Fitzjohn

[Axeknight]

Part one: Red banners, blue banners

The watchman, Thomas Style, first saw the riders. He awoke the bleary-eyed sergeant, a Scotsman who grunted and pronounced, “Bloody Lancers. See how they ride, Thomas? They always ride like that, hurtin’ the poor horses.” He looked out through the passing night, still half-asleep, before repeating, “Aye. Bloody Lancers.”
“What’s wrong with Lancers, Rob?” the watchman asked. He was still just a boy, and was not aware of the infantryman’s contempt of the mounted wing of the army.
“Rich buggers, that’s what’s wrong with ‘em. ‘Lord Fitzwilliamson, Duke of somewhereorother and commander of the King’s army’” the sergeant mocked, striking a stupid pose as he did. “‘Sides, they’re arrogant an’ all. ‘You, commoner, fetch my horse some hay’ they says” he looked down his nose at the watchman as he said this, again mocking the upper classes.
“Should I light the watchfire?” asked Style,
“Go on ‘en.”

The messenger stood in front of the Englishman, Baron Hugh Fitzjohn.
“Lord Stephan de Toulouse sends word, monsieur, zat ze armies of ze English King occupy ze land of Aquitaine against ze will of ze French people. ‘E asks zat you remove your armies from zis province, or ‘e will be forced to revert to crude warfare.”
“Tell the Lord Stephan, that this land belongs to King Henry II, and any attempt to take it will be resisted by the King’s armies. Now go!”
“My Lord, ze Lord Stephan de…”
“GO!” Fitzjohn interrupted fiercely. The messenger took the hint and left. “Damn their eyes. Langland!”

“Wrong arm, yer fool!” the sergeant laughed as the boy struggled to put on his chainmail coat.
“I knows. I knows.”
“Yer don’t, or yer’d put it on right the firs’ time!”
“What’s these Frenchies like anyway?”
“Same as you English. Knights in fancy armour and ord’nary men in no armour. Rich men leadin’ poor men.”
“But…”
“But nothin’. All comes down to who’s got more men, or better weapons, or wha’ever. No, the shield goes on the left arm ye eejit!”

A calm, fine day. A lovely day, were it not for the French. A month had passed since the messengers had left, indignantly trotting out of the castle as though it belonged to them. Soon, God forbid, it might thought Fitzjohn, surveying his men.
“Frenchies forming up in the valley, sir. #Looks like about 5,000 men, sir.” Panted the scout, out of breath from the run up the hill that the English army was positioned on.
Damn their eyes 5,000! That’s twice what we have! Let’s hope those Welshmen do their jobs right.
“Those longbows are frightening, sir.” The scout seemed to know what he was thinking.
“Hmm… Cavalry on the flanks, Langland?” he turned to his squire.
“Yes, sir”
“Good. The whole battle rests on those Welshmen.” He gestured to the longbowmen forming up behind the wall of spears, “God help us.”

They could see the French now. Their blue banners swayed in the air above blocks of blue soldiers. The sun glinted off their spears, swords and shields. All was still. The French commander was probably still deciding whether to launch the cavalry scouts, or just attack. Rob Ross and Thomas Style stood close to the centre of the English line, two of the ‘lucky’ ones. The front row, about as lucky as the pox. They rested their heavy spears on their shoulders, like all the other soldiers. Their teardrop shields were attached to their left forearms, creating a form of the old ‘shield wall’ their ancestors had fought in. The line seemed to stretch forever to their left and right. Behind them were the longbowmen, those tough Welshman who held their massive bows down by their sides. Off in the distance, they could see the scouts trading the first blows of the engagement, the horsemen now attacking each other, now withdrawing, now attacking. It seemed so far away, down there in the valley, as though the battle was just there, and didn’t apply up on the hill. The English horsemen withdrew first. First blood to the French, it seemed from the line. The initial skirmishes were over, now, and the French began to advance.

“Here they come, sir.”
“Hmm… Move the line forward ten paces.” Fitzjohn stood at the back, just to the right of the centre, as the ancient generals had done.
“Aye, sir.” Langland then shouted, “LINE WILL MOVE TEN PACES FORWARDS!” The various officers and sergeants along the line repeated the order, and slowly the line shuffled forwards.
“Faster, damn you! My God, I hope they move their mangy, pox-ridden hides a little faster when the French arrive!” Fitzjohn rode forward his ten paces, and then said, “Langland, I’m going to the longbowmen. Who’s commanding them? Anyway, I’m going to give the orders there. Whoever it is, they’ll probably end up firing far too early.”

The French were at the foot of the hill, now, and behind them Ross and Style heard Fitzjohn roaring orders they didn’t understand, his sword raised. Suddenly, he swept his sword down, and the sky went black. The bodkin arrows shot overheard. The young ones crouched and covered their heads. The veterans just stood, knowing that the longbowmen were better than that. The arrows struck the front row of the French line, and bodies fell, the line weakening for a second, but then the men behind stepped forwards, and the line kept marching up the hill as though nothing had happened.
“Merciful Lord” Style, pious to the end, exclaimed to Ross, who just stood, facing forward. He was waiting for the French reply. There, the French crossbowmen stopped, took aim, and fired. But the morning air had dampened their strings, and those that did fire fell short. A few lucky shots, a few dead, but nothing serious. The longbows answered, their strings better looked after, their arrows doing real damage. Again, the French stepped over their dead, and kept going.
“Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Protect me, Lord, from those who wish to do me harm. Amen.” The Scotsman looked up again, reassured now.

“Send the Cavalry out wide. We’ll hold them, then flank them.”
“Sir.” The cavalryman rode back to the body of armoured, mounted Knights.
“When the Frenchy gets to that point,” Fitzjohn gestured to a piece of scrub twenty paces ahead of the English line, “charge.”
“Sir.” The spear officer did as the cavalryman had done, walking back to his line.

The longbows had fired about ten volleys at the enemy line, now, and they would have to stop soon, Fitzjohn knew, as he swept down his sword, ordering the eleventh volley at the French line. They were getting close, and the longbows would soon be forced to concentrate on the enemy crossbowmen, as the spears of both lines would be locked together, inseparable.
“You!” Fitzjohn gestured to the man who was supposed to be in command. What was his name? Never mind. “You have command of these Welshmen. Target the crossbowmen.”
“Sir. The crossbowmen, sir.” The man knew not to aggravate Fitzjohn with questions. That just made him angrier.
“Don’t repeat it, DO IT!”
“Yes, sir Bowmen, present!”
“Now where are those damned cavalrymen? Langland!”

“Where are those cav’lrymen? Rich buggers…” Ross scanned the horizon, always returning to the French line, always looking for the second when the enemy spearmen began to run, when the fight began.
“Gone, Rob. Gone.” Style looked distraught.
“Better off without ‘em. Now look for’ard, boy!”

There, they were at that piece of scrub he’d shown. Why isn’t that spear officer charging his men? And where are those damned cavalry? Damn them all! Fitzjohn dismounted, shoving the reins of his horse at Langland. He was running through the longbowmen, who were now duelling with the enemy crossbows. There, the line of spearmen. He kept running.
“Charge! Charge, damn your eyes! CHARGE!” #He reached the front row, “Damn you all Charge, you pox-ridden, stinking cowards” he screamed as the men reacted to the heavily armoured Baron in their front row, and began to run forwards.

“Come, on Thomas! Let’s go!” shouted Ross as the Baron came up level with them. They began to run at the French, the gap closed, and then the two lines struck.

Fitzjohn was still with the spearmen, swinging his huge sword at the blue spearmen in front of him. To his left and right, he could see the line was holding. A Frenchman thrust his spear at him. Fitzjohn batted it aside, snarled, and reversed his parry into the man’s neck. Prising the sword away from the limp body, he stabbed at the Frenchman to his left. He twisted the blade free, and glanced to his left and right. Still holding. Good. He parried another thrust, this time hacking down at the man’s shoulder. He had to get out of the spear block if he was to command the battle, but he couldn’t leave, the men would think he was running away. He stabbed a Frenchman in the guts, twisting the sword to free it as the man slumped. He couldn’t leave the fight. He’d have to leave the other aspects of the battle to his subordinates. Damn.

Ross and Style were close to Fitzjohn, still in the centre of the battle line. They thrusted their spears at the French, parrying and deflecting blows on their shields as they did. Ross was fighting like a demon, screaming Highland war cries. He caught a spear on his shield, stabbing the man in the ribs. The spear stuck. He let go, still catching blows on his shield. He thrust the end at a Frenchman, catching him in the stomach. He then used the metal boss to smash the man’s skull. Scrabbling for a weapon, he picked up a French spear. Screaming a challenge, he got up, driving the spear up into the ribs of a Frenchman about to skewer Style. #Men were falling left and right. Out of the corner of his eye, Ross saw one of the red banners fall. It was quickly hoisted up again, and brought back into the third rank, where it was safe.

Casualties seemed even to Fitzjohn, it was a case of who lost their nerve first and ran. A few men running would send the rest flying. That could not happen.
“Hold firm! Hold Firm!” he hacked and slashed at the blue soldiers, snarling like a madman. A Frenchman lunged at him; he parried the blow and stabbed the man in the neck. The man behind him did not step forward into his place. Instead he turned and ran. The men next to him, seeing their comrade flee, also ran. Just as Fitzjohn had hoped, the enemy had lost their nerve first. The rout snowballed and soon the French battle line was in full flight. He saw some men about to chase the routing French.
“Hold position! A pox on any man who chases!” he could not give up the high ground. Fitzjohn turned, heading back to the command position to find out how the rest of the battle was going.

“We beat them back Rob! We beat them!” Style was elated.
“They might not even come back.” Ross did not believe this, not for a second, but he had to keep Style from panicking.
“Line will move back five paces.” Said the officer, repeating the orders he had just been given. Although they could still see the bodies of their comrades and enemies, they needn’t stand on them, so the line was moving back. Ross and Style turned and shuffled back, hearing the worse educated soldiers counting the steps aloud on their fingers.

“THE BAGGAGE TRAIN? THEY’RE LOOTING THE BAGGAGE TRAIN?” Fitzjohn’s face was a most unhealthy shade of deep purple. “WELL TELL THEM TO GET THEIR ARMOURED BACKSIDES BACK HERE. NOW!” the cavalry officer, in his infinite cavalryman’s wisdom, was miles away, looting the French tents and wagons. Damn him. Damn the cavalry. Damn everything. Climbing back onto his horse, he saw the French; now back at the bottom of the valley. The crossbows and longbows had long run out of arrows and bolts, and the lines of spear were slowly reforming, far back from the lines. If only he had the cavalry, Fitzjohn could charge downhill, routing the crossbowmen and cavalry, who would then rout the spearmen, again. The battle would be over in minutes. But his only horses were himself and his bodyguards. He stared at the Welshmen, taking off their bows and empty quivers, sitting down on the grass. The Welshmen! They don’t have armour to slow them down, and we can catch the armoured crossbowmen easily Yes, he would turn the bowmen into a scratch light infantry unit. He would have preferred Highlanders, those tough clansmen. Oh, for a few hundred clansmen!
“Langland! Tell those idle Welshmen,” he gestured at the bowmen sitting on the grass, “to leave their bows, quivers, and anything else they use for archery. Swords and round-shields only.”
“Sir?” Langland did not understand
“They’re going to charge.”
“Charge, Sir?”
“Yes Charge, Langland”
“Sir.” Langland gave in, “LONGBOWS, DROP ARCHERY EQUIPMENT. SWORDS AND SHIELDS ONLY!”

“Eh? What’s happening, Rob?”
“I don’t know laddy. I don’t know.”
“Company, loose formation. Let the Welshmen through.” The order was passed along the line, and a low murmur spread down the line.
“The bowmen, Rob?” Ross simply shrugged, and took his two paces right before facing forwards again. Style, who now understood he wouldn’t get an answer, did the same.

“Bowmen, on me Charge!” Fitzjohn and his bodyguards galloped down the hill, not even looking back to see if the bowmen were following. #They needn’t have bothered, anyway. The bowmen, confused by the orders as they were, were running down the hill, looking menacing. About the first time I’ve ever seen a Welshman look menacing, let alone hundreds of them! thought Fitzjohn as he levelled his cavalryman’s lance, ready for the charge. He and his bodyguards were far in front of the bowmen. But by the time the Frenchy had reacted to my charge, those Welshmen would have arrived. The spearmen behind closed and began to run down the hill. What? That wasn’t what I told Langland! Damn him to hell!

“Line will charge!” the officer shouted, once again merely the messenger, the relay from senior officers to men. Oh, but to be a general He thought as the men began to jog down the hill.

“We’re off, sonny” Ross was still confused as to the bowmen, but it felt good to be the one acting, rather than reacting. He jogged, trying to avoid the bodies that lay where the French attack had been. Style was looking sick. Getting past the bodies, they saw the general’s men strike the line of crossbowmen.

