo has not been harmed. Think! If the Ring had been given back to
Sauron, these orcs would be rushing to attack your city. They would be
invincible, all-conquering, for their master would have regained that
which alone could give him power over everything and everyone.
Something quite different has occurred, to damage him and ward him off.
Frodo has done this, of his own free will. He must be alive, and safe!’
Boromir stared at her, gripping his sword handle tightly, his face
strained and pale. A moan from Sam, still asleep in his arms, roused
him. Éowyn pointed to the walls of Minas Tirith gleaming white
on the horizon and said;
‘Let us haste on to your city, Sam grows ever weaker….’
Boromir nodded and said;
‘My lady, you are as wise as you are fair, and brave. Thank you…’
There was a moment of silence, and the man gazed at the girl with
something akin to tenderness in his eyes. Éowyn said gently;
‘My lord, let make haste….’
Boromir shook himself and nodded. He gathered up Seabhac’s reins and said;
‘Keep close to me as we pass through this army of Mordor. Do not let
these orcs, however harmless they seem, get between me and thee. Ride
quickly, but do not seem to be fleeing. Stay with me, Éowyn…’
The girl glanced sharply at him; the words seemed to mean something
more than how to ride through the enemy host. But Boromir turned then
and she did not see the look in his eyes.
‘I am close at your heels, Lord of Gondor..’ she said loudly. Boromir
did not turn round, but Éowyn knew he was smiling to himself.
Seabhac broke into a canter and Éowyn, gritting her teeth
against the pain, urged Dorcha after him…
The shadows cast by the mountains in which Minas Tirith nestled had
almost covered the Pelennor, and the river too was a ribbon of dark
blue when one of the watch on the city walls narrowed his eyes then
shouted out;
‘Riders! Riders on the Pelennor! They are passing through the ranks of orcs…’
‘They must be Sauron’s troops…’said the Captain of the watch, stepping
up to the high stone battlements and peering out into the early evening
light.
‘No-one else could pass unharmed…marksman, to your post!’
A thin young man clad in the dark green jerkin worn by the élite
archers of the garrison of Minas Tirith stepped forward to take
position at the wall. He moved with a slight limp and a he bore a long
scar down the right side of his face. He was of the North, fair with
sharp grey eyes and pale skin. The other soldiers gave way to him as if
unwilling to let him come too close to them.
This was Cathach, whose name meant left behind by battle. During a
savage skirmish in which the men of Gondor had been defeated, he alone
had survived. Left for dead but discovered alive under the still-warm
bodies of his slain comrades he had been badly wounded, left scarred
and limping, but he had lived. Since then the other soldiers found him
strange and solitary, and left him alone. They called him ‘the man
death would not take’, but in all the city of Minas Tirith there was
none more deadly with the longbow. Cathach had rarely been known to
miss. Unspeaking, pale, with a moody, faraway presence, the archer was
a haunted killer…
At the Captain’s order, Cathach strung his bow and stepped up to the
deep, narrow embrasure in the high, white-stone wall of the
battlements. He flicked his long fair hair out of his hooded eyes and
carefully, almost tenderly, he notched an arrow to the bow, then
directed his gaze to where the Captain pointed.
‘Your sight is better than all of ours, Cathach’ said the Captain. ‘See, who comes there, riding through the ranks of orcs?’
Cathach held his bow with the notched arrow in one hand and leaning
close to the wall he laid the other on the wide battlement. The stone,
warmed earlier by the bright spring sunshine, was now in deep shade and
as cold as the slab on a tomb.
Cathach narrowed his eyes and sought the approaching figures with his hawk gaze…
There were two, and they were well mounted on tall swift horses, one
black and one bay. They were heading towards the Great Gate of Minas
Tirith at a steady pace, but not galloping as if in flight. Cathach
could see they were ignored by the orc battalions that surrounded them,
nor did they attempt to address the army as they passed through it. The
figures rode close together, one slightly ahead of the other. As they
slowly became more distinct, Cathach concentrated on the lead figure,
and at once took in a sharp breath. The Captain and those soldiers
standing near to him looked round quickly.
