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frogbeastegg
07-10-2004, 21:24
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The realm of England in the year of our Lord 1337


Prologue

England 1325: The royal palace at Waltham, Essex

In a patch of empty grass less than half a mile from the royal palace two children were playing outside in the summer sun; one a boy, short for his fourteen years, with sandy hair, the other a girl of nearly six, her jet black hair bound up into a thick braid and coiled at the nape of her neck. They were both dressed in rich clothes, and spoke the educated French of the noble classes.

“Come on, Nell, you’re not even trying.”

Eleanor looked up at the sandy haired boy and pulled a face, “Princesses aren’t supposed to do swords, we’re supposed to look pretty and dance and stuff.”

“And you hate doing that, dear sister.” Stephan grinned and raised his wooden sword to the en garde position, “You always say knights get to do the interesting stuff, well now’s your chance to do some fighting.”

“But you’re older and bigger and stronger and you’re a squire now” replied Eleanor uncertainly, scuffling up the soil at her feet with the tip of her wooden sword.

The boy rubbed his pug nose and shrugged, “If you are too scared…”

“I’m not scared, Stephan!” Eleanor drew herself up to her full short height and glared at her brother’s chest, “I’m nearly six now and I’m not scared of anything!”

“Prove it.” Stephan looked down at Eleanor and raised an eyebrow. She stepped back a pace and struck an imitation of her brother’s pose, holding the sword gracelessly in both hands. “Now try lunging at me.” invited Stephan, “That’s an easy move for beginners.” Eleanor lunged forward clumsily and Stephan easily parried the blow, “Good.” he said encouragingly before slowly attacking to her left. Eleanor stepped back, tripped on the hem of her dress and fell over. Immediately Stephan closed the small gap between them, limping with his twisted right leg “Are you alright?”

Eleanor nodded, dabbing at the mud on her clothes, trying to scrape the worst of it off, “Now I’m going to get in trouble; I’m not supposed to get covered in mud because it’s not elegant”

“Don’t worry, you’ll wriggle out if it same as usual” said Stephan confidently, “Just burst into tears and wail about it being an accident”

Eleanor giggled, “That always works. Since I’m all muddy…” she threw her sword down and began pulling out her hairpins, then untied the end of her plait, loosing her hair into a dark mass that reached almost to her waist, explaining as she worked, “If I’m going to be yelled at for being undignified I’ll let my hair down, I hate wearing it pinned into a proper lady’s style.” She picked her sword back up and brandished it at her brother, “Come on then! Bet I win in the end!”

Stephan laughed and swung his sword slowly enough for her to block and easily dodged her counter stroke, making it look much harder than it was, “One day, Eleanor, you’re going to be a better with a sword than any knight.”

Eleanor’s eyes went wide, “Really?” she gasped.

“Of course, why would I lie? I’m your brother, and I always tell you the honest truth.”

Her confidence boosted by Stephan’s praise, Eleanor threw herself into a wholehearted attack, raining clumsy blows down on him, which he easily blocked.



King William, sixth of that name to rule England, sat brooding in his private chambers, waiting for his spymaster to arrive. He went over his decision many times, as he had been doing for days now; his mind was made up, it had to be done, but that did not make things any easier.

A knock at the door preceded Trempwick’s appearance; the spymaster entered and knelt before his king, “Sire, you summoned me.”

“Yes, a matter of great import has arisen, or should I say I can no longer delay.” William began to speak, his heart heavy as he finally faced that which he had delayed for so long, “Stephan is…a good boy, he has great potential and is my firstborn son and therefore my heir; it is a shame, then, that his leg has mended badly. But for that fall he might have made an excellent king.”

“Sire? Am I to understand…?”

“Yes, kill him.”

“Sire.” Trempwick chose his words with equal care; William was well known for his foul temper, “Sire, the boy only has a slight limp-”

“No.” interrupted the king, “No, I am a king first and a father second, the good of the realm must come first. I cannot remove my son from the succession, but nor can I let a cripple rule – how would he lead an army? Who would ever respect him? He walks with a limp and has trouble riding; he could not even travel the country on royal progress to keep his vassals in check. I have two more sons, I may yet have others; I will not – cannot leave my crown to Stephan. As long as he is alive he can contest my succession, reducing the realm to civil war between brothers; he has been raised to expect the crown, he thinks of it as his already, he would never accept being passed over.”

“He is just a boy.” Trempwick felt obliged to make the protest; he knew it would do no good, but he needed to be able to tell himself he had tried, that someone had spoken up for the doomed boy. He may have worked his way to spymaster over the dead bodies of rivals, all of whom had died in perfectly unsuspicious circumstances of course, and he may arrange assassinations on a regular basis, but he still needed something to salve his conscience from time to time.

William’s eyes hardened, he leapt to his feet and advanced on the spymaster; despite his short stature the king was an intimidating man, heavily built and a famous warrior, “You dare question me?” he hissed, “You think I have no idea of how to rule my kingdom, my kingdom, the kingdom I have ruled for nigh on eleven years?”

Trempwick bowed his head, his interjection had only increased the king’s determination to kill his eldest son, “No, sire. I shall get to work as you command, immediately if you wish.”

“Yes, get it done and over with; make sure none can suspect the death was anything but natural.”




The royal nursey often resembled a battlefield more than anything, most of the children in this family had inherited their father’s famous temper, which lent those inevitable childhood squabbles a rather loud edge. The nurse assigned to care for the royal children had long since gained the ability to block out and ignore the ear splitting noise her charges created when quarrelling, arguments such as the one going on now.

“You broke it!” Matilda flourished her necklace at Eleanor, displaying the snapped gold chain; “You broke it, you stupid, clumsy, idiotic-”

“I didn’t!” yelled Eleanor, “Why would I want your stupid necklace?”

“Because you’re determined to ruin my wedding! You are jealous of me-”

“I’m not! What have you got that I don’t? Nothing!”

“Beauty, seniority in our family, a sense of decorum, brains, a nice large dowry, a fiancée who is heir to the German emperor.”

“I don’t care!” Eleanor’s face was going red, “I don’t care – I like being plain, I don’t care if I’m muddy, and I don’t want to get married!”

Matilda laughed scornfully, “Good, because no one will ever put up with you; you shall end up in a nunnery.”

“No I won’t.” Eleanor’s denial didn’t have much energy behind it; she had been worrying about that herself, there were only two paths open to women of her rank, and she didn’t like either of them.

“Yes you will, unless father finds some poor dope who is utterly desperate for your tiny dowry and loathsome company.” Matilda smiled her best superior, smug elder sister smile “I will be an empress one day, you will remain a grubby little girl who speaks like lower nobility, looks like shabby minor royalty, and acts like a churl.”

The nurse was rather surprised when prince Stephan entered the nursery; he was now far too old to live here, he slept in the main hall with the other squires now. She was rather pleased he had arrived though, as he usually managed to break up his arguing siblings, restoring peace before she got a headache; for this reason alone she encouraged him to visit regularly, something he was already inclined to do.

“What is going on here?” Stephan crossed the room to join his two sisters as quickly as his limp would allow him. “I could hear shouting half way up the staircase.”

“She broke my necklace, I am supposed to wear it when I arrive in Germany-”

“No I didn’t!” shouted Eleanor, balling her fists up and trying not to cry, “You blame me for everything, I hate you!” she pushed her sister as hard as she could, then ran off, slamming the nursery door behind herself.

Stephan sighed, “You should try to be nice to her, Tilly.”

“Why? She is a disgrace to our family; I was never like that, and nor were Rowena and Adele.”

“She is our sister, and she is only five; you are eleven, you should look after her.”

“She broke my necklace, I leave for Germany in a week, and she broke it.” Matilda was furious to find her eyes filling with tears, “This marriage is important, father is relying on the alliance it will create, and it’s all going wrong already.”

Stephan put his arm around his sister, “You will be alright, Tilly, I know you will; you will be a credit to our family, you have no need of a necklace to make an impression.”

“I do wish…I did not have to go to Germany now. I want to be empress and all, but…it is so far away.”




Stephan waited a few hours before going to search for Eleanor; when she didn’t want to be found she was very good at hiding. He could tell she had been waiting for him; she was in the first place he looked, the great oak tree out in the meadows where they had been sword fighting earlier. He sat down in the shade under the tree, waiting for her to drop out of the branches and join him.

It took a while but eventually she did; she began pulling up blades of grass and tying them in knots before throwing them away, “I didn’t touch her necklace, Matilda always blames me. I saw nursey playing with it.”

“Really?” Stephan couldn’t help doubting that a wet nurse would ever dare do such a thing.

His doubt showed in his voice, Eleanor leapt to her feet, “She did, I saw her.”

“I believe you.” replied Stephan hastily, he wasn’t sure if he did, but he didn’t want to upset his baby sister again, “Honest, I do.”

Eleanor studied him from under lowered eyebrows, “Alright.” she said, and sat back down. She knew he didn’t believe her, but it was the truth; no one ever believed her. She felt compelled to ask a question that had been bothering her all her life, What am I supposed to do?”

“What do you mean?” asked Stephan, smiling slightly.

“I’m the seventh and youngest of the family, everything I can do someone else can do better, and I’m none of the things a princess should be. I’m not pretty, or graceful, or nice, or gracious, and there’s not much left over for me as a dowry so I’m a poor princess too – Matilda was right.”

“Contrary to what they would tell you none of your sisters were born as ideal princesses either; when you are older you will be every bit as regal as them.”

“I don’t want to be a princess.” confessed Eleanor guiltily, “I’d rather be a really rich peasant, then I could start my own business and not have to marry anyone or be a nun or anything What can I be if I’m not a princess or a nun?”

Stephan laughed and said kindly, “You can be Eleanor, and I think you are quite good at that.”

Waterloo
07-11-2004, 02:32
Great Prologue, that's one cold-hearted man you gone on the throne there......
I spotted you putting it in the CK boards also.

Monk
07-11-2004, 04:31
Greetings lady frog

I closed the other Eleanor thread, since these two are named exactly the same. If you want me to reopen it i will with no protest, but i just thought i'd go ahead and close the other one seeing as how this is to be the new version.

Nice work i thought, a very interesting family for sure. http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-book2.gif

frogbeastegg
07-11-2004, 09:03
Thanks, Waterloo. I thought I may as well cross post the story, it doesn't take much more time or effort.

No problem, Monk, leave it locked.

zelda12
07-11-2004, 11:44
Unfortunately I missed the first series, I had planned to read it but now as you are re-writing it I shall just read this. Not that my humble opinion is worth much when my first piece of writing flopped before I even finish the first part. But here goes. Milady Frog you once again throuh the eloquence in which you write, prove that you are the undisputed Queen of the Meed Hall. Long may you rule.

You are a great writer, the way in which you can make the characters come alive within a few lines, is quite frankly amazing. You have a gift too, and please forgive my french, to grab the audience by the ball and take them where you wan't them not matter what they wan't.

Right that's enough praise. Back to typing three essays at once due in tommorrow.
So in the words of the legendary Rincewind.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
And beleive me when my Geography teacher reads my work I'm gonna have to run very, very fast, unless of course I wan't to sing high soprano in the school choir.

http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-jester.gif

frogbeastegg
07-11-2004, 22:33
“Stephan, I’ve got something to tell you.”

Stephan looked down at his sister and ruffled her hair, disturbing it from the already unruly hairstyle, “Not now, I’m late for my tilting practise.”

“But it’s really important.” she insisted earnestly.

“I’m sorry, Nell, but it will have to wait; if I hurry my arms master may not notice I’m late, I would rather not spend all morning doing handstands in full armour. I’ll meet you under the oak tree this afternoon, if I’m all in one piece!”

Eleanor stared after her bother’s retreating back, “Brothers.” She had just spotted a way to avoid being either a princess or a nun and he was more interested in hitting things with swords; well, he’d just have to hear about her plan to become an independent countess later, if she still felt like telling him, since he was obviously not interested.


Eleanor waited under the tree all afternoon and half the evening; she only gave up and returned to the palace when the sun began to set. She entered the nursery; it was empty aside from Nursey, “Where’s my brother?” asked Eleanor politely, “Where’s Stephan?”

Nursey gave her a slightly wobbly smile and said in a kind, concerned voice Eleanor could immediately tell was false, “He’s gone away to a better place, don’t be sad.”

Eleanor frowned slightly, not understanding but starting to worry, “Where’s my brother?”

“Stephan is dead, Eleanor. He drowned in the river while swimming this afternoon.” Nursey gathered her resisting charge into a hug, “Don’t be sad, he’s gone to heaven now and he’s with God and his angels now; he’ll be very happy there.”

Eleanor stared at her nurse in shock, fighting her way out of the embrace, “No! You’re lying!” she shouted, Eleanor’s lip started to tremble and she blinked back her tears.

Nursey let her go, “Your father is so upset he has banned anyone from mentioning Stephan; he never existed, you have two brothers now and that is all you ever had.”

“He existed.” replied Eleanor defiantly; she ran from the room, tears pouring unheeded down her cheeks.





The months passed; Matilda went to Germany and married the heir to the throne. The new eldest son, Hugh, began to be groomed as the new heir and he showed great aptitude for his lessons. The third and final son, John, continued to work hard in the training grounds, but all could see his interests lay in more gentle, scholarly pursuits; king William prayed daily that nothing would happened to Hugh, leaving the unsuitable John as his sole heir. Rowena spent all her time learning Danish for her upcoming marriage to the brother of the Danish king; she had been moved away from the royal palace to a convent so she could concentrate better. Adele was engaged to the Spanish king, a man of some thirty-six years to her seven. The queen, their mother, died of a fever shortly after Stephan drowned; William did not remarry. Eleanor’s sixth birthday came and went, and she began her formal education; there was a problem, however. Each and every tutor left within a month of his or her arrival, swearing the young princess was a hopeless case. The litany of complains was long and varied.





“No, no, no, you step to the left, princess, not the right.” Sir Chundleton gestured to the small group of musicians to stop playing, “A pause, if you will”

“I don’t see the point.” Eleanor’s eyebrows drew together into a frown that was promising great things for when she was older, “Step left, step right – what does it matter?”

“It matters, a very great deal, your highness. If you go one way and everyone else goes the other you collide.”

“So? Dancing does nothing and it’s boring.”

“It is the melting pot of cultured society.” lectured Chundleton, his charge’s lack of interest in anything he tried to teach was bad enough, but her unusual dislike for dancing was something he couldn’t even begin to understand, “It is one of the signs of civilisation, it allow nobles to mingle freely and without suspicion, you can even flirt with a chosen favourite while dancing.”

Eleanor curled her lip, “Disgusting.”

“Start the dance again, from the very beginning; you will not leave until you get it right.”

The musicians began to play, and Eleanor resentfully started to go through the steps that had been drummed into her; Sir Chundleton was not pleased, however, “Stop, you’re doing the wrong dance!”

“Really?” Eleanor had always done a good line of fake innocence, but now she was excelling herself, “They all seem the same to me.”

“That does it!” Chundleton ripped the hat off his head and threw it down on the floor, “That does it – I quit!”





“I am master Bufflemore; I do not tolerate noise, mess, unruliness, tardiness, untidiness, bad manners or any other misbehaviour.” the plump little man waved his cane through the air to emphasise his point.

Eleanor looked at her latest tutor, weighting him up; he had only just arrived, this was their first meeting and already she could see a way to remove him. “I understand perfectly.”

“I will teach anything, as any good tutor would” the cane whipped past Eleanor’s nose, “but I have a special interest in teaching mathematics.” the cane swooshed past Eleanor again; she threw her right arm up to intercept it, gritting her teeth at the pain as she caught it, twisting her arm to divert the cane away from her body, then bringing her right hand down to grasp it just above where Bufflemore gripped the wood. Before he could react she disarmed him; she crossed the small room in several rapid steps, paused next to the window, treated her stunned tutor to her best smile, then tossed the cane out the window.

Master Bufflemore stared at her, his jaw gaping wide open in astonishment; his mouth flapped a few times before he managed to speak, “A killer…. I quit!”





“Would you like some cake, lord Alfreton?” Eleanor held out the tray with bits of cake on, knowing her current tutor wouldn’t be able to resist. As she predicted he took a slice and ate it with relish, before taking another and finishing that too. Eleanor put the tray down beside him and sat back down at the table, thankful that she and her tutors always ate in the nursery instead of the main hall like everyone else.

Alfreton yawned, covering his mouth with one hand, “I’m so tired, I confess I always seem to be tired since I arrived here.”

“Perhaps you are sickening?” asked Eleanor, her concern very convincing even though she knew the cause of his tiredness was the poppy juice she had been lacing his food with. Lord Alfreton made no reply; he slumped forward onto the table, snoring gently.




From her very comfortable seat in on a roof beam in the palace’s small throne room Eleanor listened to the search, enjoying herself greatly; they could never find her if she didn’t want them to, and she certainly didn’t want Monsieur François to find her and start yakking away in his stupid foreign languages again. French was what the nobility spoke, along with the newly fashionable English previously only spoken by the lower classes, and she was word perfect in both of them, she didn’t need to know Latin or any other language thank you very much. As she started to eat an apple she had stolen earlier she heard Monsieur François declaring out in the adjoining main hall, “I quit! She is quite impossible.”





“Princess, I demand you pay attention to your studies.”

Eleanor smiled politely at her latest tutor, Sir Toryn, “But, as you keep telling me, a princess is only of lesser rank when compared to a king, queen or prince; you cannot demand I do anything, you’re only a knight.”

Toryn chewed the inside of his lip, wondering just how she managed to absorb the parts of his lessons that would allow her to cause trouble, but ignored the rest, “Then I request it.”

“I don’t feel like studying today, sorry.”

“As your tutor I strongly advise-”

Eleanor put on her best regal pose, perfect posture and careful pronunciation and all, “You may go; I think I shall take some air, alone.” Sir Toryn had no choice, by the rules he had been so carefully trying to teach her he had to obey, he dropped a bow and marched out the door; Eleanor couldn’t help grinning, she could get used to this.

katank
07-12-2004, 21:35
good job, lady froggy. so the entire series is being rewritten?

I rather enjoyed the series and wondered when it will be back.

looks like the background got fleshed out.

are the later chapters also to experience significant change?

frogbeastegg
07-12-2004, 22:22
Yes, the entire series is back and rewritten. The later chapters will change a lot, they will be cleaned up, the excessive use of exclamation marks will be tamed, the grammar improved, the non-dialogue material will be substantially expanded, and then I will throw most of it away and rewrite it from scratch.

I am actually changing certain areas of the plot, altering their dialogue in places, adding plenty of new material, and bringing the whole thing back to earth. You can see a few of these changes already appearing; the queen is now stated to have died of natural causes, and William decided not to remarry; before she was murdered because he wanted an Aragonese princess to forge an alliance. I am cleaning up the worst of the plot holes, removing the most unbelievable things, swapping some things for others (easy example: that medieval marriage law about unmarried couples alone under one roof gets swapped for another medieval marriage law dealing with a promise and sex, far easier to explain in the story and better documented in history books), and adding in real place names, so instead of 'the manor' you now have 'Woburn manor'.

Same story; very different spin indeed.

Tomorrow’s literary ambitions: write the next chapter of Eleanor, catch up on my reading in the mead hall (it’s been about a week since I looked at anything not started by me), finalise some names on my new map of the Isles, rename the last few Red Hand characters in need of name changes, rest tired typing fingers.

scooter_the_shooter
07-13-2004, 02:51
i now forgive you for not posting red hand i now have a new story to obsess over http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-book2.gif

zelda12
07-13-2004, 10:54
Me likes,

The three essays weren't that bad just very, very annoying. I don't know what year you were talking about but I would think that you were talking about six form. I'm still in year ten although year eleven in september. Then again when you read anything I write you can see just how bad education is. Got an A* on my English essay, even if it was the most boring tedious work I have yet completed. God but I do hate Great Expectations.

Ludens
07-13-2004, 11:23
I once wrote that it is very hard to be a proper critic, who gives constructive critisism without sounding insultive or superior. However, I have now found something more difficult: properly critising a story that you already know http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-confused.gif .

In the first place: it is definitly better written than the earlier version.
On the other hand, the opening is less inviting. In the original story, you start with the seemingly innocent visit of a princess, who, the fourth paragraph reveals, is not half as innocent as looks.
Here it begins with some children (well, one child and one grown-up) playing, then one of them get's killed. And immediatly after that scene, it is as if nothing has happened. Off course, that is what the king intended, but it is not what Eleanor feels. You might give some hints to that, instead of having her just torment her teachers (I guess the part about the teachers is fun to read for a new reader, but since I already knew what was going to happen, it didn't work for me).
You need not stick to a chronological order of event. You might even want to leave something hidden for her to reveal to Fulk later.

Anyway, you've just killed of the only character I liked so far. Boo http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/tongue.gif

scooter_the_shooter
07-13-2004, 14:10
who is fulk i ddidnt see him in there

frogbeastegg
07-13-2004, 14:29
Fulk hasn't appeared in this version yet, caesar. You could call him Eleanor's partner in crime; I usually call him 'rusty' these days, just as Eleanor is 'gooseberry'. As for how they got those names, well you will either have to wait or go back and read the original.

Ludens, you know how we have this strange habit of you posting a comment like needs more... and then in my very next part I do that anyway? Sorry, I am going to do that yet again, at least on the Stephan count. There are still many secrets for gooseberry to reveal along the path, some new ones, some altered ones, and a few that remain the same. The beginning is slower but Fulk will still be acting as an instrument for the readers to learn more about our beloved gooseberry, but this time he is not going to be nearly as blind, slow, ignorant and stupid as he was before, hence the need to explain a little more now.

zelda, I can indeed sympathise with your hatred for Great Expectations; we always covered things so slowly and in such a bad way that you developed an immediate, impassioned hate for whatever it was you were reading. A book called 'Daz 4 Zoe' was my Great Expectations, terrible piece of writing, absolutely terrible; half of it wasn't even in proper English. I think it wanted to be Romeo and Juliet for the modern day, since I hated it as much as Shakespeare’s play I suppose it succeeded.

Now, back to finishing the final part of the proglogue.

frogbeastegg
07-13-2004, 21:38
The next morning Eleanor didn’t even bother wasting time on Sir Toryn, she simply vanished after breakfast, slipping away unnoticed. She made her way across the empty grasslands away from the palace towards the oak tree where she spent a lot of time, thinking and dreaming, planning to become a countess or something else that enabled her to remain single and stay away from nuns. Sometimes she even went through a few practise routines with the wooden sword Stephan had given her, she had learned the basic exercises by watching the squires and pages training; she wasn’t improving much, not without someone to instruct her. There was no one to teach her; she couldn’t let anyone find out that she had a training sword in the first place because they would only take it away and she’d get in trouble. A beating was easy enough to survive, but the sword would be hard to replace and she would gain nothing; it was better to keep working alone, trying to remember what Stephan had told her. Besides, it was highly unlikely she could find anyone willing to teach her anything anyway.

In the middle of the morning her peace was interrupted by a rather whimsical query; “What are you doing up there?”

Eleanor peered down through the branches of her tree and saw a stocky man with dark hair, brown eyes, and a long, hooked nose looking up at her. The man looked amused, “Yes, I can see you princess. What are you doing up a tree at this time of day; don’t you have lessons?”

Eleanor shrugged, “I don’t want to learn what they teach so I don’t go.”

“You will need to know those things later, when you are grown up and married.”

“I won’t marry.”

The man seemed amused, “I can’t see you as a nun; of course you will marry, what else could you do?”

“Don’t laugh at me.” commanded an indignant Eleanor, “I won’t marry and I won’t be a nun, so there.”

“I doubt you will have a choice, princess.”

“I wouldn’t cooperate, no matter what they did; I’d die rather than give in.” said Eleanor solemnly, with deep, unshakable belief.

The man considered pointing out that many had said that about various things, but they usually changed their minds when put to the test; instead he asked, “Just what are you so afraid of?”

Eleanor dropped out of her tree and drew herself up to her full, short, height, “Nothing. I’m, not frightened of anything at all, ever.”

“Then why this strange determination to avoid marriage?”

“None of your business.” Eleanor chewed her lip, thinking quickly, “You’re Trempwick, the spymaster, aren’t you?”

The man hooked his right thumb through his belt and leaned back slightly, he raised his eyebrows and asked mildly, “Now how do you know that?”

“I know loads of things.” Eleanor dismissed his surprise without further thought, she was used to people being surprised that they had underestimated her, “I want to know how Stephan died.”

“Who’s Stephan?” returned Trempwick with a faint, polite half smile.

“You know, everyone knows even if they pretend they don’t – it’s silly!”

“You should be careful who you say that to, it’s dangerous.” Trempwick could see she wouldn’t leave the matter be so he offered the standard explanation, “He drowned, simple as that.”

“No.” Eleanor shook her head, “No, I know he didn’t.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He wouldn’t drown, he could swim too well, and he wouldn’t have been in the river in the afternoon because he promised to meet me; he always kept his promises. I don’t see why we can’t talk about him anyway because mother died and we can still talk about her, loads of other people die and we still talk about them, so that makes him special.”

There was a long pause before Trempwick spoke, this time deadly serious with no trace of his former good humour, “A piece of advice, princess, and you’d do well to heed it; don’t repeat that to anyone, whatever you think or feel about your brother, hide it.”

“I already do, I pretend like everyone else; I hate it but there’s nothing else I can do.” Eleanor seemed much older than her six years as she admitted; “I can only fight so many wars at once. I just wanted to know if I was right…and why.”

“Even if, and that is a very big if, you understand, your suspicions were correct what difference does it make? He’s dead, and now he never existed. Good day, princess.” Trempwick patted her on the head, rather patronisingly she thought, and walked away towards the palace.




Eleanor was acting on a hunch when she decided to spend the afternoon of that day sat on her beam in the throne room; she suspected Trempwick and her father would be meeting here and she wanted to know what they were saying. She liked to listen to the business of state; all the wars and intrigues were far more interesting than anything they’d let her learn. Today though she was hoping they would say something about Stephan; her encounter with the spymaster earlier had only increased her suspicions, and her determination to find out why her brother had been killed, there was no doubt in her mind about that, Stephan had been murdered. She might not be able to do anything about Stephan, not even keep insisting that he had existed, but she could at least find out as much as possible; she had to know the truth, she owed him that much.

The king and the spymaster entered the room together; the king immediately began wandering aimlessly about the room, unable to keep still but lacking the energy or need to pace about. Trempwick stood by the door, “Sire, how may I serve?”

“I am not sure.” William paused for a moment, “I have a problem, I must solve it, but none of the solutions are…satisfactory.” he sighed and began walking again, this time slightly faster, “Another one has quit; Sir Toryn would rather join my armies in France than stay here, and you know how the war with France stands at the moment – boring, inglorious, unprofitable, with no battles, just small raids on towns; in short the kind of place a knight would choose to avoid, and yet he would rather be there than remain as royal tutor.”

Eleanor had been surprised to find they had met to talk about her, she was even more surprised by how sad her father sounded; he must have realised how unhappy she was, maybe now he would listen to her and let her be a countess, because then she’d be happy and he would too.

“Thirteen tutors, thirteen in just over seven months.” the king sounded more than sad, tired almost, “Do you realise what that is doing to the reputation of my dynasty? Thirteen tutors leaving here with tales that are less than complimentary, tales that are spreading rather too rapidly, and rather too far.” William began to talk faster, became more animated; pacing up and down the room like a caged lion. To those who knew the signs it was obvious his temper was beginning to build, “You know I offered the king of France a peace treaty, which he refused? I demanded the surrender of Blois, its lands and castles to me, two thousand marks in tribute, and offered her in marriage to the king’s second son to seal the peace; now tell me what they refused on?”

Trempwick knew it was a rhetorical question, but he also knew his lord wanted him to reply, “They balked at the marriage, sire?”

“Yes! Surrendering the lands and paying tribute was acceptable, but that God cursed fool of a Capet said he would rather see all of France burned by the English than marry Eleanor to his son! He claimed it was on grounds of consanguinity, but, as all and sundry know, a payout to the Pope will get you special dispensation to marry cousins and other close kin; while there has been generations of intermarriage our houses are not so close as that. No, it was her, not the bloodline, not the fact we are distant family – I have asked others of suitable status, not as single one will consider her. So, I cannot marry her off.”

Eleanor’s heart lit up, it had taken more than half a year and a lot of getting in trouble but it had worked – she was safe!

“What about a nunnery, sire?” suggested Trempwick, although he suspected the answer.

The king stopped pacing and stared at his spymaster, “Can you imagine the havoc she would cause in a sheltered community of holy women? I have nothing but respect for those who dedicate their lives to God, but their methods only work on those willing to follow the rule of their house.” William’s mouth twisted into a resentful smile, “I doubt having her head shaved would slow my daughter down much; none of her many problems are an excess of pride in her appearance, and if bread and water diets or beatings were going to work they would have done so years ago. She is remarkably resilient when she decides to be stubborn, I have to give her that much.”

He resumed his pacing, waling up and down the room rapidly, his hands clasped at the small of his back, “So, not marriage and not a convent, what am I to do with her? She is destroying the prestige and reputation of this dynasty; she cannot be left as she is now. I…can see no future for her.”

“Sire?” Trempwick was not sure he had understood his king, “You surely don’t mean…?”

The king rounded on his spymaster with a fury born partly of desperation, “What else can I do? She has no use, I can think of no way to make her behave as befits her rank, and to be honest I am not sure it would be worth the trouble even if I could - she is the youngest of four daughters, I spent her dowry fighting the French, she will never be a beauty, her reputation is already so bad that the only people who might think her acceptable are those willing to grab any blood link to my throne they can; I will not parcel her out to some grasping knight with ambitions, it would only store up trouble for the future. Only weak kings will waste daughters like that; there is no prestige in such a match, nor any use, and I will not lower my family by marrying beneath our rank. What else can I do?”

There was something in this exchange Eleanor didn’t like, she couldn’t pin down what it was but her excitement had long since given way to a feeling like butterflies in the pit of her stomach.

“Give her to me.” said Trempwick, “Let me train her.”

“What?” asked the king, incredulous.

“Sire, while many people mutter under their breaths there is only one I know of who has spotted the truth behind Stephan’s death – your daughter. All those complaints from her tutors indicate she has a natural flare for intrigue.”

“A princess of the blood as an agent?! Never.”

Trempwick smiled, a calculated, cold smile, “Precisely, sire. No one would ever suspect a thing, not if she is…competent. She would have access to places other agents couldn’t reach, she would be above suspicion; it has never been done before so none would expect it, just think of the possibilities.”

“And what if she is not suitable? What if you are wrong, Trempwick? What then?”

“We revert to your current plan and kill her. Better to try and get some use from her first, though, I think.”

Eleanor was too horrified to make a sound; they were actually planning to kill her. Her eyes filled with unshed tears, she was used to being told she was useless and no one would want her, but this time it was different, this time it was not another fight with her more stuck up siblings.

William began pacing slowly, deliberately, “I am not entirely convinced of her potential.”

“Sire, if I may offer one final piece of proof?” Trempwick crossed the room until he stood underneath the beam where Eleanor sat, hidden in the shadows, “You had best come down right now, princess, or we’ll fetch you down.”

Eleanor hesitated for a second before reluctantly working her way along the beam and dropping off onto the throne to break her fall. The king stared at her, his shock slowly giving way to his famous temper. Cursing and ranting at the top of his voice he advanced on Eleanor and slapped her so hard her lip split, the ring on his hand gouged a cut on her cheek bone; she was thrown to the floor by the force of the blow. She curled up into a ball, sheltering her head under her arms as blows and kicks rained down on her.

Trempwick decided it was time to intervene before he lost his prize, “Sire, you’ll kill her! She is more use alive, don’t you see – if she can spy on you here then think what else she can do in your service!”

William restrained himself with considerable effort, “You have a choice, brat; you die, you go with Trempwick and learn what he has to teach, or you stay here and learn from the next tutor I find for you, pending a diplomatic marriage. Choose.”

Eleanor looked up, her face covered in blood and tears, but set into grim determination, her deep blue eyes cold; an echo of the expression on her father’s face, “I will go with him.”

“So be it, but I will tolerate no more missteps; you will be useful.” William turned to his spymaster, “You can have the manor at Woburn; you will leave immediately. I do not need to tell you to keep this secret, concoct a decent lie to explain things.”

Trempwick extended his hand to Eleanor; she got up stiffly, her many bruises, scrapes and cuts protesting loudly. She took Trempwick’s hand and limped out of the room with him.


The Beginning

scooter_the_shooter
07-14-2004, 15:28
VERY good froggy i like it

katank
07-14-2004, 16:04
darn, what a nasty old man.

nice job with the description, lady froggy.

zelda12
07-14-2004, 16:47
V. Good, i likes.

frogbeastegg
07-14-2004, 19:43
France: September 1337: Nantes castle, Nantes

Fulk clattered noisily down the spiral staircase and into the main hall; he crossed to the high table where his lord sat idly playing chess against one of his household knights. Fulk bowed, “Sir, the sentry reports the princess’s carriage is in sight.”

“It’s about time.” Aidney waved his knight away, leaving him to talk to his bodyguard in relative privacy, “She will be here soon?”

“Yes, within the half hour.”

“Excellent.” Aidney stood up and held his arms out to his sides, “So, how do I look?”

Fulk hated it when his lord asked him that; giving fashion advice was not his strong point. He looked his lord over, circling around him to get the whole view, as he knew Aidney would demand.

“Well?” asked the count impatiently.

“You look very er, rich, sir.”

“And?”

“The orange of your tunic compliments the gold of your hair.” Christ, but he did feel stupid! “The, er, the cut of your clothes make you look very…um, they show off your muscles?” The further into this he went the more tenuous the ground under Fulk’s feet; he hated being made to feel like a lady’s maid. “You look like a count, sir, a very successful one at that.”

The comment pleased Aidney enormously, “Then I look like what I am; not every man gets to marry a princess.” Aidney let his arms drop back to his sides and sat back down, “You will be well looked after when I this is done, Fulk, never you fear. I do not forget loyalty and good service, I may even knight you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Fulk didn’t let himself feel the joy he should have; he would take Aidney’s word as real only when he was safely dubbed knight, he had learned long ago his master was free with promises he didn’t intend to keep.

“Now, let’s have a look at you.” Fulk slowly turned in a circle feeling more like a prat than ever; the things he did because of that oath of loyalty. “I do still wonder if I should have had you wear your armour, Fulk, you do look rather more impressive in that than plain clothes.”

“Impressive how, sir?”

“Armour suits you, Fulk, combined with that nose of yours it makes you look quite dashing.” Fulk subconsciously rubbed the bridge of his nose; it had been broken and healed slightly crooked. Aidney finished his inspection, “I suppose you will do, it is too late for you to don armour now.”

“Yes, sir. Will you wait outside to greet the princess?”

Aidney heaved a sigh, “I suppose we had better; I don’t want to give offence, not until we are safely married, anyway.”





Generally speaking when Eleanor was offered a choice between riding in a carriage or on horseback she went with horseback, when she was offered a choice between walking or travelling in a carriage she went with walking, and if she was ever in a position where she needed to choose between a carriage and crawling on her hands and knees she was certain she would pick the hands and knees. Now, as the carriage jolted and lurched along the muddy, ill kept roads, she wished once again she had been offered the chance to crawl instead. There was, however, one thing even worse than her mode of travel, and that was her companion; Edith. Just looking at the pasty faced, travelsick girl made Eleanor feel like strangling someone with her bare hands.

The carriage lurched as it hit another rut in the road, Edith weakly fluttered a handkerchief in front of her face, “Oh, I shall be ever so glad when we arrive, my lady.”

“I won’t.” returned Eleanor tartly, thinking of the purpose of this trip.

Fortunately the girl misunderstood her meaning, “I know you are unhappy to have been taken out of your life of religious contemplation, mistress, but think on the many benefits you will gain. Marriage is a blessed state too.”

It had been a long journey; Eleanor was tired and fed up, and couldn’t resist the opportunity to liven things up a little, “Blessed but second best, or do you not listen to our religious scholars? Virginity is the purest state; anything else is to become closer to Eve and her faults. Also remember that lust is a cardinal sin, and one I do not take kindly to being exposed to even inside the sanctity of marriage. Finally remember that the bible says ‘bring forth children in sorrow’, you can be assured the majority of that sorrow lands on the poor, unfortunate mother; men do not descend several levels from grace upon marriage, nor do they develop an alarming tendency to die whenever children are born.” she left out the bit about ‘go forth and multiply’ to see if Edith would mention that herself; she didn’t, much to Eleanor’s disappointment. The maid merely blushed and went silent; the tedium resumed.

All these years of religious study and the subject remained both profoundly tedious and utterly useless, you couldn’t even use it to start a good argument with a travelsick drip who evidently held a very different viewpoint to the one preached every Sunday. Well, if Eleanor were completely honest with herself, she did have to admit the whole religious fanatic princess made for a good cover story; it was far better to claim she had spent most of her life in a backwater nunnery rather than to tell the truth.





By the time they arrived at Nantes castle Eleanor was strongly tempted to order the carriage burned, unfortunately that would be classed as unusual behaviour, something she couldn’t afford. After making sure her wimple and veil were on straight Eleanor allowed herself to be helped out of the carriage by one of her guards; she waited, eyes demurely cast downwards, for Sir Aidney to come forward and greet her; he did so, bowing over her proffered hand and kissing it in courtly style, “Your highness, I am Sir Aidney. We have rooms prepared for you and the wedding guests are beginning to arrive; I thought we could hold the wedding the day after tomorrow.”

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” thought Eleanor, “That will be acceptable.”

Aidney offered her his arm; she took it and allowed him to lead her over to the man he had been waiting with. Aidney introduced him, “This is Fulk, my bodyguard and most trusted man.” Fulk bowed; Eleanor studied him closely from underneath her eyelashes. He was rather tall with the lean, muscular build gained from spending a lifetime practising for at least two hours a day in full equipment with weighted weapons. His glossy brown hair was cut in the most fashionable style, the same style the king wore; Eleanor couldn’t understand why it was such a favoured style as it looked like the wearer had had a bowl clamped on their head and the hair trimmed around it. His eyes were brown also, and they seemed to miss nothing. His nose crooked; Eleanor grudgingly admitted that he would probably be labelled as ‘handsome’, she would have to confer with Edith on that later, the girl took far more of an interest in these things than her mistress.

“A question, if I may?” Aidney’s voice interrupted Eleanor’s evaluation of his man, “What colour is your hair?”

It was a rather rude request, right here in the middle of the courtyard. Eleanor’s sense of propriety warred with her desire to ditch the wimple; the wimple quickly lost the battle and ended up snatched off and dumped in the mud. Aidney was obviously disappointed to find she had black hair instead of the fashionable blonde; for some reason that needled Eleanor, even though she had a lifetime of people lamenting the fact she had dark hair. “You want to know how long it is too?” she asked pointedly.

Aidney flushed, “I think there will be plenty of time to find that out later. Let us go inside, I shall show you to your rooms so you can rest before we dine.” As they walked into the castle Eleanor watched Fulk surreptitiously; he moved with an assured grace and lightness of step she hadn’t expected. She decided that her initial impression was proving to be rather too accurate; he was trouble.





Aidney personally escorted Eleanor to the guest room set aside for her and Edith; the maid made herself scarce with, Eleanor thought, an incredibly annoying and presumptuous glint in her eye. Her feeling of unease grew as Aidney shut the door to give them some privacy, “I know you spent much of your life in cloisters expecting to take holy orders but I am sure you will soon adjust.”

“Thank you.” mumbled Eleanor; she might not be an expert on situations like this but she had a sneaking suspicion Aidney was not going to stay safely at arms length. Why was it Edith disappeared at the only time she could have been useful? Her misgivings were proven correct when Aidney grabbed her in a tight embrace and pressed a kiss onto her mouth; Eleanor went as stiff as a board, her main thought to work her left arm free before he noticed she had a slender dagger in a hidden sheath on her forearm. His grip was so tight she couldn’t move; eventually he took the hint and let her go.

Aidney was no happier than she was, but for a different reason, “You’re supposed to…um, never mind, later.” He made his excuses and left quickly, leaving Eleanor alone in her room.

She scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth, “Disgusting!” She began to unpin her hair, wanting to get it out of the fancy style as quickly as possible. She held the first freed pin between her right thumb and forefinger and checked she was still unobserved, seeing that she was she threw the hairpin at an imaginary target on the wooden window shutters; it hit the imaginary Aidney right in the eye. She threw the rest of her hairpins in rapid succession, each one hitting ‘Aidney’ with unerring accuracy. When she ran out she commented quietly to herself, “Well, he just made my life easier, if a little unpleasant in the short term.” She started pulling her hairpins out of the shutter.





Aidney entered his own private room with a flourish, “Statuesque, Fulk, statuesque.”

“Sir?” asked Fulk, pouring a cup of wine for his lord; to his perpetual annoyance Aidney liked him to serve as squire as well as bodyguard, reasoning that since Fulk spent much of his time following him around he may as well serve food, pour wine and help him dress as well. That oath of loyalty was so hard to keep sometimes.

“My bride.” Aidney sat down on his bed, rested his elbow on his knee then propped his head on his fist, sulking, “I have met friendlier statues; in fact I think a statue would be more...flexible when kissed. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Fulk couldn’t resist adding, “I’ve never kissed a statue or a princess.”

Aidney snatched his drink from Fulk’s hand, “You know what I mean; what did you think of her?” he didn’t wait for a reply, “I think that Alix will be quite safe in her townhouse, Sophie will continue to hold her place in my affections…Mahaut too; I may have to lose Douce though, then I can spend her jewellery budget on my new wife, a pity. I think it is a very good thing indeed that Eleanor comes with a promise that I can keep all the French land I can capture, and has royal blood, or I suspect I would send her back.”

“Really, sir?” a nice generic comment that suited so many occasions, Fulk was very fond of it. He wondered whether to tell Aidney his princess had been wearing a knife concealed on her arm; it had been very hard to spot, even to his expert eyes, undoubtedly that was the reason she had been wearing an old style dress with loose, flowing sleeves instead of the more fashionable tight ones. Fulk decided to wait; this princess warranted further investigation before he could voice his suspicions, he would watch her closely.

“Oh yes. The poets know their standards of beauty well; she does have blue eyes and curves, but she is so short I can see clear across her head! Black hair, I ask you, black hair!?”

“I thought jet black, sir.” interjected Fulk, feeling honour bound to defend a much maligned hair colour he had never seen any fault in.

“Have there ever been any great beauties in stories with black hair? I think not, golden is far superior and the poets know it.”

“Guinevere, sir, she had black hair. I believe Helen of Troy did as well.”

Aidney looked nonplussed, “Alright so there are some, what matters is that I do not like the shade at all. Now, as I was saying, too short, too dark, her skin is too rosy, it should be a pale white, like milk. All rather plain, really.”

Fulk suppressed a sigh; his master was one of those dolts who let fashion dictate everything, including his taste in women.

“And it doesn’t end there! She is nineteen, positively ancient! She is every bit as boring and stuffy as I had expected from an aspiring nun; I do doubt she could hold an interesting conversion.”

“It’s not too hard.”, thought Fulk; an interesting conversation to Aidney was one that flattered him a lot, or that agreed with everything he said.

“The final straw, Fulk, the final straw is her hips – I think my dreams of a large family just died. I suppose I shall have to get by with just a couple of heirs, assuming she doesn’t die on me.”

“Really, sir?” Fulk didn’t particularly care.

“Yes, Fulk, indeed it is so.” Aidney heaved a martyr’s sigh, “Royal blood and royal approval for my conquests, I shall just have to remember that. I shall forge myself a small kingdom with William’s blessing, and then one day, one sweet day, I shall have enough power to declare independence.”




Letting her hair down proved to be a mistake; when Edith returned she took one look and started giggling. It took Eleanor a while to work out why, when she did she found herself once again lamenting the fact Edith was an airhead. “I let my hair down, me, myself, on my own while I was alone, despite what was said in the courtyard, so you needn’t get any peculiar ideas.”

“Yes, mistress.” Edith plainly didn’t believe her. She busied herself unpacking Eleanor’s clothes, “You’re so lucky” she sighed, “Aidney’s so young and handsome.”

“Is he?” asked Eleanor sceptically; she alone in the entire female population of Christendom seemed immune to the strange need to find people handsome or not. To Eleanor people just were, they had faces you could describe but she had yet to meet a face she wanted to keep looking at or would daydream about as so many others did. Quite frankly she couldn’t see the point in searching for one either, there were many more interesting things to do in life than spend time mooning over some twit with a bad haircut.

“Oh yes, he’s very handsome, his guard too, though it’s a pity about the broken nose.”

“Is it?” Eleanor couldn’t see why, the nose added a bit of personality.

“It’s like a chip in the rim of a glass vase, it spoils the effect but you can still find the whole pleasing to the eye.”

Now Edith had lost Eleanor completely, vases looked like vases, which looked like vases, they were all vase like, and a chip didn’t matter much. Eleanor gathered her courage, as much as she hated to ask this was rather integral to her plan, “How do you….um, I want to….that is how to…” Edith giggled, and Eleanor felt herself go a deep crimson, “flirt.” she finished so quietly the maid could barely hear.

“You don’t know?” Edith couldn’t believe her ears. Eleanor went an even deeper shade of beetroot; her maid took pity, “Of course, nuns are hardly going to allow you to learn things like that. See, I told you he was handsome.”

Eleanor wondered if she could stab her maid with a hairpin, ‘accidentally’ of course.

*


Thank you all https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/ht_bow.gif

zelda12
07-14-2004, 20:04
Sorry don't mean to nit pick but you put an e in straw so you said strew,

The final strew, Fulk, the final straw is her hips

Sorry. But it seems a shame to leave a mistake in.

Great story

By the way how do you put things in Italics I cant find a button above the text box when typing and because I have to convert to text only when I want to post stories on the site.

frogbeastegg
07-14-2004, 20:13
Thanks, I like to have my mistakes pointed out.

To get effects like italics I just write the whole thing with the iconboard coding in place, for example: Code Sample “And it doesn’t end there She is nineteen, positively ancient She is every bit as boring and stuffy as I had expected from an aspiring nun; I do doubt she could hold an interesting conversion.”
[I]“It’s not too hard.”[/I], thought Fulk; an interesting conversation to Aidney was one that flattered him a lot, or that agreed with everything he said.
[/QUOTE]

Becomes:
“And it doesn’t end there She is nineteen, positively ancient She is every bit as boring and stuffy as I had expected from an aspiring nun; I do doubt she could hold an interesting conversion.”
“It’s not too hard.”, thought Fulk; an interesting conversation to Aidney was one that flattered him a lot, or that agreed with everything he said.
When you don't use the special tags to keep it from being converted.

I memorised the coding ages ago:
Code Sample
[i]italics[/i]
[b]bold[/b]
[u]underline[/u]
[center]centred text[/center]
[color=red]red text, you can sue other colours too[/color]
[size=5]size 5 text, 1 is the standard size[/size]
to get this code box so the code will display instead of being converted you just type [code] then close it off the same as the others, which I can't do in this example without ruining it
[/QUOTE]

zelda12
07-14-2004, 20:16
Cheers https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-2thumbsup.gif https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-2thumbsup.gif

scooter_the_shooter
07-14-2004, 23:16
i like this story ( yeah i cant do comments well) https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-speechless.gif

DemonArchangel
07-14-2004, 23:57
So eleanor is over 100 years old because from 1225 to 1337 is a LONG time

frogbeastegg
07-15-2004, 08:42
Yet another example of froggy's craptastic maths skills in action; should have been 1325. Don't ask me where the extra 100 years went, as usual I have no idea, as it is perfectly obvious 1225 is the wrong answer; that is probably why I didn't notice it.
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-oops.gif

Fixed.

scooter_the_shooter
07-16-2004, 15:50
i am going to make a prediction(my are never right) but here it is ellenor will kill the count take all his money and leave.

katank
07-16-2004, 17:53
just kill him and run off with fulk. or rather, fulk runs off with her.

frogbeastegg
07-16-2004, 20:53
As she sat next to Aidney at the high table during dinner Eleanor only listened to his endless self-promoting talk with half an ear. She suffered through five courses, hearing all about his grandiose plans, his past deeds of note, his incredible skills in all arenas of life – if Aidney was correct about Aidney than she was engaged to a demi god who was about to become king of the world inside of a decade. She had to admit she did have a few small doubts as to the validity of that.

Something Aidney was saying pricked her attention, she started to listen properly, “-not very happy about this match, are you?”

Concern, how…touching, “Why ever do you think that?” she replied neutrally.

“You were dragged from your quiet life to be here; I am far beneath you, a poor match for a princess. I get the impression you do not like me much.” He sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe that last part.

“I do not know you well enough to form an opinion.”

“Bluntly put I want to know if you are going to be difficult; I want to know if you are going to make this wedding awkward. It would be…unfortunate if this wedding became legendary for the wrong reasons.”

Eleanor put her dining knife down and looked him in the eye, “I admit I do not want to be here, I also admit to promising I would die before I married anyone, but time and age has…shown me the error of that statement. I can promise I will do as I was bid, and I will say my words as taught.”

“Good, I can assure you I will not be a mere count for much longer, why I…” Aidney continued his recounting if his plans, telling her just how far he planned to rise; Eleanor tuned him out once again. She might have guessed his concern was purely selfish in nature.




Fulk watched the princess closely during the meal, closely but very circumspectly; he didn’t want her to know of his suspicions. He could see no trace of knives hidden in her sleeves this time, but that didn’t make her harmless; she could have other weapons hidden about her person, Fulk had to admit the only other kind of concealed weaponry he could rule out was a boot knife, since she was wearing dainty shoes.

He couldn’t fault her performance so far, she had played the part of princess so well that he would never have been wary if he hadn’t noticed that tell tale, barely visible distortion in the way her sleeve had hung earlier; whoever she was she was very well trained. She had the expected royal entourage, the rich clothes, the accent, the skills and manners; she even looked like the descriptions of king William’s youngest daughter. Someone had done their research and done it well, but why? Aidney was not nearly important enough to warrant such effort and expense.

He was aware that, once again, she was watching him, and, if he were scrupulously honest with himself, she was doing a better job of subtle observation than he was. No matter how carefully he watched he couldn’t find anything more solid, and he would need indisputable evidence before he brought this to Aidney.

She was most definitely trouble.




He was watching her, that broken nosed man with the bad haircut…Fulk, that was the name; oh, he was very subtle about it, but it was more than enough to kill the tiny remaining part of her that suggested flirting to get what she wanted would be a good idea. Edith’s tutorial had been extensive, detailed and in-depth; it had also lost Eleanor by the third sentence. It was hard enough to follow vague instructions like ‘be nice’ without an attentive audience. She did what any well brought up princess would do in a situation where things were slipping ever so slightly out of line; she mentioned dear daddy, “I have a message to give you, from my father. In private.”

“Really?” Aidney’s eyes sparkled, “Then I shall look forward to it. I shall pay a discreet visit to you tonight, you can tell me then.” he seized her left hand and repeated, for the umpteenth time that day, his courtier’s showy kiss. Eleanor starting wondering how many times she could scrub her hand before the skin started to peel off.




Eleanor waited for Aidney to arrive, both impatient to get on with things and dreading the moment. She had sent Edith away with instructions not to come back until sent for; the maid had giggled and left with a knowing smile that drove Eleanor crazy, but she could hardly say she was going to give Aidney a secret, important message from the king. Eleanor had the feeling Edith wouldn’t have believed that anyway, the girl had an astonishing tendency to assume the worst.

When he finally arrived he didn’t even bother to knock, stepping though he door and shutting it quietly behind himself. He aimed a grin at Eleanor that turned her stomach, and said, “It would hardly be a secret if everybody saw me arrive now, would it?”

Eleanor poured two goblets on wine, took a sip from the one in her right hand and gave him the other, the one she had laced with poison. She raised her drink in a toast, “To the future.” The wine was a dry vintage, not at all to her taste, but she forced herself to drain the goblet in one go, before pouring a refill. As she expected Aidney wouldn’t allow himself to be outdone and he too drained his goblet and held it out for more. Once he had a refill he waited for her to drink again, cursing him silently she did so, noting that her head was beginning to spin and her mouth was swearing never to forgive her.

“So, this message?” Aidney drained his goblet again and reached for the pitcher of wine, pouring the last bit for himself.

“My father says he recognises ambition and treats it accordingly.” she spoke slowly and deliberately, watching him closely.

“That’s it?” Aidney frowned, “What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?” returned Eleanor coolly.

Aidney’s fevered, and tipsy, imagination caught fire, “Promotion? More lands? Wealth?” he cut off abruptly, a hand going to his stomach, “Damn it!” he looked up at Eleanor, sweat beginning to break out on his forehead, “Are you well? The wine is disagreeing with me, a bad batch?”

“I wanted to thank you for your welcome.” Eleanor rested her hands in her lap, each hand near the wrist of the other arm, “I was concerned I might like you; that would make this harder.”

“Christ Jesus!” groaned Aidney, wrapping both arms about his abdomen as if he could squeeze the growing pain away. Realisation hit him suddenly and he staggered to his feet, “You poisoned me!”

Eleanor was on her feet too, gracefully keeping out of arm’s reach of the stricken man, “The words I was taught and sent here to say: treachery and ambition such as yours are unforgivable-”

The door was flung open and Fulk burst in, sword drawn; he had been sat outside, carefully listening with his ear pressed to the door. Much of what had been said was too muffled to be understood, but Aidney’s bit about poison had carried clearly enough. He kicked the door shut behind him, thinking to deny Eleanor an escape route. One look at Aidney told Fulk all he needed to know; there was nothing to be done for him.

Within seconds of Fulk’s unexpected arrival Eleanor had ripped both her knives from their hidden wrist sheathes and took up her usual pose, trying to look far more threatening than she actually was, keeping out of range of Fulk’s sword. Aidney gave a final gargle and collapsed to the floor, dead or unconscious, it mattered not; if he wasn’t dead yet he soon would be.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Fulk, he kept his sword point aimed at her but made no other hostile moves; he didn’t want to kill her if he could possibly avoid it.

“Exactly whom I said I was before.”

“So I’m expected to believe a princess is an assassin?” Fulk snorted sceptically, “I think not.”

Eleanor played for time, trying to think of a way to remove this latest threat; since she couldn’t kill him in a straight fight and he was too close for a thrown knife to be safe, it was a tricky proposition, “I was not needed to marry and my father deplores waste.” She could see he didn’t believe her, “Do you honestly think someone would waste their money setting up this elaborate charade just to kill that foul man? Granted the servants and escort were specially hired in France, but the rest is real; where else could I learn to act the part, except at the royal court? You must admit I do look quite a lot like myself too.”

Fulk had to admit he hadn’t managed to think of a satisfactory answer to that question himself; he found both possibilities equally implausible, but what she said did make sense. Suddenly it became important to distance himself from his master, “I had nothing to do with his treachery.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow, “Really? Then why did you follow him instead of turning him in?”

“I swore an oath of allegiance, loyalty until death – you know, the usual. Unlike many I keep my word, always.” he said that last with quiet pride.

“A man of honour?” she threw her left knife up into the air and caught it hilt first again, showing off, again trying to look dangerous, “How very believable.”

He watched her display with mild amusement, “You’re still alive and unharmed, aren’t you? I would call that honourable.”

“I am alive, and will remain so, because you would die first.” she bluffed; it was quite convincing, though she was too short, too light and too poorly equipped and trained to win this fight she was obviously at home with her weapons and quick on her feet.

Fulk considered, he wasn’t sure who would win; he was quite confident he would but he didn’t like having holes punched in his hide, and Eleanor looked capable of doing just that. He also didn’t want to kill her, “How old are you, girl?”

“What has that got to do with anything?” Eleanor couldn’t see where this particular line was going; she fell back on her title to grab a bit of breathing space while she figured out his intentions, “My title is princess, not girl.”

Fulk grinned despite himself; that reminder of her high status rankled as much as it amused, “You are obviously young, your Royal Highness, and generally young people don’t want to die. At twenty-five I think I still count as young, and I certainly don’t want to die. There is an alternative, your supreme majesty.” he wondered how she would take his mockery of her status; he found it strangely satisfying to warp her title like that, “I could swear loyalty to you; your path sounds an interesting one, and you will need a loyal guard for those occasions when things go wrong, occasions like just now.”

“Your supreme highness?” repeated Eleanor, knowing he was mocking her but not caring; she had never liked her title anyway, “I can take care of myself; I do not require your assistance.”

He hadn’t got a rise from her as he’d expected so he tried again with a slightly more fanciful title, “Are you sure, oh rose of a thousand years? If you end up in another situation like this you may need a brute with a sword.”

“Rose of a Thousand Years?” Eleanor found his attempts to be insulting nothing but comical. She considered his offer, it would allow her to get away from here safely; she would have to kill him before she got home, Trempwick had been very specific on the ‘no witnesses’ part, but that would be easier to manage when his guard was down. “So be it, the job is yours, unworthy one.” She impulsively decided to play him at his own game, insult for insult.

Fulk knelt and held his sword to Eleanor, hilt first; she put her knives back in their hidden sheathes and took the weapon. She held it out towards him, hilt in one hand and blade tip in the other; Fulk laid his hand midway along the blade, “I swear to follow, serve and protect you faithfully for the rest of my life, through hell fire if need be.”

Eleanor gave him his sword back, “And I swear not to walk into hell fire, I would rather not get charred; I do have to look after myself, you know.”

Fulk put his sword away and kicked Aidney’s body over into the shadowy corner of the room where it was least likely to be spotted, “Of course, oh serene one; as long as you do what I say.”

“I am the princess here, sword for brains.” replied Eleanor sweetly as she dragged a set of packed saddle bags out from under the bed. She had set everything up for her escape before Aidney arrived, cramming her clothes, crown, weapons, tools and other items she needed to take back with her into the bags.

“Yes, but I am the bodyguard, petal of silver.” He still hadn’t got a rise out of her; no matter, he would keep trying. Somehow it was important to him to make it clear he wasn’t going to respect her fancy family.

“Not if I decide to poison your wine, you walking suit of armour.” That was an idle threat; while he had to die poisoned wine wouldn’t work, not after he’d seen her use the same trick on Aidney.

“I don’t drink, most precious pearl.” said Fulk honestly, his mind supplying the not quite an insult automatically.

“After travelling with me for a week you will!” Eleanor promised with a hint of a friendly smile. She shoved the saddlebags towards Fulk, “Now, to plan our escape. A pair of horses and a diverted guard will work nicely; we will travel to the port in Rennes. I was going to knock the guard out or something, but you can divert them with a false order or something.”

“How was a slight, delicate little thing like you planning to lug those saddlebags down to the stables?”

“With difficulty.” replied Eleanor, she shoved the bags at Fulk, “But since you are here and handy you can do it for me; I am promoting you to pack mule.” she walked out the door, expecting him to follow.

“As you say, my regal encumbrance.” he muttered under his breath, before swinging the bags over his shoulders and setting off after her, making sure the door was closed behind him to delay the discovery of the body.

katank
07-16-2004, 21:32
so wine this time. I still liked the original killing when he died of poison on her hand. the scene with fulk talking about bandits was also better IMHO.

the language is more interesting this time round though.

nice job as ususal.

frogbeastegg
07-16-2004, 21:41
I preferred the original method of dispatch and Fulk's bandit interruption too, but it just wouldn't work now - it would require them going back to the castle to pack, then leaving in broad daylight. Far too suspicious, princesses do not run off with men at arms when the lord has died because of 'bandits', and she can't abandon all the things she brought with her, some yes, but not all. She could send Fulk back for them without causing too much suspicion, but neither of them will trust just isn’t there; she needs him to come back so she can kill him, he doesn’t want her running off without him.

katank
07-16-2004, 22:09
I guess so.

still, the princess travels light and spontaneously elopes with M@A after killing his master during a romantic interlude out in the woods sounds better.

frogbeastegg
07-16-2004, 22:23
But, as she explains in the next part, she was never actually there; the whole thing is a cunning plot to discredit England, after all Eleanor the pious boring princess was at home all the time. https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/geishawink.gif

Got to admit your version does give me an idea for an alternate scene...comic mush....
El: I do love that nose of yours and I'm quite bored of this princess gig; let's run off together.
Fulk: Ok, why not? I like short and you're very petite; I can use your head as a chin rest.

zelda12
07-17-2004, 10:06
lol

scooter_the_shooter
07-20-2004, 15:55
so she now is going to kill fulk

frogbeastegg
07-20-2004, 17:13
They left the main keep easily enough, almost everyone was asleep and the handful of guards on duty were posted on the walls and towers, not inside the peaceful keep. Once they got outside Eleanor ducked into a shadow to observe the patrolling guards on the nearby walls; Fulk gracefully followed, making far less noise than she had expected with his burden. “We have to get over to that tower” he indicated one set between the main gatehouse and the cookhouse, “my room is in there; I am not leaving without my armour and stuff.”

“We do not have time to faff about with chain mail.” replied Eleanor in a furious whisper, “And how are you planning to carry it? You are decidedly not Sampson.”

“I shall carry it on my back, your supremacyness.” He set off without waiting for her reply, knowing she would follow her saddlebags and whatever was in them that was so important; he walked across the bailey with nary a care in the world. After a moments hesitation Eleanor followed, matching his carefree step and trying to look like she had every right to be in this castle and wandering around after dark.

They made it to the room without incident, fortunately Fulk’s somewhat privileged position has given him that rare luxury – a private room he shared with no one. As she looked about the tiny room Eleanor decided it was more a converted storeroom that anything else, simply furnished with a rickety looking bed and a pair of wooden chests. Fulk dumped the saddlebags down on the bed, which creaked alarmingly; his sword belt and cloak soon joined the bags. Fulk knelt in front of and opened the larger of the two chests, pulling out a mail hauberk, helmet and gambeson. “You can play squire, your superiority, or we shall be here until morning as I struggle to put my mail on.”

Eleanor let out an exasperated sigh, “Of all the things I expected from this mission dressing a training dummy was not one of them.”

Fulk pulled on his gambeson easily enough on his own; the rigidly padded tunic was cut in a very old style and reached to his knees and wrists, it had an impressive collection of rips and cuts that had been stitched up, and a few ancient bloodstains. He indicated she should help him on with the hauberk next, which she did, dumping the armour down onto his shoulders with scant regard for his well-being; Fulk staggered slightly under the sudden weight, “You’re not much good at this, are you?”

“What did you expect, you overgrown rust pile? Not even I, with my rather unconventional education, got to play about with armour and dressing knights.”

Fulk finished fighting to put his arms into the sleeve and jumped up and down a few times to settle the mail tunic down so it covered his gambeson, “I thought you might figure out it takes a pinch of gentleness, rather than dumping the full weight on in one go, your incredibleness.”

Eleanor gave him an apologetic smile, “I did not suspect you were made of straw, sorry.”

He muttered something she didn’t catch and reached for his sword belt, refastening it about his waist. He picked up his helmet, an old fashioned conical affair with only a nasal to guard the face and placed it on his head, lacing it securely under his chin. He had chosen to leave his mail coif down, so his ears would be clear; he didn’t anticipate any fighting anyway, it was just simpler to carry armour on his body than in a sack.

Eleanor surveyed the full effect; he had obviously cared for his equipment well, but there was one slight problem that rather spoiled the image, “Vintage armour, you look just like my great-great-great-grandfather at the time of Hastings.”

“I earned this armour; unlike you lazy nobles I didn’t buy it with money extorted from my lands, or inherit it from a relative.” replied Fulk frostily, he had always been proud to own his own armour, even if it was antiquated, but now he felt rather embarrassed of its age and he did not like that one bit.

Once again her reaction was different to what he expected; “No, you looted it off the dead body of some lazy noble who did inherit it, right?” a small smile took the sting out of her words.

“Actually he was another man at arms.” explained Fulk as he unhooked his leather satchel from the wall where it hung and checked the contents to make sure he had got everything, “To find the lazy noble you’d have to go back a hundred odd years. If he’d been a knight I’d have ransomed him instead; I could use the cash.”

Eleanor noticed he was eyeing her thoughtfully, “You had better not get any ideas about ransoming me; it would be such a shame if I had to kill you, since we are getting along so well.” She knew no one would bother to pay her ransom, no matter the circumstances she was captured in; she simply wasn’t worth the money.

Fulk grinned as he crossed the room to open the door, “I was thinking no such thing, oh suspicious one, I was wondering how much to demand as pay.” he opened the door a crack and peeked out, “Just the one guard at the gatehouse, we can get out easily enough if I divert him for a bit. We’ll have to walk though; horses would attract too much attention. You mind walking?”

Eleanor thought of the carriage trip to the castle, “Not in the slightest, you should worry about yourself, crooknose; worry about whether you can keep up with me, not the other way around.”

Fulk handed her his satchel, “I can see you are going to be an endless source of delight. Wait here, I shall send the guard away then return for the saddlebags, and you as well, I suppose.”

“I should warn you, purely for the purpose of talking out aloud and not because I do not trust you, that if you sell me out I shall implicate you so deeply that you will hang for murder, not I.”

“As I said, an endless source of delight.” he bobbed an ironic bow and left, walking across the yard, his armour jingling softly. Eleanor watched through a tiny crack in the door as he spoke to the guard, pointing back at the keep and gesturing firmly; the guard grabbed his spear and set off at a quick walk to the keep. Fulk headed back to his room, moving quickly but being careful to avoid suspicion; he pushed past her and grabbed the saddlebags, “Quickly, I told him I had seen a suspicious person wandering about near the rear of the keep, I also said I was going to investigate outside, so they won’t miss me for a bit.”

“So you do have brains in amongst the straw stuffing your head.” remarked Eleanor quietly as they crossed the courtyard once again.

Fulk pushed the small door cut into the larger main gate open for her and ushered her through, “Oh yes, I have plenty of brains, precious object.” And that was why he still didn’t believe her when she said she was a princess; her explanation might form a picture that the pieces fitted but it was also a story so unlikely that even the bards hadn’t thought of it and used it for a story.





More a fragment than a chapter or part, I was intending to cover her entire trip home but I have been very busy. I shall try to get the rest up soon.

caesar, that is for us vets to know and you newbies to find out https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/geishawink.gif

Axeknight
07-20-2004, 17:33
Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ July 20 2004,17:13)]a story so unlikely that even the bards hadn’t thought of it and used it for a story.
I think you'll find one bard did tell a story like this, once. Called herself a frog, as I remember https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif

Well, the writing has improved immensly. I'm looking forward to the new improved window scene, it'll be interesting to see how you do it this time around.

Ludens
07-21-2004, 12:24
I had prepared some comments about the first part (young Eleanor), but after reading your comments on my comments, I just say:

Needs more: emotion.
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/tongue.gif

Eleanor's first assignment is fine, though you should have tried to make Fulk's transition from Audney's vassal to Eleanor's assistant somewhat more believable.

A few small notes:

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ July 14 2004,20:43)]Generally speaking when Eleanor was offered a choice between riding in a carriage or on horseback she went with horseback, when she was offered a choice between walking or travelling in a carriage she went with walking, and if she was ever in a position where she needed to choose between a carriage and crawling on her hands and knees she was certain she would pick the hands and knees.
Was is very good, but:

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ July 16 2004,21:53)]if Aidney was correct about Aidney than she was engaged to a demi god who was about to become king of the world inside of a decade. She had to admit she did have a few small doubts as to the validity of that.
Is a bit redundant. You could have done without that last sentence.

Otherwise, a very good read. Now let's see if you can give Eleanor a good reason not to kill Fulk.
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/tongue.gif

frogbeastegg
07-21-2004, 14:05
Quote[/b] (Ludens @ July 21 2004,12:24)]I had prepared some comments about the first part (young Eleanor), but after reading your comments on my comments, I just say:

Needs more: emotion.
https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/tongue.gif
Probably; I'm not good at children. I suppose it's to balance things out, now I find mush reasonably easy to write I struggle with the brats instead. The irony of this is not lost on me, since most of the brats come from the mush.


Quote[/b] ]Eleanor's first assignment is fine, though you should have tried to make Fulk's transition from Audney's vassal to Eleanor's assistant somewhat more believable.
:takes deep breath: Well, later on, in fact in the very next part... https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/geishagrin.gif It's handled in the next bit I'll be posting; the explaination of Fulk's apparant sudden trust and Eleanor's scheme for escape were originally all supposed to be one post instead of two, but I have been so busy I had to split it.


The window scene mark II, Axeknight? I think if there is one single scene in this story that will benefit from the rewrite more than any other then the window scene is it; it will probably be barely recognisable. But that is far off into the future, probably some 100 pages away...


I've got to invent a religion, not just any old religion but one that lends itself to swearing in the same way Christianity does; it's one of the last details of the new Red Hand world that needs taking care of, and so far the hardest. I think I shall write some more Eleanor while I try to think.

frogbeastegg
07-21-2004, 17:28
They passed the night in a small dry-stone walled, turf roofed shepherd’s shelter about a mile and a half from the castle; it was too dangerous to travel far at night. After dumping the bags in the corner nearest the doorway Fulk settled down in the far corner out the draft of the open doorway; still in full armour and wary beneath his relaxed appearance.

“So…” began Fulk in a conversational tone, “Now you’ve killed Aidney and everyone knows who did it, what next?”

Eleanor laughed softly, “I did not kill him.”

“Yes you did, I saw you do it.”

“No, some impostor who claimed to be me killed Aidney; I was safe at home in my tiny little manor, praying and behaving like a good religious recluse while awaiting a worthy marriage. No one will ever believe I was even here; what princess would ever consent to marry a mere count, and what king would waste his bloodlines on such an inferior match? A princess as an assassin, well you will admit it is a tale better suited to a fireside yarn.”

“But your escort, they will all swear you were here.”

“An escort hired near the port where I landed, hired by the captain of my ship, which was a private vessel and gave no name. Believe me I would never allow someone like Edith to work for me, I was hard pressed to tolerate her presence for the few days it took to get to this point.”

Fulk had to admit her reasoning was very sound; even though he had seen the pageantry and the murder he found it impossible to believe she was the real princess Eleanor, if he couldn’t believe that then why should anyone else? Finding out the truth was going to be difficult, and this particular line would get him nowhere.

He pulled his helmet off and placed it on the beaten earth floor next to him, leaning back into his corner, “Goodnight, oh incredible wonder of wonders.” He shut his eyes and pretended to sleep, remaining alert for the slightest sound that might hint she was going to poke him full of holes.




Eleanor didn’t even bother to pretend to sleep; every time she shut her eyes she could see Aidney’s contorted features as he died. It was not a pleasant image, regardless of how much she had disliked the man. When she could sit still no longer, when the first light of dawn peaked through the open doorway, Eleanor pushed herself to her feet; Fulk’s hand instantly shot to his sword hilt and his eyes snapped open.

She cocked an eyebrow, “Sleep well?”

He released his weapon and relaxed again, “Very well, all things considered. You?”

“Like the dead.” She tried not to think of Aidney. “There is a town within an hour of here, we shall stop by there and buy a couple of horses and some supplies. I will wait for you in the church with our bags while you do the shopping; if you betray me I can claim sanctuary, you” she began ferreting around in one of her saddlebags, “get most of my money to go shopping. I think that handles our slight problem with trust; I need the money and you need your belongings.”