Fitzjohn thrust his lance at the nearest crossbowman, skewering him. The lance splintered. Damn! He unsheathed his sword, hacking to the left and right of his horse. A Frenchman aimed his crossbow, with a bolt he had found on the ground at Fitzjohn, and fired. But the bowstring was damp, and the bolt did not fire. Dropping the unwieldy crossbow, the man scrabbled for his dagger. Fitzjohn snarled, and slashed at his throat. The man fell. Stabbing another, he twisted the blade free as the Welshmen arrived. The crossbowmen wavered, then ran.

The spearmen were not far behind the bowmen, and soon the battle line had reformed, spear then bow, ready to meet the cavalry. Except they didn’t.

Fitzjohn had the initiative; he had to press the charge home. His men hacked at the fleeing crossbowmen.
“Knights! To me!” the bodyguards soon reformed. “Their general! Twenty gold pieces to the man who kills him!” he put his exhausted horse into a last gallop, whispering to it “Just this one more, Copenhagen, then you can rest.” The French general (What was his name? Lord Stephan de somewhereorother) and his bodyguards were up ahead. As he closed, he saw the cavalry arrive from the baggage train, straight into the fleeing spearmen and crossbowmen. That’s the one thing they can do right, he reflected, chase down routing troops. And people call them chivalrous #He closed with the French general’s men, again hacking left and right. #However, the French lord turned out to have nothing to back up the tough words he had sent the previous month. He and his men turned and fled, and he saw one of his men cut down a knight with a plume in his helmet. Damn. I’d hoped to kill the man myself, save the expense. That’s twenty pieces gone. #

Fitzjohn dismounted in front of the men, walking along the line of spears, rapping his knuckles on their breastplates.
“You did well today, men. The glory of the crown and the army is preserved!” he reached to end of the front row of spears, and walked past the others to the bowmen behind “And you lot did reasonably well, too. I’m pleased.” a cheer broke out among the ranks of Welshmen.

“Hey, he rapped his knuckles on me breastplate, Rob! And yours, too!” Style was ecstatic.
“Aye, he did. Said we did well. He may be a rich bugger, an’ he may have the temper of a rabid wolf, but I like that Baron Fitzjohn. Brave rich bugger.”

*EDIT* had to put in italics for the thoughts
*EDITY EDIT* am the king of typoes...
*EDIFICATE* reitalicising for new thread

[Axeknight]

Part two: Men of the night

“Monsieur, monsieur!” The man walked slowly through the street, always looking to his sides. He pretended to shrug off the attentions of the local woman, looking to profit from his apparent loneliness, and slipped the note into her hand without breaking his stride. The night was dangerous; the man had to be careful. He wore a large, ill-fitting cape, with a pair of breeches with the stripes that were fashionable the previous year, and a shirt that was fashionable two years previously, and a sword in an ever so slightly rusty scabbard. In all, he looked like a not particularly well-off man at arms, not nearly so rich as a Knight or Lord, but not a peasant, either. He headed down the street, still nervously touching his sword from time to time. He had to keep up the ‘poorish man at arms’ act, or he would arouse suspicion. And ‘poorish men at arms’ were all afraid of being robbed. There were plenty of professional soldiers in the town, men who could not afford their own armour and had taken theirs from dead nobles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a soldier accept the offer from the woman he had refused. They went into the inn. The man kept on walking. The soldier was Celine’s business now.

“I will do it, monsieur. Now money, monsieur.” Celine looked nervously about her,
“Good, good. Here it is, my Celine, here it is.” The man spoke soothingly, and handed over the cloth bag.
“Thank you, monsieur, thank you.”
“Now go. Make sure no one sees you. Go back to your corner. The militia knows you, they won’t pester you.”
“Yes. Thank you, monsieur!” the woman walked quickly away, hiding the bag. You can always rely on them, reflected the man, to do anything for money. After all, that’s how they make their living.

Baron Hugh Fitzjohn was now known to his men as ‘Hero of Aquitaine’, or, in quieter company ‘The Rabid Baron’, due to his unquestionable battle prowess and even less questionably short temper. Although the men feared his anger, they also liked him. He sat at his oak table, reading and rereading the letter he had been sent.


# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Year of our Lord 1260,
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Royal Estates


Hugh Fitzjohn, of the Barony of Saint-Jean-de-Luz,

His Highness King Henry II, Lord of England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland and rightful Lord of France, recognizes your glorious victory of late. His highness is pleased, and has decided, in his divine-given wisdom, to grant you a contingent of five hundred of his majesty’s knights, that you may better defend the province of Aquitaine against those who would falsely claim France for their own.

Your humble servant,
W. de Montfort, King’s secretary


After the fourth reread of the letter, Fitzjohn finally spoke,
“Langland! Our food provisions; how are they?”
“We can just support what we have, Sir, little more.”
“Damn them! Of all the reinforcements I could have been sent… Welsh longbowmen, spearmen, men-at-arms… Of all the reinforcements, they give me knights! Five hundred infantrymen I could feed, but five hundred well-fed knights and nigh-on a thousand horses with them! Langland, how goes our economy?”
“The crop was less than expected last year, Sir, though a trading expedition set out from our harbour last year, they may be back soon, God willing.”
“Let us hope they come back, and with something expensive!”

The man rode swiftly through the forest, his scabbard clanging against his boot. He held on to the scabbard with his free hand. He couldn’t be caught now, after all these months spent without suspicion. Breaking out of the forest, he saw the border, and the fort. The watchfire was dull, untended. Good. That meant the watchmen were distracted. #Riding closer, he heard her laughter. Celine was inside. The man broke into a gallop, rode past the fort, and down into the valley below. Safety.

He had ridden hard, and got to Toulouse two days later. After a night’s restless sleep, filled with the nightmares, he was on the streets. He was dressed normally; he did not need the man-at-arms disguise anymore. He turned right down a filthy back alley, the walls foully discoloured by blood and vomit, and saw the Alehouse. Or rather, heard it. The best way, he had learnt, to find an illegal Alehouse was to listen for the brawling that perpetually went on. Bracing himself, he stepped inside. #Half expecting a sudden silence to fall when he entered, he was relieved when he saw all the customers watching the brawl in the far corner. Both of the fighters were obviously drunk to oblivion, and one seemed to have broken his ankle. The other threw a haphazard punch at the first’s face, connecting with his jaw. The first fighter fell heavily into one of the tables, shattering it. At this, the bartender ran over, apparently to break up the fight. Instead, he kicked the first fighter in the groin.
“Don’t touch my tables!”

The ship docked, and a great cheer rose up from the sailors. It was a small duel-sail-square-rigged galley designed for speed, and had left Bergerac port last year brand new, with barely a scratch on her gold-leafed finishings. She now arrived home with barely an inch of her original sailcloth remaining, the mizenmast gone, reducing her to a single sail, and dozens of holes, some left unplugged. The captain clambered down the netting, jumping onto the pontoon with an air of total relief. He dusted himself down, his ‘best uniform’ now looking like something left to the moths for a number of years, and with the blue colour and green facings faded. Striding down the pontoon, he saw the Baron waiting ashore.
“Captain Stephen Cresacre, captain of his majesty’s ship Cecilia reporting, sir.”
“Never mind that. What have you? Pray it is expensive!”
“I bring spices, Sir, from the land of…”
“I do not care what God-forsaken corner of the heathen world it comes from,” interrupted Fitzjohn, “is it expensive? I have one thousand horses to feed, on top of the rest of the army’s pay.”
“These spices, Sir, are exotic spices. I bring you, for example,” he brought out a jar from his jacket, filled with black granules, “pepper. Smell it, sir.” Fitzjohn snatched the jar from his hands, and brought it up to his nose. He immediately jerked his head away, and sneezed.
“My God, and what do you believe can be done with that? Smelling salts?”
“No Sir, ‘tis a spice for the seasoning of food.” Replied the Captain. Fitzjohn looked at him incredulously,
“I swear the devil himself would not something so foul-smelling on his meals! What else have you?”

“I have a job for a man like you.”
“What?” the second fighter asked
“There is a lot of gold for you if you do it.” The man took out the cloth bag and dangled it in front of the fighter. He stared at it, then lunged. It was a drunken, uncoordinated lunge, and the man sidestepped to the left, leaving the fighter unbalanced. He hit the floor without even seeming to try to stay upright, out cold. The man shook his head, and moved to the next table.
“The job is still open.” Again, he dangled the bag in front of the butch-looking Spaniard with the bloodstains on his shirt
“What do I have to do?” asked the butch-looking Spaniard. Sitting down at the table, the man hushed his voice to a whisper,
“I want you to kill someone.”

“Langland! Set up a meeting with the Duke. I must ask for further supplies, if we are to feed these horses.” Fitzjohn had sat up most of the night, by the fire of his office, so still a passer-by would assume he were a statue. With nothing useful on the ship, he had no other option than to go and ask for more supplies. He hated that, as he hated asking anyone for anything.
“Yes, Sir.” Langland hurried off to find a messenger.

“The Duke says that the Baron must attend in two days’ time.” The messenger told Langland, before riding off to the stables.
“The Duke asks that you attend in two days’ time, Sir.” Langland told Fitzjohn, in his office, subtly changing the words used so as not to send the Baron into a flying rage. Langland had been the Baron’s squire in battle and assistant in peace for years, and knew how to keep him calm, for the most part. A lot of the Baron’s rages were inevitable, however, and Langland had learnt, over the years, how to deal with those too. He merely stood, agreed, and didn’t offer any suggestions. Rather like a sergeant to his officers, thought Langland to himself with a smirk. Once he found the messenger, he told him,
“The Baron will attend.”

The Spaniard’s name was Diego, and he had fled his home in Navarre years ago, when he was called up to fight in the King’s armies. He had decided becoming a pincushion for enemy arrows was not for him, and ran. Once in Toulouse, he had tried to get a job as an apprentice to a metalsmith, but had had little luck and now spent the few gold pieces he got as a rat-killer drowning his sorrows in the Alehouses. But now that had changed. The mysterious man at the Alehouse two days ago had offered him more money than he had ever seen in his life, and he was sure, with the limited military training he had received before his desertion, that he could survive after he had done the deed. Now, he skulked in the bushes around the castle. Although he had not wanted to attack in daylight, he had intercepted a rider on the road away from the castle. The messenger had told him the Duke was leaving the next day, after a meeting with a minor Baron. Checking the outer walls behind him for guards, he began to move, running hunched over until he reached the wall of the keep. The guard was still gone. He took out the oriental grappling hook provided by the Alehouse man, swinging it around his head, before throwing it at the window. He began to climb.

Fitzjohn rode through the gates and up to the keep. When challenged at the doorway, he responded with an angry ‘Fitzjohn!’ not breaking his stride as he walked into the keep. Having been to Bordeaux Castle before, Fitzjohn knew that the Duke’s office was on the second floor. He jogged up the spiral steps, his sword clanking against his boots. On the first floor, he was again challenged, and responded,
“Fitzjohn! I have an appointment!”
“The Duke is busy, you shall have…” the squire told him
“I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT!” Fitzjohn interrupted savagely, again not breaking his stride.

The Duke of Aquitaine, Henry de Bourneville, walked into his office. He walked slowly, which allowed Diego to creep up from his hiding place behind the door without hurrying. He got close to the Duke, drew his knife, and stabbed him in the back of the neck. The Duke retched; Diego clasped his hand around the Duke’s mouth, and twisted the blade. Henry de Bourneville died quietly. Diego slowly released his grasp, letting the Duke down slowly so as not to make a noise. At that point the door burst open.

“My Duke, I am here…” Fitzjohn strode in talking, then stopped abruptly. The first thing he noticed, due to the fact he had his head bowed, was the blood. He looked up to see a tanned man with a dagger who had been dragging the Duke’s body, but had stopped, paralyzed by shock. Diego lunged, dagger drawn. Fitzjohn crouched low and grabbed Diego around the ankles, dropping him to the ground. Fitzjohn drew his sword, pointing it at Diego’s throat.
“Who are you? Answer, you devil!” Diego rolled sideways, grappling for his dagger. He stood facing Fitzjohn. This time Fitzjohn lunged with his sword. Diego parried with the dagger. Fitzjohn, still trying to break Diego’s parry, dropped his left hand down by his side. He drew his own dagger from his boot and thrust it into the assassin’s stomach.
“WHO SENT YOU?” Fitzjohn repeated,
“…Sounded…French…” Diego died as the guards came rushing in to the office from their posts at the stairwells.
“Damn your eyes! God damn your eyes! Why did you not hear, you fools?” Fitzjohn’s gaze flicked from guard to guard, then back to the body of the Duke. “God damn you all!”

The advisor rushed into the throne room, panting,
“My Lord, my Lord Terrible news!”
“What? Speak man.” King Henry II looked up from the war reports written by his generals
“The Duke of Aquitaine, my Lord. He is dead! He was assassinated! Baron Fitzjohn of Saint-Jean-de-Luz sends word of his death, and of the assassin’s testimony before death that the French filled his purse.”
“He had children?”
“No, my Lord. He was a bachelor.”
“Then we must appoint a successor. What was the Baron’s name?”
“Fitzjohn, my Lord. Hugh Fitzjohn, of the Barony of Saint-Jean-de-Luz.”
“The same Fitzjohn who defeated the armies of the French in Aquitaine?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Appoint him Duke.”

