Chapter 9. The Portrait of the Bride

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Cameth Brin, October 9, 1347
Written by Gordis
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The steadily drenching autumn rain came from the North in the morning, turning the narrow streets of the citadel into little rivulets and washing away dirt and horse dung accumulated in the gutters.

Tarnendur gingerly picked his way from the Palace to the Tower. He had ordered the Council to be held this morning, to discuss the last preparations for Broggha’s arrival and to make the important announcements before the meddling Hillman became part of the Council.

He noticed Gimilbeth’s gilded palanquin, a page walking on the either side, moving to the tower in front of him. It was really ridiculous to ask to be carried the small distance that separated the Palace from the Tower! But Gimilbeth was ever like a cat, disgusted to drench her paws in the rain. Tarnendur scowled. He had not seen his daughter for three days, and was still angry at her impertinence during their last meeting.

Still scowling, he quickened his pace and caught up with Gimilbeth at the doors of the Tower. His daughter was dressed in a closely fitting gray gown, embroidered with silver thread. She looked paler than usual, but she curtsied and greeted him with such a bright warm smile that Tarnendur’s anger melted and he beamed back, inwardly relieved. He hated to quarrel with Gimilbeth. When his daughter was happy, life was so much easier for everybody, but when she wasn’t, she had her ways of making everyone feel miserable as well.

The Council was held in an old, slightly shabby Council room on the third floor of the Tower. The narrow window slits in the thick walls let little light pass, so candles burned on the oblong wooden table that stood in the middle of the circular room. The counselors bowed to the King who entered, followed by Gimilbeth.

There was the old, balding, portly Curugil, brother of the Lord of Nothwa Rhaglaw, and the Queen’s great uncle, General Nimruzir from Fennas Drunin, veteran of many wars, with a scar across his face and an evil temper; Huramir from Dol Aglardin, Belzagar from Dol Duniath, Elured from Brochenridge, and several lesser counselors. Among them was only one young face: Daurendil, the Heir to the throne, stood all flushed and happy to attend his first Council.

The King took his place at the head of the table, Daurendil standing behind his back. All the Council members took their customary places. The King announced, avoiding looking at his daughter:

“My Lords, Lady Gimilbeth, the times are growing darker and darker. The Kingdom is in peril. Daurendil, my son, has not yet come of age, but given the gravity of the situation, I have decided to give him a place on the Council now. For the one who is destined to wear the Crown after me must have time to learn to bear this burden.”

The counselors nodded, murmuring in approval. Gimilbeth’s brows lifted; that has been unexpected. She eyed her brother coldly and he squirmed under her gaze. Without a word, Gimilbeth rose regally and indicated for Daurendil to take her place on the King’s right. Curugil, who usually sat on the left of the King, rose hastily, as swiftly as his great bulk permitted, and ceded his chair to Gimilbeth. A brief confusion followed, as everyone moved one place lower along the line.

“How silly it is!” thought Tarnendur. “In two weeks, they will have to move again, making place for Broggha.” The King felt sick at this thought.

After an hour of debates on the relocation of the troops around the capital and on the new levies to be made in the villages, the King came to the next important matter.

“As my daughter so rightly pointed out,” he said, nodding to Gimilbeth, “in such troubled times, the alliances with Arthedain and Gondor become of utmost importance. Desiring to strengthen our ties with Arthedain, I have decided to propose my daughter in marriage to the eldest son of the Heir of Arthedain, Malvegil’s grandson.” Tarnendur consulted a scroll on the table, peering at it with myopic eyes and elaborated. “Beleg, son of Celebrindol.”

A stunned silence followed. Everyone was looking at Gimilbeth, and she felt her cheeks burn. Had her father become crazy? This Arthedain pup must be no more than forty! Certainly Gimilbeth’s age was a closely guarded secret, known to few in Rhudaur, but her father should know that she was seventy years Beleg’s senior! She decided to broach the subject herself.

“And have you considered the age difference, Father?” she asked smoothly.

The King brushed the matter aside. “I know that Tarniel is too young.” Tarnendur’s voice was harsh. “But we can wait with the actual marriage. Once the betrothal is arranged, we can look forward to Arthedain’s aid. And the marriage can be concluded in ten or fifteen years.”

Gimilbeth’s cheeks burned even brighter. What a fool she had been not to think of her younger sister! She still considered her a baby, but her father was right. In fifteen years, she would be of marriageable age.