She found what she was looking for, a small leather drawstring purse, and tossed it to Fulk; he caught it deftly and immediately opened it and began counting the contents, “There’s not nearly as much as I expected here.”

“You were expecting boundless riches? It will buy us two decent horses, some food, and passage back to England; that is all we need.”

A voice at the back of Fulk’s mind suggested that yes he was expecting boundless riches actually, thank you, and that was why he had been so quick to throw his lot in with her. He squashed the voice as soon as it appeared; he was a man of honour, she had obviously needed help, following her promised to be interesting, and it gave him reason not to kill her. That was why he had chosen her path, not money or thought of reward.





As she waited in the church for Fulk to return Eleanor began a careful, surreptitious inspection of the contents of his bag, trying to determine just what kind of a man he was, looking for a clue that may suggest a simple way to kill him. Most of the items where what you’d expect from a soldier, bandages, medicines, spare clothes, stuff to clean his armour, needle and thread, a small purse with barely any money in it, a small iron pot, spoon and eating knife; nothing much interesting or useful.

One item, however, stood out; a book, not particularly fine or lavishly illustrated, but a rarity none the less. Where would a simple man at arms learn to read, and why would he want a copy of ‘King Arthur’ anyway?

Eleanor put everything back how she had found it, with more questions than she had discovered answers.





That night they were once again camping out, this time under the stars due to the lack of both funds and a convenient hut. Fulk crouched next to the fire he’d built, stirring the pot of stew that was their dinner; he looked at Eleanor out of the corner of his eye, she was checking over her wrist knives for rust. Satisfied that she’d be able to hear him he quietly began to sing a catchy song currently popular in Nantes.
“The queen of Spain
She had a knight
Her lord husband
Did get a fright
When he-”

A rock bounced off his back, interrupting him before he could get to what was widely considered the good part; the missile did no damage because he was still wearing his armour. He turned to see Eleanor tossing another stone up and down in an obvious threat, “That is my sister you are referring to.”

“Sorry, I didn’t think.” mumbled Fulk apologetically, returning his attention to his stew. So even an oblique reference to the English royal family got the correct response you’d expect from someone claiming to be princess Eleanor; interesting. Time to push things, just to see what happened, “I never believed the rumours anyway, I just like the tune.”

She scrubbed at an imaginary rust spot on one of her knives, “So now I am stuck with an aspiring minstrel? Just what I always wanted.”

“If I were a minstrel I’d add a verse or two about the queen needing rescue from her prison, that’s always popular with an audience. The lack of such a verse makes me think the chap who wrote this version was a rank amateur.”

“No one will save Adele, she will rot in that lonely castle until she dies, knowing her children are scorned and their parentage doubted, ruining their futures and all because she had to dally with some drip in armour. She always too naive to see those stories she liked so much would never work in the real world. We always told her that, Stephan and I, but she never…” Her voice caught in her throat; she ducked her head and scrubbed enthusiastically at that rust spot.

Fulk watched her work while absently tending to the food; her reaction had been realistic enough, but that last bit was either a very cunning lie acted out superbly, or the honest truth. As he regarded that forlorn, unhappy figure the hair on the back of Fulk’s neck stood up and he began to wonder if perhaps she could be whom she said she was.





As they sat under the tree in a small copse at the end of their second day on the road trying to shelter from the driving rain, Eleanor smiled and told Fulk nicely, “This is entirely your fault, you know, if you had not spent so much on the horses then we would be in an inn right now, warm and dry with decent food.”

“Sorry, oh righteously furious one.” He had given up on trying to upset her with his elaborate titles right about the point he had figured out that she actually liked it; now it had become something of a contest to see who could find the most ridiculous insult, a game of wits. “In my defence I did think a princess would have more money, and you’ll admit they are good horses.”

“Let us hope they do not catch a cold, or they shall lose that advantage.” she replied dryly, casting a glance over to the animals tethered under another nearby tree. “If you rust in place I will not rescue you, you know; I shall leave you here to meet whatever fate rusted men at arms usually encounter.”

Fulk wished, for the umpteenth time since he had left the castle, that he could take his armour off just for a few minutes, but he couldn’t risk it; she might use the opportunity to carefully plant a dagger in his ribs. He yawned, he hadn’t slept since the night before Aidney’s murder; he needed to find a way to make a truce he could trust with Eleanor, before he keeled over dead of his own accord.

With some effort he dragged his mind back to their conversation, “I do wonder why you chose this instead of some plush kingdom and marriage.”

“I did not exactly choose.” she frowned, her dark eyebrows forming two gracefully arced lines, “But then again perhaps I did, in a way. Regardless, this is vastly preferable to the alternative.”

Fulk couldn’t believe his ears, “What? You’re joking, right?”

“No, not in the least.” she met his unbelieving eyes and raised her chin slightly, “I once swore I would die before I married anyone, now I see the error of those words; why should I be the one to do the dying? For that matter why should anyone die at all? My life would be as good as over anyway, so I may as well run away instead, and see how things turn out.”

Fulk was tempted to laugh but he suspected she would take offence if he did, “Unless they take holy orders almost every single person in Christendom gets married, and many of them even like it; what makes you so different?”

A legion of reasons crowded forward, poised on the tip of her tongue but she swallowed them again; some were too embarrassing to reveal, others no one would understand, still others were too private, and then there were the ones she couldn’t even put into words. She grabbed the single reason most likely to satisfy his curiosity and end the line of questioning without revealing she didn’t want to talk about it, “Would you relish the prospect of spending the rest of your life in perfect obedience to someone, subject to their every whim, with no way out except death, knowing your hands were neatly tied by law, church and society so you could never even disagree unless they let you?” Fulk shook his head. “Then why should I?” she asked.

She expected him to launch into the usual speeches about man’s superiority being stated in the bible, about things always being like this and not in need of changing, about her changing her mind later after she’d been married and had several children, but he didn’t, he just shrugged his shoulders and admitted, “A fair point, though it appears many don’t mind.”

She offered a bit more, both from gratitude for his understanding and to see just how far it went, “By law there are two groups who get that kind of power, husbands and fathers; the father is sadly inevitable but the husband is not.”

Fulk chortled, “I bet your meetings with your dear papa are very interesting!”

Eleanor’s hand went to her cheek, her index finger absently tracing the barely visible scar under her eye, “Yes…you could say that.”

Fulk reached for the bag containing their food and pulled out a loaf of brown bread, “Would you like some hard, nasty looking cheese with your stale bread, oh delicate blossom?”

“I suppose I shall, or you will finish it off yourself, you bottomless pit of a stomach.”






Ok, so the trip home is now splitting into three parts; you know the reasons by now, so I won't repeat them. Once again I'll try to get the rest of the trip done ASAP.

scooter_the_shooter
07-21-2004, 19:39
this is a good story i wasnt plannning to read all of it but i will now

Ludens
07-24-2004, 15:54
So Fulk decided to follow a girl that murdered his master, is not a princess and is likely to kill him to given the chance, because he wanted money?

In the history of hare-brained schemes this one deserves at least special mentioning.

But don't be put out be this. It's just nitpicking because I don't have anything better to say https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif .

The bit about Fulk testing her by singing about her sister is very inventive. The song itself, well, the only songs that lend themselves well for writing down are those that should be recited more than sung.

About Fulk's haircut, I understand medieval hairfashion for males was dominated by the need for wearing helmets. I think all knights wore plain, flat haircuts because those fit comfortably into a metal helmet (the hair functioning as padding), and come out of the helmet looking roughly the same way as when you put on the thing.

frogbeastegg
07-24-2004, 16:50
Fulk has exactly the same set of motives as last time, they are just better explained and spoken of before page 60; he didn't want to kill her, he wants some cash, and her job sounds interesting. Veterans of the original will (hopefully) remember another motive not yet mentioned:
he desperately wants to be a knight; she probably isn't a princess but he does have those doubts and suspicions. Either way her employers are rich and powerful and it opens the door to knighthood.

It's pretty damn harebrained all right, but if he can survive it does promise quite a lot and it is less dull than serving Aidney for the sole motive of cash; of course he won't admit he was serving Aidney for anything other than honour.

The song would probably be better if it wasn't written by a frog.

You are right about the haircuts; the two prominent medieval haircuts for men were the 'bowl cut' that Fulk is sporting, and the longer style where the hair reaches midway down the neck.

Hopefully you will have something to read soon, caesar, if you are going to keep following. So busy...

frogbeastegg
07-24-2004, 22:22
Somehow, most likely through sheer exhaustion, both Eleanor and Fulk dozed off while battling to keep awake and alert, wrapped in their damp woollen cloaks with their backs leaned against the trunk of the tree for maximum shelter from the incessant rain. Eleanor’s rest didn’t last for long, shattered by yet another vision of the dying Aidney; now, as she looked at the sleeping figure of her unwanted bodyguard, she found herself wondering how he would haunt her when she finally killed him too.

She had decided to wait until they were safely back in England, travelling alone was never a good idea and he had proven himself to be useful enough. She was beginning to wish he would stop being so, so…likeable! He had to die, there was no avoiding that, and yet it was nice to have someone to bandy wits with, someone who didn’t insist on the painful formality she’d never liked.

She noticed Fulk’s hand was still wrapped limply about his sword hilt; the corners of her mouth quirked into a tiny smile, it was time to put an end to this endless state of mistrust before they both died. She stood up, stretching out stiff muscles, then cast about for a stick. Picking up a nice long dead branch she stood over Fulk and prodded him softly with the end, “Wake up you hay stuffed hauberk!”

Fulk was awake instantly, staggering to his feet and half drawing his sword; Eleanor tossed her stick away and said, “If I were going to kill you I would have done so by now, it is just as easy to prod someone with a blade as a stick and your armour offers you very little protection.”

Fulk let his sword slide back into its sheathe, “Fair point, but I’ll argue my armour makes it hard for you to poke me full of holes.”

“You have a rather low opinion of me then, I think, or you would not imply that I need to resort to such crude methods to remove you from this existence.” Eleanor slowly drew a single hairpin out from her damp, dishevelled and now lopsided hairdo and deliberately, so he wouldn’t mistake the action as a threat, threw it at the tree, “Add a certain poison to the pin and whomever you hit tends to die in a rather distressing collection of contortions; as long as you have exposed skin I can turn you into a pincushion at leisure.”

Her hair listed some more, one of the two braids had escaped sufficiently to sag down and tickle her neck; with an irritated tut Eleanor set about loosing her hair before it collapsed of its own accord, secretly very glad to finally have an excuse to be rid of the fancy style Edith had insisted on working her hair into days ago which she had kept because without a maid she had no way of taming her hair into a respectable style. For the rest of the trip she could leave it loose without having to explain herself to her unwanted companion. As she worked she kept talking, “I suspect if you were going to kill me you would also have done that long ago, though in your case there is nothing sophisticated about hacking someone down with a dirty great sword.”

“Again, a good point. You are suggesting a truce, then?”

“Well we do need to sleep sometime, as you so nicely demonstrated.” she didn’t mention she had dozed off too, that would remain a secret; thank heaven for small mercies. “If we keep jumping at shadows sooner or later someone will get hurt.”

Fulk broke into a twisted grin, looking at Eleanor’s hair, “It’s a damn good thing Aidney didn’t take you up on that offer to see how long your hair is – he’d have had a fit it’s so short!”

“Hardly short.” It was true; it did reach down to the middle of her back.

“To him it would be; I’ve got to admit I’d have loved to hear his reaction.”

Eleanor wondered what Aidney would have made of her collection of scars, “So, a truce then?”

“Yes, why not?” Fulk rolled his aching shoulders several times, the mail of his armour softly clinking, “Now, perhaps you’ll help me remove my armour, though it’d be nice if you were more careful in removing it than you were in putting it on; being injured in battle is one thing, being injured by your squire’s ineptness is another entirely.”

Eleanor leapt at the chance to learn something Trempwick had decided she didn’t need to know; skills like flirting and armour removal might not seem like much but in an existence as precarious as hers having a few unexpected skills could be critical. She hid her enthusiasm behind a wry smile, “Then you had better teach me to play a squire’s part; I only hope you are a better teacher than you are watchman, or I shall end up removing your ears along with your hauberk.”

Fulk proved himself to be in possession of an eye that missed nothing; he spotted her interest, “Heaven forbid, oh indecently eager one, and did no one ever tell you playing with armour is for boys?”

“Incessantly; now do you want that armour removing or are you too much of a coward to risk my aid?”

“I suppose I shall endure and suffer bravely.” He held his arms out away from his body, “You start with the sword belt, since I’m lazy and determined to make the most of this opportunity to boss about royalty.”

“Like this?” asked Eleanor innocently, yanking the belt so tight Fulk made a rather peculiar sound somewhere between a gasp and a protest; she flicked the fastening of the buckle out of the way with her thumb nail and released the pressure on his stomach, whipping the sword away before he could even catch his breath.

“I thought you’d promised not to kill me!” he grumbled.

“And I thought you were a big tough soldier.” she replied as she placed the sword on the ground out of the way.

Getting the mail hauberk off was easy enough, Fulk simply bent over with his arms above his head while she pulled at the shoulders, pulling the armour off his body until the weight of the freed portion was sufficient to drag the rest of the tunic off without human intervention. He could have removed the padded gambeson on his own, as easily as an everyday tunic, but he insisted on her help as a matter of form. Finally he stood in the clothes he had been wearing before they fled the castle; looking down at his tunic Fulk saw it was a creased, rumpled mess. He should have taken it off before donning his armour, but it was rather too late for that now.

He flexed his shoulders and stretched his own cramped muscles; his whole body felt wonderfully light, “We’ll reach the port today, about mid afternoon by my reckoning. Now, let’s see about breakfast.”





As soon as they arrived in the port town Fulk found a horse dealer and sold the two horses, leaving them to carry their bags on foot through the tightly packed, narrow streets until they reached the docks themselves and found a ship bound for England. As they passed through the market place they noticed a large crowd gathered about in a large circle; they were cheering someone on, then there was the crack of wood on flesh and a man’s voice bellowed, “Next!”

Fulk craned his neck, trying to confirm his suspicions, “Sounds interesting, let’s go see; if it’s what I think…” He started to elbow his way through the crowd, the princess following in his wake and protesting that they didn’t have time to waste. The crowd began to cheer someone one, but almost immediately there was the sound of a blow and the bored voice calling, “Next!”

They arrived on the outside of the circle; Fulk pushed some people out of the way so they could see. A man stood in shirt and hose holding a wooden sword, his left hand propped on his hip as he harangued the crowd, “Not a single man with guts left? How about a boy then? Someone, anyone with a spot of bravery, or is this town packed full of cowards? I’m here as champion, offering a purse of nearly seven shillings to any who can best me, and I’m only charging tuppence a fight, you can’t say fairer than that. It’s not a death match, it’s not even to the point of collapse, merely to the first blow, the very first hit that touches flesh, and yet none have the guts to step forward now; you’re all pathetic! Cowards! Spineless!”

Fulk didn’t wait to hear more, he started unbuckling his sword belt, “How do you feel about a nice purse full of money so we’ll be able to stay in inns for the rest of the trip?” He didn’t give her time to respond, he thrust his sword into her hands and dumped his bag at her feet, “Stay here and hold these, this won’t take long.”

He stepped forward, drawing the attention of the man; he flipped him a coin and held out his hand for the wooden sword the fighter’s accomplice handed him. He swung it a few times experimentally, gaining a feel for its weight and balance; the fighter didn’t wait long, he began a powerful overhand blow aimed at Fulk’s shoulder. Fulk parried the blow easily, swinging his opponent’s guard open and rapping him of the wrist with the tip of the wooden blade. The fighter howled and dropped his own sword, clutching at his numbed wrist. The crowd cheered, glad to see someone finally defeat the obnoxious man who had been casually beating townsfolk all day.

Both accomplices ran forward, one shouting, “You broke his wrist, you bastard!”

“I can’t help my birth” retorted Fulk, “and that wrist’s not broken, I’m not an amateur like you. Now, give me my money and I’ll be on my way.”

“You cheated!” the fighter’s face was red with pain, humiliation and fury, “You cheated! I challenged the townsfolk; you’re a soldier or mercenary and didn’t declare so! I’m not giving you a penny!”

“You challenged easy pickings.” returned Fulk easily, moving slightly to keep all three men in front of him.

Eleanor didn’t like the way this was going, she had no interest in seeing if Fulk could defeat the two accomplices and escape with the money. As Fulk and the men argued she looked about and spotted a pie seller with a half empty tray of meat pasties. She left the pile of bags unattended for a few seconds while she swiped a pie when the seller’s head was turned, then threw it with unerring aim at a woman in an expensive dress.

The woman screamed as the pie exploded over the rich fabric, and started looking about for a culprit; she started yelling at some children, who protested their innocence loudly. The situation grew worse as the children started throwing mud, figuring that if they were going to be yelled at then they might as well be guilty. A gallant young man stepped in to protect the lady, and he too got pelted. A mudpat missed and hit a merchant, he sent his bodyguards in to exact revenge, and a couple of apprentices joined the fray, protecting the children; the situation rapidly spiralled out of control into a full-fledged brawl.

In the centre Fulk decided he was done with persuasion and advanced threateningly on the accomplices. Now that the audience was no longer focused on them they felt able to beat Fulk up without intervention or later trouble with the law, they both attacked him together, raining powerful but clumsy blows down on the man at arms. Fulk defended himself easily, but they kept him too busy for him to counter attack. Suddenly a handful of mud hit one thug in the face, blinding him. Fulk didn’t waste the opportunity; he smashed his sword into the remaining man’s knee, disabling him before punching the blinded accomplice in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. He snatched up the purse from where it had fallen, threw down the wooden sword and worked his way back to Eleanor, grabbing his sword and the saddlebags, “I presume the mud was your doing?”

“I thought you looked like you could use some assistance.” Eleanor grinned, “You know I have never started a riot before, it was fun.”

Together they fought their way out of the brawling crowd and headed down the closest street at a rapid walk.





They were able to buy a private room in a good inn near the docks with part of the prize money and it was a simple matter to arrange two places on a ship leaving for Dover the next morning. As they sat in their room eating their dinner, a rather greasy stew that the innkeeper insisted was made from prime beef, Eleanor felt that at long last she had gained an excuse to pry into Fulk’s past, “’I can’t help my birth’ you said, so you are a bastard then?”

Fulk grimaced, though whether it was because of the food or the question Eleanor couldn’t decide, “Fulk FitzWilliam, son of Sir William Destier and Emma, a common peasant from his fief. He was decent enough to give me his name; FitzEmma leaves no doubt as to my tainted birth.” Fulk sighed and set his spoon down, “To be honest he was very decent to me, to my mother too. He brought me up in his household, trained me in the skills of knighthood and used me as his squire. He even had me taught my letters and numbers, though he never did say why. I was to serve him and then his son after him, a livelihood guaranteed and set down in a binding contract.”

“What went wrong?”

“It’s hard to squire a dead man, and even harder to serve one who was never born.”





As the ship left the port and set out into he open sea Fulk grew paler and paler; finally he clutched his stomach and with a mumbled, “Oh God!” ran to the side and was violently sick. Eleanor wandered over and patted him on the shoulder, “Feeling a mite ill?” she asked with the annoying confidence of someone who never gets travelsick.

“Now I remember why I didn’t go back to England when the war ended!” Fulk began to take on a greenish tinge.

“You are actually going green.” observed Eleanor with keen interest, “You will end up resembling a frog!”

“I hate you.” whimpered Fulk. Whatever else he might have said was lost overboard along with the rest of his breakfast.




When he finally ran out of stomach contents Fulk sat down on the deck and looked utterly miserable, shivering uncontrollably. Eleanor watched him from her spot at the rail near the back of the ship where she was surveying the waves; it seemed so unfair to let him survive this crossing, seasick and suffering as he was, only to kill him when they set foot on English soil. Eleanor wondered how the king and Trempwick would react to her bringing home a stray man at arms who knew too much; the likely outcome was not a pretty one, keeping him would prove…costly.

She pushed away from the rail and moved to Fulk’s side, unpinning her cloak and wrapping it about his shoulders, “You will never know how lucky you are that you get seasick.” she commented softly, moving away before he could ask what she meant.






It's very rough around the edges but I'm too busy to clean it up today.

scooter_the_shooter
07-25-2004, 03:14
good https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif i didnt notice it was updated for awhile

octavian
07-25-2004, 19:40
excellent as usual froggy https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif

if(or rather, when https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/tongue.gif) you get published, be sure to let us know https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/wave.gif https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-book2.gif

frogbeastegg
08-03-2004, 11:31
Five days later they were less than seven miles from Woburn manor, if they pushed their horses then they would arrive before midday. Fulk took a sidelong look at his companion; Eleanor had been very quiet all morning, and now she sat there in her saddle pale and tight-lipped. He’d noticed that she kept looking at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice; it was as if she was double-checking some conclusion she’d made about him. He didn’t like it. When they arrived at this Woburn place he’d have his final answer as to what she was and he’d also see if this gamble of his was going to pay off after all. He was as certain as he could be without further proof that she was actually princess Eleanor, but that said very little about his chances of surviving meeting her superiors; they might take exception to a common man at arms knowing their secrets and joining their little group.

He saw her taking another covert glance at him; he grinned and jokingly said, “Looks like I’ve got an admirer.”

“Looks like I have a conceited bodyguard with delusions of grandeur.” returned Eleanor absently.

Fulk grimaced, “I suppose I asked for that.”

“Yes, you did, bowl cut brains.”

“This is a fashionable hairstyle, one your own father wears, if I’m not mistaken.”

“No, sadly you are not mistaken, he does indeed have a problem with taste.”

“It looks that bad?”

“Oh yes, just like someone’s stuck a bowl on your head and gone to town with a pair of shears.”

Fulk silently resolved to grow his hair out into the longer style that reached down to the shoulders; after hearing her verdict on his current style he couldn’t help but wonder how many others shared it. Actually, now he thought about it, he shared it himself; a pox on Aidney and his stupid ideas! “Of course my own hair can never hope to compete with your crowning glory, my dear raven.”

“We can’t all be perfect; the world needs people like me to make my sister Matilda look good.” Her self-depreciating humour was practised, convincing, she’d had a lifetime of it. It made a very good shield against those frequent laments on her appearance people directed at her; it also tended to stop them in full flow and stun the person into shutting up.

Fulk looked at her strangely, “I meant in length, as well you know.”

There was a minute hesitation before she gave an answer, a telling sign that she hadn’t known after all, “Yes, of course. I can always see through you and your stupidities effortlessly.”

Fulk changed the subject, getting to the real topic that interested him, “Why are you so worried? Don’t deny it, you’re as tense as a bowstring; sometimes I do wonder if your mind’s even here and not off elsewhere. You’ve been like that all day and much of yesterday too.”

The best lies contain a grain of truth and Eleanor was a skilled liar, “I am rather…concerned at how they will react to you, Trempwick and my glorious ancestor. The last I checked you were still alive and that does put a slight damper on the ‘no witnesses’ part.”

“You likely to need my bodyguard services?”

Eleanor laughed quietly, perversely amused by the mere idea of this base born man at arms daring to challenge a king on a matter where he had no right to interfere in the first place. She knew he wouldn’t protect her, oath or not oath; to plunge into certain death like that required a certain attachment to the person you were saving, not to mention suicidal tendencies and a lack of brains. “I think not. It is your life I am concerned about, not mine; they might simply decide you are unneeded and kill you. That would be…disappointing.” Eleanor hurried to justify her concern; if Fulk ever found out she rather liked his irreverent attitude the damned man would never let her hear the end of it. “I don’t like you, not in the slightest, but you are useful and if anything goes too badly wrong I can hide behind you. And, of course, I would not want to lose my pack mule.”

“As you say, oh precious jewel.” replied Fulk airily, “If you’re not in danger there’s nothing for me to worry about; you’re a one woman argument, no one will dare complain if you want me to tag along.”

“Nice!” Eleanor touched her heel to her horse’s flank, moving from a slow walk to a canter, expecting Fulk to keep up on his own. She had been dawdling all day; delaying, playing for time, time to gather her courage, to brace herself for the inevitable onslaught when she met her father. Instead she was clinging to the minutes, trying to gain even more time, as if by putting off the meeting she could forget it would ever happen. It was better to jump in headlong, before she had time to think too much, to change her mind and play with that delicately seductive idea - that Fulk’s life wasn’t worth the pain and risk.

She nudged her horse again, breaking into a gallop.




They arrived at Woburn shortly before the sun was at its highest. As they rode into the small courtyard in front of the main manor building and near the stables, cookhouse and other outbuildings a groom hurried out to take their horses. As they were dismounting Trempwick appeared from the main doorway of the manor house. He looked at Fulk with an amused half smile, not the least surprised to see the man at arms; evidently he had heard about Fulk long ago, just as Eleanor had predicted. “I didn’t think you were the kind to bring home stray pets, Nell. I wonder what we are to do with him; if he were a cat I suppose we’d give him a bowl of milk, or mayhap drown him in the river.”

Fulk found himself staring at this hook nosed man, thrown off guard by his levity. Trempwick grabbed Eleanor by her elbow and pulled her over next to him, turning her to face Fulk and saying merrily, “Oh yes, she is princess Eleanor, although it’s very understandable that you are sceptical and this is hardly a royal welcome now, is it?” He picked up a strand of Eleanor’s loose hair and held it between thumb and forefinger, “Yes, rather hard to believe, even when you stick a crown on her, isn’t that right, Nell?”

“I do my best.” replied Eleanor through gritted teeth. Trempwick was in his cheery mode; out of the many fake personalities he had carefully learned and honed this had to be the single most annoying. She knew from long experience that Trempwick was not nearly as happy as he appeared; his mood was best described by a faintly crude peasant epithet she was not supposed to know: ‘pissed off’.

“I am certain they will carve that on your tomb, dear Nell.” He gave her a push away from him and turned to the few curious servants peering through the partly open door of the cookhouse, swapping to his intimidating act and roaring, “The princess is back, don’t stand there gawping – show your respect, damn you!” The servants hurried out and dropped to their knees on the muddy ground, their eyes downcast. Trempwick looked at them with contempt, “Better.” He turned back to Fulk and swapped back to his friendly attitude, “There you go, a royal welcome and if that isn’t proof enough then you can wave to the king when he arrives later today.”

Trempwick snapped his fingers and directed his orders into midair, confident that the servants would be hanging off his every word, “Take our stray pet and feed him; look after him until I send for him. Don’t let him get lost or run over by a cart, as stray pets have a wont to do.”

As a servant came forward and gestured at Fulk to come with him into the kitchen building Trempwick started to walk back inside the manor, calling over his shoulder, “Follow, if you please, your royal highness.” It sounded more like he was talking to a dog than a person.

Fulk delayed on the threshold of the kitchen doorway just long enough to watch Eleanor start after Trempwick, that tight mouthed, worried expression on her face once more. As he ducked the low door lintel and entered the kitchen he couldn’t help but feel that Trempwick was treating his supposed princess more like a maid. Far from allaying his qualms Woburn had increased them.




Eleanor followed after Trempwick, running over her arguments once again, knowing they would have to be flawless to stand a chance of convincing him. He bypassed the solar, it was being prepared for the king later in the day, and went instead to the second floor room built into the small square stone tower at the west end of the manor house. The room had been set up for training in assorted skills like knife throwing with targets on the walls, practise knives, copies of Eleanor’s hairpins, and other unlikely objects cluttered the room.

Trempwick held the door open for Eleanor, then kicked the door shut behind himself, “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded, “No witnesses, what part of that does not make sense to you? Or perhaps you propose to blab to all and sundry that you are an assassin? Mayhap you want to start a home for dispossessed men at arms? Your highness, you are a bloody idiot! I would say that he will possibly kill you for this but I doubt that would have any effect, so I will save my breath.” There was no need to specify who ‘he’ was; they both knew it was the king Trempwick referred to.

“I know, believe me I know, and that reminds me…” she started unfastening the straps that held her wrist knives in place under her sleeves, “It would not do to be tempted to try my hand at patricide, or regicide, whichever would take precedence.”

Trempwick clasped his hands at the small of his back, looping his thumbs through the back of his belt, “If you know why are you doing this? Don’t forget, Nell, your life belongs to me.”

“My life is my own.” she insisted.

“No.” replied Trempwick calmly, coldly, “No, it is mine. You live because I saved you so many times, you live at my sufferance, and you can die at my whim. All I have to do is stop finding excuses to keep you alive when you upset your father.”

Eleanor looked away, unable to hold her master’s cold gaze, “Fulk will be a good bodyguard, he is quick witted, keen eyed, he can fight, and most importantly of all he can think. I cannot travel alone; it is both dangerous and suspicious. If something goes wrong then I have no one to help me, to rely on. A partner will prove useful, and he is ultimately…disposable. If the worst comes to the worst he can be a decoy, he could take the blame.” She knew a cold, rational explanation was most likely to succeed; saying she enjoyed Fulk’s company as well as seeing his many uses would prove instantly lethal for him.

Without realising Eleanor held her breath while Trempwick deliberated. When he spoke at last he had reverted to his calm, calculating personality, “There is…a fair bit of truth in that. Very well, you may keep your pet, but I will be watching closely. Remember Adele; don’t do anything foolish.”

“Christ God! Remember? It is impossible to forget!” blazed Eleanor. Almost as quickly as her temper had flared it cooled again; her shoulders sagged, “I wonder what tender mercy I could expect from my dear father? I doubt I could expect a gilded cage; I do not have a death wish.”

“You could have fooled me; you-” Trempwick broke off, tilting his head to one side, listening, “Horses; the king is here. Time to save your life once again, your highness.”




I actually finished this chapter a couple of days ago but I couldn't see the point in posting it in the temp forum.

Grrrr, this new forum deletes my indents and ruins my book alike layout! :angryg: I have used the same horrible extra spaced out layout I use on the paradox forums; they are vBullitin boards too. Hopefully there will be some way I can keep my preferred layout...

frogbeastegg
08-03-2004, 15:25
Right, I have fixed everything up and altered the layout; the original book style is rather hard to follow in places without the indents. I think I accidentally deleted a few of my comments, but nothing important.

I should also apologise for the poor quality of the last story part; I was busy with my book so it is little more than the roughest of rough drafts. I will try and work the next part into something a bit less crude.

frogbeastegg
08-04-2004, 18:29
“Here.” The servant who had taken charge of Fulk shoved a couple of chewettes into the bodyguard’s hand, “The master said to feed you and so fed you will be.”

“Whether I like it or not, by the looks of things.” quipped Fulk, biting into one of the meat filled pasties. It was under-seasoned and bland; it appeared that someone in the manor had no liking for even a pinch of pepper. Since he had seen Eleanor happily eating some rather highly spiced gingerbread shortly after they arrived in England he knew it wasn’t her; that left Trempwick as the next best suspect. Fulk swallowed and forced a smile for the benefit of his audience, “Thanks.” He tried to break the ice a little and find out more about the manor and its occupants, “So, you are the…?”

“Steward.” came the blunt, grudging reply.

“It’s a big household then?”

“Big enough.”

“I’ve seen you, a groom, that chap over there” he nodded at a man busy stirring a pan of stock, “is obviously the cook; who else is there?”

The steward eyed Fulk with distaste, as if deciding whether he could be trusted with the information, “One cook, two general servants, the groom, and my good self; that is all.”

“No lady’s maid?” asked Fulk, surprised.

The man looked down his nose at Fulk, “There is no lady here.” he said in a tone that did not invite disagreement.

Fulk wasn’t intimidated in the slightest, “There’s Eleanor.”

“As I said, there is no lady here.”

“Well she is a bit…unconventional.”

The steward brightened, his attitude towards Fulk warming considerably; evidently complaining about Eleanor was one of his favourite pastimes. “They say blood tells, and perhaps that is so, but in her case either blood tells nothing or she’s a changeling. I’m Edward, by the way.”

“You know I still find it rather hard to believe she’s a princess.” Fulk delicately angled for a bite, for confirmation from yet another source.

“Oh aye, she is, more’s the pity.”

Their conversation was interrupted by one of the general servants running through the door and speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the background noise, “The king! He’s left much of his escort behind and he’s almost here!” His message delivered the servant sped away.

The steward grinned, “Time for a spot of entertainment, if Walter can get close to overhear.”

“Entertainment?” repeated Fulk, not understanding.

“The king’s never best pleased with her and he’s got a temper that burns like dry wood drenched in oil. I’ll say one thing for her, she’s got pluck; there are not many who spit defiance in the face of our king.”

“Entertainment?” asked Fulk again, this time with a sinking feeling he knew.

“Oh aye, stick the two of them together and it’s a regular bearbaiting, and unlike the fairgrounds here the bear always catches his prey. We even lay the occasional bet.” He leaned closer to Fulk and whispered conspiratorially, “Since you’re new I’ll give you a tip, but don’t let on to the others that I helped you. If you want a safe wager bet on her saying something snappy; if you want to show off then bet on how many comments she’ll get off before he shuts her up.” Edward noticed the thunderous look on Fulk’s face and hastened to reassure him, “Don’t worry, she’ll survive; Lord Trempwick will see to that, never you worry. When the master talks even the king listens.” The steward glowed with pride, “Our master is a great man, truly great and deserving far more than being stuck here with that…” he snorted, not using the insult out of consideration for Fulk.

Edward made to join the other servants peering out the door for the king, but Fulk’s hand shot out and grabbed him by his podgy arm, “Why do you hate her so much?”

The steward turned back and gave Fulk an apologetic yet mocking smile, as if the answer was self-evident, “She doesn’t know her place; if she can’t be happy with what God allotted her then how can we? We suffer and serve the nobles in the hopes of a place in paradise, but she rejects that along with the tenets of society that are laid out in the bible itself. She rejects God’s will.” In a deeply religious world it was a damming verdict indeed.

Fulk let Edward go and followed him to look out for a glimpse of the king. The man Edward pointed out was dressed in rich clothing and flanked by two heavily armoured knights, but otherwise as a king he disappointing. He was short, just as the steward had said, with limp hair that could probably be called sandy; it was shot through with grey and his crown was balding. He had the build expected of a warrior, but age was visibly creeping up on him and he moved rather stiffly. Fulk felt slightly disenchanted; he had never expected to mix with royalty and now that he was he had discovered that they were nothing like the golden figures of popular legend.

Just as when Fulk and Eleanor had arrived Trempwick hurried out and greeted the king, although with considerably more civility than he had given the princess. Together the two men went into the manor; the knights sat down outside the main door and began to play dice.

“Walter, that’s the second general servant, the young lad, will nip on over and see if he can hear anything.” explained Edward, “He’ll report back later with any particularly good bits.”

“I’m her bodyguard…” said Fulk quietly to himself, no longer paying much attention to Edward.

“Aye, kind of tricky, isn’t it? Got to save face while saving your hide too.”

“No!” protested Fulk loudly, trying to drown out the little voice agreeing fervently with the steward. “I am a man of my word; I swore an oath.”

Edward considered for a bit, “Perhaps, but oaths of loyalty to the king take priority above all others, and you were a soldier, right?”

“Yes, in France.”

“There you go then, you would have sworn loyalty to him when you joined his army. He hasn’t asked you to get involved so you don’t, simple.”

“Yes…yes, exactly so.” Like a drowning man Fulk grabbed the excuse; he was a man of honour and simply doing what he had sworn to do.




Night was beginning to fall by the time Trempwick appeared. Fulk was sat alone in one corner; he had left the group when he had found himself unable to stomach their glee at the royal ‘cockfight’. He had been grimly amused when several of the servants had lost their bets when Walter reported the princess hadn’t made a sound except a few taunts right at the beginning. He had a feeling if Eleanor ever found out about that then she would be fiercely happy, as well as busy plotting revenge.

Trempwick didn’t cross the threshold, standing in the doorway, “The king and his escort have departed.” he informed the servants brusquely, “My thanks for looking after Nell’s pet; I will take him now.” The spymaster beckoned to Fulk, “We will take a short stroll.”

Together Fulk and Trempwick strolled out of the kitchen into the courtyard. As soon as they were out of earshot Trempwick spoke, “I will be watching you, very closely. You had best be the very paragon of bodyguards, or you will answer to me.”

“I understand, and now if you’ll excuse me I’ll take my leave.”

“You are going to look for her.” It was not a question. Trempwick stopped walking and studied Fulk, pinning him with a level, cool gaze. Finally he inclined his head slightly, “If you can find her she’ll not thank you.” Fulk said nothing, meeting Trempwick’s gaze. The spymaster laughed, “Fine, go play hide and seek with your princess. I doubt you will find her, and if you do then I expect to see you running for it with your tail between your legs in short order. Have fun.”





By the time Fulk had scoured the manor house and outbuildings he was beginning to think Trempwick might have been right; there was no sign of Eleanor. On his trip he had collected a few items and gotten a good idea of the layout of the manor, but the main object of his wanderings eluded him, making all useless. Now he stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking around to see if there was anywhere he hadn’t yet checked. His eyes flicked past the corner of the manor house, over the defensive tower; he stopped and looked up, the tower had ramparts at the top. Fulk smiled triumphantly and set off to find a way up.

The roof of the tower was accessed by a ladder leading up to a wooden hatch. As he pushed the hatch open and climbed up onto the ramparts a voice observed, “I should have sat on the hatch.”

Fulk shut the trapdoor behind himself and sat down on it, “Allow me, your featherweightness; I’m a mite harder to shift.” He put a cloth bundle down next to himself and drew his cloak in about him.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was slightly muffled and clumsy; Fulk couldn’t see why, the night was too dark and the feeble moonlight did a good job of hiding and distorting fine detail.

“I am your bodyguard, I will keep following you, even if you do bite my head off when I finally find you.”

“Ah. Bodyguard. How nice. Go away.”

“No.”

“Get lost and leave me alone before I topple you off the top of this tower!”

“I’m quite comfortable sat here, and like you I thought to bring my thick cloak so I’ll not freeze. I even brought a picnic.” he indicated the bundle. He had stuffed her two wrist knives through his belt next to his own dagger, now he pulled them free, “I also found these; I thought I’d rather be knifed than pushed off the top of a tower.” He leaned forward across the gap between them and placed the weapons at her side, then sat up again.

Eleanor picked up one knife and drew it from the sheath, holding it by the hilt and examining it with a small, bitter smile that died almost as soon as it began, “Toys.” She stabbed the dagger point down into the wooden floor of the roof, “Toys, for all the good they ever do me. Fancy, expensive little toys.” she looked at Fulk, “Why are you here? To satisfy your curiosity and see that unthinkable rarity that our society says never should be - a princess who has been flogged like the lowest serf? Go away before I take you up on your tempting request to be stabbed.” She pulled the knife free of the floorboards and flicked it over so she was holding it by the point, ready to throw.

“I don’t think you will; I think your threats are rather harmless.” While he was almost entirely certain he was right a tiny voice in the back of his mind pointed out that she was an assassin in a bad mood.

The moment drew out; a bead of sweat ran down Fulk’s face. She cocked her wrist, beginning to throw, and he began to wonder if he had made a bit of a mistake. Eleanor sent the knife flying so it buried itself point first in the floor, “Are you always going to be this exasperating?”

“Only when you try to kill me, oh frighteningly furious one.” Fulk’s voice was filled with relief.

“I was only trying to kill you because you are annoying.”

“You know that Trempwick fellow of yours was predicting I’d never find you; he also said if I did you’d soon see me off. Want to prove him wrong?”

“Well…it would be nice to wipe the smug look off his face, even if I do have to tolerate your presence to do so.”

Fulk took that as a very reluctant invitation to stay. “How are you?”

“In the peak of health and more than able to rip your ears off without even trying.”

“Spare me your noble’s pride, oh wonder of wonders.”

“And you spare me your stupid questions, you overgrown oaf.”

“Alright, if you insist I shall forget my offer of my medical skills and drop to plan B, which involves giving you a sweet and telling you a silly story in the hopes of coaxing a smile.”

“A smile will prove tricky; I bit through my lip.”

“I’ve got some balm for that somewhere, hidden amongst all the junk I carry. Standard soldier’s kit and all that boring stuff.” Fulk unwrapped his bundle; it proved to be a napkin containing a small pile of sweet pastries. He selected a flat, spiral of pastry with cinnamon mixed into the dough and handed it to her; she took it after a brief hesitation.

Eleanor ripped off a tiny bit and ate it, wrinkling her nose in mild disgust, “You know I can barely see why they call this a cinnamon roll, there is so little of the spice in it. Posh food on an exceptionally tight budget; the expensive spices are amongst the first things to go, right after gilded food, sugar, and subtleties to astonish us all with the skill of the cook at making inedible, fancy sugar sculptures.”

“That explains the chewettes.” said Fulk, grimacing at the memory.

Eleanor examined the pastry closely, struggling to see by the weak moonlight, “Oh gosh! This one actually has a couple of raisins in it; we must be celebrating something. The extravagance makes me quite giddy.”

“I promised you a story; I think I know one you’ll like more than the usual damsels in towers seducing helpless knights.”

“Oh dear, it appears I have been lumbered with an aspiring bard.” lamented Eleanor dryly.

“Well it seems there was this princess-”

“Let me guess, she was as fair as fair can be and so beautiful she made Helen of Troy look like a hag?”

“Um…probably?” Fulk scratched his chin, “I suppose, since they always are.”

“Wonderful, you are telling a story and you can barely even remember the details. I have an amnesiac aspiring bard; delightful.”

“You just shut up and eat your pastry, dear chatterbox, or you’ll never find out how the story ends. Anyway there was this princess, let us assume she was appropriately princess looking and generally princessish.”

“What was she called?” interrupted Eleanor again, before finishing the last bite of her roll. She was determined to make his life as difficult as possible; she couldn’t see why she should let him have an easy ride when she didn’t particularly want him around.

Fulk blinked, he knew he should have expected that demand but it still took him by surprise, “She was called…Elizabeth; I always liked that name. Yes, so there’s this Elizabeth and she’s a princess and all that-”

“Yes, I know; you have done that bit a couple of times already. Get on with it or I shall start booing and calling for the next act, you incompetent troubadour.”

“If you would stop interrupting I could get on with telling the story, oh infuriating one! Now, where was I? Oh yes, Elizabeth, princess, blah blah. Right, so one day the king decided she ought to have a knight as her bodyguard-”

“I am not going to request you be knighted.” interjected Eleanor firmly.

“Have another pastry, oh eternally delightful one.” Fulk shoved a fruit tart into her hands, “If you are eating then you can’t keep interrupting! Yes, so this king holds a tournament and announces that the winner will become her bodyguard. Now our Elizabeth is a contrary sort and decides she doesn’t much like this-”

“Sensible girl.” said Eleanor approvingly between nibbles at her tart.

“Ahem, yes, I suppose she might be. On the day of the tournament she locks herself in her rooms, alone and sulking. In addition to all the famous and skilled knights at the tournament there is a stranger with no coat of arms. He is known only as the Black Knight because his armour, surcoat and horse are pitch black-”

“Boring!” complained Eleanor loudly, “Why is it always black? Do knights have no imagination?”

“Alright, there was a strange knight only known as the Puce Knight, better?” he gave her no time to answer, rushing onwards, “Yes, good. Right, this Puce Knight is a bit good and he wins all the jousts and melees. He kneels before the king and the king says ‘Haha, you are a good chap, bravo! You win, congratulations Mr. New Bodyguard. The princess is off sulking but she will soon come around once she sees your nice puce armour and horse; it will coordinate nicely with her favourite dress!’. The Puce Knight pulls off his helmet and everyone gasps in horrified shock; it’s Elizabeth.”

Eleanor raised one eyebrow, “So this princess managed to suddenly pick up the build of a seasoned warrior, learn to use weapons, find a suit of armour that fits and a warhorse, and go off to fight with out anyone noticing?”

“Um…I suppose she did.” mumbled Fulk, “The bard I got this off was a bit drunk, so it was rather garbled, and don’t forget you made me change half of it. Anyway, it ends with the king taking her side and forgetting the whole bodyguard thing.”

“That has to be the single most stupid, idiotic, rambling, ridiculous story I have ever heard in my life!” Eleanor couldn’t help herself; she started laughing, “You bird brained twit; you had best remain in my employment as a bodyguard – if you run off to seek your fortune as a bard you will be starving in the gutter inside of a day!”

“I aim to amuse, Nell.”

Eleanor’s amusement died instantly, “Never call me that, never. I might have to put it with it from Trempwick but not you.” She saw the uncomprehending expression on Fulk’s face and explained quietly, “My brother used to call me that before he…died.”

“If the name pains you as much as that why does he keep using it? It seems very…” he shrugged, at a loss for words.

The rash words of a long gone child rushed back to Eleanor, ”You killed my brother and I will never forget that.” One of the very few occasions she had let her emotions run away with her about Stephan. Now it was impossible to forget; Trempwick reminded her ceaselessly, part of his ever contradictory nature, one minute helping her, the next reminding her she hated him. “He likes the name and he does not know the effect.” lied Eleanor smoothly.

“Nell seems rather…well, I never had you pegged as a Nell, put it that way.”

“No, somehow I do not suppose I am a Nell; not now.”

Silence fell, heavy and smothering. Several minutes ticked by. Finally Fulk felt compelled to ask, “I don’t understand; why did you do this?”

“Because…one dead man is enough of a burden on my conscience.” she rallied from, her gloom and sniffed, “Don’t think this means I like you, you great hulking brute.”

Fulk grinned, “As you wish, oh guiding light. I hate you too.”





Not so bad this time; it could still use more work but it isn't nearly as half finished at the last parts. Finally things are really getting going. Vets will notice the first major deviation from the original plot in today's part; as you may imagine it changes quite a lot including that famous window scene, and it changes them a lot.

I've left it in this spaced out format because I don't have time to go throguh and use the three space indent tag TosaInu has put together; I have to space it out like this for the paradox forums anyway. Hopefully when the forum settles and I have finished fixing dragon's topic I will fix up this one too.

scooter_the_shooter
08-06-2004, 15:00
vey good froggy ~:cheers:

frogbeastegg
08-13-2004, 15:06
Fulk hauled open the trapdoor and stepped back with a small bow, “After you, your happiness.”

Eleanor returned his bow, wincing slightly as the scabs on her back tore, “Thank you, my dear doorstop.” She stood on the edge of the gap, looking down at the floor below. She looked up and shot Fulk a tiny, challenging smile and jumped down instead of taking the ladder as he expected, landing lightly on her feet and quickly springing out of the way. Feeling a trickle of blood running down her spine Eleanor silently cursed her stubborn pride as she looked up to see if Fulk would follow suit.

Fulk took her place on the edge of the gap; the drop seemed massive even though it could be little more than six feet. He swallowed, trying to mask his nervousness; he had never been all that happy with long drops, or more accurately with the sudden stops at the end of them. While he might be graceful his training had all been aimed at a man at arms rather than a feline; the last thing he wanted to do was land and fall flat on his face or something equally humiliating. “Looks like I’m guarding a cat; could be a problem since your Trempwick thinks I’m a dog.”

“I promise not to claw you as long as you don’t bite me.”

“Deal.” Fulk held his breath, looked straight ahead and stepped off, landing heavily but safely in a crouch below. Straightening up he gave Eleanor a broad grin, thankful he wouldn’t find out if she would laugh or, worse yet, ask if he was alright if he was clumsy enough to break his ankle on impact. “I think I’m the braver, after all the drop’s larger for me since I’m not such a diminutive midget as you.”

“Bravery has nothing to do with it.” She brushed at her skirts with one hand, smoothing away a crease, “It is simply practise; ‘an agent’s life is unpredictable, you most be prepared for every eventuality.’ – Trempwick, the knowledge and wisdom thereof. One day I might need to jump out of a window; my life may depend on it, or it may be my only escape from a particularly long and tedious banquet.”

As Eleanor crossed the room towards the door Fulk got a decent look at her back, in the dancing light and shadow cast by the torch on the wall. Blood was slowly seeping into the fine wool of her dress, joining the multitude of bloodstains already present and half hidden by their closeness of hue to the deep russet of the material. Fulk winced in sympathy, glad that she couldn’t see his reaction; he was sure she would not appreciate it, and he had spent enough time negotiating around her touchy pride for one night.

Eleanor opened the door only to come face to face with Trempwick; she didn’t seem too surprised, “Master.” she greeted him coolly, “Hear anything interesting?”

“Yes, I always do when you are talking, dear Nell.”

He raised an eyebrow; Eleanor answered his unspoken question, “I shall survive, which is more than I can say for my clothes.”

Trempwick studied her before speaking, searching for clues in her body language, “I cannot decide if that is more of your infernal humour or the truth.”

“Would I joke about something like this?”

“Ah, Nell, dear sweet Nell, your sense of humour has always been wildly inappropriate and perversely unique; I would never dare to guess what is a jest and what is not. I do recollect banning you from joking so I could always be sure of what you were saying; do you remember that, Nell?”

“You need only look for yourself.” said Fulk mildly, gesturing to the view of her back he had in the flickering torchlight, irritated by the spymaster’s endless not quite jokes. He didn’t know the man well enough to see if they were barbed, friendly, concerned, mocking or something else entirely. His confusion over the words didn’t carry over to the man behind them; the more he saw of Trempwick the more his dislike grew. The pet comments really galled. “Or you could ask me since I’ve got a good view. I’d say she’s right, pity because that colour and style suits very nicely.”

“Ah, the bodyguard.” Trempwick stepped forward, brushing the princess out of his way, standing toe to toe with Fulk, “Finally learned your duty, bodyguard? Well, it is a bit late, no?”

Fulk looked uncomfortable, so uncomfortable Eleanor felt obliged to come to his rescue, “His committing suicide would only have made this whole thing pointless. Getting into a fight to keep a bodyguard is only worthwhile if said bodyguard is still alive at the end.”

“Silence!” snapped Trempwick, not turning away from Fulk, “The very paragon, remember? The very paragon or you answer to me; so much as a hair and you will not die a happy man, I can assure you of that. Make yourself scare.” Fulk looked to Eleanor for confirmation; Trempwick exploded into scorn, “She does not need your protection from me; I would cut my own hand off before laying so much as a finger on my pupil.”

Over Trempwick’s shoulder Fulk saw Eleanor give a very slight nod. He broke the deadlock with the spymaster and started towards the door, pausing long enough at her side to say quietly, “I found your room earlier; I’ll wait outside the door like a good dog. You can be rid of me elsewhere when you get back. Since I’m your pet I follow your orders, not his.”

When Fulk had left Trempwick crooked his finger at Eleanor, meeting her halfway, in front of the torch in the wall bracket. He cupped her chin in his hand, gently tilting her head to the light so he could examine her lip, “How very elegant and dignified, Nell. I know a little colour is all the fashion but surely drenching yourself in blood is going a little too far? Stick to lip rouge like everyone else.” He let her go, shaking his head sadly, “You could have been safely married and away from this. It is far too late now, of course. You are too dangerous to ever be allowed to escape, dear Nell. Trapped by your own doggedness.”

Eleanor didn’t consider herself trapped by her own fault at all; she had overheard her father’s opinion in what she needed in a husband. Being compared to a particularly obdurate horse in need of breaking did not bode well at all. She would get a husband who met her father’s approval, which by default meant someone very like him. Far from being safe she would only have changed the scenery. She kept her objection silent, unwilling to give Trempwick even a tiny bit of insight into her mind if he didn’t already know that. Chances were that he did; Trempwick appeared to know everything, much to Eleanor’s frustration. Trying to outwit him or hide something from him was a wasted effort. She decided he definitely already know about the horse comparison; he was trying to draw a reaction, nothing more. She would not give him one.

Trempwick lapsed into a brooding silence, studying her cut lip as though mesmerised. Eventually he shook himself, swapping to his jolly character, “Still, in the game of sisters you are in second place behind Matilda, and if she still fails to produce that longed for son I can see you snagging first place given more successful missions. Rowena is dead and confined to fourth place having done nothing more than marry, get sick and expire, and all inside of a year. Adela is imprisoned in third and only kept from falling to last place because of her two little princelings. You only have to survive to win, and between your new pet, your innate stubbornness, and my incredible skill and years of experience at saving your neck that should be manageable. You just keep on refusing to drop dead, dear Nell, and I shall handle the rest. We are a formidable team, don’t you think?”

“As you say, master.” replied Eleanor impassively.

“I know what you are thinking, dearest Nell. You think I am quite mad, no?”

Eleanor responded entirely honestly, “I am very certain you are not mad, master.” You are too damn dangerous to be insane.

“But none the less you think me quite potty for making a great joke of all this. I think then, dear Nell, I shall indulge you.” Trempwick dropped to his rarest personality; the deadly serious one. Eleanor suspected this might be the real him, but she could never be certain. He heaved a deep sigh, “Our king has become a cruel man; you of all people will have noticed that. His rages have become more dangerous and he holds grudges for far longer, plotting away. It is getting very…difficult, even for me, to divert his attention from thing that upset him. If left to his own devices he will fume away until he decides on a suitable course of action.” Trempwick looked uneasy, “The duke of Norfolk made the mistake of complaining the summer was too hot for his tastes in the king’s hearing. He has been sent on crusade to the Holy land, to fry in his own armour and to ‘learn the true meaning of hot weather’. I doubt he will return alive.”

Eleanor didn’t want to spend any more time stood here picking her way through a conversation with Trempwick than she could avoid; it was late, she was tired and sorely tempted to take up Fulk’s offer of treatment for her injuries. She got to Trempwick’s point for him, bypassing his rambling, “You are trying to tell me I am likely to find myself dead if this keeps up; dead in a highly unpleasant way. I am not surprised; I have been expecting that for years. Agents seldom die of happy old age in their beds surrounded by their families.” she smiled wryly, “In any case when the time comes I will have no family, at least not any of the variety usually found at those sorrowful deathbed scenes. I will live as long as I am useful, not an hour more. You told me that as you carried me away from the palace all those years ago; I have not forgotten.”

“Then stop antagonising him, if only to save yourself all this unnecessary pain.”

Eleanor laughed dryly, “If I let Fulk die he could hardly be useful to me now, could he?”

Trempwick scowled, “Then on to making you useful; I have a mission for you.”



Busy, book, etc etc I'm sure you are more than familiar with the reasons for slow and rouhg work by now :p No, actually I wouldn't call this rough; it has enough word variety and descriptive stuff to class as vaguely decent for a net story. It is more...very dry.

katank
08-13-2004, 19:26
great work. more, more, more. :jumping: ~:p

zelda12
08-14-2004, 16:12
Briliant, pure genius. More please.

frogbeastegg
08-14-2004, 17:00
Fulk stood leaning on the doorpost outside the room he decided had to belong to Eleanor; it was where he had found her knives, after all. All around him the manor was settling down to sleep; the torches, candles and rushlights were being put out, and sleeping pallets set out in the main hall. There was still no sign of the princess.

Fulk began to pick at his nails, wondering if he had got the wrong room after all. The knives were the only Eleanor related touches he had seen; the rest of the room was only slightly less bare than his own room back in Nantes castle. Granted the furniture had been of good, if cheap for royalty, quality, but whitewashed walls and bare floorboards were hardly the stuff of troubadour’s tales.

He had no idea of how long he had been waiting when Eleanor appeared, walking along the corridor thinking she was alone and everyone else gone to bed long ago. As soon as she spotted him she forced the tired, pained expression form her face and pulled her shoulders back, walking like the noble she was supposed to be, not a battle worn soldier. Fulk pursed his lips; her pride would be the end of her at this rate.

Eleanor stopped at her door and said imperiously, “I am here. I am self evidently alive. You can go do whatever it is you plan on doing tonight now.”

“Really? Whatever I planned on doing, with your blessing?”

Eleanor’s brows slipped into a slight frown, “Yes.” she said tersely. “Now scat.”

Fulk reached into the pouch he wore at his belt, pulling out two small clay pots sealed with a bit of cloth tied in place over the openings, “I thought I might dab some balm on that lip of yours, then do something about that mess on your back.”

“I see.” said Eleanor frostily, her frown deepening, “You thought me so weak I would be grateful for, no would need your help-”

“No!” Fulk overrode her, “I thought you might have the sense to accept my help because wandering around as you are does little good to any; it only soothes that wounded dignity of yours.”

“I see.” she snapped, “Do you not think I might have done this before? Perhaps I have grown accustomed to having no one to help me? Perhaps I can tend my own wounds? Did you think of that? Did you think that after all these years I might be able to manage alone? No, you did not.”

Fulk surveyed the hostile figure in front of him. There was no trace of the earlier friendliness they had established on the tower, no trace of the wary humour they had found on the road back. The observation struck a pang in his heart to match the irritation caused by her endlessly defensive attitude. “You are one prickly customer, princess thornbush! What would it harm to accept my help? I don’t doubt you managed before, but why make life harder than it needs to be when I’m around?”

The aching throb of her back warred with her instincts; the ache won in short order. “Fine.” Her frown faded slightly, “But one single joke, comment or question and I will re-break that nose of yours and set it as straight as an arrow.”

Fulk’s eyes widened in mock horror, “But that would damage my dashing good looks!”

“Good.” The rest of the frown cleared away as Eleanor sniffed and stuck her nose in the air, “It will prevent you being distracted by stupid girls ogling you when I need you to chop someone in two.”

Fulk had to work to hide his relived grin; she was back to joking, thank God. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, “You leave my poor nose alone; it’s done you no harm.”

“Ha!” Eleanor opened the door, crossed through and stood holding onto the handle in one hand and the doorframe in the other. “Wait here.” She shut the door in Fulk’s face, “And mind your precious nose.” she instructed absently. There was no way Fulk would be dumb enough to let a door smash his face in.

Fulk glared at the woodwork just an inch away from the tip of his nose, “A little late on the warning, oh nasally concerned one.”

She left him standing there for so long he began to wonder if she was intending to ignore him in the hopes he would go away. Finally she called, “Alright, let’s get this over with before I regain my senses and change my mind.”

Fulk slipped through the door and was about to shut it when she instructed, “Leave it ajar, I do hate to think of the fuss that could be raised otherwise. People and their lewd ideas, quite disgusting really. I do not appreciate being dragged down to their level, but needs must to anticipate and divert trouble.”

He did as he was told, crossing to the bed where she lay face down, her chin propped on her crossed arms and her modesty preserved with a carefully draped sheet. One of her knives lay within reach on the pillow. Her bared back was a riot of cuts, welts and bruises, crisscrossed over old scars. A clotted mess still leaking blood where gashes had broken open as she removed her clothes. Her right forearm had fingerprints appearing in a vivid purple where someone had grabbed and twisted with considerable strength. Another mark on her left flank hinted that someone had kicked her.

“You can bring your eyebrows back down from your hairline right now.” Eleanor said firmly without even looking for his reaction. “I can hear them flying upwards and I do not approve.”

“Then you are imagining things, dear stinging nettle. I had some idea of what to expect.” He thought it best not to say the only other time he’d seen a mess like that it was on a runaway serf who’d been unfortunate enough to be captured and returned to a vengeful lord. “Perhaps it was my surprise at the dagger you heard?” he suggested neutrally.

“Keeping up appearances; I have to cover both lethal agent and royal propriety. Trempwick would have a fit if I did not keep an obvious threat hanging around, though I cannot help but feel it would serve him right for poking his attention where it is not wanted” She flicked a finger in the direction of the table; “There is a pitcher of water, a bowl and some cloth over there.” A smile flitted across her lips, “You see? I am well able to cope alone, even if salving your own back is rather clumsy.” And hideously painful.” she added silently.

Fulk poured some water into the bowl and soaked a scrap of linen in it. He started washing away the blood with surprising gentleness.

“We leave tomorrow morning.” said Eleanor, simply for something to do. Lying around thinking was all right in its place, but right now the thought foremost on her mind was that she could have used a Fulk years ago. There was a lot to be said for a pair of soothing hands, and that an entirely disturbing discovery.

“That’s not going to do you much good.” Fulk sponged at a large clot on her shoulder, slowly revealing a deep cut in the shape of half a belt buckle.

Eleanor could guess what he was seeing and tensed, waiting for the inevitable prying for salacious details. Fulk kept his peace. Well if he wasn’t going to leap on the opportunity she wasn’t going to hang about waiting, “A mission is a mission, I have very little choice.” Actually no choice at all, she had simply been told to go.

“Trempwick?” Fulk set aside the bowl and untied the string holding the bit of rag over his pot of comfrey ointment. He started dabbing it carefully over the host of injuries, “I’ll speak to him, tell him to stuff his madness where the sun doesn’t shine. You need a few days rest or you’ll only burst these cuts back open.”

He had expected a furious outburst but there was a long pause. When she eventually spoke it was quietly, “If you want to help then you will get me away from here as quickly as you can.”

It was the tone rather than the words that made him listen. Fulk sighed heavily, “I won’t ask why, but alright. We’ll get away from here then stop somewhere for a few days, good enough?”

“More than. Thank you.”

“Since you’re in such a cooperative mood I’ll also demand you let me continue to treat this mess.”

“I am not certain that would be a good idea.” replied Eleanor doubtfully.

“Better than letting them get infected.”

Since she didn’t trust herself to answer Eleanor said nothing. Fulk cheerfully took her silence as acquiescence, and finished applying the ointment. He looked at the half empty pot, “I’ll have to buy more of this.”

“It is comfrey, correct?” She was working off the smell wafting about the room, “We have some of that in the manor’s stores.” She turned her head so she could watch him, needing to see the inevitable bloodthirsty enjoyment on his face, hidden behind the pretty words and gentle hands. There was none. “You are the only person who has never laughed or gloated.” She was mortified to find tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Any other would simply use helping as an excuse to see my ‘downfall’ firsthand for their own glee. You are the only one who…”

“Cares?”

“I was thinking more … behaved chivalrously.” She wanted to ask if he did actually care.

“Oh.” Fulk blushed and scratched the back of his neck.

“I am promoting you to royal cut tender.” said Eleanor softly.

“Thank you, oh generous one.” He placed the second, smaller pot of balm down next to her dagger, “I shall leave you to do your lip alone. For me to do a decent job of it you’d have to sit up, and I think your Trempwick would have me dead by dawn if you did that in your current state.” Eleanor’s quiet laughter banished the echo of Trempwick’s warning “So much as a single hair…” from Fulk’s mind. The spymaster had chosen his words carefully, a dual-purpose warning: keep her safe and keep your distance.

“Goodnight, your highness. Since I’m supposed to be some kind of dog come paragon bodyguard mix I’ll sleep outside your door. Shout if you need anything.”



Your wish is my command :bow: :tongueg:

I thought a small demo of why I keep calling the other parts rough might be in order. This part is polished to the same standards as the draft for my book. I still have a long way to go but I feel this is a substantial improvement over the rough stuff I have been posting. It did take me twice as long to produce though; I wrote this instead of adding more to Red Hand today.

zelda12
08-15-2004, 14:10
I have to admit it is a much more fluid read. Although the rough ones you post are incredibly good. Also I was wondering if you have actually sent the original Red hand that you posted here to any publishers to wet their appetites so to speak. I ask this because you may get a better reception from the publishers if they read the original and like it.

frogbeastegg
08-15-2004, 22:37
Fulk stood next to a horse blinking sleepily in the chill dawn; Eleanor had insisted on leaving as soon as possible. They could have left quietly; only the spymaster needed to know they were leaving, but Eleanor had grinned evilly, splitting her lip open again, and told Fulk to rouse the entire household. After all, she had said, well brought up princesses did not cook their own food or saddle their own horses. On this one occasion the staff appeared to resent her being proper as much as they usually despised her for not being so.

He watched with passive interest as Trempwick slowly crossed the courtyard, dodging his servants as they scurried about loading up the single packhorse. “Good morning, dear sweet Nell.” he said exuberantly, “You are looking remarkably hale this fine morning.”

“If you say so, master.”

“I do, Nell, I do.” He tossed a purse at her; she snatched it out of the air. He smiled sardonically at her surprise at the purse’s weight, “A small fortune, dear Nell, to follow the plan I outlined last night. You will also need to outfit him” he nodded towards Fulk, “accordingly. Do remember to bring your shopping home, Nell. Not only do we need the supplies but I confess I am eminently curious to see what exactly you will buy.”

“Nothing interesting, master.” Eleanor thoughtfully tossed the purse up and down a few times before handing it to Fulk. He fastened it to his belt next to his sword.

“Trempwick watched the exchange with rapt interest, “Oh dearest Nell, I find everything you do entirely fascinating. You are simply far too unique to be dull.”

“If that is your opinion, master, I do not see how I can argue otherwise.” Hoping Trempwick was done Eleanor moved to her horse. She was surprised to find Fulk waiting to give her a helping hand up into the saddle. Until this point he had been quite content to leave her to her own devices and he well knew that she didn’t need his help.

Fulk could easily guess what she was thinking. He nodded just perceptibly at the brooding figure of the spymaster and murmured quietly, “Paragon bodyguard; just try not to leave boot prints on my face.”

Eleanor could feel Trempwick’s eyes boring into the back of her neck, could almost hear his mind weighting up the possibilities and laying out predictions. What would she do, and what meanings could he infer from her actions? More than sick of Trempwick’s endless games Eleanor decided to follow the most predictable route; she accepted Fulk’s help. Once settled in place she told him, “Don’t make a habit of it.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Trempwick’s mouth lift in a microscopic smile that was gone almost before it appeared. She had guessed correctly and done exactly as he thought she would: protected Fulk and asserted once again that she was the one giving his orders. Predictable, and therefore giving less insight to the spymaster.

As soon as Fulk was mounted and leading the packhorse she kicked her horse into a walk, “Goodbye, master.”

“Goodbye, dearest Nell.” He walked at her side as far as the gate, “Be careful.” he said sincerely.

“Of course, master.” Eleanor was finally on the open road, the spymaster and manor left behind, not far but getting further away with each step the horse took.




As soon as they were out of sight of the manor and in open countryside Eleanor cast a quick look about, drew rein and jumped down from her horse. “Unless he has people tunnelling underneath us he cannot overhear, and even then he would not be able to see.” She began to unfasten the wrist knife on her right arm, grateful to remove the pressure from her bruised, swollen skin.

Fulk watched, “I don’t know why you put the thing on in the first place.” he commented, “Pride, I suppose. I’m convinced you’ve got such a strong sense of pride you could catapult rocks at it and they’d only bounce off!”

She tapped the hilt of the knife against her palm, wondering what to do it, “Pride comes with the crown. This was more expediency than pride, just like your paragon act. If Trempwick scents weakness he pounces on it mercilessly. I have neither time nor inclination to play around with one of his little tests.” ‘Little tests’ was an understatement; the last time she had been unable to convince him she was perfectly fit she had been ambushed by three of his agents. The scene had not been pretty even though her opponents had training weapons and strict instructions to do no real harm. No matter how skilled a fighter very few could win against such steep odds when already badly injured; that fact brought precious little comfort. She knelt on the ground and fastened the knife to her shin instead, on the outside of her leg where it wouldn’t hamper her movement.

“Is that why you wanted to leave as quickly as possible?”

“No. His sympathy, his concern, they make me sick to the very pit of my stomach.”

“Because it is false?”

“No, because it is sincere, just like his mockery.” She scrambled back into her saddle and turned her horse back to the road, “Let’s go; when we stop for lunch I shall explain this mission.”





When the sun reached its peak they stopped to eat, sitting at the edge of the road with the horses tethered on a loose rein so they could get at the grass. Another meal provided by the royal kitchens, another tasteless disappointment. Fulk nibbled the end of a pasty, “You know I’ve had better from a stall in the midst of a fair; a meat pie that was probably made with some stray dog. It was full of gristle; I think I fed most of it to another stray dog to save my poor belly.”

Eleanor nearly choked as she tried to laugh and swallow at the same time, “The cook’s abilities are not very awe inspiring, are they?”

“Oh they inspire plenty of awe.” replied Fulk, his face perfectly straight, “Awe that anyone can cook so badly and still be in royal service!”

“If it were up to me I would sack him; I would also increase the budget considerably, right now it is miserly in the extreme. You know the average minor noble eats better than I do? Sad, really, when you think about it.”

“It’s worse than that, your culinary torturedness, the average peasant eats better, maybe not in terms of ingredients but in taste…” Fulk moved to take another small bite, checked, glared at the pasty and put it back in the bag it had come from. “What do you say to giving our packed lunch to some particularly unlucky beggars and buying something decent in an inn?”

“I thought the whole point of charity was to help the less fortunate, not to give them our woes on top of their own.” Wrinkling her nose, as if that would somehow help, Eleanor took another bite and her own pasty and swallowed it without chewing. “I shall give you some friendly advice, small bites allow you to swallow without needing to chew; you barely even have time to taste the total lack of flavour.”

“Oh, mine had flavour.” Fulk shuddered, “Though quite what it was I don’t know…dung, perhaps?”

Eleanor laughed again and threw the remnant of her lunch at Fulk, missing him by a fraction on purpose, “Will you stop that? At this rate my lip will never heal.”

Fulk looked contrite, “Sorry, I shall try to be more depressing, oh giggly one.” Eleanor glared at him, fists firmly planted on her hips and a well-schooled expression of superior distain on her face. Aside from the fact she was shaking with repressed laughter just one thing spoiled the effect. “Here, let me do something about that.” He tugged the sleeve of his tunic over his thumb and softly dabbed at the trickle of blood oozing from her lip. When she opened her mouth to protest Fulk said, “I’m the royal cut tender, and you did agree to behave.”

There was no point in arguing past that; it was the work of seconds to clean her lip. Trying to banish the gentle touch of his hand from her mind Eleanor began to describe the mission as she had promised, “Our mission is to find proof of corruption at Elstow abbey. Trempwick knows they are forcing their peasants and tenants to pay more than is owed, sadly without incontrovertible proof coming from a reliable source nothing can be done. Peasants and burghers are not reliable, not in the eyes of a court, not when against their landlords. There is very little else to say, much of the rest depends on what we find-”

Movement caught Fulk’s eye; years of experience had him moving before he had even consciously recognised the danger. He threw himself on top of the princess, pushing her to the ground and only just in time. An arrow whipped through the air where his chest had been only seconds before. Fulk jumped to his feet, “Stay down.” he ordered, drawing his sword and running in a zigzag pattern towards where the shot had come from.

Another arrow zipped past him, another close miss. The archer flung away his bow and stood from his crouch, ripping his own blade from its sheath and bracing himself for Fulk’s assault. The ranged threat over Fulk slowed to a wary walk, holding his sword in the ready position. The archer lunged at him, the blades clashed and Fulk moved in body to body with his foe, using his height to his advantage as he leaned his weight on the locked swords, forcing the other man to bend backwards.

Desperate, unable to break away or to win the contest of strength, the archer punched Fulk in the stomach with his free hand, once, twice, slamming his knuckles into hard muscle. Fulk stepped back, breaking the deadlock and immediately plunging back in with an overhead cut. The archer flung his sword up to block, deflected Fulk’s blade to one side and stepped back, playing for space.