Langland stepped into the Baron’s office holding a letter.
“Sir, a letter for you. It bears the Royal seal.”
“Oh, God, not another thousand Knights’ horses to feed?” Fitzjohn sighed as he took the letter. Breaking the seal, he opened the envelope and read the letter.


# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Year of our Lord 1260,
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #Royal Estates


Hugh Fitzjohn, of the Barony of Saint-Jean-de-Luz,

His highness King Henry II received your letter informing him of the death of Henry de Bourneville, Duke of Aquitaine. As the Duke had no sons, his highness chose a successor the title of Duke. After careful consideration, and owing to your victory in battle of late, he has appointed you as successor to the Duchy. You are now to take full control of the province of Aquitaine, and shall govern it at the King’s pleasure until death or King’s decision to withdraw his title. He also grants generalship of all armies, excluding Royally commanded armies in the province, that you may defend the King’s holdings or pursue any offensive action your King sees fit.

Your ever humble servant,
W. de Monfort, King’s secretary


“Langland?”
“Yes, Baron?” asked Langland, confused as to Fitzjohn’s sudden cheeriness.
“In future, Langland, you must answer ‘Yes, Duke’.”

*EDIT* trying to get 2 letters right
*EDITOID* will get letters right if it kills me
*EDIFYING EDITS* have failed
*TOUCH MY EDIFICATIONS, BABY* reitalicising for new thread

[Axeknight]

Thoughts and comments so far

frogbeastegg

Exploding amphibian and all round word mangler



3 HOF Awards 2003
Group: Moderator
Posts: 1328
Joined: June 2003
Somewhere in UK Posted: Mar. 30 2004,17:25

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Things move slowly around here, and comments can be quite rare so don't feel disheartened.

Nice piece, it reminded me a bit of Bernard Cornwall. About the only useful thing I can pass on is something my own proofreader told me (he goes through the stories after I post them). The first word inside any speech marks should be capitalised, after those speech marks you don't need to capitalise the non-speech stuff...er, bad explanation. Demo:
I fear I shall die of old age before this demo finishes downloading exclaimed frogbeastegg, Good thing I have a story to read while I wait or I would be in danger of dozing off at the keyboard.




Axeknight

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Isle of Man Posted: Mar. 30 2004,17:39

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Thanks Lady Frog Yeah, I read alot of Cornwell, and I'm really enjoying the Aubrey/Maturin tales of Patrick o' Brian. Bit of a historical fiction nut.

Dang I knew that speech mark thing Just forgot while writing. I can be so stupid

I now know what you meant when you said that the characters in your Princess Eleanor (sp?) series just told you what was going to happen and you wrote it. My characters didn't even have the decency to tell me They just ran off, insulting me as they went Ross and Style were going to be bit characters - just there in the first scene to start it off - but then they turned up at the battle, in the spear line. And Fitzjohn was supposed to stay put, the idea being that the story could be told from the point of view of the commander, ordering people about, and the ordinary soldiers (Ross and Style), following the orders. But then the spears didn't charge, and he just ran off I couldn't call him back, so I had to have him fight.

P.S For extra points, guess the V&Vs Fitzjohn would have if he were in MTW...

*EDIT* Gah, typoes

Edited by Axeknight on Mar. 30 2004,18:15




Ludens

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Nagashino, behind the Palisade Posted: April 07 2004,18:04

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Creative critisism? I am sorry, but I am not good at that .

Good job, Axeknight. A nice battle report. I liked the way you kept switching between perspectives, although you might have done it a little too often at the end. Fitzjohn's character was also good.
The only thing that is required to make this a real story, in stead of 'just' a battle report, is a theme. You need to give a reason for the story. Why is this battle? Why are the characters here? Why do they do what they do? But such a thing is hard (and not really necessary) when writing a battle report. But anyway, you did a fine job, and I look forward to reading more from you.



Axeknight

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Isle of Man Posted: April 07 2004,18:26

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First off, thanks for your comments, Ludens Any creative criticism is appreciated.

Erm... When you say 'battle report' do you mean MTW-related? Cause this battle has never happened to me in the game, 'twas just 'sumfing wot I wrote', so to speak.

Yeah, I want to write more for these characters, as I like them, but at the moment they're about as deep as your average paddling pool. Hopefully, if I get round to it, I'll finish the next bit.

As far as a 'reason', I'm hoping to turn this one battle into a campaign, where Fitzjohn (Word kept changing the name with spellcheck to 'Fit John', v. annoying) rises in station from being a Baron in charge of a small garrison force in a far corner of France, to... well, you'll see. The same goes for the two soldiers, Ross and Style. They're tied to Fitzjohn and will also rise in station. I want to make more of Style. He doesn't actually do much in this bit, except be a bit annoying. I really like Ross, though. Expect more anti-rich, anti-knight comments from the Scottish one...

But I'm going to write more than just battles (this is all if I get round to it, BTW), there'll hopefully be spying, assassinations, raiding and pillaging, politics, etc.




Ludens

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Nagashino, behind the Palisade Posted: April 07 2004,18:52

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Quote (Axeknight @ April 07 2004,18:26)
When you say 'battle report' do you mean MTW-related? Cause this battle has never happened to me in the game, 'twas just 'sumfing wot I wrote', so to speak.

What I mean with 'battle report' is the kind of story which gives the events from one battle, perhaps with a few actors to liven things up, and thats it. Indeed, they usually originate from MTW (or STW in my case). They tend to be rather dry because the only one who is really interested in the battle is the one who fought it.
A real story is not a dry summary of what happened. A real story always has a underlying 'reason' or pattern. This 'theme' of the story lets it make sense: events in the story do not happen without a reason.

Quote
As far as a 'reason', I'm hoping to turn this one battle into a campaign, where Fitzjohn rises in station from being a Baron in charge of a small garrison force in a far corner of France, to... well, you'll see.

Well, this is a theme. I hope you can find time to write a story about it.
Anyway, this was a battle report so I didn't expect a theme in the first place.

Quote
Word kept changing the name with spellcheck to 'Fit John', v. annoying

You can switch of auto-correction for spelling errors with extra > auto-correction and then removing the tag at the bottom of the window. This is how it works in Word 2000.

And I completely forgot to thank Froggy for the tip about speech marks
Thank you
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nick_maxell

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US East Posted: April 09 2004,08:27

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Very nice axeknight

I liked the multiple charakters narrating from their point of view but I have to go with Ludens that an underlying theme or reason for the battle would have made the story much stronger (disregarding the MTW connection). I found your highlanders not very convincing as even today the language they call English is very different and at that time was for most commoners gaelic - so drop in the gaelic word for fat rich man on horseback to spice them up a bit. Also nobles spoke french so your hero fitz should have known the exact name as it was possibly his first cousin ;) - just my 2 cents keep up the good work



nick
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Axeknight

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Isle of Man Posted: April 09 2004,14:48

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Thanks for the comments Nick

I like the idea of using gaelic - shall try to get Ross to curse in Scots gaelic... And Fitzjohn shall learn some French swearwords too

The next part is 25% done. Not much of Style or Ross in it, not so much action either, but its coming together nicely, if slowly.




Axeknight
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Joined: Mar. 2004Isle of Man
Posted: April 22 2004,22:00


First off, sorry about the 2 letters. They looked OK in Word, but I couldn't get them to align properly here.Although some bits of this second part may seem pointless, I thought it might be useful to show Fitzjohn having to deal with the other stuff that nobles had to deal with (supply problems etc), so he's not just some uber-general who spends all his time fighting. Also, I wanted him to make his first move up the food-chain in style, so I had to have the Duke assassinated. Also, I wanted to do the Alehouse scene. A lot. The 'mysterious man' wasn't given a name cause I didn't want to humanise him too much - I wanted to give the idea of a shadowy, nameless figure. That said, writing 'the man' all the time made me feel 6 years old again Diego, the assassin, was humanised a bit more (well, as well as I can), I filled in his background a little to show why he'd accept such a dangerous job. The ship bit was designed as some light relief, Fitzjohn condemning pepper as something 'the devil himself [would not] put on his food'.Ross and Style are conspicuously missing from part 2. Any Ross or Style fans (anyone? No ), they'll play a bigger role in part 3 (I'm thinking maybe a crusade or offensive into French territory).Once again, any thoughts/comments are more than welcome

The Wizard
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Het gewest Holland
Posted: May 01 2004,22:15


Well, a nice story. Well written, but sometimes you kind of have trouble keeping up the pace. If you succeed in doing that, I think we're in for a ride. ~Wiz


Axeknight
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Isle of Man
Posted: May 01 2004,23:53


Thanks for the comments, Wiz Rereading it, I can see your point about the pace. Shall have to think about that more when I get around to writing part 3. I'm hoping to have 'The Rabid Duke' do some invading next . Lotsa pillaging for Ross and Style, then

[Axeknight]

Okay, new thread, new start. Old topic needed a name change, and this was the only way. Thanks again, Monk http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/wink.gif

[frogbeastegg]

Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ May 09 2004,21:21)]Old topic needed a name change, and this was the only way.
Um, I hate to be the bearer of not so good news, but topics can be renamed by mods...I know because I renamed my beginner's guide last week. You need to be a full mod to to it though.

[Monk]

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ May 09 2004,17:21)]
Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ May 09 2004,21:21)]Old topic needed a name change, and this was the only way.
Um, I hate to be the bearer of not so good news, but topics can be renamed by mods...I know because I renamed my beginner's guide last week. You need to be a full mod to to it though.
I suspected as much but i just didn't know for sure, and for some reason i was doubtful of my first thoughts (like always). I guess it could have helped in keeping the mead hall a tidy place if the topic had just been renamed, but eventually that closed topic will fall off the page and there shall be much rejoicing.

The Mead hall isn't that messy...well my little corner is a bit dusty, aside from uploading screens i havn't been doing a lot of Mod work; which for me means reading, reading, and... well more reading. :grabs broom: might as well clean up a bit while i'm here.

Thanks for clearing that up froggy, i'll be sure to remember that from now on.

[Axeknight]

And so the Gods of the Mead Hall saw what the errant member had done, and they were not pleased. The illustrious Hall of Stories had been befouled by the sinner Axeknight, and they sent a great flood which destroyed the foul board-ruiner and his satanic topics.

V. sorry http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-dunce2.gif

[Axeknight]

Part three: Hunting for the Banquet

The drums from the parade ground filtered up to the Duke’s private study. Tossing the farming reports aside, he went to the window. He watched as a group of the soldiers who had fought with him the previous year fell back into their place around the outside of the parade ground, and another unit stepped into the hollow space. The drum rolls began again, and the unit started marching, their officers keeping them in perfect line, bellowing orders. #Out past the curtain walls, the light cavalry were changing formation at speed. At the sound of a bugle, the cavalrymen spread wide; at another, they formed a tight wedge. The Duke’s mind wandered, to gently rolling plains, to forests, to the countryside. He swore, in French, thinking of the reports he had to read, the orders to sign and seal, and the annoying people he had to see. He swore again, using his preferred French for swearwords.
“Langland! Our horses, if you would. We’re going hunting.”

The two fast riders arrived at Bordeaux Castle not long after the Duke had left. They had presented the King’s seal when challenged, and had asked after the Duke at the gate.
“Message for the Duke.”
“Gone ‘unting. In th’ forest” Ross had the gate, and had been sharpening his spear point. Style was in the next room, and came running in.
“A message fer the Duke? You’ll be lucky. He’s ‘unting, and he’s in one of ‘is rages. He won’t take kindly to disturbin’, an’ he might jus’ kill yer.” Ross and Style both bit their tongues to suppress the laughter as the riders looked at one another. Life under the Rabid Duke had its plus points.
“We…we’ll stay here until he gets back. The gate, if you please.”

Langland dismounted, gave Fitzjohn his longbow, and took his own. The Duke had had them made after seeing the Welshmen use them in battle. He dismounted as well, took a bodkin from the quiver, gave another to Langland, and notched it into the bowstring. Pulling the heavy string back, he aimed at the boar. He let the string go by his ear, and arrow flew straight into the boar’s flank. It squealed, fell, and Langland ran and dispatched it with his short sword.
“The next is yours, Langland.” Fitzjohn put back his longbow, dragged the boar to a large oak tree so it could be found later, and remounted. They set off, looking left and right for another boar, or, better, a deer. Though he had spent the best part of five years in France, he was still not sure if there were deer in the countryside. He had decided never to ask anyone, but to find out for himself. Perhaps I shall find the French deer today; he thought idly, I shall bring it back myself.