Daurendil stifled a giggle, seeing Gimilbeth’s embarrassment. The occasion was so rare – a good story to tell his brother when the Council was over. Truth be told, Daurendil hated the witch and feared her. She had such cold, piercing eyes that sort of looked right through you… And all these stories told by the servants…

Meanwhile, the King continued.

“Perhaps, if Malvegil agrees, we can arrange to send Tarniel to Fornost, to complete her education. She will be far safer in Arthedain, away from our Hillmen.”

A hot debate followed, Nimruzir bellowing that such an arrangement was unseemly and would show Rhudaur’s weakness. Arthedain’s champion Curugil was contradicting him in his old strident voice.

Having recovered somewhat, Gimilbeth chimed in. “I think this matter can be discussed later. I believe the King has proposed a very advantageous match for the Princess Tarniel, and even more so for our Kingdom. I volunteer to go to Fornost myself to speak with the King Malvegil on the matter.”

Tarnendur beamed in surprise. He was sure Gimilbeth would have objected, but she even proposed her intervention. But was that safe for Gimilbeth?

“Winter is coming, my daughter. It is difficult for your delicate disposition to travel so far in cold weather. Perhaps, we should better send a messenger?”

“The winter is not too close, Father, there would hardly be any snow before the end of Narbeleth,” replied Gimilbeth. “Moreover, probably I will have to go only as far as Amon Sul, to speak with the King of Arthedain via the Palantir. No need to travel all the way to Fornost. I will also try to communicate with King Romendacil of Gondor. Perhaps he could send us at least some money to hire more mercenaries. The Hillmen troops are not trustworthy.”

After some debate, the matter was decided. Gimilbeth was to travel to Amon Sul as soon as Hurgon, the famous court painter, finished a portrait of Tarniel to be shown to Malvegil and to her future husband.

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Cameth Brin, Afternoon of October 10, 1347
Written by Elfhild and Serenoli
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It was the afternoon of the next day, and Tarniel and Baineth, one of her maids, sat about in her chamber. Tarniel felt melancholy, sorrowful that soon her life was about to change. At least she had a few days before Wilwarin would shadow her footsteps. Not that she had taken an intense dislike of the woman, but, as royalty, it made her unhappy when there were changes to her blissful existence. She really should be thankful, not complaining, for Wilwarin was there to keep her and Odaragariel safe from any enemies.

Baineth’s words broke her concentration. “Did you hear what happened yesterday?” she asked.

The princess shook her head. “No, I did not.”

Baineth lowered her voice. “Yesterday morning, Gimilbeth sent her maid to the market to buy a black cockerel. Everyone in the palace is talking about it today.”

Tarniel cringed. With all her peculiarities, Gimilbeth was an embarrassment to the family. Everyone thought she was a witch, and Tarniel agreed with them. She was a shame and a mockery to the royal family, for they were good, faithful Arnorians, not Black Numenoreans who practiced the worship of the Dark. Tarniel shivered. She had always suspected that her half-sister dabbled in witchcraft, and the purchase of the black chicken was yet another proof of this.

She wondered what purpose this chicken was to serve – what sort of spell was Gimilbeth casting? Tarniel prayed that it did not concern her or any other members of her family. That would be horrible, to live in fear that her own half-sister was conspiring to curse everyone whom she knew.

“I wonder what Gimilbeth is planning to do with the chicken?” Tarniel mused out loud.

“Maybe she fed it to her scary cats,” suggested Baineth.

“Maybe,” murmured Tarniel, hopeful that her maid’s assumption was correct. If it was not, then Tarniel dreaded to contemplate the evils in which Gimilbeth had involved herself.

At that moment someone knocked on the door and rushed into the room.

“I have news!” Her pale cheeks flushing, and her eyes glinting teasingly, Odaragariel flung herself onto the couch and looked up expectantly at Tarniel.

“Well?”

Leaning forward, she almost whispered, spacing her words out carefully for emphasis, “Your father, and the rest of the Council, have decided to propose you in marriage to – well, guess who?”

Tarniel looked at her in exasperation. “Will you tell me or not?”

“The hillman, Broggha!” Then seeing the alarmed look on Tarniel’s face, she broke into peals of laughter, and amended, “I’m just joking, of course its not Broggha! His name is Beleg, son of – well, can’t remember who. But he’s the heir to Arthedain… or the heir of the heir… well?” she asked, impatient for Tarniel’s reaction.