His hand went to his belt, to his dagger, which he drew and threw at Fulk. The man at arms twisted out of the way, the blade just skimming his flank. Fear began to show in the archer’s eyes; the man was no match for a well-trained warrior in close combat and he knew it. He threw everything he had into one desperate attack, taking his sword hilt in both hands and swinging down at Fulk’s left shoulder, screaming a wordless battle cry in both fear and defiance. Fulk parried the blow high, bringing his blade down and around in a motion that flung his opponent’s guard right open. The sword continued its arc unchecked and bit deep into the archer’s side, smashing through ribs and coming to rest near his spine.

Fulk twisted his sword free of the falling man and brought the blade down again, ending the man’s life. Fulk immediately checked to see if there were any more enemies; there were none and despite his instructions Eleanor was back on her feet and headed his way with both knives drawn. He wiped his sword clean on the man’s clothes and sheathed it, then turned to meet her. “I thought I said ‘stay down’, your royal disobedience?”

“Sod that.” replied Eleanor delicately, “If you get killed I have to pay for your funeral and they tend to be expensive.”

Fulk looked at her, the gleam in her eyes and expression of intent concentration mingled with relief and exuberance now fading away. The only other time he had seen that look was when he had confronted her over Aidney’s corpse, and he hadn’t been paying much attention then. It was the eyes that did it, that caused his anger to ebb away. Sighing he touched a hand to his side where the knife had grazed him, “I suppose expecting you to keep out of the way was a bit foolish.” His fingers came away bloody but the gash was not a bad one. “I should have known you’d insist on joining in.”

“Yes, of course; I am not a helpless pot plant.” Eleanor brushed his hand out of the way and inspected the wound for herself, “Barely broken the skin; now that is why I did not bother trying to hit you with one of my own knives – I though you had the grace and reflexes to dodge even if you are a cumbersome scrap heap.”

Fulk crouched next to the dead archer; “I would have preferred to get him alive so we could find out who he works for. He’s no common bandit, he’s too well equipped and dressed for that, and alone too.”

“I know who sent him.” replied Eleanor grimly, trying to ignore the stinking carcass near their feet; the sight and smell made her stomach heave. “Trempwick. Evidently I did not do a good enough job of looking perfectly healthy; this” she nudged the body with her foot, “is one of his little tests, although with a more lethal bent than usual.” She saw the incensed expression on Fulk’s face and hurried to explain, “No he did not intend to kill me, if you remember all of his deadly attacks were aimed at you. I do not doubt he was supposed to kill you if he could, and I shall add that to my tally of grudges to nurse. But the main purpose of this was to surprise me, to make me burst open all those nicely tended wounds, which, incidentally, thanks to your sitting on me I have done. This is Trempwick’s version of ‘those who look weak get attacked, so learn to hide your weaknesses’.”

Fulk made his opinion on the spymaster and his training ideas clear, swearing fluently and obscenely in both French and English for quite some time.

“Very nicely put.” the princess told him approvingly. “We should go, get to an inn where we can patch ourselves up in peace and quiet.” She went back to the horses while Fulk picked up the archer’s bow, quiver, sword and sword belt; the weapons were of good quality and too expensive to leave lying in the dirt.




Been writing like a mad thing today, turning out page after page after page, first the book and then this. From now on I am going to try and write only in the more polished form; the more I practise it the easier it gets, and I think the story really benefits from the subtle touches it brings. Besides I owe a certain princess quite a bit for setting my feet more firmly on this path.

Zelda, no, I haven't sent the original Red Hand to anyone. I suspect they would take one look and throw it in the bin; it just is not of anything approaching good enough quality. Also my rewritten book version has a huge number of changes: a new world, new characters in addition to the old ones, some new names, loads of new events, stacks of new reasons for old events, and about 6 new scenes for every old one. Red Hand is a whole new beast, so complex and detailed it would take me about 20 pages just to give a quick explaination of it and how it all works, both story and world.

frogbeastegg
08-18-2004, 19:20
Predictably enough there was an inn halfway between Woburn and Elstow, isolated and alone but within easy reach of both places. The tavern was quiet when they arrived; October was not the best time of year to be travelling and so only those who had business were out on the roads. Pilgrims were all safely at home unless they felt particularly obliged to undertake a harsh penance, and only the most unfortunate of the travelling minstrels, pedlars, tournament knights and the like were still wandering in search of a hearth to spend the winter at.

Despite the current lull it was clearly apparent business had been good in the past; the timber and thatch inn building was large, clean and well furnished. There were several small private rooms above the main room and the separate stables were large enough for nine horses.

The innkeeper hurried out as soon as he heard their horses, wiping his hands on his tunic and smartening himself up as he went. He checked for an instant, seeing the blood splattered all over Fulk and the spare weapons slung on the packhorse, but then his eyes rested on Eleanor’s expensive clothes and he began moving again, a welcoming smile on his face and enthusiasm clear in the exuberance of his welcome. A stable boy soon appeared to take the horses.

As she slid down from her horse Eleanor hid a smile; she was only in average noble mode, dressed and behaving like a noble with no more than a couple of smallish manors, but people still tripped over themselves to serve. She wondered what the innkeeper would have done if she had been in full royal mode complete with crown, probably keeled over dead of shock on the spot.

The innkeeper hovered, uncertain as to whom to address himself to; the obviously rich woman or the not so rich but blood spattered man. Eleanor took a mental deep breath and launched into one of her own cover personalities: the rich bitch, too loud to be questioned, too imperious to be doubted. She stalked over to the innkeeper and waved her hand, “I expect a search party to be send out immediately; we were attacked by bandits and one of my escort lies dead or dying on the road. Do something. My man here managed to fight them off, but stopping to rescue Geoffrey would have been folly.” She scowled, “We had to leave his horse behind; an expensive waste.”

“My lady.” the innkeeper bowed, “As it’s a quiet time I only have the boy and my wife-”

She flung her hands up in the air with an exasperated sigh, “Oh forget it! I shall simply have to sort this myself when I reach my uncle. Forget Geoffrey, he is only a lazy serf and not worth the bother, even less so if he is dead, which he probably is just to be inconvenient.”

Eleanor launched herself towards the doorway, trusting the innkeeper’s greed to take care of the rest. It did, “My lady, allow me to show you to my best rooms.”

She stopped and asked, “I trust the inn is empty and will remain so? I will make it worth your while; I do not want to hear farmers belching into their ale.”

“Of course not, my lady. I’ll shut the inn right now. My wife’ll prepare a room for you, and another for your man-”

“He will be sleeping outside my door; I have already nearly been murdered once today and that is quite enough! This is a lawless county; we never have this problem on our lands. Laxity, sheer laxity on behalf of the local lord. I shall tell my uncle about this at great length and there will be action” Still grumbling Eleanor swept off into the building, the innkeeper trailing in her wake, leaving Fulk to sort out their baggage.





Fulk made his way up the narrow wooden staircase that led to the private rooms, carefully balancing two bowls of steaming food. He halted outside the door of the furthest room, the one set aside for Eleanor, and nudged it open with his foot. Once inside he balanced on one leg and pushed the door to with the other.

“An acrobat as well as an aspiring bard. Well, well, what an extraordinary find you are.” Eleanor shuffled up on the bed, making space as the only place to sit down in the room. She accepted the bowl he held out and idly stirred at the contents, “Can you juggle as well?”

Fulk perched himself at the end of the bed, “No, never tried.” He blew on a spoonful of pottage before taking a tentative sample, “Hmm, nice. Bacon, peas, bit of garlic, some white wine and a few herbs; far superior to the muck your cook turns out.”

“That is not difficult!” She sampled her own food; evidently it met with her approval as the rest rapidly disappeared. She put her empty bowl on the rush-strewn floor and moved back to lean against the wall behind the bed with her feet tucked under her. She soon sat back up again; her back was still too raw to stand much pressure. Instead she sat cross-legged and rested her elbows on her knees, watching Fulk.

The man at arms noticed a couple of bare toes sticking out from under the folds of her skirts, “Eccentric little bundle, aren’t you?” he said, gesturing with his spoon at the toes.

They wriggled with the owner’s discomfort, “Those shoes are hot.” explained Eleanor rather shamefacedly. “Please don’t breathe a word to Trempwick or I shall be walking about barefoot for a week. He does not approve of barefoot princesses at all, and disapproval combined with ingenuity is rather uncomfortable.”

“My word on it.” replied Fulk solemnly, holding up his hand as if taking an oath. The effect was ruined by the spoon and bowl he was still holding

Eleanor regarded the lowering level of food in his bowl, “We do not have long before your excuse for being here expires, so we will lay our plans now. We will leave as soon as possible tomorrow morning.”

“So much for resting for a few days.”

“My imitation of my aunt Adelaide will only work for so long; sooner or later they will look beyond the obvious and start seeing and noting other details. The lip is of little consequence, such injuries are common and it will elicit nothing more than pity or curiosity at what I did to upset my husband that badly. Which leads to the second problem – I have no wedding ring and I am years too old to be single. Even widows hang on to their rings, so I cannot claim to be in that happy estate. Besides I would be a rich young widow by default, and that is every bit as dangerous as a single young rich thing.” Her mouth twitched, “I do not want to test your combat skills against a group of ambitious types who see much to gain by abducting and marrying me for my supposed lands and riches. We might be investigating unscrupulous clergy, but extortion is thankfully very different to performing marriages on unwilling victims.” Eleanor blushed slightly and focused intently on her hands clasped in her lap, “I need you to get me a suitable ring. I can hardly go out and buy one myself.”

“Now there’s a story to tell my grandchildren – the day a princess asked me to get her a wedding ring.”

She burned a deeper red, “Oh, shut up you chain mail wearing twit!”

Fulk bobbed an ironic half bow, still sat down and being careful not to spill his food, “As you command, oh crimson one.”

Eleanor watched him, squinting very slightly as she decided whether to pursue that line or not. She decided not; let him have the last word if it meant the whole subject was nicely dropped before she hit beetroot red. “Then there is the hair.” She pushed a hand through her tresses, sweeping them back from her face, only for a few strands to immediately flop back out of place again. “I still have no one to style it and anything I do with it myself falls to pieces within an hour. Wandering about with it loose only attracts attention, as well as making me look like I am perpetually on my way to my wedding as a virgin bride; not at all a good thing, and you have no idea how much that bothers me.”

“I can help on that one too.” offered Fulk as he scrapped his bowl clean and licked his spoon. Truth be told he rather liked her hair as it was, and he suspected no style was the only style that it would ever agree to.

The squint returned, along with a slight frown, “An entirely disreputable story lies behind that expertise, no doubt. I do know how these things are usually learned, and I cannot see you disguising yourself as a maid and learning that way, nor do you wear a wedding ring yourself. I do not wish to know; I just ate and I do not require my stomach turning, thank you.”

“It was entirely honourable.” replied Fulk quietly, supplying the rest in the privacy of his own mind, ”In a disreputable kind of way.”

“Really?” asked Eleanor sceptically, “How nice for you. The hair neatly brings me to the final, and most obvious, point. Even including that archer our party is too small by at least one person; I should have a maid. It would be easy to hire one but we would only have to kill her as soon as the mission was completed. If we did not Trempwick would; the way we will be operating she would know too much if questioned. So, no maid; murder is Trempwick’s passion, not mine. Currently if asked to describe me our hosts will use terms like bossy, loud, or noble. The more they see the more likely they are to provide a description that could help someone locate me, and to note and speak of those aforementioned oddities. We leave tomorrow; I will only leave this room when we depart. That way they will not have much extra time to think or see. You had better go; you have no excuse to linger any more. We will plan further on the road tomorrow; it will be quieter and safer than here, and easier to spot any listeners.”

Fulk didn’t move, “I haven’t done anything about your back; I am determined to be the best royal cut tender ever. I don’t want to be demoted or replaced, oh barefooted one.”

“You have no reason to stay, and so our hosts will grow suspicious.” Soothing might be all right in its place but its place was not here or anywhere in Eleanor’s life, thank you very much. Better to avoid a potential path that would only lead to disaster if followed; the damned man had already saved his life by being too likeable and she could see a possibility peeking out of the shadows at her. She did not like it, not at all. “Remember Adele…”

“Then I shall tell you a story while I work.”

She scowled, hoping to insult him into leaving, “After that last one I am very much inclined to stab you before you have chance to breathe so much as a word; you are the worst story teller I have encountered in my life.”

Fulk only grinned, “It’s about a dragon who captured a damsel and then spent the next few years picking fights with knights in the hopes of getting rid of her. She was a bit of a nag.”

The princess conceded defeat with scant grace, annoyed at how easy it had been for Fulk, and the prospect of those hands combined with that balm, to sway her, “Oh alright.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, “Go see if you can persuade our hosts to part with a bit more of that pottage and I shall get ready.”






All that writing about pottage has made me hungry, wish I could have a bowlful myself.

zelda12
08-18-2004, 19:33
Coincidentaly I'm just eating a nice bowl of home made soup I made.

frogbeastegg
08-19-2004, 16:30
He was coming, hunting her, and if he found her then it was all over. Eleanor shrank back in her hiding place, barely daring to breathe. After a while she could hear footsteps crunching over the leaves and grass. A shadow blocked out the sun’s light.

“Now I wonder where she could be?” said a man’s voice, exaggerating the question just enough to make it clear he knew she was here. Eleanor stopped breathing. The footsteps got closer. “I thought she would be around here, looks like I was wrong.” The footsteps retreated but the man was still nearby. Eleanor’s chest was feeling tight; she was running out of air. Cautiously she exhaled, then started to breathe in. A pair of hands grabbed her and pulled her out from the little cave under the tree roots. Eleanor shrieked and kicked her legs as Trempwick swung her up into the air.

The spymaster grinned and set her down before collapsing onto the ground next to her, sitting with loose-limbed untidiness that shrank him down into a less intimidating figure, his left arm draped across his raised knees. “Found you, sweetling. I win. Care to play another game?”

“You’ve not won yet!” Eleanor stuck her tongue out at Trempwick then turned to run.

Trempwick grabbed a handful of her skirts, and she fell over when she tried to flee. He stuck out an arm to catch her and break her fall, unbalancing himself so he jointed her face down on the grass. Recovering slightly he tickled her in the ribs, “Boast when you have got clean away, or else you only give your foe warning to prevent your escape.”

Eleanor rolled so she was sitting up, folded her arms and sulked, “You cheat; you always cheat! I’m not playing any more.”

“Cheat? I?” Trempwick looked horrified, “Never.”

“You always find me, you must cheat or else you wouldn’t. “ Eleanor scrambled to her feet and jutted her chin in the air, “I’m really good at hide and seek; no one can ever beat me unless they cheat!”

“Ah, but they are not agents like we are, so of course they are no good.” Trempwick got up and held out his hand to her, when she didn’t take it immediately he wiggled his fingers. “I shall show you how I always win.” he coaxed. Timidly Eleanor slipped her hand into his and followed him back over to the entrance of the little hollow between the tree roots where she had hidden. Trempwick pointed at the ground, “You see how the grass is disturbed?” He turned and pointed back towards the manor, “And if you look back you can see a faint track. Princess, you leave a trail easy that is to follow to those with the eyes and mind to read it.”

Eleanor looked at the grass with a rapt expression, “I want to learn that.”

“And so you shall, I promise. Come, now, let’s go back to the manor. It is nearly midday.”

Still hand in hand they began to walk back, Trempwick’s pace slow so the child could keep up. “You still cheat, sorta.” said Eleanor carefully. “I mean if you follow my track and all, well you’re always going to win and you didn’t even say so.”

Trempwick stopped and dropped to one knee beside her, looking her in the eye, “I will always find you, if you leave so much as one tiny clue I will find you. There is a lot more to tracking than simple trails, and I will teach you it all.”

“But you’ll still be cheating every time we play this game.” insisted Eleanor, not even slightly mollified.

“Yes.” laughed Trempwick, “But then if you learn to hide your trail, to hide your thoughts, to be unpredictable, and to baffle me, well won’t your victory be all the sweeter?”

“I ‘spose so.” allowed Eleanor reluctantly, “But it’s going to take a long time, right? Like weeks, or maybe even months.”

“Years, sweetling.” Trempwick patted her on the head, “So I’ll offer you a piggyback back to the manor to make it up to you, fair?”

Eleanor stood up tall, freeing her hand from his and putting on every ounce of regalness she had, “Not really, but I’ll settle for what I can get.”

“You remind me of your lady mother, she always drives a hard bargain!” Trempwick hoisted her up onto his shoulders and started walking home.




Eleanor drifted awake, the remnants of the dream still clinging to her. She always slept poorly when lying on her front, but currently it was less uncomfortable than lying on her back or side. She got up, cautiously, not making any sudden moves that make reopen her back or make enough noise to bring Fulk and his stupid questions. Opening the shutters, she looked at the moon; it was a couple of hours too early to get up. Sighing she got back into bed, wishing it was time to get up so she could avoid courting any more such dreams. As she drifted off into slumber again she wondered why on this occasion she had been dreaming of the good times.




Consider this a reader request for a certain coz1 over on the Paradox forums. Details of her training will be appearing in the story reasonably regularly for plot purposes, but since it was asked for several times I thought I would expand a little more now. Of course this probably raises more questions than it answers, what with "the good times".... :D

scooter_the_shooter
08-20-2004, 01:10
GOOD story my new fav in the mead hall by the way how long do you plan to have red hand

Ludens
08-20-2004, 13:08
Very good, Froggy. I see what you mean with 'polished style'. I didn't really like the dream scene, I would rather see how the story got on. But perhaps that dream scene becomes important later. Just a question: do you plan out the story or do you write it as you go along?


Fulk watched, “I don’t know why you put the thing on in the first place.” he commented, “Pride, I suppose. I’m convinced you’ve got such a strong sense of pride you could catapult rocks at it and they’d only bounce off!”
~D Now that sounds familiar. Mind you, I think it a bit out of place, but still funny.

frogbeastegg
08-20-2004, 14:25
Caesar, Red Hand will be as long as it turns out to be; a tremendously useful answer, I'm sure. I estimate it will be about 500 pages in MS Word. Red Hand now finishes when Margaret dies; Culad's life after that is a second book, and GillaIsu's lifetime is another book or three. Just for reference Margaret died on page 100 of the version I posted here and several pages past that point also make it into Red Hand the book. Hmm, I think I may need to up that estimate to around 600 pages...

Ludens, so, you spotted my Easter egg Discworld homage :gring:

The dream was a way of filling a reader's request. I am always open to request so long as they fit the story. I don't really like dreams but I felt this one could be useful since it opens up quite a few possibilities very subtly, as well as making a certain bit later more dramatic. Froggy has gotten rather more subtle with this new polished style and focus on real books. I'm afraid I am not going to state everything clearly all the time now; there will be lines that tell you plenty if you stop and think about them, lines such as "she wondered why on this occasion she had been dreaming of the good times." That tells you several things if you think about it, it also hints at other events and should get you asking questions. Whether it actually does or not is a question I can't answer, but it should do.

I do plan, I shall demonstrate but keep it spoiler tagged for those who don't want to know what is going to happen next:
-Item: must leave inn. Use opportunity to show off details of clothes etc.
-Item: They need to arrive, bit about Trempy's plan and townhouse.
-Item: Fulk goes shopping, get ring and that necklace. Inc. bit about him wondering what to do with necklace, since he has no one to give it to.
-Item: Now Fulk is fixed up they can go shopping together. Bit with El working to play to Trempy's expectations, musing over what the significance of assorted choices mean.
-Item: snoop about and locate the abbey's library.
-Item: Go home and lay plans.

-Need: insert the bit about the sword here? Or later? Needs to be in here before they go back to Woburn.
-Idea: maybe Fulk should do some private joke about not giving her the necklace because he doesn't want to die?
-Idea: State a bit more obviously that Fulk has romantic troubles? Too soon, but maybe another subtle hint.
-Idea: El is bothered by that hint at Fulk's past? Hmm, nope, she's too royal for that.
-Need: to find a use for that joke about maturity...
-Need: Fulk should be concerned about Trempy and plotting a bit.
-Query: brother, uncle, husband, pet canary, what on earth should he be? Hmm, she'd go crazy about the husband, he's rather young to be the uncle, so maybe brother? Needs a disguise and Trempy is waiting to see what she chooses with great interest.
-Need: Make it clear Trempy isn't all horrible, he has been both good and bad and she's kind of torn...
That's the plan for the next section,and it's all very fluid, I can add or remvoe eaisly. Beyond that it is less clear, running to the tone of "they need to go to HERE and do MISSION 2." Hmm, detailed or what? :tongueg:

frogbeastegg
08-21-2004, 14:48
The innkeeper and his wife were astonished at the transformation in their noble guest the next morning. Eleanor had swapped her finery for a plain, simple light grey dress and, thanks to Fulk, her hair was neatly braided and coiled under a wimple. She was nothing more than a well-dressed townsperson, or perhaps a rather poor noble. “Well I hardly want to be robbed a second time, do I?” she said angrily at the look on her hosts’ faces. “You.” she glared at the innkeeper; the man froze in fear, “Go help my man on with his armour.” The man shot off; he didn’t know the first thing about armour but he would have offered to serve as archbishop of Canterbury if it would get him away from his guest.

That left his wife alone with Eleanor and the poor woman didn’t know what to do. She did not want to offend their rich guest; she did not know of anything suitable to say, but she couldn’t just ignore her either. Eleanor solved the woman’s dilemma for her by holding out a small pouch of money, “I believe this will settle my account.”

The woman unlaced the pouch and tipped the money into the palm of her hand; it came to twice what was owed. “Thank you, my lady.” she said reverently, dipping a deep curtsy.

Eleanor ignored her, going to stand in the doorway, watching as the stable boy brought their horses round, saddled, laden and ready to go. “I always feel those unfortunate enough to encounter my aunt Adelaide deserve compensation for suffering her loathsome company.” she thought to herself, “God knows I wanted to charge for enduring her on the single occasion we met!”




The goldsmith’s apprentice looked up at his customer, a warrior still in his mail hauberk with his hand resting comfortably on his sword hilt, and sucked his teeth, “Gonna cost you, take it from me. If you go wandering off with just that ring you’re gonna get kicked in the balls and told ta get stuffed. Whatcha need is this here necklace” he whipped out a small teardrop of clear crystal set on a gold chain, “to show off your wealth and all, aye, mayhap a few other choice items too. That’ll see you home and dry, take it from me.”

Fulk drummed his fingers on his sword hilt, biting his lip to stop a smile. Taking advice on getting engaged from a brat of indistinguishable, but young, age, what a surreal experience. “I don’t think so, the ring will do.”

The boy shook his head, tutting sadly, “Look, I’m a nice chap, I like to see the hero come out on top.” He winked and nudged Fulk with his elbow, just as he had seen his master do when running this sales patter, “So I’ll cut you a deal, that there ring and this here necklace for just the five shillin’s nine pence. Da necklace’s special, it were brought in from some far off land and all. One of a kind, she’ll love it, trust me.” While the necklace was undoubtedly fine it did not look either special or unique.

“The ring, just the ring, and only the ring.” replied Fulk sternly. He did not want a necklace, especially not at that inflated price. He might be spending the crown’s money but he was still leery of paying more than he had to for anything.

The boy scratched his head, unable to figure out what was wrong. This line almost always worked for his master. “Now see here, if you wanna get kicked then that’s your business-”

“Exactly; the ring, now. I’m a busy man.”

The boy didn’t miss a beat, “-but I’m a family man and all so I’m not wantin’ ta see that, I’m on your side.”

“Oh goodie.” muttered Fulk.

“Aye, so if you’re not gonna help yourself I’ll help ya from the goodness of my heart.” He placed a hand over his breastbone, as pious as a saint. “Looky here, that ring’s a bit small like, you’ll want something a tad grander-” he pushed the ring Fulk had chosen to one side and plonked down a new one.

“No.” replied Fulk pushing the new ring, a gaudy affair with a pair of clasped hands engraved on it, back across the counter and placing his own choice back in the centre, “She’ll like that one, it will suit her, so if you’ll sell it to me…”

“So ya really wanna get turned down, fine, fine.” the apprentice shrugged, “So maybe you don’t like her or sommat? Yeh, ya wanna get turned down, right?”

“Call me confident; I know plenty you don’t. The ring…?”

“Confident? Huh?” The boy lost the thread of his sales patter, his face screwed up as he laboriously tried to work out what his customer meant. Why on earth would he be confident? The master always said gold worked with women, no gold meant no chance, and this armoured customer had very little gold. Recovering with some effort he continued his pitch, faltering and disjointed, “Er…oh yeh, so how’s about the ring and the necklace? I’ll let ya have it for four shillin’s.”

Fulk headed towards the door, “I’ll go elsewhere, thanks.”

“No!” yelped the boy, panicking. This was his first customer and he’d been dreaming about telling the goldsmith of his first sale ever since his first day in the shop. He could practically see it, the master patting him on the head and saying “Great work, Edwin. I’ll let you keep a third of the sales fee, you’re the best apprentice I ever had and you’ll be journeyman within a month.” and then he’d reply, “It were nothin’ master, honest.” and the goldsmith would look awed and say, “Then you’re a natural, my lad! You’ll go on to be the best goldsmith, nay the best merchant in the town! They’ll make you mayor and shower you with riches and everyone will love you! I’m so proud you’re my apprentice!”. Now that dream was within reach and crumbling from under his fingertips. He pursued Fulk, stopping him just as he began to open the door, “Look, see the ring’s only two shillin’s and I’ll chuck in the necklace for free. How’s that for fair?”

Fulk stopped; not a bad offer at all, even if the necklace wasn’t quite free. It appealed to the inner bargain hunter.

The boy didn’t wait for him to answer; he could feel his dream coming back to life, “One shillin’ ten pence?”

One free necklace and a reduction in the ring’s price, an offer too good to refuse. “Deal.” The money changed hands and Fulk left the shop, carefully stashing his purchases in his belt pouch. They were both fine items, but what was he was at a loss as to what he was going to do with the necklace, but it would be foolish to refuse. Doubtless the goldsmith would not be best pleased when he returned.

In the shop the boy had a broad grin on his face; his first sale and on his second week in the shop too. The master would be so proud.





Ok, so this is only part of what I planned. I'm busy.

Pint-sized medieval used car salesman :gring:

And before anyone tells me there is a ring shaped gap in the description department I shall say that is reserved for later.

zelda12
08-22-2004, 20:38
I kept expecting the apprentice to say guv'nor every six words.
Good work.

frogbeastegg
08-25-2004, 21:19
Fulk arrived back at the townhouse they were working from with a large bundle tucked under one arm, the fruits of a successful shopping trip. Trempwick had sent an agent to rent it weeks ago; it was in a quiet part of the town and the neighbours had been informed via very careful gossip that it was for a certain lady Eleanor, who was far too miserly to hire servants to take care of the house when she wasn’t in residence. Too miserly, for that matter, to even hire servants in the first place.

“It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it.” mumbled Fulk to himself as he opened the door and entered the building. “No, she’ll ask why I thought she might like it.” He shut the door and began to wander very slowly through the empty, almost bare building, still muttering to himself, brows locked together in deep thought. “How about, I got it with your money so you keep it. No, she’ll ask me what I expect her to do with it. It will look nice on you – no, definitely not, I like being alive. Maybe, I got this free with the ring; it was an offer too good to refuse, so here you go. Don’t ask me what to do with it, sort that out yourself. No, it’s kind of abrupt. Ok, what about the goldsmith said to give it to someone I like.” Fulk paused at the bottom of the steps leading up to the second floor. “Um, no…no, just no.”

He decided to leave any mention of the necklace until he could think of a way to explain it without inviting her to do something detrimental to his health. He would mention it, of course, as soon as it was safe. He certainly wasn’t going to keep it for himself; stealing from a royal assassin and her spymaster mentor was not an activity conductive to a healthy lifestyle. And anyway it would be dishonourable and Fulk was very much an honourable man, as he frequently told himself in defiance of that bothersome little voice in the back of his mind.

He clattered noisily up the stairs; the last thing he wanted was to be accused of sneaking up on a certain knife wielding, bad tempered princess. At the top he pushed open the door to the house’s pokey little solar. It was the best furnished room in the house; kitchen, main hall and the single bedchamber were all but bare. Even so this room was hardly a beacon of excellent interior decoration; it had a table, three chairs and a straw stuffed mattress, which Fulk had discovered to be lumpy and uncomfortable. He was not looking forward to a good night’s sleep, or more accurately he was looking forward to one but knew it wasn’t too likely. That was the problem, Fulk reflected, with working for a princess. She always got the best bed and he couldn’t even claim to be gallant because there was no way a simple man at arms could lay claim to the best in order to offer it away.

The sight that greeted him raised a smile. Eleanor was sat hunched up sideways in the biggest chair, her shoulder and side leaning against the back of the chair and a rolled up cloak stuffed under her head, fast asleep. Fulk tiptoed across the rush-strewn floor and peered down at her. “Isn’t she just adorably cute when she’s unable to kill, maim or threaten you?” he commented in a mischievous whisper. Sleeping or not he didn’t feel like pushing his luck with further remarks in case she woke up.

He retreated, pausing by the table with the ring in his hand. He tossed it up and down a few times, then put it back in his belt pouch, deciding that he didn’t want to miss her reaction.





It was early evening, some time shortly after 7 o’clock according to the church bells, when Eleanor appeared in the kitchen looking for Fulk. “I knew you’d follow your nose eventually.” he said, gesturing idly towards the iron cauldron hanging above the fire.

“Cooking, are we?”

“If you like.” shrugged Fulk. He’d actually trotted across to a nearby tavern with the cauldron under his arm and brought enough stew to fill it because he didn’t fancy any more of his own cooking. He reasoned that he wasn’t lying; the stew was still above heat and therefore cooking, and since he was sat nearby observing it that made him the cook.

Eleanor watched with mild interest as he stood, uncovered the pot and began stirring at the contents. “I should learn that.” she decided suddenly, “I have no idea how to prepare food that is not lethal.”

“Your cooking that bad, oh culinary disastrous one?”

She glowered and yawned, a strange combination. “No, and I do suspect you have boiled your brains along with our dinner! I meant that my education extends as far as adding hemlock and other unorthodox flavourings.” Eleanor yawned again, cursing herself roundly for dozing off in the first place. She might not have got much sleep the past few weeks but that was little excuse. “Cooking is not regal; it is practical and therefore unnecessary. If you ever want to remove the royal house from a country simply remove their kitchen staff and prevent them for hiring replacements. A bloodless coup; you simply wait for them to starve.”

“I’ll remember that if I ever need to take over a kingdom.” Fulk replaced the lid on the stew pot and returned to his stool find it was occupied by a tenant he couldn’t evict. “Please do sit down, your wide-awake royalness.” he said ironically.

With an irritated sigh Eleanor vacated his stool and sat on the table instead, “Happy now?”

Fulk bowed deeply before seating himself. He hadn’t expected her to move, “I am forever in your debt, oh gracious one. So, you want to learn how to cook from an old soldier used to burning stuff over a campfire…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and pulled a face “This should be interesting.”

Eleanor smothered yet another yawn, “Not half as interesting as my next request. I want to learn to use a sword. I refuse to be as defenceless as they seem to want; knives are all very well but they have their limits. I will not die because they want to keep me ignorant.”

“If you’re serious-”

“I am. Deadly serious.” said Eleanor grimly; an effect ruined by the fact she looked half asleep still. “With you around things will be…different this time.” Fulk frowned quizzically, opening his mouth to speak. She waved him into silence, “Yes, yes, you get to hear a long boring story if you really want.” She hoped he didn’t want; it was not a story she much wanted to share.

“Nothing you say is ever boring, oh source of enrapturement.”

Eleanor ignored his light humour, recounting her tale emotionlessly, briskly as if it was in no way connected to her. “I had a sword once, actually two. They both belonged to my eldest brother, Stephan. One was a gift, a wooden training sword. The other was steel, smaller than a normal sword because it was made for a growing boy. As you might imagine the crown prince’s blade was the best to be found in the realm, fill in the details of how fabulous it was for yourself. I shall not go into details of how I acquired the steel; I had been under Trempwick’s wing for a good year or thereabouts and I had learned rather a lot. Swords are not now, nor ever have been, part of Trempwick’s plan for me. Let us say that when he found my new treasure he was displeased. No, then again let us not say that at all. Instead we shall say he was livid, furious, raging. You can hide nothing from Trempwick; he sees right through lies, he learns you in the same way others learn poetry so he can always predict what you will do, he always finds you when you run. Do you know any of those old legends where they ritually kill a sword when the hero who owned it died?”

“Yes, a few. They bend the blade or snap it clean it two so none can use it.”

“Trempwick murdered my brother.” Fulk started at this revelation but Eleanor studiously ignored him and he took the hint not to inquire further. She continued, barely missing a beat as the unsaid discussion on murder only took moments to complete. “He made me murder my brother’s sword. No, not murder - slaughter, mutilate and desecrate. He threw my wooden sword on a fire and forced me to watch as it burned to ashes, which he then scattered on the wind. Do you know how to destroy a steel sword of the best quality? You smash it into stone over and over with all your strength, bending, chipping, mangling, and shattering the blade. The damned sword was nearly as tall as me; it took so long to ruin it, hours I suppose, and all the while he talked.”

She could hear the spymaster’s mocking voice even after all these years, turning the whole thing into a parody of a fencing lesson. “No, keep your guard up, Nell. Don’t hack, slash, dear Nell. Oh dear, Nell, you will never make a swordsman at this rate. Come on, dearest Nell, put a little energy in or you will never pierce armour. What are you doing, Nell, cutting crops or sword fighting? I have seen ploughmen with more grace, dear Nell. Yes, yes that swing was rather good, sweetest Nell, try again and put more strength into it.” It had been the moment where ‘sweetling’ was replaced with ‘Nell’. The spymaster’s reaction had been more violently uncontrolled than any she had ever seen from him before or since. Why? She had never been able to decide, the possibilities were too numerous and plausible. It could be because she had outwitted him, however briefly. It could be concern for her safety as he had insisted. Perhaps simply to assert his authority. Or maybe even because he was bored and the idea amused him. It was probably all of them, and more as yet unthought of.

Bitterness seeped into her voice and the cold glint of repressed anger replaced the sleepy half awake look her eyes had sported. Her foot was swinging slightly in a manner that put Fulk in mind of an angry cat’s tail twitching. “In the end all that was left was a twisted mess and my aching arms, and even that was not enough. No, he dragged me off to the nearest blacksmith, threw the bits of sword into his furnace and made me watch as it was melted down and forged into a misshapen iron ingot. And still it was not enough; my sword rests at the bottom of a lake. Those two swords were all I had left of a brother who is stricken from the records. Trempwick was not just making me destroy items, he was making me erase the last remaining traces of Stephan’s existence, making me destroy my memories of him too.”

“What will you do if you are discovered again?” demanded Fulk, “This sounds dangerous!”

“We will keep this secret, I think perhaps we can manage that. And if not” her face went hard, “I shall obediently do exactly as he demands, behave just as he expects and make him think he has won. And then I shall go get another sword and begin again. You need not worry, you will be quite safe, and I shall survive.”

“Let me guess, if I refuse you’ll just try and teach yourself?”

“Am I so predictable?”

“Let’s just say I’m getting to know and appreciate some of your finer points.” Fulk got up and started ladling the stew out into two bowls, more for something to do than out of any desire to eat. He had lost his appetite; his mind teemed with questions he knew he shouldn't ask, especially about the murdered brother. “Well, looks like I’ve got myself an apprentice.”

“I do have one question though.” Eleanor frowned, “Why didn’t that dragon just eat Alix? In your stupid story, I mean. Why go through all the rigmarole of fighting and trying to lose in order to get rid of her when one gulp would have solved the problem without risking more than an upset stomach?”

So, more than an unspoken request not to ask; she was removing his chance to continue the subject. Interesting, it only increased his curiosity. “Because, contrary to popular opinion, damsels are not particularly tasty or succulent.” He finished dishing out the stew and put the lid back on to keep the remainder warm. As they sat down to eat he threw something towards her with no warning, “Here, before I forget.”

Eleanor caught the object quite neatly in the only way she could with her hands full – in her bowl. She fished the ring out and put the bowl down on the table, then set about cleaning the metal on the hem of her dress.

“I do hope you like it.” said Fulk neutrally, pretending to be very busy with his food. “Although quite why I say that I’ve no idea; it’s only a disguise, after all.”

“I think I would prefer a slightly less spectacular delivery.” Eleanor examined the ring closely, holding it in the palm of her hand. It was a simple gold band, rather thin. The only decoration was a twist worked into the metal itself, the front part twisted, the half that would rest on the inside of the hand left plain. Hesitantly she slipped it onto her left ring finger. “It fits.” she said, a touch of surprise showing.

“Of course.” replied Fulk, plainly amused. “I measured your finger, remember?”

“You got your own disguise?”

“Of course; it took ages to find somewhere selling ready made clothes that could pass as a noble’s but I did.”

“Then tomorrow we shall snoop around the abbey as planned.”

“So, what do you think?”

“Quite a lot.” returned Eleanor matter-of-factly, “But on what particular subject do you want the benefit of my knowledge?”

“The ring!” Fulk looked woeful and injected a touch of martyred patience into his voice; “I trudged up and down for hours searching goldsmith after goldsmith to find something suitable and I bargained as if my life were at stake. What do I get for my troubles? Nothing but surprise at a job well done; quite frankly I’m insulted!”

“Poor dear.” Eleanor leaned over and patted him on the head, nearly losing her balance and falling off the table in the process. “It is the best wedding ring I have ever had; satisfied?”

“You’ve only had the one!” exclaimed Fulk.

“Yes, I do not wish to create a habit out of collecting them.”





Er, delays this time caused by a wedding, specifically Culad and Margaret's. Erm, yes froggy has been working on that in some fine detail, creating the appropriate religious stuff for the ceremony, planning a feast Irmilian style, peppering the scene with notable nobles from Verdere, and finally setting down just what did happen (and go badly wrong) on that rather famous night. In detail. :embarassed: Um, I couldn't post it here, let's say that much :embarassed: Damn, you'd be shocked at how much planning goes into Culad the drunken 15 second wonder! :embarassed: Still a work very much in progress but pulling together nicely, which is more than I can say for the cast of that scene; they are managing to upset each other perfectly to plan :grin:

So all in all it's nice to escape to Fulk and Eleanor's considerably less, er troubled existence, even if the damned ring keeps reminding me of a certain other couple, and the need to pair Donchad (due to be renamed) and Nuala off sometime soon. This segment isn't too bad but I feel the last part of their sword conversation could use more work, it kind of slumps when Fulk gets involved and only recovers part way through the ring bit. On the positive side I do love “Isn’t she just adorably cute when she’s unable to kill, maim or threaten you?” and Fulk's neat rejoinder on her cooking.

Lol, yes, I kept expecting that too, zelda. I also expected him to suddenly produce a genuine Rolex watch for £5.

EDIT: typo, questions Fulk shouldn't ask, not should ask.

zelda12
08-25-2004, 21:48
All that was needed was a cab driver of some description. Who gets lost and drives around for two hours faithfuly proclaiming it'll be five more minutes or Bobs my uncle. Or using the cliche that he won't go south of the river when there isn't a river anywhere near the town. ~:joker:

Exellent as ever Lady Frog.

Ludens
08-26-2004, 11:48
Very good. I like the “Isn’t she just adorably cute when she’s unable to kill, maim or threaten you?”-bit.


Here is a tip about dialogue: if you add the tag (the 'he/she said'-part) after the dialogue; you should use a comma, not a point. Example:

“It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it.” mumbled Fulk (...).
Should be:

“It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it,” mumbled Fulk (...).
Of course, this doesn't apply when you close the dialogue with a exclamation or question mark (or both). Along the same lines: if you put the tag first, there should be a comma between the tag and the dialogue:

Fulk mumbled, “It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it.”

frogbeastegg
08-26-2004, 12:39
Now how to do a medieval taxi driver... ~:joker:

Really, Ludens? :runs off and checks loads of books at random: Yes, you are quite right. Thanks, I shall try to remember that. And so at the bottom of page 55 Eleanor gets a major stylistic change, and I will have to go back and edit Red Hand to match.

Ludens
08-27-2004, 14:41
Really, Ludens? :runs off and checks loads of books at random: Yes, you are quite right. Thanks, I shall try to remember that. And so at the bottom of page 55 Eleanor gets a major stylistic change, and I will have to go back and edit Red Hand to match.
It gets even more complicated if you put the tag in the middle of a sentence in dialogue. Then you should use comma's on both sides.

If you are interested, I can prepare a primer on the punctuation of dialogue.

zelda12
08-27-2004, 14:43
I think a, "Ludens Guide to Grammar" would be a great idea.

frogbeastegg
08-27-2004, 16:11
Yes, please do put a guide together, Ludens. Punctuation with regards to dialogue is a subject that does not feature in the grammar guides I have read, and I find it difficult to spot these rules while reading. Once they are pointed out then it becomes obvious, but before they are highlighted them I can't see them. It doesn't help that some authors have their own peculiarities, such as Sharon Penman's habit of missing out joining words, like this: He crossed the room, flung the window open. There should be an ‘and’ in there. I call this Penman's Disease.

Since I am going to be sending Red Hand to agents and publishers it had better be as perfect as I can make it, and poor grammar won't help my cause.

Right, back to work on Eleanor. I had just started when a power cut hit my area. I hope I will still be posting something new today, but I have lost a couple of hours working time. I suppose I can steal time from Red Hand today.

frogbeastegg
08-27-2004, 22:19
The next morning Fulk stood in the kitchen, feet planted slightly apart, back straight, chin up and hands clasped at the small of his back like a soldier under inspection. Eleanor paced slowly around him, inspecting him from every angle. “Well?” he asked, turning his head to follow her. “I’ll do?”

“Not if you talk like that.”

“Bah! I’m supposed to be a big tough noble knight warrior chap; I’ll skin anyone who complains!”

“Oh dear, and I thought we were going to remain low key.”

Fulk neatened up his French while she continued to scrutinise him, “Is this better, oh elocutional one?”

“I suppose it will do. Fortunately we are only pretending to be minor nobles; you would never pass muster at court,” she removed some of the precision from her own speech, “I’ll have to tone my language down to match yours, or else it’ll only look out of place.” Toning down, possible and easy, a very versatile disguise, and such a waste of all those hours of being yelled at by Trempwick for not speaking properly.

“So, that’s my disguise sorted, now how about yours?”

“Oh that is very easy; I just go with what will be expected. You will have the privilege to see my perfectly behaved and boring noble act, with all that entails. Since I am going to be spending much of the day in the company of monks, behaving impeccably and generally being bored out of my mind I think I shall do something scandalous and morally bankrupt this morning to make up for it,” she grinned at Fulk and announced with relish, “I am going to have breakfast.” Eleanor lifted the lid off the iron pot hanging over the kitchen fire and set to work stoking the fire up from the embers it had burned to overnight.

“Glutton! Two meals a day is all anyone needs, one at midday and one in the evening. Even the richest in the land abide by this; you are a sinful creature, weak of morals,” accused Fulk mock sternly. He matched her grin with a hopeful one of his own, “Is there enough for me too? What can I say? You’re a corrupting influence, and the devil works best in groups.”





A monk must be patient, modest, self-sacrificing, and ready to help any who needed him. As Brother Prior met his guests he discovered an entirely new meaning in his vocation; self-sacrifice did not include dealing with situations like this, no, instead it meant nice, tame things like the occasional fast. Normally he was only too happy to deal with nobles, but this pair? Well, the man was rather dangerous looking and he had a sword that was exceptionally serviceable, instead of the usual decorated toy most nobles had for everyday wear. The woman looked like she had been backhanded across the mouth, so either she was completely amoral and therefore dangerous to monks, or the man had a very bad temper. All in all it looked like a job for Father Abbot, and so the Prior excused himself and exited the scene as rapidly as his dignity would let him. As soon as he was out of sight he started running, sandals flapping and his cassock billowing out behind him, running as if all of hell were on his heels.

While he was away other passing monks gawped shamelessly at the spectacle of two well-dressed nobles being left to stand in the middle of the church’s aisle. Fulk resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the hilt of his sword and strike up a conversation with Eleanor to pass the time. Drumming fingers was bad manners, and Eleanor was doing an unbelievably good job of being boring and proper, so any conversation would consist of him saying something and her agreeing respectfully. At first it had been nice having a princess padding along slightly behind him, agreeing with everything he said and generally not trying to kill him, but that soon wore off. Fulk was disturbed to find he actually preferred the less demure edition of Her Royal Shortness. He decided it must be something to do with prolonged suffering making him immune, just as drunkards slowly became accustomed to alcohol.

Relief finally arrived in the shape of an elderly, harmless looking man; the abbot. The man fitted the stereotypical image of a kindly old grandfather to perfection; his hair snowy white and wispy around his tonsure, his face wrinkled like an old apple, his smile compassionate, his posture ever so slightly stooped, his eyes twinkly. Fulk idly wondered if he kept a stash of sweets hidden about his person to give out to young children.

Fulk aimed a half bow in the abbot’s direction, “I am Sir Fulk.” ‘Sir Fulk’, those words summoned an echo of a rash boy making an angry vow, “I will be a knight, with or without your help, faithless bastard!”, an echo best forgotten and buried so deep down it could no longer bring forth the poison that belonged to it. Best not to use ‘Sir Fulk’ again unless he could not avoid it.

He saw the abbot looking politely at Eleanor, waiting to be introduced. A sense of devilry came over him; he’d had enough of this tedium, thanks, and he was sure she was equally fed up. “This is my wife, Eleanor.” Now if that didn’t put an end to the peace nothing would. Fulk briefly wondered if he was being entirely too provocative for his own good here.

“Brother Prior said you had business?” said the abbot. Even his voice matched the grandfather image, soothing and mild.

“Yes,” interjected Eleanor in her politest, most dutiful tone, “We’re here to inquire about a tomb for my husband.”

Well, she was back, if only in a politely ominous kind of way. To battle! “And one for you, my dear. I would not wish to be lonesome.”

Eleanor inclined her head, “As you wish,” she turned to the abbot, “A spot nearest the altar would be preferable.” The insinuation was clear to Fulk but the abbot only nodded benevolently and smiled. The closer you were to the altar the closer you were to God, and therefore you got a helping hand on the way to paradise, or in other words Fulk wasn’t going to get there on his own merits. What a nice, subtle way of saying “Go to hell!”.

“I don’t feel that is necessary, dearest,” He claimed her hand and patted it comfortingly. If you’re going to hang for a sheep then you may as well swipe the whole damn flock, “But then perhaps for your sake it might be best.” Oh dear, she had that look again, the one that he had only seen when she was running about knives in hand and about to kill someone. He rather liked it. Oh dear.

“Ah,” the abbot’s face light up, a mass of wrinkles well worn in place by constant smiling. “Then perhaps you will accompany me to my office where we can talk in peace?”

They followed along behind the abbot, Eleanor pacing at Fulk’s side, her hand resting on his arm, the very picture of a respectable noble couple. Fulk bent his head and said quietly to Eleanor, “Don’t laugh in church, it’s not becoming.” She wasn’t laughing – yet. Now there was a goal to work towards; one laughing princess when she’d set her mind firmly on decorum.

“I am going to kill you later, “ replied Eleanor amiably.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he answered, not the least bit perturbed.

If the abbot overheard their whispered conversation he gave nothing away.





This part is about as short as the titular princess. In addition to a lengthy powercut I've had a few other unexpected distractions and so my writing time was cut back. Still, I do rather like this bit; I love it when they're arguing.

Ludens
08-28-2004, 13:27
I think a, "Ludens Guide to Grammar" would be a great idea.
Well, a complete grammar guide might be asking a bit too much Zelda ~D . But I shall certainly work on the punctuation primer.

Frogbeastegg, the dialogue in the abbey is great, but I found the opening a bit hard to follow. Expressions like 'Neating up your French' sound rather odd to me ~D .

Another thing: aren't you using thought-reading a bit too often? It is a great and easy-to-use device to explain what is happening, and I am not saying that you use it so often it starts to annoy, but I find that it distracts people from the dialogue. The dialogue becomes more powerful if no thought-reading is neccesary.
Also, you should leave people room for imagination: if you explain every thought, then the story becomes dull very quickly.

EDIT: I sound a bit too negative here: the dialogue in the abbey was really great, probably one of the best scenes I've read from you.

frogbeastegg
08-28-2004, 16:08
No problem, Ludens. I was just trying something new and not entirely sure about it's success myself. Can you provide a few samples of the worst bits? Just for reference and learning purposes.

Neaten up your French, well I couldn't think of a better way to say "start sounding a bit less like a peasant and more like an educated noble, for example precise pronunciation please". The same in reverse applies to her toning down.

Ludens
08-28-2004, 19:38
Neaten up your French, well I couldn't think of a better way to say "start sounding a bit less like a peasant and more like an educated noble, for example precise pronunciation please". The same in reverse applies to her toning down.
How about something along the lines of 'Fulk thought for a moment and than said in a more polite/aristorcratic/posh voice,....'
Of course, it is not neccesary for you to state it, you can also have Fulk say 'I guess I shall have to try to sound like a noble.' Or have Eleanor snap it at him. The possibilities are endless ~:) .

I just said it because it struck me as odd. But then, English isn't my first language and when it comes to fancyfull expressions...


About thought-reading: the instance that struck me most was:

Toning down, possible and easy, a very versatile disguise, and such a waste of all those hours of being yelled at by Trempwick for not speaking properly.
Completily redundant, doesn't add anything to either dialogue or character. So much redundant, in fact, that I wondered if you had put it in on purposes.


Fulk idly wondered if he kept a stash of sweets hidden about his person to give out to young children.
Was also not really necesary either, and it struck me as rather a-historic. Nice way of describing someone in one line, though.

In theory, you could get rid of all the toughtreading after Fulk introduced himself to the abbot (except for the bits relating to the grave). Explanations of how Fulk feels can be done through describing his reactions. In practice, off course, you might want to highlight certain things by thoughtreading; I have no idea where you want to take this scene.

It is very hard to mentally 'rewrite' a scene from another author, so this is not very helpfull, I am afraid. I just mentioned it for you to keep in mind. I am not a fan of this 'thought-reading' myself and try to avoid it, especially in dialogue scenes. But this is sometimes harder than you would imagine ~;) .

frogbeastegg
08-28-2004, 19:56
Well my excuse for "Toning down…" is it confirms (and explains for those who haven't been thinking for themselves) how she got the posh accent, as well as revealing a bit more about her and Trempwick. I was in two minds about including that bit; I think we are actually in agreement here. If nothing else it feels very dry.

Fulk's idle wondering about sweets was a failed attempt at humour. I don't think it will happen again. Ever.

The rest of his thought reading....well I thought some was necessary. It is so hard to tell whether people spot things or get jokes since no one says so! I can't sit here watching people's reaction line by line, I get occasional comments on the highlights, a few comments on the lowlights, and a nice bundle of overall opinions which tell me the story is working nicely as a whole. It is so hard to know when I need to point something out and when I don't. And, of course, there are limitations occasionally applied by the story, for example Fulk can't break out of his cover in the abbey so any reactions to Eleanor have to be very carefully hidden. If he’s going to show a reaction to that gleam in her eye it has to be something quietly thought in the privacy of his own skull.

I don't particularly like this business myself, as I say it was an experiment. If I only knew what people did and didn't get throughout this work...

Desiderata
08-31-2004, 13:28
frogbeastegg - I like the way you mix 'thought reading' with other descriptive tools; if you change your style too drastically, then your prose would either eventually become some mediocre slug deviod of any character or it would sound like someone else. Find your style and stick with it. And grammer be damned; it's a more of a framework than cast iron set of rules - don't be too pedantic, otherwise your writing would be too formal and whilst it may be correct, it could become unreadable.

I liked the quip about a bag of sweets under the cassock - it may be temporacentric, but it works - like the Actress said "keep it up please"

However, if worried by grammar, then check out "Eat, Shoots and Leaves"

frogbeastegg
09-02-2004, 14:34
The abbot’s office was plain, as befits a man who has taken a vow of poverty. However, as so often was the case, there were traces of wealth and luxury. A small, fancily bound casket stood on a dedicated table off to one side. Nearby a large, iron bound and locked chest stood on the floor. The abbot’s seat was a great, high backed almost throne with ornately carved banded decoration along the edges. The great desk was no plainer. Two chairs were provided for guests, and they were far closer to the quality found in homes that could afford something grander than a simple stool; not as ostentatious as the abbot’s chair but still pricey considering the wood and labour that went into them.

They seated themselves and Fulk began to explain what he wanted, “I would like a nice warrior effigy for myself, and of course a matching statue for my wife, one with her likeness at prayer.”

“The specifics belong to the craftsmen, not us, but I can foresee no problem with a tomb of the type you describe,” said the abbot, “I presume you will want an inscription? It would be good to have an idea of what you intend, and if you wish the church can act as intermediary between you and the craftsmen. This would reduce your burden and cares.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” confirmed Fulk, “I’d like something recording my greatest deeds like…”

“Your grand construction projects,” supplied Eleanor gracefully, “such as your expansion of the manor’s cattle sheds. You did a wonderful job there, I consider it to be one of your greatest achievements.”

“I was thinking of something a bit more martial, darling.”

“Well, how about your stunning single-handed arrest of three armed men?” Eleanor frowned, as if struggling to recall something, “Now who was it?” her face cleared, “Ah yes - the coroner and his escort. You were so brave, I was so proud of you.”

On the note of that supposed spectacularly incompetent gaff Fulk launched a swift counter attack; if he was going to hang for a sheep he might as well swipe every fluffy white animal that said ‘baaa!’ in a fifty mile radius, “But let us forget my own epitaph; we shall consider yours. I thought something like ‘Dearly beloved of Fulk, was always dutiful, polite, obedient, pious. A shining example to every woman in the land.’”

“I had expected a simple ‘I try my best’ and nothing more,” demurred Eleanor.

The abbot smiled inoffensively and drew a cross in the air, “Indeed, you are both good examples of Christian virtues, my children.” Both Eleanor and Fulk looked at him blankly. “Will you be requiring nearby spaces for your children’s tombs?” enquired the abbot.

“Currently I’m rather lacking in the heir department,” said Fulk stoically.

“That’s because your barber cut too close to the pudding bowl he’d stuck on your head,” interjected Eleanor solemnly.

Fulk choked as he tried to maintain his serious façade in the face of an onslaught of laughter. Damn it, she was the one who was supposed to end up laughing! Once again the abbot proved he was either a brilliant actor or entirely oblivious, “I shall ask the brothers to pray for you, that you might be blessed with a son.”

“Yes,” Fulk aimed a rakish smile at Eleanor, “remind me to take advantage of those prayers tonight, oh beloved mine.” She went a bright pink, opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again, blinking a few times in rapid succession as she did so. Having won that battle Fulk returned to the skirmish currently running on the abbot front, “So, how much will this tomb cost me?”

The abbot named a sum. Eleanor’s eye ticked, “We can’t afford that.” The abbot and Fulk stared at her, Fulk with an expression of mild surprise, the abbot with nonplussed but endearingly grandfatherish shock. She forced an ingratiating smile and aimed it at Fulk, “You said this was for my benefit; I can’t justify spending so much on me.”

“Consider it a gift, my precious.”

“You’re far too kind, my lord, but I couldn’t possibly accept in good conscience because…” her mind worked frantically, thinking ahead while she was still talking, “It would be very close to vanity, and so imperil your own soul.”

He knew that they had enough money, so she must have another reason for wanting to save cash. In the hopes of winning points to put towards saving his neck later, and since it was her money, Fulk played along, “For your peace of mind then, I’ll not bother,” he turned to the abbot, “How much for two plain slabs with just names and a simple epitaph?”

The abbot named another, substantially smaller sum, and Fulk reached to the purse he wore at his belt. Before he could take out so much as a shilling Eleanor piped up, “Shouldn’t we have witnesses for the contract?”

Fulk took her cue; this wasn’t what they had arranged, but he would follow as best as he could, “Yes, we should have witnesses to see the money handed over, to check the contract you’re about to draw up. I think four’s a good number.”

“I am not sure that is necessary…” the abbot wavered.

“I’m not accusing your or your abbey of corruption,” said Fulk reassuringly, “but these things should be done properly.”

“As you say.” The abbot rose in a cacophony of creaks and clicking joints, and shuffled towards the door, “If you’ll be so good as to wait here I will find suitable parties.”

The door closed and Eleanor waited a few seconds, giving the abbot time to get clear. “Guard the door,” she ordered. She grabbed one of the trailing ends of her girdle and turned it over to the plain, undecorated back. A lock pick was secured in place by two loops; she pulled the pick free and headed over to the fancy chest. It was the work of moments to bypass the simple mechanism. As soon as she saw the contents she cursed and shut the casket again, replacing everything carefully. “That one has a book,” she explained to Fulk as she started work on the iron chest. This lock took a little longer, but once again it soon sprang open. This chest was full of parchment, rolled up and tied with a leather thong. The thong had the abbey’s crest stamped in wax at the end. It was possible to open each scroll without breaking the crest, but the seal proved the documents to be official. Eleanor rummaged through them, searching for something that looked less than official. Each time she found a likely candidate she untied the thong, rolled the first part out, scanned it, then cursed, re-rolled it and put it away.

She soon ran out of likely scrolls and shut that chest too, “Where is it? Records have to be here…” her eyes lighted on the fancy casket once again, “Why would an abbot want a copy of Beowulf in his office?”

“He wouldn’t,” replied Fulk, crossing over to the casket and trying the lid. It was locked again but Eleanor soon had it open. Fulk pulled out the book, holding it reverently. It was a beautiful piece; there was silver work all over the sturdy cover, and opening it to the first page revealed a delicate scribe’s hand and plentiful illustrations. He brushed a fingertip over the text, caressing the illuminated first letter.

“Falling in love, are we?” inquired Eleanor. Fulk flinched, nearly dropping the book. He stared at her in uncomprehending shock. She nodded at the book, “The book, you lackadaisical object.”

“It’s Beowulf,” he said sheepishly as if that explained everything.

Eleanor smiled, “You know most sword wielding types would be perfectly content to rip the silver off the cover to sell before tossing the book itself on a fire. I am not sure if your interest makes you special or deranged.”

She took the book off him and began flicking through the pages. Bits of loose parchment were soon falling out, records of extra rents, ‘gifts’, and other corrupt dealings, with one small bit of parchment stuffed between random pages. Eleanor stopped when she had found three notes, “We cannot take too much or the theft will be noticed.” She grabbed the scraps of parchment and stuffed them in Fulk’s hand, “Here, hide these.” While Fulk secreted the evidence between his tunic and shirt Eleanor replaced the book and refastened the casket. Job done they checked the room looked identical to how it was before, then sat back down and waited.

The abbot was gone for a long time; when he finally reappeared he had the prior, and three lay servants with him. He seated himself wearily, and began to write out the contract. Fulk reached into his purse and counted out the required amount, his heart aching with each shilling he placed into the abbot’s lined hand. They could have done a lot with that money, and now he knew they weren’t going to steal it back again. The abbot placed the money safely to one side, pulled out a piece of parchment and carefully wrote out a contract and receipt in a spidery hand. Finally he pushed the parchment towards Fulk and held out his quill, “Now if you’ll place your mark…”

Fulk took the quill, holding it as if he were unfamiliar with writing. Laboriously, with much spattering of ink and a split nib, he scratched an x at the bottom where the abbot indicated. Literacy was a rare skill, one liable to make him stand out in the abbot’s memory.

The abbot took the contract back and scattered sand over the wet ink. He then asked each of the witnesses to make their own marks next to their names; most people knew how to recognise their name when it was written. When the last ink had dried the abbot unlocked the iron bound chest with a key from a draw, then he rolled the parchment up, tied it with a bit of ribbon, sealed it and placed it in the chest.

A few generic pleasantries later and Fulk and Eleanor allowed themselves to be ushered to the gate, back out onto the street.




The front door of their townhouse closed, Fulk held his breath for a few seconds before expelling it noisily in an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’m still alive! Glory be!”

“I have no idea why you sound so surprised,” replied Eleanor tartly as she headed up the stairs towards the solar, “I really do not.”

Fulk followed after her, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword and a confident spring in his step, “I believe it has something to do with the death threats, oh merciful one.”

“Do you really think I would cut you down here and now?” asked Eleanor, politely incredulous.

“Well, I did wonder if I should have worn my mail.”

“I do not give in to fits of temper, unlike certain people with crowns whom I have no desire to emulate, so you are quite safe now, oh fortunate one.”

Fulk grinned, “I knew it – you’re just a soft, fuzzy thing with a warm heart.”

“Not at all,” Eleanor assured him cheerfully, casting her wimple off onto the solar’s floor. She began to unpin her hair as she talked, casually throwing each removed pin so it stuck point first in the nearby table, “I wait, biding my time until the moment is perfect to exact my revenge. I will wait years, decades even, if need be.”

Fulk watched as another hairpin dug into the table, “Would buying a load of expensive gifts for you help my cause?”

Eleanor tilted her head slightly, thinking, “I have no idea, no one has ever tried to bribe me before. Why not try it and see?”

He pulled a pin free of the table and tested the point with his finger. It drew a bead of blood, “I think I’ll save my cash and stake my life on you being too fond of me to kill me.”

“Fond of you?” she arched an eyebrow and paused, one of the two plats half undone, “I think not; I barely even like you. You do realise that it is now a matter of honour to prove you wrong?”

“Me and my big mouth,” said Fulk sardonically, “but I still don’t believe you, little princess.” He tossed the purloined hairpin back at the table; it bounced on impact and skidded to a halt.

“I am too old to be little.”

“You’re too short to be otherwise, oh miniaturised creator of empty threats.”

“We shall see, shan’t we? But I will not kill you-”

“See!” interrupted Fulk gleefully, “I said you liked me.” He pulled their evidence out of his tunic and placed it on the table, then went and sat down in the best chair, sprawling his legs out and looking very self-satisfied.

“I do not believe in waste; if you are going to die then you can die being useful, rescuing me from a dragon or something.” Eleanor grinned evilly, “But you would be surprised what the average human can live through without much trouble.”

“I think you like me too much to seriously hurt me,” said Fulk smugly.

“I most certainly do not like you, you woolly eared oaf! Try listening for once; I shall say it again slowly for the benefit of your dawdling wit – I. Do. Not. Like. You. Not even slightly, in any way, shape or form. At all. Got that?”

“I hate you too, oh brightest star in the sky.”

Something in the way he said that made Eleanor look at him; their eyes met and for a long moment neither of them moved. Fulk was the one who ended it, wrenching his eyes downwards, “It’s Friday, so that means fish. If you want I’ll teach you to cook griddled sardines.”

“Yes,” Eleanor’s voice shook slightly, “Yes, you buy the fish and I will go and…and hide the evidence.” She grabbed the scraps of parchment and vanished into her room.

“Jesù…” whispered Fulk, closing his eyes and resting his forehead in the palm of his hand, “Damn it…”




Once again a slow update, scenes like that last one are so hard to get right, and I have been distracted by a lot of real life stuff recently. I have a few more scenes to do before this part is really finished; basically you should consider this part, the previous one and the next one as one single bit. 61 pages in and the story is about...one quarter to one third complete.

So the heir/hair joke is as old as time, but it's still funny.

Desiderata, a discworld reader, perchance? I have a copy of 'Eats, shoots and leaves' and it has been very helpful, although there are still aspects it does not cover. I do have my own style and I like it too much to ever throw it away. Sadly my style doesn't exhibit at its best on the net, as it is not totally PG and it goes into more detail, slowing things down too much for an episodic story like this. My net style is a toned down, simplified version of TrueFroggy(tm). At least now I am writing with polish, and in terms of text this is TrueFroggy.

Desiderata
09-02-2004, 15:28
Discworld yes - but i was actually thinking of http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1861976127/qid=1094134823/sr=2-1/ref=sr_2_11_1/026-5026967-0540428

Im writing somethin meself and hope to post it soon - certainly not as polished as yours, but feedback would be most appreciated

frogbeastegg
09-04-2004, 16:33
Fulk poked the charred sardine on his trencher with a forefinger, “You did this on purpose,” he accused. It was not a happy sight; a burned fish on a slice of thick, coarse textured, stale bread with a small dollop of stewed mushrooms and onions next to it.

“I did not,” protested Eleanor. She removed the spine from her own, nicely cooked fish and put it on the edge of her trencher, “If I were going to singe anything on purpose it would be you, not the poor, innocent fish.”

They had come to a mutual, unspoken agreement to act as if that spark had never happened. Business as usual; it saved a lot of awkwardness.

Fulk muttered something about cruelty to men at arms and kept peeling the burned skin off, revealing mostly edible fish underneath. “You are just like king Alfred,” he accused.

“What?” asked Eleanor, perplexed.

“You don’t know the legend?” Fulk scooped up a mouthful of fish and popped it into his mouth, chewing cautiously at first, then swallowing with apparent difficulty, “Well,” he sighed, giving his verdict on her first attempt at cooking, “it could be worse, it could be-” his eyes bulged and he grabbed his throat.

“What’s the matter?” Eleanor dropped her eating knife and spoon and watched him anxiously.

Fulk kept choking and gurgling for a few seconds, then made a miraculous recovery and grinned, “Where’s the point in working for an assassin if I can’t make the occasional joke about being poisoned?”

“Someone is asking to be poisoned for real,” she said haughtily. She speared a mushroom on the end of her eating knife as if to illustrate the point.

“Sounds like fun,” another bit of Fulk’s fish vanished, “Now, a quick lesson in king Alfred for ignorant royals. He’s the one who burned those cakes; you see the resemblance? Like you he was sat about daydreaming instead of minding some unfortunate, hard working poor person’s food and he let it burn, again, just like you.”

“I was not daydreaming, I was fretting; there is a difference,” insisted Eleanor. Her shoulders sagged and her head went down, “I did try but I have never cooked anything before, I really did try so hard. It has been such a horrible day,” her voice trembled slightly, “and you were so…”

“It was just a joke,” said Fulk awkwardly, “all of it. I don’t think you’re a beacon of feminine virtues, and I don’t hate you; I like you a tiny bit in a grudging kind of way. Feel better?” She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. “Oh Christ,” mumbled Fulk, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “Come on, don’t cry, I’m useless at crying people.”

The noisy tears switched to triumphant laughter, “No one has ever been stupid enough to fall for that act before!”

“If I kill you will anyone complain?”

“I think you might have a spot of trouble under the ‘wasting of crown property’ law, and you would be jumping to the head of a very long queue. There are a lot of people who have a prior claim on my head.”

Fulk drained half his cup of wine; he studied her over the rim, “I might get a reward for doing the realm an outstanding service.”

“Yes, you might. I had better chose an epitaph; I have two options, Trempwick’s short edition or your more elaborate one. You know I was half expecting you to start comparing me to a rose.”

“A rose?” asked Fulk, “My dear floral themed delight, if you were a rose you’d have entirely too many thorns and a caterpillar would be crawling about ready to give anyone sniffing the flower a nasty shock!”

Eleanor dimpled, “It makes me interesting.”

“Yes, suppose that is one way of putting it.” That did not sound complimentary. The overcooked sardine looked as if it agreed with him.

“If you were a plant you would be pondweed.” She had grabbed the first unglamorous plant that came to mind.

Fulk’s eyes focused far off into the distance, “Pondweed is honest; it’s clear what it is and it pretends to be nothing else,” he said quietly. His eyes focused back on her; he smiled tentatively, “I think I’d be happy with pondweed.”

“Are you saying you are not those things already?”

The smile grew wistful, “I’m saying … there are worse things to be than boring old pondweed, although by the time you find that out …” He nodded very slowly, barely moving his head, “Yes, pondweed will suit well enough.”

Oh how very curious, and he still hadn’t answered her question. Eleanor filed the information away for future prying.

“While we’re on the subject of honesty, I’ll remind you of your nice promise to take a few days holiday. Since we didn’t do that before we got here we’ll delay in going back.”

“I do not think that is a good idea.”

So, she had never intended to keep her word; slippery little blighter, wasn’t she? Well he would not give up that easily; decent bodyguards did not allow their employers to wander around in the sort of state she was currently in – exhausted, obviously in pain, and with a collection of injuries that were still at a very fragile stage in their healing where lethal infection could set in. Pride might work as a fuel source but it only lasted so long and tended to be costly in the long run. “Do you really want to go back and tell your Trempwick that you didn’t do that shopping he was so interested in because you fell asleep?”

“Not as such…”

“So, we stay here, you do your shopping and then we slowly wander back in a week or so.”

“I can say it was to avoid suspicion from the abbey; if we remain here then we have nothing to hide.”

“That’s the idea,” said Fulk encouragingly, “it sounds better than the truth.”

“Which is?”

“You’re nearly dead on your feet.”

“I am not!” Fulk plainly didn’t believe her. “I am not,” she insisted again, “I shall prove it.”

“Oh golly, a half dead princess wants to arm wrestle with me,” Fulk showed his fangs, “I quiver with fear, your royal very batteredness.”

“Not arm wrestle, you lack witted chunk of sputum, sword fight.” She abandoned her food and stood up, grabbing Fulk’s platter out from under his nose and placing it out of his reach. She gestured at the table, “Move this out of the way.” With that she disappeared from the room.

Fulk heaved himself to his feet and started working the table over from the middle of the kitchen to a corner, “I wonder if she does this to Trempwick?” he mused, “Poor devil, suffering year after year of this, it’s little wonder he’s gone eccentric.” He paused in his war of strength with the table, “If he went crazy because of her then where’s that leave me in a few years? Either unemployed or gaga.” He set to the table again, “I should have stayed with Aidney, a lot less trouble all round.”

Eleanor returned several minutes later with the pair of wooden swords Fulk had picked up that afternoon along with the fish. She threw one to him; he caught it deftly. She took up position with the other, trying to remember the little she had learned with Stephan than a decade ago. Fulk held his own sword in a single-handed grip with the point trailing by his feet; he wasn’t on guard, he just stood there with an irritating smile, waiting. Nettled by his obvious contempt for her skills Eleanor swung. The blades clacked together and hers went pin wheeling through the air.

Fulk rested the point of his sword on her collarbone, “Dead.”

“Er, it has been about fourteen years since I last did this,” said Eleanor as she went to retrieve her weapon. As soon as her hands closed about the hilt of the sword she flung herself back towards Fulk, hoping to gain the advantage of surprise. He parried her wild swing, then caught the blade of her sword in his hand, twisted it from her grip and threw it away.

His blade levelled at her neck again, “Dead.”

Her mouth twisted a few times as if she were trying to bite back a particularly choice insult or two, or perhaps as if she couldn’t think of any insults at all, much to her annoyance. She retrieved her sword again and stepped back, on guard and waiting. Fulk swung his sword lazily at the floor, scuffing up the rushes. He started whistling as he swung at the floor, the blade tip weaving back and forth in idle forehand and backhand cuts. Abruptly he changed targets and lunged; the point of his blade went right past Eleanor’s guard and hit her under the solar plexus with barely bruising force. “Dead,” repeated Fulk once again, “You’re not very good, are you?”

Eleanor recovered and brought her sword around and down. She was fast but Fulk was faster; once again he parried, this time rapping her leg as her guard went wide, “Legless.” He didn’t stop there, reversing his swing to catch her on the shoulder, “Armless.” Finally the blade rested on the top of her head, “And very dead.” Eleanor said something that wasn’t very regal. Fulk’s eyebrows shot up, “Where did a delicate princess like you learn a big, nasty word like that?”