Langland had been trying to build the necessary courage for days, now, and was still unsure as he opened his mouth,
“My Duke?” he had drawn attention to himself, now, there was no going back. The Duke reined Copenhagen in, and looked at Langland quizzically.
“Yes, Langland?”
“I humbly request, my Duke,” he took a deep breath, “permission, Sir,” another deep breath, “to marry, Sir.”
“I am sorry. What did you say, Langland?” Fitzjohn stared at him
“Nothing, Sir. Nothing” Langland tried desperately to salvage the situation.
“No, I heard you, Langland.” Fitzjohn smiled ruefully,
“I am sorry, Sir. Not the time, should never have asked, Sir. Please forgive me.” Fitzjohn laughed out loud,
“Langland, my man, betrothed? I had no idea! My, this is a surprise! Ha, ha ha, betrothed, Langland! Betrothed! What is her name?” Langland let out a mighty sigh of relief, and reflected that this was the best mood he’d seen Fitzjohn in since he had been made Duke last year.
“Her name is Catherine.” Langland smiled, and Fitzjohn smiled too, recognizing the look on the young Squire’s face. His mind wandered briefly to Elizabeth. Before he could cut the thought off, the memory which still, six years later, kept him awake at nights resurfaced, his dear, dear Elizabeth, on the bed, the pox taking it’s cruel course. She put up a fight, a truly spirited fight, but…
“Sir?” Fitzjohn looked up, his face ashen. He blocked the memory off again, stared at Langland’s face, and his smile returned.
“Why are you asking me permission to marry? Surely a matter for the priests?”
“ ‘A soldier must ask permission from his officer before he marries’; I am a squire, therefore a soldier, and you are my officer, Sir.” Langland’s smile faded.
“Granted, Langland. Granted! Granted! Granted! And the boar,” he gestured back to where the last animal had been left, “is for the banquet. Your banquet, Langland! Yours! Ha, ha ha! On, Copenhagen. On to fetch boar for Langland’s banquet, Copenhagen!”

Fitzjohn sent some of bodyguards out for the five boars they had killed, reflecting on how Langland’s aim dropped drastically when he was talking about Catherine. The gate guards, two men he remembered from the battle on the border last year, let him in. Wondering, no doubt, why I’m in such a good mood. #Thought Fitzjohn idly. The news of Langland’s wedding had left him feeling that for once, something simple and good was happening around him. Apparently, Catherine was a dressmaker, who worked in the castle, and Langland had said that had Fitzjohn never become Duke, he would never have met her. Ever the charmer, Langland. At least he’s happy. Langland was a loyal man, a handsome man, too, and Catherine was, by Langland’s account, a beauty. and Fitzjohn prayed that the two would not be so cruelly separated as he and Elizabeth. The gate guards had spoken of two riders, bearing a King’s message. They rounded a corner in the courtyard, and saw them waiting.
“King’s message, Sir.” The first rider held it out, his hand trembling. Fitzjohn took it, checked the seal, opened it, and read the message as he walked to the keep.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Year of our Lord 1261
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # Royal Estates

Hugh Fitzjohn, Duke of Aquitaine,
# # #The King is pleased with your conduct governing the province of Aquitaine, and favours you by ordering you to lead an attack. The King wishes you to attack the French army garrisoned in Toulouse, and take possession of that place. He will send a small force to garrison Bordeaux castle in you and your army’s absence.

Humble servant my Lord,
W. de Montfort, King’s secretary

“We go on the attack, Langland. Into Toulouse.”
“Your armour, Sir?” Langland asked,
“No Langland. I shall get it. Sadly, your wedding must be delayed. Say your farewells to your fiancé, Langland.” Fitzjohn was grim. Although the opportunity for battle was always to be looked forward to, he hated having to delay Langland’s wedding. He must be devastated. Fitzjohn shook his head.

A few days later, the garrison army arrived. Just five hundred men strong, and without cavalry, it was lead by a distant cousin of Fitzjohn’s, who had taken the family name shortly after cousin Hugh had taken command of his first army. He walked confidently up to the Duke, and spoke.
“Cousin Hugh, a Duke now, eh?”
“Cousin William.” Fitzjohn spoke awkwardly. His opposition to William’s adopting the family name was well known. Not worthy of the name, Fitzjohn thought, looking at his cousin. a court jester, perhaps, but never a Fitzjohn. William straightened, and touched the brow of his helm in salute.
“Count William Fitzjohn, reporting Sir. Ha, ha!” He nudged the Duke
“Indeed, cousin. I must be gone. If you would, please leave my private chambers alone, take the guest room.” Fitzjohn said, then, “‘Tis comfortable enough, cousin.” #to pre-empt any jibes his cousin could make.
“I am sure of it, cousin. I shall look after the house while the Duke goes raiding. Ha ha, I am reduced to common housewife!”
“Of course not, cousin.” Fitzjohn let traces of irritation slip into his voice.
“Cousin, calm yourself! I jest.”
“That I noticed, William.” Fitzjohn’s composure was slipping fast
“So, Hugh, when do I get the honour of dining with the Duke?” William smirked.
“I have eaten, William. And I must go, my troops wait for me.” Fitzjohn hurried this excuse, making it sound false. His face was contorting with the effort of keeping civil. William did not take the hint.
“Ah, I see. Rush off, dear cousin. Leave your fellow Fitzjohn with the castle, and off to glory, eh? Ha ha!” the count had misjudged the last comment, and it slipped Fitzjohn over. He spun around, walked back to his cousin, mail armour clanking. He stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with his cousin, and began the onslaught.
“Never, ever, ever talk to me in that tone again, dear cousin,” he spat the last part, making it sound like an insult, “Lest I take offence. Do you hear me, cousin?” William began to splutter an apology, but ‘The Rabid Duke’ cut him off.
“I don’t care for your apologies, William! For my quarrel with you goes further. You are a Fitzjohn at my pleasure, William. I am Duke, and if you displease me, I can make you remove the name!”
“But, dearest cousin, you…” again he was cut off.
“I let you be a Fitzjohn! I LET YOU! Yet you dishonour the name with your jesting. YOU DISHONOUR MY NAME! MINE! And you dishonour my father, his father, his father, back to the first days of England and Fitzjohns. YOU DISHONOUR THEM ALL! #You are nought but a clown, a fool, and Fitzjohns are NOT clowns, cousin. Do you hear?” Fitzjohn’s rage had drawn a crowd, but he would not stop in mid-flow. “Your humour goes too far, cousin. Look at your soldiers! An undisciplined rabble if I ever did see. They need a firm hand, cousin! Not a joker, a leader, cousin. #Now, if we are done, I must go. My soldiers wait on me.” Fitzjohn left his stunned cousin in the street, and headed for the gates.

[Axeknight]

Gah - miles behind with part three, so I've split it into parts three and four.

Lot of soppy nonsense here, especially in the forest (that sounds bad), but I thought it was necessary to flesh Langly out a bit, so he's not just an object for Fitzjohn to scream at.

The scene with Fitzjohn's cousin was great fun to write, building Fitzjohn up to boiling point. I reckon it's been too long since he's had a proper rage - and after that display of soppiness in the forest, he needs to get back to his old self Don't expect the castle to stay pristine under cousin Will after that outburst.

Part four (continuation of this), soonish. I hope. http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-confused.gif

[frogbeastegg]

As a rule frogs are no good at commenting, but I didn't find your soppy forest bit to be too soppy...maybe I am getting immune to the disease with exposure?

[Axeknight]

*breathes huge sigh of relief* Thank god

Though I think I'll stick to sharp things being lodged in heads next part (poor Fitzjohn's gone almost a year without a battle - he must be going crazy).

I've just realized where I got Fitzjohn's horse's name from - Copenhagen was Wellesley's charger. Damn, I'll have to explain that one in part 4. Never mind, shall just need to put in passing that he visited the city, and bought his first horse there.

Not sure what the significance of 'Elizabeth' is yet; though her death may turn out to be the reason for Fitzjohn's rages. I'm not sure yet.

*EDIT* I'm a duke Cool

[The Wizard]

Er, sorry for the late reply, but I finally remembered to get round to it.

Quite a nice chapter, I liked the part where ol' Fitzjohn became angry at his stereotype lanky lazy country bopkin cousin.

Keep it coming



~Wiz http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/cheers.gif

[Axeknight]

Thanks for your comments

Country bumpkin Will's not gonna stand for this one Expect some Think I'm jesting now, cousin? MWHAHAHA lines next part... http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/rolleyes.gif

[scooter_the_shooter]

ooh i like this one http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif

[Axeknight]

Thanks Caesar http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif

[Axeknight]

I'm putting a little 'Easter egg' into part 4. Pay attention to names when I post it http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/wink.gif

[Axeknight]

Part four: Burning bridges

“Halt!” Fitzjohn called. The cavalrymen stopped. “The border forts.” The forts could not be seen from the path, but Fitzjohn knew where they were. If the forts were three miles away, that put the border three and half miles along the path. He would have to suppress the French forts on the other side of the border before he could march on
Toulouse. “Langland, halt the infantry a mile from the border. We shall press on and take the French forts.”
“Sir.” Langland wheeled his horse, and headed back down the path towards the infantrymen. Fitzjohn took his bodyguard forward.

They reached the first line of forts a few hours later. This was the English line, and Fitzjohn went into the nearest tower. The ground floor split off into three rooms, with a staircase on the immediate left. One would be the armoury; the other two would be sleeping quarters. Fitzjohn thought of the solitary life the border guardsmen lived. He almost envied them. He walked up the stairs, which instead of being spiralled, turned right at right angles every five steps, so as to make a square staircase. This made every corner a choke point for attackers; something he hoped the French did not do with their forts. He found the garrison commander on the roof of the fort, along with two other guards. He was a tallish man with dark brown hair rather like Fitzjohn’s, and a broken nose.
“Duke Fitzjohn, Sir. Fort garrison commander Fitzwilliam, Sir.” Said the commander,
“A pleasure. Now, what of Frenchy’s forts?” Fitzjohn was not one for niceties.
“Have not seen much from them, Sir. Oddly quiet.” Fitzwilliam shook his head.
“Hmm… I shall tread carefully. My thanks, Fitzwilliam.”

The best way to do this…Damned if I know. Rush them? Surprise won’t be on my side; their spies will have sent word by now. But what other choice do I have? If I send the infantry, they’ll suffer losses. Which I don’t need before I move on Toulouse. We’ll get there faster by horse. And the faster we get there, the fewer crossbow bolts they can kill us with. Fitzjohn hated border forts. Once, when he was his father’s squire in the Holy lands, he had seen a group of twenty knights storm one such fort, only to find it empty. The first knight had walked not three steps away from the abandoned structure when Turkic sappers detonated a mine, killing all of the unfortunate cavalrymen. He had heard the ‘crumbling staircase’ stories and listened to accounts of the ‘crossbow butler’, an ingenious method of connecting a crossbow trigger to the hinge of a door with steel wire, so that the person who first opened the door was welcomed by ‘the crossbow butler’, who took more than your coat. But at least one fort had to be taken, or the army could not pass through.

Fitzjohn remounted his horse, Copenhagen, briefly remembering the time when his father had taken him to the Danish city. The breeder there got horses all the way from Spain, and bred the toughest horses short of the steppes. Unlike most nobles, who rode different horses for battle and campaign marches, Fitzjohn rode Copenhagen everywhere. He was a tough old bay, and Fitzjohn needed the other horse for Langland, anyway. Langland was a squire, and so should have marched on foot, but Fitzjohn felt it necessary that he be mounted. Once he got his knighthood, Fitzjohn would make Langland his provincial marshal. I will need to invent the post first, though…he mused, riding towards the nearest fort.

Fitzjohn and his twenty picked cavalry bodyguards were at the bottom of the hill on which the fort was situated. They still had not been shot at, and Fitzjohn was worried. He led Copenhagen into a trot, scanning the hillside for traps and ambushes. The path began to wind, and Fitzjohn tried to look over the hedges to either side for enemy soldiers. The fort was close now, and Fitzjohn involuntarily held his breath as he began to canter. They were well within killing range for a crossbow now, yet still nothing from the imposing structure. Why? Damn them Those bolts that tore straight through chainmail, and if the defenders were good, they would fire as a volley, almost certainly cutting him down, as he was at least four feet ahead of the others. No sense in dying at a canter. Fitzjohn turned the breath he had been holding in to a roar, and began to gallop.

Fifty paces. Forty. Thirty. The defenders were not firing. Twenty. Ten paces, five paces, and safety. He was underneath the arrow slits. Why didn’t they fire? Fitzjohn dismounted. His bodyguards did the same.
“Half of you stay outside. The other half, with me.” He drew his broadsword, holding it double-handed in the absence of his shield. I should start to bring it on the march. What good is it in the baggage train? Fitzjohn rode light on the march, in case of ambush. A heavy lance wasn’t much good when dismounted on a narrow, stony path. Neither was horse barding.

The door was on the other side. Fitzjohn, with a thought to the butler, kicked the door down, and pressed against the wall. Nothing. He used his sword as a mirror to look through the door. The butler wasn’t home. He walked through the doorway, first running his sword around the edge of the doorframe to check for loose stones or the like. His men fanned out behind him. The fort was similar to the English ones, three rooms and a square staircase.
“You, at the door. Three in that room” he pointed to the first room on the right, “Three in the next room, and three in the one on the left. Go” the cavalrymen checked the rooms, and Fitzjohn stood at the bottom of the staircase. One by one the men shouted that their rooms were clear. Fitzjohn called outside, “Five more men inside One man guard the horses, and the other four at the door.” The fifteen cavalrymen gathered in the hallway. Fitzjohn began to climb.