Tarniel opened her mouth, perhaps to express surprise, or maybe pleasure, but suddenly suspicious, she narrowed her eyes, and asked, “And how come you know so much about it? Am I to believe they’re letting you in the Council meetings now? Or perhaps you’ve been -”

“No, I haven’t been eavesdropping!” finished Odaragariel angrily. “It wouldn’t be ladylike. No, I traded secrets with your brother, he’s allowed in. He’s not supposed to tell you, though, they’re planning on breaking it gently to you, or something. Anyway, he made me promise not to tell, but I had my fingers crossed!” she added hastily as a look of disapproval once again crossed Tarniel’s face.

Momentarily diverted, Tarniel asked, “Does crossing fingers really invalidate a promise?”

“Of course!” Odaragariel replied with all the experience of the two-years’ head start she had had into this world. Just in case it wasn’t true, though, she had her fingers neatly crossed under the folds of her heavily embroidered robe.

One brow cocked, Tarniel skeptically regarded Odaragariel. “Hmm, I am not so sure about that…”

Both girls giggled, and then Tarniel said, “Please keep me informed of all you hear! I wonder when they shall tell me of my betrothal?”

Tarniel contemplated the news which Odaragariel had told her. She was to be wed to this Beleg, prince of Arthedain. Well, at least it was not Broggha! Odaragariel’s jest had really given her a scare.

She tried to recall all she had been told about Beleg of Arthedain. Was he not in his forties? A frown came to her pretty face; why could it not have been someone more her own age? Ah, but she was being silly, perhaps. She was not even of marriageable age yet! The marriage would not take place for many years, and all of the negotiations had not even been finalized. It was not something she had to worry about for a long time.

But she wondered… would she love this man? Not that love really had anything to do with arranged marriages, but still, the heart, especially that of a young girl, was filled with hopes and dreams.

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Cameth Brin, October 10, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Hurgon Fernik, the Court painter, in a haze of drunkenness, suddenly realized there was something wrong with his room. A lot of people held the opinion that the whole room was somehow wrong – untidy, full of weird musical instruments, bottles of a very fine Southern wine that even the king wished he had, and paint all over. There were unfinished portraits on the walls… a large one of a frog was, in particular, outstanding. Little glass bottles of paint adorned a shelf, together with brushes, canvas and ink. Unfortunately for him, he had not been given a large enough table to hold all this, and had therefore dumped most of it on his bed. The bedcovers had been pulled out and a new bed was constructed on the floor every night. The one time Gimilbeth had ventured out to see him, she had been so horrified at the state of his room, she had blanched and run off without even telling him what she wanted. Hurgon didn’t mind, however… he felt his room gave him individuality.

However, right now, there was a large purple envelope lying on his bed, directly over an unfinished portrait of the princess Tarniel. It was too neat, and too out-of-place, and so he lumbered over to it, and pulled it open. In white letters, the words floated before him:

“Fernik, You are to have the painting completed in the next month. -Tarnendur.”

It was a very informal reminder that the king had sent, but he had long ago realized that Hurgon had a bad memory, and that he tended to get confused by too many long words. As it is, the letter reminded Hurgon so effectually of what the king had said to him about this subject that very morning, he was momentarily knocked sober.

Collecting his wits about him (there were very few, mind, so it took little effort), he began hurriedly collecting paint, brushes and the portrait itself, and ran full-length up and down sundry stairs, down halls and corridors, till he reached a door that seemed likely. Panting, he knocked, and the door slowly creaked open. Princess Tarniel and Princess Odaragariel stared up at him, both looking rather pink.

Then the latter sat up, and said, “Well, Hurgon, what do you want?”

“Just, just thought I should, you know,” he said while he thought about it. He remembered the king said something about ‘not divulging it yet’- but how was he supposed to paint, unless he told the princesses he was going to do it? Should he hide in bushes and paint her in covert? Wouldn’t work. There was nothing for it, but to divulge it, say what Tarnendur would about it.

“I was thinking of finishing the painting.”

The two girls raised eyebrows at each other in a meaningful glance that clearly said, “So soon?” However they made no objections, and soon Hurgon was happily absorbed in his second-most favorite occupation in the world – painting.

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Cameth Brin, October 10, 1347.
Written by Gordis, Elfhild and Serenoli
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“My lady, master Hurgon is not in his room,” Edelbar, the golden-haired page, announced gravely, bowing before Gimilbeth. Then he smiled, a soft mischievous smile that made him look exactly his twelve years again.

“His room is a horrible mess, my lady. A regular orc den it is. I didn’t venture inside, lest I would get paint stains all over me. A servant said Hurgon had taken a canvas and paints and went to the Princesses’ wing”.