“From a certain bad-tempered arse in a crown,” growled Eleanor. She stepped back and planted her fists on her hips, no mean feat since she was still holding her wooden sword.

“Nice to see you respect your noble father,” said Fulk wryly. With no warning he jabbed her lightly in the stomach with his sword, “Dead. You want to try fighting instead of posing and swearing; I always find that helps.”

“Right,” snarled Eleanor, taking her sword in a two-handed grip and stepping back until Fulk was only just in range, “Someone is going to get hurt. A lot.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Fulk airily dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand, “I’ve got good control, so you won’t collect more than a gentle bruise or two.”

“You … you … utter bastard!” spat Eleanor.

Fulk only grinned, “I can’t help what my parents did. Running out of good insults, are we? I know, it’s so hard to think when you’re dead.” Her eyes were blazing again; damn, he liked that.

Eleanor started circling slowly, watching him warily, this time intently focused. Spotting the change in attitude Fulk took up a relaxed, one handed guard and moved to keep her in front of him. As she neared the table she lunged, then leapt back as he parried, and grabbed a mug of wine from the table. She threw it into his face, simultaneously moving in with a downwards cut. Fulk had been expecting something like that; he managed to avoid most of the wine and blocked her attack. He raised an eyebrow as she skipped back, not giving him the chance to lean his weight on their locked blades and force her to the floor, “You cheat, my beacon of virtue, and I hadn’t finished eating my dinner!”

She didn’t reply, instead hurling the nearest sardine at him. The fish was an unimpressive missile at best; it broke up in the air and rained down on the floor with a soft splatter. The trencher, then the other sardine, another trencher, and finally the last cup followed the first sardine in its airborne attack. Fulk dodged some of it, blocking the rest with his free hand. “You’re messing up my clothes,” he protested as a slab of stale bread with vegetables still clinging to it thunked into his forearm just in front of his face.

He stepped rapidly to one side, away from the slippery mess on the floor, then moved in. She just managed to block his cut at her flank, flung herself out of the way of a second cut, and barely blocked a third. As she blocked Fulk grabbed her sword arm in one hand and carefully twisted just enough to get her to drop the training blade. Eleanor punched him with her free hand; he cast away his own sword and caught that hand too, then transferred his grip so both her wrists were caught in one fist. He smiled down at the defenceless princess, “I win.”

Eleanor disagreed; she kicked his shin. She tried to wrest her arms free, without much success, and kept up the barrage of kicks. Fulk struggled to keep his grip while trying to dodge, “Look, just give up and admit defeat.”

“Burn in hell!”

“Now isn’t that nice,” muttered Fulk, wincing as yet another kick landed on his abused shin. Deciding enough was enough he changed his grip on her wrists, pulled her in close to him, turning her around so her back was facing him. Then he wrapped an arm casually around her throat, the other keeping her hands firmly prisoner. “Surrender?” he asked, confident she would, after all her arms were pinned, she was trapped, and he could cut off her air at will. Anyone sensible would admit defeat; if this were a real fight then he had won.

Sense and Eleanor were apparently old enemies; she sank her teeth into his upper arm and stomped on his instep. With a howl that was more reflex than reaction to real damage Fulk let her go. She sprang away, then barrelled back in again, ramming him with her shoulder. Fulk let her knock him off balance, grabbing her in a bear hug as he fell over. He landed on his back, rolled over so she was trapped on the bottom. She went berserk, using every trick available to her as she tried to claw her way free. He braced his weight carefully so he wasn’t crushing her, but kept her firmly pinned down. “Give up, damn it!” he demanded.

Her attempt to stick her knee in his groin failed, and Fulk jerked his head back so her head butt missed. Somehow she got an arm free and started thumping him in the back, “Get the bloody hell off me!” She punctuated her request by entwining her fingers in his hair and pulling.

“Surrender,” he repeated again, bracing his left forearm across her chest, freeing up his right to grab her free hand. He grabbed her wrist and slammed her hand to the floor, pinning it down, “Before someone, such as you, gets hurt.”

Eleanor glared up at him, then tried to bite his nose. As long as he kept his face out of range the worst harm she could do was deafen him with a lot of loud complaining. The fight left her, “Alright,” she gritted out, “you win.”

Fulk got nimbly to his feet and extended a hand to help her up. She ignored it, getting up on her own. “Don’t be a sore loser,” he chided, earning himself a foul look.

“I did not lose,” retorted Eleanor, contrary to what she had said earlier, “The idea was to prove I am not half dead, not to try and win a fencing match against someone with the advantages of height, weight, experience, training, and reach.”

Fulk rolled up the sleeve of his tunic and linen shirt and examined the tooth marks on his arm, “Look at that,” he insisted, pointing at the barely visible marks with a finger. The thick wool of his tunic had protected him well, “Just look at that! It looks like I’ve been attacked by a wild animal!”

“Do you want fishing out of that lake of self pity before or after you drown in it?”

“I thought I’d have a good swim about, care to join me? Lake Self-Pity is very picturesque and the water’s nice and warm.”

“I suppose I might be persuaded to paddle about in the shallows, and say that that was embarrassing.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed Fulk. He tussled his hair to shake out any rushes that might be stuck in it, then started dusting himself down to remove the copious bits of debris clinging to the wool of his clothes.

Eleanor ignored the bits stuck all over her own clothing and retrieved the two swords. She was trembling slightly; she was thankful Fulk either hadn’t noticed or had decided to say nothing. The day had been trying enough without having to find excuses to avoid explaining why she had panicked. A fear of being crushed by some idiot climbing all over her was not the kind of thing she wanted to talk about, now or ever.

Fulk misinterpreted her silence, “You didn’t do so badly,” he offered kindly, “You actually did quite well at the end.”

Wonderful, thought Eleanor, she had done better through blind panic than through strategy and half remembered basic lessons. What an accolade. She would have to remember that in a sticky spot where her life was at stake; when in danger panic and act like a prat for best results.

Fulk watched her, concerned, “You will get better; I’ll soon have you handling the basics of sword fighting with ease.” Silence. “You’re not going to have me executed for winning, are you?”

“No, for that kind of pettiness you need my sister, Matilda,” Eleanor forced a smile, a thin, tight lipped affair which looked more angry than reassuring, “I suppose I did not realise just how vulnerable I am. No knives, no … chance.” And that had potentially nasty ramifications that blew a hole in her emergency marriage avoidance plan. By the time she had opportunity to do away with her unwanted husband without a crowd watching she would be literally naked and defenceless. The first possible opportunity after that was … too late. She remembered how vulnerable she had been, how easily she had been totally immobilised, and felt sick. “Add hand to hand combat to the list of subjects you are teaching,” she nodded firmly, “Yes, I am promoting you to master of arms.”




Yes, that's the book. I got mine from Sainsbury's of all places.

You may be interested to know that this new version is now offically longer than the original I posted so long ago, and it has only covered about half of what was in the original. All the extra detail and plot alterations have really expanded things. In fact I think this is now obviously a very different story to the original.

Those of you who read my spoiler tagged plan will have noticed that the final version is rather different to the plan I posted. These things happen, and I think the spontanious, unplanned changes worked much better.

frogbeastegg
09-05-2004, 16:31
They remained in town for ten days, finally leaving for Woburn when Eleanor collected her new clothes from the dressmakers. They managed to make the trip back in just one day, an impressive feat considering the time of year. They left the town just before dawn and arrived at Woburn late in the evening. The sleepy-eyed groom appeared and took their horses, but otherwise the manor remained still. “Leave the baggage to the groom,” she directed Fulk when he moved to collect some of their stuff, “Trempwick will be inside and he will expect a report now I am back.”

“Your Trempwick’ll be asleep by now if the rest of the household’s any indication.”

She frowned, “He is not my Trempwick.” She entered the manor and started to head towards the solar, Fulk dogging her steps without asking. They made their way through the dark, unilluminated corridors with the aid of a candle lit from the embers of the main hall’s fire. When they arrived in the solar they found that room was also dark and unoccupied. The only light came from the dying fire in the hearth. “He will be here,” said Eleanor, “Poke up the fire, we could use the light.”

“Afraid to met a spymaster in the dark, Nell?” inquired a voice from the shadowy corner where a door led into the main bedchamber.

“Not at all, master. Incidentally you should be wary of sneaking up on armed, decently trained agents; it would be unfortunate if you had an accident.”

“Is that a threat, dear Nell?” Trempwick stepped forward into the flickering semi-circle of light provided by the fire, giving Fulk a cursory look in passing but keeping his focus on Eleanor. He was wearing only shirt and hose, his tunic, shoes and other clothes removed; he must have been about to go to bed. “I do have great faith in your abilities, dearest Nell, I do strongly doubt you would ever so much as harm a hair on my head by accident.” He turned his attention to Fulk, a condescending sneer, “Run along, little chain mail man, run along off to bed. This is far above you.”

Fulk stood his ground, “You don’t pay my wages, and I’ve not sworn myself to your service. It’s not for you to dismiss me,” he replied evenly.

Trempwick turned and took a step closer, “Do you know who I am?” he demanded softly, dangerously, “I am the king’s own spymaster and close confidant, a knight and lord in my own right, ex royal tutor and mentor to her Highness, princess Eleanor. I am one of the highest in the land. You are nothing.”

“I’m her Highness, princess Eleanor’s personal bodyguard, her sworn man, and I think you’ll find she outranks you.”

Trempwick glanced over his shoulder towards Eleanor and said with forced levity, “Dear, sweet, innocent, happy little Nell, if you insist on keeping this pet of your I shall have to insist on you teaching it some manners; if you will not I will. Since you have been most foully remiss I shall fill your little pet in on a few little, tiny, but somehow critical details.” He turned back to Fulk, “She does not pay you; I do. I do. Has my beloved Nell neglected to tell you she is quite literally penniless, and everything she owns is paid for from my treasury? I pay for everything, food, clothes, expenses, pets.” He took a step closer, his bare toes just brushing the tips of Fulk’s muddy boots. He stabbed Fulk in the chest with his forefinger, “So off you go, go polish your helmet or bluster about in your armour, bodyguard. You were hired to fight, there is no fighting to be done here.”

“I see,” said Fulk, still not budging, “but you forget I took that oath to her, not you.”

“Nell, tell your pet to go away before I have him put down.”

Another of his tests, and she did not have the time to carefully examine all the options. Fulk was risking his life to give her a chance to make up her own mind, or perhaps he was just trying to get up Trempwick’s nose; the two men appeared to have established one of those accursed male rivalry things. Who to choose, Fulk or Trempwick? The possibilities, the interpretations spreading out from this supposedly simple choice were too many to count. Eleanor moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, “Actually, I would prefer he stayed. He was part of this mission, it is only right he sees how it is tied up.”

Trempwick reeled back as if she’d slapped him; he almost looked … hurt, as if he considered it a betrayal. It only lasted a half second; the spymaster stepped back from Fulk and gestured him to a stool with an elaborate, mocking bow, “Your seat awaits, bodyguard.”

Fulk collected the stool, it had previously been used as a foot stool rather than a seat, and carried to over to Eleanor’s chair. He settled himself at her side, his legs stretched out as if at lazy rest but remaining alert and ready to move. Eleanor pulled their evidence out of its hiding place, tucked behind the straps securing her right dagger to her arm, and handed it over to Trempwick. She then sat down herself, leaning back in the chair. Trempwick smiled slightly when he was that, “Feeling better, are we?”

“Yes, much better, thank you, master.”

“Good,” he exclaimed, “but a pity about poor Cedric, he was a good archer.” Trempwick slapped the scraps of parchment against his palm several times, frowned, then said to Fulk, “I suppose I should thank you for doing your job well.” It sounded as if it nearly killed him to say that. Fulk merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, not making a fuss about his apparent victory over Trempwick.

The spymaster read the evidence. When he was nearly finished he looked at Eleanor over the top of one sheet, “Any fuss when they were discovered missing?”

“No, as we discussed previously the monks could hardly start a hue and cry over stolen records of illegal dealings. They sent out feelers to see if we were still in the town; our continued presence must have allayed their doubts about us, we were not bothered or watched beyond that.”

“You managed to get your pet to play a nobleman with few problems?”

“Yes. The ruse made the whole process much easier.”

“Mission complete and successful. Well done, dearest Nell.” He laid the parchment to one side, crossed his legs, and clasped his hands around his up-drawn knee, “It is gone nine o’clock at night, so you will forgive me if I keep my enquiries about your shopping brief for now; you managed to get what you wanted?”

“Yes, new clothes tailor made in the old style with loose sleeves.” Or in other words proof his training had stuck; her wardrobe was replaced with yet more clothing suitable for hiding knifes and other tools in. She had considered carefully all the possible implications of each style and garment she had ordered, from fashionable tight sleeves that left nowhere to keep a knife, to a long cloak that would nicely hide a sword or full sized dagger. She was confident Trempwick would find nothing she didn’t want him to know.

“Good,” Trempwick stood and stretched, his muscles cracking, “I had fears of presenting a princess dressed in rags to her father on his next visit.”

“That would be entirely his fault,” said Eleanor, “He is the one most responsible for ruining my clothing, and he is also the one who sold off my inheritance and dowry to fund his French war without replacing them with an income from his own purse.”

“Very true, sweet Nell, but the idea is not to tell him that.” Trempwick clicked his fingers at Fulk, “You, pet, keep what you clothes you got, wear them. If you insist you are a princess’s man then you had best look the part. If I see you looking less than immaculate again I shall be rather upset.”

“I only have one set of new clothes, and my armour’s not suitable either,” said Fulk, sitting up and giving the spymaster the courtesy of his full attention, “I’d be happy to look the part but I’ve neither the money nor resources.”

“Then I shall get a tailor out here,” snapped Trempwick, “And of course I shall have to pay for this. My generosity does not extend to armour, but clothing I shall provide. Now shoo, the both of you.”

Together Fulk and Eleanor exited the solar and headed back towards her room. Fulk went and grabbed a pallet from the main hall, by the time he got back to her room Eleanor had vanished inside. Technically he didn’t need to sleep outside her door since they were in a safe, if not glowingly friendly, location but it had become habit. He had just settled down when the door cracked open, “Look, if you insist on sleeping there you can leave the dratted pallet in here during the day,” said Eleanor, “It will save you from going and fetching one.”

The door shut again so she missed Fulk’s quiet answer, “Great, now to do something about the damned draft in this corridor!”

A few minutes later the door opened again, “Where is the point in being a princess if you do not abuse your rank?” she asked Fulk. She didn’t wait for him to answer, instead grinning and saying, “Fancy a bath? I do, and since it will wake the entire household and cause a lot of work boiling water you may as well have one too.”

“Well, you are a princess,” replied Fulk, “and I’ve got to look immaculate as your man, and we have been travelling all day.”

“Exactly, in any decent noble household we would have been offered a bath the instant we arrived, and the two of us managed well enough when we were in Elstow,” her manner changed from cheerful to dour, “These servants are lazy, neglectful and discourteous. They are barely even competent. I think it is about time I started sorting things out in this grim dump.”




Small bit, but every little helps, right?

:quietly wonders if anyone understands what Trempwick is doing with Eleanor's name:

DemonArchangel
09-05-2004, 18:10
Yay Froggy!

Axeknight
09-05-2004, 18:20
:quietly wonders if anyone understands what Trempwick is doing with Eleanor's name:
Erm... I'll take a wild swing at something to do with the term 'death knell'.

frogbeastegg
09-05-2004, 18:23
Demon, :bow:

Axeknight, nice theory but way off. It's one of those subtle, book like things I talked about earlier. I really need to know if people have spotted it...

Clue:
Look at the way he uses her name. Also how he uses it at the current point in the story compared to her first visit

Desiderata
09-06-2004, 09:19
I'll have a guess then froggy - Am I right in saying that he is trying to exert control thro repeatedly reminding her of the time he first used it when she was bludgeoning her brother's sword? "dear sweet nell" as a form of irony and sarcasm of her publicly displayed personae?

frogbeastegg
09-06-2004, 09:53
Yes, you got two facets - irony and control, but there are two more out there.

Clue:
Now look at how often he uses her name, over and over and over. That is unusual... Secondly, if you remove irony...

You could say this needs resolving before I post the next part; Trempy gets a tiny bit more blatent about one facet there, and once again there is something subtle but vital 'hidden'. I need to know how to work it, how obvious I have to make it. It *has* to be subtle to work.

Hmmm, for that matter is anyone wondering about Eleanor's newly revealed phobia of being crushed, the implications and how it might have been acquired? I wonder if anyone will make the connection between the fear and the cause when it is revealed subtly...

The whole story is full of this stuff, and now moments where you read something, look back and go "ahhh, so that's what...!" are approaching. Also there is going to be a lot of things said but not in an obvious way, a lot of important things. :sigh: I suspect many people are going to miss them; there's just too long between installments and this format is not best suited to rereading and pondering meanings. But I cannot point them out in a note after each chapter; that would defeat the whole point.

Desiderata
09-06-2004, 10:43
ah I think I know now perhaps Ill pm instead of posting here as it may spoil it for others

frogbeastegg
09-06-2004, 18:45
Eleanor gave the manor’s servants a cheerful pep talk first thing in the morning before setting out with Fulk to an area of empty grass where they could try to kill each other without an audience. Since it would be easy from Trempwick to find out about the sword fighting they practised hand to hand instead.

“Dig your thumb in just there,” said Fulk, indicating an area on the inside of his wrist, about an inch down from the joint and in the middle of his arm, “It hurts like hell, often disables the hand and is easy to do from almost any angle.”

“Like this?” asked Eleanor as she applied gentle pressure.

“Yes, I’d offer to wrestle with you so you can check you’re able to find the right spot in more strenuous circumstances but you’re still healing, even if you are a lot better.”

“Oh not that again,” groaned Eleanor flinging his hand back down, “I think I shall demote you to royal training dummy!”

“Well, well, now this is an interesting conversation,” commented a voice off to one side. Neither of them had noticed Trempwick’s appearance, a worrying fact in itself. He kept his right hand hidden behind his back; he was holding something, but what?

Eleanor turned, grinding her teeth and forcing a smile, “Master.”

“I presume there is a reason for your sudden interest in running a household, dear Nell? Perhaps you plan on retiring?”

“What would I retire to?”

Trempwick came closer to them, including himself in their group instead of remaining aloof further away, “Dearest Nell, I am afraid I shall have to steal you away and talk to you about why my poor cook is in tears; apparently you sacked him.”

“He cannot cook,” explained Eleanor. At least Trempwick did not seem upset, either overtly or in one of his many assorted acts.

Trempwick offered her his arm; she had no real choice but to accept it. With the princess on his arm Trempwick pulled his right hand out from behind his back; it held a small stick, “I have not forgotten about you, bodyguard. This will keep you entertained while Nell’s absent.” He threw the stick in the opposite direction to the one he intended to walk in, “Fetch.” He started walking, only to stop one step later when he noticed Eleanor wasn’t following him, “Come,” he barked.

Once again he’d forced her to choose, yet again she had no time to consider all the options and outcomes properly. With an apologetic glance towards Fulk she joined Trempwick, placing her hand back on his offered arm and walking at his side.





Fulk watched them leave, saw her looking up at Trempwick as she walked, saw her walking close to him, saw her leaning to hear what the spymaster was saying. His fists clenched, nails digging into the palms of his hands. He paused, recognising consciously what he was doing. He forced his hands open and mustered a laugh, weak and hollow sounding. Jealous of something far beyond his reach, something he didn’t even want.






“You like him,” accused Trempwick the instant they were out of earshot. Eleanor looked up at him. “No, more than that, dear Nell, more than that.”

“You are wrong.”

“No I’m not,” he said it so quietly she had to lean in to hear, so quietly it was more a sigh than real words. “To any who knows you, really knows you, it is clearly evident.”

Eleanor could have kicked herself; in a flash she understood the pet jibes, the choices he’d forced, the squabbles he’d created. All a way of seeing how she’d react, a way of testing her as much as of testing Fulk. A neat trap and she’d walked blindly into it, once again out-manoeuvred by Trempwick. “There is a small spark,” she admitted, “and it will be stamped out.”

Trempwick stopped, looked up at the sky, at the grey winter clouds. He seemed older somehow, his face more lined, more haggard. Finally his gaze returned to earth; the sparkle, the keen life in his eyes that was always present no matter the disguise was gone. “I think I am becoming an old man, dear Nell. It is a rather disturbing thought. Even a year ago I would never have…” his shoulder rose and fell, “Ah, forget it. It is no matter.”

Eleanor stood, knowing she wasn’t dismissed and that leaving of her own accord was generally only a good idea if she felt like a few interesting days of being subjected to Trempwick’s creative and uncomfortable ideas. The last time she had done that Trempwick had kept summoning her at all hours, day and night, day after day for no purpose at all except to keep her standing around on increasingly sore feet until he got bored and sent her away.

“Let me send him away.”

“No,” she replied instantly.

The fact she didn’t even consider the request was not lost on Trempwick; his head bowed, “You do not know what you are getting into,” he looked at her with a kind of desperation, “Yes, that spark might die away, but if it does not? You will be spending your life right next to someone who does not share your feelings, you will be left looking at what you cannot have,” his voice cracked just perceptibly, “It’s hard, you have no idea how hard.”

“It will die out,” her hope, her fervent belief. She focused on it, not paying too much attention to her mentor.

“And it only gets worse, when you see them fall for another. You do not stop caring then; it only hurts all the more.”

“It will die out,” she repeated again, her belief rock solid. It had to be. “I am not my sister.”

“Oh I do hope not; even I would not be able to save you from our beloved sovereign if you were that imprudent.”

“No, I doubt you could.” Since for once they were being honest instead of dancing around the real topic, hiding everything behind an illusion, playing what Trempwick called ‘agent chess’ she decided to finally bring out the ghost who had been stood unmentioned between them for all these years. “I would not be such an easy kill as Stephan; I would fight.”

“I had no choice!” bellowed Trempwick. He took a steadying breath, and continued in a more normal voice, “No choice. He had to die; there was nothing to be done, believe me I had tried. I sent the best after him – I did it myself. He did not even know what happened. It was all I could do for him.”

“And doubtless that is great comfort to you, master.”

“About as much comfort as the knowledge Aidney was a traitor is to you; none at all. For what it is worth, Eleanor, I am sorry, sorry about everything. No, not everything; only the things that matter and you can supply those as well as I, so I shall not waste my breath and your patience listing them. I do not regret our little venture, not in the least. I was not so terrible, was I?”

This was a side of Trempwick she had never seen, never suspected existed. He appeared very sincere, almost needy, and she found herself saying, “No, not so bad.” Recovering slightly she added dryly, “Although there were times I contemplated killing you.”

“You hate me,” he said sadly.

“Yes,” she agreed with quiet passion. There was a pause, then she added with equal conviction, “No.” Another pause, “I am not sure. You killed my brother; you saved my life more times than I care to count. You cared for me like a … father; you made me a murderer.” A hot tear ran down her face, closely followed by several more. She turned and walked hurriedly away, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.

“Nell…” Trempwick called after her. She started to run. He stared after her, worried. “What to do? Two evils, but which is the lesser?”








Ok, it appears no one can get all of what Trempwick's doing; one person out of two forums and one emailer managed two of the four facets. This does not bode well for most of the other subtle stuff ~:(

Question: Trempwick did two things in that second paragraph, two important things that were not clearly stated, only inferred. What were they? Come on, this one's pretty obvious and together they add a whole new dimension to this tale...

zelda12
09-06-2004, 20:56
I'm not on for three days, due to my birthday and other events, and Milady Frog posts three sections of the story.

Brilliant as ever. Nice use of subtle prompting and an underlying sense of a deeper story.

As to your question I'll PM you my thoughts on the answer.

frogbeastegg
09-06-2004, 23:19
Zelda has found another one of the subtle aspects. Hope you had a nice birthday, zelda :happyg:

I think the general result thus far (based on this site, another and an email) is that people are picking up one or two things, often different things for different people, but no one person has got it all, perhaps not even half, and that is just the bits I asked about. Some people aren't getting any of it.

I think I will have to tone the subtle down quite a lot; it works in books because you can read the whole thing in several days with easy access to earlier segments when you want to check things. But then a lot of this subtle stuff is things the duo don't notice; I really can't go inside Trempwick's mind to show off exactly what he is thinking, and if Eleanor doesn't see it (which she doesn't always) then there is no way to boldly state it. You have to infer it and let the readers find it for themselves.

Also I really can't stop and do an info burst every time they mention something that links to something else, such as her fear of being crushed. That is actually one of the reasons for avoiding marriage she classes as "too embarrassing to reveal", of course again the crushed->sex/marriage->sex links is left to be gathered by the reader. At the time pointing it out wouldn't work and was unnecessary, now it has appeared going in to detail at this point is terrible. But if you think about it the two should link for themselves. When it crops up again (which will be the source of the fear revealed) I can tag it as source very obviously, but again I can't state the link to the marriage etc bit clearly. Hmm, the first chance I get to link everything together boldly is going to be... oh, 40ish pages on from now. And that is just one of many minor subtle thingies, an easy example too.

The story reads nicely enough without any of this subtle stuff, but if you spot it then it adds a whole new dimension.

Gah! Problematic! Subtle is really necessary for a lot; subtle doesn't work too well. gah!

EDIT: :comes back next day, looks ... sees many typos and bits that don't make sense: And that's why I should never try to write at 11:30PM when I am nearly asleep. Fixed.

zelda12
09-07-2004, 16:06
The subtle story lines are many things to many people. A different person will pick up different things as he/she reads. Many writers will leave very subtle hints that as the story progresses to the stage where they are needed grow stronger. Not so much, as to give away the story but to unsettle the reader. To have them guessing as to what these things mean and what they will lead to. I find that books are always better if they have the underlying story written as a mystery. Giving the reader chunks of information, then allowing them to piece them together can enhance the pleasure they gain from reading. You Frog are using this, I think? Mahaps unintentionaly but it is there in a small way.

Thanks, my Birthday was fun even if the food poisoning was not. ~:dizzy:

frogbeastegg
09-07-2004, 16:44
Yes, that is what I am trying to do. I have never done anything like this before; Red Hand had subtle but nothing on this scale and it never came into play anyway, the story ended before I could use it. It's hard to know if/how it's working, and this seems a very good point to assess what is and isn't working. I think I have a better grasp on how to work the subtle now, so there will still be plenty of 'hidden' things but perhaps less ... obtuse than some of the existing ones.

Food poisoning? And I thought my 5th birthday was bad - it was also my first day at school.

zelda12
09-07-2004, 16:51
16th and the day before the second week at school. I'm not fully over it but wen't to school and now feel worse. Can't win em all.

Desiderata
09-08-2004, 16:25
16th and the day before the second week at school. I'm not fully over it but wen't to school and now feel worse. Can't win em all.
16!!!! oh crap now I feel ancient - I'm more than twice your age.~:eek: Damn one of my birthdays I ended up with alcoholic gastroenteritis for two weeks - thats poteen for you; marvelous stuff - rocket fuel~:pat:

frogbeastegg
09-09-2004, 09:37
:irritating chime and crackling noise: This is a cross forum announcement :more crackling, a few popping noises:

A huge thanks to everyone who replied with their ideas; this has been literally invaluable.

I know that this web and installment based format is very far from ideal for spotting subtlties but, as someone on the other forums said, even published authors don't get to find out what their readers do and do not spot. In this the web does have an advantage over the printed book.

I know know what people spotted, what they didn't, what the most commonly spotted items were, what no one ever mentioned, how people think about the clues I have laid ... yes, now I have a much better idea of how to do subtle if I want it seen, and how to lay clues that will only become significant when the truth is revealed.

Now, I shall get on with the next part. Subtle should be a lot easier to write, and more successful from this point on.

:chime blasts peoples’ ears again, crackling and popping finally stops:

Don’t you just love PA systems? :tongueg:

frogbeastegg
09-09-2004, 16:34
For lack of anything better to do Fulk decided to wait where they’d left him; if he went back to the manor he would only end up polishing his helmet yet again while being studiously and maliciously ignored by the servants. “We seldom get what we want, instead we get what we need.”, how many times had he heard his mother say that? It had been her reason for everything, “We don’t want a bad harvest, but God has decided we need one.” Well, by that token some saint, angel, demon, or perhaps even God Himself had decided that Fulk really needed an eccentric, peevish princess in his life. He didn’t know whether to sit down and cry or to start hunting for the entity responsible so he could give them a piece of his mind along with several sharp kicks up the backside. He would point out between kicks that princesses and men at arms just did not happen, at least not without a hideous and gruesome end for the poor old man at arms, and frankly no one was worth that even if they did do a very nice line in adorable yet menacing glares.

“I had no choice!” Trempwick’s voice, just audible on the wind. Fulk’s head snapped up. He watched the tiny, distant figures as Eleanor and the spymaster talked for a short while longer, then the princess left; it looked as if she was running. The spymaster stood, then began to walk back to the manor house. After a few steps he stopped, paused for long minutes, then changed direction, heading back towards Fulk. Suspecting something was amiss Fulk went out to meet him.

“I will not ask if you saw,” Trempwick greeted him brusquely, “You are the lesser of two evils, the greater being leaving her alone. Find her.” When Fulk would have moved the spymaster grabbed him by the shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip, “So much as a single hair and they will be burying you in pieces, and by that point you will be glad to die.”

Fulk jerked his shoulder free, “Man of honour, remember? Or perhaps you’ve no idea what honour is, spymaster?”

“I serve the crown; I will not be judged by you or any.”

“Versatile excuse, now if you don’t mind…?” He began to walk swiftly away, heading back to the manor to get a horse to speed his search. The cynical voice in the back of his mind had been quiet for days; now it piped up with a simple question – if that’s his excuse what’s yours?





After going back to fetch a horse Fulk was almost disappointed to find her waiting where she’d left him in the field, making his effort a wasted one. There was some sense in that old tip about starting a search in the last place you’d seen the missing person, a pity he hadn’t thought of that before he got the horse – he could have just sat down on the ground and waited. Er, then again perhaps sitting in cold mud wasn’t the nicest idea.

Eleanor was currently engaged in being unconventional again; she was sat in the lower branches of a tree, her legs swinging in the breeze. As Fulk rode up she gave him a cheerful wave and dropped nimbly down to earth. “Took you long enough,” she scolded him, “Where is the point in my disposing of Trempwick for much of the day if you dawdle in getting back?”

“So your running off was staged?”

“Yes,” she lied trimly.

“That makes you a swift thinker, an astute planner, a superior tactician, outstanding actor, and perhaps even a mind reader,” said Fulk extravagantly.

“I cannot help my own brilliance,” returned Eleanor in a deadpan with just enough exaggeration to make it clear it was a joke.

“Modest too,” observed Fulk in a matching deadpan. Yet more lies; she always kept her mouth shut about the most interesting things. “So, plans for today now you have dumped your Trempwick?”

Eleanor growled in exasperation, “He is not my Trempwick. I know you have a thick skull and highly limited capacity for both thought and memory, but do try to keep that in mind.”

“As you command, princess gooseberry.”

“Gooseberry!?”

“Small, green berry, extremely sour and not many people like them. You’re hardly sweet at the best of times; to me you’re anything but sweet.”

“Gooseberry,” repeated Eleanor sceptically. It did have a ring to it, but all the same [I]gooseberry[/]I?

“The small part suits you too,” said Fulk helpfully, “though not the green.”

“Gooseberry?” The more you said it the better it sounded, and if nothing else it was unusual.

Fulk patted his horse’s neck as the animal sidled restlessly, “So, as we were saying before your cruel, unprovoked attack on me, what now? It’s too damned cold to sit about on a horse discussing fruit.”

“We can remain here and continue our practise in peace. I honestly doubt we will get much of that until we leave here again; Trempwick will be … will be himself, and that is at best stifling and at worst extremely hazardous.”





They rode back to the manor aiming to arrive just as dinner was being served. As there was only the one horse Eleanor rode pillion, perched behind Fulk with her hands twisted through his belt. Alerted by the noise of their arrival Trempwick stood at the window in his study, watching them in stony silence with an inscrutable expression on his face. Unseen by either Fulk or Eleanor his hands gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles went white. As Fulk helped Eleanor down from the horse, as she dropped into his waiting arms, Trempwick’s finely manicured nails attempted to gouge marks into the solid timber.

He leaned his head out of the window, “Have a nice little day trip, did we, oh sweet Nell?”

Eleanor had been planning carefully for hours now, ever since she had departed the spymaster’s company. Defiance that quickly crumbled into resignation with a touch of crushed spirit would suit the situation best. It was precisely what he’d expect. “Yes, thank you, master.”

“I was concerned, my precious little Nell.”

“About me? You do surprise me.”

“If you had only said you wanted a walk, dear Nell, I would have been happy to take you on one. Perhaps tomorrow we can go for a nice stroll while your pet is with the tailor?”

Here we go, this was where he would begin to bite, “That is very kind of you, master.”

“Yes, I think thirty miles should stretch your legs, sweetest Nell. You will forgive me if I ride, won’t you? I am not as young and … vital as you, after all.”

Bow head, slump shoulders, bite lip slightly, now a touch of weariness to the voice and, “Yes, master. Thank you for your … consideration.” Now, is he fooled?

“Not at all, my dear, sweet Nell, I do enjoy your company. Perhaps we can go for another walk the day after tomorrow as well?”

Damn, he wasn’t fooled a bit. “As you wish, master.” Now that sounded better, but probably because there was less acting involved. She doubted they would end up travelling anywhere near thirty miles in two days, not in the winter mud and cold, but all the same she was going to be dragged along from dawn till dusk. At least Fulk was keeping out of the way as ordered; miracles will never cease.

“And Nell? My beautiful Nell? My cook is not sacked, nor is any of my staff. They remain, understood?”

“Yes, master.”

“I do appreciate your taking an interest in running a household, but not mine. I have mine set up just as I like it, darling Nell, whether the cook can actually cook or no.” He gave Fulk a cheery wave, then pulled the shutters to.

Fulk leaned down and said quietly in her ear, “Happy little fellow, isn’t he?”

“Are you volunteering to go on that nice walk with me?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of butting in between old friends,” said Fulk innocently.

“Bastard,” she said with quiet, but friendly, feeling.

Fulk just grinned and patted her on the shoulder. Together they went to investigate the ‘delights’ the cook had managed to create.




For the best part of three weeks Trempwick kept them apart, keeping Eleanor busy with anything that kept her away from Fulk and on under his supervision. Fulk was kept occupied for a few days by the tailor, measuring fitting and refitting his new clothes and a suit of royal livery.

Then in the beginning of the second week of December he suddenly stopped, all but disappearing into his study and never emerging into daylight. Eleanor and Fulk restarted their hand-to-hand combat training, working in the solar as the weather was terrible.





Finally, after vanishing for just over four days, Trempwick reappeared in the middle of one of their training sessions. The usually dapper spymaster looked dreadful, his eyes sunken with dark smudges beneath them as if he hadn’t slept in days, his clothing rumpled and unkempt, and his manner preoccupied. He watched them silently for around half an hour, before finally speaking, “How do you feel about treason, Nell?”

“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she replied instantly, with the confidence born of long practise at making that particular line sound heartfelt.

“How do you feel about treason, Nell?” asked Trempwick again.

“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she returned again exactly the same.

Trempwick scratched his chin, nails rasping over several days’ stubble, “I taught you that line well. The truth; how do you feel about treason, Nell?”

“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she insisted again. Until she had some idea of why he was asking she would stick to her safe lie. This could be another of his games, or it could be something more sinister, a test of her loyalty by her much beloved regal parent.

“Pity.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” called Eleanor, “What do you mean, ‘pity’?”

Trempwick halted but didn’t turn back, “To know is to become guilty by association; I do not like even mentioning this to you, it places you in a difficult position, and in danger.” He looked back over his shoulder and met her eyes, “I think you will want to know. It concerns your brothers.”

“Tell me,” she said simply. She hadn’t seen either of her brothers in two years, but if it came to family solidarity she knew who she’d rather side with when faced with a choice between them and her father.

“Not here,” he replied with a significant glance at Fulk, “Keep your pet well out of it until you know what you will be dragging him into. Guilt by association is enough to hang a man. My study.” He offered her his arm, with a quick instruction for Fulk to wait in her room Eleanor took it and left with the spymaster.





I feel that part needed more work; it has some very good bits but I don't think I've done it justice. I can't help it, not only am I busy but this particular part is the slack between one interesting bit and the next.

You realise that, in a way, the entity Fulk wants to kick is me?

scooter_the_shooter
09-09-2004, 21:05
MORE ~:cheers: ~;p dont know which is better now this or red hand

Sociopsychoactive
09-10-2004, 01:36
What let you down on that bit was that it goes to quickly, it needs serious padding and polishing, more description, emotion and expretion, rather than plain speach.

Saying that, I think it;s a great story, and I know you know all this already. I'll keep eagerly awaiting more of it ~D

zelda12
09-10-2004, 09:28
As I sit here on my deathbed, or so it seems to me, or to be precise death computer chair. I can't help but marvel at how good milady frogs writing is compared to mine. Then again a blind chimpanzee wit a stick and a keyboard could write better than I. ~:joker:

frogbeastegg
09-11-2004, 16:12
“John has decided,” said Trempwick as he sat down heavily on the only seat in his study, “that he would make a much better successor than Hugh, and a much better king than our much loved sovereign, king William, alias your kind, gentle, entirely sane father. He has seduced a few high ranking nobles to his cause, and enough miscellaneous others to cause trouble when he makes his move. He does not have enough to win quickly, or even to guarantee victory. I must report this; if I do not then my own head will roll, and England will be engulfed in civil war.”

Her reaction was instant and reflexive, “You are wrong! John is … he hates fighting, he finds administration tedious-”

Trempwick broke in, “And yet loves wealth, display, power and playing the diplomatic game. No, he is not an obviously ambitious man, but if he thought being king would amuse him he would chase it. Someone has been pouring poison in his ear; sadly my spies reported it too late for me to avert his folly.”

“What of Hugh? He is the crown prince.” ”And what of me?” added Eleanor silently. The answers were probably simple. Hugh would be imprisoned, murdered or exiled, and she would be neatly tied up as a reward to John’s most important, single supporter with no more say in her future than Hugh. And so that was that, the uncanny peace that had barely held the remnants of the family in England together had just shattered. Or had it? Perhaps Trempwick lied? She could not see why he would, what he stood to gain and he had never lied about anything important before. Eleanor vowed she would find the truth for herself, as long as there was even a tiny chance this was wrong then she wouldn’t have to watch her male relatives tear themselves to bits, waiting all but helplessly for the victor to decide her fate.

Trempwick spoke with uncharacteristic kindness, “Dear Nell, I am greatly heartened by your faith in my skills, but do you not think that information like that is hard to get for a simple spy? It would take someone close in his confidence, a highly placed person who was working for me-”

So that was it, he thought she was so much his creature she would go off and do his dirty work, dispatching a brother to please a father whose favour Trempwick needed as much as he needed air to breathe. “No! I will not help you betray-”

He pounded a fist into his open palm, “Be silent, damn you! Look at me,” he ordered, “Look me in the eye and say that again if you dare. Do not insult me, Nell, do not even consider insulting me. If nothing else credit me with enough intelligence to see that you would choose John over me, if only because extravagant Johnny never drowned Stephan. You’d do well to remember what John is, and what I am, remember who sat at your bedside when you were sick, and who used to sit on you.”

She was damned if she was going to apologise, even a fake apology.

Trempwick held the silence long enough to grind his point home then continued more compassionately, “I could do nothing about Stephan, but perhaps this brother I can return to you. Go, warn him to flee the country and take refuge abroad. This will make you a traitor as well, so know what you are risking, Eleanor. If you choose to travel this path I shall insist to my dying breath that you were there spying for me. I will insist you were betraying him, not saving him. That does leave you as an incompetent agent, and our monarch is already going to be in an unbelievable temper because of the magnitude of this; you know what that means.”

“I know,” confirmed Eleanor. It would mean another delightful parental meeting involving spilt blood, hers, of course, never his. “He will be furious anyway, and that means just the same.” A king cannot batter his vassals, his wife was dead, his two sons strong enough to defend themselves, and his other daughters safely abroad or deceased. That left Eleanor as the only legitimate, safe target for his wrath. Stripping castles and lands, and imposing hefty fines just didn’t have the same primal appeal as hitting someone, at least according to the wit and wisdom of his royal majesty, king William VI of England. In her more morbid moments Eleanor decided that her life was quite safe as long as her father had no other target to vent his rages on. On very rare occasions it made her almost glad the mother she had barely known was dead, but that was soon replaced by pity for what she must have suffered.

“And John must not know what you are; you cannot tell him that. You must find a way to warn without revealing yourself, or me.”

“I will go and make myself look very receptive to his plot; I can then point out a few flaws and persuade him he has been duped.” She said it with a confidence she did not feel.

“Yes,” Trempwick scratched at his stubble again, “that could work. Yes, indeed, let us plan, my valiant Nell, let us plan.”






Fulk on the edge of Eleanor’s bed, waiting and brooding, turning over possibilities and facts in his mind. What was the spymaster up to now? He’d kept his word and had a tailor make several changes of good clothes and a single suit of royal livery. Now that in itself was a puzzle. The livery was identical to any worn by a man in royal service, a red tunic with fashionably tight sleeves and tapered waist with white embroidery at the neck and hem to go with white hose and a white hood with shoulder cape trimmed in red, but there was no badge anywhere, no indication of which particular royal he served. He was supposed to wear it when Eleanor was in princess mode, but without the badge he’d look incomplete and artificial. The most straightforward answer to the lack of a badge was the most improbable; Eleanor had to have a symbol of some sort. If she didn’t have one then how was she supposed to mark out her servants and soldiers? She was noble; of course she had a personal badge. Perhaps it was Trempwick’s way of belittling him; he was in royal service but still not accepted as her man. He had decided to say nothing to any except Eleanor; he didn’t want to antagonise the spymaster too much.

Now that begged the question, why had he ever started antagonising the man in the first place? Again there were too many answers but no certain one. No, now he was lying to himself – there was only one answer and a simple one at that. He was doing it because he couldn’t stand seeing Trempwick trample all over Eleanor. It was part of his promise to protect her, a matter of honour, then. That lie held firm.

Held.

Failed. Fulk’s head dropped into his hands. His growing hair flopped forward to caress his hands, another gentle reminder of the truth. He had started growing his hair because of her and her comments, her disapproval prodding his own mild but apathetic dislike for his old cut. He was nearly committing suicide because he lov-liked her. He couldn’t bear seeing her trampled because he liked her. That entity had done a really good job on him, no matter how he fought it he lost. And she was the same, that was made it so much the worse. It is easier to keep control over yourself than over another, and now he worried what he would do if she ever broke their silence. How do you turn down a princess, tell her you want to live? Especially when that princess was so … lethally skilled. Accept, decline, whichever way he went he’d end up with sharp implements stuck in places that would make his eyes water; the only difference would be in who placed them there, Eleanor or Trempwick. No, that was a disservice to her; she wouldn’t do anything creative to him, but he would have to leave, and then …






It was a subdued Eleanor who returned to her room a couple of hours later. “He was right,” she told Fulk softly as she closed the door, “you are best off out of this.”

So that was the way of things, was it? Left out, left behind, and eventually thrown away. Not if he could help it, thanks. “If you’re going so am I. I swore ‘to follow and protect you for the rest of my life, through hellfire if need be’, or words to that effect.” Yes, he’d a promise to keep and that had nothing to do with certain fears of being killed, cast out homeless and jobless, or losing her. Certainly not the last, no, certainly not the last. Honour, that’s what it was.

“I cannot ask you to walk through hellfire for me.”

Coming from Eleanor with her precarious, dangerous life that meant a lot. Hellfire; something dangerous even by her standards. Whatever it was it was best avoided; maybe he could talk her out of it? “You promised me you’d not walk into hellfire,” he said, concern showing.

She smiled apologetically, “Then it appears I lied, for that is what I am to do. I will not change my mind.”

“Are you worth dying for?” asked the insidious voice of his conscience. No, he was not. It was the same answer as always, the same wrong answer. If he left her to face this hellfire, whatever it was, alone then he was even further from being worthy than he already was. And if he left her alone he might los-no, honour, pure honour. He would follow her to hell because he was a man of his word. “You might not ask, but you don’t need to,” insisted Fulk, “I’m going with you.”

“Walls have ears, we should move.” She snatched up her thick winter cloak from the chest where it was stored, “The tower top, no one can eavesdrop there.”





“If you come with me you will be involved in treason, and then in aiding a traitor’s escape.”

“I’ve already robbed an abbey, let my old lord’s murderer escape, aided and abetted said murderer, and upset the king’s spymaster. Any of those alone will get me swinging from a noose.” Actually he’d been trying not to think about that. “I’m going with you. My place is at your side.”

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat; he would follow her even into treason. “If you insist on coming I suppose I can tolerate your existence.”

“And I suppose I can just about put up with you too, since it’s obligatory.”

Reality hit her like a punch; no, it wasn’t about her, most likely he was simply ensuring his job remained safe. No one would ever do anything so dangerous just for her, no one. She didn’t know why Trempwick so often gambled with his life on her behalf, but she was sure it had nothing to do with her, only some unknown benefit she could bring. He couldn’t have chosen his words better, the simple undiplomatic truth to knock her off that cloud she’d deluded herself onto. People only ever put up with her, nothing more.

Enough self-pity! She started to explain the necessary background as concisely as possible, “I have two surviving brothers, Hugh and John. Hugh is the heir; a typical second son boosted up to first place without the necessary foundation to carry the burden. Unlike Stephan he was not brought up to take the crown; he was already eleven when he became crown prince. He is competent at everything but excels at little, always struggling to fill our elder brother’s shoes and never quite managing. John is the third son, raised to have no ambitions aside from a minor dukedom somewhere. He is … petty, feckless, reckless, proud, so proud …”

One of the things she remembered best about John as a child was his stunningly bad performance in the martial arts; as a page he had been last in everything, beaten on the practise field by every other boy, even those years younger than him. The blow to his pride had been crushing, and he had set out to mend his ego in the only way he could think of, by defeating the only person he often saw who was weaker than himself – a certain girl four years younger than him with no martial training at all. Her. She could still vividly remember him and his ‘wrestling’ matches, how he’d lain in wait for her, then pitched her to the ground with no warning and pinned her down, his weight crushing her ribs so she could barely breathe, his face scant inches from her own as he crowed his victory. A page taking on a girl four years younger than him and counting the victory as glorious. It was the only way John ever saw triumph on the field.

Well, since her brother was notorious for being as martially skilled as the average carrot she would be the victor if he ever tried it again, thanks to the tricks she’d learned. She’d picked up a fear of being crushed because of him; maybe giving him a fear of short sisters would be equal exchange?

“And yet for all that his is intensely likeable; it will be good to see him, even under these circumstances. He loves to play the diplomat, the great host, and he is great company unless he decides to make you the target for one of his barbed jokes. Sadly he is rather naïve; he believes he wants to be king, he is making a bid for the crown. I think perhaps someone must have persuaded him to it. I am going to lie to him, let him bring me in on his plot, then warn him something is wrong and to flee before he is captured. If he stays he will be captured and imprisoned for the rest of his life; I cannot see Hugh forgiving the brother who tried to supplant him. We leave tomorrow. Trempwick has promised us seven days before he goes to the king, seven days to get to Bardney castle near Lincoln, and get him away to the nearest port.”

She turned away, resting her hands on the cold stone ramparts of the tower. “This is going to tear what is left of the family apart, and they will all hate me for my part. Hate for different reasons, but hate all the same.”

Fulk ached to put his arms around her, pull her close and comfort her, but that was impossible. He wished he could think of something to say, something he could offer to reassure but all he could find were lies, lies that everything would be all right when they plainly would not. He placed his hand on hers, curling his fingers around hers in a wordless gesture that said simply ‘I am here, you are not alone’. Not much, but all he could offer.

Eleanor looked at their clasped hands, then up at Fulk. Their eyes met and held, a quieter repeat of that earlier spark. Somehow it calmed her, made the knowledge that the family harmony had ended forever less overwhelming. She resolved not to question his gesture or what she saw in his eyes; she would not give it any significance or blight it with reality. It was best to leave it as something that simply was.

The gaze ended, not violently like last time, but peacefully, like something that had run its course and moved on. They both turned to looking out over the landscape, hands still joined.




Fulk remained up on the tower alone long after Eleanor got cold and went back inside; he claimed to find the cold snap in the air refreshing and he suspected she was accepted this pathetic excuse because she too had a yearning for solitude.

He noticed a single long, black hair clinging to his tunic sleeve. He picked it up and almost tenderly coiled it in a loop about his fingertip. It was long enough to wrap around seventeen times, forming a narrow, dark band. He ran his thumb over the hair, giving it the caress he had almost given to its owner. “So much as a single hair…” He smiled wistfully, unwrapped the hair and let it blow away on the breeze.





A semi-experimental piece. Not sure how it turned out; well I think ... mostly. Need to reflect and think on the finished article for a bit.

I'm not sure which is better either, caesar. Of course in my eyes it's EleanorII versus Red Hand II. I honestly couldn't choose a favourite, as I love them both for different aspects.

Sociopsychoactive, yup, spot on with what was lacking. I just didn't have the time or interest to try and bludgeon some feeling into that bit, not when I could work on this bit.

zelda, deathbed? The food poisoning got worse? Anyway you're wrong about the chimp with the stick and the keyboard - he'd need a computer too :tongueg:

Axeknight
09-11-2004, 20:35
A semi-experimental piece. Not sure how it turned out; well I think ... mostly. Need to reflect and think on the finished article for a bit.
Very well, froggy. I especially like this:

He noticed a single long, black hair clinging to his tunic sleeve. He picked it up and almost tenderly coiled it in a loop about his fingertip. It was long enough to wrap around seventeen times, forming a narrow, dark band. He ran his thumb over the hair, giving it the caress he had almost given to its owner. “So much as a single hair…” He smiled wistfully, unwrapped the hair and let it blow away on the breeze.
Great part. As to what Caesar said, I prefer this to Red Hand (at least Red Hand version1). Even though I haven't posted in this thread much (compared to Red Hand, anyway ~D ), I'm still really enjoying this rewrite.

I would post some more things I liked or found interesting, but I'm only half way through Fitzjohn part 8, and it's a real toughie to write (lots of dialogue, and bits that I really need to get absolutely right, and bits that need the atmosphere to be spot on for the reader to give a flying one about what is actually a really important bit) and my wrists hurt from typing. ~:(

zelda12
09-11-2004, 22:09
zelda, deathbed? The food poisoning got worse? Anyway you're wrong about the chimp with the stick and the keyboard - he'd need a computer too :tongueg:

Yes, and he does have a computer but living in the rainforest doesn't have any electricity. Which proves my piont.

Ludens
09-12-2004, 19:11
Froggy, I am stunned. That love scene is very well done :stunned: .

I didn't participate in the subtlety debate because most of the subtlety is lost on me. I guess it is the language barrier: all kinds of nuances which you don't get to know unless you've talked English all your life. I can just give some general advice: in my experience people usually don’t notice the hidden elements of a character unless the writer emphasises them very strongly. Perhaps that is because in real life you don’t discover these things in one go; you notice them because they create a repeating pattern of behaviour. This is more difficult for a writer, who cannot follow his personages all the time and instead has to go for the highlights. There are a number of ways around this: emphasising it strongly, at the risk of overdoing it; or having one of your personages point it out (a favourite trick of mine). But the best way still is creating such a repeating pattern to show whatever your character is hiding.

For example: I could not see Eleanor's fear of being chrused. Yes, she reacted very strongly when Fulk landed on top of her, but she was already rather angry and I doubt any woman would be particulary comfortable in that situation. It is just one incident, it proves nothing.

As for the rest, I found the transition of Trempwick a surprise: he has been treating Eleanor as an unwilling puppet all along, and suddenly he appears to care for her. I certainly expected a bit more reaction to that than, ‘This was a side of Trempwick she didn’t know.’

I liked the ‘gooseberry scene’.

And the love scene: very, very good. The only thing that is lacking is the confusion love brings with it, the “What is happening to me?”-effect. It is a bit surprising that they both are so clear on their feelings, unless Fulk and Eleanor already have some experience in this department. But otherwise, very well done. The thought reading was well placed this time.


Lastly: don’t bother too much with the comments of this Arrogant Ashigaru. You are getting far too good for me ~;) .

Ludens
09-12-2004, 19:22
Yes, and he does have a computer but living in the rainforest doesn't have any electricity. Which proves my piont.
Zelda, you don't write that bad. I have seen a lot worse, both here and on other forums. I think you would make a fine writer if you would just make your themes more mature (a bit like what you did in 'Evil Deeds'). You should be a bit more confident about yourself. Don't keep asking for approval for nobody is going to get ovations, not here or on any other site on the internet. And remember that the writer who thinks he cannot get better is a very bad writer indeed.

frogbeastegg
09-12-2004, 19:58
Axeknight, I've actually had that bit written and on ice ever since Trempwick first said his "so much as a single hair" thing. Got to admit the writer in me rather likes it, even if the rest of the frog wants to clobber Fulk and tell him to stop being such a soppy twit.

zelda, my point was that the chimp would need a functional PC before he was better than you. Better hope he doesn't go to a zoo... :winkg: Practise, that is the best advice I can give. It brought me a long way and will take me further still.

Ludens, Eleanor's fear of being crushed was pointed out boldly right when it first appeared, "The day had been trying enough without having to find excuses to avoid explaining why she had panicked. A fear of being crushed by some idiot climbing all over her was not the kind of thing she wanted to talk about, now or ever." The subtle is more ... how, why and wherefore, the effects and background, rather than the spotting. As you say the reaction was perfectly aceptable for any woman in the same situation, and that is ... kind of important.

Trempwick's transition is very carefully planned down to the last detail, as is her reaction.

Have they done this before? Ah, that would be telling. Fulk at least is hinting that maybe, just maybe he has. Ooh, mystery :tongueg:

Confusion? Well ... I'll say they have been in each other's constant company for nearly 3 months now. I don't think they are all that certain, except at specific moments like on that tower top. They know they have a spark, a base attraction if you will, but beyond that? Ah, I shall leave it to the story, it works better that way.

froggy conlusion on that bit: I like the love scene because it's very ... quiet and unassuming, and that only makes it seem more speical. Not so sure about Fulk's first lonesome scene, it kind of feels wrong somehow.

zelda12
09-12-2004, 21:03
Zelda, you don't write that bad. I have seen a lot worse, both here and on other forums. I think you would make a fine writer if you would just make your themes more mature (a bit like what you did in 'Evil Deeds'). You should be a bit more confident about yourself. Don't keep asking for approval for nobody is going to get ovations, not here or on any other site on the internet. And remember that the writer who thinks he cannot get better is a very bad writer indeed.

Bah, mature!
Vive La Immaturity.

Evil Deeds Like most of my other stories has been put on the back burner although I like the premise and will go back to it eventually. Death in the shadows went to far but may eventualy find it's way back although I got to the point where there was no where to go. Which brings me to my major problem.
Planning is to me as peace is to George W bush Jr and senior.
My second is my grammar, or lack there of. And of course my complete ignorance to spelling.

Edit: Damn re-read ludens post and actually noticed Ludens insight to my attention seeking. Ah well. It's a learning curve.

As to my self doubt it is slightly inbuilt in my phyche. I know I can improve but my phyche does not which means I just have to try. Which I do try to.

So Ludens :bow: Thankyou for the insight.

Milady Frog, I do think that your style lends itself well to the underlying flow of a story.

frogbeastegg
09-13-2004, 21:07
They made ready to leave at dawn the next morning, travelling light and wearing old, indistinguishable clothes to match their workaday horses. It was best not to attract attention, and they were going to be on the road almost without break until they arrived in Bardney. Travel during winter was slow, very slow, and so they would have to push both themselves and their mounts to reach John in time. Assuming he hadn’t moved elsewhere, of course. Eleanor prayed he hadn’t, but she had little confidence; so many of her prayers went unanswered, why should this one be any different?

Just as before Trempwick had turned out to see her off. The spymaster was once again restored to his dapper self; a bath, shave and clean clothes had taken care of that. The dark rings about his eyes remained, and he viewed the world through half closed eyes he was that weary. Eleanor stood before him, waiting for him to speak, to raise the final matter that must be taken care of before she could leave. He didn’t; for once the spymaster kept his own council, almost as if he were reluctant to bring the subject up.

“Master?” she prompted, “There is but one thing remaining.”

Trempwick blinked sleepily at her, sombre and yet comical at the same time. “Are you sure about this, dear Nell?”

She was sure this last aspect of her disguise was one she didn’t want. She was sure she was going to curse this aspect for days. She was sure it would cause trouble with Fulk. She was sure it was going to hurt. She was certain, without reservation, that it was necessary. “Yes,” she said, relieved to find her voice steady and clear.

Trempwick sighed, “Nell … so be it.” He backhanded her across the face so hard her head snapped around and she staggered backwards even though she was braced for the blow.

Her hand flew to her face; slowly she straightened up. She would go to John claiming to have escaped and fled in fear of her life. She would turn up dressed in old, plain clothes patched and not quite fitting, travel stained and with a livid bruise where reason suggested there should be none; it was common knowledge the king was currently in Wales and no one else had the right to raise a hand to her. He would ask what had happened to her, she would spill a sob story and so make herself the ideal candidate to bring to his conspiracy.

Trempwick carefully but insistently pulled her hand away so he could inspect the damage. He brushed a cool finger over the crimson mark, inspecting the damage he had caused. His gesture was almost caring. Eleanor longed to slap his hand away, longed to pull her other hand free of his light grip. She had learned two unexpected things this morning. Firstly, that for all his protestations that he preferred subtle methods to violence, and his scorn for those who used brute strength to force a way, the spymaster could hit harder than the king. Secondly, that somehow having him holding her hand, just as Fulk had done, was an entirely different and distasteful experience.

Trempwick must have sensed her discomfort because he dropped his hands back to his sides and said simply, “If you do not come back I shall be quite broken-hearted, dear Nell.”

He sounded sincere enough, and that in itself was quite rare, combined with this particular sentiment, anyway. Eleanor dismissed it with barely a thought, a spymaster worried he might lose one of his more useful tools. She was eager to be on her way, and for once Trempwick allowed her to have her own way. Just minutes later she and Fulk were riding out the gate.





Several miles out from the manor and Eleanor’s face was throbbing slightly out of time with the beat of her horse’s hooves. Delightful, it hurt once in time with her heartbeat, then again as she was jolted by the animal. Fulk was proving to be a magnificent diversion, she thought cuttingly, sat there on his horse silent as a graveyard and apparently doing his best to ignore her. What a sparkling conversationalist he could be, truly stunning, and so good at distracting her from her cares too. Well, she allowed generously, he had been hired as a bodyguard rather than companion, so perhaps he did have some excuse to sit there brooding away.

Two could play at that game; Eleanor dived deep into her own thoughts, away from the ache of her cheek, leaving her horse to find its own way along the road and Fulk to keep watch for bandits. First topic for analysis: Trempwick’s latest. Not his declaration that he’d miss her if she didn’t return, that was simple and already explained. No, the force of that slap. A bruise, that was all that was required, one that was recent and visible, nothing more. So why hit so hard? Was he proving his strength? But why would he do that? To prove there was more to him than his mind, that he was able to fight and had the strength that came from training? That suggested, then, that he had been training with weapons for years, and yet she had never seen him doing so. Maybe that was the message? That he did many things she had no inkling of.

Or maybe it was the release of over a decade’s frustration? But again, why? He could have hit her any time he liked, right from the moment she left the palace with him, and he had always shown nothing but disgust for violence.

Her brows locked together and she absently chewed her lip. There was another possibility: Fulk. A way to get at him. A way to prove how helpless the man at arms was to keep his oath, the oath he had made much of, when Trempwick decided otherwise. It would be days, weeks probably before the mark faded entirely, and for all the time it was there every time Fulk looked at her he’d see how helpless he was. More than that, it proved to her how useless Fulk was. It was underhanded, sneaky, petty, vengeful, in short it was Trempwick to a t.

The next thought hit her like a thunderbolt; Fulk, yes, but perhaps not for that reason. The Spymaster knew that if she got hurt Fulk tended it; he had to know Fulk would insist on doing something with this latest injury. So that meant …. Trempwick was pushing them together? Tending injuries created a bond just as surely as fighting side-by-side, or relying on each other for survival. She wished she had known that months ago when she agreed to let him look at her back; if she had known then what she knew now she would have refused his help, just as she was going to refuse his help now.

For a second she held the idea, in awe. Then she discarded it; Trempwick would never push his precious tool at a man he considered useless and pointless. Not only that but Fulk was so far beneath her rank she could barely see him if she looked down. While it was just ever so slightly possible that Trempwick had her happiness in mind somehow she doubted happiness had anything much to do with a broken nose. Even if it was sort of fetching. Besides, she had declared, repeatedly and whole-heartedly, that she was going to stamp out that spark, so why would he try to fan it into a blaze? Especially when he had done his best to break them apart to ensure this spark had no chance to grow … at least that is what she remembered. She hadn’t been paying too much attention to Trempwick during that conversation; she had been far too preoccupied with her own troubles to pay him much heed. She nearly laughed aloud at her own folly in entertaining the idea, even for a split second.

Her train of thought took a different turn, an unconscious one. Why the difference between Fulk touching her hand and Trempwick? And Aidney too, for that matter. One had made her scour her hands until her flesh was raw, one made her distinctly uncomfortable, the other made her feel so … peaceful. The moment he had touched her hand the muddle of worries, concerns, suspicions, doubts, and fears that constantly fought for supremacy in her mind had receded, their clamour stilling. When she had met his eye they had cleared away like clouds before the sun, leaving nothing behind but a calming peace, something so rare she couldn’t even remember experiencing it before. She had to admit there were certain disadvantages to being cut off from the usual chain of gossip you encountered if you had female companionship of some sort. If she could swallow the humiliation and brave the embarrassment she could have asked, she could have asked thousands of questions. Why the difference? Why did she find the damned nose fetching when she still hadn’t the slightest interest in looks? Why did this accursed spark grow even as she tried to stamp it out? Why did the small potential they had inadvertently found both horrify her and make her giddy with delight? Why-

Something tickled at the edge of her awareness; Fulk had spoken to her. She roused herself and asked, “Pardon?”

“I said, why does my livery have no badge? I’ve been thinking on it all morning.”

“It has no badge because I have no badge,” she replied, her manner brisk, “A badge would imply that someone cared sufficiently about me to give me one, and that I had some hope of ever having a use for one.”

“You do have a use,” he said quietly, “me.”

“One man at arms does not a rich noble make, nor a badge deserve. To have a use I would need several people at the very least, and I shall never have that.” They lapsed back into silence, this time a somewhat colder and less friendly one.






That second scene was not planned, it just wrote itself inside of 30 seconds when I read Luden's comment "The only thing that is lacking is the confusion love brings with it". It leads in very nicely to all the stuff I had already planned, and begins the process of growing the foundations I have already laid. I didn't have time it write it down until now, so here it is.

zelda12
09-13-2004, 21:27
Ooooh, subtle.

Very good. Nice use of similes and metaphors to show her love. Although I did think it went on a bit towards the end of her meditations on how he made her feel. Still Very good.

frogbeastegg
09-15-2004, 20:48
After two and a half days of near constant riding they finally arrived at the great stone gates of Bardney. The gate guard took one look at them and warily offered shelter for the night in a corner of the great hall.

“We are here to see lord John,” said Eleanor, her upper class accent in startling contrast to her dirty, forgettable appearance.

“He won’t see you,” insisted the soldier bluntly.

“Oh yes he will – tell him his sister has arrived and is seeking refuge.”

“Sister? Which one?”

“The only one currently in England you stupid oaf - Eleanor!” She added so quietly even Fulk had to strain to hear, “The one everyone always forgets.”

She could hear the guard’s mind working; should he turn them away or not? If he did and she was a princess then he’d be in trouble, but if she were lying he would be in trouble if he let them in. Pass the problem, yes, let someone else take responsibility. He scuttled off to consult the captain of the watch.





With a lot more finagling and a chain of buck passing that eventually reached John, they were admitted to the castle and lead up to the spacious, generously furnished solar where John waited. They took Fulk’s sword before they were allowed through the door, doubtless they would have disarmed Eleanor too if they had known about her knives. By the decoratively carved fireplace a shortish, lanky man sat with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, his posture relaxed to the point where he appeared nearly boneless. He was idly swinging the hanging leg. He was dressed in exquisite finery, as befitted a prince and second in line to the throne of the English empire, everything perfectly tailored to show his body off to best advantage. He hair was an odd cross between brown and gold and he had a short beard trimmed to hug his jaw line.

“My little sister,” exclaimed John, a broad smile splitting his face the instant Eleanor stepped through the door. He bounded to his feet, rushed over and grabbed her in an enthusiastic hug, “When the guard said a mud splattered woman with a furious bruise on her face and dishevelled hair had turned up claiming to be you I did not doubt it for a second.” He held her back at arms length and inspected her closely, “What in God’s name happened to you?”

Eleanor eased free of his embrace and began fiddling with the ring Fulk had brought her, the wedding ring she always wore on her right hand instead of the left, making it no more than another ordinary ring unless she chose to swap it to the other hand. She took a deep breath, her nervousness only partially faked. “I escaped,” she said simply.

A servant unobtrusively delivered a tray of wine with a single goblet; John must have ordered it before they arrived. He commanded the servant to fetch two more goblets and a larger jug, then poured wine and gave it to Eleanor. She made her hand tremble slightly as she took it, then sipped anxiously before taking a huge gulp that drained half the contents. John steered her towards a fireside chair, then after a moments thought weaved Fulk to another chair.

“Escaped?” repeated John, refilling her goblet to the brim, “I did not quite believe father when he said that you had turned into a pious thing.”

Eleanor snorted, “I suppose he would not be very forthcoming with the truth; I have been a virtual prisoner in a pokey little manor in Woburn. I have no money, no lands, no prospects and I have to suffer our regal parent’s company rather too frequently for my tastes. I am his favourite outlet for his tempers.”

“Who hit you? Not father; he has been gone for several weeks now.”

“The ‘caretaker’ assigned to keep me in place, a minor nothing by the name of Trempwick. I tried to sack the cook; taking anything into my own hands is not appreciated.”

“Trempwick?” John began to toy with the fancy dagger at his belt, “Do you know his first name?”

“Raoul, of all things. Sir Raoul Trempwick, dunghill cock with delusions of being a dragon.”

“Yes, I know the man. I think I shall have a word with him about manners.” The offer was quite sweet really, but if Eleanor ever wanted a brother to beat someone up John would be her last choice. The brother was not supposed to be the one who ended up in a crumbled heap.

She was surprised John knew Trempwick; she had always thought him one of those grey figures that barely anyone knew, heard of occasionally, yes, but never saw. He did spend almost all his time with her in Woburn, and had done so for over a decade. “How do you know him? He is seldom away, leaving would force him to miss precious opportunities to belittle me.”

“I saw him at court once, during your last visit.”

“That was years ago,” said Eleanor, plainly surprised he had remembered.

John laughed self-indulgently, “I do try to keep abreast of matters, and my memory for faces has always been good. Besides, you were that and that makes the occasion all the more memorable. Your presence makes any occasion worth engraving into memory and holding precious until the end of my days.”

She eyed him with amusement, “Still the courtier, I see.”

“You wound me, dear sister! I am entirely sincere,” he protested just as the servant returned with the extra goblets. John clicked his fingers and the servant hurried to his side after laying down his burden. “Prepare the guest chamber for my sister and organise a bath for her and her …” he looked to Fulk, “Just what are you anyway?”

“He is my bodyguard, he will sleep outside my door,” Eleanor supplied.

John nodded, “Prepare a bath for both of them and a pallet for the bodyguard outside my sister’s door. Food too, and clothes. For the man we should have a livery that will fit well enough, for my sister you will have to alter clothes. Tell the seamstresses to work from Judith’s clothes; the green ensemble, I think. Send them up to the guest chamber; they can measure my sister when we have finished talking. Tell them I want the work finished as soon as possible; they can improve now and finalise the work while she sleeps.”

“Sir,” the servant bowed, “The lady Judith might-”

“Tell her I will explain later.” The rings on his fingers flashed as he waved the servant away. He gave Eleanor a sheepish smile, “I would introduce you to Judith but she is not yet much for noble company.” The smile gathered a rakish quality, “well, except for my company. The merchant’s accent only shows when she speaks.”

“So your wife is not in residence then?” she asked, hating how clueless she sounded. Of course she wasn’t, only an addled fool would expected to find wife and mistress under the same roof, but she had to know where this wife was stashed.

John filled his own goblet and tossed the wine down in one go, “No, she’s off in my Welsh lands with our daughter. I could use a son, but at the same time I have never been one for hard work. Wales is nice this time of year; I believe she’s quite happy there.”

Nice? It was a snowbound hell. Her absence made Eleanor’s task more difficult; John’s family would be arrested on his downfall, they needed to flee the country with him. She knew nothing about John’s wife; what had the poor thing done to end up in Wales? “I do not think they even told me her name.”

“Sophie; bland, boring little Sophie. So eager to please she makes me sick, and so very unable to please where it counts. You know I do believe she would leap from a cliff if I asked her to, she is that eager. How dreadfully tedious. I tried encouraging her to be livelier, but she is so firmly settled into boring it would take more energy than I can be bothered to expend to drag her out. I would far rather she stopped hanging off my every word. She is about as challenging as an omelette.”

Unable to think of any suitable response Eleanor kept quiet. Another reminder of why marriage was so unappealing; she did not want to be shunted to one side and humiliated by an unfaithful husband. She already knew much of the long litany of complaints she would inevitably cause; she had been hearing them for most of her life. She had never been able to decide which was the worse; having to suffer the attentions of someone you didn’t want, someone you know felt exactly the same about you, or being dumped by that exact same disinterested party.

John stood up, stretching like a cat. “My manners are dreadful, I do apologise, keeping you here listening to my woes when I should be ushering you off to a hot bath, clean clothes and good food. We will talk more later over dinner; I shall have it served here in the solar so we may talk in private.”





Short part because I'm trying to decide whether to include a scene in the next part or to cut it completely. If it goes in then the lead in dialogue is needed, if not then the lead in will just confuse.

Yes, I agree with you about the end of that last bit, zelda. It goes on too much. Next time I think I know enough to get it right...

katank
09-16-2004, 16:02
wonderful additions, milady. please continue.

the dialogue isn't bad at all. nice way to work in a lot of details. The parts about John's ineptitude as a page adds character and familiarity.

this is far better than the original.

frogbeastegg
09-17-2004, 16:40
Washed and dressed in royal livery, with John’s badge of a standing deer removed, that was a tolerable fit Fulk rejoined John in the solar. He was surprised when he was not asked to surrender his sword at the door this time. John had evidently expected this because he explained as he handed Fulk a goblet of wine and ushered him to a seat, “I will not indulge my ego and assume that you have any reason to do away with me, anyhow you look more than capable of dispatching me without a sword.”

Fulk understood what Eleanor had meant when she said her brother was likeable; here he was being waited on by a prince, flattered and joked with, and trusted immediately.