It took a long time, as Fitzjohn stamped each step before putting his weight on it. But it was already obvious the fort was abandoned. There was no one on the roof. Fitzjohn sent a cavalryman to inform Langland he could resume the march. Toulouse had been left wide open.

“Right, lads. We’re off.” The squire shouted from the head of the column. Ross and Style, who had just got comfortable, groaned.
“Come on laddy. #You heard what little Langly said.” The two spearmen took their places in the column. The drumbeats started. Ross hummed in time as the men began to march. Style turned to Ross,
“Rob?” he asked
“Yes, lad?”
“Why you in this army anyways? Ain’t Scotland got it’s own king?”
“Alexander the third, lad. But I’m ‘ere because Henry the second, Englishman though he may be, pays a quarter piece extra a week. ‘Sides, lad, you English need at least one soldier ‘can fight his way out of a wet cloth bag.” Ross grinned.

The road had been empty. Not even a peddler with a handcart had passed the marching army along the road. The town militia had surrendered their arms, and now Fitzjohn was trying to arrange rooms for himself and Langland. Most of the soldiers were in the stables.
“Two rooms. Ten pieces.” Fitzjohn spoke very slowly to the innkeeper.
“Pardon, monsieur?” the innkeeper asked with a Gallic shrug.
“Deux chambers. Dix piéces.” Fitzjohn repeated angrily in French, slamming the coins on the table for effect. The innkeeper nodded, took the coins, and handed two keys over.
“Le deuxiéme et le troisiéme chambres á gauche. Deux biéres?”
“Non, merci.” Fitzjohn had looked at the colour of the beers, and decided against them. He turned to Langland.
“I am the second room on the left, you are the third.”
“I must pay you for my room, Sir.” Langland said. Fitzjohn grinned.
“Keep your gold for your wedding, Langland. You will need it all!”

Three days later, and Fitzjohn’s army had still not seen the enemy. Each morning, the Duke would send out cavalry patrols, and each day they would come back without a sighting. It was after one such patrol had come back to Toulouse without sighting that a fast rider arrived in the main plaza looking as though he was about to collapse. Fitzjohn was sat at a small table with Langland, drawing tactics on the dusty tabletop, when he saw the man. The rider hurried over to him, touched his helm, dropped a scrawled note on the table, touched his helm again, and rode off.


# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #Bordeaux castle

Cousin,
You must come at once. The deceitful Spanish have attacked! A mere raiding force, but I am in need of your help. Please, cousin, forget our troubles for now and come to my aid.

William


“Damn him! God damn his eyes!” Fitzjohn thumped the table. “Langland, assemble my bodyguard.”

The river Garonne stretches from the Pyrenees to the Bay of Biscay, and Fitzjohn followed it downstream for two days before he got near to the bridge. The path briefly strayed from the river before getting to the bridge, and the Duke and his men were within half a mile from the bridge before they saw what had happened.
“Good God. It’s on fire, Sir.” One of the cavalrymen said in disbelief. The bridge was burning, the wood supports consumed by the fire until they broke and were swallowed by the Garonne. As they watched, one of the four main supports broke and a section of the bridge fell into the river. Fitzjohn hurried them forward towards the rapidly sinking bridge, broadsword drawn. As they got closer, Fitzjohn saw the hay bales piled onto the bridge and around the supports. A voice came from behind a hedge.
“Ironic, wouldn’t you say, dear cousin?” William said, leaping over the hedge.
“Cousin William, what is this?”
“Would you say it was witty, Hugh? Would you say it was ironic, Hugh? Would you say it was funny, Hugh?” William looked pleased with himself.
“What was funny? Where are the Spanish? Answer me, damn your jesting!” Fitzjohn did not understand.
“There are no Spanish raiders. I think it is very funny, actually.”
“What is? Damn your eyes, cousin!”
“The bridge burning. I have stopped you by burning the bridge. And by stopping you here, I am in fact burning a bridge, albeit a metaphorical one.”
“I still do not understand, William!” At that moment, the hedgerow seemed to jump as fifty crossbowmen dressed in French livery leapt up from behind, their crossbows loaded and aimed at Fitzjohn’s men. “Traitor!” Fitzjohn spat. William began to laugh.
“You see! Burning a bridge to burn a bridge! Ha, ha ha!” William laughed, before adding, “Your men may go. My quarrel is with you, cousin Hugh.”
“Go. Go now, warn Langland!” Fitzjohn shouted. His men wavered. They did not wish to leave the Duke here. “Go Warn the army!” repeated the Duke, and his men turned and left.

Count William took Fitzjohn further downstream, to a small jetty where there was a raft. They crossed, leaving the crossbowmen on the other side. The soldiers could still shoot Fitzjohn, he knew, even from the other side. His cousin had let him keep his sword and horse. Once they were no longer within earshot (though still within bowshot) of the soldiers, William spoke.
“Firstly, Cousin, this has nothing to do with our discussion in Bordeaux. This is not a petty personal agenda, this is not revenge. This is mere, how should I say,” he searched for the word, “tactics. A tactical advantage for my new King’s soldiers.” Fitzjohn spat at the mention of his cousin’s changed loyalties.
“You disgrace the name of Fitzjohn, cousin.”
“I disgrace the name of a man dead for one hundred years, whose name is taken by each line of his descendants so that they can bask in his reflected glory? Every time a direct descendant is born, your family name him Fitzjohn. Son of the great John de Saint Jean de Luz. Ha! It is pathetic.”
“Do not insult his name!” Fitzjohn drew the first inch of his sword.
“Not a wise course, my cousin.” William gestured across the river to where all fifty crossbowmen had their weapons aimed at Fitzjohn. The Duke took his hand off the sword.
“A tactical advantage, traitor?”
“Ha! The name traitor means nothing to me. The French King was very generous. Two hundred gold pieces! #And I can rejoin the armies of King Henry when I am done. Two hundred pieces just for this!”
“For what?”
“For taking you away from your army while the French ambush it.” Fitzjohn stared at William with a look of disbelief.
“Ambush? My God, you villain! God damn your treacherous eyes, William! God damn you to hell!” He resisted the urge to lunge at his traitorous cousin.
“And afterwards, I can go back to the army, with nothing to prove I was ever away from your castle.”
“Except my word.”
“Except the word of a defeated general, desperately seeking to blame someone for his shame. If you survive the ambush, that is. No, there is nothing to prove any of this happened. So I am letting you go. Take the raft across, ride back to your army. You cannot reach them in time to stop the attack, but you can die with your men at least. Go, cousin Go to your death and my fortune" Ha, ha ha!” And with that William Fitzjohn rode away, back to his cousin’s castle, a very rich man. But not for long, vowed Fitzjohn, not for long.

[Axeknight]

A gold star to whoever can find the Easter egg name http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/wink.gif

Good fun writing this bit. Did I go OTT on the bridge scene? Was the raft scene cliched? I have my suspicions that they are, please tell me.

[frogbeastegg]

Broken nosed FitzWilliam sounds familiar in description, if not manner.

The bridge scene did go over the top, but in a good way...Would you say it was witty, Hugh? Would you say it was ironic, Hugh? Would you say it was funny, Hugh?” is over the top but oh so evil loony like it makes William more colourful. After reading poncy posturing like that I can imagine William having a high pitched, giggly laugh that annoys everyone who hears it...a really detestable man http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-grin.gif

[Axeknight]

Correct A gold star for the Frog. Fulk's got a job Ran out of names for bit characters, that's why there are so many Fitz-somethings...

Glad it was Ok. I imagine William like that, too. Detestable, but a useful plot tool to take the Rabid Duke where I want him to go. And fun to write http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif - the witty, ironic, funny speech was great fun to write.

[Ludens]

Good job Axeknight. I still am impressed by the way you infuse Fitzjohn's thoughts in the story without interrupting the flow.

Technical detail: I read somewhere that the staircases of castles were actually spiraled to make them more defensible. The way they were spiraled gave the man above (the defender) more space to wield his sword while the man below would find it blocked by the pillar.

[Axeknight]

Thanks, Ludens.

Actually, because it's only Fitzjohn whose thoughts I'm probing, I just do the thought in italics, and say '.... thought Fitzjohn' only once per episode. Then it's obvious whose thoughts they are and I don't have to say 'he thought' after every thought. That means the flow isn't interrupted too much. I'm glad you like it. http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/cool.gif

I didn't know that about spiral staircases. I knew they spiralled them so that the defender could use his right hand freely, but I thought they were just spiralled for compactness. Thanks for the info, Ludens http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif

[Axeknight]

Gah - part 5 is taking longer than I thought. A difficult bit to write, this one. It'll hopefully be done in the next few days (I hope http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-anxious.gif )

[Axeknight]

Part five: Last stands, and last repects

Fitzjohn swore in French. The lack of sleep and food was getting to him, the sun was beating down on the back of his neck, and the army was still a day’s ride away. Damn him to the gate of hell. Damn him to the lowest level of hell. “Keep going, Copenhagen, keep going,” he mumbled, as he touched his boots on the horse’s flanks. Fitzjohn did not use spurs. He had trained the horse so that he did not need to inflict unnecessary pain. Using spurs could only be bad in the long run. Wouldn’t want to have to pay for a new charger. And Copenhagen’s too important tome to kill off prematurely. It was then that he saw the bodies on the road. Merde!

At almost the same moment, half a day’s ride away, Thomas Style swore as well. The middle son of a farmer, he could not speak French, and so he swore in English. “No bleedin’ honour in ambush. None at all, eh Rob?” The Scotsman sat next to him grunted, not opening his eyes. They were currently away from the road to rest, and had broken into a deserted house. The soldiers on duty were in the street below, guarding the makeshift crossing over the Garonne. The crossing was a hastily built pontoon thrown together shortly after the Duke’s departure. Most of the nobles were across now, but the common soldiers kept staggering back towards the river, often harassed as they went by French cavalry. So far, none of the light horsemen had attacked the spearmen guarding the crossing. But it was just a matter of time before they came back with infantry. Style half-heartedly swatted at a fly, squirming in his hot chainmail. “When do we get over the river, Rob?”
“When the rest o’ the army’s across, lad. Or when the Duke gets back, if he’s coming back.”
“The rest of the army? So are we the last across?”
“Yes, lad. That is, unless the Frenchy has his way.”
“What then?”
“We don’t ever get across, lad.”

The French cavalry had struck two hours before dawn, ransacking the poorly guarded baggage train just outside of the town. The fires could be seen for miles around, and cavalry and infantry had been sent out. On getting to the pyre where there was once a baggage train, the men had found nothing. The officers had been searching the wreckage when the mine blew. Then, when the English were virtually leaderless, the French infantry appeared. The skirmish had lasted mere minutes before the first Englishmen fled. At first a trickle, then a full-blown rout as the line crumbled. The cavalry harried the routers back into the back alleys around Toulouse. It was midday, and though scattered pockets of soldiers unable to get across were still this side of the river, the remnants of the companies send to deal with the baggage train raid were mostly across now. Ross and Style’s company of spearmen had not been sent out of the city the previous night, and having been billeted the area around the crossing two nights before, they had been chosen to guard the pontoon. Style was suffering in the baking midday heat, and walked over to the window for air. Looking out, he saw the fast approaching soldiers in their blue livery, and swore again.

It made him sick, but it had to be done. The Duke gently lifted the bodyguard’s corpse off the horse, setting it down on the ground. He reflected on the waste of it. He had hand picked his guards from the hundreds of cavalrymen under his command. As well as being the best fighters under his command, he had seen the spark of leadership in them. They would have made fine captains; perhaps some would have risen to generalship with the proper tutelage. But not now, and not in this life. He knelt and paid his respects. He stood and remounted, his face like thunder. As he began to trot, he looked back. “I will kill him! Fear not, fear not I will kill him!”

[Axeknight]

Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ June 25 2004,18:46)]“I will kill him Fear not, fear not I will kill him”
Warning: This part has tested positive for cliches. If you are allergic, rinse eyes with warm water.

Gah - This part took so long to write, and I've only done half of it http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-confused.gif . i'm splitting this up into two parts (mainly so this series isn't forgotten http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-confused.gif ), part 6 should continue on from this bit.

[mambaman]

its all good Axe-your writing style is excellent and the story gripping-are you following the game quite closely or not?

kinda inspires me to get back to writing my history of england-prob is that if its a choice between writing and playing the game i always opt for the latter-lol http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-blush.gif

[frogbeastegg]

Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ June 25 2004,18:51)]
Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ June 25 2004,18:46)]“I will kill him Fear not, fear not I will kill him”
Warning: This part has tested positive for cliches. If you are allergic, rinse eyes with warm water.
Ok, so it isn't in the main story, but I loved that http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/geishagrin.gif

[Axeknight]

Quote[/b] (Ashantiwarrior @ June 26 2004,23:53)]are you following the game quite closely or not?
Firstly, thank you Ashanti http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/ht_bow.gif (I hope that's the right smiley - there are two 'bow' smilies). I'm glad you like it so far. I'm actually not following any game on this, though I'm thinking of getting Gnome editor and modding Fitzjohn into the game http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif .

The inspiration came, really, from one of the heroes in MTW, Strongbow FitzGilbert. I liked the idea of an English commander in France, but I found the MTW representation of FitzGilbert a bit boring. So I decided to make an entirely new character, around 100 years after FitzG's time (this story is set 1260-12__, the end date will depend on the length of time it takes for the story as I want it to be at the moment to pan out). The character is evolving all the time - when I first created him in my mind, he was shortish, balding and calm. Now he's tall, with dark brown hair, and is prone to incredible rages http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-stunned.gif .

My original plan was for Fitzjohn to rise from minor baron in France to King's marshal, over many years of campaigning in France, Spain and the Holy Lands. But that storyline would mean that each part (or maybe every other part, at a stretch) would have to have him promoted or rise in station somehow. And that would be a real pain to write in. So I created cousin Will, basically as a punchbag for Fitzjohn to chase after and beat up http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/flat.gif . Still not a great storyline, but it means I don't have to bump him up the food chain all the time, but still have something for him to do (motivation, a reason for traveling to Jerusalem, etc).

Thanks Froggy http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/ht_bow.gif

EDIT - two pages and a 'hot topic' Cool http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-2thumbsup.gif

[mambaman]

all good fella-yes Sir Strongbow is featuring in my story at the moment too-kewl guy in terms of attributes

look fwd to next installment

[Axeknight]

It's coming on nicely - I have a bank holiday monday, so hopefully it'll be up by tuesday at the latest http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif


Quote[/b] ]all good fella-yes Sir Strongbow is featuring in my story at the moment too-kewl guy in terms of attributes
http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-yes.gif Great guy to have in your army - by late era, his successors (farmed for hundreds of years), are usually 9 star field attack and defence specialists, good at defending and taking castles, legendary warriors with natural leadership, great stewards, and magnificent builders http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-2thumbsup.gif

[Axeknight]

Part six: Not quite burning bridges, but almost

Style took another step back. He was most of the way across the pontoon now, and the Frenchmen were ruthlessly pushing forward. He batted a spear aside, stepping inside its arc as he did so. He aimed his lunge low, and caught the man in the gut. A glance to his right, and there was Ross, fighting like a demon, screaming Gaelic war cries at an enemy increasingly frightened to face him. An enemy soldier swung his shield at him. Style ducked and slammed his own teardrop shield into the man’s chest. The metal boss landed with a sickening crunch, and the Frenchman crumpled. Another step backwards as two French spearmen closed on him on the swaying pontoon, then another as they both thrust their spears at him. Dodging the first man’s spear, he heard the high-pitched sound of a support beam snapping. The French were crowding the bridge; it could not carry many more. The first Frenchman lunged again, catching Style’s chainmail. He felt a sharp pain in his ribs, but he was alive, and hopefully not bleeding. God save me from old sawbones if I am. Another step backwards, and breathing room as Style hit the man with the flat of his spear tip, before stabbing him in the neck. A glance to the right. Ross was gone. Damn. Looking around, Style found himself further forward than anyone else. He jogged backwards a few steps, until he was off the bridge with the others. The French advanced towards them, and Style thought it was over. Death is preferable to captivity, he thought, having heard the (mostly false) rumours of how captives were treated by the French King. He knelt down, digging his spear into the ground, and prepared to die. Until the bridge collapsed.

Style ducked under a French officer’s sword thrust. He drove the spear up into the man’s ribcage. For a second, their eyes met, until the Frenchman’s went lifeless. Style twisted and freed his spear point. One of the supports must have cracked, he thought. A whole section of the bridge, almost ten feet of it, had just crashed into the Garonne. Many French had been swept away by the fast-flowing river, or simply drowned under the weight of their chain mail. The others were wavering on the remaining bridge sections. There were cries of terror every time the pontoon swayed or creaked. There was no way of getting across now, and, if the English brought the dreaded Welsh bowmen up, the tightly packed French would be slaughtered. Of course, they could not have known that the spearmen were alone. The French captain, sat on his grey charger on the opposite bank, had been shocked and thrown by the bridge’s collapse. What should have been an easy victory had turned into a disaster. He turned to his drummer boy.
“Sound the recall. Hurry, man!”

Ross dropped the woodman’s axe and held onto a piece of the cracked support. The river was trying desperately to claim him, another life lost to the tide that was flowing terrifyingly fast after the storms. He reached out with his left hand, just getting a grip on a stone jutting out from the wall. He swung himself against the tide, and now he had two hands on the stone. To his right, slightly downstream, was a jetty for small merchant boats. Very carefully, he let go of the stone, first with his right hand. If he didn’t grab the jetty first time, he would be swept away. He let go.

The river pushed him along again, impatiently waiting for him to die it seemed. The jetty was ten feet away. Closer, and Ross stretched his arms out ready to grab the edge. He was five feet away when the support beam hit him in the back. He winced, and caught the edge of the jetty with the fingertips of his left hand. He struggled against the tide, gaining a grip with his left hand. He swung his body upwards, and gripped the edge with his right hand. He then pulled against the tide, eventually flopping onto the jetty like a salmon caught by a bear. He stopped to catch his breath, before staggering up the jetty to the road where the remnants of the company were stood.

“What happened, Rob?” Style asked as he approached.
“Axes and bridges don’t mix well, laddy.” Said Ross in full highland drawl as he walked towards the company, still out of breath. Style looked at him incredulously.
“What? But the bridge… How will the Duke get across?” The French infantry who had not been swept away by the Garonne had scattered on the other side. If they brought crossbows up, the spearmen might have a problem, Ross reflected.
“Never mind that for now. Where’s the captain?” Old Gisbourne probably wouldn’t have noticed that the French were within crossbow range. Senile old fool...
“Dead. He got killed over on the other side, right at the start o’ the thing, Rob.”
“Damn! Who commands now?” Ross already half knew the answer,
“Nobody, Rob. Nobody does.” Style replied. Ross swore in Gaelic.
“Then I’ll command. Only ‘til the duke gets back, mind. But fer now, I’ll be cap’ain.” Then he addressed the company, “Hear that lads? I’ll be yer cap’ain ‘til the Duke gets back.” A cheer rose from the company. Their losses had been high, their captain was dead, but their side of the river was still English, and Robert Ross was their new captain.

[Axeknight]

Gah This chapter goes with chapter five, so together they're about 5 pages of word (about average for a part).

This part is Fitzjohn-less, he's not doing much at the mo', just riding and cusing cousin Will's name http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif He'll be in the next part, promise. Cause by then he'll have got his act together and got back to the army.

Ross' big move up. I thought it was time for him to get interesting.

[frogbeastegg]

I think I shall adjust my earlier comparision to Cornwall to one with Simon Scarrow; if you haven't read his Roman books you should, they are far superior to Cornwall's recent work. I think the first of his Cato books is the best (under the eagle), a pity since he has acually published five of them.

Anyway that's my rambling way of saying 'nice battle'.

[Axeknight]

Thanks Froggy. Battles are pretty quick and easy to write in (not a huge amount of dialogue that gets written and rewritten over and over moments), so this part got done quicker than some.

I quite like the bridge bit itself as well, its just the rest of that part I hate http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif . It just doesn't feel right (I love the smell of cliches in the morning...). Perhaps it feels rushed or something.

I've had Ross becoming a captain slated for a while now (he was first set to take command halfway through part 2 http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-dizzy2.gif ), couldn't see a better opportunity for him to move up any time soon. Gah Perhaps when Hugh gets back things will get a bit better. I like writing for him.

I haven't read any Scarrow. I'll try to find his book when I next raid and pillage Ottaker's http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif .

[Axeknight]

OK, update time. I hope to have part 7 (First things first) up by sunday evening, maybe monday. No later than tuesday if I can help it https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif

Froggy, I just got my Amazon.com order. Haven't read much yet, but Under the eagle is looking pretty good so far. I wanna know what's in that letter from the emperor. And I like Centurion Macro so far as well.

[Axeknight]

Part seven: First things first

It was the first time he’d prayed in many years. But he hadn’t felt the need to in many years. “Elizabeth? If you can hear me up there, Lizzie, watch over me. I have a few more things to do down here, before we see each other again.” Fitzjohn got up, feeling better. He remounted Copenhagen, and wound a bolt into the crossbow he’d taken off the sentries’ bodies. He set off down the road for the bridge.

Henri Bauvet made the first mistake by taking his mail coat off. It was too hot in the south of France, especially for someone born in rainy Normandy. Besides, there was nobody around to shout at him to put it back on, was there? And the English are on the other side of the river. The road he stood sentry on was long enough that he would see any officer coming from either direction. He slumped down against the stone wall of the alehouse, putting the crossbow in his lap. His mind began to wander back to Bayeux; to the great cathedral he’d once spent his Sundays outside, a child sat on the first step with a cloth bag for any pieces the worshippers had not given to the collection plate. He closed his eyes, seeing he steps to that magnificent building clearly now. I’ll be able to hear old DuPont if he comes to shout at me. Mistake two.

Fitzjohn saw the crossbowman and began to trot. Asleep. Please, oh Lizzie please, keep him that way. He lifted the crossbow in two hands anyway, slowing to a trot.

The horse woke him up. How long have I been sleeping? He was about to leap up at the sight of the horse, until he saw it begin to gallop. Can’t be an officer. A Messenger, scout maybe. He stayed upright, bending to pick his crossbow up off the ground. Mistake three.

The man had woken up, Fitzjohn saw. He stopped, fingering the iron trigger of the crossbow in his hand. The man was bending down for his crossbow. Fitzjohn fired his first.

Bauvet slumped once again against the alehouse wall, the bolt stuck in his chest. His head crashed against the wooden shutter. His last thoughts were of the cathedral, of the first step he sat on, cloth bag in hand. His eyes felt heavy, the pain in his chest dimmed, and everything began to get dark.

A group of soldiers had been sat at a table when the shutters crashed open. They ran outside, seeing the rider galloping away towards the river. Around the corner was the sentry, lying with a bolt in his chest. The men had promised this man a small beer on going in.

The bridge was close now. Squinting against the sun, Fitzjohn saw four guards at the bridge. He stopped, dismounted and took his hunting bow from the saddlebag. Fitzjohn notched an arrow into the bowstring, lifted the bow and pulled the heavy string back to his ear. He let go of the string, and saw the man drop to the floor. The others turned and began to run towards him. #He put the bow back in the saddlebag, remounted and drew his broadsword. He charged at the guard on the far left. His sword raised, Fitzjohn charged at the man. He brought the sword down towards the man’s shoulder, then suddenly wheeled Copenhagen left. A flick of the wrist, and the sword dug into the man’s neck. Fitzjohn pulled the sword loose in a sawing motion, as he rode away down the side road. He wheeled Copenhagen back towards the two remained guards who were now stood shoulder to shoulder. He charged again, screaming with rage. Fitzjohn smashed the guard on the left with the hilt of his broadsword, reversed the swing, and stabbed the last soldier’s neck. Breathing heavily, Fitzjohn touched Copenhagen’s flanks and trotted down the bridge.

The gap was ten feet across, and there was no other bridge for miles. And it was getting dark. And the French wouldn’t be unaware of his presence for long. Fitzjohn briefly thought of jumping it, but he was wearing full battle dress and Copenhagen might not have the strength. The only other option wasn’t great either. Damn it all. Well, the chances of my survival are slim no matter. I shall just have to make them slimmer. Cousin! God damn your eyes!
“Hello over there! ‘Tis your Duke returned If there be Englishmen there, answer me”

Ross had taken his men (he had to think of them as his men now) down a side street, in case the French brought crossbowmen up to the other side of the river. He had heard the horse galloping, but thought it to be a French scout or officer. Best not to show them how few we have here. But hearing the other sounds after that had pricked his curiosity. It had to be a fight. Ross had still been deciding whether or not to take a look when it stopped and the horse seemed to slow to a walk. Then the voice had called.
“Hello over there ‘Tis your Duke returned! If there be Englishmen there, answer me!” Ross stepped out onto the road, and called back,
“There be a Scotsman, sir!” he ran towards the bridge.
“You shall do, my friend. Hurry, the French cannot be far away!” Ross reached the edge of the bridge section. “Quickly, man. My horse cannot jump the gap with my battle dress. I have to take my armour off.”
“Aye, sir. Throw it ‘ere!” Fitzjohn jumped off Copenhagen, quickly took off his helmet and chainmail. Folding the mail coat, Fitzjohn looked over his shoulder. The idea of standing in plain view with no armour unnerved him. But he tossed the chainmail across anyway. His sword and scabbard went next. Lastly, he took Copenhagen’s barding off.
“Watch it, soldier!” the man stepped aside as the heavy mail flew over the gap. “I put my trust in you again, Copenhagen.” Fitzjohn jumped back on, trotted back down the bridge. He wheeled the horse around at the end of the pontoon. “Stand aside, soldier” Then under his breath: “As the wind, Copenhagen. As the wind.” He began to gallop, touching Copenhagen’s flanks with his spur-less riding boots. A step away from the gap, Fitzjohn lashed the reins and kicked Copenhagen’s flanks. The bay leapt up, and for a second Fitzjohn almost knew he was going to die in the river below. But then he felt a jolt down his spine as the horse hit the other side of the pontoon bridge. Slowing Copenhagen to a trot, then stopping him completely, Fitzjohn breathed an almighty sigh.
“Thank you, Copenhagen.” He looked up at the sky, and said under his breath #“And you, Elizabeth.” He was aware again of the soldier standing on the pontoon.
“Amazin’, sir. Your armour, sir.”
“Th… Thank you soldier. What is your name?”
“Robert Ross, sir. Actin’ cap’ain o’ Gisbourne’s spear company, sir.”
“Acting?”
“He’s dead, sir. Frenchy attacked us, sir. It was me as destroyed the pontoon, sir. ‘Ahm sorry, sir. But them French was goin’ ter get across, sir. ‘Ahm truly sorry, sir.” Ross stared at the ground.
“On the contrary, Robert Ross. I praise your initiative. Though the bridge means we can’t get across, the Frenchman cannot either. You may have given us a few days. You can keep your command.” Fitzjohn dismounted and began to put his armour back on, and so missed the look of joy on Ross’ face. With his mail, sword and helmet back on, and with the enemy lines behind him, Fitzjohn began to feel some semblance of control return from the chaos of the last few days. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He held the breath, then let it out. “Who is in command? Where are they?”
“Well, sir, far as I know there’s no command. But yer may be able ter find someone in the square, sir.”
“I see. Well, I shall go to the main plaza. You and your men can come with me, there is nothing left to guard here.”
“Aye, sir.”