For Cathach knew at once that this was Lord Boromir. Had the man been
too far away to recognise, Cathach would have certainly recognised the
great black warhorse; everyone in Minas Tirith knew Boromir’s Seabhac.
When Cathach shifted his gaze to the rider, he was sure. It was Boromir
of Gondor, the outcast. For Cathach had fought under the command of the
prince and recognised his proud, upright figure in the saddle, his long
tawny hair touched to gold by the sun, and the black tunic emblazoned
with the White Tree and stars that he wore over his mail hauberk.
Cathach glanced then to the side of the prince and quickly took in his
companion, a slighter figure riding a fine bay. The archer noted the
long golden hair and the bowed head and swaying figure and knew it was
a woman and that she was tired or wounded. But it was Boromir who took
all Cathach’s attention. He looked long and hard, not wanting to trust
his eyes. He swallowed hard but his throat was dry. The palm that
gripped his bow was wet with sweat. At last, reluctantly, he turned to
the Captain and said;
‘Sir, it is Lord Boromir who approaches the city, with one other rider….’
A murmur at once arose from the watching soldiers. The Captain barked at them;
‘Silence!’ then he turned to Cathach and said in a low tone;
‘Are you sure? Quite sure?’
Unable to speak Cathach just nodded miserably…
The Captain walked up to the wall. The men were looking uncertainly at each other. Then he spoke;
‘Lord Boromir is banished from the city of Minas Tirith. Under pain of death he is forbidden to approach the walls…’
There was complete silence. The soldiers stared at the Captain, waiting…
The Captain turned to Cathach and said;
‘Shoot him.’
Cathach turned away, afraid his face would betray his feelings. The Captain shouted;
‘Now! He is a traitor and he is forbidden to approach the City. Shoot him now!’
Cathach blinked like a hawk looking into the sun, and raised his bow…
This was Cathach’s life; the endless moment between the drawing of the
bow and the loosing of the arrow. Here, he was king, and could shut out
the memories and the pain. So far away as to be himself unseen, he sent
death from a clear sky…
But this time he could not shoot. He drew the bow and took aim. Closer
now, Boromir was clear in his sight, the White Tree and Stars on his
chest like a target to aim at. Cathach knew he could not miss.
But still he could not shoot. Sweat trickled down his face. A tremor
ran through his taut arm. The men of the guard held their breath. After
an agony of waiting, Cathach lowered his bow and said to the Captain;
‘Sir, I cannot shoot. Lord Boromir is carrying someone before him on
his horse. Someone small, a child perhaps, who is sleeping in his arms.
If I loose my arrow, I might kill the child. I dare not shoot….’
By now Boromir and Éowyn had passed the First Marker, a gleaming
pillar of white stone showing the city’s outer limit. Now even the
soldiers could see them clearly. The Captain shouted at Cathach;
‘You could hit a bird on a branch without touching the leaves. I am
ordering you to shoot him now, or hang for disobedience in the face of
the enemy….’
‘Lord Boromir is no enemy!’ said one of the men, but the Captain seemed
not to hear, and stood over the bowman, his face twisted with anger.
Cathach bowed his head and without a word he turned back to the wall and drew his bow again.
Boromir was now so close Cathach could see his features. He could see,
too, the curly head of the little figure borne before Boromir on his
horse. The face of the woman beside him too was clear and Cathach could
see she was fair, richly attired and rode like one of noble blood. His
heart pounding he lowered his bow for the last time and said to the
Captain;
‘Sir, there is not in me enough anger to kill Lord Boromir…’
From the soldiers, who had fought with Boromir many times over the
years, there came murmurs of support for the archer. But the Captain
merely said;
‘You have only sealed your own fate as well as his. Guards! Take this
man back to barracks, where I will deal with him presently…’
As Cathach walked past with head down, the Captain pulled the longbow
of red yew from his hand. Then he took an arrow from one of the sheaves
laid ready at intervals along the wall, in preparation for the attack
on Minas Tirith. Then the Captain said to the archer and to all his men;
‘I will shoot Boromir myself….’