John dropped into his own chair and sipped his wine, “I doubt we shall have to wait too long; if Eleanor is the same as she always was she will refuse much of the pampering that the ladies will try to inflict on her. The clothes will take longer, but there is nothing like having my sister stood by tapping her foot impatiently and glaring at you to lend speed.”

Fulk only made a perfunctory reply and drank his wine; while the prince was spot on with his description gossiping about Eleanor was hardly chivalrous. That made him smile into his wine as he drank; the chivalrous had added itself with no whinging little voice. A rare and pleasant happening; perhaps this forging of lead into gold could work after all.

Ever so subtly John turned the conversation, continuing along the same line but changing direction to end Fulk’s discomfort, “You know she was always my favourite sister? The others were always entirely too proper, though it appears Adele changed her habits once she left these shores. Nasty foreign influence leading her astray, or so our father would claim. So, you are Eleanor’s bodyguard? Given the life she just described I would be interested in hearing how you met.”

Fortunately they had discussed this one beforehand. Fulk deployed his ready-made explanation, careful to make it sound natural rather than rehearsed, “It wasn’t long ago, not even half a year. I was hired by Trempwick but I swore my oath to her; I’m a man of my word. They might have called me her bodyguard but I think they really wanted someone to gain her trust then report what she said. We planned a bit, I lulled them into a false sense of security, then off we went at the first available opportunity.”

“Career before then?” asked John

“Squire to my father till his death, man at arms in the French war, I was in a few skirmishes but nothing too much, a spot of body guarding out in France, then finally back here.”

“Mind if I ask for a demonstration against one of my people tomorrow?” John laughed dryly, “I am curious and a little bored. My dear sister once told me a dead mule could outfight me, and as ever she was right, but I do appreciate a good display of skill.”

Fulk shrugged, “If you like.” This conversation was beginning to sound like the lead-in to a subtle recruitment offer. John refilled Fulk’s goblet; the prince seemed to take his responsibilities as a host very seriously when it came to wine. Fulk gazed into the deep red depths; more unwatered, strong wine, and the goblets were quite large. John might be serious but he had very little clue on what was suitable; at this rate he’d end up drunk before Eleanor even arrived.

“It’s good stuff, no?” asked John, knocking back his own refill and reaching for a third. The wine had blunted the edge on his clear-cut accent, “I import from all over at great expense, this particular one’s from southern France.”

So, while Eleanor was penniless, working as an agent in exchange for her survival this prince was living in the lap of luxury. This prince had everything Fulk had expected Eleanor to possess when he first encountered her in Nantes. He was irate on her behalf; if he had ever doubted that her father didn’t care the slightest bit about her the proof was being paraded before his face in the form of wine, jewels, fancy furnishings – the solar even had carpets on the walls! This was the life he had been expecting to come to! Internally Fulk flinched, scrambling away from those thoughts. He hadn’t wanted riches, not at all; he hadn’t followed her because of a life of pampered comfort. Honour, his mind wailed desperately, honour. He gulped at his wine, trying to drown the tru-the lie, the mocking voice of his conscience and its insidious suggestion that honour had nothing to do with it.

He noticed John was peering at him. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Fulk shook his head and replied weakly, “I was thinking of the contrast, what you’ve got to what she had.”

“Yes,” agreed John darkly, “this is the life she should have had. She will have her due when I …” he laughed and made a dismissive gesture with his hand, “But don’t pay attention to my ramblings, and let’s not sink into gloom. Today is a good day; I got my little sister back and that’ll only help me.” More wine vanished down his gullet, immediately he was refilling his goblet and topping up Fulk’s.

This prince was an incompetent plotter, Fulk decided with mild disgust. Twice in but one brief conversation with a near total stranger he’d nearly given his aims away. What kind of a king would this indulgent man make? John had started talking genially about how sumptuous their meal was going to be; Fulk listened with only one ear. Unless he was hiding his light under a bushel John didn’t possess even a tenth of Eleanor’s intelligence or flare for intrigue, he would be useless on the battlefield, and Fulk had serious doubts as to this man’s ability to keep powerful vassals in line.





Finally, Eleanor appeared; she breezed into the room and sat down without comment. John placed his goblet on the ground, rose and pulled her to her feet, “Come on then, let’s see what my people managed to do.” He carefully arranged her, pushing her to stand where the light was best, then placing her arms at her sides, and tutting at her if she tried to move to break the pose. After a brief scuffle she gave up and stood awkwardly for their examination. John’s face split into a big smile, “Much better, now give us a twirl.”

She complied, obviously unhappy with the fuss. She was dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a green sleeveless surcoat over a dress in pale green with buttons on the lower arm to bring the sleeves tight. A pale blue linen shift was just visible peeking out at the neckline. Her hair had been sorted into a fairly simple style by some maid. It was already trying to escape, with some good success too. Fulk supposed she had allowed them to play with her hair so she would have somewhere to stash hairpins, since the clothes didn’t permit her usual knives. The seamstresses had known their work well; it suited her. A pity, then, that she didn’t quite look herself. The animation, the life was missing, the gooseberry replaced by a subdued stranger whose body language spoke of … he wasn’t sure, but the fight was missing from her, the defiance too. What had happened since he last saw her?

“Gooseberry green,” commented Fulk apparently innocently, “nice.” That won him a small frown; now that was more like it.

“Eleanor, you do look quite beautiful,” said John with a courtier’s practised gallantry, only partly ruined by his wine induced slur.

That won John a far bigger frown than Fulk had got, one without the affable feeling of a shared joke that was going to get someone kicked later. “You do!” he insisted. He turned to Fulk, “Perhaps a second opinion?”

“He’s right,” lied Fulk. They wouldn’t have liked the honest answer; that the word was ‘pretty’ and the pinned up hair and her lack of animation ruined it.

She looked no happier, if anything his compliment only made her shrink further into herself. She didn’t protest his opinion; carefully keeping her face neutral as she returned to the seat she had been prised from. As she walked past Fulk caught a waft of perfume, rose with something elusive. Quite subtle, most nobles would turn their noses up at it; the fashion ran to something that smelt both expensive and noticeable. He found it pleasant; it was much better than being stunned at fifty paces by some eye watering concoction. If he’d ever said that to Maud she’d have tried to brain him with a skillet then lectured him on the importance of trying to improve oneself; Eleanor, on the other hand, would probably laugh and agree with him.

John finished his current drink – his fourth – and wandered off to find a servant to tell the kitchens to begin sending the food up. Fulk took advantage of his absence to lean across and quietly ask Eleanor, “What’s wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?” she replied evasively, her tone as spiritless as the rest of her. He had no opportunity to chase the matter; John was on his way back.





What was wrong? Was the man dense or just particularly heedless? Ah yes, she told herself acrimoniously, she was supposed to swallow their lies and laugh along at their joke because otherwise she spoiled their fun and cast a cloud over the occasion. She should be a good victim and rejoice that they were having fun at her expense. She had endured the maid’s giggling as they dished out their pretty little compliments, she had pretended to be deaf to their snide comments when they thought her out of earshot, and now she had the privilege of John and Fulk sniping away. Her brother and her bodyguard; she had suffered to keep one alive and was going to suffer for the other, and this was their gratitude. Where was the bloody point?

“Eleanor?” inquired John’s voice. She looked up, “Don’t look so sad, little sister, it spoils your looks.”

Beneath the table she clenched her fists as she battled the wave of icy fury. How could she spoil what did not exist? She forced a smile that was part snarl.

“Is something wrong?” asked John, his voice heavy with concern.

Wrong? Jesú, but John was a moron! Of course, she was supposed to laugh and produce a pretty smile – well sod that! She could feel her temper fraying away, getting dangerously close to breaking point. She forced herself to take a deep breath; she would not demonstrate her most dubious family trait. The rage receded, settling into ice. She needed to get in on John’s stupid little plot so she could dispatch him off to his safe haven, leaving her behind to take the brunt of the fall out. In that cold moment of clarity she saw how. She lost her temper.

“Wrong?” she snarled, “Wrong? You sit here like a bloated arse in your luxurious castle, one of your many castles you fat bastard, and you ask me what’s wrong?! You clueless, idiotic, self-indulgent, blind fool! You have been sat here in the lap of luxury while I rot in a backwater nothing, tormented and forgotten with no life, no future, no nothing! I have had nothing!” She leapt up from her chair and kicked it viciously. Dimly she was aware of hurting her foot but she didn’t care. When it didn’t fall over she booted it again and again in a frenzy until it toppled. The tiny sane part of her mind still left observed “Like father, like daughter.” She didn’t appreciate that much; it was far too accurate. She was even beginning to swear like him.

Her eyes lit on a bowl of fruit, oranges imported from abroad at enormous expense. She stormed over, grabbed one and brandished it at her astonished audience, “Look at this – oranges! You have bloody oranges!? This one damned fruit is worth more than me!” She hurled it at John with all her strength; it exploded across his chest, spattering his fancy clothes with its sticky juice. “You have money to waste on bloody oranges while I’ve had to beg for every little scrap from a jumped up nothing who has made my life a living hell!”

“It’s not my fault!” protested John, “Father-”

“Don’t mention that prick to me – given the chance I would gladly kill him for what he’s done to me!” Would she? Probably not, but by God it felt good to say it. She hurled another orange at her brother, hitting him again. “The only thing he’s ever given me are scars – I’ve more scars than I’ll ever be able to count, I’m covered in the damned things! He farted away everything I owned on his God damned war and he couldn’t even hold the lands he took with my money – my future!”

“You know half the castle can hear this?” observed the sane part of her mind. She paused; embarrassed that she had lost control so badly.

John took advantage of his unexpected lull to plead, “Calm down, Eleanor, please? I’ve got a plan; I think you are well suited to be part of it but you must calm down. I can’t have it shouted across half the country.”

Mission accomplished; she could stop now. But why? This was so … fun, speaking her mind for once, being the cause of the storm instead of on the receiving end. Now she understood what her father saw in … the words went cold through her, dimming the fire. He wouldn’t stop now, no, he would keep going until he had drained every last drop of bile. Did she want to end up like him? Never; she was mortified she had gone this far. Her fury fled, leaving her feeling weak and empty. Suddenly she was aware that her foot felt broken and her arm and shoulder muscles were pulled because she had thrown those oranges with so much ill-considered force. Her throat was sore too, from all that shouting.

Fulk was staring at her, tight jawed, his expression unfathomable. The instant their eyes met he looked away. She felt herself blush and sank deeper into her shame; now he must think her some kind of lunatic. One little joke and she exploded, railing away about a life that was still better than the average peasant’s. No, it wasn’t one little joke. Yes it was. No, from anyone else it would have been little, but from him? No, not little, it should be but for some reason it wasn’t. She realised she was still stood near the fruit bowl with an orange in her hand, ready to throw. She put it down gently then returned to her chair, righted it and sank down into it.

John seemed to think it best to act as if nothing had happened. He said genteelly, “I have sent a few chaps to seek out this Raoul Trempwick and have a short word with him about decency.”

Eleanor mumbled some bland thanks. So, he had got someone else to do his dirty work; nothing new there. Trempwick was going to be so happy when a bunch of goons turned up on his doorstep with cudgels to batter him at John’s behest on her behalf. She didn’t think for a second the hired men would even get within spitting distance of the manor before they were intercepted and dispatched, but she was not looking forward to explaining this when she got back.

“I do not believe in fighting myself,” John was saying as it were all some great lark, “Why risk a bloody nose when I can let another much better able to handle it take my part? Fighting is so passé.”

“If you were ever to become king then you would have to lead your armies,” said Eleanor neutrally, probing for information and letting him know she could see him as a king. She couldn’t really; sticking John on the throne would be a disaster.

John made a dismissive noise, “I will let some other lead; battle is wearisome and boring, also a waste of money better spent on the finer aspects of life.”

I will? The daft fool! Lured into stating his attentions so easily without even noticing! The more time she spent with her brother the more apparent his inabilities became; this man would only make a king if he had a strong puppet master at his shoulder. Someone had out him up to this, but whom? Perhaps there was a way to find out, if she could find whom he had bartered her off to then she would have the name of his most influential supporter.

A parade of servants appeared, bearing trays with their food on it. Eleanor took a cursory glance, catalogued the display as ‘expensive and rich’ then turned her attention away. She would let John babble away, carrying much of the conversation; she was too drained, too humiliated to put much effort in.






John scooped up the last of his spiced jugged hare and started regaling the party with memories of Eleanor as a little girl. He was the only one showing any enthusiasm for either food or chatter, but that didn’t limit him. “I recall when she could barely say her own name; you always got confused by Nell and Eleanor, didn’t you, Nelleanor.”

Eleanor gazed sightlessly at her barely touched portion of hare, studying Fulk from beneath her lashes as she put all her remaining energy into her answer. “I also remember that I called you bother instead of brother; how right I was.” More right than John would ever know. Fulk didn’t look up, didn’t laugh, didn’t attempt to put in a shot of his own. He just poked at a bit of monkfish with his knife. It was the liveliest thing he had done all evening.

John paused, looking from her to Fulk and back again. He seemed to come to a decision; he took a sip of wine and asked Fulk, “So, care to give us a tale from your time in France?”

Fulk looked up, once again ignoring her as if he and John were alone in the room. “I’ve not got any good ones.”

“That does surprise me,” said Eleanor with some of her old bite, “you have a story for everything else, including puce knights and dragons beset by damsels.” He ignored her. Stung Eleanor looked down at her trencher. She didn’t understand it; first he joined her brother in ridiculing her, now she might as well not exist. Until today he’d been friendly. It hurt, a fact that infuriated her. She should have known better; he was following her for money and now perhaps he saw a way to better his lot by switching allegiance to her brother. Even in exile John would be more than she ever would. She knew her small, muddled attraction wasn’t returned; she had resolutely put it from her mind and expected nothing at all. She didn’t even want the damned attraction, so why did she feel so wretched now he confirmed what she had always known? She should have listened to Trempwick; he was always right.

John stepped into the gap, “Tell us of one of your battles.”

“Only one where anything much happened,” hedged Fulk gruffly, “and I’ve not the best of memories of it; I was wounded early on.”

“Tell it anyway,” insisted John congenially, reaching for a potion of fish.

“As your highness wishes,” said Fulk dully, “It was in France some years ago; I was squire to my father, Sir William Destier. I was with the cavalry on the right wing; it was more a skirmish than any other. We charged early, too early, before our infantry had time to engage the enemy centre. You see … a young hothead with dreams of glory decided waiting was going to lose him the chance to win his spurs; he set off alone and without orders. The other knights weren’t going to be left out or have their honour and courage called to doubt, so they set off after him, a ragged, unplanned charge at the wrong time. A short distance from the enemy lines the young fool was shot down, his horse dead under him and a crossbow bolt buried in his leg. My father knew him; he stopped and fought to keep the French off the lad, giving the other squires time to bear him away to the surgeons. His bravery saved the boy’s life but at the cost of his own; he was cut down as I watched, helpless. I saw no more of the battle; I was out of it wounded by then.” His next words seemed to come from far away, as if more for himself than his audience, “I am not sure the boy was worth saving.”

After that not even John could save the meal, and soon the gathering broke up with very little said. John promised to tell her of his plan tomorrow in the afternoon.





Together with Fulk Eleanor found her way back to the guestroom in silence. The man at arms was still avoiding her eye, still refusing to speak to her. As she put her hand on the latch to her door she resolved to take a gamble. “Wait here a moment; I have something for you.” She disappeared into her room then re-emerged with a small vial, the contents of which she upended over Fulk before he could do anything. The pungent smell of some rather foppish perfume blasted through the corridor. She smiled sweetly and took a step back towards cleaner air, “Consider that a part payment on what I owe you for that escapade in the church, oh dear husband thing.”

Fulk choked and frantically waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the air, “Oh Jesú! That reeks!”

He spoke! Alleluia! Despite herself Eleanor beamed with delight, “It will fade with a change of clothes and a few baths.”

“I suppose it’d be too much to ask for you to go prod the servants into bringing the bathtub back to your room?”

Her eyes went wide with exaggerated innocence, “But I am going to bed now, so I am afraid you will have to go bathe elsewhere. Like the guard room.”

“You vengeful little bitch!” exclaimed Fulk half in admiration for her scheme, half in dismay at the prospect looming. She began to shut the door to her room, acting with speed born of panic Fulk wedged his foot in the door, “Oh come on Eleanor, you can’t make me go off down to the guardroom stinking like this! Please? A bit of mercy, oh brilliantness? They’ll think I have Greek tastes!”

She smirked, “I know, fun isn’t it? Soft, fuzzy thing indeed – I told you I would have my revenge, and this is only part payment. Have a nice bath, stenchflower.”

She threw her weight on the door, forcing him to wiggle his foot free or risk getting it crushed. He immediately began to hammer on the closed door, “Alright, you’re not soft and fuzzy, though right now I wish you were, so a little mercy, please? Eleanor? Your diabolicalness? Please? I’m begging…”

“Take it like a man,” she advised him from behind the door, “and if you do not go soon you will be too late to get a bath before morning.”

He stopped his hammering and kicked the door in frustration, “You know this means war?” Silence. Ok, time to plot damage limitation before he got accused of being a pansy and/or attracted to men. Then time to plot revenge, careful revenge. He didn’t know what he’d done to help stoke that earlier explosion but he knew he’d done something. He didn’t like to think he’d hurt her, but somehow apparently he had, and that wasn’t gallant; a princess’s bodyguard should always be gallant. Silence. The voice didn’t protest; it had been screaming at him during his war story, but that statement didn’t upset it.

See? It all came back to honour in the end; lead into gold, becoming worthy, and being a man of his word, as he knew he was. Nothing to do with an inappropriate attraction.





I think that could have used one more pass to polish it up, but I've got things to do. it's not so bad as it is, just a few details and words thatcould use tidying.

Thanks, katank.

zelda12
09-17-2004, 17:14
I always have difficulty commenting on your work milady. Theres only so many ways you can describe brilliance.
The closest I can get to it is,
Frogs writing.

DemonArchangel
09-17-2004, 21:04
Someone throw me an orange.

zelda12
09-17-2004, 21:12
Oh kay here you go...

OK, sorry for that I can get you a cloth if you like...
:charge:
No need to get on your high horse I 'll get you a cloth...

Ahhh! put the gun away...
:surrender:

Ludens
09-21-2004, 14:52
Clicked post reply instead of preview post. Sorry.

Ludens
09-21-2004, 15:01
That second scene was not planned, it just wrote itself inside of 30 seconds when I read Luden's comment "The only thing that is lacking is the confusion love brings with it".
That was exactly what I meant. Well done, Froggy! I have just two comments:

Firstly, I think that the emotional transitions of the characters are a bit to quick. Fulk and Eleanor go almost instantly from any given mood over to squabbling. Perhaps you could build these transitions up a little bit more.

Secondly, the story has been very focussed over the past few days: nothing happens without meaning. At itself that is not a bad thing, but I think it would do the story good if you add some unimportant elements as a sort of - decoration. Why don't you add a Frog again ~D ?

Very well done, Froggy. Looking forward to reading more about poor John.

-----------------------------------

Phew. Hopefully Froggy hasn't activated instant e-mail notification or she can read the original, unfinished message with all its embarrasing translation and grammar mistakes.
:help:

frogbeastegg
09-21-2004, 16:47
zelda, you made the poor frog blush.

:throws Demon a satsuma: enjoy

Ludens, of course I have email subscription on this thread :grins evilly: Actually your original wasn't too bad.

The duo can squabble in any mood, although it does pick up different layers and overtones sometimes if their moods are particularly powerful. I've kept that under-key and now, like many other themes and aspects, I am building it up and making it more obvious. So many things can only be pointed out when the duo notice; usually Eleanor since much of this is from her POV. The huge number of important things they blindly ignore, I really have to fight not to point and shout. But it’s the only way this will work, even Fulk’s POV has to be used sparingly and only at carefully planned moments. Much of his shared POV moments are only skimming across the surface of a very deep lake, keeping most of his thoughts back. I’m going to try for a proper dual POV scene soon … maybe.

These last few bits have been very focused because there is so much going on; when I have so many balls up in the air it becomes hard to bring frogs in on the juggling act as well. The last part, and especially this next one, are so hard to get right, so much happening on so many levels. Most of it you probably won't even see until the big denouement. The next part is a fine balance between giving too much away, not laying the foundations properly, being too wordy, too short, too emotional, too bland, too passive, too active, too reliant on thought reading, and too skimpy on the character's emotions. Once this very cluttered bit is over the detail should return again.

But hey, in their world Christmas is only a couple of weeks away and that's the traditional time for frogs :winkg:

:puts the main theme from her new Princess Bride soundtrack on endless loop and returns to trying to write the soul of a rust bucket:

frogbeastegg
09-21-2004, 20:04
Ignoring the witless chatter of the ladies assigned to keep her company Eleanor stared out of the window of her guest room, watching the happenings down in the practise yard. Fulk was giving a fine account of himself, winning bouts with both sword and polearm before proving himself as skilled with a longbow as any Englishman. Now he was turning effortless cartwheels and handstands in full armour. He hadn’t brought his own mail with him; John had loaned him a hauberk of a more modern design than Fulk’s own, along with a few other basic bits and pieces for this demonstration.

It was all very impressive; there was no doubting his skill or competency. There was no doubt he was showing off for his prospective new employer. There was no doubt John would hire him.





Fulk was enjoying himself; combat was simple, he had always been good at it and he took pleasure from the exercise. It had been ages since he’d had occasion to use a polearm, and this armour was better than anything he’d worn previously. It was just him and his opponent, two weapons and may the best man win. No spymasters, no skulduggery, no gooseberries, and no niggling conscience. He’d kept up his daily practise in the time he’d been with Eleanor but lacking a real opponent and a proper training yard it wasn’t the same.

Now he stood upside down on his hands, the skirt of his borrowed hauberk flopping down with gravity so the ends just grazed his chin, and all he needed to worry about was keeping his balance. He flipped back to his feet, then did a quick cart wheel, the armour jingling and slapping gently against him.

John started clapping enthusiastically, “Enough, you have more than proven yourself.” Fulk had forgotten he was there, this prince with ambition but little wisdom. Reluctantly he stopped his exercises. John beckoned him, “Come, let us adjourn to the armoury. A display such as yours should be rewarded.”

Rewarded? John’s tentative recruitment had begun last night and only strengthened this morning, and now it seemed a small bribe with yet more flattery would precede the offer. It appeared Eleanor’s brother had absolutely no qualms about stealing from her. The question was what did Fulk want to do? He’d spent a sleepless night turning the question over in his mind; what to do if the prince offered him employment? His heart cried for one course, his head another, his conscience still another, and although heart and conscience were travelling in the same direction their reasons could not be more different. There was no reconciling the three, they continued to tug him in different directions and somehow he would have to choose one above the others.

Fulk followed at John’s side, towards the armoury in the foot of one of the inner curtain wall’s towers. The armoury was a large, square room, with plastered and whitewashed stone walls to reflect the maximum amount of light. Though they were at ground level the floor was covered in wooden planks rather than the more usual flagstones, cobbles or beaten earth. A scattering of rushes mixed with some dried lavender vied with the scents of iron, oil, leather and assorted cleaning products, trying to lend a more refined air to the very military room. It was a strange touch; no doubt John was responsible. Despite the room’s size it was packed so full there was barely space to walk. Everywhere there were chests and racks of weapons and armour, far more than the garrison of this castle could ever use. It was enough for a small private army.

On their arrival John commanded two young squires to drop their cleaning and find the best armour in the castle to fit Fulk. As they began rooting through chests and racks, pulling out bits and pieces John said quietly to Fulk, “I could use someone with your skills; I see a future need for a dependable bodyguard. The armour they find for you is yours regardless, but think on it well. I am generous to those who perform a service for me, such as rescuing my sister. I am more generous still to my own people. You have until they finish arming you up to make a decision.”

Equipment chosen the squires began to add it to the armour Fulk was already wearing with practised speed. He was wearing a brand new padded gambeson with a mail shirt that guarded him from throat to just above the knee, the sleeves ended in mail mittens. John said to the squires, “Forget the mail hose.” He smiled at Fulk, “You may have them, but I see little to no point in stripping you of hauberk and gambeson to put them on.” That cut precious minutes off his thinking time, and the squires were already working faster than he’d like.

One boy removed his sword from about his waist, then the other brought forth a coat of plates. Numbly Fulk ducked his head so they could pass the garment over his head, then they set to work buckling it closed at the back. Until today he’d never even seen a coat of plates close up before; he only seen them from afar on rich warriors, and on those occasions they had been all but hidden by the man’s surcoat. It was a simple poncho like garment with curved metal plates riveted on the inside to guard the entire torso from the waist up. The plates were placed and carefully fixed so as to be flexible, and when the garment fastened up it took a good deal of the hauberk’s weight off his shoulders, distributing it more evenly.

On top of the coat of plates they added a red silk surcoat, then began to fasten a new sword about his waist. “No,” he said, not quite meaning to speak until he already had. The new sword was ornate and finely crafted, worth far more than his old blade and it would probably be stronger and hold an edge better. John had said whatever they put on him was his to keep, to turn down that sword would be plain daft and no one had said he couldn’t keep his old one.

The squires were waiting patiently, one holding the sword, the other an arming cap to go below the mail coif lying on a table nearby. John cocked an eyebrow, a gesture that reminded Fulk of his sister. Fulk felt torn, he looked from the new blade to the old one. With difficulty he spoke, “I want to keep my old sword, it was a gift from … a friend.” When he said keep he wasn’t sure which half of him had won; the half which wanted to take the new blade in addition to the old one simply because it was better, or the half which wanted to turn it down to keep the old blade which meant so much.

John laughed congenially, “Is that all? No one said you had to be rid of it, keep it by all means!”

The squire began to buckle the new sword about his waist. Fulk kept staring at his old, plain, trustworthy sword, remembering fair hands struggling with the stiff leather and a girl’s voice saying, “Use it to earn your spurs, then come back to me,” as she’d fastened it in place the day she had gifted it to him. He’d sworn to keep it at his side always, just as he’d sworn to return a knight. He felt panic welling up inside him, he began to call a halt but it was too late, the squire was stepping back and the new sword in place. Now he had broken both promises to her, this one solely for greed.

He barely paid attention as they placed the cap on his head, then the coif and finally a kettle helm, a helmet formed by a metal skullcap with a broad brim just like a hat; perfect for fighting on foot as it left vision and hearing clear. A pair of plate knee guards joined the mail leggings in a pile, along with a standard knight’s shield and a full, bucket like helm suited to mounted combat.

“I am giving you a warhorse as well, along with saddle, tack and so on,” confided John.

Fulk listened in a daze. The squires stood back, their task complete. Fulk wore a fortune, another fortune was piled next to him, and a final fortune was waiting in a stable. With this he was equipped as well as many rich knights; he lacked the lands and title, but if he followed John into exile mayhap one day, when he returned to England …

“Your decision?” inquired John. His tone indicated he expected only one answer.

Fulk flexed his right hand inside the mail mitten, desperately flailing for purchase on his spinning thoughts. A fortune. Everything he ever wanted. A chance he would never have again. A chance to become something. A chance to fulfil his dream. A chance to get that knighthood he had once craved more than anything. He would be mad to decline. He would also be away from Eleanor; if he left now he would eventually get over her and she him. Leaving would be the best thing to do. He would never have to stand around uselessly again, fighting his feelings and instincts on those rare occasions when she crumpled.

No, she would just crumple alone. Playing for time Fulk slipped his left hand out of the slit in the leather palm of the integral mail mitten and began fiddling with the leather thong woven through the mail at his right wrist as if adjusting it. Did it really matter if she would be alone again anyway? He would never know what she was doing, for all he knew she might be perfectly happy without him. Anyway why did it make a difference if he was there or not? It wasn’t as if he could do anything to help, so for all the use he was there might as well be nobody there. He didn’t even belong in her world; base born men at arms did not get involved in royal politics or intrigue.

So why would he belong in John’s world? An exiled prince, scheming to get back to his place and seize the throne. Simple; all he’d have to do is follow orders, and let someone else make the decisions. He would not have to choose what to do, and it was the choosing that was so hard. “Just say yes,” advised his common sense. He tried; his voice wouldn’t work.

His conscience was pleased, immediately butting in with, “See? Man of honour, it’s about damned time you really acted it! Say no, go on – it’s easy.” He couldn’t.

He looked at his old sword, without conscious thought he moved over and picked it up. He examined it as if he had never seen it before in his life. A plain iron disk shaped pommel, a sweat stained red leather bound grip, a straight iron cross guard; it was hardly ornate but it had a simple workman’s beauty to it. He drew an inch of steel; the blade itself was pattern welded and shone with a unique pattern, silvers, greys, a touch of yellow all blended together in a rainbow like oil spilled on water. It had belonged to Maude’s grandfather, and she had given it to him. “Use it to earn your spurs, then come back to me,” she had said. But he never won his spurs and he had been too ashamed to return and tell her … and tell her he had destroyed his life and their future along with it.

Last time he had followed his ambition he had lost everything, and sworn to himself he would become something better than the fool he had been. The best any man could be in this world was a man of honour, the kind who gave their oath and kept it regardless, protected the innocent and fought evil, brave and courageous to the last. Such men were rare in this world, but they did exist and their names spread through Christendom and became legend. Reginald de Nevers would have scorned this prince’s offer without hesitation, so would Arnauld de Eu, and Roger FitzRalph, and Aimery FitzAlan, and Ulfstan of York, and … and all those many others he had spend time memorising the legends of. They made it seem so easy, so easy. He wasn’t a man of honour; he just wished he was. He pretended he was, sometimes the illusion worked better than others, sometimes he was able to crush away the voice of his conscience telling the honest truth. Sometimes, many times, he could not.

But he had to make a start somewhere, why not here? Because … because he would never have this opportunity again. Because he would be stuck next to someone he was beginning to love against all his effort and better judgement, never able to even tell her that, and endlessly worrying about what would happen if she said anything or if the spymaster noticed. Because he might keep his word now, but what about later? He had sworn to follow and protect; he could follow but protect? No, not against those she truly needed help with. So where was the point? In her world he was a rank beginner, powerless and valueless, dependent on her help to get by. But … if you placed her in the real world she was equally reliant on him, and there he could help.

And if he wasn’t there to patch up her injuries who would? And to make her laugh? Or listen to her grumbling? Or to teach her to fight, cook and all those other things she was endlessly curious about? Who would be her friend? Who would see the gooseberry instead of the tool or the problem?

“I am all she has.” The words tore themselves free of their own accord.

John glared at him impatiently, “I will soon set her up with a new household; she will not need you.” His glare was but a pale shadow of his sister’s impressive version.

Perhaps he could manage somehow? If he kept his word now then that was a start, beyond then he could do the best he could, even if that meant tending wounds instead of preventing them. Even if it meant falling further, and being forever near what he could not have. Wasn’t every good knight supposed to have an unobtainable lady to worship? So he wasn’t a knight, but he could dream, right?

And if he left he would miss the insults, genial arguing, contests of wits, surprises, and all those other delightful little quirks they had. He would miss the glare, and the stare, and the pride … he would miss her. Either way he would have only dreams, but if he stayed he would see her when he woke up. He grinned internally at that; what a soppy bastard he was.

He let his old sword slide back into its sheath, and finally found his voice properly, “I gave her my word; I will not break it.”








I cut the bit I had planned into two parts; it was getting very long.

Um, not too sure about this. It's kind of ... wordy, dry, maybe dull if you don't like seeing inside Fulk's skull for once. His mind was harder to get than gooseberry's; I can see through her eyes now almost effortlessly. Fulk took a lot more work, but eventually it clicked and this flowed onto the page. Lol, before they told me what to write, now I have a small corner of my mind labelled 'gooseberry' and another, less established one, labeled 'rusty'. Now, in a very strange way, I can be them. I prefer these new versions. :gets coshed by the original Eleanor:

At the same time it's nice to finally begin to reveal all those things he has been hinting at in his rare POV moments, such as his 'man of honour' thing. For nearly 80 pages now that little voice has been talking away, once identified in a throw-away line as his conscience, only now is it revealed more fully what and why. Course if you've been collecting the more advanced hints you will know there is more to this, much more.

Soppy bastard and a lot more; as the original Eleanor said in last year's Christmas special “Armoured on the outside, soft and squishy on the inside. What am I talking about – your heart or a cockroach?” Bah, froggy hate soppy!

zelda12
09-21-2004, 21:42
*Wipes satsuma of my face*
Grabs a Satsuma.
*Frog starts laughing*
*I get angry and walk of in a huff*
*Frog waits impatiently for a little while. Then falls asleep.*
*When she awakes I'm standing grinning by an automatic tennis ball thrower. And a large box of Satsumas.*



*I walk past frog who is now lying uncouncious on the floor under a mass of messed up satsumas.*

~D
Still Blushing.






(This is meant to be percieved as humour)

Silver Rusher
09-21-2004, 22:05
Ya know zelda, the part with the 'this is meant to be percieved as humour' is actually funnier than the joke itself (I was practically ROTFLMFAO)

This has honestly gotta be sticky, to speak the truth.

Mods, please :help: by stickying this.

frogbeastegg
09-21-2004, 22:29
You know nearly a year ago, back when the unit guide was brand new, I was awarded a unit of royal bodyguards. 20 knights in shining armour, with all the upgrades and high valour, loyal only to me. It's been a while since I had occasion to use them. :grins wickedly as zelda runs for several miles at top speed to get away:

....

:allows the 21st, unofficial knight in shining armour to rescue her and carry her off into the sunset for a nice long break from writing and oranges of any variety:



Ah, new blood! What has to be a sticky, Silver Rusher, the joke or the thread? :tongueg: :winkg:

frogbeastegg
09-22-2004, 10:51
Everyone head to the first page of this thread and admire the nice new title.

Thanks, Duke John :bow:

Axeknight
09-22-2004, 18:51
Nice title!

One question - Why, on your map, does my beloved island look like a chewed dog treat?

frogbeastegg
09-22-2004, 19:15
Ask Paradox; the map's a screenshot from Crusader Kings. I included it so I could post this on their forums where I have a following. The story is hardly game related, is it?

:returns to dual POV scene, happy in the knowledge that the next part returns to the more enjoyable stuff instead of all this mind examining boring stuff:

Axeknight
09-22-2004, 19:41
Bah. Whichever way you throw me, I stand, and that includes complicated game developers. ~D

Ludens
09-24-2004, 13:08
Ludens, of course I have email subscription on this thread :grins evilly: Actually your original wasn't too bad.
Apparently, you have not noted the opening line. Which is a good thing.


The duo can squabble in any mood, although it does pick up different layers and overtones sometimes if their moods are particularly powerful.
The problem is: I can't spot these overtones. To me it sounds just like they make a mental switch from whatever mood they were in to 'squabbling'. It might just be me though, perhaps you should ask others what they think.

About the recent scene, I liked it and I like the moments inside Fulk's mind better than those inside Eleanor's mind. Perhaps that is because I like Fulk more than Eleanor ~D . Anyway, I hope to see more of John and his motivations soon.

Just out of interest: what is the internet adress of the Paradox forum?

frogbeastegg
09-24-2004, 18:09
Er, well I have been having a lot mof PC troubles recently and it's hard to read emails when ther PC is crashing. Actually that's why I'm here; to note that the next update is going to take a while becasue my PC is so beggared up I can't do a thing with it. Can't fix it, not even after a load of traumatic stuff like reinstalling windows. It's gone to thr shop. I've borrowed my dad's laptop (horrible keyboard, excuse typos please ... too damned hard to fix them) but I've no manuscripts on this and the keyboard stinks.

Overtones working for anyone else? :waits impatientlky for answers: It shoukld become more apparant as time goes on, so more visible now than at the beginning and more visible still in the future.Honestly I don't see how they can't be working.

I don't like Fulk's mind is a less comfortable one to look into than Eleanor's, and that's only partly becasue I am more familiar with her. His mind can get pretty ... urgh. Like being stuck in a hall of mirrors.

crusader kings part of the paradox forum is here (http://www.europa-universalis.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?f=239) you can get to the rest from there.

zelda12
09-24-2004, 21:56
Funny really that at Paradox you get five or six replies whilst here you get one or two guaranteed and another couple if people have popped in.

Over tones are kinda visable, not that I paid attention much this week, dual history, french, maths and geography coursework.

I do think that the lost and confused sheep thing that both Eleanor and Fulk are going through is getting a little annoying. I would think it better if instead of doing the long winded, leave her leave her not, kill him, get him in bed, cuddle him oh I'm so confused. It would be better if you just dropped a few more lines on the smae subject each post. So you gradualy work up to the final, Oh I've always loved you but was so confused etc. scene.
But what do I know your the maestro.
meh

frogbeastegg
09-27-2004, 18:06
Ah, my beloved desktop is back. Finally I can return the POS laptop.

Right, squabbling. It isn't arguing really, more banter. You know I can't actually explain it; it's simply there and if you can't see it I don't know how to point it out. I don't understand how you can't see it. From a frog's POV it is like pointing out the sun. Perpetual one-up-manship, a desire to make the other one speechless, an enjoyment in witty comebacks and stupid remarks, a contest to find the most ridiculous yet relevant thing to say - it's not the kind of thing you can academically explain.

It's just plain obvious when they insist they hate each other that they don't, and when they say they hate each other in the middle of a mushy scene in a tone labelled as soft or some other mushyish type that they mean something more mushy. Damn it, later they say "I hate you" and it had better be plainly obvious what they mean is "I love you". This is the simplest example to work through, but it works for all the other things they say - context, mood, tone; all outlined in the scene to lend the appropriate overtone to the words.

:sighs: Ok, that's a mess and probably makes little sense. Yeah, I simply can't explain it; it is there and it explains itself, in my eyes.

The lost sheep thing bugged me right from the start, zelda. I still maintain that mush isn't really my thing; I enjoy the banter and so on between the duo, not the actual mush. Fortunately it will be clearing up very soon :froggy cheers:

Your outline for an alternative is a good one, but sadly not at all suitable. I think I picked the only way for this new version of the duo. It's ... not a case of confusion in the end, more opportunity.

And now back to work ...

Axeknight
09-27-2004, 19:55
Erm.. Little I can say, really. I like this new part (IIRC, this wasn't in the original), and Fulk's 'Do I stay or do I go?' is a clever new addition. I'm assuming the 'window scene' happens earlier now?

Oh, and Froggy, thanks for recommending Simon Scarrow to me. Just started The Eagle's Conquest - great series. The description of Bestia's funeral was classic ~D

*looks at post* And the award for worst critique ever in the history of critiquery goes to, drumroll please... ~D

frogbeastegg
09-27-2004, 21:56
Fulk made his way back to the guest room feeling absurdly weary. He pushed the door open, forgetting to knock, then headed single-mindedly towards the window seat. He collapsed into it in a clatter of armour and swept the coif back from his head so it rested on his shoulders leaving his head and neck clear.

It had taken several minutes to convince John he was serious, turning down offer after offer until he felt his heart would break. When he had finally convinced him the prince had cursed and railed at him, proving he too had the family temper. Unlike Eleanor’s explosion, and what he knew of the king’s explosions, it was more pathetic than impressive. Poor John didn’t have the flare to pelt bystanders with oranges or send his audience away badly injured. No, instead he had stamped his feet and torn at his hair and clothes, spittle flying as he raved, not even making sense. The prince had eventually collapsed into a breathless lump and he had allowed the two squires to lead him away.

There had been no one around to help Fulk out of his armour so he had done the only thing he could; bundled the extra items into a strong bag and carted them up here for safe storage. He unlaced the arming cap and pulled it from his head, then ran his fingers through his hair, separating it out from its flattened, sweat soaked state so it would dry quicker. Someone coughed off to his left; Eleanor.

“So you finally deigned to notice me?” she asked acerbically. She watched dispassionately as she scrambled to his feet and mumbled an apology. He got a new employer and he thought he could barge in like he owned the place. Typical. She scrutinized the new armour; combined with the broken nose and the tousled hair it looked very fetching. She realised what she had just thought and felt her face go warm as she blushed. Wonderful, now her mind had gone. At the ripe old age of nineteen she was in danger of turning into a giggling idiot who braided flowers in her hair and skipped instead of walked. The prospect was nothing if not terrifying.

Fulk watched with private amusement as she went slightly pink, and wondered if she knew she was staring at him. What was it about women and him in armour? One of these days he’d have to ask, but not this particular admirer. “I was looking for someone to play squire,” he explained lightly.

He came barging in here and expected her to play squire with armour he’d gotten by defecting to her brother? “John did not provide you with one? How careless. I suggest you go raise the matter with him.”

“Why would be give me a squire?” asked Fulk shortly. She didn’t know about his recruitment offer and if he had his way she would never know; she had enough troubles without finding out what a weasel her brother was.

“He gave you the armour.”

“For rescuing you.”

“I see.”

She had gone tight lipped and pale again. “Is something wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned. Surely she couldn’t know? Well, she was an agent and she did have eyes, ears and a keen mind … but she would have flayed him alive hours ago if she suspected he was going to join John. She couldn’t know.

She isolated the pain she felt and seared into her memory. He looked so fetching and sounded so concerned while he lied through his teeth and stabbed her in the back; this was what came from attachments, Trempwick had been right. She would not make the same mistake again. Ever. “I am fine,” she ground out.

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

Fulk crossed his arms, each hand enclosed tightly about the bicep of the opposing arm, fighting the impulse to hold her. Once again she was upset, once again he wanted to comfort her, once again he could do nothing, not even offer some trite words. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

She watched as his posture went defensive and stiff, and waited for him to say something. Nothing. This was just like the night before; he had gone distant. He must think her liable to go off into a temper at the slightest provocation, even though he had only seen her lose control once in four months. “Oh, just go away,” she said wearily. He gave a stiff nod, turned on his heel and marched off without a word.




Small and experimental; dual POVs, not that likely to be used again except on a handful of very specific scenes.

Chronologicially speaking in the original Eleanor the window scene happened a few weeks ago. In this new version there are several upcoming scenes that could act as minor replacements ... sort of.

Forgot to answer your other question, Axeknight. No, this wasn't in the original, to be honest things left the original ages ago, the final threads of resemblence were severed when they robbed the abbey. This is so different it is probably best to stop thinking of the original (I know I don't). It has departed and will never return to those lines. A couple of brief Eleanor/Fulk exchanges I particualrly liked from the original will make it in, but that is all.

frogbeastegg
09-28-2004, 18:07
Fulk sat in the main hall at one of the trestle tables, still in his new armour because he had been unable to find anyone to help him remove it. He was the only one at this particular end of the long table; the handful of others in the hall had chosen spots closer to the fire. He didn’t really mind the solitude; mourning a lost fortune or three was a private task.

A woman in expensive blue plonked herself down on the bench opposite him, winked and asked, “What’s a chap with a nose like yours doing on his own?” Her hand flew to her mouth and she swore, “Oh bugger!” She arranged herself into a more ladylike pose, and then spoke in a careful voice, consciously trying to sound cultured, “May I enquire as to what you are doing, handsome sir?”

Fulk folded his arms loosely and rested them on the tabletop, “And you are … ?”

“Judith.”

Ah, the ex-merchant mistress. Minor merchant too, by the sounds of it; very minor. “Well, Judith, you can drop the accent.”

She wrinkled her nose gracefully and looked loveably uncertain, “I don’t know; John always says … oh stuff it; John’s not the one who has to sit about trying to impersonate a statue!” Her shoulders dropped, she crossed her legs and leaned forward in a pose matching his, “So, what’re you doing?”

“Talking to you, or so it seems,” he returned flippantly. It really was not hard to see how she had snagged John; the whole castle was probably full of broken hearted, jealous men, men who would now envy him this conversation. Oh joy, let there be happiness, feasting and celebratory dancing; people would be forming a queue to whack him, and a certain princess would probably be busy selling tickets and souvenirs.

She laughed prettily, “Oh, how very droll.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing?”

“I’m flirting with the chap with the neat nose and fetching armour I saw brooding handsomely. I’ve snared a prince but I like to keep in practise.”

An idea was forming in Fulk’s head; the perfect revenge for that stinking perfume had just presented itself with a cheeky grin, as well as a way to be rid of this walking death-trap without offending her and getting himself smacked about by a horde of chivalrous hopefuls wanting to gain her favour. “Then I’ll endeavour to play along without catching the eye of a prince who’ll only be jealous, him and every other man within fifty miles.”

“Now that sounds as good as you look, dearie.”

Dearie? Evidently she had decided to rescue the word from being used solely with old crones with warts and black cats. Yup, no doubt about it – this Judith was going to make the perfect revenge. “I’m the princess’s bodyguard; you learn a few fancy words following a royal about.”

“Really?” Her eyes sparkled and she smiled coquettishly, “Do tell.”

“Well, the poor thing’s been kept locked up in desolation much of her life.”

“No!” gasped Judith, playing the attentive audience to perfection.

“Yes, she’s no idea about court protocol, or all those little necessities like how to accept a song proclaiming her beauty or how to behave at a banquet in her honour. I don’t think she even knows how to dance!”

“The poor dear,” said Judith, frowning delicately. It might have been an extraordinarily pretty frown but in Fulk’s eyes it was a distant second to a frowning gooseberry. “John’s going to send her off to court, you know. She’ll never manage.”

“I know, I know. And of course they’ll be finding a husband for her too, and she’s,” Fulk leaned forward and whispered, “well, she could make a nun look wanton. I’m going to be beating suitors off with a stick and all because she smiled at the wrong time.”

“The poor, poor darling!” She was really getting into this now, and what a charming picture of concern she did make. “Someone should have a quiet word with her.”

Yes! Got her; take that Eleanor! Fulk allowed the smile to escape but made it over into a picture of relieved gratitude, “If it’s no trouble…”

“Oh no, not at all. In fact I’ll go now; I know John doesn’t want to see her until mid afternoon, so we’ll have plenty of time.”

“Thanks. She’s very shy; so don’t let her get away until you’ve told her everything. Just one favour? Don’t tell her I sent you.”

She gave her solemn promise that she wouldn’t, then departed on her mission of mercy. Fulk would have given anything to be a fly on the wall, watching Eleanor’s reaction to being waylaid by her brother’s mistress and chatted to for several hours on a collection of subjects she would find highly embarrassing. She was going to have such fun with Judith. He resolved to casually drop by and see how things were going in an hour or two.






An hour proved too long for a curious man at arms to wait. He bribed a page to help him remove his armour and load it up into a couple of sacks which they then hefted up to Eleanor’s guestroom. He had stripped down to his shirt and hose, the only normal clothes he was wearing under all the armour. He could have kept his gambeson on but he wanted an excuse to linger and watch the proceedings for a bit and a lack of clothing was the best he could come up with.

The page left his sack outside the door at Fulk’s insistence that he could manage the rest of the way. With a quiet knock Fulk cracked the door open and tentatively suck his head around.

“… wiggle your hips a bit,” instructed Judith, as she demonstrated how to walk in an eye catching manner. The expression of mortified horror on Eleanor’s face was priceless. Neither of them noticed him, the knock must have gone unheard, and so he got to watch for a few seconds until Judith turned around by chance and spotted him. “What are you doing here?” she asked sternly, “Go away!”

“I’m collecting my tunic and dumping my armour,” he explained as he dragged the sacks in. He stood up, rubbing the small of his back as if he’d cricked it. Over Judith’s shoulder Eleanor mouthed, “Help me!” He pretended he hadn’t understood. He smiled disarmingly at Judith, “Surely you can’t expect me to wander about in shirt and hose in the middle of winter?”

Apparently she could; she bundled him out of the room again in short order. “Bog off, sweetie,” advised Judith merrily as she slammed the door.

Outside Fulk remembered the way Eleanor had been blushing so furiously she looked more like a strawberry than gooseberry. He licked his forefinger and drew an invisible line in the air, “Man at arms: two. Princess: one.” He shivered in the chill of the stone corridor, then set out in search of a nice fire to sit by until he could get his clothes back.






Welcome rescue from Judith came several hours later in the form of a summons from John. Eleanor escaped with all possible haste; she might have asked Edith how to flirt months ago back in Nantes, but being descended on by Judith and her hair raising ability to tell you far more than you ever wanted to know about anything and everything was entirely too much. Much of what Judith’s advice had sailed clean over Eleanor’s head, and now she was devoting energy to forgetting the bits she had understood before she ended up with nightmares. Trempwick would have had a treble heart seizure if he had known what his precious pupil was being told.

On her arrival in the solar Eleanor immediately noticed the bowl of oranges was missing. John sat with his back to her in a fireside chair, the ubiquitous goblet of wine in his hand once again. “That man at arms of yours is quite an interesting fellow,” he said as she seated herself slightly further away from the fire’s fierce then he was.

Here it came, the end. “He is all I have,” she said despondently, not sure whether she meant it as an answer or just an admission of what he’d stolen from her.

He twiddled the goblet about in his hands, rotating it clockwise as he spoke, “Funny, that’s exactly what he said.”

How delightful of Fulk to admit it; did it get him a nice boost to his pay offer? She stopped regretting dowsing him in that perfume and began wishing she had thought of something nastier.

“I offered him a place in my household; he refused, can you actually believe that? I gave him a fortune, I offered him another, but he refused.” John ended his fascination for playing with his goblet, drained his wine and frowned petulantly at his empty vessel. “It’s not fair,” he muttered sulkily. He sloshed more wine into his cup, pouring carelessly so his clothes got splashed. His tolerance for alcohol was astounding; he had done little more than drink since she arrived and not once had he been more than mildly tipsy.

“Refused?” said Eleanor sharply. This had to be another of his jokes.

“He spewed some twaddle about giving you his word, and said he could not leave you because you had not released him.”

“He did?” Why couldn’t he just admit he’d stolen her bodyguard and be done with it? Or did he want her to tell Fulk he could leave if he wanted to, making this easier for them? She was not going to help them save face, thank you very much.

“I gave him a destrier and better armour than most knights have, I promised him far more and he refused! He just spouted on about honour.” John sniffed woefully and gulped at his drink. He apparently expected her sympathy.

“You probably did not offer him enough,” she said acidly. If she couldn’t get John to be honest she would wring the truth out of Fulk later. She had never had serious occasion to try those nice interrogation and torture methods Trempwick had taught her but now seemed as good a time as any.

“On the contrary, little sister, I think I offered him the wrong thing … in a way.” John set his goblet down on the nearby table precisely, arranging it with care and devoting his whole attention to that one task as he spoke, “I should have offered him you, I think. But he is not nearly worth such a bribe; armour is easy to come by, and I only have one free sister. Besides you are already promised to Northumberland.”

“What did you say?” Her? Did John seriously think a common bastard had even thought about a royal connection? Or would want one? It might boost him to the highlife but he would never be accepted, and she was dirt poor so he would gain nothing except her company and the scorn on the nobility. People formed queues and fought over both of those privileges on a daily basis.

John ignored the warning tone of her voice and beamed, then answered the wrong question, “I know, wonderful, isn’t it? Northumberland’s my staunchest supporter, and I shall grant you lands and so on. You will finally have what you were born to.”

Northumberland, married and wonderful were not words Eleanor thought belonged in close vicinity of each other, categorically not when her name was also added to the mix. If nothing else Northumberland the place was cold, rainy and always skirmishing with Scotland. Northumberland the man was just as unappealing; with this scheme he had proven himself ambitious, ruthless and dangerous. Not that John cared about her opinion; he had made this deal and she would be expected to keep it.

So, Northumberland was the puppet master; since he was the most powerful duke in England this was hardly surprising. Give him a royal bride and very soon poor John would find his rear slipping off his throne, until Northumberland claimed the crown by virtue of his wife. Her daft brother had not only been lured to treason but he had also set up his controller with a means to replace him as king. John would stand no chance when his manipulator discarded him.

Seven days Trempwick had said, she had used three and a half. Time was running out if she wanted to get John away before Trempwick set his men to watch the ports, just three and a bit safe days left. It would take most of those three days to reach the nearest port and find a ship willing to sail in the middle of December.

She listened with half an ear as John babbled, outlining his plot to become king. It relied heavily on him getting to see his father alone, then poisoning him so people would think he died of natural causes. When he was dead the whole country was supposedly going to rise up behind him to support him against Hugh, who, John related with horror evident on his features, had murdered his eldest brother so he could become king in his place. Yes, John actually believed, and expected others to believe, that an eleven year old boy had plotted and committed murder to gain a throne.

That was the breaking point; Eleanor could stand no more, and he had finally presented a flaw for her to use to encourage him to leave. “No, that is not true. Our father killed Stephan.” John gaped at her. “Have you ever seen him in one of his rages?” He mutely shook his head. “You are fortunate; I envy you. Between the initial spark and the final, most dangerous cold and cruel fury he has this streak where he talks incessantly, threats mostly. I heard him admit it on the day I got this scar,” she tapped the small scar running along her left cheekbone under her eye, “and he admitted it again a few years later. ‘If I can kill my heir for being flawed I can easy dispatch you for the same reason.’ The words were etched into my mind as surely as the scars on my body.”

“But, but, but …” stuttered John, “if Northumberland lied about that …”

“What else did he lie about?” finished Eleanor.

John wet his lips with his tongue, then scrubbed a hand over his face, “I think he’s set me up.” He suddenly sat bolt upright, his face a picture of horror, “Jesú! There’ll be no army!”

“It certainly looks that way.” No, there would be an army, an army to crush Hugh and plonk John on the throne long enough for him to marry Northumberland and Eleanor off, then remove him and hand the realm over.

He jumped up, dropping his partially empty goblet on the floor in a flood of red wine, and hurried to the door. He began shouting along the corridor for his servants to strip the castle of everything portable and valuable, and then get ready to move out with every single male out under arms with all possible speed. Even lowly kitchen boys were to be given weapons from the stores and pressed into his escort to swell the numbers. Finished, he turned back to Eleanor, “I must flee, now, before it is too late.”

“What about your family? You must warn them.”

“I cannot; I do not have time.”

She rolled her eyes, “Send a messenger.”

“I will need every man I have to reach port and get away safely.”

“You are going to abandon them!” she accused, horrified, “You can spare a couple of men and horses, easily.”

John began to pace restlessly, dismissing his family with barely a thought, “They will be alright; they are nobles-”

“And so are you. If being imprisoned is no hardship why are you leaving?”

He stopped and looked at her as if she were talking nonsense. “Then you go and warn them,” he said in a tone usually reserved for dealing with disobliging, dim-witted children.

She jumped to her feet, feeling her temper growing, and said brusquely, “Oh yes, I shall conjure up an escort and supplies, and go off on a little jaunt to Wales two weeks before Christmas when the roads are unspeakably foul - I cannot even get to the Welsh border! A courier could get through; you must send one.” Without Fulk she couldn’t even get home; travelling alone would be suicide. She would have to wait here in an all but empty castle until Trempwick sent someone to bring her home, hoping her rescue got here before the king’s army.

“There is no one to spare; I need every man I have to get safely to port. You cannot come either; we need to travel fast and-”

He crushed a hope that she did not even know she had; that he would take her away with him and keep her safe from the agents Trempwick would send to hunt her down. “And I would only slow you down because I have to ride side-saddle or pillion.”

“You are a noble, family, you will be safe. He will not know you were involved.”

Since when did being caught up in whatever caused the paroxysm matter? If she was safe it was because of Trempwick, and then only to the extent that she would still be alive. “You go on, run away and leave everyone else behind to clean up your mess. As long as you are safe that is all that really matters.”

Her sarcasm went unnoticed, “Yes, exactly. As long as I am safe I can come back and set things to rights.”

“I am fully confident you will be able to reattach severed heads, heal the scars, and wipe away the memories of the pain you are going to cause, John.”

He thumped himself on the chest with one fist, “I am a prince! I am worth far more than some duke, count or nobody!”

“Heir and a spare, John, and you are the spare - dispensable.” She stormed off to find someone whose arm she could twist into taking a message into Wales.

As she left she heard him bellow, “We’ll see how you feel when I return as king!”





Weeee! Finally I can stop examining the insides of their skulls in fine detail! Hurrah for only skimming the surface!

Has the nasty Judith thing gone away? :hide:

Ludens
10-01-2004, 16:10
Please disregard my previous comment. I have gone blind.
:blank:

frogbeastegg
10-02-2004, 20:31
Her search for a messenger proved fruitless; word of John’s treachery had spread and everyone was concerned with saving their own skins. Even simple servants would be gleefully seized by a vengeful king, and they knew it; they were in the employ of a traitor, which made them traitors too. It was a measure of how successful king William had been in securing his grip on his expanding realm; a good king needed a reputation, and ability, to exact retribution from disloyal subjects swiftly and without mercy. William was nothing if not a good king. Eleanor suspected that many were taking whatever they could grab, then taking flight on their own instead of collecting things for John and following him to the port and he wanted. She didn’t blame them; John would only abandon most of them to their fates at the port.

She returned to her guest room, thinking to wait out the chaos there, only to find the last person she wanted to see. Fulk. He was sat cross legged on her bed, dressed in his gambeson and warmest pair of hose, his old sword across his lap and a pile of bags containing his new armour and spare clothing on the floor at his side. A quick glance around revealed the room had been ransacked; even the chairs and bedclothes were gone. The only portable items that remained were those Fulk had gathered to him. She hoped he had seen fit to save her own paltry, mostly borrowed, wardrobe, especially the nice, warm cloak she had arrived in.

“If you do not hurry you will be left behind,” she told him cuttingly. There wasn’t even a reason for him to be here now.

“So long as I follow you I can’t be left behind, can I?”

“Now what are you gabbling about?”

“I could ask you the same question, oh sands of the ages.”

“You are going with John.”

Fulk winced; so she did know. That explained quite a lot. “No, I’m sticking with his retiring, placid sister.”

Eleanor couldn’t hide her astonishment, “What? Why?”

Fulk considered his reply carefully; the truth delved into areas that were best described as thorny, as well as informing her about Maud, but he did not want to lie. Maud and the events surrounding her were least uncomfortable when confined to the unspoken past, and dragging them up would do no one any good. “Because I like being able to say, ‘That’s my princess; I just tag along in her wake, cleaning up the mess and dodging the low flying severed heads. I also do a nice line in suffering bravely when she turns her attention to me. It’s a quiet life,’ when someone asks me who the short, dark haired human tempest is.” Yes, that was honest enough while remaining light.

Her brows knitted together sceptically, “Really?”

“Yes, now we’d best get moving – we’ll need two saddle horses, and I’m owed a destrier. If we leave it too long the stables will be empty. Help me on with my hauberk and coat of plates; it’ll be easier to carry them on my body, good protection too.” When she didn’t move immediately he said dryly, “I’d say don’t argue but I’ve more faith in you being able to fly; instead I’ll say argue once we’ve left.”

She did as he said, helping him into first the hauberk, then the coat of plates, adding the surcoat and sword belt without him asking. He left the coif down and refused his arming cap, instead instructing her to put his cloak on over the whole thing, covering the armour and hiding its quality. He slipped his shield’s strap over his head, allowing it to rest comfortably on his left side in easy reach if he needed it. Finally he picked up the kettle helmet and laced it securely under his chin.

He looked over himself, tweaking the folds of his cloak by tucking them through the shield’s guige strap until it naturally hid most of the armour but didn’t hamper his arms too badly. “Man at arms and wife, travelling from one job to another because our old lord died and his son’s an ungrateful oaf who turned us out close to Christmas. That should do us for a cover.” He retrieved her knives and cloak from the bag he’d stored them in, “Here.”

Eleanor pinned her cloak in place, “I have nowhere to put the knives; these sleeves are too tight and we do not have time for me to change.”

“Fish your belt out of that bag and then put the knives on it,” suggested Fulk, collecting as many of the remaining bags as he could carry, “It’ll be a fashion disaster but your cloak will hide them well enough.”

After a brief search she found the slender tooled leather girdle she had worn on her way here. She examined it sceptically, assessing whether it would be strong enough to take the weapon’s weight, then swiftly bound it in place, making the first loop about her waist slightly looser than usual but leaving the second, low slung loop the same as normal in the hopes it would aid the deception. She thrust one knife through each side of the waist loop, and then pulled her cloak about her. “And that is that; let’s go.” She picked up the last couple of bags and headed towards the door, Fulk following close at her heels and trying to take the lead so he could lead their assault. As she opened the door she said, “If anyone gives us trouble you focus on getting our horses; I will handle the rest.”





Painfully slowly they fought their way through the milling crowds in the castle, down to the stables. Only a bare handful of horses were left, including a downtrodden packhorse and a few half decent palfreys. All the good horses were long gone, including Fulk’s promised warhorse. Fulk started forcing his way towards the best of the remaining saddle horses, Eleanor following in his wake.

“Get the packhorse too,” she told him, having to shout to be heard about the racket. The man fastening the packhorse’s bridle had different ideas and he tried to rebuff Fulk. Eleanor struck her most regal pose and announced loudly, “I am princess Eleanor of England, daughter of William, fourth of that name since the conquest of William the Bastard, king of England by grace of God, rightful king of France, lord of the Welsh, and beloved of his people.”

She paused for breath; she had learned to recite her lineage while still in the cradle and the endless barrage of glorious relatives usually stunned audiences as they struggled to keep track of everything. She was pleased to note Fulk loading up the packhorse swiftly and without resistance. Father down, time for brothers, “Sister to lord Hugh, duke of Normandy, count of Arques, and Bedford, heir to the aforementioned king William, and to lord John, Duke of York, and count of Anjou.”

Fulk was diplomatically persuading another man at arms he didn’t really want the best palfrey by prising his fingers of the animal’s reins and bending them backwards until they nearly broke. Time for sisters, “And to Matilda, Holy Roman Empress by the grace of God, and to Adele, queen of Spain by the grace of God.” So far, so good. She decided to wrap it up there; once you got into grandparents, cousins, nieces and the like it got very long winded indeed; she would save them for an emergency. “I command you to render aid.” Her audience gaped at her; excellent, Fulk had got the palfrey and the packhorse and was leading them out without too much opposition. “I require a man to go to Wales and deliver a verbal message. Any volunteers to serve the crown?”

Predictably everyone looked away and tried to seem less obvious than everybody else. Fulk stuck his head around the stable door and gave her a wave. Time to go. “It is good to see my brother is served by men of courage equal to his own; cowards. I shall look elsewhere.” She strode regally away, out into the courtyard where Fulk waited.

He was already mounted on the palfrey with the packhorse’s reins in the same hand that held the reins for his own mount. He extended a hand to her, “There’re no side-saddles; you’ll have to ride pillion, either that or learn to ride like a man.”

“I doubt I would ever hear the end of it if I did that,” she said dryly as she took his hand, put one foot on top of his, then scrambled up behind him. Once in place she wrapped her hands in the folds of his cloak to secure her seat somewhat.

Fulk kicked the horse into motion, and they clattered towards the first of the two gatehouses, struggling to get through the press of people. “You’d better hold on tight,” he said as he drew his sword, “really tight.” She wrapped her arms around his waist; just managing to lock her fingers together as he started bellowing, “Make way! Make way for the princess!” When that didn’t have the desired effect he started laying about him with the flat of his sword, still bellowing. The crowd began to part.

They picked up speed, and Fulk ceased clubbing people, needing only to shout and brandish his sword to part the human sea. Even so it still took almost quarter of an hour to force their way out of the castle and away from the press on the road outside. They began to retrace the journey they had made just a day ago, heading back to Woburn. No others took their road as it lead towards the king’s army and danger.

As they rode along Fulk noted with a wry grin that Eleanor was still riding along with her arms around his waist and, presumably based on his experience, much of her upper body and one side of her face leaning against his back. How to get a hug from a princess that no one could ever criticise; get her to ride pillion and then drag her into a near riot so she had to cling on or fall off. It was just a pity that he couldn’t really feel anything because of all the padding and armour.







Ok, so this is kind of rough and I was going to include another scene, the Fulk/Eleanor confrontation, but I picked up this obscure game on Friday, Rome: Total War.

Comment disregarded, Ludens. ~:)

zelda12
10-02-2004, 20:47
Hope you enjoy Rome. ~:)

frogbeastegg
10-05-2004, 22:10
Eleanor sat on a pile of straw with her skirts carefully arranged around herself. “Trempwick is not going to like this,” she declared.

Fulk made a show of looking about the stable, not that he could see much by the weak moonlight, “I don’t like it much either, too damned dark.” In the stall next to them one of their horses whickered an agreement.

They had only managed a few hours of riding before the sun started to set. They had been able to find an inn they had not used on the trip up before it got too dark to travel, but they only had enough money to convince the innkeeper to let them stay in the stable along with their horses. They hadn’t managed to stretch the budget to even a space in the common room, and food was out of the question. They had been refused a lantern, ostensibly because of the fire hazard but more likely because they couldn’t pay for it.

“I think the dark is the aspect which will bother him the least,” she said lightly, “If he complains I shall point out it is hardly our fault we did not have sufficient funds; it is his. I shall also point out we are the ones starving with no food.”

“That’s the idea – you princess him about a bit,” replied Fulk with enthusiasm. He lay back on a pile of straw on the opposite side of the stall to Eleanor, pillowing his head on his arms. “I’ve got to admit that you’re getting better at the wife act, no wifelette act – you’re too short to warrant the full title when I can botch together a diminutive form to suit. Telling any who would listen how useless I am was a good touch; it really won over the innkeeper, protective instincts towards beleaguered gooseberries, I guess. ”

“I just tried to be honest,” she replied modestly, playing with the ring she had now swapped to her left hand. The metal chaffed slightly and pressed on the neighbouring fingers unless she splayed her fingers out. Conversely her right hand noted the lack of the ring and felt equally wrong.

She chewed her lip thoughtfully, trying to decide the best strategy to broach a tricky subject and to … well, she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do. She wanted to know why he was still here, a deceptively simple sounding thing. Fulk had proven resistant to light questioning before and anything obvious would result in answers that could not be trusted, as well as a sulking bodyguard. That was assuming he did more than flat out refuse to answer, leaving her looking stupid and him in a huff. She didn’t want to reveal her lack of insight into his motives, nor did she want to give him ideas for possible uses for her that he may not already have spotted himself. Something needed saying; he was still here, whatever his motive.

Hesitant she took the plunge, “Thank you … for staying.” It seemed very lacking. She grabbed her courage with both hands and started to talk before she let it slip through her fingers, “Um, don’t know why I am saying this, I mean it will go straight to your head and all, and you will probably get completely the wrong idea, but …” she looked up from studying her feet, towards his outline, “You are all I have,” she said gently.

There was a long pause, so long she feared she had made a terrible mistake. Finally Fulk spoke, his tone grave, “I gave you my word and I think it is worth the keeping.” He sat up, one arm braced across his knees. “If I have been piecing my clues together correctly you’re going to be in poor favour when you get home and in need of your royal cut tender. I can’t vanish off to France leaving you to bleed all over the floor, can I?”

“You could very easily.”

There was another long pause, followed by a sigh. “If I left I would miss you. I’ve rather enjoyed these last few months of excitement, danger, daring, intrigue, spymasters and gooseberries.”

Such nonsense, and yet it sounded quite sincere. With a little more thought she decided she was willing to entertain the idea he might enjoy his job; he didn’t have to like her to do that. Even so his motive for staying was not clear; once again she ran thorough the usual options. A connection to the royal family: no, not unless he was an idiot, and she had never thought him that. Money: no, she was penniless and likely to remain so. Status: no, she had no lands to grant away. Her: not a chance in hell, she was no Guinevere. Security: possibly, he did get fed and would remain looked after in a neglected kind of way, and that put him on an even footing with her. His life: possibly, but with John he might have stood some chance of escaping. That one was worth testing, “You have missed what might have been your only chance to leave safely; John could have protected you from Trempwick. You would have been less important; you would still know too much but people would think you mad if you ever said anything. John is the kind of person to collect loonies with strange tales about his sisters.”

“I’d have got seasick on the channel crossing again,” said Fulk with false levity. This was beginning to get dangerous; she evidently wasn’t convinced by the half answers he had offered. Time to change the subject, “Anyway if I left I’d never have got to see your face when I told you I set Judith on you.”

Eleanor growled, “You are the reason I had to listen to that baggage for hours?”

“Revenge for the perfume, my fair blossom.”

“You started it back at that abbey; I was merely exacting retribution, with fair warning too I might add.”

“I always win my battles, dear gooseberry, and this one will be no different.”

“We shall see about that, turfwit.”

“Yes, we will,” said Fulk with a smile, “So, learn anything interesting from her?” He heard the furious intake of breath and wished he could see the look on her face.

“I shut my ears in the first few minutes; there are some things in life I do not want to know, and a great many of those things are contained in her extraordinary mind.” That was quite honest; she had stopped listening right when Judith had started on about the pleasures of kissing someone, something which warred with Eleanor’s rather limited experience. It was better not to know what you’re missing and never likely to experience, and if all you are missing is unpleasantness then so much the better.

A jolt of panic hit her when she realised how open that answer left her. If he asked why she didn’t want to benefit from the years of experience of a highly successful mistress what could she say? He knew her too well to fall for any religious argument, and the truth was humiliating to say the least. Being the one to bring up the fact you know you are so ugly no one could ever be interested in you might remove the sting very slightly, but from there things got no better. An honest agreement still hurt; a polite lie was even worse. All these years and she still wasn’t able to shrug it off completely.

Just as Fulk began to talk she rushed in her second observation about Judith, drowning him out, “I think she was one of Trempwick’s agents. She was very well placed to keep an eye on him, if you think about it. She also said a few things which could indicate she was a spy.” Things such as how men tend to talk when they are in bed. Now there was another odd thing; based on what she did know if you were busy talking somewhere along the line you have taken a wrong turn. It’s not as if he’d hang around to chat afterwards.

“A spy?” repeated Fulk thoughtfully, “Yes, could well be. Tell you what, you ask your Trempwick when we get back.”

“He is not my Trempwick,” she snapped. “And that is assuming we ever get back; we have no money left at all and we are still at least two days away from home. If we try to sleep outside we will freeze, and we have no food.”

“Don’t worry, oh spirit of joy; I’ll think of something. You can scrub pots or something at the next inn while I chop firewood.”

That was so galling she didn’t even bother to dignify it with a response. She lay back and pretended to go to sleep, mulling over the many motives Fulk might have for remaining.






Trivia: the story is now 103 pages long.

This is rather short at just barely 3 pages, but it proves the itch to write is even stronger than the itch to conquer the world. The game has actually been taking a back seat to this all the time; I was just playing with a few potential scenarios and I decided this one was the best. The urge to write has conclusively conquered all; there is nothing I would rather do.

You may notice Eleanor's view of herself doesn't exactly agree with what has been said about her so far; that was carefully planned before I get hate mail for ruining the story with my stupid errors. :gring: And before you all start sending hate mail because I'm using that old cliche of a heroine who needs a hero to tell her how beautiful she is etc, no I'm not! This is far more ... :looks mysterious:

Thanks, zelda. RTW is a fine game; compared to many people here I haven't played much, but by my standards I have been playing quite a lot.

frogbeastegg
10-08-2004, 09:32
It took them nearly four days to get back to Woburn, delayed by the worsening weather and overburdened, elderly horse. Fulk’s prediction of pot washing princesses, or more accurately as it turned out, sewing princesses, and men at arms taking on vicious hordes of firewood armed only with an axe turned out to be remarkably accurate. Trempwick’s reaction to that would be nothing if not interesting. They arrived about half an hour before sunset in the midst of a load of sleet. As could only be expected everywhere looked deserted.