Langland hadn’t slept in two days, and now he couldn’t. He got up and stretched, deciding to go back downstairs. The bed was too dusty anyway. The inn was now a command post, of sorts. All the locals had been forced out (sometimes literally kicked out). A crude map of the city was sat on top of some tables pushed together, held down by half-drunk tankards of mead or small beer. Sir Geoffrey was still awake as well; he sat at one of the other tables, drinking mead. Langland took a tankard of small beer from the nearest table and sat down next to him.
“Can’t sleep, boy?” Sir Geoffrey asked. Langland sighed.
“No, Sir Geoffrey.” Perhaps he needed conversation, “Do you have a wife, Sir Geoffrey?”
“Please, simply call me Geoffrey, boy. I do. Her name’s Adele.”
“You miss her?” Asked Langland. Sir Geoffrey laughed.
“God no! That frigid old cow? The sight of her makes me cringe, boy!” Langland had to laugh. Sir Geoffrey had always seemed so serious, so cold in the past. It was odd to hear him talk like that. “But I do sometimes miss Joan. And Katrina, from time to time. I don’t miss the German girl, Wilhelmina, much. Doesn’t speak English, you see. Although I found myself thinking about her the other day. Not a great conversationalist, but I have Margaret for that. And as for Celina, well there’s little I can say about her that I can let you know…”
“Good Lord, Geoffrey!”
“There’s a lesson there, though, boy. A king needs an heir and a spare. A man needs a wife and a spare, you see? And perhaps a few other spares, if the need arises. As long as you can keep them from meeting each other of course.” He added with a wink.
“Indeed, Geoffrey.” Langland decided it would be in his and Catherine’s interests if he didn’t follow the knight’s advice. He finished his small beer, made his excuses and went outside.

Fitzjohn saw Langland almost as soon as he entered the plaza. He rode up to him.
“Langland! How glad I am to see you. Where is the rest of the army?” He jumped down off Copenhagen. Ross’ spear company filed into the plaza behind him.
“Spread out, sir. The bridge is gone, but it can’t be long before the French cavalry find another crossing.”
“We must go soon. Could we be ready before dark?”
“Perhaps, sir. But we would have to travel overnight. Put as much distance between the French and ourselves as we can, sir. The city can protect us, to a point, over night. But it’d be dangerous getting out onto open ground and stopping for the night. Leaves us vulnerable to night attack.”
“I know, Langland. I know.” Fitzjohn sighed. “Speed is of the essence, Langland. Send messengers out to every company. I want the entire army formed up along this road before the shadows fall on this building here.” Fitzjohn pointed to the inn.
“Yes, Duke.”

The first company to arrive was a group of men at arms, who lined up behind Ross’ men. Slowly the others arrived, each lining up behind the others. The knights arrived last, and Sir Geoffrey came out to meet them. They decided to form up in front of Ross’ men, deeming the rear not to be the place for men like themselves. Fitzjohn rode up to the front rank. He turned to Langland, stood to the side next to his horse, carrying a small drum.
“Sound the march, Langland.” Langland beat seven short notes, followed by three longer notes. The first rank of cavalry began to march as he put the drum backing his saddlebag before mounting his horse and trotting up to ride beside Fitzjohn. “We must try to keep the pace quick, Langland. As you said before, we have to take advantage of Frenchy being stuck on the east bank of the Garonne.”
“And hope he is still on that side, sir.”
“Yes indeed.” One more favour, Lizzie. Keep them on that side. At least until first light.

I knew you’d look after me. You’re doing a good job of keeping me alive; it’s almost as though you don’t want to see me again. You haven’t found someone else up there, have you? Fitzjohn laughed at himself.
“What was that, sir?” Langland asked,
“Nothing, Langland. Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, sir. Almost safe now, sir. We’re near the border.”
“Thank god, Langland.”

They crossed the border without incident, and for the next few days they marched through countryside that looked exactly the same as the countryside on the other side. Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t dangerous; it was English, and safe. The conversations in the ranks got audibly more cheerful. There was more laughter, more groans and more jeers caused by some story told by one soldier to another. Fitzjohn began to relax; writing his report to the King would be a cause for concern, but that was for later.

“Bordeaux! How I have longed to see this place, Langland!” Fitzjohn said with the air of someone who has been carrying a sack of rocks on their back for weeks, and has just had it taken it off. “Pass the word down the lines, Langland. Bordeaux is in sight!”
“Yes sir!” Langland rode off down the line. Fitzjohn was looking down from the crest of a hill the road went over. Bordeaux could only be a few miles away. Looking down, Fitzjohn could see the walls, the towers and the ditch around the outside of the city. Inside, the market quarter was in full swing: he could see the carts filled with what was in season, the people crowding what must have been either the best or the cheapest produce. Further in, he saw the keep. His keep. If anything, the stone walls looked even more imposing now than before. Even further, and he saw the dockyards, with a collection of ships unloading their wares, or preparing to dock. His eyes settled back on the keep of his castle. It was then that he saw the glint of metal near the soldiers’ barracks, and the faint plume of smoke. Cousin! God damn you to the deepest depths of hell!
“Fire in the castle! Sir Geoffrey, your knights with me Hurry, to the keep!”

EDIT-italics
EDIT PART II-huh, the exclamation marks disappeared. Put them back

[Axeknight]

Gah I hated writing this chapter. It feels so rushed, major attack of the mental block on this one. I wrote most of this today, ended up pressing save every 5 seconds, just to kid myself I was making progress.

Still, an analysis. As you can see, everyone's missing someone, or missing home, or just generally depressed. The beginning I quite like, with the crossbowman. The bridge bit feels wrong, but I can't pinpoint why (any comments even more welcome than usual https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif ). The lothario knight sort of came from nowhere, I'm not sure about him. Maybe he's funny, maybe he's just unnecessary or misplaced. I don't know. I guess light comic relief is a good thing, but he might have turned up at the wrong moment, I'm not sure. I wouldn't have minded seeing Fitzjohn's men harried back to Bordeaux, but I had already written the bridge thing into part 6, but hopefully it's nothing major.

Out of Toulouse, anyway, and soon I can start taking this story where I want it to go (the hunt for cousin Will).

I'm really unsure as to how good or bad this part turned out https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-confused.gif

[Ludens]

I liked it, Axeknight, so as far as that concerns: it's good.

But I think it could have been better. For example: the atmosphere. It should be gloomier: they've just been defeated and probably everyone lost a friend. Comic relief in itself is good, but it came at exactly the wrong moment: the tavern was the ideal scene to make clear what the general feeling was. There's a number of emotions you could have used for this: depression, helplessness and even rebelliousness. Or you could have used all three, for different characters https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-gossip.gif .
I don't know what you mean with Lothario knight.

To finish, two things you may or may not want to pay more attention to: description (take an alinea or so to describe the surroundings) and emotion.
Emotion is a bit tricky. It does not mean writing He was angry or He was surprised but describing the reaction, including what they say and also the way their stance and facial expression changes or does not change.
Example:
Surprise: He stared at her with his mouth hanging open and could only utter, But... How?
Anger: She refused to answer and sped up her pace to get away from him. When he tried to keep up, protesting his innocence, she ignored him and stared straight ahead.
These are just suggestions: some writers are very good at description, while others don't need it. They are just 'tricks' to add to your writing repertoire.

Anyway, I like it and I hope you will post more soon. One of the things I hope you will do is a flashback of Elizabeth, so we can get to know something about her.
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif

[Axeknight]

Quote[/b] ] liked it, Axeknight, so as far as that concerns: it's good.
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/ht_bow.gif That's good to know. As I've said, I was really unsure on how it turned out as a whole. Thanks, Ludens https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif


Quote[/b] ]But I think it could have been better. For example: the atmosphere. It should be gloomier: they've just been defeated and probably everyone lost a friend.

Quote[/b] ]To finish, two things you may or may not want to pay more attention to: description (take an a line or so to describe the surroundings) and emotion.
And all through the thread, the sound of hammers hitting nails on the head could be heard https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif You got it. The 'je ne sais quoi' (my French is rusty, I think that's right), that I knew wasn't there, but not what it was. Perhaps the mental block had something to do with that. I guess in my haste to get the danged chapter done (constant rewrites didn't help either), I lost track of the characters themselves. It's good to know what was missing; makes writing the next part less of a guessing game.

Quote[/b] ]I don't know what you mean with Lothario knight.
Refering to this bit-
“But I do sometimes miss Joan. And Katrina, from time to time. I don’t miss the German girl, Wilhelmina, much. Doesn’t speak English, you see. Although I found myself thinking about her the other day. Not a great conversationalist, but I have Margaret for that. And as for Celina, well there’s little I can say about her that I can let you know…”
-I wasn't sure if he was necessary, or mistimed, or what. But thanks for clearing that up for me.

Quote[/b] ]Anyway, I like it and I hope you will post more soon. One of the things I hope you will do is a flashback of Elizabeth, so we can get to know something about her.
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif
Yeah, I've been planning to go into some more depth about her.

[Ludens]

I don't know what you mean with Lothario knight.

Refering to this bit-
“But I do sometimes miss Joan. And Katrina, from time to time. I don’t miss the German girl, Wilhelmina, much. Doesn’t speak English, you see. Although I found myself thinking about her the other day. Not a great conversationalist, but I have Margaret for that. And as for Celina, well there’s little I can say about her that I can let you know…”
-I wasn't sure if he was necessary, or mistimed, or what. But thanks for clearing that up for me.
Sorry, I assumed Lothario was a name, perhaps one of those literary references between you and Froggy. I should have looked it up in my English dictionary.

[Axeknight]

Gah! After half an hour spent putting the exclamation marks back into all seven parts, my eyes hurt ~:dizzy:

Ludens, no worries. I wouldn't have guessed English wasn't your first language. You do really well, I'm not sure how I'd do in a forum where everyone spoke Japanese or something (my German is passable, and my French almost passable, but not really enough to sustain a conversation on a message board for long). FYI, lothario means love rat. ~;)

Going on holiday, so part eight won't be up for a while. I need to think about this next part anyway, as there are two possible ways for the story to go.

[Axeknight]

Part eight: Letters

The wooden buildings around the inside of the inner wall had caught fire easily, and most were now little more than smouldering ruins. Bodies lay here and there, either victims of the fire or of William’s men. An old man lay next to the corpse of a soldier. His wrinkled hand held a blacksmith’s hammer. The old man’s left leg had been broken; it twisted at a sickening angle, and his right leg had been almost severed. Fitzjohn recognised him as the blacksmith. He must have tried to fight them off, he thought as he stepped over his body.

He saw the girl as he averted his eyes from the body. Pretty young thing. Shame. She couldn’t be much older than twenty, and would have been pretty, but the cuts and scratch marks on her face disfigured her, as did her contorted expression. Her hair had been pulled out of whatever style she had had it in. Her clothes had been ripped. Bastards! Her house was on fire, as was what she’d been selling. He saw a scrap of linen, dyed purple, before it disappeared into the fire. Dressmaker? He moved towards the girl’s body. Her eyes were still open, and Fitzjohn bent down and closed them. One of the support beams cracked as he stood up. Fitzjohn leapt back as the building came crashing down on the girl. Fitzjohn ducked, putting his hands over his head despite the helmet he wore, and ran back toward Langland. The house fell in from the middle; the remnants thatched roof burning with the remnants of the floor. One by one, the walls came down too, and the whole house fell into itself. The Duke had been so transfixed by the house’s destruction that he didn’t notice until then that Langland had gone sheet-white. Then came the horrible realisation. Dressmaker? Oh God. Oh God no. Please, not her.