Gimilbeth smiled. So, at last things got going. This morning, she was most displeased to learn from her father that he had asked Hurgon to finish the portrait next month. No, it would be far too late! She had no wish to travel to Amon Sul in winter. The portrait had to be finished by the end of Narbeleth by the latest! She said so to the King in no uncertain terms, and he cowed as usual and advised her to speak with Hurgon herself. Now was as good a time as any. She much preferred to go visit the neat Tarniel’s room than the extravagant painter’s lair. Gimilbeth rose and left her study, nodding to Edelbar to follow.

The guards in the Hall parted, bowing, to let her pass. With a corner of her eye Gimilbeth noticed, chuckling inwardly, that some of them were making a sign behind their backs to ward off evil.

In a minute Gimilbeth stood in front of Tarniel’s door. A muffled sound of voices and occasional giggles were coming from inside. Edelbar knocked, bowed low to the ladies, sweeping the floor with his feathered hat, and announced in a clear cultured voice, fit for a much loftier court,

“My Ladies, Master Hurgon, greetings. My Lady Gimilbeth is here to see you.”

There was an exclamation from inside, sounding much like a panicked mouse’s squeak. Gimilbeth took it as an invitation and entered.

There were two girls curtseying before her, dark-haired Tarniel and fair-haired Odaragariel. Both looked tense and not a little frightened. Hurgon stood in front of the unfinished portrait. He made an attempt to bow, but swayed drunkenly and almost lost his balance. Gimilbeth smelled a reek of liquor in the air – Hurgon was drunk as usual. Instead of bowing, Hurgon waved with his brush and settled for a bright smile, showing yellow, uneven teeth.

Gimilbeth nodded regally in greeting to the assembled company and made herself comfortable in a high-backed chair by the table, neatly arranging the folds of her richly-embroidered blue gown around her. She noticed how the girls exchanged glances and resumed their seats, trying to hold their backs straight and their faces blank.

Gimilbeth eyed the princesses in silence for some time, assessing them with her cold eyes. They have grown indeed, and she hadn’t noticed it before. Tarniel was becoming quite fair to look upon. If only she were not such a weak spiritless creature… As for Odaragariel, she was simply and utterly plain, and no fine dresses or priceless jewels could remedy to the fact. But that one had wit, at least, and a strong personality. All this would be wasted on this bore Daurendil…

Tarniel gulped and struggled for words, her duties as a hostess suddenly dawning on her. Her cheeks turned pink in embarrassment and she turned to Odaragariel for reassurance.

“The silly wench doesn’t even know how lovely she looks,” thought Gimilbeth with a wave of hate washing over her. The baby-sister that the King had foisted upon her needed no makeup to appear radiant, she could stay up all night long and remain lovely, she could weep and remain desirable… much as she was able to herself at fifteen.

“Wait till you are a hundred, my puppy,” thought Gimilbeth venomously. “Faithful as you are, you will be all gray and wrinkled at my age. And then you will die and go to a cold grave and worms will eat your flesh. That is the way of life.”

***

Thanks to a reassuring nod from Odaragariel, Tarniel regained her wits, took a deep breath, and looked to her half-sister, the evil witch and shame of the royal family. She managed a polite smile, though she both resented and feared Gimilbeth’s presence.

“Good morning, Gimilbeth. As you can see, Master Hurgon came to finish my portrait. What brings you to my chamber?”

Whatever it was, Tarniel hoped that the witch would leave quickly. She should not allow her half-sister to intimidate her so much! But given the woman’s dreadful reputation, bizarre habits and strange personality, who could help but shudder involuntarily at a visit from her? Tarniel was not alone in her uneasiness. She wondered what Gimilbeth’s true purpose in being here was, but guessed she would learn soon enough.

Gimilbeth did not reply at once. She seemed intent on taking her own time and manner in explaining her unexpected visit.

Odaragariel, realising that Tarniel was getting redder every second, now with indignation at not being answered, and that Hurgon was disintegrating on the spot under Gimilbeth’s beady stare, said, a little sharply, “Fair morning, lady Gimilbeth. I hope you have no special news to communicate with Tarniel… for if you do, I shall, of course, be glad to leave you in private.” Saying which, she stood up, and made a courteous half-bow.

Tarniel looked alarmed at the prospect of being left alone with the sister she regarded with a mixture of fear and revulsion, but at least Gimilbeth was forced to reply now.

“Oh, no, you may stay,” she replied. Odaragariel looked at her quizzically, and then sat down. “My business is not with her; though of course, I always love to drop in to see my lovely sister.”

This last was said in so insincere a tone, that Odare, at least, was certain Gimilbeth was about to make herself unpleasant. Steeling herself, she asked, “Do you, then, wish to discuss something with me?”