As they rode through the gate into the manor’s courtyard Trempwick was already waiting in the shelter of the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back and a face like thunder. When their palfrey halted Trempwick stepped forward to help Eleanor down. He caught her as she slid down and immediately put her to one side with a falsely cheerful smile, “Dear Nell, I presume I have you to thank for my early Christmas present of four men with vicious weapons trying to kill me?” He was speaking English; something which surprised Eleanor as the spymaster usually preferred French.

She replied in the same language, secretly proud to note that she had a far better accent then he did, “Sorry, master.”

“Yes, probably,” replied Trempwick darkly, implying she most certainly would be. He shifted to his irksome chirpy personality. “I see you are amused by the fact you speak English flawlessly, whereas I have an excellent vocabulary coupled with an atrocious accent, dear Nell. We shall see if you are still amused when I spend more time with you in an effort to improve. And now, sweetest Nell, I do fear I shall have to utilise that pet of yours.”

“Really?” asked Fulk neutrally, in the suddenly favoured English, as he dismounted and looked about for the stable boy; he was no where to be seen. Yet more evidence of how lack lustre the servants were.

Trempwick smiled patronisingly at Fulk and carefully enunciated his words as he spoke, as if to someone whose grasp of the tongue was rudimentary at best, “Yes, really, bodyguard. My stable boy has broken his arm so you can play groom today, understood?” When Fulk didn’t reply immediately Trempwick nodded emphatically at him and pulled a huge, fake smile, “Understoody? Yes, yes? Speaky you English?”

Fulk regarded the gurning spymaster coolly and answered in his best court French, “Yes, I speak English, but your accent is so poor you are obviously not at home with the language. We should stick to French.”

Trempwick’s chirpy personality died. He bared his fangs in a wolfish smile, “We can speak French if you like, bodyguard, and then we will be fined for breaking the king’s new law. We cannot afford to pay the fine, and so we shall hang. Well, you shall hang; Nell and I will be beheaded since we are of gentle birth, unlike your grubby self. Sound like fun, bodyguard?”

“New law?” inquired Eleanor.

“Yes, his royal highness, king William, sixth of that name, king of England, blah blah, you know the rest, has decreed that his lands will no longer use English and French equally. English is now the official language of the realm and any found speaking French will be assumed to be sympathetic to the, how did our sovereign put it? Ah yes, ‘that beardless whelp of a boy king who can’t even drag himself away from his mother’s skirts to do battle!’”

Eleanor pulled a face, “So, his latest peace treaty was refused?”

“However did you guess, Nell?” said Trempwick brightly, “He is on his way back from Wales to muster new forces to prove to the French that they do want him as their king. I have seldom seen such a flurry of messengers, both bird and human, travelling the realm. According to my eyes and ears he is making twenty-five miles a day, even in this sleet.” Trempwick glanced sidelong at Fulk, “But this is hardly talk for the ears of anybody, dear Nell. Let us adjourn to the solar, and leave your pet to sort out the horses.” The spymaster sneezed and shivered, “At least let us get out of this damnable sleet!”





In the solar Trempwick ushered Eleanor next to the fire, taking her damp cloak himself, since there were no servants present, and hanging it up to dry. He picked up the room’s only stool and placed it to one side of the fireplace with a gap of only a few feet. “Do sit down, dear Nell,” he said with overbearing concern, “I would not want you to catch cold. You sit nice and close to the fire and warm up.”

They had been back all of ten minutes, if that, and already he was making her life uncomfortable. He must be really upset about those goons John had sent, and that made it too dangerous to try and play his game, matching him move for move. When Trempwick was upset you always lost, and when you finally did the stakes were far higher. Reluctantly she sat down on the edge of the stool, trying to nudge it over surreptitiously. Even a few inches would reduce the blazing heat.

Trempwick seated himself in his favourite chair a comfortable distance from the flames. He stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles, linking his hands idly in his lap. “Now, dear Nell, do tell me about your delightful visit with your brother.” His face and voice hardened, “I am especially interested in the parts which explain why you left with two good horses and came home with one nag and a packhorse, and why you have been dawdling your way back.”

The heat of the fire was making Eleanor’s skin feel tight and her eyes dry. She squinted slightly, trying to reduce the burning feeling. She could smell her clothes scorching. “Our horses were taken in the rush of rats fleeing the sinking ship. We have been dawdling, as you put it, because we ran out of money days ago and had to work in exchange for shelter.”

“Work?” Trempwick’s mouth twisted sourly, “That man at arms has a new set of armour, or so I hear. He dares make my princess mend clothes so he can avoid selling his helmet?”

“It is good quality equipment, far too valuable to part with. I might hate sewing but it is preferable to killing people.”

Trempwick laughed, “I cannot believe my own Nell just said that! Soon you shall be happily married with nine children, as ordinary and boring as your frightful sister Matilda. Sewing!” he repeated, as if she had just said something hilarious. Perhaps she had; sewing was entirely respectable and therefore not usually found in her vicinity.

“I think not,” she said firmly. Mere minutes ago she had been so cold her ears were numb and her feet blocks of ice. Now she could feel sweat running down her back. She leaned away from the fire, vainly trying to reduce the feeling of being a spit roast.


“No, the only person who would stand a chance of survival would be …” Trempwick looked thoughtful, then said more quietly, “would be me.” He took in the horrified expression on her face and laughed almost sadly, “You need not look so revolted, dearest Nell. I prefer blondes; preferably tame, obedient ones who only use knives for cutting food.” The spymaster sniffed the air, frowned slightly, then looked at Eleanor in a surprised manner, “I know it is a cold day, Nell, but you had best sit further back from the fire. I do believe you are beginning to singe and you have gone a rather unhealthy red.”

Feeling almost pathetically grateful Eleanor shot away from the fire before he changed his mind. Even the warm air filling the room seemed chilly by comparison; she shivered as she settled in her usual chair opposite Trempwick.

“Your brother is safely away,” Trempwick informed her gravely, “My birds brought me word this very morning.”

“What of his family?”

“I sent word of John’s treason to our king two days ago; I expect word of their arrest to arrive soon. They will be kept in some draughty castle somewhere under close guard, probably until the king dies. They may be released if our new monarch decides to show mercy. They may remain prisoners for the rest of their lives.”

Eleanor worded her next question carefully, “So they are unlikely to catch a winter fever on the trip?”

Trempwick’s eyes sparkled with amusement, “Dear, dear, how neatly phrased, sweet Nell. No, I have not been asked to kill them.”

“Do you think it likely?”

“Why the sudden interest in some sister in law you have never met? Let me guess; there but for the grace of God, and your own stubbornness if you had married someone with ambition?” She confirmed his suspicion with a tiny nod. Trempwick sighed and stroked his chin, “And they thought to pass you on to Northumberland,” he gave a short bark of laughter; almost completely at odds with his very brief burst of melancholy “You would have dispatched him in the blink of an eye, unravelling their entire plot.” He became more serious, “I would not be so concerned about Sophie, dearest Nell. If I were you I would be more concerned with myself. I shall have no choice but to paint you as an incompetent agent whose failed spying tipped the ringleader off, enabling him to escape.”

“I know.”

“I would claim you had never left, but John … we cannot be assured of his silence.”

“We both know that would make little difference.”

After a weighty silence Trempwick seemed to grow tired of her, and dismissed her with a vague wave, “I am sure you want a bath and something to eat. You should probably take care of the pet of yours too.”





In a remarkable feat, one which Eleanor was not inclined to celebrate, the king arrived in Woburn just three days later. Trempwick’s agent in the outlaying village the king passed through sent his usual warning by carrier bird, giving them just enough warning for Eleanor to hide safely in her room while Trempwick waited to meet the king. Fulk barred the door then joined her at the window, watching the scene through a narrow slit in the shutters.

The king rode in alone, his escort left far behind. They were probably in the nearest village, as was his usual custom. William did not like having an audience for his less noble moments and he considered Eleanor an embarrassment, a double motive for travelling the last mile alone. He didn’t wait for his horse to stop moving before hurling himself from the saddle and advancing on the spymaster. “Where is she?” he demanded loudly, “Where is the treacherous bitch?”

“Sire, treacherous may not be-”

The king’s sword sang from its sheath and flew to Trempwick’s throat. Even at this distance Eleanor could see blood beginning to flow, soaking into the decorative neck braid of spymaster’s neat green tunic. “Where?” repeated the king.

“If you will come inside, sire …?” offered Trempwick. The king held his pose for a second, then slowly removed the sword and put it away. He returned and pulled something from his horse’s saddle, then stalked into the manor, Trempwick trailing behind him, one hand on his neck to staunch the bleeding.

“He’s going to kill me,” whispered Eleanor numbly, “He has never attacked Trempwick before.”

“Then run away,” said Fulk, more pleading than suggesting, “even for a few hours-”

Eleanor was already shaking her head, “They find me and bring me back; there is nowhere to hide. Hours is all I would gain, and he would still be here.”

“You can’t mean to just tamely wait here …”

“What else can I do?” asked Eleanor, finally closing the shutters and coming away from the window. “Tell me what else I can do,” she begged, her composure cracking. Fulk closed his eyes and looked away, hooking his thumbs through his belt and clenching his fists around the leather. Eleanor laughed, almost hysterically, “You know he has a standing edict that I am never to appear in his presence armed? He will complain my hair is loose, but hairpins are potential weapons – I cannot win.”

“Command me,” said Fulk hoarsely. He would leave this in her hands, hardly fair but this time he could not – would not – simply hide with the other servants and wait.

With visible effort she pulled herself together and replied shakily, “I will not die; Trempwick would not allow it. I will not die,” she repeated again, not sure if it was for her benefit or Fulk’s. “I will not die.” She started chewing her thumbnail.

With a muttered oath Fulk’s resolve cracked and he crossed the room in several swift strides, pulled her into his arms and crushed her against him. After a brief pause due to shock Eleanor wrapped both her hands in his tunic, clinging on as if her life depended on it. Several tears escaped, and she buried her face in his chest. Fulk eased his grip slightly and smoothed her hair with one hand. He discovered that she was just tall enough for his chin to rest naturally, and comfortably, on the top of her head. There was nothing to say; she would survive thanks to the spymaster, if he thought for a minute she was going to her death he would have picked her up and run for it, but they both knew the mess the king had made of her last time was going to pale in comparison to the mess he was going to cause now. Somehow focusing on what would not happen made what would seem less awful.

A long while later someone knocked quietly on the door. “Nell?” called Trempwick, “I have managed to calm him down but we do not want to give him time to dwell; I have never seen a temper as bad as this, never.”

Reluctantly they eased apart. “I will be requiring the services of my royal cut tender,” Eleanor said, her voice steady, “you can do nothing more. If you die I will have no one to salve my wounds; I cannot do that myself.” Fulk smiled sadly, remembering how long she had spent insisting she did not need his help. She took a deep, steady breath and started towards the door. “I am not afraid,” she said resolutely. She had always been a good liar.

“Course not,” replied Fulk softly, seeing right through her act.

Eleanor unbarred the door and silently fell into step with Trempwick, clinging to one small, newly discovered fact that made her step surprisingly light.

Fulk cared.




All together now, Aaaaaahhhh :tongueg:

There you go, Axeknight, one of several mini window scenish bits.

frogbeastegg
10-09-2004, 17:51
Eleanor studied the woodwork of the table closely; it was nice oak, well sanded and polished. The planks of wood making up the surface had been fitted together so well you struggled to see the joins. Pity about the blood slowly staining it. Maybe the servants would be able to clean it before it soaked in and became permanent? It smelled of beeswax polish; that was nice. She decided lying here, half across the table, half standing, without someone holding her in place was difficult, uncomfortable too. It might be a good idea to move. Her knees gave way and she slid to the floor, landing in a crumpled heap and drawing a cacophony of complaints from her many injuries.

With nothing better to do she took a good look at the rushes on the floor, trying to force her eyes to focus so she could see the one tickling her nose. Yes, there it was, waggling slightly each time she exhaled. She began to drag her hand up to brush it away but gave up immediately; her hand felt oddly heavy and it hurt too much to move.

Dimly she knew lying here was not a good idea; she had to get up and walk out, back to her room. That was important because … ah yes, because it was important. She frowned slightly; that didn’t make sense. She gave up chasing that thought; it was such hard work. She drifted into blackness.





As Fulk passed the solar on his way back to Eleanor’s room with an armful of linen scraps, and a bowl and ewer of warm water he nearly ran into a man exiting the room. He took in the expensive but travel worn clothes, now splattered with blood, the deep blue eyes that looked familiar, the imperious air, and knew at once who this was. The king. Somehow he forced himself to bow respectfully. As he dipped down he noticed a riding crop grasped loosely in the king’s left hand.

William’s eyes flicked over the medical supplies, “Ah, good, You will bring those to the main bedchamber at once. I doubt you are qualified but you will have to do.”

“Sire?”

The king held his right hand out for inspection. The knuckles were split and bloody, and the little finger hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. “I am hardly proud,” he said, his manner an incongruous mixture between discomfiture and humour, “This is the second time I have broken fingers. It appears being a slow learner runs in the family. You will tend this; setting fingers is none too hard.” He turned back to the solar and threw the whip into the room, then set off for Trempwick’s room, expecting Fulk to follow.

Fulk hesitated, then did the only thing he could. He followed after the king, telling himself that with her touchy pride it was probably a good idea to leave Eleanor to find him, rather than the other way around, so even peeking into the solar probably wasn’t a good idea. The sooner he fixed the king up, as painfully as possible, the sooner he could get back to waiting for her.

The king had appropriated Trempwick’s room and was apparently planning to stay overnight, pressing towards London in the morning. It was the first time Fulk had seen inside Trempwick’s room, and he was rather surprised to find it looked like any other noble’s bedroom. Somehow he had expected either Spartan plainness or rich extravagance, not this cosy little sanctuary. As with all rooms in the manor the floor was covered with a scattering of rushes mixed with fragrant herbs. A single wolf skin lay on the floor on the side of the bed nearest the door. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed; the monotony broke only by a pair of small tapestries, both rather unusual. One showed a king enthroned, orb in one hand and sceptre in the other with his sword across his knees. The other was rather more intriguing; it depicted a girl with dark hair riding a horse, a unicorn by the long horn protruding from the creature’s forehead. The girl was not very detailed, the image was too small for that, but somehow she reminded Fulk of Eleanor. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly, but she did.

The single, high backed chair before the fireplace was well worn, as if the spymaster spend considerable time sat there, thinking and watching the flames. The bed, well, Fulk was envious. The wooden frame was neatly carved with a loop and knot pattern and hung about with nice, thick curtains in a slightly faded Burgundy. It was piled high with blankets and topped by a fur lined bedspread with a coat of arms embroidered on it. Presumably the arms belonged to Trempwick. While he froze in a draughty corridor sleeping on a lumpy pallet the spymaster was be snug and warm in what must be a family heirloom. A couple of chests near the window must contain all his clothing and personal effects. A sword hung by its belt from a peg on the wall above the chests; it was a fine, workmanlike weapon intended for use rather than show. Fulk was surprised to note the absence of a table; he had thought Trempwick the kind to sit in his room working, but apparently work was something which never reached this room.

The king moved to the chair, and picked up the book which lay open on it. He inspected the cover, grunted, then put it on the bed, still open at the correct place. He seated himself and held his right hand out for Fulk to work on. Fulk did so, first sponging the blood from the lacerated knuckles as roughly and clumsily as he dared.

“You are not one of Trempwick’s usual people,” said the king as he watched Fulk work.

“No, sire,” replied Fulk neutrally. He was painfully aware he was next to a human volcano, one which could erupt in Eleanor’s direction if he said the wrong thing.

“Then what in God’s name are you?” snapped the king impatiently.

“I am your daughter’s bodyguard, sire.”

“Are you indeed?” said William thoughtfully, looking sharply at Fulk. His brows knitted together. “You are the one she brought back from Nantes?”

“Sire,” confirmed Fulk. He felt he was on thin ice and edging out onto thinner still.

“Trempwick says you have proven yourself both useful and able.” His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace, “Loyal too, more loyal than my own children. Never have children, …?”

“Fulk,” he supplied. Trempwick had been praising him? Now there was news. Fulk supposed that the spymaster had been aiming to take the heat off Eleanor last time by making it sound like she had done something he approved of. Whether it had worked or not was anyone’s guess.

“Never have children, Fulk. They tear you to shreds while you yet live, no matter how much you love them.” For a split second Fulk saw an aging man, one deeply wounded by the betrayal of his son. Then the regal facade came back up and Fulk remembered who he was dealing with. The king watched balefully as Fulk finished cleaning the cuts on the right hand and moved to the left. He heaved a weary sigh, “Misguided loyalty; it is a dangerous thing.”

“Sire?”

“Oh, I know all about her warning John and helping him escape; it was easy to guess. Trempwick was wrong to send her there; he should have known she would aid John. Misguided loyalty to her brother.” He clenched his left hand into a tight fist, a few of the cuts split open and began to ooze blood. His mouth set into a hard line, “She will not dare go against me again; if I cannot have her loyalty I will have her fear. I will allow no one to threaten my kingdom.”

Fulk grasped the broken finger and yanked it as hard as he dared. The king grunted, and Fulk pulled it again, as if perfecting the alignment. He probed the swollen, delicate flesh above the break with ungentle fingers, seeing if the bones were correct. Deciding they weren’t he tweaked the finger again. Sweat broke out on the king’s forehead, but otherwise he gave no sign of the pain Fulk knew he was causing. To do more under the guise of setting the bone would be dangerous, although Fulk did feel that those bones could use a lot more work before they were correct. He picked up a strip of linen bandage, folded it in two to make it narrower and began to fasten the finger to the one next to it, pulling hard on the material each time he completed a circuit about the fingers to tighten it and hold the finger in place. Each time he jerked the bandage the tendons in the king’s hand tensed minutely.

Job done he stood back. The king gave his hand a cursory inspection, then stood and unfastened the dagger and sheath from his belt. He held it out to Fulk, “Here, largesse from your king in return for your loyal service.” Fulk took the dagger but William held onto it, “Daggers work two ways, Fulk. It can be a reward, or it can not. Remember that.” He let go of the weapon and returned to his seat. “You may go. Carry a message to my daughter; tell her I expect to see her at dinner. I will not have her sulking.”

When Fulk had left and the door was closed William remained still, watching the flames in the fireplace and brooding.






She regained consciousness several minutes later. Something was tickling her nose, ah yes, the rush. She battled to grasp the wits which had apparently been scattered somehow. She had to get up and leave; that was a fact she knew and she held onto it, working to find the thoughts which linked to it. She had to leave because … otherwise he had won? Who? Won what? She nearly gave up again but somehow this was important. He was … he was … her father? That realisation set off a chain reaction, bringing to the fore thoughts that she had ingrained deep into her mind over the years. She had to get up and walk out, had to prove this was nothing. She had to prove she could not be crushed into submission so easily, she had to, somehow a lot depended on that. Everyone would be waiting ... everyone would be waiting to laugh at her for being weak if she didn’t. She couldn’t let them, him, win.

She started to bring her right hand down so she could push herself up, dragging it slowly and painfully across the floor. She braced herself, then tried to raise herself. She collapsed back immediately, barely having moved. Alright, walking might be tricky; she would crawl. She laboriously dragged herself towards the door, moving less than a finger’s breadth each time. Something was tickling her nose. The same damned floor rush as before! Eleanor let her head sag the inch onto the floor again with a painful thud. She had barely moved at all.

Something was niggling away at the edge of her attention, what? Something somehow related to all this … She swallowed painfully, noting her throat hurt. The niggling got stronger. She frowned, focusing, trying to remember. It was there, just out of reach … it was …she had … screamed. For the first time she had screamed. He had won; he knew how much he had hurt her. It was over.

The floor rushes made good company, and the floorboards were reassuringly solid. She would stay here. Walking out, even crawling out, made no difference now. She had lost.





Fulk was surprised not to find Eleanor waiting impatiently for him when he arrived back at her room. He bit down the disquiet as soon as it began to rise; she must have decided to do something before getting back here, or perhaps she was talking to Trempwick. It did not mean that she was incapable of getting back here. Eleanor being Eleanor she was probably striding about being obvious, proving to all and sundry that she was perfectly alright, working off and for that stubborn pride of hers.

After several minutes of increasingly anxious pacing Fulk decided enough was enough; he would go and find her. His first port of call was the most obvious, and the closest; the solar. As soon as he opened the door past the crack the king had left it open at he saw her lying on the floor near the table. He swore and rushed to her side, taking quick stock of the damage. Someone had ripped the back of her dress away and from shoulder to waist she was one mass of bleeding lines, crossing over each other and so numerous it was hard to tell where one line started and another ended. Under the blood, which was still flowing lazily, it was possible to see flesh beginning to discolour with bruises. There had to be more he couldn’t see or she would have returned on her own.

Her head lifted slightly as she noticed his presence, “My Christmas present,” she mumbled in a weak attempt at humour.

“If you lean on me can you walk?”

“No idea.” Probably not; the ground was sending out an irresistible attraction.

“I could carry you, but it’ll aggravate your back.”

“Doubt I will notice, can’t get worse, surely.”

From experience Fulk could have told her it could definitely get worse; he had thought having a crossbow bolt stuck in his thigh was as bad as it got, until they removed it. Deciding he had no other choice, and that it was better not to warn her it would get worse beforehand, Fulk lifted her into his arms, trying to ignore the sharp intake of breath as he jolted her. He stood up and settled her back against his chest in an effort to take the pressure of her back. The instant her side touched his chest she groaned. “Think my ribs are broken,” she explained feebly.

Fulk held her slightly away from his body; if she had broken ribs he didn’t want to drive one into her lung. That would probably kill her. “He broke his finger,” Fulk told her as he carried her back to her room, hoping to both distract her and get her focusing on something with a bit more of her usual self.

“Good,” she said with quietly vicious satisfaction.

“I set it for him. Pity I’m not good at setting bones, I think I hurt him quite a bit.”

“Better still.”

Fulk put his back against the door to her room and pushed it open, then went in and carefully placed her face down on the bed. “Broken ribs, one hell of a mess on your back, what else?”

The pain of being moved had jolted her memory into action. Eleanor remembered being hit until she collapsed, then kicked and dragged to her feet, only to be knocked down again, over and over until he grew tired of it and slung her over the table. That explained why it was so much effort to move. She didn’t want to talk about it. “Think maybe my toes are not bruised, makes them the exception to the rule. Fix my back, the rest I will do later.”

Fulk couldn’t see how she was going to manage that, and if her ribs were broken they needed a more expert opinion than he could provide. Well, at least he could try and do something with her back while he thought of a way to conjure a surgeon from thin air. “You know he expects to see you at dinner?” he said, as he poured some water into a bowl and began soaking bits of cloth in it.

“Damn,” she groaned, then, “Got to go.”

“Pigs will fly first,” he told her sternly as he looked at the ruin of her back and wondered where to start. He brushed the bloodstained lengths of her hair out of the way, then started at the top, cleaning the still bleeding wounds as best he could.

It was astonishing how you could drown in pain until it filled your whole world and think it could get no worse, only to find that it could. This was the second time she had been proved wrong. Nausea hit her along with the fresh waves of agony, and she battled both to keep her stomach contents down, and to keep from shying away from Fulk’s delicate touch and screaming the manor down. “There’ll be pork in the treetops by morning,” returned Eleanor, concentrating on forming a proper sentence in an effort to sound stronger and muster her wits. It lacked polish but it would do for now. She had lost the main battle; there was still a fighting retreat and rearguard action available to her and she would fight those with everything she could throw at them.

Fulk stopped dabbing and frowned disapprovingly at her, “Oh rising sun, unless you are carried down and tied to your chair to stop you falling off it I can’t see you managing dinner.”

“I have to … I have to,” she said wearily. Blackness was nibbling way at the edges of her vision again and her ears were ringing; she was in danger of fainting again. How humiliating. She focused on the words she needed to say, forcing them out, “Give him an inch and he’ll take several miles and then all these years of fighting are wasted.”

Fulk surveyed his progress; there was none. As fast as he cleaned blood away from the few areas of untouched skin more replaced it. He would have to leave it until the bleeding ceased. In the interim he could try and talk her out of trying to kill herself, “Eleanor-”

The hand nearest Fulk flailed weakly towards him and grasped the hem of his tunic, “He will see he has won, he will see he can bend me to his will. I must prove I can bear this, that I am not going to give up. I can’t let him know … I would let John rot rather than do this again. He’s won. He can’t know that.”

Fulk said nothing; he didn’t think it worth the effort to argue when he knew she was going nowhere. Freed of the need to focus, and somehow uncaring of how pathetic fainting had always seemed to her, Eleanor collapsed gratefully back into the darkness.




“Nell?” said Trempwick’s voice insistently, “Nell?” Something tapped her cheek, “Nell, come on Nell.” She dragged one eye open and saw the spymaster looking down at her, worried. “Nell,” he said, relieved. This conversation wasn’t very interesting; Eleanor let her eye drift closed again.





Trempwick straightened up, “She is a mite groggy, no?” he said to Fulk. Fulk opened his mouth for an angry retort but Trempwick got in first, “Oh do lighten up, bodyguard. It simply seems preferable to saying she is all but half dead.”

“Yes, now what are we going to do about it?” demanded Fulk tersely.

“Us? Nothing. Nothing we can do, and we cannot even look at half her injuries,” the spymaster pulled a wry face, “well, not unless we want to get ourselves killed. We do have to stick to royal protocol, you know. There’s a midwife in the village, I will send someone to fetch her. They are always unofficial doctors with more varied knowledge than the name would imply.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Someone needs to entertain the king, and someone should keep an eye on her. Since someone,” he shot a malevolent glare at Fulk, “was stupid enough to tell her she was expected at dinner it is likely she will try to do something foolish. As much as I would like to remain here sending you to look after the king would likely prove a disaster.” With one final look at Eleanor Trempwick left.






"There'll be pork in the treetops by morning" is a quote from another Eleanor, Eleanor of Aquitaine in the film The Lion in Winter. I love that line, and it seemed very suitable for my Eleanor at this particular moment.

Ah, the Fulk/king scene, so deep. I wonder if you spotted him say that ... and Trempwick's furnishings are very ... and there are several tiny details which are ... Oh, damn! That scene is a semi masterpeice and I can't even say why! ~:mecry:

Ludens
10-10-2004, 09:44
Very good! It may not be the heigh of originality, but this is miles ahead of the window scene.

One comment: the story is getting rather poor on description. There is hardly any, except for the last part you posted. This is most obvious when Fulk and Eleanor are fleeing from John's castle. Everyone is trying to flee, yet you only mention the crowd because they are impeding our heroes' progress. Dito for the noise they must create. Let there be fights, let there be screaming women, let there be someone ineffectually bellowing orders! That goes a tremendous way to creating the right atmosphere, and without it, I think the scene only so-so. In the other scenes the dialogue makes up for it, but if you could combine it...

On the other hand, in the last part you did the description well: the bit about the straw at Eleanor's nose is very inventive and very good.

A reader's request: could we get to know more about King William IV? I am really interested in the motivation of the bad guy.

frogbeastegg
10-12-2004, 13:41
William waited with increasing impatience; he knew his spymaster would come to report, but he was certainly taking his sweet time about it. The throb of his broken finger did little to aid his disposition. Restlessly he abandoned his fireside chair and prowled about the room, not touching anything but glaring at everything as if somehow the furnishings had personally offended him. Having completed one circuit of the room he returned to the two hangings and scowled at them. The girl on the unicorn continued on her sedate way, carefree and unconcerned by his enmity. The embroidered king stared back defiantly, his eyes following William’s every move with cold disdain.

It was while he was stood there that Trempwick finally put in his appearance. “You took your merry time,” grumbled William. He was not used to being kept waiting.

“Forgive me, but I was delayed cleaning up a small mess in the solar,” said Trempwick as he closed the door. He did not bother to bow or keep any of the other formalities due to his king and liege lord; they had known each other too long for that.

“You have servants,” William pointed out, “let them bother about sweeping up rubbish. You bother about your king.” It sounded far harsher than he had intended.

“Indeed, but the day I allow a servant to sweep my pet princess out with the old floor rushes is the day I take to claiming I am a duck and walking on my hands.” Trempwick’s answer was light hearted and said with a hint of a smile, but somehow the king still felt it censorious, though he could not say why.

The king rounded on Trempwick, his temper building, “That has never bothered you before, Raoul.”

“I have never needed to bother before,” replied the spymaster calmly.

“You exaggerate, and the fault was hers.” William held Trempwick’s gaze for a moment, but he found his eyes were attracted to the long cut snaking parallel to Trempwick’s jaw line, and the shame of drawing his sword on his most loyal servant doused his stirring temper. He changed the subject, gesturing at the hangings, “Interesting choices, particularly the girl.”

“Yes, perhaps more than you think. I feel they represent what drives me rather aptly. Care to take a guess, William?”

“This one,” he pointed at the king, “to remind you of whom you serve, and this one,” he gestured at the girl on the unicorn, “to remind you of what I have entrusted you with?”

One corner of Trempwick’s mouth rose into a lopsided half smile, “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out thoughtfully, “Yes, that is one way of putting it.” The thoughtfulness dropped from his tone and he assumed a pose and intonation more suited to telling war stories, “You remember my last field mission some thirteen years ago, the one to the duke of Anjou’s court to assassinate the old duke? The picture of the girl is my trophy, if you will. I took it from the dead man’s solar. When he took me on a tour he showed me that picture and began talking at great length about the various themes and symbologies, there are many but one or two are stronger than the rest. The resemblance to your daughter is uncanny; I thought it a good reminder of why I was giving up field work. Because of a very young girl with a proclivity for deception and a grand plan many years away from fruition. Some of the symbology only makes it all the more appealing to my sense of humour.”

The spymaster crossed to the fire and held out his hands to the blaze, turning them back and forth between palm and back ever few seconds to warm them evenly. “So, what will you do with Northumberland?”

“The man will lose his head as a warning to others. The earls and other lesser members of his plot will lose titles and lands; my exchequer will swell with the fines and confiscated wealth, much to my joy. One can never have too much money, Raoul, and armies do drain the treasury frightfully.” William joined his spymaster at the fire and spoke quietly, “I have though on a little and I see now what you did. Thank you, for my son’s life. Forgive me for thinking you a blunderer.”

Trempwick took a moment before replying, “You and your accursed sense of justice are easy to predict. You must behead Northumberland, and if you remove one ringleader your conscience will decree you must deal the same to the other. Eleanor is also easy to predict, and I think you will agree the end result is satisfactory to all involved.”

William let the silence hang for a moment, then seated himself in the chair and his head dropped into his hands and he asked, “Christ God, why? He is my son, I gave him lands, titles and honour. Why did he do this?” He looked up from his hands at Trempwick, his body still hunched over, “Why?”

“His head had been filled with nonsense. I blame myself; I found out too late to put an end to it before the damage was done.”

“But why was he so easy to poison?” Trempwick had no answer and William buried his head in his hands again. He spoke, his voice muffled and low, “I pray each morning I never see him again, just as I pray for Stephan’s soul and forgiveness. I tell myself better a clean end, for him and England both, than a life dragged out and marred by disability. He would have had no life; he could not even ride a horse. And now I tell myself that I hope never to see John again, knowing if I set eyes on him again I will have no choice but to … How did it ever come to this, Raoul? One son dead by my own order, one turned against me, one loyal for now, one daughter who writes dutifully twice a year but otherwise ignores me, one who is dead, one imprisoned and cut off from the world so I cannot help her, and one …”

“You need not worry about her, I have her well in hand. You have seen how I can use her to your advantage, and she is well guarded. Very few even know she is here, so you need not fear on that account.”

“Well guarded? You have but five servants.”

“Five servants, four of whom are some of my best agents. The fifth is but a boy; he shows plenty of promise and is an able scout. This is in addition to my network. Ten miles, coming or going; if I do not want you within ten miles of Woburn you do not get within ten miles of Woburn, or vice versa. I could expand my household but then I would become more noticeable, countering any gains I might make.”

“I want her kept under house arrest.”

“William, she already is. She has been ever since you handed her over to me; did you not listen just now? Ten miles; she has only managed eight and did well to get so far.” Trempwick recited a maxim he had memorised decades ago, in his boyhood, “Love, fear, control of something or someone they care about; those are the three main ways to gain control over a person. Pick a person apart to see how they work, then apply that proverb and they are yours.”

William was sure he did not need fancy sayings to handle Eleanor, only time. Time was the one thing he never had. He always got off to a reasonable start and then had to leave; when he finally saw her again they were back to the beginning. It had always been like that; months of neglect then a half hour’s attention, then months more neglect in the care of people plainly not suited to the task. “Then I will, as ever, leave the matter in your hands.” What other choice did he have, even if Trempwick had proven himself incapable of quashing many of her defects? He did far better than the multitude of tutors, and that would have to be enough. Tired of discussing the perennial problem of Eleanor he moved to the most important matter he wanted to discuss before he left, “I am making you my new duke of Northumberland.”

The sudden grant of the title did not seem to surprise Trempwick, but then so little did. He considered for a while, then spoke slowly, “I would have to assign much of it to underlings, and rule in name only for the most part. My other responsibilities keep me busy.”

“You have had no issues ruling Kent in this manner for decades.”

“True, it depends on finding worthy men to govern in my stead.”

“I do not doubt you will find them; bringing people to your side and making them yours is a talent of yours, Raoul.”

Trempwick seemed very amused by this; he laughed quietly, “Yes, that is so.”

“I believe that is our business concluded for now, Raoul. I will leave tomorrow; I have trials to attend.” William rubbed his eyes and yawned, “It is almost Christmas and I am arranging treason trials. I just spent several weeks in Wales in the depths of winter to receive their duke’s homage and make them officially vassals of England, and as soon as the weather is good enough I leave to fight yet another war in France. I am fifty-one, Raoul. I have been travelling from place to place fighting, treating, judging, and ruling since I was fifteen. Where does it end?”

“When you are dead, my friend, just as my work ends when I am dead.”

“When I am dead,” repeated William wearily, “What will happen then? Have I built a realm, and a family, which will endure and thrive? There is so much left to do before it is ready for Hugh. I worry about my children; Abel, Cain, a brat and a prisoner, only Matilda survives with a solid future.”

Trempwick smiled knowingly, “I am thirty-four; I have no family and I too fear I shall run out of time with much left undone.” He clapped the king on the shoulder, “We sound like a pair of old men, which we are decidedly not. Let me acquaint you with the work of my cook; he is an excellent spy and few can match his infiltration abilities. Sadly the same cannot be said of his cuisine.”





Finally the secret of those dire servants revealed! I've been waiting to state that clearly for some 80 pages!!

I had that scene planned anyway; it tells you quite a lot, both overtly and covertly.

The lack of description was hopefully a temporary hiccough which is now fixed. Er, well maybe not in this part .... hard to decide. I would not call William a bad guy, but then I don't think any of the characters in Eleanor are. They are more grey, but only some characters get to display this. :sigh: Poor William has so little screen time; scenes without one of the duo in are rare by necessity - the reader cannot know too much that they do not. The number of times that gooseberry overlooks things makes me want to scream. Fulk is just as bad. Ok, I'll allow myself to highlight one example of this. From the last part, William says, “She will not dare go against me again; if I cannot have her loyalty I will have her fear. I will allow no one to threaten my kingdom.” What did Fulk overlook? The king just implied he thinks Eleanor is dangerous. It's there for the reader to spot, or not as the case might be.

Willima is going to get more time shortly. I will do my best to heap the detail and insight in, and he should get at least one more scene from his POV, just like this one.

Axeknight
10-13-2004, 17:10
It says alot indeed (even to a philistine like myself). I think my suspicion about Trempwick has been confirmed; but I shall have to wait.

I especially like how William isn't 'the bad guy' anymore. Its nice to have him fleshed out a bit more.

frogbeastegg
10-13-2004, 18:12
I just posted a mini essay about Eleanor and the king in response to a comment over at Paradox. I thought I might as well put a copy here.

The king does have control, pretty good control, but his temper is as bad as rumour suggested. Just look at what he did to Trempwick when he arrived, and how he felt about it later. That was not planned, just pure rage so out of control he did something terrible. Usually he will control it, just as he controlled his pain, but with Eleanor it is safe to go into a rage. Not only is it impossible for her to defend herself but it will not harm his vassal's loyalty, nor is it considered anything other than his right as her father. It is prudent to make sure no one else is around to witness his less regal moments, as was commented in the story when he arrived, simply because others might worry that one day he will loose his temper on them. If he were to do the same thing to a vassal or servant it would be excessive, insulting and the victim would be almost required by the rules of society to do something to avenge their honour.

Also Eleanor has a worse effect on his temper than anyone else; she absolutely refuses to bend even slightly. Remember waaaay back around page 20 when the servants were eager to overhear what she would come up with this time, before he battered her into silence? What he wants is a victim who will scream and cry and beg for mercy; what he gets is Eleanor. That just makes him all the more furious.

Against that already potent backdrop there are other factors in play. They are both stubborn; Eleanor refuses to back down and do as he wants in anything, because she knows he is stubborn and he will take that as a cue to force her into the life she has been fighting to avoid. Neither of them will give up. The king thinks he can bend her to his will; she refuses to give ground.

He considers her to be a mistake, mostly so unconventional because of his neglect and failures as a parent, because he did not provide proper education and so on for her when she was still young enough to be shaped. He only really took an interest when she was six, that day in the throne room, and by then it was far too late. He does believe that he can sort her out if he just has enough time, time to correct her every ‘mistake’ instantly and consistently. Give him a month and he would insist she would be a model daughter at the end of it. Aside from the scars and burning but hidden hatred she probably would be.

For all his talk about killing her he does worry about her future, and he knows that, because of him, she does not really have one. Of course he sees her future as marriage or a nunnery with no other options. If she cannot have that then perhaps she is better off dead, at peace at last and no longer bringing shame on herself and her family? Even with a tolerant family Eleanor is a bit too unconventional, and that is assuming you remove the agent skills. He firmly and honestly believes it is in her best interests to reform her into a typical, obedient princess. Don’t misunderstand; if he gets mad enough or thinks there is no other option she will die, just as Stephan did, just as John will if he sees him again.

More than all this she is a waste – she should have made a marriage to her family’s advantage, bringing in more allies and power. She is am embarrassment on the political stage; the king of England has a daughter so bad that no one will have her. What a failure as a parent and weak man he must be.

He is, as he hinted in the story, slightly frightened of her. I won’t say why, but there are very many reasons and only one has some relation to the obvious fact that she is so atypical. She is, though she would never admit it, terrified of him. The closest she has ever got to acknowledging that, even to herself, is what she said to Fulk in that bit about the king winning.

That's a very quick overview of the aspects of this which have been mentioned in some form thus far; there are others I shall leave for the story. They have a very complex relationship, considering they barely see each other. It is premeditated to the point where he goes to visit her, knowing he is furious and knowing he will end up beating her again, but thinking perhaps this time she will start to bend.

Hehe, that’s a page-and-a-third essay on one aspect in simple and partial detail. This story has so many more aspects deserving long, in-depth essays, and so much I cannot even hint at for now. This really does have plenty of depth bubbling away under the surface.





Ah, so someone might have done a little research on the legend of the unicorn :grins: Course that produces an idea which could have several interpretations ...

Axeknight
10-13-2004, 19:32
Actually, no - but I'm going to now...

Google, do your thing!

EDIT - Well, not exactly a thorough search, but I found this:


The Lady of the Unicorn was a predominant part of the European Myth. It was said that only the purest of maidens could tame this beast. When a Unicorn saw a maid sitting in the wood, he would came forward and docilely lay his head in her lap, as innocent as a child. This was the Unicorn's one weakness. Some tales tell of a Lady residing in a cave with the Unicorn. These tales portray the Virgin which loved the Unicorn. However there are more....

zelda12
10-13-2004, 20:45
I'm gone for a week on Work experience and I find froggy has been sitting at her P.C and Deliberately typing away to give me a huge reading assignment when I get back.

I'm sure I'll love it but... why just why. ~;)

zelda12
10-14-2004, 10:59
Brilliant as usual. Ludens mentioned a lack of description. I would like to say I believe this is because, in my humble opinion, Miladies work is mainly character and speech driven in this story. Hence it is not the backround that illuminates a story but the characters that inhabit the stage.

I also get the feeling that Trempwick is the kind of man who holds a grudge and is not a little insane in his own special way.

frogbeastegg
10-15-2004, 15:04
The midwife came. A vaguely pretty woman in her mid thirties she was, in a bizarre advert for her trade, just beginning to swell with a pregnancy of her own. She very carefully asked no questions, looked at no faces, and nothing was said about names or how Eleanor had ended up in such a mess. Fulk thought the poor woman looked as if she thought she had been dragged into something deeply shady and dangerous and expected to be murdered to ensure her silence. Her poor baby was likely to find itself named for whatever saint the midwife favoured in gratitude for her life when she made it home, if the baby survived long enough to be named, of course.

He waited outside Eleanor’s room while the midwife worked, leaning against the cold stone wall with his arms crossed. Eventually she re-emerged, brushing strands of dark blonde hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “She’s sleeping,” the midwife announced to Fulk. He took that to mean Eleanor had fainted again, expressed in as uncritical manner as possible. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but at least while she was unconscious she couldn’t do anything stupid.

“How is she?”

The midwife pursed her lips and looked unhappy. “About as you might expect,” she said carefully. She really was good at this discretion business; too good for Fulk’s liking.

He gave her his most appealing smile and said engagingly, “A little more detail, if you don’t mind. I’ve never been one for mind reading.” Charm; it rarely failed him.

His efforts glanced right off her, like a spent arrow hitting a solid stone wall. “Two of her ribs are cracked, the rest is obvious,” she replied very grudgingly.

Fulk gave up with a sigh; obviously she was not going to tell him anything helpful in case it was taken as disapproval. He uttered some generic thanks and let her go, then entered Eleanor’s room, closing the door properly behind himself. He reconsidered and opened the door again, leaving it slightly ajar. Only a fool might think there was some impropriety going on but better safe than cruelly executed.

Fulk went to the corner where he kept his belongings and dug around in the chest Trempwick had grudgingly provided for him to store his stuff in. After a bit of digging around he pulled out his battered copy of King Arthur. He dithered for a moment, then tucked the book under his arm and went to the bed where Eleanor lay. The midwife had removed Eleanor’s ruined clothes, and dumped them in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, and tucked her in lying on her right side. So, the cracked ribs must be on her left then; good. That meant it was the same injury that had caused difficulty when he picked her up, rather than a new one. He could smell comfrey, but no other herbs, indicating the midwife had done nothing much more than smear a bit of salve on Eleanor’s back. Fulk didn’t know whether to be reassured by that or not; it could be there was nothing much for her to do, or it could be she had been negligent. He would have to wait until Eleanor was awake and then try to drag details of exactly what had happened out of her. Even the smallest of injuries could kill if infection took hold.

A strand of hair had fallen across her face. He tiled his head to one side, debating if he dared do anything about it. Well, she was asleep, or unconscious or whatever, and he had been daft enough earlier, not that that was an excuse to be daft now. Ah, what the hell, why not? He reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear instead. “Sleeping gooseberry; how adorable,” he murmured softly, “Boring too.”

And that was quite enough of that, thank you. He sat himself down on his coffer, since the room lacked a chair or stool. Now he had seen Trempwick’s room Eleanor’s seemed even poorer. Plain floorboards with the ever present rushes on them, whitewashed walls with nothing to add colour or personality, no furniture aside from her bed, and even that was lacking. While Trempwick had that cosy looking family heirloom Eleanor had a simple, rather narrow bed minus curtains and fancy carvings. It did have a comfy feather mattress, making it Fulk’s preferred seat. The only other things in the room were a couple of chests for clothing and personal items, and a small coffer Fulk knew held agent related tools like lock picks.

For all Trempwick’s protestations about poverty Fulk was not convinced; he was the king’s spymaster and a landed noble. The king would need to ensure his spymaster’s loyalty, and you did not do that by leaving the man open to bribes. That meant he kept his household shabby by design; why? What did he gain by keeping so few, so slovenly servants? Why no maidservant for Eleanor? It appeared the king’s two visits while Fulk had been in Eleanor’s service were good representations of the previous ones and, given their earlier difficulties, that only made the absence of a female servant more baffling. Where was the point in keeping Eleanor in a room that might fit the lowest ranking nobles but never a princess? Where was the point in any of it? He had a few ideas, and he resolved to discuss them with Eleanor as soon as he got an opportunity when it would be hard for anyone to overhear. One thing was certain; the servants spied and reported to Trempwick.

He opened his book to a random page and started reading. After the first few words of Arthur’s coronation he stopped, his eyes starting sightlessly at a crudely illustrated Arthur enthroned inked on the page in gaudy, fading colours. Sympathy. Would he ever learn? Once for a crying girl with a dead pet kitten, once for a … gooseberry. The first had ended badly, the second was nudging closer to something which was impossible.





“I know you are awake, brat,” said an insistent voice. Was she awake? Eleanor supposed so; she wouldn’t be hearing him speak otherwise. “You might fool Trempwick but you do not fool me,” continued the voice. She recognised the voice but hoped against hope it was not who she thought.

She cracked an eye open slightly, not wanting the movement to be seen. Her father stood at her bedside. So much for hope. What to do; wake up and fight back, wake up and do nothing much, or just pretend to be asleep? She had to pick up the fight now before it was too late but, to her disgust, cold, paralysing fear settled in the pit of her stomach at the mere thought. Why couldn’t he go away until she had had time to gather her courage once more, time to blot as much of this from her mind as possible?

William began to pick at the bandage on his finger, fraying the edge, “You are not that badly hurt; only your pride is damaged. You are only using this as an excuse to hide. Sulking ill befits you and I will not have it.”

She wasn’t badly hurt? That was good to know, good indeed. Very kind of him to tell her; she’d been under the illusion that she was. Silly her. Right, that sounded very suitable, now to say it. Eleanor tried to form the words but her voice was frozen.

“No snappy retort?” William sounded very pleased. “Excellent; after all this time you have learned the first lesson. Now, to move onto something a little more advanced – answer when spoken to, brat!” he snapped that last as if he were on a battlefield.

Something dropped with a thump. There was a pause then the king muttered an oath. Eleanor opened her eyes properly to see what was happening. Fulk sat on a chest along the wall where the door was, previously hidden from the king’s view. He looked as if he were asleep, propped up on the wall with his head hanging down on his chest and one hand trailing to the floor. The noise had been the book dropping from his limp hand. If she had been in any fit condition, and if it would not have gotten them both killed, Eleanor would have leapt up and hugged him.

The daft fool had found himself caught in the king’s path and stayed put, pretending to be asleep, and now he was distracting William’s attention from her. As absurd as it sounded he was actually far safer than she was, as long as he did not cross the very fine line between ‘innocent’ aid and intentional aid that could be classed as treason.

The king marched over to Fulk and kicked the chest hard with the sturdy sole of his riding boot, leaving a trace of mud on the woodwork. “You! Out!” he bellowed. The entire manor would have heard that; no one could ever accuse William of having a feeble voice.

Fulk nearly fell off his chest and did a very convincing impression of a startled, confused sleeper awoken prematurely. He looked up at the king and his eyes widened, “Sire,” he said, trying to bow, regain his balance and wake up all at the same time.

“Out,” repeated the king more calmly, “I am speaking to my daughter.”

Fulk stood and said wretchedly, “Sire she was given a sleeping draught before I could relay your message-”

“Why?”

“Cracked ribs, sire.”

“Impossible,” said the king adamantly, “Impossible.”

“The healer said-”

“Then they were wrong!” he insisted, his tone indicating he would not be convinced otherwise.

“Sire?” inquired a third voice, Trempwick’s. The noise had attracted him, just as Fulk must have planned. The spymaster stepped into the room, Eleanor noticed he was slightly dishevelled and out of breath as if he had dropped whatever he was doing and come running the moment the uproar started. “Is something wrong, sire?”

“This man is telling me the brat has cracked ribs; that is quite impossible. Cracked ribs are excessive; I am never excessive.”

Trempwick shrugged his shoulders carelessly, “What does it matter? She is alive and there is no permanent damage; I really do not see how any could accuse you of exceeding the bounds of good taste. Now, there are a few matters I wished to discuss with you, if you have a moment?”

William looked towards Eleanor; she managed to shut her eyes just in time, she could tell he hadn’t noticed she was awake by the lack of commotion. The king looked to Trempwick, then back at Eleanor and sighed, “Time, as ever bloody time. So be it, lead on Raoul.”

They left together, leaving Fulk and Eleanor alone in the sudden silence. Fulk’s eyebrows rose and fell, “Well, well, wasn’t that fun?” he said dryly after what he judged to be a safe amount of time had passed.

“I do believe you are quite insane,” Eleanor told him wonderingly.

“Like princess, like bodyguard, oh eternally fragrant blossom. You were going to say something rude; I know it.”

Eleanor thought for a moment, then spoke on a whim, “Do me a favour and kneel just there,” she indicated a spot on the floor right next to her with a twitch of a finger.

Fulk did as she asked, slowly and warily. He did not know what she had in mind but his reflecting on past mistakes had made him all the more determined not to repeat them.

Eleanor looked at him and pulled a slight face, “Um, I have no idea quite what I am supposed to do; I know I can do this but no one ever bothered to explain precisely how … um, oh well, I shall have to muddle along.” She reached out stiffly with her left arm, which was now patterned with freshly appearing contusions, and thumped Fulk on his right shoulder so lightly he barely felt it, “Be thou a knight.”

She watched as a collection of conflicting emotions flitted across Fulk’s face, many of them too fast for her to identify in the poor light. She saw his eyes shining with unshed tears, and blurted out, “I have done something wrong, haven’t I?”

“No,” he replied quickly, “I just … I finally have what I always wanted, eight years after I gave up hope.” He met her speculative gaze and after a moment said, “It’s a long story, one best left for another day. I wish my parents could see this, their boy knighted by a princess, but my father is dead and my mother would never want to see me again.”

Eight years too late, and those years had changed a lot. A man eight years in his tomb. A boy eight years dead too. A dream eight years in ashes. A future eight years deceased. Eight years of learning and growing. Eight years of living with his guilt. It was eight years too late to go back to Maude; she could be dead now, or a mother, or a widow. She would unquestionably be a different person to the girl he had known and loved, a complete stranger with perhaps no more than a slightly familiar face.

He was almost surprised to find that he didn’t wish this had happened eight years ago. If he were going to wish the past changed then he would do better to wish he had possessed a good deal less pride back then, rather than a knighthood which would only have boosted it. As much as he might desire to banish the consequences of his youthful arrogance he could no longer image the different present those changes would make. Those eight years had made him what he was today; all those years ago he would have dumped Eleanor for John in a heartbeat, without thinking twice about it.

Eight years … he would have saved the man’s life but the boy deserved to die. And the rest? The rest was what it was. He might bitterly regret what he had done to Maude, but if he were brutally honest the only reason he had been thinking about her so much recently was the fact he was using his experience there to avoid making the same mistake again. Eight years is plenty of time to forget, to let wounds heal until they are little more than a scar you only notice from time to time.

Eleanor drew breath to speak but Fulk forestalled her, “Another time,” he said softly but firmly. She said nothing but he could tell she still thought she had done something terrible. “I’m just trying not to disgrace myself and cry little a little girl,” he joked. Actually that was not solely a joke; big boys don’t cry and he was a big tough knight now. More seriously, and very honestly, he said, “I wanted to be a knight ever since I was a little boy; I gave up hope when my dream died, but … it seems this part never really died after all. It seems I still craved a knighthood to go with my bastard’s name.”

He stayed kneeling there in silence for some time. Finally he frowned and asked her, “Why do you always manage to say or do something that leaves me looking like an idiot while I frantically scramble for something to say or do in return?”

Eleanor smiled, “Because I would not want to make your life too easy, armour boy. I shall show mercy this once; I am tired, so do shut up so I can get some sleep.”

Fulk stood, brushed bits of rush off the knees of his hose and swept an elaborate bow. “I hear and obey, oh light of my life,” he said dramatically.



I have been putting a bit more thought into this description business, and I think both Ludens and Zelda are correct. In scenes such as the escape from John's castle more description is needed, especially if I am working to publishable standards. I think you've all heard me say several thousand times I am trying to do that. Description is also needed in large doses each time something new is introduced, such as the first time we are in Trempwick's room.

However in scenes like today's two, the more character introspecitive and dialogue heavy types it is not needed in such great quantities unless it serves the plot. The description of Eleanor's room is ok because it is needed to introduce points, otherwise it does not really belong in this segment. Adding loads of detail on how wonderful everywhere looks and so on would only slow down and disjoint the dialogue. The midwife description works nicely and adds flavour, but even a single more line on her was too much and it killed the flow.

zelda12
10-15-2004, 18:16
Yep exactly what I meant.

Nice scene, one slight query. I thought that the touching on the shoulder thing with a sword was a victorian romantasism. I though the official act that made a man a knight was a slap round the face. To signify the last blow a knight would not return. Sorry just I heard that somewhere.

frogbeastegg
10-15-2004, 19:37
There is quite a lot of controversy over the actual knighting ceremony. By the time this story takes place it is generally accepted that there are two versions of the ceremony. One is the full, fancy version complete with the being dubbed with a sword. The Victorians spiced this up, but when someone important, such as a prince, was knighted off the battlefield there was often a huge fuss made with a lot of fancy rigmarole and pageantry. A poor chap like Fulk would simply be touched with a sword by some other knight, and that would be it. No fancy bit involving belting his sword on, no spurs being attached with pomp and ceremony, no parading about in armour, no reminder of how his sword resembles a cross and should serve the codes of chivalry.

The other is the quick and dirty 'battlefield' version, which simply involves punching the knight and telling him "be thou a knight." Heh, it's not that simple - the wording varies and I just settled on the most common version. Generally I hear about a punch to the shoulder, but I have heard some mention of a slap to the face. The principle is the same, anyway; the last blow the man can take without needing to return it for the sake of his honour.

Nell can't do ceremony so she just uses the quick and dirty version. She can't even muster enough gusto to bash him properly. Any errors are excusable by the fact she says she has no idea what she is doing :winkg:

zelda12
10-15-2004, 20:52
Understand, just though of a funny alternate scene. Ells better and she and Fulk have finished one of their squabbles. Fulk has won again and in desperation Ell knees him in the unmentionables and says, 'Thou art a knight' as Fulk writhes in agony.

Sorry I have a weird mind. Plus I just finished the latest Terry Pratchet, Going Postal, great read lots of laughs I read it in one sitting.

frogbeastegg
10-16-2004, 11:59
Lol, with a few alterations I can see that scene working quite well. Got to find somewhere to put it in the story ...

Dear, dear. I forgot to comment on Axeknight's unicorn research, silly froggy. You got it; only the purest of maidens can tame a unicorn, though I can easily imagine Eleanor clubbing the beast over the head with a big stick until it plays nicely. I can think of ... oh, at least 6 different possible ways of how that could apply to the picture.

Ludens
10-16-2004, 15:30
I am running out of original phrases to describe your story. I think I shall just use an image:

~:thumb:

There, that should do ~D .

Zelda, I am aware that Froggy's story is dialogue-driven. What I meant was that the addition of description would make the story better, especially in the scenes where there isn't much dialogue, like the one where they are escaping from John's castle.

Froggy, The description in the last part is very good, however in the dialogue between Trempwick and William it is somewhat lacking. Not that it was very obvious, but I think that it would be possible to combine description and dialogue when introducing a character (and I don't feel properly introduced to William). You can say a lot about a character between the lines. A common error of amateur writers is to try and give a complete description of a character in one 'introductory paragraph' (which you don't do, by the way). It is often better to slim down the introductory paragraph and spread the information over the dialogue. It doesn't interrupt the flow as long as you don't use it too often, and it allows you to tell more about your characters then when using the 'introductory paragraph'.

frogbeastegg
10-16-2004, 16:36
The next morning dawned grey and miserable with a wicked chill in the air. The sky promised that the freezing rain currently falling would last all day, probably growing worse. William stood in the doorway of the manor, pulling his fur lined cloak tightly about himself and looking glumly at the weather. He turned back to Trempwick and said, “You would think a king would be warm indoors on a day like this, and the peasants would be the only ones forced out. Instead we find the opposite; the king is abroad while the peasants huddle by their fires.”

“You could stay a while longer; freezing to death will do none any good, William.”

The king shook his head immediately, “No, I have business to attend to.” He began to walk but halted almost instantaneously. He stood there for a moment, then spoke without moving in the slightest, “I am considering letting Northumberland off; I shall strip him of everything and throw him in the tower to die of old age.”

In several brisk strides Trempwick was at his king’s side, demanding, “Why?”

“Because I have decided I cannot kill my son,” he replied quietly.

Trempwick made an impatient gesture, “He is gone, he will not be back. You are quite safe-”

William interrupted him, his tone still quiet but filled with steel, “There is always a small chance he will come home.” He sounded as if he hoped John would.

“There is a far greater chance you will be seen as soft! Northumberland must die. John is perfectly safe; you will never set eyes on him again. A rebellion now, while you have so many other fronts to fight on, would tear England apart!” When he could see he was getting through Trempwick reiterated slowly and insistently, “John is never coming home. Never.”

William didn’t move, didn’t give any sign he had even heard. Unexpectedly his head bowed, “You are right; he is lost to me. Now, I must go. I have a trial to organise, and a wedding to arrange.” He strode through the door, bracing himself and squinting as the wind blew freezing rain into his face.

Trempwick hurried after him, head down against the weather, “Wedding? Sire, you did not say-”

The king laughed and paused in the middle of the puddle strewn courtyard, “So, I have surprised you at last, Raoul. Yes, a wedding. I got the Scots king’s reply but yesterday after some weeks of talks. If you did not hear then it appears our measures to ensure secrecy worked admirably; France will not know until it is too late to interfere. I need a solid alliance with Scotland to keep my back safe while I turn my attention to France. This is the only way.”

The rain was beginning to soak through the layers of Trempwick’s clothing, sticking them to his skin and making the cruel wind even harsher. He paid it no heed, his mind occupied with this new revelation. “But who … ?”

Edward, Trempwick’s steward, led the king’s horse out, fully saddled and ready to ride. The king let his spymaster hang in suspense for a while, then told him, “Me.” William began to mount his horse; the animal danced restlessly, unhappy to have left its warm stable. He kept talking, “The king has a daughter, just barely thirteen now, she was inconveniently betrothed to some local duke. That arrangement was easily broken; who would favour a duke above a king? I like it not, but I need a solid alliance and so I need the girl.”

Trempwick put on hand on the horse’s neck, “William, sire, think of the effects this might have-” he said urgently.

“It will allow me to focus my resources and attention on France, and alliance by marriage is far harder to break. If the Scots king plays me false he has squandered his daughter to no advantage, losing her to the care of a man who will have a sudden passion for blotting his petty kingdom from the face of God’s green earth.”

“Your succession, think of what this will do to it,” implored Trempwick, “If you should have another child-”

“You worry about your spymastering; leave me to worry about my succession,” said William curtly as he touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks.

Trempwick stepped back out of the horse’s path. He stood for a while, watching the retreating horseman until he was blocked from sight by some trees. “Thirteen,” he said to himself, deep in thought, “Just barely thirteen …just barely …” He began to walk back to the shelter of the manor building, slowly and without heed for the puddles he was sloshing through.





The rest of the day was dull and uneventful. Trempwick shut himself away in his bedchamber, only emerging twice, both times to visit Eleanor.

Eleanor was asleep during his visits, as she was for much of the day. She did not have much else to do; she was too stiff to even think about getting up, and her single attempt led to the room swimming about her until she thought she would be sick.

Fulk set a new record, reading his King Arthur from start to finish three times in a row, boring himself in the process. He also ‘borrowed’ a chair from the solar without asking; sitting on a chest for extended periods was uncomfortable.





The day after that Eleanor was determined to get up, and after a bit of careful planning she managed to dispatch Fulk to get a tray of food in the middle of the morning. That took a lot of doing because Fulk knew she couldn’t so much as stick a foot out of bed while he was in the room because she was naked, so he had been an almost permanent presence.

With him safely removed she dragged herself out of bed and barred the door so she could get dressed. It took an inordinate amount of time to force her stiff, aching body to cooperate but eventually she managed to get all of her clothes on, though not without cracking open scabs and straining protesting muscles. Most of her dressing was accompanied by a nice commentary by Fulk from outside her door on how he was going to make her regret this later.

She opened the door just as Fulk was saying, “And next time I’ll tie you to the damned bed!”

“You are all talk,” she informed him tartly. She looked at the tray he was still holding between them; it contained a mug of small beer, a chunk of yesterday’s bread, several smallish bits of hard cheese and lump of cold bacon, accompanied by an eating knife. Evidently it was still too early for warm, freshly cooked food. She pinched a bit of cheese and bit it in two with a trace of a grin.

Fulk glared at her, “All talk? We’ll see about that soon enough, oh devious minded one.”

“If you say so.” She stood to one side to let him enter, but not before she grabbed another bit of cheese.

He placed the tray down on her bed, then went to the fireplace and poked the small fire vigorously, adding a few more logs. When he turned back he was just in time to watch the last of the cheese vanish with a contented sigh. Eleanor picked up the knife and moved to cut the bread; she paused thoughtfully and tapped the tip of the knife against the stale crust a few times. She aimed a nice smile at Fulk, “I suppose sending you to get more cheese is out of the question? I cannot go myself; more’s the pity. I doubt I would make it halfway to the kitchen.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight, so you can stop looking at me like that.”

“I promise I will behave, please?”

“No, oh silver tongued lady of deception.”

Eleanor stabbed her knife right through the chunk of bread, “Typical; we actually have some real, actual, proper hard cheese in the manor and the broken nosed lump refuses to get me any. Have you any idea how rare it is to have cheddar in this place?” she demanded, “It is exceptionally rare; Trempwick normally avoids it because it is so much more expensive than the goopy spreadable stuff.”

“So? It’ll be there when you’re better.”

“But people will have eaten some of it by then!” exclaimed Eleanor.

“So? It’s a big piece.”

Her eyes lit up, “Big? How big?” Fulk held up his hands, measuring out a space roughly the size of a cannon ball. Eleanor fairly wailed with frustration, “All that cheese, out of my reach and vulnerable to other people’s intentions!”

Fulk laughed, “You’re really bothered about that cheese, aren’t you?”

“I love cheddar,” she told him, a dreamy expression on her face, “I hate the goopy cheese, but hard cheese …”

“Oh, all right, I’ll go get some more,” he held up a warning finger, “but if I find this is a trick, ruse or excuse of some kind-”

“Yes, yes,” said Eleanor impatiently, “Now, the cheese? Bring back the whole piece, all of it. If I find you missed part of it, so much as a crumb, you will not be a happy knight. And do hurry up.”





About twenty minutes later Trempwick paid her a visit. He took in the depleted chunk of cheese on the tray, the small pile of bite sized pieced of cheese within reach of the princess, the cheese sandwich she was currently eating with gusto, and the trio of slices of bread with thin strips of cheese on them melting in front of the fire. “I see you found my cheese then,” he said dryly.

She swallowed hastily and said without a shred of contrition, “Sorry, master.”

“It has been a costly few days, first one set of brand new clothes ruined, then a midwife to pay, bloodstains to remove, and now my cheese is devoured in a heartbeat. I suppose I have you to thank for this, bodyguard?”

Fulk turned the bits of toasting bread and cheese around so the ends furthest away from the heat got chance to melt, “I didn’t know she was a cheese fiend when I brought the first bit up.”

Trempwick seated himself on the bed, on the other wise of the tray to Eleanor. He popped a bit of cheese in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I had been looking forward to this cheese for a long time; it does not disappoint, except perhaps in quantity. You have managed to eat an astonishing amount of it, darling Nell.”

“Sorry, master. I have not eaten in nearly two days.”

“You have always been the same – it is why I refuse to buy hard cheese.” Trempwick finished off another bit of cheese, “Still, I suppose I shall have to humour you this time, sweet Nell. I need you to rest and recover, and if I have to sacrifice my cheese to get that, then so be it.” He looked to Fulk, “Scat, bodyguard. Go take a break; I can sit with her for a while.”

Fulk delivered the bits of cheese on toast to Eleanor and exited the room. Ordinarily he would have argued but he had been swapping shifts with the spymaster yesterday without anything dire happening. Trempwick sat and watched in a kind of morbid fascination as the slices of toast vanished before the cheese had time to congeal.

Eleanor licked a trace of melted cheese off her thumb and took a deep breath, “I need your help,” she announced with quite a large dollop of apprehension. She had known she would have to ask Trempwick for aid when she decided on a whim to knight Fulk; she had also known the spymaster was not likely to be pleased.

Trempwick’s eyebrows shot up, “Really, dear Nell? Ask away,” he looked ruefully at the chunk of cheese which was now half of its original size, “as long as it does not involve cheese.”

“I made Fulk a knight.” She waited for his reaction, wincing slightly.

“You knighted your pet?” repeated Trempwick slowly, “You knighted your pet? May I enquire as to why?”

She had prepared her excuse and felt confident he would accept it fairly well. “A princess should not be attended solely by a common man at arms, and he has proven useful. A reward will keep his loyalty, and encourage him to work harder in the hopes of gaining more.” That sounded much better than ‘I felt I owed him something and this is all I can ever give him.’

Trempwick sighed and ate some more of his cheese, “Nell, beloved Nell, if you wanted a pet knight you should have told me; I would have brought one home for you. I do hope, most sincerely hope, that this has nothing to do with that inappropriate, one sided spark of yours?”

“Of course not.” Why did Trempwick persist in assuming she was some misty eyed drip with a death wish? And anyway Fulk might care but that made her no better than some annoying little sister. One sided spark indeed.

“I do hope so; no matter what you do with the man he will remain completely unsuitable, and I would hate to watch you break your heart. So, what do you want me to do?”

“I can give him the accolade and tell him he is a knight, but … coming from just me it is worthless; I do not have the clout to make it stick and work.”

“Very well, I shall take care of it, just for you, sweetest Nell, out of the very goodness of my heart.” He picked up a cube of cheese and popped it in his mouth, “Now, dear Nell, would you like a game of chess to pass the time?”

No, actually she would not. Eleanor hated chess; she had never been much good at it. Trempwick always insisted she was too impatient and needed to think more than a couple of moves ahead, but she was not really interested in spending hours at a time on a single game. But, when the spymaster asked if she would like a game of chess what he invariably meant was that he wanted to play and so she would have to. “Yes, master. That is very thoughtful of you.”

“Good, I shall fetch the board.”






Ah, today you get to see a glimpse of the author in Eleanor. Cheese, mmmmm, must have cheese. :sigh: It has been over two weeks since I ran out of cheddar and there is still nearly a week to go until I can get more. I need cheddar!!

Ludens, it's all in finding the balance, I think. The John's castle scenes need much more description; the dialogue scenes have demonstrated their best balance, IMO, in the part which is in post 136. Today's scene with the king in the rain is also noteworthy in my eyes, but that is because it captures the same feel as post 136.

zelda12
10-16-2004, 19:23
Why no cheese, just pop the supermarket and pick up some cathedral city extra mature. I do have to say I am a bit of a cheese freak.

frogbeastegg
10-16-2004, 21:07
Hehe, froggy is a cheese snob, which is one level above cheese freak. Cathedral city and any other mass produced cheese is at worst garbage and at best what I call munition cheese. If you know what munition armour is then you will know immediately what my opinion is. For those of you who don't read books on armour on a regular basis munition quality is something mass produced with no real skill or finesse to be used by the vast majority of troops because it is cheap and reasonably effective. It usually tries to copy the better equipment, but never makes it to the same level. Munition cheese is acceptable for cooking, but eating it raw is a grave sin to froggy taste buds.

No, I like real cheese. I get this cheddar from my local monthly farmer's market. Made with unpasteurised milk, matured for something like 12 months and so strong it very literally makes your gums itch. This is seriously strong cheese, unlikely the watery muck you get at Sainsbury's. At the last market I got 6 big pieces; they were all gone within a week.

The only supermarket cheese I like for eating uncooked is Sainsbury's taste the difference French Roque... er, I can't remember how you spell it. A blue cheese made from unpasteurised ewe's milk, extra mature and quite strong.

The Shadow One
10-16-2004, 22:15
Hello:

I'm still finding my way around this maze of forums (having only recent arrived) and I came across your story. Actually, I came across the expired Writing Contest (too bad, I had a clever idea for one of the pictures) and then I came across your story. I spent the last two and half hours reading the entire thread (comments and all).

Remarkable story, you know. You do your characters very well and some are simply unforgetable (like William - I kind of liked that guy). You certainly know enough about the time and setting to create believable detail. The plot keeps me reading (which doesn't always happen in todays literature -- most of what I read is, oh, a hundred years old or so).

May I offer one criticism: In your prolouge (and at times in the rest of the story) the children are not quite acting and speaking like, well, children. Even in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, did children know about things like treaties? I mean, I can wholehearted believe a king would try to protect his empire by sending his eleven year old daughter off to marry another potentates child just to create an alliance, and certainly she would be scared and reluctant to leave, but would anyone take the time to explain why she was getting married? Would she be waxing on about treaties and such? Sometimes the children speak like adults.

Otherwise, I enjoyed it. Or I wouldn't have spent an afternoon reading it when I have something really cool to read . . . you know, like Great Expectations. ~;)

The Shadow One

:duel:

Love bites -- bite it back.

The Shadow One
10-16-2004, 22:17
You know what?

On second throught, ignore my criticism. He who shows up late for the wedding shouldn't complain about the food.

Poor manners on my part. Apologies.

The Shadow One

frogbeastegg
10-17-2004, 11:15
More new blood, hurrah! :gring:

Late guests are very welcome to complain about the food, in fact you could say that is prefered. Children are a menace of mine; I hate them in real life so I am quite clueless about they behave. They often seem to be too old because I try not to make them seem too young for their age. Heh, froggy was always an 'old' child and that doesn't help much. At least children grew up faster in medieval times; that does help a little. We shall see if my next attempt, the Scottish princess, is any better.

In the case you mentioned I assumed Matilda would have been told something like "This marriage is important to me; an alliance depends on it so DON'T MESS UP!!!"

zelda12
10-17-2004, 12:12
I know what you mean on the cheese front Froggy. Only problem is there aren't any decent farmers markets nearby so I have to put up with the extra mature cheddar they sell at tescos.

Although take me to france and I'll come back with a lot of good French cheese. My special favourite is Mimolete. It's as hard as rock and if you let it melt on your tongue it feels like your in heaven and can literally faint in the perverse flavours.... sorry just need to finish of the last piece.

*Comes back in a minute nibbling on some cheese.*

Where was I Oh yes, wotcha shadow.

Milady Frog when you said you don't like children I had the image of a woman with the Geisha hat on in full plate armour with a big sword riding after lots of little children laughing manicaly.