“Langland?” Fitzjohn said, in the hope of getting him to look away from the fire, “Langland? Do you know her?”
“Of course. Of course I…” Langland’s voice faltered, but he didn’t look away, “Of course I do. And so do you.”
“She was… gone. When I found her, Langland. You can’t have expected me to…”
“To help her? To help an injured woman rather than turn and run like a scolded cat? No, I suppose not,” Langland’s voice did not alter in tone as he spoke; he did not put any passion into the insult. Somehow, that made it all the more hurting for Fitzjohn.
“She was gone when I found her. I’m sorry,” no change. Langland stood staring at the fire. Perhaps I should stop stepping around the issue, “Did you want me to risk my life for a corpse?”
“I wanted you to risk your life for… for her,” again, his voice faltered, but did not change tone.
“She was dead! Langland, she is dead,” Langland cracked. His head fell into his hands, and his shoulders began to slowly rise and fall. Fitzjohn put his back on Langland’s back and lead him over to the inner wall. Langland slumped down against it, and Fitzjohn sat down next to him.

“I still get the dreams, you know,” he said as Langland looked blankly ahead at the raging fires inside what was once the keep brewery.
“Sorry?” Langland asked, dabbing his eyes with his tunic hem,
“Not really nightmares, since I look forward to seeing her again. Until the end, when I see her after the pox took her.”
Langland turned to look at him now, “who, sir?”
“Of course, I don’t see her after she died. But the pox took her weeks before then.”
“Sir?”
“My name is Hugh, Langland. Call me that. There is no need for formalities between us.”
“Yes… Hugh.”
“We’d been married, three? Three months by the time it took her. Those first two months,” Fitzjohn trailed off, then got back to what he was trying to say, “But Langland, I know how you are feeling. Don’t be afraid of me.”
“Yes. Yes, I understand. What was her name?”
“Elizabeth. My sweet Lizzie.”
“Your Elizabeth, and now my Cattie,” Langland broke down again on saying his pet name for her. He hugged his knees and buried his face, saying again and again, “Cattie.”

“Sir Geoffrey asks the officer of the march to send the infantry down now, captain,” the knight said, then wheeled and rode back down the hill. Ross turned to face his men.
“A’reet lads, lead company behind me, companies to keep a distance o’ fifty yards ‘tween ‘em. Move off.” As the lead company captain, Ross was officer of the march. Hierarchy dictated that if there were an ambush, he would command until reinforced. Not that anything like that would happen. But still, Ross relished this temporary command. Style, in the first rank, quickened pace to come alongside Ross.
“This is so terrible, Rob.”
“Don’t yer fear, Tom. It’ll be a’reet.”
“Bloody easy for you to say.”
“Aye? An’ what yer mean by that?”
“Look what you got out of this disaster, captain,” Style twisted the last word so it sounded almost like an insult.
“Calm your tongue, Thomas! We all left friends back there.”
“We didn’t all get an extra shilling a week, though, did we?”
“Yer didn’t save the whole bloody company either, Thomas!”
“I’m sorry,” Style looked down at the ground, and fell back into the rank.
“I understand, Tom. But calm yer tongue in future.”

“Sir Geoffrey! Over here!” Fitzjohn called. The knight walked across the courtyard,
“Terrible thing, my Duke. Most horrible, sir.”
“Indeed. Sir Geoffrey,” Fitzjohn then whispered, “the poor boy’s lost his fiancée. Stay with him while I look for my personal papers.” Sir Geoffrey’s face gravened,
“Of course, my Duke.” Sir Geoffrey sat down where Fitzjohn had been. He stayed quiet, not knowing what to say.

Fitzjohn knew where his personal papers were, and it wasn’t in the castle. They were safely in the baggage train with the infantry. Of course, he couldn’t tell Sir Geoffrey what he was really looking for, or where he was going to look for it. He could have told Langland, had he not been sat against the castle wall, wondering why the most important thing in his life had suddenly gone. It’s not fair, he thought, I prayed for this not to happen. Even if she hadn’t been killed and he’d told Langland where he was going, the squire would probably have tried to help. He likely wouldn’t find what he was looking for, since didn’t know what he was looking for. Well, I know one of the things I’m looking for. There just had to be something. If there wasn’t, then William was free and away. Fitzjohn made sure Langland and Sir Geoffrey were out of sight, then turned and walked towards the keep.

The tapestry in the main hall had been set alight, and was mostly destroyed now. It had showed a panoramic view of the battle of Northallerton in 1138, where his great-great grandfather, a Frenchman named John de Saint-Jean-de-Luz, had carried one of the many saintly banners against the Scots, which had lead to the battle being named ‘The Battle of the Standards’. His actions on that day had won him the barony of Saint-Jean-de-Luz. It had been commissioned out of Fitzjohn’s own pocket on his engagement, finished a few days after the wedding itself (which had been a major embarrassment for the master weaver and knocked two pounds off what Fitzjohn paid for it). He had often stared at his tapestry, as it reminded him of the man who gave him the name Fitzjohn. Each son in the family had since been named Fitzjohn, and each had hoped in their childhoods to match or better the greatness of their ancestor, and have their successors named after them. But it also reminded him of the day of its commissioning, stood in the master-weaver’s house with Elizabeth by his side, explaining what he wanted. Fitzjohn sighed, and walked past it quickly, and headed for the spiral staircase.

The Duke’s second floor office was burning fiercely; there would be nothing left there, even if he could get in. Fitzjohn went back to the stairs and up to the third floor, where his bedchamber and the guest bedchamber were.

His and the guest bedchambers were down the hallway from each other. Fitzjohn stopped at the guest bedchamber. That room was consumed by fire as well, and Fitzjohn could feel the heat on his from across the hallway. I said to leave my bedchamber alone. So he’ll have slept in there. Fitzjohn went down the hall and into his room. The bed was burning, and he had to carefully step around it, his private desk had been preserved so far. Fitzjohn opened the drawer, grabbed as many papers as he could and quickly ran out and put them down in the hallway. Then he ran back in and took the remaining papers out, before checking the hidden space. It was a false bottom on the main drawer, and needed the tricky use of a dagger to open. Inside was the locket with the painting of Elizabeth he’d come in to find, and nothing more. There were no other drawers or places to hide something. Damn! Fitzjohn picked up the locket and put it round his neck. As an afterthought, he tucked it under his mail and tunic. He turned to leave when one of the bedposts fell on the desk, setting it alight. Fitzjohn ran from the room, as the bed collapsed. He picked up the papers in the hallway, hoping against hope they would have some scrawled note from William, and unable to leave them for the fire, and went back down the stairs.

There weren’t many papers for him to look at, but they were from his private desk, and that was why he couldn’t leave them. Most were letters from Elizabeth, or from him to her. Many were simply scrawled notes left for her, and only a few were longer than a few paragraphs written in inn bedrooms.
“My dear, I write from a dirty, stinking hole of an inn near Nottingham. My dear, I write from an inn by the Thames in London. My dear, I write…” Fitzjohn trailed off and began to scan the letters. Seeing them again was like twisting the knife, but any of them might have a note from William scrawled at the bottom or on the back. None did. Fitzjohn slumped even further against the keep wall. He checked to make sure no one could see him, and took the locket out from under his tunic. It was a circular, chunky piece in Welsh gold, and had originally been hers. On one side was a painting of her, and on the other, a painting of him, taken out by Fitzjohn after the funeral. He had kept it for the painting, but looked at it less than half a dozen times in as many years since the funeral. He carefully slipped the painting out from the locket. As he did so, he saw the other piece of paper behind it. After setting the tiny painting down, he fished it out, and unfolded it. It was a note in unmistakeable handwriting.

Dear cousin,
I am glad you found this note, though I must say it was a stroke of genius to put it in this little locket of hers. Your sweet little Elizabeth, long gone now, eh? But I digress.

I told you my actions in Toulouse were not a personal attack, but mere tactics. This is a personal attack.

I must leave now. Perhaps we will play hide and seek-after, as we used.

Yours,
William

Fitzjohn’s hands took a moment to stop shaking, and he refolded the letter, put it in between the pile of love letters, and tucked the locket back into his tunic until he could find a place to put it. He stood, and curled his hands into fists as he thought of Elizabeth, Langland, and his cousin.

[Axeknight]

Sad bit alert! ~:mecry:
~:joker:

Well, there's the first Elizabeth flashback. And Langland's character, and especially his relationship to Fitzjohn, is going to change somewhat. As evidenced here:

“My name is Hugh, Langland. Call me that. There is no need for formalities between us.”
By helping Langly through this, Fitzjohn will quickly become his friend.

He'll likely (I say likely as with episodical writing being as it is, things may turn out differently) become rash when dealing with Will as well - and perhaps Fitzjohn will have to hold him back. I'm as much in the dark as the reader, as I haven't started to plan part nine out yet.

Comments activley begged for ( ~D ), as I want to know if this emotional bit turned out right (ie do you give one ~D )

[frogbeastegg]

[froggy critic mode]Ok, to view this as if it were my own....

You had a lot of trouble writing this bit? I seem to remember you saying so several times. It does show in a way; there is ... I don't know how to describe it, but I find it is almost ... as if .... looking through a fog rather than seeing clearly. Simply, something feels wrong to me; I end up with scenes that feel that way myself and I seldom manage to quantify exactly what is wrong. To fix mine I have to do a complete rewrite, sometimes several. Also, this is important, other people seldom notice this if I am unable to fix my work to remove the feeling. It's probably just a frog thing ~:)

That aside there are several dialogue mistakes, and possibly at least one instance of unfinished 'placeholder' text.

“Sorry?” Langland
Langland what? I think that's possibly placeholder. It's very easy to overlook these things; I've let several slip past me on occasion.


“Not really nightmares, since I look forward to seeing her again. Until the end, when I see her after the pox took her.” Langland turned to look at him now.
“Who, sir?”
Put the tag along with the appropriate person's dialogue. "Langland turned..." should go in front of his dialogue, it indicates who is speaking better this way. There are several instances of this.

I'm not convinced 'amulet' is the word you want, perhaps 'locket'?

More description to go with the dialogue would be great (so says someone who never did this until recently...:cough: hypocrite :cough:)[/froggy critic mode]

Sounds depressing, no? Well, most of those points are minor things, the main thing for me is that feeling ... but that's probably a frog thing. So, on the whole It's good ~:)

[Axeknight]

Langland what? I think that's possibly placeholder. It's very easy to overlook these things; I've let several slip past me on occasion.
A case of being so focused about the dialogue that the rest of the sentence does a Paul Daniels. Is now: "Sorry?" Langland asked, dabbing his eyes with his tunic hem,
Wouldn't have noticed that. Thanks. Can't find either of the thumbs up smilies, but teh thumbz iz up

Amulet changed to locket: though my knowledge of jewelry is in general non-existant, my knowledge of medieval jewelry is... well, even more non-existant than that. They probably didn't even have lockets, and the mental image of some guildsman doing a portrait on six inches of canvas is an odd one. I was indeed looking for the word locket, however.

Any technical errors, however minor, need to be pointed out. I likely won't find these myself. To be honest, I've got more writing experience over the Org than I've ever had from school. To quote a friend of mine, when asked what he thought of our English teacher: "She has the personality of a friggin' whelk."


Simply, something feels wrong to me
The pivotal moment of this part was written on holiday, on a scrap of paper. The rest was written two weeks after I got back. Maybe the two parts don't fit. I don't know, I agree with you, but I can't work out what's wrong with it either. I can be sure, however, that a rewrite would solve that problem and create another, equally major one. Ah well. ~:dizzy:

[Ludens]

I am not entirely in agreement with Froggy here, I think it is rather good. Yes, at some points it did read awkwardly, but I think that was mainly caused by the choice of words.

But otherwise: Froggy has said it all. Except for the minor errors, you only need to polish your style a bit. That can be done by sprinkling some more description though the dialogue. Otherwise, it's fine.

[Axeknight]

Glad you liked it Ludens ~:thumb: (yes! found the thumb smiley)

Ludens, this is how I polish my style. There's really nowhere else I can get good criticism. Writing fiction counts for a measly 5% of my GCSE, and we get two English GCSEs (literature and language), so it's really only 2.5%. Really stupid. ~:rolleyes:

[Axeknight]

Gah, two months without any progress with Fitzjohn. Unfortunately, I'm too busy now to continue writing this story regularly. GCSEs are eating my life away, any spare time I have I need to relax with. This isn't the end of Fitzjohn, part nine may someday see the light of day, but don't expect any more any time soon. Such a shame, Fitzjohn has been so much fun to write. *sigh*

[Ludens]

Gah, two months without any progress with Fitzjohn. Unfortunately, I'm too busy now to continue writing this story regularly. GCSEs are eating my life away, any spare time I have I need to relax with. This isn't the end of Fitzjohn, part nine may someday see the light of day, but don't expect any more any time soon. Such a shame, Fitzjohn has been so much fun to write. *sigh*
Pity, it is just starting to get good. I'll keep my subscription to this thread for when you start writing again. Good luck with your GCSEs.