“I’m afraid not. There is someone else in this room, is there not?”

Hurgon, who had been trying to blend into the wall, was thus suddenly thrown into focus. All the eyes riveted to the poor, terrified painter. Hurgon gave a weak pathetic smile, and swayed on his feet again.

Gimilbeth could never tell why her mere presence made most people feel uneasy. The widespread rumors of her supernatural powers were hardly to blame, as she had the same effect on people even back in her youth, much like her grandmother Serinde did. Perhaps this spiritual kinship made the old Umbarian lady love her granddaughter so much, although she despised her father Tarnendur. Gimilbeth loved her grandmother in return, much more than she ever loved her parents, and she felt bereft at the news of Serinde’s death at a respectable age of 215 which came a year ago.

“Master Hurgon,” Gimilbeth said sweetly, never taking her eyes off the painter’s shaking form, “it is about the portrait you are painting. It has to be completed by the end of this month at the latest, but I will be MOST grateful, if you finish it even earlier.”

At that the painter bristled. He always took his painting very much to heart.

“But… Lady Gimilbeth… there is no way to finish this portrait in three weeks! It is a work of art, not some tavern sign painted anyhow in mere hours! I have to render faithfully the lady Tarniel’s likeness, and try to capture some of her sweet character as well….”

He would have rumbled on and on, but Gimilbeth stopped him raising her hand slightly.

“Pray let me finish, Master Hurgon,” she said, sterner now. “Nobody cares about the likeness. Make the young lady on the portrait beautiful and noble and sweet and richly dressed. That is all that is required. If Tarniel’s betrothed is disappointed later, upon seeing her in person, it is his problem.” Gimilbeth turned her head to look at Tarniel and smiled a cold, wintry smile.

Tarniel’s cheeks turned even redder. “Were you speaking of betrothal, Gimilbeth? I have not been told about it…”

Gimilbeth’s brows arched slightly and her eyes narrowed. “I suppose your mother has not yet steeled herself sufficiently to break the news gently to you. I will not interfere with her errand. Suffice to say, Tarniel, that your hand is the State property, so you have to abide by the King’s decision concerning your future marriage.”

Looking into Tarniel’s shocked face, Gimilbeth smiled sweetly and thought, “Indeed her hand is a trump card in the difficult game I am playing. I know not whom I may see fit to propose her: perhaps to this Beleg, or to his younger brother, or to the sons of Eldacar of Gondor, or to the sons of his rival Castamir, or, maybe, to this mysterious King of Angmar, who may be willing to accept the royal bride as weregild for his dead hound Broggha. I shall see how the cards are dealt.”

Gimilbeth rose and walked slowly towards the door. Edelbar rushed forward to open it for her. At the door, she turned and repeated, “The portrait must be ready by the end of the month, Master Hurgon. Pray do not forget. If you finish in time you will get a case of the finest Lebennin wine. If you don’t…” She left the last sentence hanging in the air ominously.

“Farewell, ladies.” Gimilbeth nodded her head in parting. Not waiting for the princesses to finish their farewells, she left the room. The princesses strained their ears trying to catch the sound of her retreating footsteps, but heard nothing. Only the big striped cat, which had followed Gimilbeth into the room and decided to stay on, seemed to be hearing a noise for some time. Then it relaxed, jumped onto the sofa, curled there and started licking its thick, glossy fur, purring softly.

When Tarniel was certain that Gimilbeth was not lurking about, she shuddered and cried, “Oh, what a horrid woman! The audacity of her, to barge in here merely to taunt me!”

Though Tarniel had already known beforehand that she was to be betrothed, for Odaragariel had informed her earlier that morning of the confidence which Tarniel’s brother had shared with her, she highly resented Gimilbeth’s lording her fate over her. Perhaps it was for the best that she had prior knowledge, for to be informed of her future by Gimilbeth was like being cursed by a witch.

So that was the meaning of the portrait – an advertisement for her future husband. At least Hurgon wanted to do her appearance honor, whereas Gimilbeth wanted it painted any old way, just so the end result resembled a young woman. It certainly sounded like her dear half-sister wanted to be rid of her as quickly as possible. Did she see her as a threat, or as a pawn?

Glancing to the cat, Tarniel narrowed her eyes. Why did Gimilbeth have to leave behind her wretched animal? She looked to Odaragariel, who was red-faced with anger, and Hurgon Fernik, who was attempting to calm down from the unpleasant encounter with the Witch of Cameth Brin.