Sorry sometimes my imagination gets away from me and with coursework exam practice and homework and the hagio thread I have no time to write anything.

frogbeastegg
10-17-2004, 18:31
Next morning Trempwick was nowhere to be seen. Fulk reported this to Eleanor when he dropped in to stash his pallet out of the corridor as usual. By now he had given up on trying to keep her in bed and out of mischief, deciding that keeping her in her room and out of mischief was a more suitable goal now.

Eleanor was not very surprised. “He sometimes vanishes for a day at a time; there is no pattern but he is often gone for several days a month. He always dresses as if he is travelling for a reasonable distance and takes a good horse; I suspect he goes to London. I would love to know what exactly he does,” she admitted, proving once again that she had boundless inquisitiveness. “He always says it is a spymaster’s holiday and a welcome break from having his nerves shredded by me.”

“Probably visiting a brothel,” said Fulk authoritively. Actually he was not at all that certain, but somehow the idea of the spymaster in a brothel amused him and it did seem likely enough. Since he was the king’s spymaster it would probably be a very high class establishment so he would have very little chance of catching the pox or being eaten alive by fleas. Pity.

“I never thought him the type for that kind of thing,” confessed Eleanor. She grinned suddenly and very mischievously, “Murdering people I can imagine, but women?” Fulk didn’t think the spymaster would be too gratified by the way Eleanor had dismissed his chances of having a love life.

The more he considered it the better his theory sounded; a spymaster would love gathering information and guilty secrets, and a brothel was a very traditional place to uncover such information. Trempwick probably recruited a lot of his low level, disposable agents from such places. A working holiday, paid for from the royal treasury, with none of the risk of entanglements or the need for a double life a longer term arrangement would require. “You’ll have to get close enough to see if you can smell perfume clinging to him when he gets back,” he suggested. Probably not; Trempwick was entirely too smart for that.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Eleanor doubtfully. She really did have a hard time picturing Trempwick having a … hobby.

“Unless he’s one of those natural monk types it’s a safe bet at least some of his trips end up with company.”

Eleanor spotted another thing that had never occurred to her; if Trempwick went off … on a holiday from time to time then Fulk probably would too. Now that was a bothersome thought, one which made her jealous when she had no right to be. She now acknowledged that one lesson she had received ages ago on being a proper noble lady actually did have some value after all. It was far better to ignore these things, unless you had the misfortune to be married to a man who had picked up a mistress or five, or had a manservant who was dragging your household’s name through the mire.

Her tutor had informed her that it was beneath her to concern herself with a common harlot who, he emphasised dramatically, could never pose her a threat. Yes, well who cared about that? The honest truth was the idea made her faintly nauseous; Trempwick had a whole new side she had never even suspected, and that did not bode well. What else had she missed? Underestimating Trempwick was always dangerous, even if this particular slippage had not proved so yet.

Fulk, well that was the odd thing. She had decided long ago that she absolutely no interest in that kind of thing, thank you. So why was she so jealous that someone else would get his attentions?

Enacting that society principle, and dodging away from a disquieting chain of thoughts, she changed the subject briskly. “Well, whatever he is doing he is gone, and while the spymaster’s away the princess will play,” said Eleanor with slightly forced levity. She sat up a bit straighter; her back twinged and she winced, “Or she would if she were able to. If only he would take his accursed servants and their spying eyes with him, and restore me to peak physical condition – we could continue our sword fighting lessons.”

Fulk said consolingly, “Never mind, we can play chess instead.”

“You like chess?” Fulk nodded. Eleanor’s shoulders drooped, “Oh drat.” She bit her lip, thinking. “Are you any good at it?”

“None so bad; every good squire learns to play and I improved my game a lot in France.”

“I see,” said Eleanor slowly. Indeed she did; if he was not very good she might be able to beat him. She had learned everything she knew about the game from Trempwick and he was reputedly one of the best players at court. It would be pleasant to win for once.





Fulk picked up his rook and moved it three squares forward, setting it down with a decisive click. “Check.” He leaned back in his chair with, Eleanor thought, a self-satisfied, smug smirk pasted all over his stupid face.

Eleanor glared at the board on the small table between them; he had done it again! Three games in a row, and all of them lost within twenty moves. “I thought you said you were not very good?” she said tetchily. She crossed her arms, ignoring the ever-present complaint for her battered body, and tried not to sulk. So much for her high hopes of winning her first chess game ever.

“You need to plan ahead more, act instead of react,” Fulk told her as he began to reset the pieces; ivory on one side of the rosewood board, ebony on the other, and all meticulously drawn up in neat ranks with the people facing their enemy.

Eleanor picked up her king and glowered at the intricately carved ivory man sat on his throne, “I think the problem with this game is that the fundamental principle disagrees with me; kings do not require saving and if they do they can damn well save themselves with no aid from me.”

Fulk grinned to himself, and tweaked the alignment of one of his pawns so he was looking straight ahead instead of slightly off to one side. “Perhaps you are just annoyed that there’s no princess piece?” he teased.

Eleanor set the king back down none too gently and announced to the world in general, “I hate chess.”

“Really?”

“Yes, otherwise I would not have said so, you cabbage witted sluggard!”

Fulk surveyed the sulking figure sat on her bed opposite him and tried not to laugh. “Alright, since you hate chess that much, and since I am a graceful victor, I shall let you off and tell you a story instead.”

Eleanor groaned, “Oh no!”

Fulk looked perplexed and asked with mock indignation, “What do you mean ‘oh no’? You love my stories.”

“I do?” she inquired dubiously. She looked across at him from underneath lowered eyelashes, presenting a perfect picture of endearing uncertainty, an act just as much as his ire.

“Yes,” Fulk informed her mock sternly. “Now, which one shall I tell you? How about Lionel the soft hearted dragon?”

“No!” Eleanor asked a question she had been wondering about for months, one which may touch on that elusive long story he had said he would tell her another time and prompt him into telling it, “You never did say how you broke your nose.”

He scratched the back of his neck and averted his eyes, “No, I doubt I did.”

“It almost sounds as if you are embarrassed,” she observed mildly. With keen interest she leaned forward slightly, one hand planted on the bed either side of her for balance, and began to put forth suggestions, “What did you do? Walk into a door? Pick a fight with someone and lose? Do rather badly in a training exercise and get your helmet nasal whacked into your nose? Do tell.”

Fulk looked at her half amused, half wounded, “None of those. What do you think I am? Some kind of clumsy oaf?”

“Yes!” she agreed cheerfully, “So, how did you do it?”

“You’ll laugh, I know you will.” He wasn’t really bothered about that, but anticipation did build suspense.

“I promise I will not laugh; princess’s honour.” Eleanor tried, and somehow failed, to look angelic, “Fair is fair, you have seen me at less than regal moments, such as this week.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose and noisily blew out a puff of air, surrendering with fained poor grace. “Oh, all right, I can see I will get no peace until I humiliate myself. In my eleventh summer I skipped my lessons and went fishing with my friend, Waleran, or Wat as everyone called him for some strange reason. It was a nice day, sunny and all, and it seemed a waste to spend it tilting at the quintain and writing Latin.”

Eleanor found her interest diminishing rapidly, “Oh, you got caught, got in trouble and got a broken nose. Fifth rate jesters have stories more likely to raise a smile than that.”

“No, I didn’t get caught…well not exactly. We passed a pleasant few hours and snagged a couple of trout, and then my master of arms appeared with a face like a smacked bottom. As you might expect we took off-”

“But he managed to catch up with you, therefore the broken nose?” interrupted Eleanor. She pulled a face, “If that is supposed to be funny significant portions of my life have been a finely tuned comedy with plenty of sophisticated jokes.”

Fulk bared his teeth in a smile; he knew it was unlikely she would guess the real ending but it was pleasurable to watch her try. “Wrong, my blazing star. He was hot on our heels and almost able to grab us when Wat dropped his fish; the master of arms must have slipped on it-”

“So you escaped for a little while, but he would have found you eventually. You got your nose broken by a fish covered lug with a wooden sword, probably when you returned home,” decided Eleanor. Right or wrong interrupting his storytelling was half the fun and, by now, habitual. She sniffed, “Still not the least bit funny.”

“My nose was reshaped before I got home, so you’re still wrong. Also the master of arms filched the fish for himself, so he wasn’t quite that upset. I might have got a little bruised around the edges, but nothing too bad.” He thought it said a lot about her life that she believed someone would casually break a boy’s nose for something as minor as this.

“Diplomatic bribery? I should have tried that … but I have difficulty seeing Trempwick being open to offers of fish.” She frowned thoughtfully and began to wind a lock of her long hair around her right index finger, “I wonder what you bribe a spymaster with, or a king for that matter.”

“So there we were, running as fast as we could and faster still. I was still carrying my fish; I suppose I was too focused on flight to think about dropping it to speed my progress. We went tearing past the fields back to the village; a wonderful plan since it brought us back towards more people who were likely to be both searching and upset. I blame Wat for that idiotic stratagem; I was following him. By some bad luck we ran into the reeve blocking the narrow gap between the tavern and a nearby house we were aiming for. He saw my fish, which was no great feat since I was holding it by the tail and it was flapping about as I ran-”

“So the reeve got you for poaching?” guessed Eleanor. “Definitely not funny.”

“No, he tried to block our path but Wat was a skinny little runt and he slipped through the reeve’s legs. I was considerably taller, so I had to knock the reeve out of my path – it was too late to change direction and there were buildings all around.” He had to struggle to keep a straight face as he said, “I hit him with the only thing on hand-”

She was fast enough to twig before he spelt it out. “You smacked your father’s reeve with a fish?” said Eleanor with unabashed delight. She recognised a kindred spirit to a young princess in the young Fulk.

Fulk matched her impish smile with one of his own, “Hardly elegant but it worked. The slap of wet fish on face was somehow very rewarding, as were his disgusted wails about being covered in fish goo. By this time there was a bit of a fuss in the village with people crowding out to see, my mother included. Somehow Wat and I dodged the crowd and ignored the furious mother’s demands to ‘come here at once!’, and we headed to the forest-”

“And then you ran into a tree while checking over your shoulder for pursuit?” she suggested, not believing for an instant that he had. Running into a tree while looking backwards would not snap a nose.

“You really do think I am totally incapable, don’t you?” demanded Fulk. He stuck his nose in the air haughtily; “Actually Wat pushed a branch out of his way and then let it go when he was past; it shot back and hit me in the face, breaking my nose.” Eleanor began to laugh, but quickly stopped with a groan, clutching her ribs. Fulk practically glowed with mock fury, “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

“All that mystery and daring do ending up in a broken nose from a springy branch!”

“I bet you never did anything like that, since you’re so royal and dignified and all that,” said Fulk snootily. He knew she must have been just as bad, if not worse, and he was rather curious.

Eleanor smirked, “More than you might think.”

“Poor Wat, he was always dreadfully envious of my nose and it galled him no end that he’d been the one to create it.” He didn’t realise what he had just said until it was too late. The mirth faded from his eyes as Eleanor asked the obvious, predictable question.

“Why would he be envious?”

There was a very long pause; so long Eleanor assumed he was not going to answer. Finally, cursing himself roundly for mentioning Wat’s envy in the first place, Fulk answered brusquely, “Cicely.” He shattered the ensuing silence by asking defensively, and rather challengingly, “Not going to ask who Cicely is?”

“Not when I get the impression you will bite my head off if I do, no.”

There was another long pause, then Fulk said, “The thing about Cicely was her phenomenally bad taste, though I didn’t think so at the time.” He sounded quite angry.

“She chose Wat over you,” said Eleanor knowingly, rather intimidated by Fulk’s bad humour. Until now he had seemed as placid as a duck pond.

“No, she chose me,” he admitted, his voice tight with anger. He saw Eleanor was watching him nervously, almost as if she expected him to kick the table with the chess board over and start shouting. He admitted freely enough that based on most of her experience with people, especially men, that’s what she should expect, but it still rankled that she even considered he might be that boorish.

Fulk sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair and related his story curtly but fairly calmly, “I suppose she liked the handsome, skilled young warrior with a noble’s manners and skills, a father who was a lord, a knighthood burning brightly in his future and a potential arrangement to receive his father’s holdings after his death via being granted them as a new vassalship rather than an inheritance. It might not seem much to you but to us a minor lordship was truly something. Yes, well, I didn’t like her much but she was pretty and most of the other boys my age wanted her. Note I said boy, for all my loud protests otherwise that’s all I was. I took her interest as my due; it appealed to my ego to have what everyone else wanted.”

He winced ruefully, “Yes, I was an insufferable, arrogant git. I wish someone had been able to knock it out of me, or given me that knighthood I craved with the edge of the blade instead of the flat. It would have saved a lot of pain. So, that’s who Cicely was; my entertainment. Wat had fallen for her; I knew but didn’t really care. My mother didn’t approve, but again I cared not – I was using what she’d taught me in good faith to good effect.”

Eleanor had a hazy suspicion this was one of those Judith things. “Er …?”

“It wasn’t in my mother’s best interests to have children, me included, and it definitely wasn’t in my best interests to end up with any either. Poor Cicely, that’s about the best care I showed her. Well, she did have some good fortune in the end – I went off to France with my father when I was a few months shy of seventeen.” Fulk stared unseeingly ahead for a while, then he shook himself and he said firmly, “Now, chess.” He moved his king pawn two squares forward and set it down with a click that announced his story was finished and defied her to continue the conversation.

Her mind teeming with new information Eleanor blindly moved one of her centre pawns without thought. An supercilious git certainly, but not so now. What had happened?





Heh, this episode reminds me of an alternate, joky name I thought of for this story: sex and the single goosebery. A rather catchy name with a certain I don't know what, but totally misleading.

I'm not quite that bad with children, zelda. I just think children should be banned under the exotic pet/dangerous weapon laws. They certainly should not be allowed to exist within a 20 mile radius of me, regardless of where I am. I'm tolerant like that :winkg:

The Shadow One
10-17-2004, 21:17
Lady Frog:

Another nice installment. Some of your dialog is quite funny (eh, hope it was intentional).

Your comments about children could spark an hour long conversation, so I'll limit myself to just a thought about cheese . . . and children. First, I don't every see myself putting anything in my mouth so strong that it would make my gums itch. (Although, I do recall ingesting some things which removed all feeling in my tongue and several other important parts of my body). But, since you do seem to enjoy such gastronomical delicacies, and if the cheese smells as strong as my mind imagines (or, for that matter, if its scent is even remotely as strong as its taste), I think we can safetly strike the idea of children from your immediate future.

Look forward to returning next week and reading more.

Sianara (or however it's spelled).

The Shadow One

:duel:

frogbeastegg
10-17-2004, 22:41
~:joker: Actually the cheese doesn't smell much at all. Poacher's cheese, as this one is called, has no more odour than a lump of bog standard supermarket cheese. Bah, I need cheese! Gah! I just played a whole half hour of RTW for the first time in a week, destroyed a massive, high tech Macadonian army with my smaller, inferior Roman force and captured another city and I can't celebrate with a bit of cheese!

Yes, some of the dialogue, and non-dialgoue too, is intended to be funny. It comes naturally to me; I couldn't keep it entirely serious if I tried. Well, ok some scenes do manage to remain entirely serious but not many.

frogbeastegg
10-21-2004, 17:25
“Check,” said Fulk for the fifteenth time that day. Fifteen games, and Eleanor had lost each and every one of them. Fulk didn’t even wait for her to concede her defeat before he started resetting the pieces. Though he kept his head ducked down as if intent on his task Eleanor could see the way the corners of his mouth lifted fractionally; he was enjoying this. She wasn’t. Time to try a different angle, one which promised not just a chance at victory, but also some fun.

They played through the opening; as usual Fulk had the centre guarded and his ranking pieces developed to a far greater degree than she did. When he finally brought his queen out Eleanor began to search the board attentively. After a few minutes she sat back and asked, “Can you get me a drink, please?”

“Small beer or something stronger to drown your sorrows?”

“I am not sorrowing because I lost fifteen games of chess to you; I do not care in the least,” she insisted serenely. She wasn’t; if she was sorrowful for any reason it was being cooped up inside and forced to do nothing much in the name of healing.

Guessing what she was thinking Fulk gave her an easy opening to a prolonged argument. He had got fed up hours ago of countering her many requests to do something more active. “It’s a good thing we’re not playing for forfeits; I hate to think what I could have wrung out of you by now.”

Much to his surprise Eleanor didn’t reply. She pretended to be completely absorbed in studying the board, hoping to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Mildly puzzled, and ever so slightly suspicious, that she didn’t take his bait Fulk ambled off to fetch a couple of drinks. As soon as he was safely gone Eleanor picked up her left most knight and moved it one square to the right. She then sat and waited for Fulk’s return.

He came back several minutes later, handed her a mug and sat down. “Moved yet?”

“Not yet,” she said, frowning at the board. She waited about half a minute before taking Fulk’s queen with her relocated knight. She waited several tense seconds but Fulk made no comment. The game continued apace.

Less than ten minutes later Fulk said idly, “Check.”

Eleanor’s mouth tightened, “I hatechess!” she declared with strong sentiment.

Fulk laughed and began reset the pieces once more. “You might do better if you didn’t cheat, oh sly one. Learn to play properly, and learn to plan ahead.”

Eleanor growled, “It is the only way to make this tedious game even fractionally appealing.”

“I’m sure you can do some embroidery if you prefer,” suggested Fulk mildly, still working on the pieces.

Eleanor heaved a sorrowful sigh and propped her chin on the palm of one hand. “Abusing hurt, vulnerable princesses is despicable, you do know that?”

“I know it is,” said Fulk with exaggerated gravity, clasping his hands in his lap and looking right at her. “But I can’t see any vulnerable princesses to abuse.”

Eleanor stared at him, trying to decide how he meant that. She thought it unlikely that he was digging at her assassin’s skills, but that was based on the rather tentative assumption he was too decent for such a cheap shot. In the end she fell back on an all purpose insult, “Did anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”

“Loads of times, but it was you each and every one of them.”

“I am nothing if not consistent.”

“Let’s see if you remain consistent to your losing streak,” he gesticulated at the board, “Your move, oh irritated one.”

Since throwing her king pawn at Fulk would count as an illegal move Eleanor moved it two squares forward instead.




Sorry for the large delay and tiny, rough chapter. I have been flinging most of my effort into my beginner's guide for RTW with the aim of getting as much information gathered into one location as soon as possible. I won't bore you further with guide talk.

frogbeastegg
10-23-2004, 17:23
“Check,” said Fulk. His voice wobbled slightly as he tried not to laugh at the disinterested but still incensed expression on Eleanor’s face. He picked up the stick he had at his end of the board and cut another notch on one end of it with his dagger; this was the twenty-ninth notch and he was running out of space. Eleanor’s end of the tally stick was still empty. His latest victory recorded Fulk began to reset the pieces once again; the action had become automatic they had played so many games that day.

“You could at least wait until I admit defeat, you know,” said Eleanor dejectedly, “You get me in check then whip the pieces back to their starting positions before I have time to see if I can wriggle free.”

“I know you’ve lost, so I skip the whole time wasting letting you look for an escape and then saying checkmate thing.” Fulk smiled, the shifting firelight and inky late evening shadows made the expression quite sinister. “Anyway I get this feeling if I ever say checkmate you’ll do something unspeakable to me – it’s better to let the game end on a slightly milder note.”

“I hate chess,” said Eleanor through clenched teeth, “really and truly hate chess, completely detest, abhor, despise and loathe chess – if I ever become queen I shall ban the game!”

“So you don’t like chess then?” asked Fulk with polite interest.

“NO!” exploded Eleanor.

Fulk’s eyes widened in playful amazement and he exclaimed, “You should have said so!” That dangerous glint had appeared in Eleanor’s eyes, the one which usually heralded someone getting killed. As appealing as that gleam might be Fulk hastily changed tack, “We can do something else, if you prefer.” If she tried to strangle him he’d have to fight back, and then she would spend the rest of the evening moping at him because she’d been trounced in a second arena. Not to mention it would defeat the whole goal of keeping her from doing something which would end up with yet more blood leaking everywhere.

“Since you have finally agreed to stop boring me-”

“Shown mercy, you mean,” interrupted Fulk.

Eleanor paused for a second then began again, more resolutely, “Since you have finally agreed to stop boring me I think it would be pleasant to go and-”

“No,” said Fulk instantly. He had learned by nine o’clock this morning that anything containing the word ‘go’ involved a long walk or horse ride.

“We could see if-”

“No.” Likewise, he had found by midday that ‘see’ involved leaving the manor building.

“Well, then how about doing-”

“No.” Sentences with ‘doing’ always contained other words such as ‘sword fighting’.

“Then you suggest something, and if the word ‘chess’ is anywhere in sight I shall organise my hairpin collection by sticking them in your torso.”

“I think you’ll find I’m quite the perfect companion for a delicate young noble lady. I can sing, dance, play draughts and that game we won’t mention, also tell stories. I do sparkling conversation on a variety of subjects, including many which are suitable for nice young ladies.”

“It is quite astonishing; you have so many skills and all of them are completely useless. You -” She paused, tilting her head to one side, listening. “Horses; Trempwick’s back. Horses plural; that means someone is with him. How curious.”

Fulk quickly moved through several moves for each side, making it look as if they were in the middle of a game, “We’d best look busy; your move.”

Eleanor moved her black square bishop three squares diagonally right. Fulk brought out his white knight. Eleanor was just about to castle kingside when the door to her room opened and Trempwick came in. He was alone and, aside from his missing cloak, still dressed for the road. Without a word he walked over to the fire and began to warm himself. Neither Eleanor nor Fulk spoke; they paused in their game and waited, in Eleanor’s case apprehensively, to find out what Trempwick intended.

“How delightful; I enter a room and everything becomes hushed with anticipation,” said Trempwick, “It is as if everyone is afraid.” He glanced over his shoulder, “You are not afraid of me, are you dearest Nell?”

That was as easy to answer as his question on whether she hated him: impossible. “Should I be, master?” she parried.

He answered that only with a mysterious grin. Trempwick left the fire and walked over to Fulk. He pulled out a letter, sealed with a blob of red wax and stamped with an official crest. With a mocking smile on his lips he waggled the letter at Fulk, waving it just out of his reach. “Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, landless knight in the service of the crown, is hereby granted the right to use the coat of arms that belonged his father.” He carelessly threw the letter into Fulk’s lap; Fulk picked it up with one hand and examined the seal closely in the flickering light but did not open it. Trempwick’s smirk grew fractionally as he said, “I got you a warhorse too, a very good animal. Consider it a gift to the hero of Fauville.”

The blood drained from Fulk’s face, leaving him a ghostly white. His mouth contorted ever so slightly and he looked as if he were about to be sick.

“No thank you, bodyguard?” asked Trempwick. Polite censure dripped from every syllable. “Your manners are atrocious, and I do believe you look ill,” he turned and sought Eleanor’s opinion, “does he not look ill, Nell?”

“A little,” replied Eleanor cagily. Trempwick’s gesture might have been kind on the surface but from Fulk’s reaction there was something hidden, something malicious about it. She knew Trempwick very capable of spiteful gifts and she was not going to aid him in his game, whatever it might be.

Trempwick shrugged and said in a conciliatory tone, “But it is the idea of being indebted to a man you hate, is it not, bodyguard? No matter then, pearls before swine and all that.” Deliberately Trempwick moved a few steps away and picked up the tally stick from next to the chess board. He ran his thumb over the notches cut into the wood, his neatly manicured nail catching on each scratch and freeing itself with a clicking noise. “You are a good chess player, I presume? We shall have to play sometimes, bodyguard. I do believe I would enjoy it; playing with Nell is always exhilarating, but we do know each other rather too well for any real … edge to be there.”

Trempwick moved to Eleanor’s side and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Get your queen on the field before you castle, dear Nell. Develop your pieces.” He straightened and said genially, “I shall leave you both to your game. Goodnight, and do not stay up too late.”

Eleanor had remembered Fulk’s advice to see if she could smell perfume on the spymaster; she could not. She had been surprised to find a hint of soap instead, faint herbal scented soap of a kind they never used here. Trempwick had obviously been in London; there was no doubt there. He had visited at least one horse market and the palace; why would he need to have a bath for that? Perhaps Fulk was right after all, but surely soap was every bit as incriminating as perfume? Unless Trempwick’s goal was less covering up and more misleading, but again why would he do that?

When Trempwick was safely gone Eleanor asked the still sick looking Fulk, “What was that about?”

“Fauville; the skirmish where my father died.” He answered with the same long pause and clipped, terse speech that she remembered both from his story about Cicely and his earlier telling of the fight on their first night at John’s castle. She didn’t recall anything from his earlier account of the skirmish that would make him a hero, but Trempwick had been definite and she doubted he would say something like that without some firm grounds, even if the comment itself was potentially sarcastic. Trempwick had a reason for saying almost everything.

Fulk picked up the tally stick from the table where Trempwick had left it. Impulsively he pushed himself up from the table and crossed to the fire. He snapped the stick in two and threw both halves on the fire. He rested his right forearm at head height on the stone wall above the fireplace and watched the two bits burn in silence for a moment.

Eventually he stirred himself and said, “It’s late; let’s get your back salved and call it a night.”

zelda12
10-25-2004, 13:05
Dum, dum, dum, dedededum.

(Eastenders closing theme tune, I'm forced to watch it by people who shall remain nameless.)

frogbeastegg
10-25-2004, 18:07
Plan ahead, Fulk had advised, and plan ahead she did, though not really because of his prompting. Plotting in advance was something she had always done, just not in chess because chess wasted enough time as it was without working out possible futures based on each move. By the time she was trapped in her room playing chess against Fulk Eleanor had already formulated a plan.

Every time Fulk made his move she instantly made hers, grabbing a piece at random and moving it to the first legal spot she could see. Fulk took minutes for each move; she took seconds. All the time she sat there with a fixed expression of polite interest. She kept humming an annoying, catchy ditty. Sporadically she would begin playing with a strand of her hair, twining it between her thumb and first two fingers. If she had been sat on a chair or stool instead of her bed she would have swung her leg so her heel kicked one of the legs repetitively. Instead she tapped her foot while he was thinking.

She was almost saddened to find how easy it was to get at Fulk; after half an hour of this he looked ready to jump out of the window to escape. He had also started humming the tune in an unconscious duet with her. Judging the time to be right Eleanor said quietly, “It really is kind of you to stay here to keep me company.” Fulk looked up from the board but didn’t say anything; he blinked a few times, rather too quickly for it to be normal. Her niceness must have stunned him. Firmly crushing the laugh which threatened to escape Eleanor said, “You have not even been to see your new warhorse yet.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Trempwick might take it as a slight. You really should go before he gets upset.”

“This wouldn’t be an attempt to be rid of me, would it?” asked Fulk distrustfully.

Eleanor’s mouth set into a rigid line. “Do you really think I would get very far? I am in no fit state to climb out of the window and anyone who saw me trying to leave would stop me. I am little more than a prisoner.”

As she had expected he was really tempted by the excuse to get away from her and her annoying act. He considered for a few seconds then agreed, “Yes, it’ll be hard for you to get away and I’ll only be gone for a bit. It’s best not to upset Trempwick unnecessarily.”

“Good, good now off you go before I end up with a spymaster in here and trying to teach you some manners. I really cannot be bothered to sit through a load of shouting; I have enough woes without a headache.”

“I won’t be long,” he promised on his way to the door.

Eleanor waited with baited breath until she heard Fulk’s footsteps recede down the staircase. Not wasting a second she crossed to her clothes chest and pulled out her thick, juniper green cloak. She threw it around her shoulders on her way to the door and pinned it in place as she hurried along the corridor with a slightly hobbled version of the swift, silent grace she usually commanded towards the spiral staircase.

Eleanor shot down the stairs as fast as her aching body would allow, making more noise than she usually would, but even so the sound of her progress barely registered in the echoing stone. She paused in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs making sure it was safe, then immediately made for the main door. Another quick check revealed Fulk and Trempwick were nowhere in sight and the coast, both inside and out, was clear.

Grinning to herself she gathered her cloak tightly about herself and hurried across the courtyard, dodging puddles as she went. She savoured the cold snap of the air and the feel of something other than rushes and floorboards under her feet; even the squelch of the mud smeared on the cobblestones was welcome after all this time cooped up inside. The stiffness of her bruises was slowly wearing off and lessening with each day; while the exercise was not exactly comfortable it felt good to stretch her muscles.

She was just going through the gate in the outer wall when she heard Fulk bellow, “Hey!” Snatching up her skirts with one hand she began to run as fast as she could, out and away from the manor.

It didn’t take long before she could hear Fulk’s boots pounding after her and gaining rapidly. She cursed under her breath and tried to force her hurting body to find some of its usual fleetness, but to no avail. The exertion and instinctive fear of being pursued forced her to breathe more deeply. Pain ripped through her side and she clutched at her damaged ribs, the sudden motion nearly causing her to lose her balance. She stumbled and all but fell; by the time she had got underway again Fulk’s hand closed on her shoulder, right on top of a collection of bruises and welts.

As they halted he spun her around to face him “And that’s why I told you to take things easily!” he informed her sharply. “I get tired off scraping you off the floor.”

Eleanor looked pointedly at the hand on her shoulder, “That is hardly comfortable.”

Fulk let her go and said, “My only other options were your hair or your cloak; I think you’d complain a damn sight more if you ended up half bald or choked.”

She brushed an imaginary spec of dust off her shoulder and said imperiously, “This is purely your fault, you know. I was going for a gentle walk – you are the one who started chasing me.”

“You’re the one who started running,” he pointed out.

“Escaping prisoners should know better than to hang around when their guards spot them.”

“I’ve a good mind to tuck you under my arm and take you back right now,” threatened Fulk, only half joking.

Eleanor instantly assured him, “You would not want the hassle.”

He ticked points off on his fingers, “You’re small, light and currently weaponless,” he grinned forebodingly, “it’d be no hassle at all.”

“No, but I would kick and hit you rather a lot, shout in your ear the whole trip back, and then plot some revenge that would make your life uncomfortable for a very long time to come,” replied Eleanor confidently; entirely certain he was bluffing and always had been.

Fulk scrubbed a hand across his forehead and said sombrely, “One of these days I think you’ll be the death of me.”

“Oh, please don’t say that,” begged Eleanor, “I am ashamed to admit it, but I would be terribly bored without you.”

“And this after she spends hours, days even telling me how bored she is with my company.”

“Bored with chess, you dolt.” Eleanor lifted her chin, “I know it is hard to hear if you have a helmet on, but since you presently lack a helmet you really do have no excuse. Perhaps you have rust in your ears?”

“You are a contrary creature, you know that? One minute you like me, the next you are insulting me. I’m so confused,” said Fulk with the air of a long standing, tolerant sufferer.

“Then I shall make sure I give you simple orders all the time. Right now we are going for a walk.”

Fulk looked about at the wet, gloomy winter landscape and said, “Yes, I can plainly see the attraction for walking in green fields while watching lambs gambol in the warm sun. It’s alright for you; you’ve got that nice warm cloak. I shall freeze.” He was only wearing his indoor clothes; a tunic, hose and ankle boots. He hadn’t expected to do more than walk across the small courtyard to the stable and back so he had deemed warmer clothes unnecessary.

“You are a big tough man, you will be fine,” Eleanor assured him.

“Fine? Yes – if I steal that nice cloak of yours.” A thought occurred to him; if he had the cloak then he would have to share, being a nice gentleman and all. Share as in walk along with a princess tucked under his arm. “Actually that’s not such a bad idea.” He paused, then pulled a face, “No, actually it’s a very bad idea; forget it. I’ll freeze.”

“You could go back and get your own cloak, but it does increase the risk of Trempwick finding out.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” said Fulk with a buoyancy he didn’t feel, “I’m a big tough man thing, remember?” He was going to freeze; he could already feel goose bumps spreading across his skin. Once they got moving he’d generate some more heat, hopefully that would be enough. He didn’t want to risk losing this chance to talk to her without prying ears listening in.

They began to walk away from the manor, out into the surrounding empty grassland. The ground was half frozen, half muddy and Eleanor was not happy to see they were leaving a trail any idiot could follow. When Trempwick came looking for her all he would only need to follow the two sets of footprints disturbing the frost-glazed grass.

“Why does your Trempwick pretend to be so poor?” asked Fulk when they were safely isolated and unable to be overheard. “Even ignoring any titles and lands he might have he’s the king’s spymaster and only a fool would leave him open to simple bribes.”

“I am not certain,” replied Eleanor diffidently. “I think much of it is to keep a low profile. I managed to find out that he used to spend much time at court in the lap of luxury; when he was not there he was in his favourite castle in Kent or out in the field working. He began living like this when I was handed over to him. I believe it is to minimalise the chances of anyone finding out what I am.”

“But why take it to such an extent? It’s almost like he’s deliberately trying to stamp all over your status. Yes, that’s not such a bad idea – you’re a princess only when he wants you to be one-”

“Which is a handy workaround the rank issue, placing him firmly above me and allowing him to ignore the usual scheme of things,” Eleanor finished for him.

“More than that,” Fulk was getting quite enthusiastic with this idea; it was growing of its own accord and becoming greater with each new addition. “He hates you pulling rank; the few times you’ve done it while I’ve been around he’s been incensed. I think –”

Their conversation was interrupted by Trempwick bellowing “Nell!” They halted and turned around to see the spymaster marching relentlessly towards them. As soon as she turned into the wind Eleanor’s long hair blew across her face, obscuring her vision. With one hand she brushed it back so it blew sideways behind her head instead of in front of her face. She could just see that the distant figure was talking, but his words were being whipped away by the wind and she couldn’t see to lip read.

“Just who I wanted to see,” muttered Eleanor softly, being careful not to move her lips even a fraction. The spymaster was an excellent lip reader; she had learned from him. Fulk didn’t reply but she had the feeling he was agreeing with her.

Trempwick finally reached them; his eyes flicking from Eleanor to Fulk and back again. “You did not say you wanted a walk, dear Nell. I would have been happy to accompany you.” He pulled his own cloak in about himself, stopping it from flapping in the breeze and looked pointedly at the shivering Fulk. “I would not have interrupted your exercise by forcing you to turn back before I froze to death.”

“I thought you were busy, master.”

“I am never to busy for you, sweetest Nell. If you want to continue onwards I would be happy to oblige.”

If she said they were just about to head back it would be obvious she was snubbing the spymaster, and that would be dangerous. “Yes, that would be pleasant, if you are certain you can spare the time.”

“Quite certain, Nell, quite certain,” replied Trempwick breezily. “Your pet should head back before he catches pneumonia.”

“Yes,” she turned to Fulk, “Thank you for coming this far, but you really should get back inside.” The spymaster did have a point, but more importantly she did not feel like playing yet another of his Fulk related games.

Fulk did his best courtly bow and put his best noble manners to use as he politely, and quite warmly said, “The pleasure was mine, my lady.”

Trempwick watched the retreating bodyguard and commented softly to Eleanor, “He really does play the part so very well; such a pity he does not have the birth to match the manners.” He arranged himself on Eleanor’s right side so he had no chance of catching her damaged ribs and offered her his arm. When she took it he started to walk at a leisurely pace. “So you are feeling much better then?”

“The stiffness is wearing off and I am no longer likely to burst open wounds every time I move,” replied Eleanor truthfully.

“Excellent, most excellent,” said Trempwick heartily, “In that case I have something to keep you occupied, although I doubt you will care for this any more than you care for chess. We will be going to court shortly after Christmas; you will have to practise your pious princess role.”

“Why?” asked Eleanor immediately.

“A royal wedding.”

Eleanor halted abruptly and yanked her hand back from his arm. “No! I refuse-”

“Not you!” cut in Trempwick, shouting so he could be heard across her passionate rebuttal. “Good grief; no one is quite that desperate yet.” Eleanor blushed; mortified by how wrong she had been. Trempwick said more kindly, “Dearest Nell, will it make you feel better if I promise to murder anyone who tries to marry you? The only person safe from me is the king himself; anyone else I will gladly dispose of. No one will snatch you out from under my nose; you have my solemn oath on that.”

What can you say to a promise like that? Eleanor knew he meant it; the mystery was in why. What benefit did he see in keeping her that led him to make such an expansive, potentially costly and dangerous promise?

Her hesitation to respond was too long and part of her uncertainty must have shown through because Trempwick inquired, “Is something the matter?”

Without exactly meaning to she blurted out, “Why?”

The corners of Trempwick’s mouth twitched up into something that could not be called a smile. Whatever it was it was quite sad, and very fractionally tender too. “You are so blind, dearest Nell,” he said quietly.

There was something in his voice she had never heard before and she was absolutely no clearer on his motives. Well, alright there was a nagging suspicion but she dismissed it instantly; Trempwick was not suggesting he had feelings for her. The fact she had entertained the idea, even for a millisecond, heck that it had even occurred at all was ridiculous. No one ever wanted a … gooseberry.

“The wedding in question is your father’s. He is marrying a Scottish princess in order to gain an alliance. The girl is very young, described as ‘just barely thirteen’. I admit I am concerned.”

“A good Samaritan spymaster?” inquired Eleanor, mildly sardonic.

“Looking after beleaguered princesses has become a hobby of mine.” More seriously he said, “Consider what she is marrying. I am hoping you might be able to … reassure her.”

Eleanor’s answer was both honest and blithe, “Master, the best advice I can give her is to start running now and not to stop until she reaches Constantinople.”

Trempwick roared with laughter. Finally he calmed himself and wiped a tear from his eye. “Not quite what I had in mind, dearest Nell. I do not think she will be badly treated; her family would not stand for it and it would mean war. No, I was thinking more that she will need a friend, someone to calm her nerves, soothe her fears, give her advice.”

“Do you have any idea what you are asking me to do?” wailed Eleanor, “Do you have any idea what the average political bride worries about? Now do you see how I really am not qualified to do anything with this princess?”

“Nell, Nell, do calm down. All you need to do is advise her to get as drunk as possible before the end of the wedding feast. In any case I doubt our wonderful king intends to consummate the marriage immediately; she really is rather too young.”

Eleanor had to admit that Trempwick was right there; the girl probably had a year or so of grace before anyone would consider her old enough, and by that point Eleanor would be safely back in Woburn or wherever and exempt from being asked for advice. She still didn’t like the idea; for one it meant meeting up with her father again. “You really do not want to stick me in the same room as my beloved regal ancestor in front of this girl or she will get a very good view of precisely what she is being tied to, and then she will be running all the way to Constantinople if she had an ounce of wit.”

“As long as he does not get you alone you are quite safe; he would never lose his temper before a crowd, nor would he be so vulgar as to beat you before an audience.”

“How heart-warming,” said Eleanor in a small voice.

“I shall make sure he does not catch you alone, and as long as you behave, if you will forgive my frankness, you will be quite safe.”

“No, he will just get this nice idea involving marrying me off somewhere since I am now obviously cowed.”

“Dear Nell, I did promise, remember? He may get ideas but they will either be put from his head or foiled by untimely deaths.” Reassurance combined with the steadfast belief he would be capable of doing just what he said made Trempwick’s words weighty.

“I do not like this, master,” said Eleanor bluntly.

He replied with equal candour, “Nor do I, but we have no choice. Our attendance is required; helping the girl is dispensable, being present for a few days is not. So, you shall practise your princess and I shall practise my duke.” He bobbed a short bow and offered her his arm, “Your Highness?”

“Thank you; you are most kind.” She took his arm and began to walk at his side, using a more measured step than was usual.







That Eleanor/Trempwick conversation is so :stuffs fist in mouth and runs away before she blurts major spoilers ... returns several minutes later: The undertones, the incredibly subtle hints, the things no one will ever notice until they read this again after it is complete are killing me! I have so many bits that I'd love to talk about, but I can't even say which particular lines because people will start thinking and that might give the game away. This story is packed full of them, but this scene has a couple of lines which are so .... Gah!

Eastenders? Yuck; I do hate soap operas.

frogbeastegg
10-27-2004, 15:45
Practise they did, endlessly in the eight days left until Christmas. Even Fulk was not safe; he had to learn to play presentable royal servant.




Eleanor found herself in the solar pouring over a map of the British Isles and France. Trempwick tapped a finger at Wales, “They are now a part of our realm, it has taken them long enough to bend knee but finally they have done so. Your father has taken the title of king of Wales now, and the duke of Gwynedd is the main vassal for this territory. We have three of his four sons as hostages to his good behaviour.”

“Will the situation last?” asked Eleanor, studying the map intently. “If most of our armies go to France Wales will be perfectly positions to stab us in the back. It is well known the Welsh are honourless; they have already broken two peace treaties in as many years, and they have allied with France in the past.”

“Indeed,” agreed Trempwick. “They may be our vassals now, but their loyalty is questionable. None would be fool enough to think our king bluffing when he said the Welsh brats would die the instant Gwynedd rose, but a hopeful fool might believe they would be safe until the uprising was quashed. They might gamble on that, and gambol on winning so the brats live.”

“Then the answer clearly is to leave all our border armies at home, along with our northern armies and a small core to provide relief should Scotland or Wales attack.”

“Yes, but that is not what our king thinks. He is determined to take half our border forces along with the inland levies. He wants every man he can get to crush France so badly they yield up plenty of land.”

“It is a reckless policy and inviting disaster,” said Eleanor straightforwardly.

Trempwick smirked, “And that is why you are so popular, sweet Nell. You really should be more careful of what you say.”

“There is only you here to hear, master, and you think the same. Besides one of the crowned annoyance’s better points is that he always demands his advisors give good, honest advice.”

“True, but there’s difference in getting tactical opinions from a seasoned commander and your least favourite daughter. I will be advising our sovereign to change his policy somewhat when I see him next; he will listen to me. Now, back to getting you up to date before our delightful holiday.” Trempwick moved the map so the north of England was more visible. He placed one finger squarely in Northumberland. “My new holdings; as duke I get to play with the Scots if they become bothersome. They will not, not so long as this marriage goes smoothly. That leaves my own troops idle, except for my Kentish levies; they will be going off to France. The duke of York currently has a grudge against the earl of Durham, his vassal. They will both be at court pleading their cases; be sure you do not let them think they can bend your ear. The earl of Gwent should be safely gone before we arrive; refuses to remain while the duke of Gwynedd is present, and vice versa. No matter; it saves bloodshed. Many of the Welsh despise the earl of Gwent for his sense in bowing to us; the grudge has lasted some twenty odd years, quite remarkable really.”

“What about the young earl of Cornwall? Are his uncles still fighting over who gets his wardship until he comes of age?”

“Yes, they are still fighting. It is of little surprise; the boy’s collective estates are wealthy and as he is only six his controller with have time to embezzle a sum doubtless larger than the yearly income of the Isle of Man. Speaking of which,” Trempwick’s finger moved on the map to the aforementioned island, “The local count has decided to seek shelter with the duke of Ulster. This is not to be tolerated; I shall have him dead within the month, just as our king requested during his visit. We thought to stagger events somewhat to reduce suspicion when the count suddenly falls ill. That concludes the main changes on the map.”

Trempwick pushed the parchment away and picked up another roll. He unbound the leather thong holding it closed then unrolled it across the table top. This sheet was covered in tiny coats of arms with names written next to them. “Now, we shall move on to the names, faces and families we are likely to meet.”





The main hall had been cleared out; the trestle tables carted outside, along with the stools and few chairs. Their place had been taken by a circle of people, containing Fulk, Eleanor, Trempwick, the steward, the cook, and the two general menservants. The only person exempt for making up the circle was Walter, the stable boy with a broken arm. He was stood next to the large stone fireplace and currently engaged in clearing his throat and testing a few notes.

“Ready?” he asked finally.

Trempwick looked at the circle of reluctant, fed up looking people. “Everybody hold hands,” he instructed. With an assortment of sighs, groans and much trying to keep as far away from everyone else as possible the circle linked hands. “Ready, Walter.”

The boy began to sing in a clear, high voice a popular song about a damsel, a knight and a spring morning and the circle began to dance. Well, dance is what they were supposed to be doing, but many would not have described the ensuing mess as such.

The cook was going at it with plenty of gusto, moving far too fast. Holding his right hand was Bertram, the first general servant; he was going something like the correct pace but he didn’t seem to know half the steps. On his right was Trempwick, as dapper and self assured as ever. On his right came Eleanor, torn between trying to keep the correct pace with Trempwick and begin dragged back by Edward, the steward who was stumping along as if step cost him enormous amounts of energy. On his right was Fulk, proving that he hadn’t lied when he said he knew how to dance. Finally there was Gerbert, the second general servant. He just had no idea full stop.

After a short while of this Trempwick dropped the hands of his partners and said loudly, “Stop, stop, this is quite hopeless.” Everyone came to a grateful halt. Trempwick glared around at the circle, “We are supposed to be dancing a carole, not putting on a comedy act! Now I know we are missing several minstrels and our gathering is a deal too small, but it is the best that can be done. Try again, people, try again.”

Walter returned to the beginning of his song and everyone started to dance again. The results were not much better.

“Did we have this problem when I was teaching you to dance before, Nell?” inquired Trempwick as he tried to manoeuvre through the chaos.

“No, master,” replied Eleanor, giving the hand Edward held a good tug in the hopes it might give him a clue and get him to speed up. There was one single advantage to his painfully slow pace, and that was it kept her from upsetting her healing ribs again. All the same when to court a princess goes, dance she does something something … or however that silly rhyme went. “We paid a visit to some knight or other for a few days one Christmas and you made me dance my feet off until I had all the common ones learned perfectly.”

“It was a sound plan, but sadly impossible this time, dear Nell.” Trempwick stopped moving, dragging his two partners to a halt and causing a knock on effect around the rest of the circle. “It is clearly apparent that some of you really have no idea what a carole is, let alone how to perform one. So, let me run through the steps and we shall try again.”





Every single meal was served as if it were a banquet, much to the upset of the servants. Several assorted dishes, court style table service and the very best of table manners. The usual habit of eating individually instead of in the fashionable dining pairs was banished, and for Fulk and many of the other servants the habit of eating at the same time as the nobles was also banished. Instead they ended up waiting at table and eating the leftovers later.





“There is one detail yet to be taken care of, dearest Nell,” said Trempwick early one evening as he and Eleanor sat before the fire in the solar, fine tuning her explanation of what exactly she had been doing all these years. The pious thing had been dumped in favour of a blend between a small pinch of the normal Eleanor and a hefty dose of the expected polite noble lady; Trempwick had claimed the prospect of becoming famous for being the royal tutor who turned out the most boring princess in Christendom was highly unappealing. “Alas, that is something of a misdirection as I handled this on the day the king left.”

Trempwick winced and dropped into his long suffering, gloomy personality. “I had to call in,” he announced despondently, “my mother.”

Eleanor had to admit her interest had been piqued; she had never met the spymaster’s mother, or any of his family. She was more than a little curious to see what kind of a family turned out a man who had worked his way to the lofty height of king’s spymaster before his eighteenth birthday.

“The countess of Kent,” elaborated Trempwick disconsolately, “except she hasn’t been that since my father died; she clings to the title like a limpet to a rock.”

Eleanor tried not to snigger; it was hard to imagine someone managing to prevent Trempwick from getting his way but apparently this mother of his had succeeded. She would have to take notes.

“As much as I would rather leave her to her own devices I shall have to involve her in this latest intrigue of mine; since my tutorship has been entirely above board and reputable you have met her often. You also need a maid or two; I am hoping I can impose and get mother to share,” he sank a little lower in his chair, “though I have had no success in getting her to share that title. She should be arriving just before Christmas day; she was only in one of my manors near St. Albans. For all that she does go on about being countess of Kent she hates the place; she prefers to stick to her dower lands. You can try your new act on her when she arrives, before I fill her in on your uproarious ability to kill people.”






A little bit of stupidity, very quickly written but filling a gap quite admirably.

Axeknight
10-27-2004, 20:06
It is of little surprise; the boy’s collective estates are wealthy and as he is only six his controller with have time to embezzle a sum doubtless larger than the yearly income of the Isle of Man.
He's going to embezzle enough to buy 250 tins of novelty TT mints ~:eek: ?

frogbeastegg
10-28-2004, 21:58
The day before Christmas one of Trempwick’s messengers dropped off a package of letters from the royal palace. Most of them were for Trempwick but two were for Eleanor; he called her into the solar to collect them about twenty minutes after the messenger left.

She accepted them without comment, and then excused herself so she could read them in private as soon as possible. She returned to her room where Fulk was busily repainting his shield to display his new coat of arms. The silver background was completed as was the red stripe running from top left to bottom right. He was now blocking in the three gold crosses that ran on the stripe.

She considered getting rid of him but almost immediately decided there was no point. Absently she wandered over to the window and examined the seals of the two letters in the daylight, paying careful attention to the sides of the seal.

“Something interesting?” inquired Fulk idly without stopping his work.

“Letters from my sisters,” she replied distractedly. Her close inspection revealed what she had expected; the seals had been removed, the letters opened, then everything replaced with only the tiniest trace of Trempwick’s meddling. The trace was so tiny only someone with a trained eye and an expectation of finding something would have spotted it. She whirled away from the window and headed to the chest where she kept her wrist knives, commenting heatedly, “He has done it again! And there is not a damnable thing I can do, again!”

She grabbed one knife, drew it and tossed the sheath back in the chest. With two precise stabs she hacked the seals off the letters, then threw the knife in after its case.

“Done what again?” asked Fulk.

“He always reads my messages, no matter who they are from. He reads the outgoing stuff too. I suspect he would stop anything he does not like, without word to me.” She opened the first letter, which turned out to be from Matilda, and scanned it quickly. She cast it aside and read the other, from Adele, with equal rapidity. Finished, she threw it to join the other letter, then vanished off to get a quill, ink and parchment to reply.

Lacking a decent writing surface Eleanor sat on her bed with the parchment on her pillow and the inkhorn beside her on the floor. She began to reply to Matilda’s letter first, scratching away at the parchment in a neat, plain hand.

“Good news?” inquired Fulk. His tine indicated he believed otherwise.

“From Matilda the usual letter consoling me on my continued lack of a husband, alongside much boasting of how wonderful Germany is, how rich she is, how happy she is, how loving her rotten husband is, how talented and beautiful her daughters are, and so on. I shall send her a polite, concerned reply emphasising my sincere sorrow and pity over her continued lack of a son.” Eleanor looked up from her writing and grinned wickedly, “I shall be sure to remark how kind it is of her husband to overlook her failing even though it puts the future of his kingdom at risk. That will put her stuck up nose firmly out of joint.”

“That really is quite nasty,” said Fulk reproachfully.

Eleanor replied roguishly, “Her letter or my reply?”

Fulk stuck his paintbrush back in the pot of yellow and turned to give her his full attention. “Do you even know what maturity is?” he enquired seriously.

“Yes, something which happens to cheese.” Eleanor stuck her tongue out at him and returned to her writing.

“Oh Jesú! Not cheese again!” moaned Fulk.

“No,” she said, her concentration still on the letter, “we have no cheese left, but it is Christmas soon and if anybody wants to know what to get me …”

“And that answers the question of what to get a gooseberry for Christmas; a lump of cheddar, apparently.”

“That would be nice; it has been over a decade since I last got something for Christmas.” Eleanor signed her name with an elaborate flourish and set the quill down in the pot of ink on the floor. Since she didn’t have any sand to scatter on the wet ink she gently flapped the bit of parchment up and down to encourage it to dry. “Trempwick would kill you if you tried to give me anything, even cheese.”

And that took care of any potential Christmas discomfiture quite neatly; he did have something he could give her but now he no longer needed to agonise on which option was more likely to prove fatal in the long run – giving her a gift or not giving her a gift. That necklace he’d got from the jeweller along with her fake wedding ring looked set to spend the rest of its life in his belt pouch at this rate.

Eleanor moved the second bit of parchment to her impromptu writing desk and began scribbling away once more, explaining inattentively, “The other letter is from Adele, the same as usual. She is begging me to do everything I can on her behalf to get her set free and returned home to England; she does not want to return to her family and the Spanish court because she refuses to have anything to do with those who would believe such foul lies about her. Yes, she protests her innocence once again.”

Eleanor stopped writing and bit her lip. “She is still trying to protect a reputation that died long ago,” she said unhappily, “Everyone knows she had an affair with that knight; they found letters proving it, some of those letters she had written herself. The knight himself confessed it before he was executed; he notoriously said she really was not worth the cost. For a while I did wonder if she might have been set up, but I could never see who would benefit, or why they would feel the need to remove her. I shall reply the same as I always do; that I will do all I can, but that is very little. And that is the truth.”

She put the finishing touches to the second letter and dried it in the same way as the first. Picking up both her replies she rose and headed towards the door, saying light-heartedly to Fulk, “If I am not back within a quarter hour assume I need rescuing. My time with John has reminded me just who I am; I think it time to make a point.” She vanished out the door before Fulk could answer.

Purposefully Eleanor marched off to the solar to find Trempwick. He was still there, sat at the table and working on some of his own messages. She came to a stop just beside him and lightly tossed her letters down on top of his own reading. They were unsealed, unfolded and no effort had been made to conceal their contents. “To save you the bother of removing and replacing my seals,” she said pointedly.

Trempwick didn’t look up from what he was doing; he only moved her letters off to one side and said distantly, “Thank you, that is very kind of you, Nell.” And that was it; nothing more. She had expected more, much more, and had been prepared to fight. Why did her every attempt to break free of the spymaster’s stranglehold either fail spectacularly or fail painfully?

As she turned to go she wondered what he was reading so avidly. “My stewards’ reports,” explained Trempwick, once again without looking up, “from my various lands” He couldn’t even see her to try and read her body language; he had guessed what she was thinking with no clues at all.

Painfully aware that she had once again been firmly slapped down Eleanor left quickly, her cheeks flaming with the humiliation. Princess or not she was still ultimately his pawn.








Yay! I finally got to use the maturity joke! Would you believe I've had that sat around waiting to be used for nearly 2 months now? In light of the recent cheese escapades it works quite nicely. :gring:

"Dear CA, you evil people have badly harmed the health of my story with your fancy RTW." :shakes fist:

Don't underestimate the power of buying mints; the extra strong ones can be deadly.

Axeknight
10-29-2004, 14:17
They can be used to daze an opponent while you move in for the kill with a soggy kipper and a Laxey Wheel mug set :duel:

frogbeastegg
10-29-2004, 14:52
Christmas day came and went in its usual, uninspiring manner. Trempwick did hold a relatively large feast for once, complete with fancy food but this was only so he, Fulk and Eleanor could practise their court dining manners on something a little more complex than spit roast chicken and pease pottage.




Trempwick’s mother arrived two days after Christmas day. As ever the spymaster was warned well in advance and he rode off to intercept her. He left Eleanor behind with strict instructions to play her new role to perfection.

And so Eleanor found herself waiting near the manor’s main door dressed in her newish russet dress cut, as ever, in the old fashion with the loose sleeves, along with a grey linen underdress and a girdle of black leather. Her hair was currently confined in a braid and pinned into a bun at the nape of her neck, thanks to Fulk’s efforts, a comb, several hairpins and a sprinkling of water. She suspected it would begin to escape the instant it dried; it always did. Since she was well able to use hairpins as weapons the harmless looking hairdo was roughly equivalent to a belt knife on the threat scale. She had managed to avoid a head covering of any variety, arguing that was really the preserve of married women. All in all she looked quite respectable and noble.

She was accompanied in her waiting by Fulk. He was wearing his royal livery with the fancy sword he had been given by John belted on at his waist. He stood leaning idly on the wall opposite her, something Eleanor would have done if she had been fit enough.

Since the Gerbert was busily running around doing what seemed like nothing much aside from walking past checking they were still waiting and looking neat every ten minutes Fulk and Eleanor just stood around in tedious silence.

Finally Trempwick’s party returned and Eleanor went out to meet them with Fulk at her side and slightly behind her. The arriving party was limited to just three people, Trempwick, an oldish woman and a young girl who looked to be somewhere around fifteen. There had probably been many more in the countess’s retinue when she left but Trempwick was very choosy in who he allowed into Woburn. His mother’s second groom was not welcome, nor was her first groom, her six man armed escort, her secondary maid, her tertiary maid, her personal cook or her minstrel. Going by the set of the older woman’s mouth this had gone down about as well as an announcement about rotten food making it out of the kitchen just when everyone has finished eating.

Trempwick’s mother turned out to be a striking woman of middle height with hair in a darkish gold now salted with silver. She must have been somewhere around fifty but she did not quite look it, and in her younger days she had probably been quite eye catching. To Eleanor’s surprise the mother didn’t wait for her son to help her down from the saddle, instead unhooking her leg from the side-saddle’s pommel and dropping down on her down. She even managed to do it in a dignified manner without getting her skirts caught up and giving everyone a good view of her legs. Eleanor was quite impressed; she had never seen anyone else doing that and she knew from experience just how easy it was to get the movement wrong with draughty and embarrassing consequences.

The brown-haired girl, presumably her maidservant, was not so confident. She remained on horseback clutching nervously at the reins while she waited for someone to get her down.

Trempwick ignored the maid, moving to his mother’s side and offering her his arm like a good boy. The attention seemed to mollify her somewhat and the hard set of her mouth eased somewhat. Mother and son walked over to where Eleanor waited. There was an awkward moment as Trempwick’s mother seemed to be expecting Eleanor to curtsey, whereas Eleanor knew that they really should be genuflecting to her. The two women’s eyes locked, deep blue against a mongrel mix of blue and green.

“Is this the best you can do, Raoul?” demanded Trempwick’s mother. Her English was noticeably accented; Trempwick must have taken his preference for French from her. “You cannot teach manners?”

Finally forced to do something other than enjoy the potential catfight Trempwick said, “Mother, this is her royal highness princess Eleanor.”

The mother looked back to Eleanor and looked her over from head to toe with unconcealed disdain. After pausing a fraction longer than was decent she stiffly curtseyed. “Forgive me, your highness. I mistook you for a common noble, the princess’s maid.” As apologies went it was far more of an insult but since noble women often had a lower ranking noble girl to act as lady’s maid and companion there was nothing Eleanor could object to without looking petty.

“Oh, we just call her Nell,” Trempwick informed his mother brightly, “Her royal highness is rather too long.” He gave Eleanor a small smile, “Since you cannot call my mother ‘mother’ you may as well go with lady Aveline.”

And that was entirely the wrong way around; you did not call your betters by a pet name, one which Trempwick seemed to delight in using like a pair of spurs, while they called you by something more formal. She had no choice but to let Trempwick get away with it, but was it worth fighting over the mother?

The same thought occurred to the old lady and she snapped at her son, “Oh, do not be so absurd, Raoul. I do wonder how you manage to get things so backwards.” She turned her fearsome glare on Eleanor, “You shall call me Aveline; I shall settle for Eleanor.” The ludicrousness of ordering a princess around in the name of getting things correct apparently did not occur to Aveline.

Eleanor decided that this was probably the best point to fold; to hold out any longer was to invite Trempwick to stomp on her again. Before she had time to answer Trempwick’s mother started speaking again. “We shall go inside and then someone will explain to me why I have been dragged all the way out here.” She started to sweep indoors but came to an abrupt halt by Fulk. She looked him over with the same measuring, haughty gaze she had used on Eleanor and said sharply, “And who or what are you?”

Fulk bowed and answered politely, “I am her highness’s bodyguard, my lady.” His English sounded better than either of the Trempwicks’; clearly he and Eleanor were going to rule the roost on language terms.

“Then why do you wear no badge? Your livery looks like a cheap imitation without one.”

Trempwick smirked and took his mother’s arm. “Dear Nell has no badge,” he explained with a jolliness that ground salt into this particular long lived wound, “no one ever thought to give her one.”

Aveline’s brows locked. “How very odd,” she declared. Without further comment she continued indoors.

Eleanor noticed the poor young maid was still perched despondently on her horse awaiting rescue. She leaned her head closer to Fulk and said wryly, “Best go do your knight in shining armour rescue act.”

“My contract says I rescue princesses, not maids,” returned Fulk. None the less he went to fish the girl down.




Because of her delay when Eleanor arrived in the solar Trempwick and his mother were already occupying the two chairs by the fire, talking away. As she entered Aveline was just saying, “… get married Raoul. You have a duty to continue the family name, and I should dearly like to be a grandmother.”

“There is plenty of time for that, mother dear.” He was humouring her but there was no doubting the bored edge to his tone.

“Life is never certain, Raoul, and God calls us to judgement at any age,

“Thank you for that bit of cheerful philosophy, mother.” Trempwick noticed Eleanor in the doorway and sprang to his feet. He took her arm and half dragged her into the room and over to the fire. “This,” he declared proudly to his mother, is the reason I am still single.”

Aveline’s glare could have melted steel, “You are not informing me that you-”

“No!” cut in Eleanor loudly. She could guess where that was going.

Her interruption did not settle Aveline’s mind, only caused her to start a new sentence. “Blood is only of use if you marry it, Raoul,” she shot a malevolent look at Eleanor, “and breed from it, something I doubt she is capable of; her hips are tiny.”

Ignored by everyone else Eleanor let out an exasperated sigh and thought to herself “Here we go again.” Aveline apparently no longer felt any need to be even slightly polite to Eleanor; she had been judged and found wanting and was therefore unworthy of anything but blunt honesty.

“Mother, please do drag your mind back from Sodom and Gomorrah!” insisted Trempwick loudly, “And kindly stop insulting my princess.”

Aveline sniffed and made no apology. “I speak as I find,” she ventured before her mouth clamped shut.

Trempwick waited a few moments to be sure she had subsided before beginning to speak again, “The reason Nell has prevented me from marrying is quite simple; I have been training her as an agent, and the king wants as few people to know as possible. I would have to explain this to a wife, and as of yet I have not encountered a suitable heiress with enough gumption to keep her mouth firmly shut. I am the king’s trusted friend and advisor, the royal spymaster, duke of Northumberland and count of Kent” he said with obvious pride, “and I will not marry just anyone, nor will I scramble after land and money like a dog after a bone.”

“An agent? Her?” Aveline seemed shocked by her sons words but to Eleanor’s expert eye the shock was slightly off, as if faked. It was almost as if she already knew. Trempwick would have had time to inform his mother of this on their way here, but why would he do that only to repeat all this now? And why would Aveline pretend she did not know who Eleanor was when they first met; if Trempwick had explained surely she would have known what to expect?

Perhaps she was being too suspicious for her own good; Aveline was obviously tactless and right now she was probably struggling not to come back with a far harsher reply, one which would upset her son.

“Why bother?” sniffed Aveline. “Why bother wasting a resource like this?”

Despite herself Eleanor winced slightly as Trempwick explained, “She has no dowry; it was squandered on the French war. No one will marry her without one and so the king has not seen fit to replace it. He found it impossible to arrange a match for her by the time she was six because of a few well documented exploits involving insulted foreign dignitaries so he gave up in despair. He handed her off to me; she is a natural schemer with a flare for intrigue.”

Aveline glowered at Eleanor as if she was now considered deeply dangerous. “Such a pity; her sister Matilda was such a nice girl, pretty too. You would scarcely know this one came from the same family. When I heard you were a royal tutor I thought to see someone like Matilda.”

“Oh, mother!” grumbled Trempwick.

“There is no point in being nice about it Raoul,” snapped Aveline, “if she is not set straight now it will soon be too late. You do not make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. Already she is so old it will be hard work, and there is little to be done with such drab looks, but manner we can at least amend.” King William VI of England’s soul mate had just be located.

“Yes, well I did ask you down here to help us out with the royal wedding. She needs a maid, a companion-”

“New clothes, decent manners, proper skills, a chaperone,” rattled off Aveline without pause. “Yes, I can guess most easily. We shall see what can be done, though truth be told I suspect not a lot. Your princess will make a poor showing, Raoul; I do hope your name will not suffer for it.”

Tired of everyone moaning without being able to join in Eleanor said glibly, “Oh, do not worry; I am famous for being a hopeless case. I do promise not to kill anyone.”

There was a long pause. Finally Aveline heaved a deep sigh and crossed herself, “That the Lord shall find work for my idle hands is His prerogative, but such work may be beyond me at my age.”





The days which followed felt like some of the longest in Eleanor’s life. They were filled with the old woman’s carping and constant belittlement, though Trempwick did seem to try and protect Eleanor when he was around. Fulk was banished; he was unsuitable company.

Every single task had a horrific downside which caused much wailing and exclaiming that Eleanor was beyond redemption. Aveline was furious to find many of her plans foiled by Eleanor’s still healing injuries, and this led to several long, incredibly tedious lectures on a daughter’s duty to obey her father.

Even when a dress maker was called in to make up some new, court-worthy clothes for Eleanor the wailing did not cease. Instead Aveline spent the entire time each session, and it took some five sessions to get everything fitting perfectly, delivering a sermon to Eleanor on how her scarred back was a disgrace and how it marked her out as a recalcitrant, unrepentant, stubborn troublemaker. In the unlikely event of Eleanor ever finding a husband, she was informed bluntly, she would be lucky not to find herself placed in a nunnery the instant he saw her scars. If she wanted to avoid such a fate she should be more dutiful, pious, and obedient at all times in the hopes of proving she had learned her lesson. If she thought she was telling Eleanor something new then she was sadly mistaken; Eleanor had come to that conclusion years ago.

The matter of what to do with Eleanor’s hair caused much consternation. To hear the complaining anyone would think Eleanor told her hair to slowly unravel from whatever hairstyle it was put in. Aveline’s maid shyly ventured it was because her highness had such fine, silky hair but a single glare from her mistress had put an end to that. More bemoaning came when Eleanor informed them that she was not allowed to have hairpins or any other sharp object in the presence of the king due to his odd fear that she might try to stab them in him. This also triggered a few more lectures of proper father daughter relations.

On the positive side Aveline had the entire household able to dance several different types of carole within a day of her arrival. There was no chance of Eleanor and Fulk being shown up when they inevitably had to dance at court. She also twisted Trempwick’s arm until he agreed to buy more suitable food and let her spend time with his cook forcing him to brush up his pathetic skills. After the initial shock wore off the cook soon started grumbling, but Eleanor did have to admit he had improved significantly.

The lady’s maid turned out to be called Juliana, the second daughter of a minor knight with a fief in Kent. She informed Eleanor secretively one day that she had never seen her mistress as upset as this. Usually the old woman was strict but quite easy to get on with. Eleanor supposed she should be flattered; if you were going to be an impious, ungrateful brat, or whatever Aveline decided she was today, then you may as well go full out. Eleanor also began to wonder about selecting a fast acting sleeping draught to flavour Aveline’s mulled wine so she could get a bit of piece and quiet. It seemed like an appropriately evil thing to do.

The highlight of these long, miserable days proved to be quite simple. In one of her rare, non-moaning moments Aveline explained to Eleanor why she refused to surrender her hold on the countess of Kent title. She believed that Trempwick would then start pestering her to hand over her dower lands, leaving her with nothing. She had been briefly married once before, Trempwick’s father was her second husband, and when she had been widowed her in-laws had robbed her blind, taking nearly everything which had been willed to her including most of her original dowry. Since the dowry was often set aside to look after the wife in widowhood this was a particularly outrageous theft. Since she had only been fourteen at the time there was nothing she personally could do. She was too young to think of engaging a good lawyer and her male relations had been brought off with a few bribes so they would not take up her case.

It had taken long years and a new marriage to a man who caught the king’s eye and was made count of Kent after the previous incumbent was stripped of the title for his disloyalty before she had managed to get anything back. She was still missing much of her rightful holdings today and Trempwick had refused to help her, claiming it was all too long ago to be relevant now. She would not be left destitute again because she would not hand anything of hers over to a man again; if it was firmly in her grasp it could not be taken away without a good fight. If she hadn’t been so miserable Eleanor might have liked her for that; despite all Aveline’s pious and proper lecturing Eleanor strongly suspected she might have a rebellious streak, although it was quite well buried.





:runs hands together: When they reach court things are going to get ... :gring:

Hehe, very good, Axeknight. You can also lace them with poison and give them as presents to people you don't like.

DemonArchangel
10-30-2004, 02:08
Trempwick's mother?
~:eek:

Whoa.

frogbeastegg
10-30-2004, 17:50
The seventh of January marked the day they arrived in Waltham where the king had elected to hold both his Christmas court and his wedding. William recognised that a king needed a certain opulence and pomp to demonstrate his power and awe those surrounding him but this did not mean he had ever liked it. This preference for a quiet life was something he had passed on to most of his children, alongside his short height and wild temper. John was a big exception to this rule, and based on her letters Matilda too had been converted to the expensive side.

Waltham walked a fine balance between need and preference. As it was outside London it was quieter and visitors did not have to fight through crowded, dirty streets and dodge pickpockets on their way in. There was a certain lack of convenience in getting to Waltham but the roads had been upgraded to a king’s highway many years before so they were amongst the best kept roads in the kingdom. The trouble was more in the extra distance people had to ride but William seldom cared about that. He was a king; it was his job to inconvenience people to reinforce his power over them.

For the rest, well it was astonishing what a bit of cash and an impatient king could do. Waltham could offer almost everything Westminster could. The only real difficulty lay in fish dishes, as Waltham was landlocked and away from any rivers. William’s steward had arranged a collection of royal warranted fish merchants to convey any and all fish that the palace might require from London to Waltham. The fish always arrived in good condition as the transporters did not wish to risk losing their lucrative contract, and William used it as another example of the power and wealth of his realm. He could afford to have a live fish carried by hand in a small tub of water from London to Waltham if he wished; how many others in England could do that? It was the kind of waste William liked: simple, unique, and with a good result at the end of the day.

To call Waltham a palace was a bit of a misnomer; it would be more accurate to call it a lavish castle. People called it a palace simply from habit and expectation. In the inner bailey stood a great, four story tower keep. The king’s sumptuous rooms occupied the entire top floor. On the third floor were several guest chambers reserved for the most honoured, trusted visitors. Below this came the council chambers, treasury, the great royal library, accounting rooms, and a smaller private throne room for receiving honoured guests with both spectacle and privacy. The entire ground floor was taken up by the main hall which also doubled as a public audience chamber and throne room. The cellar of the keep held the most important stores and a small armoury in case of siege.

The other buildings in the inner bailey were not fortified; they had thin stone walls, large windows and decoratively carved stonework. There was a huge kitchen outbuilding with attached food storeroom, set well apart from any other structure because of the fire hazard. It was close enough to the main hall that food could be rushed from kitchen to table without growing cold. There was a private church set off to the north of the inner bailey; it was just large enough to take the royal family and their inner circle. The other two buildings were guest houses, filled with generously furnished chambers for those important guests who didn’t quite fit into the keep itself. One of the guest buildings, the eastern one, was slightly more prestigious because it housed the royal nursery as well as several guest rooms. This house was usually reserved for family members who did not fit into the keep, such as in-laws.

The inner bailey was enclosed by a large stone curtain wall with towers and an imposing gatehouse. Beyond those walls came many of the other critical buildings, such as stables, armoury, store rooms, and a secondary, smaller hall for the less important people to eat and sleep in. When the court filled up, as it was doing now, there simply was not space to put everyone in the main hall.

The inner bailey was surrounded by a second curtain wall, even thicker than the last but not as tall so as to enable the defenders an advantage over any attackers who managed to take the outer wall. Waltham might be built leaning to luxury but defence was still an ever present part of the scheme.

A short distance outside the walls a small, inevitable castle town had grown up. There were all the usual services you would expect, aiming for and catering to everyone from poor spit boy to rich noble.

On the other side of the castle, once again a safe distance back William had allowed a couple of fish ponds and fruit orchards. Some liked to keep such things inside their walls but Waltham was never expected to come under siege. The space they might have occupied has been filled by the two extra guest houses.

Just west of the orchards was a large garden surrounded by thin a stone wall. William had ordered it planted as a favour for his now dead queen, but it had soon found favour with him and as his children grew up they too took advantage of the seclusion it offered. Within those shielding walls you could do pretty much whatever you wanted without someone bothering you or word spreading around court. The solitary door leading into the garden was always kept firmly locked and guarded by two men at arms so only the royal family or their favoured guests could get in. Periodic sweeps of the garden ensured no one climbed over the wall to get in and the gardeners were allowed in only at appointed times.

All kings had a means of distinguishing those they favoured above others and William was no different; he had the Order of the Garden. It was a rather whimsical name for a great honour; membership was so small the guards, who were drawn from a special unit and wore a rose badge alongside their king’s personal badge of a lion, knew the names and faces of each and every person so they could authorise them on sight. Even Eleanor was known, despite her very rare visits to Waltham.

Almost every single important person in England had come to court for the wedding and king’s Christmas celebrations. Even a few of the French lords had braved the rough winter crossing to be present. Only a handful of the English earls and counts had remained at home, most because of sickness or other such reasons. Eleanor would not have been surprised to learn some of those excused were faked; a party packed full of rich, influential people was not everyone’s idea of a good time, even if it did give you chance to catch the king’s eye, broker marriages, alliances and other deals, and to generally lord it up.

Each guest brought an escort, limited to five men at arms and one body servant of the appropriate type. William insisted on these limited numbers for three reasons. The first was pure logistics; there are limits to the numbers even a king can feed and house. The second was to prevent people bringing private armies to add weight to their words. The third was to limit the kind of trouble that usually followed soldiers - namely drinking, brawling, whoring, gambling and anything else which might get loud and messy - to a limited, manageable amount.

It was into this teeming hive of activity that Trempwick, Eleanor, Fulk, Aveline, Juliana and a guard of five men at arms from Trempwick’s nearest fief rode in mid afternoon. As soon as they got past the first gate Trempwick told his men at arms to disperse and find themselves billets, except for one man who he kept to act as his body servant. Trempwick also left the group’s horses with the soldiers. Then, assured by the gate guards that the king wanted to see Trempwick and the princess as soon as they arrived, the rest of the party headed on foot towards the towering stone keep.

Just inside the main hall a man in royal livery with the king’s badge of a lion hurried up to them and repeated the gate guard’s information; the king wished to see his earl and daughter immediately. The rest of their party was welcome to wait in the great hall and he would see they were sent refreshments while suitable rooms were found.

The man politely insisted on guiding them even though they both knew where the royal suite was. They climbed up the spiral staircase behind the servant then waited as he knocked on the door at the top. A voice called impatiently to enter. The servant opened the door, stepped in and bowed, then announced them. Finally he stood out of their way and held the door open for them. Trempwick squeezed Eleanor’s shoulder lightly and murmured, “Remember our agreement,” in her ear. She took his arm and together they entered the room. They halted half way across the king’s solar and Trempwick bowed. After a small hesitation Eleanor managed to force herself to curtsey.

William gaped at her, taken aback. “Nineteen years and I finally get a curtsey,” he said finally. “Well, well, wonders shall never cease.”

Eleanor was about to remark this was the only time in years she had seen him without expecting to be harmed when she felt the warning pressure of Trempwick’s elbow against her side. With less difficulty than she had expected she kept her peace. She was revolted to find that she was still afraid, both of the king and of the thought of more pain.

The king surveyed her from his seat at a table spread with documents, his hands linked before him on the table. His right hand still had the smallest finger bandaged to its neighbour but his knuckles had healed. If the curtsey had knocked him off balance then her appearance only compounded the situation.

For the first time in years she looked like a princess, really looked like a princess, not a cut price princess. Her clothes were brand new and fashionable for once, made to measure and adjusted to perfection. They also suited her, being deep blue to match her eyes paired with sky blue underdress and girdle for contrast. The neck of the underdress had an elaborate embroidered boarder running along it in deep blue, and the dress itself had a swirling line, flower and leaf design painstakingly sewn into the material in a rich shade of blue only fractionally lighter than the material of the dress. They were undoubtedly the most expensive things she had ever had, even beating the thin, narrow gold circlet that was her barely used crown. This was just one of several new outfits and Trempwick had complained liberally about his bank balance until his mother had shut him up.

There was but one fly in the ointment. “Her hair,” growled the king.

Trempwick deliberately misunderstood, “Yes, I do think it looks quite good, sire.”

“She has hairpins - I know what you taught her to do with hairpins, Trempwick!”

“Sire, the only other alternative is for her wander about with her hair loose and that really is not an option here.”

William chewed this over and agreed grudgingly, “Very well, but,” he changed his focus back to Eleanor, “if I so much as see your hand stray near those pins you will regret it profoundly.”

How amateur did he think she was? If she wanted to skewer him she would wait until his back was turned. She gathered her courage and took the plunge before it could slip away again. “I can promise you will see nothing of the sort,” she said with a barely perceptible bit of bite.

“Still as rude as ever,” commented the king sourly.

Trempwick stepped in before the situation could worsen. He physically put himself between father and daughter and held up his hands in a gesture meant to calm everyone down. “Sire, Nell, if you can please refrain from tearing each other apart for once? We have a wedding tomorrow and both of you are required to be there and in good health. Do I need to point out that you are both still healing from last time? Do I also need to point out that there is a castle full of people to hear and word will spread quickly?”

William snorted scornfully, “That is all very fine and pretty, Trempwick, but will the brat behave?”

“I do have a name, you know,” said Eleanor sweetly.

The King snapped back, “I know – I chose it.”

“God give me strength!” exclaimed Trempwick, his hands dropping down to his sides. “Is it really so impossible for you to get along?”

The king immediately dissented, “You heard her, she is completely disrespectful.”

“And I suppose calling me brat is the height of good manners?” inquired Eleanor acidly. The two eerily similar pairs of eyes locked glares.

Trempwick continued as if he were treading on egg shells, but then given what he was saying and who he was saying it to that was understandable. “Sire, she has agreed to … behave, as you put it, as long as you also … well, behave, as she put it.” The king ground his teeth at that but astoundingly said nothing. Eleanor also managed to refrain from commenting. Trempwick continued rationally, “So if you will both hold to that … ?”

William continued to glare at Eleanor, then half-heartedly said, “If the brat – if she does I will.”

“Likewise,” returned Eleanor with matching enthusiasm. She had to trust Trempwick would keep his promise; she could see William’s mind plotting away, already working out how best to use this opportunity.

William tapped his fingers on the tabletop and said slowly, “Very well, that is settled. If she keeps her end of the bargain I shall grant her a small yearly income, let us say twenty-five pounds. Good conduct should be rewarded.”

Eleanor forced herself to smile and say thank you as nicely as she could. It was hardly convincing but at least she had tried, as the terms of their new truce dictated. A small income with what conditions attached? As much as the money appealed the potential downsides were numerous, and it would give him another hold over her.

William looked pleased, too pleased for Eleanor’s liking. For the first time she could remember he spoke to her in a normal tone, “Anne is over in the royal guest house until tomorrow; you can share with her tonight then take over her room tomorrow when she moves up here. It would be nice,” he placed special emphasis on that word, “if you could look after her; she is rather homesick.”

“I shall try.” And that made him the second person to ask, after Trempwick. Why did everyone seem to think she was going to turn this Scottish princess into an assassin overnight, or fill her head with horror stories? The poor thing had enough trouble as it was without knowing precisely what she was getting in to.

Trempwick didn’t seem to expect this lull in their war to last so he took the opportunity to send her away. “Nell, why not go now? Your father and I have matters of state to discuss and they would bore you.”

No they wouldn’t! However interested she was in their business of state her already shaky courage was failing and she was glad of the chance to flee with honour, and body for that matter, intact.






When Eleanor had gone Trempwick relaxed minutely, the stiffness of his pose easing away. Now they were alone their already easy formability lapsed completely into straightforward camaraderie. William stood and waved at him to the fire, then filled two goblets with some hippocras from a jug that stood on his work table and joined the spymaster. “Will she keep her bargain?” he asked. He could not believe that she had finally given way, not after all these years. While he could take some joy in the knowledge that his had not broken his finger in vain he was honest enough to admit this transformation was partly the spymaster’s doing, and that bothered him immensely. He should not need someone else’s help.

Trempwick accepted his wine and sipped it. “It has limits but as long as you do nothing to upset the apple cart, so to speak, it should hold up just fine. I shall keep close so as to provide a steadying influence.” Trempwick took another sip of his wine then smiled deliberately, “I shall show her off about court for you, to your credit, I think.”

“Do what you feel is necessary,” said William. He took a deep drink from his cup and paused long enough to identify each of the flavouring spices before he swallowed. “That is what I shall be doing.”

“William?” inquired Trempwick quizzically.

It took a while for the king to answer. “This alliance is only as strong as the marriage; as long as there is a way for the marriage to be dissolved the alliance can falter.”

Trempwick sat up so quickly some of his hippocras spilled onto his clothes. “Surely you don’t mean you are going to consummate the marriage now?” William said nothing. Trempwick repeated his demand, “Tell me I have misunderstood.” Again the king remained quiet. Trempwick stared at him and said slowly, “You described her as ‘just barely thirteen’ – that is too young. Fourteen is the accepted age-”

“I know,” interrupted William glumly. “You can tell me nothing I have not already told myself.”

William was irritated to discover that did not stop his spymaster from telling him again. “You are likely to pick up a reputation for being perverted.”

“Nonsense. I plan on ignoring her for a year or so after tomorrow. I shall simply be doing what is expected; many vital political marriages discount age in favour of being indissolvable. ”

“Her family-”

The king didn’t trouble to hide his scorn as he interrupted, “Her family did not think to write a provision for her age into our agreement. They plainly do not care.” William disliked the Scots king, and this was one of the reasons why. The man couldn’t even spare a few minutes and a bit of ink to add a clause to the contract for the sake of his daughter. William had found time for each of his three married daughters.

Reputation and policy failed Trempwick tried a new, more emotional angle. “Then what about her?”

“What about her? That is two questions in one, Raoul,” he reproached mildly. “She will have been well acquainted with what is expected of her. As for the other I shall make sure she is quite drunk and it will not take long.”

“You could fake the bloodstain,” suggested Trempwick.

William dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. “It leaves plenty of space for things to go awry later. I might have the sense to say nothing but the same really cannot be said of the girl. Besides have you ever seen the swarm of curious women who descend on brides to console, commiserate, and fish for juicy details?” William frowned, “No, of course not – you never did marry. Yes, well the deception would last all of twenty seconds and then it would be spread about court. By midday I would be a laughing stock.”

“What if she gets pregnant? The younger the mother the greater the risk, and more children would be a disaster-”

“Oh, do shut up!” said William loudly. “You know as well as I that there are ways to avoid that.” He did not see why his spymaster objected so strongly; anyone would think he was the one who had to bed the girl instead of being one of the many lucky men who got to return to the feasting and joke about it. The spymaster had not even seen the girl, he didn’t know her family - there was no reason for him to be so upset. “I will hear no more on the matter.”

Trempwick set his goblet down on the floor and stood up. “Sire,” he said tightly, “in that case I shall take my leave.” He stalked away, slamming the door behind him.

William drank some more of his wine, pulled a face and flung the remnants into the fire. The flames leapt high and changed colour, then settled back down. “Too much nutmeg,” he muttered to himself, trying to excuse the small fit of temper.

The truth was Trempwick’s storming out bothered him. In the many years they had known each other they had disagreed many times, but the spymaster had always remained deferential. But then William had never refused his advice like this before either; usually Trempwick gave sound council based on more than some emotional dislike for long standing tradition and common sense.

On a sudden fit of resolve William shouted, “Squire!” Shortly Simon, the youngest of his squires, appeared. The king instructed him, “Fetch my spymaster back. I will accept no excuses.”

It took a while but eventually Trempwick presented himself. He was immediately contrite, “Sire, William, my deepest apologies. I like this not at all and I know you feel the same. I was angered that I could not find a way out of this trap for you.”

As excuses went it was unexpected but Trempwick seemed very sincere, and he had always been a loyal servant working for his king’s gain. William reasoned it could be plausible enough, no matter how irrational it sounded.

“It will not happen again,” said Trempwick anxiously. He seemed very eager for this incident to be forgotten.

William let the tension drag out a little more to remind his spymaster just who was king here, then nodded. “To business,” he said, inviting the spymaster to sit back down with a wave of his hand.







I noticed yesterday evening that I keep swapping between duke and earl. Both titles are the same thing; earl is the English version, and therefore correct for people holding lands inside England, while duke is the continental version. Trempwick is an earl, not a duke. Let's hope I get it right from now on.

Bah! If you wear earplugs and hide in the next room Trempwick's mother isn't so bad!
:hide:

frogbeastegg
10-31-2004, 22:39
The great hall was one of the most splendid sights Fulk had ever seen. The first thing that hit you was the scale; you felt dwarfed by the sheer size and height of the room in the same way you felt insignificant when you entered a cathedral. Fulk estimated it would be possible to fit approximately three ordinary rooms into this space if you stacked them on top of each other and still have a small gap between the top room and the massive beams supporting the roof. The hall also took up the entire ground floor.

On all four walls not one but two ranks of windows provided illumination, one row at normal height to provide window seats and accessible defensive positions and another some eight feet above. The highest rank were simple slits with the walls bevelled so the gap on the inside was far wider than the opening on the outside. This allowed more light in but limited the chances of missiles making their way through the gaps. The ground level windows were made up of more complex arrow loops cut in a cross shape and set in arched recesses easily seven feet tall. While the shape appeared decorative it actually provided the perfect port for both longbows and crossbows.

Since this was the royal palace each and every window had glass in it; a statement of wealth and a nice bit of comfort. The glass might hamper the defensive property of the arrow loops but they also made a second, more subtle statement – the king could afford to smash his windows in the event of someone attacking. The amount of money that would be wasted if that ever happened make Fulk feel faintly ill; it would be enough to buy several decently sized manors with good farmland. While the windows provided more than enough illumination there were wall brackets with currently unlit torches; as each bracket was only a few paces away from its neighbours it would be possible to achieve excellent lighting indeed even in the darkest of nights.

At the opposite side of the massive room to the door stood the dais and high table where the royal family and their honoured favourites would dine. Behind the dais was a fireplace. Fulk had heard of domestic fireplaces so fast you could roast a whole pig on them. This fireplace could easily accommodate a few people if you strung them on a spit like in a manuscript’s illustration of hell. The fire blazing there currently was small in comparison to what was possible and yet the hall still felt nice and warm.

Along each side of the hall forming a squared off ‘u’ shape with the high table were two long rows of trestle tables. While those lucky and influential enough to dine at the high table would take advantage of the high backed chairs that looked elaborate even that this distance those on the lower tables would have to make do with benches. The space in the middle of the hall between the tables was large enough to accommodate whatever royal entertainments were desired, up to and including a small foot tourney between four armed men, Fulk thought.

The monotony of the stone walls was broken up by hangings depicting scenes from the bible and popular stories, hunting scenes, and battle scenes. One thing was certain: the owner’s wife had not made them herself. Even assuming the late queen had been assisted by the usual gang of maids it would have taken her several lifetimes to make this little lot, and that’s assuming she never needed to sleep, eat or take a break.

Everywhere there were decorative carvings; on roof beams, the ends of the benches, the chairs, the edges of the tables, the window seats, the tops of the arches, around the fireplace – everywhere on wood and stone alike. Little people engaged in an assortment of activities, faces both normal and grotesque, animals, heraldic designs relating to the royal family, a variety of designs including zigzagging lines, swirls, imitation plant tendrils – too many to catalogue. Despite the quantity the effect was not overdone. The decoration was applied in the same places and in the same ways as every other hall Fulk had been in; it was just the scale of the room allowed for far more than your typical hall.

The hall was full of people, nobles, their servants and palace servants alike. People were playing board games, dice and cards, many were talking, a few people were eating or drinking, one group was admiring a duet of lute and song, and some were conducting business.

Fulk realised he was stood there gaping like a fish; he firmly closed his mouth and wrenched his gaze back to his companions. He was gratified to find he wasn’t alone in being awestruck; Juliana was looking about herself with wide eyed wonder. Aveline did not seem impressed, but then she was an old hand having spent quite a lot of her life at court over the years.

The old lady looked about like a hawk searching for prey. Evidently she spotted whom she was looking for as she said sharply to Fulk, “Stay here until someone orders you otherwise; I am going to see an old friend.” She glanced towards her maid and sighed. “And for heaven’s sake stop that idiot girl from gawking like a moonstruck calf!” On that pleasant note she strode away, making a beeline for a nobleman who looked to be of similar age to her.

Fulk turned to Juliana and said, “Well, you heard Her Happiness. Let’s find somewhere to sit down.” She was so absorbed in her examination of her surroundings she didn’t hear him.

Fulk tapped her on the shoulder; she jumped. Clutching one hand to her heart as if to suggest he had nearly given her a seizure she gave him a wishy-washy smile. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“We’ve been dumped with instructions to sit here until someone comes back. You can stand about if you like but I’m going to sit down.”

The girl stuck close to him as he made his way to the nearest bench and sat down. Fulk started to look about him again, this time more covertly. Aveline was talking to her nobleman; it appeared they knew each other well as their conversation was too animated to be stilted polite chitchat. There were quite a few other people in livery like his, but theirs bore badges; the king’s lion, and a stylised golden feather that Fulk thought belonged to prince Hugh.

Someone tugged at his sleeve. Fulk broke of his surveillance to find Juliana sat stiffly next to him with one hand on his cuff. Wordlessly she pointed at a huge dog stood before her and growling menacingly. She didn’t extend her arm so much as flick a finger in the dog’s direction as if she thought the dog would try and eat her hand if she gave it chance.

Fulk rolled his eyes and stuck out a hand for the dog to sniff. After a cursory inspection the dog licked his hand then moved closer and dropped its head into Fulk’s lap. Fulk grimaced as he looked at his dog drool covered hand then took advantage of the dog’s invitation to be petted to wipe the drool off onto the animal’s fur coat.

Juliana blushed slightly, “It didn’t look very friendly before.”

“Even kings don’t keep dogs who eat people; replacing all the dead servants is too costly.” Fulk stopped scratching the dog’s ears but the animal plainly wasn’t satisfied; it butted his hand until he started paying it attention again.

Juliana looked over towards her mistress. “I do wonder what she’s up to,” she said archly.

“She’s talking to someone, said something about an old friend.”

“Really?” Juliana leaned her head closer to Fulk’s, “An old friend? You know what that usually means.”

“Yes, it means they’ve met before and didn’t hate each other,” said Fulk shortly. Gossip had never been his thing.

Juliana decided he was no fun and sat there pouting.





When Eleanor finally emerged at the bottom of one of the stairwells she looked around, searching the crowd for her party. Fulk spotted her before she saw them. He gave the dog a gentle push to encourage it to go away and said to Juliana, “Eleanor’s back; come on.”

Eleanor noticed them when they were about half way to her; she immediately headed towards them. “Where is Aveline?” she inquired.

“Talking to some old friend of hers,” replied Fulk. He pointed the duo out in the crowd; Aveline was still engrossed in her conversation and had not noticed them.

Eleanor smiled grimly. “Then this is the perfect opportunity to go and visit my soon to be stepmother.” She was quite pleased that she had made it sound like her own idea rather than something two people had ordered her to do.

Juliana looked dubious. “Shouldn’t we tell my lady first, your highness?”

“If we tell her she will come with us,” replied Eleanor bleakly. There was a slight pause before her good princess act reasserted itself. “That is to say she will be dragged way from her conversation and that would be terribly unkind,” she said smoothly. “You could stay here while we go, then when she has finished talking to her friend she will know where to find us.”

“Alright,” agreed the maid reluctantly.

“Good, that is settled. Remember, do not interrupt her; let her come to find you.” With that warning Eleanor departed as fast as she could without her haste becoming obvious. Together with Fulk she managed to gain the doorway, then she was out of the keep and away out of Aveline’s line of sight and into safety.

Fulk was dying to ask what had happened but since they were threading their way through the throng of people bustling about the bailey he couldn’t; bodyguards do not interrogate their employers. Instead he followed Eleanor as she headed to the royal guest house. They entered the building and Eleanor immediately turned left into the nursery itself. Currently it was empty; there was only one royal child in the country and she was under lock and key with her mother thanks to her dear father’s bid for the throne. She stopped just past the door and waited for Fulk to come through, then closed the door behind him.

Eleanor didn’t have chance to fill Fulk in on her audience with the king; a childish voice with a pronounced Scottish accent enquired hesitantly, “Who are you?”

She turned to find a young girl with dark red hair stood in the second doorway, the one which led back into the ground floor bedchamber. She looked to be around twelve and her clothing spoke very highly of her family’s wealth. “Anne, I presume?” said Eleanor.

The girl nodded, then added, “Princess Anne.”

“Well, I am Eleanor, princess Eleanor.” She couldn’t resist adding that last to echo the girl.

The girl smiled tentatively. “Oh, William’s last child?” It took Eleanor a second to work out that William meant her father. She had never envisioned him as the kind of person to drop to first name terms even with his wife. Anne’s smile faded and she said nervously, “I do hope we are going to get on.”

Eleanor flashed her a smile, “I am sure we will; contrary to what some may have told you I will not murder you.”

Anne’s eyes flew wide and she insisted politely, “Oh no, no one has said anything like that.” There was a rather awkward pause, then Anne looked at Fulk. “Who is he?” she asked timidly.

“My bodyguard. Just ignore him, I always do. He is not nearly interesting enough to notice, nor intelligent enough to hold a decent conversation.” Behind Eleanor’s back Fulk rolled his eyes up as far as they would go and pulled a stupid face. Anne giggled, then clamped a hand over her mouth. Eleanor turned around just in time to see Fulk abruptly return to normal. Since her face was hidden from the girl Eleanor stuck her tongue out at Fulk before reassuming her royal decorum and turning back around.

“I think he is funny,” Anne said happily.

“Hear that, Fulk?” asked Eleanor imperiously, “You are now officially funny.”

Fulk’s reply was laced with exaggerated seriousness, “As you say, Your Highness. My foes will tremble before me all the more now.”

Anne giggled again. “I like you, both of you” she declared.

Well, there you go then, job done. Both the king and Trempwick would be happy. Now what? Neither of them had bothered to give her any instructions beyond getting the girl to like her and cheer up a bit.

Anne took a few hesitant steps closer and blurted out, “Can I ask you something?”

Here we go, thought Eleanor, the bit where I am tempted to tell her to start fleeing the country.

When the question came it was not what Eleanor had expected. “Everyone says you never got married; is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked curiously. Anne realised her bad manners and blushed miserably. “I mean if you do not mind telling me; my grandmother always said I asked too many questions so if you like just tell me to shut up.”

If she told the girl to shut up and mind her own business she would have an upset king and an upset spymaster to deal with if they found out. “I would not say I minded,” replied Eleanor slowly, trying to buy time to think of a more politic answer to the marriage than the truth.

Anne came to her rescue with a suggestion so quickly it was obvious she had decided her idea must be the truth. “Is it because you have fallen in love with someone and you have both sworn to marry each other but he is unsuitable so you cannot marry until he distinguishes himself somehow?”

It was an idea stolen right from some bard’s stupid romantic story and Eleanor thought it embarrassingly saccharine. She remembered both Adele and Matilda had gone through phases where they practically ate romantic literature and believed life really was like that. The worrying thing was that in so many of those tales the lovers always died tragically. Eleanor had never seen the appeal, and now in her experience unrequited love was proving to be a pain; dying because of slightly requited love would only make matters worse.

On the other hand it died sound better than “No, your husband-to-be sold off everything that was supposed to be mine to pay for his war and everyone hates me so much they refuse to even contemplate marriage without a very hefty bribe. Also I really do not like the idea and generally would prefer to run screaming.”

Besides, there was a certain tiny grain of truth in Anne’s version. Sort of. If you looked at it obliquely … through a thick fog … with your eyes tightly shut. “Yes,” agreed Eleanor. Best to keep anything she might say short and leave the rest to Anne’s imagination.

There was no stopping the girl’s curiosity. She asked avidly, “What is he like?” Fortunately for Eleanor she gave no pause for an answer, immediately supplying her own, “Is he brave and handsome?”

Why not? “I think so.”

“Is he a skilled warrior and brave knight?”

“I am sure he is.”

“And kind and gentle and intelligent?”

“Er, … yes?”

Fulk joined in with a very innocently worded, “What’s his name?”

Eleanor blushed a flaming red. As if this was not difficult enough already! She would get him for that later. There was something about the way he had said that which implied he thought he knew the answer. She had a sinking feeling he thought she was talking about him. The stuck up, arrogant, conceited git - it was none of his business to go around noticing that she had a certain attraction to him, and certainly not right for him to assume he was nice, or intelligent or anything at all!

Anne looked horrified, “You cannot ask that!” she exclaimed. “It has to remain a secret until he has proven himself worthy. Then she can sweep her off on his fiery changer and they will live happily ever after.” Anne beamed at Eleanor, “The king will not come to kill you like in the stories because I will ask him not to as a special favour and he did say if I ever really, really wanted anything I should just ask.”

“Isn’t that nice?” said Fulk with a teasing note only Eleanor would notice. She began to wonder if she could get away with throttling her bodyguard while in her nice princess act.

“I bet he has written you several songs,” said Anne dreamily.

Oh yes, he has.” Fulk took a few steps into the middle of the room and stood facing both of them, though he was looking at Eleanor slightly more than at Anne. He took up a minstrel’s pose and began to sing, “Gooseberry, Gooseberry, my delight. Thou art truly a wondrous sight. From that glare. And that stare. I think myself about to die.” Fulk bowed with a flourish then said to the crimson Eleanor, “That was how it went, wasn’t it? Poor chap was singing that under your window in a rainstorm.”

Eleanor wished she had something to throw at him. Something heavy. He was obviously having a whale of a time with the absurdity of the idea that someone might care for her. At least this time being a good victim only required her to blush and look embarrassed, something was knew she was doing of her own accord whether she wanted to or not.

Anne only saw what she wanted to see; a romantic song from some wonderful knight as retold by a bodyguard who happened to hear it. The interplay between the elder princess and bodyguard was completely disregarded. Anne sighed, “How romantic.”

If Trempwick ever got word of this he would never let her forget it; it was bad enough Fulk knowing without finding the spymaster humming Fulk’s impromptu song. Eleanor initiated damage limitation, also fervently hoping to put an end to this. “This must remain a secret; promise me you will not breathe a word to anybody.”

Anne immediately nodded and said solemnly, “I promise, not a soul ever as long as I live.” The room was still for a moment, then Anne belatedly recalled her duties as hostess. “Oh gosh! I am so sorry, I should have invited you in and got you a drink and some food, and ordered a bath and - and everything. My grandmother always said looking after guests is a sacred duty.”

Determined to make up for lost time Anne ushered them in to her guestroom without even checking to see if they wanted to go, rather like a dog herding sheep. She pushed them towards the window seat and said, “Please do sit down; I shall go and take care of everything else.” She picked up her skirts and fairly ran out the room, leaving the door open behind herself. A few seconds she reappeared and shut the door. They could hear her footsteps running away.

Fulk and Eleanor stood where they had been left. Fulk blinked a few times then said neutrally, “Interesting.”

“Very,” agreed Eleanor. “By the way remind me to hurt you a lot as soon as we have time.”

Fulk nodded pleasantly, “As you command.” He dithered for a second, then impulsively reached into his belt purse and pulled out that necklace he’d been carrying around for weeks. He turned to face her and grabbed her nearest hand then pressed it into it, curling her fingers tightly around the small object. “Look, um … your knight should probably give you some token once in a while.”

The potential implications of ‘your knight’ and ‘token’ were so immense Eleanor refused to consider them. Instead she slowly uncurled her fingers to see what he had given her. The necklace lay on the palm of her hand, delicate gold work holding a teardrop of clear rock crystal onto a gold chain. It was undoubtedly a lover’s token.

She opened her mouth to say something, she did not quite know what, but Fulk laid a finger across her lips before she could make a sound. “Don’t,” he warned, “if you say something I will probably say or do something daft; God knows I’ve proved I’ve a propensity for that in the past.” He saw the question beginning to form and sidestepped it by changing the subject, “Better hide that carefully; if your Trempwick sees it he’ll be mighty displeased. And now we really should get back to safer ground; we have company coming thanks to Anne.”

He sat himself down and somehow Eleanor managed to travel the few steps to the window seat without conscious thought. She collapsed down opposite him, dazed. If she was understanding this correctly there was a small chance that he might actually just maybe have a tiny little crush on her.





And there's another fragment of what used to be the window scene.

My latest effort at getting children right; I think she seems like a rather silly five year old instead of just thirteen.

Ludens
11-02-2004, 16:21
Excellent. The last part was really well done, though the part preceding it are very good though. But don't ask me about children since I don't understand about them either. The only thing that bothered me was the bit about pneumonia, but that has nothing to do with your writing skills ~D .

Is it allowed to requested a few more scenes from Fulk's point of view? I am curious as to how he experiences his relation with Eleanor.

Again, very well done. Looking forward to reading more. And I hope that is still a lot more to follow...



Edit: is it just me or is the number of typo's in your story increasing?

frogbeastegg
11-02-2004, 23:06
While Anne was gone Fulk and Eleanor sat in silence, Fulk too wary to speak and Eleanor too stunned. Her hand remained closed tightly around the necklace; the solid feel of the token, the cool smoothness of the crystal, the slightly sharp needle like point of the clasp’s hook all felt reassuringly real. She was not dreaming. But she still hard a hard time believing.

She opened her hand and looked at the necklace again. Implication depended on the giver; from a relative or close friend this would be a harmless trinket, from another female it would be a pretty little bauble, from a man who had declared an interest in the recipient it was a lover’s token, from someone with an agenda it was a bribe. From Fulk it was …?

He was a friend, but no one else would see it that way. The way he had given it to her, or more importantly what he had said … but perhaps she was placing far too much import on ‘your knight’. Her knight could simply mean a knight in her service, which he was. Yes, but then why call it a token? Why, she had a whole army of whys – why anything.

Crossly Eleanor stuffed the necklace into her tight sleeve where it would be safe. She really was not made for all this fretting about love; trying to reconcile the two opposing suspicions was going to give her a headache.

A few moments later she stood up. “I am going to find Anne,” she announced. She had a plan that would take care of one out of the many problems this unexpected gift presented.





The younger princess was easy to locate; Eleanor just had to follow the voices. Anne was currently busy discussing what food to offer her guests with a royal servant. When she had finished her extremely long order she let the servant go and Eleanor made her move. “Anne? I have a small favour to ask of you, if you do not mind.”

“Oh no, I would love to help. My grandmother says I should always help people because it is a Godly thing to do.”

“Yes,” agreed Eleanor inattentively as she towed the girl out of the corridor and into the nursery. She pulled out the necklace and held it out to Anne. “Could you give me this in front of a large audience and say it is a gift of friendship, or something equally respectable?” The best place to hide something was often in plain sight, as long as it had some excuse for being there.

Anne’s eyes sparkled as she took the necklace, handling it reverently. “It is from him?” she asked in awe.

“Yes.” Realising that the corners of her mouth had twitched up fractionally Eleanor quickly squashed the smile and said more normally, “I have had it for ages but I am never able to wear it. If people saw you give it to me then it would seem harmless.” Even the foundations of this deception would be built on deception; if she said she had only just got it Anne would work out it had come from Fulk.

Just as Eleanor had expected the younger girl loved the opportunity to play love’s assistant. She vowed, “You can rely on me.” After a bit of consideration Anne fastened the necklace in place about her neck as if it were hers.




Not long after Eleanor and Anne returned to Anne’s guest room Aveline and Juliana finally put in an appearance. Eleanor certainly would not say she was glad to see them but they were the audience she had stipulated Anne should wait for. Having Trempwick as a witness would have been a bonus but Eleanor decided the risk was too great; if Anne messed up even slightly the spymaster would instantly be suspicious. His mother and her browbeaten maid would be much easier to fool and they were more than able to act as reliable witnesses. They were also likely to spread word of Anne’s ‘gift’.

As soon as she arrived Aveline took control of matters; she turfed Fulk out and then engaged in polite conversation with the two princesses. She was, of course, dictating the course of conversation to suit her own interests. When the food Anne had requested arrived Aveline nibbled politely at a small chewette and oozed disapproval, though why precisely was a mystery.

After spending some twenty odd minutes answering questions about Scotland and her family Anne managed to get a question in edgeways. “Eleanor, might I ask why your bodyguard had no badge?”

Eleanor suppressed a sigh; why did everyone always ask her the same old questions over and over? Marriage this, badge that – at this rate she would be asked what she had been doing these past few years in oh, call it ten minutes.

Aveline thoughtfully saved her the trouble of answering by saying very disapprovingly, “Her lord father has not seen fit to give her one, why is for him to know. It is not for us to question our king.”

Anne looked uneasy. “I have a badge; it is a lark. I really like it. You should have one too.” She looked at Eleanor with a kind of needy desperation, “I am sure he has just forgotten.”

Eleanor would have agreed if she had been given the chance; killing the girl’s illusions seemed unnecessarily cruel since she would have to marry the king regardless. With her illusions at least she worried less; they might not last long but they provided some comfort. Eleanor strongly suspected in like circumstances she would have been a fear stricken wreck desperately searching for a way out but despairing in the knowledge that there was none; by contrast Anne was cautiously optimistic in her little dream world. All the same she felt despicable for misleading the girl.

Aveline had no such squeamishness. “Nonsense,” she declared gruffly, “he has not forgotten – he has decided she does not deserve one.”

Eleanor stepped in to try and mend the damage as quickly as she could. She had always been fast on her mental feet and all her years with Trempwick had only improved both her speed and ability to sound convincing. “It is because I refuse to marry.”

Poor Anne looked like she had been slapped. “But, he has always been so nice to me,” she protested weakly, “He cannot be that … that mean.”

Eleanor quietly wished all kinds of hellish torments on Aveline and tried again. “My father and I do not get on but I see no reason why he would not like you.”

Aveline chipped in with her own viewpoint, “You are obedient and dutiful; Nell is not. Who can blame our king for being displeased at being denied his due? Mark her fate well, and learn from it lest the same should happen to you.” And that really was that; Eleanor decided she was going to have a word with Trempwick demanding he called his mother off before she caused irreparable damage.

Anne rallied, “I will talk to him and see if he will change his mind.”

“You will do no such thing!” snapped Aveline. “A good wife does not try to bully her husband; it will be your duty to-”

Eleanor interrupted as loudly as she dared, which was something just below a shout, “Yes, quite, but now really is not the time for such discussions.”

Aveline pursed her lips and looked judgmental. “There is no better time,” she said deliberately, “since the girl is to be married tomorrow she should be well acquainted with what is expected of her.”

“Oh, but I already am,” insisted Anne seriously, “I want to be a good queen and my grandmother and everyone made sure I know everything I need and I worked really hard to learn it all.”

Eleanor quickly moved in to lend support, “Yes, I am sure her family saw to her education; to assume otherwise is rather impertinent. Even I, disaster that I am, know all the assorted rules, guidelines, instructions, courtesies, duties, responsibilities and rights.”

An edgy silence descended on the room. Anne took advantage of this to unfasten the necklace and say, “I do so hope we will get on, Eleanor. You have been so kind to me; I would like you to have this.” She held the necklace out to Eleanor.

Eleanor caught hold of the chain just above the crystal between thumb and forefinger. She studied the necklace as if she had never seen it before, then smiled and said warmly, “Thank you.” She fastened the pendant in place about her own neck and that was that, hidden in plain sight and harmless to all but her, Fulk and Anne.

Aveline watched the exchange mutely. Feeling the need to take back control of matters she started to describe all the other society wedding she had been to in her long life in great detail. She allowed no interruptions and any attempts to try and alter the topic met with firm resistance. Eventually Eleanor gave up and settled into a bored stupor, more asleep than awake.





Trempwick put in an appearance around half an hour before dinner was due to be served. He exchanged polite nothings with the others before turning his attention on her. His eyes went straight to the necklace and his brow creased with a frown. He came closer and picked up the crystal droplet, letting it rest against the insides of his fingers as he admired it. “Very pretty; where did you get it, Nell?”

“It was a gift from Anne,” she replied, striving to seem casual. Trempwick’s brown eyes bored into hers as if he believed he could search her soul for the truth if only he stared hard enough.

Aveline refused to be left out. “It was a very handsome gesture, I thought.”

Trempwick let the pendant drop back down against Eleanor’s breastbone and stepped back to a more proper distance. “Very handsome,” he agreed lightly. “I do hope you will excuse me but I am going to steal Nell away from you. We shall see you at dinner.”

As her role demanded Eleanor accepted his proffered arm and let him lead her away without comment. Trempwick headed towards the keep, through the main hall, up a staircase and to the private throne room on the second floor. He ushered her in then closed the door firmly behind them. “There; we can speak in peace without setting tongues wagging. The king will be here shortly to lend credibility to this charade.”

Trempwick smiled as if at some private joke. Eleanor arched an eyebrow, silently asking for an explanation. Trempwick generously provided her with one. “I was thinking of the last time you and I were in this room, do you remember, sweet Nell?”

It was impossible not to; it was the time she had been handed over to Trempwick for training. “Yes, master,” she agreed dispassionately.

“I think it worked out well for all concerned, don’t you think, dear Nell?”

“Yes, master,” repeated Eleanor again. She was not entirely sure if she did agree but trying to work out what would have been different if events had taken a different course that day was nearly impossible. As things stood she was here, in this future and the good tended to be inextricably mated with the bad.

“He did leave his mark on you that day, though, and that truly is a shame.”

“Master?”

“That scar under your eye, Nell. Very faint but still just visible; a pity.”

She did not know why they were here but she was certain it was not to discuss old times. “Why did you bring me here?”

Trempwick clasped his hands behind his back and ordered, “Report.”

“I would do far better if your mother would stop trying to foil me at every turn,” she grumbled, “Every time I make progress she jumps in and starts wailing doom and gloom or ranting about propriety until Anne gets worried again.”

Trempwick’s eyes narrowed and he all but snapped, “I told her to support your efforts, not destroy them! This will not be tolerated.” Trempwick paced for a few steps then halted and said abruptly, “You will continue soothing her; I have seen a few weddings with petrified child-brides and they were neither pretty nor glorious. That cannot be allowed to happen here; if our king has to drag her kicking and screaming to the altar and back he will become a laughing stock.” The spymaster looked directly at Eleanor. “Besides,” he said with a sigh, “it would hardly be pleasant for her.”

After a long, morose pause Trempwick wandered over to the throne. He brushed his fingers along one of the carved wooden arms, then looked to Eleanor with a hint of a smile. “I wonder if you can still make it up into the roof beams?”

Eleanor looked up and considered the room’s unique roof. Although there were rooms above it the throne room had the same pointed roof supported by beams running horizontal from one side of the room to the other creating an A shape that many single story buildings had. The keep’s builders, in the time of her grandfather, had decided that the slanted roof was more impressive and so special allowance had been made for it in the design of the building; the room above was perfectly normal.

“I would get up easier than ever, however I would now have to sit in the middle of one because I am taller, and so I would be obvious to anyone looking up.”

“Stay on the ground then, sweet Nell. I had enough difficulty dragging our sovereign lord off you last time he found you up there.”

Business dealt with and safe frippery exhausted they waited for the king in peace.





[dual forum bit]

Something about that part feels very off, though what exactly eludes me. As stupid as this may sound this part is proving very difficult to read back; the text keeps wriggling as if it is alive.

Earls, dukes, confusion – I have never seen a decent explanation of the English ranks, only piecemeal usage that seems almost random. Add baron into the mix and it gets even worse. In this case I shall trust external judgement over my own haphazard guesswork. Earl is the English version of count. Duke is duke. Baron will not be mentioned unless someone can fill me in on what exactly one is. So Trempwick is a duke after all. Everyone confused now? I am.

A couple of people have brought it to my attention that my spelling is getting steadily worse in these recent parts. I have noticed this myself; even after checking the document through several times myself and with the aid of Word’s spellchecker nasty mistakes are slipping through. I fix them up as I spot them, but that is often not until hours, even days later. I’ve started getting d and b mixed up again, along with g and c. That text wriggling effect I mentioned earlier is another ... symptom, if you will. I recall seeing something about dyslexics having good and bad periods; sometimes you can spell, sometimes you can’t. I think this froggy just fell right out of a good period smack into a bad one. I shall give everything an extra pass or two in the hope that will help. Sorry.

[/dual forum bit, heading to individual comments]
Ludens, I have a few more Fulk’s eye view scenes planned for the rest of their time at court. The first is due to appear in the next part. I suppose this is about the halfway mark now, it kind of depends what I do later on.

Ludens
11-03-2004, 14:16
Something about that part feels very off, though what exactly eludes me.
Perhaps because nothing interesting or unexpected happens?

frogbeastegg
11-03-2004, 14:45
Ack!

The part does what I want it to and what I need it to. It sets things up, reveals things, builds on things and if you look very closely it hints. In fact there is at least one very important thing in there, to be built on and pointed out in the next part.

It lacks elegance (and that is the problem I have with it, I think) but it works as I want or it would not be here.

Ludens
11-03-2004, 15:12
The part does what I want it to and what I need it to. It sets things up, reveals things, builds on things and if you look very closely it hints. In fact there is at least one very important thing in there, to be built on and pointed out in the next part.
I suggested that because it read like a scene from a story I am working on, which was also important yet somehow uninteresting. It revealed motives, hinted at others, set the plot working and still it felt dull. Simply put, all the characters were doing their routine without showing any originality. That's what made it dull, I think. I am still not sure about it though, but the predictability factor probably was for a large part responsible for this.

zelda12
11-03-2004, 20:47
Dear God, Holy Mary, Jesus Christ on his bloody cross. How much can one frog write in a week and a half!

I'm going to be two days reading that lot. As soon as I'm done I'll just praise it so heres my preemtive flattery.

Stupendous, superfluous an extra ordinarily inventive entertaining rip roaring ride of a story.

frogbeastegg
11-04-2004, 16:44
This was the first real court feast Eleanor had attended. She had been too young to be allowed to attend the ones held before she left court, and in her infrequent visits since then she had been left to eat in her own room with Trempwick. When the king had desired her forgotten the main hall had been closed to her; to sit at the high table was to be near the centre of attention. A princess could never sit at one of the lower tables; even if Eleanor were not exactly well known someone would have recognised her and the incident would have become fuel for rumour.

She had heard the usual stories and reminiscences of other feasts and court meals, and once she had managed to sneak into the hall and watch for a bit before she had been found and returned to the royal nursery by her exasperated nurse. She had also dined in style during her very brief time at Aidney’s before she murdered him. Based on those sources she had expected to be bored silly by the pageantry and need to conduct polite conversation on subjects she was not interested in with people she did not like.



She was pleasantly surprised to find she was enjoying herself. The food was every bit as delectable as she had expected, and Trempwick was proving to be an excellent companion instead of the dour, watchful figure she had thought to be trapped with. She might be near her father and brother but they were not her dining partners so they may as well be entirely absent for all the contact she had with them.

It was traditional for people to dine in pairs at a formal occasion or large meal, sharing a trencher and cup. The pairings usually ran to one man and one woman, though occasionally the young were paired with someone older, grandson and grandfather for example. Married couples almost always formed pairs, as did betrothed couples. One of those partners would look after the needs of the other; the young would look after the old, and men after women. That was not to say the consideration was one sided, more that the stronger would look after the weaker. It was poor manners to eat something you knew the other did not like, as the nature of a shared trencher meant that whatever one ate the other ended up with as well. The same applied to drinks, as there was only one cup per pair.

Trempwick was an first-rate partner, far more than he had hinted he would be back at Woburn. He lavished attention on her, cutting her food into bite sized bits, removing bones, selecting her favourites and generally giving so much consideration to her that he barely ate himself. She had to admit she rather liked it.

Trempwick watched as she ate a small portion of rabbit in thick ale and herb sauce. “It is good to see you happy for once, dear Nell,” he said quite sincerely.

“I do believe it may be the food.” It was not often she plucked up the nerve to tease the spymaster but tonight it really did not seem to matter. He had dropped out of his usual tutor/spymaster role and seemed to be aiming more at being a friend for once. He had even shown a liking for banter, just like Fulk. Never in the fourteen years she had known him had he ever been so … relaxed.

He laughed quietly. “Then I shall endeavour to make my cook learn to do as his job title suggests.”

Eleanor’s hand moved towards the cup but Trempwick beat her to it, his hand flashing into action the instant he saw her begin to move. He passed it to her, then took it back when she had finished with it. After drinking himself he looked into the mostly empty cup. “More malmsey or something different?” he asked.

“Can you see anyone with some clairet?”

Trempwick drained the cup in one swift gulp, then waved a hand to attract one of the waiting page’s attention and spoke quietly to the boy. A minute later the boy hurried back with an ornate jug. Trempwick held their cup out for the boy to fill, then turned to Eleanor with a smile. “Your clairet, darling Nell.”

“If I change drinks too often you shall end up quite tipsy,” she observed with a smile. She tested the clairet; it was a mix between red and white wine, a dusky pink in colour and quite light in flavour, unlike the strong, sweet malmsey. It was also less potent; she had never been fond of getting even slightly drunk. A wise agent stayed alert at all times; a dead agent did not.

“If my head starts spinning I shall empty the cup into the rushes instead of my gullet,” Trempwick assured her brightly.

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “Along with your stomach?” Normally that would get her firmly squished back into place; it was fun to kick sand over the line a little.

He laughed. “I do hope not, dear Nell. I would never live it down. Sobriety is the habit of a lifetime, and one I do not intend to break.”

There they were, probably the only two people in the hall intent on remaining completely sober, both for the same reasons. Somehow this confirmed what she had always known but never put into coherent thought. “We never do get to relax and be like everyone else, do we?” she asked sadly.

Her mood affected the spymaster’s; his reply was quite sorrowful, “No.”

Always watchful, always alert, always analysing everything and searching for motives. Everything had meaning; naught was simple. Nothing could ever really be accepted for what it appeared to be. Only a handful of people could be trusted, and even then not completely. It was a lonely existence, tonight crushingly so. The only other person in this hall like her was Trempwick. Together they sat here, slightly off to one side even while in the middle of things, almost like the players sat slightly apart from their chess pieces, a part of the picture yet somehow not.

Lonely. Absently Eleanor fingered the crystal teardrop of the necklace, considering the possibilities once again. If this was a lover’s token then it changed quite a bit, including the motive for that rather frantic embrace back in Woburn as the king arrived. Sympathy still, but of a whole new kind. She couldn’t resolve the two conflicting logics - it was obvious he could never love her; it was obvious there was something here.

A hand caught hers, gently stopping her restless toying with the token. Trempwick pitched his voice so low that none other could overhear, “Do not fret, dear Nell. You have done well; that necklace is proof of it. Anne is happier and you are safe, so relax, as much as we ever can, and enjoy yourself for a while.”

She considered his words and a slow smile spread across her face. She had fooled him; finally after all these years she had outwitted him. He truly did believe the necklace had come from Anne. He was also right – there was no point in worrying about this now. “Have you seen any cheese?”

Trempwick let go of her hand and groaned melodramatically, “Oh Jesú! Not cheese.”

“Ah, but you are not paying for it,” she pointed out archly, “my father is.”

Trempwick’s eyes gleamed. “Good point, sweet Nell, good point indeed.” He waved to the page.





Just as with every other aspect of the palace that Fulk had seen dinner was a truly unique spectacle. Since he was in the upper echelon of royal servants he was assigned a place near the bottom of the right table along with Juliana. If he leaned forward he could see past his fellow diners to the high table. To the right of the king sat the tiny figure of Anne, his dining partner. To the king’s left was prince Hugh partnered with his wife. Fulk wasn’t really interested in them; he found his eyes drawn to the dining couple next to Anne. Eleanor and Trempwick.

At this distance he could not see too well and his view was impaired by people but what he could see was more than enough. They were sat quite close and their heads were bent close together; every now than then they would laugh. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. The spymaster was being the perfect partner and Eleanor was playing along.

Sickened Fulk stopped watching. He turned his attention back to his own partner, Juliana. “Would you like some of the duck?” he asked, trying to make up for his momentary neglect. There was a serving dish with several ducks nearby; the only reason he asked about duck instead of something else.

“Yes, please. A leg, if you don’t mind carving.”

Fulk asked the person next to him to pass the platter; the dish slowly worked its way down to him. Expertly he removed a leg from the whole bird with the aid of his knife and placed it on the trencher he shared with Juliana. He wouldn’t have minded a wing but his appetite seemed to have died so regretfully he passed the dish back, wings and all. He set to, carving the meat off the bones for Juliana.

Eleanor was wearing his necklace and playing along to the spymaster. She had risked the spymaster’s wrath and devised an elaborate charade so she could wear his gift. She was playing along with the spymaster. Oh damn it, forget the pretty words – Trempwick was courting her and she was not rejecting him even though she was wearing Fulk’s token.

Fulk’s knife slashed through the cooked meat and sliced a deep scar along the thigh bone. “Careful,” warned Juliana, “it’s already dead, you don’t need to kill it again.” Fulk mumbled an apology and finished boning the leg more carefully. He ignored the food, leaving it all for his partner. Instead he pulled out a handkerchief and began cleaning the blade of his knife; it was the one the king had given him and he always kept it immaculate. Moreover it gave him something to do in lieu of eating.

Fulk forced himself to calm down and think rationally. Trempwick’s attention was focused solely on Eleanor and they were talking privately, so what? Did that mean they were flirting? No, it only meant Trempwick was being a far better partner than Fulk was. He could be – should be – doing exactly the same thing with Juliana. The hall was filled with people doing exactly the same thing. If he had been paired with Eleanor he would have been doing the same thing. It was only good etiquette.

No, actually if he had been with Eleanor he would have been taking advantage of the occasion and flirting, even though it was against his better judgement. However what he would do proved nothing about what the spymaster would do. Trempwick had had years to make a move before Fulk appeared and he had apparently done nothing; why would he change now? Anyway it didn’t much matter what Trempwick was doing; Fulk was confident Eleanor had eyes only for him.

But that had not stopped Maude, had it? Unfair; that had been his fault, not hers. Him and his stubborn pride. Fulk nearly laughed; unlike Maude Eleanor was not the kind to quietly do as her family told her.

“Whoever she is she’s not worth it,” advised Juliana. Fulk looked up from his knife; she smiled slightly. “It’s very obvious; you love someone and she won’t have you.”

Not true, Fulk knew Eleanor had a matching interest. Past experience had taught him just how potent that was; a spark quickly became a blaze if given chance.

“Stop moping and find someone else,” advised Juliana sagely.

He’d thought about that but it just wasn’t the same. He’d never particularly liked whores; he preferred to know if the reaction he was causing was real or not. Besides he had never been too happy with paying for something he could get for free elsewhere. He could easily find someone else willing to dally with a handsome knight, an Eleanor substitute in a way. The problem with substitutes was that they were never the real thing, no matter how close the resemblance might lie. He wanted Eleanor, no one else.

The only other time he’d ended up like this was during his time with Maude. He hadn’t been interested in any but her, and just look how that had turned out – disastrous.

Juliana patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll soon forget about her.”

“Never,” he said softly.

He didn’t realise he had spoken until he noticed Juliana was eying him up speculatively. She seemed rather amused. “Well, well, you do have hidden depths. In that case we’d best chance tactics. Give her a gift, something nice. They make a good introduction, believe me. The only reason I started to pay attention to my Rolf was the brooch he got me, and we’re to be married soon.”

He had, though it was something he had done on a whim. The gift had inched closer to the line he didn’t want to cross, confirming how he felt and creating a situation which could rapidly have gotten out of control. It was dangerous in another way too; if the spymaster found out he would be furious at Eleanor’s deception, and Fulk could not forget his oft repeated threat. So much as a single hair …

Eight years; what had he learned in eight years? Plenty. Then why did he still fear he would lapse back into the foolish boy and repeat the exact same mistakes? Because he was, in a way, still doing exactly the same stupid thing. The necklace was the latest proof.

Juliana had more advice, “You have to think about what you want, then decide if it is worth pursuing.”

What did he want? That was easy - Eleanor, a quiet wedding, then enough wealth and land for them to live at a standard where she would be happy. Was it worth pursuing? The first two might be possible but only if they both felt like dying within a couple of days.

Aware that Juliana was expecting some kind of response Fulk said something about thinking on what she had said. He went back to working on his knife, though the blade already gleamed.

Maybe there was a way, if only he could find … angrily he wrenched his mind from that well trodden path. She was out of his reach and there was nothing either of them could do. His only choice was a bleak one; leave or stay and he had irrevocably made his mind up at the same time he had given up his futile insistence on trying to fool himself into believing he was not falling for her.

And so he would stay, and watch, and wish.





How much can a frog write? A heck of a lot and my keyboard knows it. Now I have technique pretty much sorted (including detail and I think punctuation is finally correct throughout aside from typo style errors,) it's just a case of deciding what I want to write and then putting it down.

Ludens, on repeated review my feeling with that part is always that it is written poorly. It needs ... better words, different words, more words. When I wrote it I kept having to use different words to the ones I wanted because my spelling had disintegrated to the point where Word couldn't match the mistaken version to the one I wanted. Approximately every third word in that bit contained a typo of some sort originally. I couldn't really read what I had very comfortably. That made it a struggle to get anything down on page.

I seem to be over that now; this last part has the right words and in the right quantities and places too. I'm not quite sure if the typos in finished article problem is fixed yet, but things do feel better now.

Ludens
11-06-2004, 12:45
I seem to be over that now; this last part has the right words and in the right quantities and places too. I'm not quite sure if the typos in finished article problem is fixed yet, but things do feel better now.
Good, glad to hear that it is over. I just thought you were going through the same thing as I am and that you might benefit from my conclusions. Apparently, I was wrong.

Fulk's scene is great; I always like it when you switch perspective to him.

frogbeastegg
11-07-2004, 15:47
The wedding day dawned with an icy fineness which promised to last well into the afternoon. The ceremony itself was not due to be held until three o’clock; since the day would be given over to feasting and frippery once the vows were exchanged William had elected to leave the first part of the day clear for business.

If it was business William had intended then it was of a strange sort; by eleven o’clock he was sat in his solar with Trempwick, drinking small ale and talking idly.

“The coronation will be held next Wednesday,” William told Trempwick. “We will make the journey into London so she can be crowned in Westminster and shown to the Londoners. I thought it best to distance the two events to keep from overwhelming the girl.”

Trempwick’s answer was very approving, “A good decision, William. You gain much at no cost; the Londoners get to see their queen, tradition is honoured, the Archbishop of Canterbury gets some exercise, you get to enjoy the peace of Waltham for longer, your wedding is comparatively quiet, and Anne is given chance to adjust.”

“I had a new crown made for her, Raoul,” confessed the king with a slight, poignant smile.

“What? Why?”

“I could not bring myself to order Joanna’s crown altered. There is so little left of her, to destroy this one thing … it sends her further from this life to the next, erasing the traces of her presence, her life. I grew so very fond of her.” He looked up, old grief weighing heavily on his heart. “You must think me a sentimental fool.”

Trempwick was not best pleased at being put in a situation where he had to provide some kind of reassurance. He ventured, “You had a good marriage, William, and a good life together.” His reluctance was just slightly visible but the king was too deeply buried in his thoughts to see it.

“I was so rarely there, often off travelling or fighting. I took her with me whenever I could …” He shook his head sadly and said mournfully, “We were granted just shy of seventeen years together, and I grew so very fond of her.”

“You have your children; in a way she lives on in them.” Trempwick’s displeasure at being forced into offering platitudes was again just visible, and again the king overlooked it.

William swallowed past a lump in his throat and felt tears burning shamefully at the corners of his eyes. “Yes, and look how I have honoured her memory.”

The king leaned over and picked up his crown from where it lay on the table, polished to a blinding finish and ready for the wedding. He held the band of gold in both hands and stared at it. “You know, Raoul,” he said as though from a great distance, “this crown is a parasite of sorts, and yet everyone wants it. It takes your life, sucks you in and never, ever lets you go until you fall down a lifeless husk. Once it latches hold you can never be rid of it, even if another takes it from you its shadow haunts you still. It consumes you and those near you. I have lost … everything to it.”

“I was a neglectful husband because this thing required me to be. I was an absent, poor father because this thing required me to be. I have killed my son for this lump of gold, and will kill another if we meet again. I sent my daughters off to foreign lands to marry strangers because of this, all except one and she too this crown has tainted. I have pushed my body until it begins to fail and then kept on going, never a moments rest because of this. Now I marry again even though I do not desire to do so, and I do so solely for and because of this thrice damned crown.” There was no energy in his curse, just drained acceptance and that made it all the more potent.

William rubbed a thumb over the shining gold and stared at his reflection, distorted by the curve of the metal. The misshapen king stared back, a mockery of his living counterpart. It seemed most fitting to William; the crown was showing him what it had done, how it had taken a young man and warped him until the younger him would no longer recognise the older. Sometimes even the older man did not recognize himself.

“I never exactly wished to be king, but I was the heir. Even if I did not take the wretched thing I would have done no better; I would have been a threat to be removed. And now, now I am aware my time in this life grows shorter and so I fight to fix this crown’s doing even as I watch it continue to destroy.”

Trempwick said nothing, only stared at his liege. William sighed and set the crown down on the table. The spymaster did not understand; so few ever did. Only age had caused him to see for himself, removing the scales from his eyes and enabling him to see beyond the illusion of glory.





Anne and William were married at the castle’s church door, witnessed by as many people as could be crammed into the bailey and onto the inner curtain wall’s ramparts and tower tops overlooking the area. The ceremony was almost always held outside at the church door so more people could bear witness to the couple’s vows. Occasionally higher ranking couples married inside the church, the more important ranks getting closer to the altar. William, as king, could have given his vows before the altar itself but that would allow far fewer witnesses and so he had elected to stand at the church door like nearly everyone else did.

The vows were short and simple. William spoke his in a clear voice pitched to carry throughout the bailey and Anne struggled to do likewise. She was word perfect and her nervousness was well hidden, much to the delight of the crowd. They had a queen again for the first time in years, and she could play the part with great promise despite her youth.

After William placed the ring on Anne’s finger the ceremony was over and the royal couple, along with the most important nobles, headed into the church for the wedding mass. Those left outside began to head to whichever of the two feasts their status permitted them; the nobles and better royal servants going to the hall in the keep, the rest going to the secondary hall in the outer bailey. The food would not be served until the king returned from the church but it would take a considerable amount of time for everyone to get inside and find a place.





The wedding feast a great deal grander than the meal the previous night in every respect; the food, the decoration, the diners’ attire, the quality and quantity of drink served, the entertainment.

For Eleanor and Trempwick, however, the feast was nowhere near as cheerful as the previous night’s. They ate sparingly and the playful humour was missing; instead their mood was one of unhappy anticipation. It would not be too much of a stretch to mistake them for the bridal couple, so ill suited that they hated each other already and dreaded sealing the union so it could only be undone by death.

When the feast had been going long enough for most of the guests to get at least partly drunk the king’s chancellor, a bull-like man by the name of Thierry, staggered to his feet, wavered slightly as if he might fall and hammered his goblet on the table. “I say it’s time to put the happy couple to bed,” he slurred at the top of his voice, “It seems a shame to keep them here when they obviously desire to be elsewhere and alone.” The call was taken up by the rest of the guests.

Even the king was not immune to the bedding down revels, especially not the king – it was important for as many people as possible to bear witness to the king being put to bed with his new wife. Along with the famous blood stained bed sheet it made a blunt statement about the parentage of any children Anne might have in the near future.

The ladies chosen to undress the bride and put her to bed before the groom was escorted up by the men, or more accurately those few men deemed important enough to take part in a part of the revels that usually included every single guest but could not work the same way given the size of the gathering here, started to leave their places and congregate near Anne.

Eleanor didn’t move; she was sat next to Anne anyway and she was still wishing she was not involved in all this. She was trapped into attendance on three counts; rank, relation to the groom, and friendship with the bride.

Trempwick leaned close to her and said quietly, “You get the easy part.” Eleanor glared at him, thinking he was referring to Anne. One side of his mouth lifted into a lopsided smile. “Duty and scruples both demand I tell the joke about considerate archers; that will make me as popular as the Pope given the inevitable ribald atmosphere.”

A crease appeared between Eleanor’s eyebrows as she tried to work out what that meant. In the end she asked, “What joke?” She was not entirely sure she wanted to know but she was undeniably curious; she wanted to know what exactly managed to discomfort the spymaster. It might be information she could put to use in her next bid to throw off his stranglehold.

Trempwick took a deep breath, paused, then let it out with nothing said. He cleared his throat. “Let us say that while everyone else is going to be on about well, planting and so on I will be joking about …” he blushed, the spymaster actually blushed, much to Eleanor’s delight. “about not planting,” he finished lamely.

Eleanor blinked, still not really understanding. This did not sound like the kind of thing she could use. “But they have to consum-”

“I know,” said Trempwick quickly, “and they would.” He shifted in his chair and looked very uncomfortable. “Dear Nell, it is high time for you to leave along with the others. I shall see you later.”

Since Anne was now standing up and moving to join the group Eleanor didn’t have much choice except to drop the matter and go. While it was not unheard of for the bride to need dragging off it would be outrageous for one of her ladies to need the same, and Anne already had enough to worry about without Eleanor adding to her woes.





Usually the ladies helping the bride undress spent much of their time swapping stories, experience and tips that would provide material for a full month of sermons from any semi-decent clergyman. This party did not, instead working in silence, something Eleanor was earnestly grateful for. She had absolutely nothing to contribute to any such conversation, except maybe a few self-defence tips learned from Fulk and that really was not suitable. She had also dreaded having to play hypocrite and tell Anne everything would be fine when she believed otherwise. Her conscience was already laden with guilt over the comparatively small lies she had told thus far. Finally she was none too taken with the idea of being forced to listen to things she did not want to hear; she could hardly close her ears as she had with Judith.

Anne was tucked into bed with her long, loose hair draped artfully around her on the pillows before the first word was uttered. “I’m scared,” she admitted in a small voice, clutching the covers up to her chin

At this reminder of just how young their new queen was the women stopped bustling around putting clothes away and adding the finishing touches to the room and exchanged glances. Surprisingly it was Aveline, who was only present because she was the closest thing Trempwick had to a wife and therefore here representing one of the more powerful families at court, who stepped into the breach.

“Do you think I felt any different on my own wedding day?” asked Aveline almost kindly. Whatever Trempwick had said to her had altered her attitude towards Anne considerably. “No, I was the same; almost every bride is. I trusted my parents to choose wisely, to choose someone I would be well matched to and could be content with. I was right; they did.” She placed a consoling hand on Anne’s shoulder and said gently, “Give it time; the beginning is often the worst part. Time, experience – they change everything for the better.”

Eleanor nearly added sarcastically that time and experience could very well change things for the worst. It was one thing to suspect you might hate something; time and experience turned that suspicion into certain fact. She was also tempted to add that this match was pure expediency and Anne’s parents didn’t seem too concerned about her beyond ensuring she did them credit in the eyes of the world.

A tray with a jug of wine, a cup and some assorted dishes of food had been set out near the bed in case the couple got hungry. They were, after all, missing half the feast. Constance, Hugh’s wife, filled the goblet and handed it to Anne. “Drink this.”

Anne refused to take it. “My grandmother said I should not get drunk or it would be really, really scandalous.”

Constance wouldn’t take no for an answer; she continued to hold the cup out. “Of course you should not be drunk, but nor should you be entirely sober.”

Anne was still reluctant, too hung up on what had been impressed on her before she left home, and perhaps not quite understanding what Constance was trying to do for her. Loud laughter echoed from the staircase; the king was being brought up. Phillippa, the duchess of Warwick rolled her eyes and said disdainfully, “Men and their inconvenient timing.” Constance gave up on her efforts to get Anne to drink the wine and set the goblet back on the tray.

Eleanor started edging towards the door in preparation for a fast exit. She had never been to a wedding before but the crudity of the jokes, advice and conversation during the bedding down ceremony were legendary. She also never wanted to see her father wandering around naked, especially not being tucked into bed next to his new wife, and very definitely not on his wedding night. A groom was expected to display an obvious interest and virility as he was delivered to his bride; if he did not manage an errection for the audience the crude advice only got worse.

A wave of drunken men made their way into the room, pushing William in front of them. He was already stripped to his shirt and hose and the people nearest him were trying to rip those last few articles off. He lost patience and slapped their hands away with a cross oath. This was accepted with a kind of drink induced benevolence; the longer it took to undress him the longer everyone could poke fun at him and gawk at the petrified bride in the hopes of seeing more than her head.

Eleanor found her exit blocked by the influx of noblemen still pushing their way in, and the infamous jokes began to fly. In the space of a heartbeat Eleanor learned a whole new set of coarse slang plus several words she couldn’t even guess the meanings of.

Spurred on by the need to escape before things got worse, and her guilt over leaving Anne to face something she herself feared evaporating in the face of self-preservation, she tried pushing her way through the crowd but that had undesirable effects; someone pinched her rear. Blushing furiously she turned around, located the culprit by his stupid smile and punched him in the codpiece just as Fulk had once recommended. He folded up, clutching his injured member with a satisfying groan of agony.

Taking advantage of the sudden space surrounding her after that Eleanor kept working towards the door. The king’s shirt sailed overhead and landed on someone’s head near the back of the crowd. The jokes got worse with plenty of talk of battering rams and gates, swords and scabbards, and other transparent innuendos.

Finally Eleanor managed to fight her way to the door and through it. She paused for breath and wiped a hand across her brow while leaning against the wall at the top of the spiral staircase. She never wanted to be the focus for this kind of ceremony; in many ways it would be the final insult and on top of everything else she would have to suffer should someone force her into marriage it would be unbearable.

A fresh batch of raucous laughter and more shouted crudity persuaded her that stopping for a rest was not important after all; she hurried off down the stairs, stepping over and dodging the assorted articles of clothing that had been pulled off William and cast on the floor as the party made their way up.






I could have posted this yesterday if the paradox forums hadn't been down for well over 24 hours. I can't let one version get ahead of the other or I shall forget what needs posting where.

Speaking of which, curious frog time again. How many people are still reading this? On paradox forum I'm getting something like 6 replies per part and people are tied in knots with suspense, but here things have dropped off. You know frogs, always curious especially when it comes to readerships.

You were helpful, Ludens. You gave me an excuse to keep on analysing that particular bit until I found something I suspect may be the problem. If my explanation sounded as if I was brushing your suggestion off that was not my intent.

Axeknight
11-07-2004, 21:31
I'm still here, Froggy. And now I have a mental picture of a naked king with a middle-aged paunch (I've always imagined William as being on the chubby side, sort of a not quite so fat Henry VIII) and... erm... well, stood to attention, so to speak. Thanks for that. :help:

frogbeastegg
11-08-2004, 20:18
As she shot out of the bottom of the staircase back into the main hall a hand grabbed her arm, using her momentum to swing her around to face them. Fulk surveyed her and said wryly, “Good thing you’re not wearing red or you’d blend right in with your dress!”

Eleanor tried to regain her poise. “I think I have seen enough of the celebrations; I wish to return to my room.”

Fulk took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Then I’d best go with you; people forget how to behave when the drink’s flowing. You might not be recognised until it’s a bit late and you’re already sticking hairpins in eye watering places.”

Eleanor remembered the man who had obviously mistaken her for a generic noble instead of the groom’s daughter upstairs and didn’t argue. Besides, she was rather glad of his company.

They were about half way across the hall when someone else grabbed Eleanor’s arm and leered, “You wanna dump him and try a real man, precious.” Eleanor didn’t waste time; her hand was moving before the man even began to speak. She drew a hairpin and stabbed him in the wrist to encourage him to let go. At roughly the same time Fulk’s fist buried itself in the man’s stomach. The man collapsed to the floor and was violently sick at their feet. Eleanor stepped back, pulling her skirts out of the way before they got spattered. Fulk started towing her towards the exit once again, this time moving faster with more purpose in his step.

“You know,” he said as they stepped out into the cold evening air, “I was only using the need to escort you as an excuse to tag along; honestly you nobles are worse than my father’s peasants on May Day!”

Impulsively he stopped walking and looked at her in the weak moonlight. He took in the now listing hair, the bloodied hairpin she still clutched in one hand, the defiant set of her chin, the dangerous gleam in her eyes, the remnants of the blush and he smiled in a way Eleanor had never seen before. “Good thing no one else can see you now or there’d be a riot.” He excluded himself from that solely because one man cannot be a riot.

Eleanor looked groundwards and struggled to find a reply. First she had been pawed by two drunken idiots who must have been so inebriated they could no longer see straight, and now she was being mocked by Fulk again.

“Come on, oh surprisingly lethal one, we’d best get inside before someone else takes a liking to you.” Fulk began to walk again. “Did you enjoy the revels?” he asked as they walked.

Eleanor’s blush deepened once again. “I do not think most of the advice I heard is even possible.”

Fulk looked thoughtful; he could guess what she had heard since much of the revelry tended to repeat from wedding to wedding, even when one wedding was royal and one that of the meanest peasant. “Depends on how athletic you are,” he said finally.

Eleanor’s eyes bulged. “Really? How on earth …?!” She pulled a face. “No, on second thoughts do not answer that.”

Fulk grinned. “Good choice, oh dear.”

Eleanor frowned gracefully. “Oh dear what?”

“Nothing, just oh dear, you know as in ‘oh no’.” “Or oh beloved,”, added Fulk mentally.




The guest house was empty; Anne would no longer be needing the room and her two maids would naturally follow her into the keep. Aveline and Juliana were both still enjoying themselves with the festivities. No one else had been given rooms in this building; Eleanor suspected Trempwick had bent a few ears to make it easier for him to talk business with her without needing to dodge past other people or concern himself with eavesdroppers. They went straight into what was now Eleanor’s room, even if she did have to share with Aveline and Juliana it was hers because she outranked them. She was looking forward to having a nice, posh four poster bed with curtains to herself for a few nights.

Fulk moved to poke up the fire and add some fresh logs to it. With a sigh of relief Eleanor sat down on the bed, placed the bloodstained hairpin down at her side and pulled her shoes off. She glared at them with loathing, they had been rubbing her feet all night, then dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the bed.

Eleanor removed the last few pins holding her braids in place at the nape of her neck and began undoing the plaits. Her hair had been escaping of its own accord well before she had worsened matters by removing the pin. The style had now collapsed to the point where it was uncomfortable, tugging at her roots and tickling the right side of her neck.

Fulk left the fire to its own devices and collected her hairpin; he pulled out the handkerchief he used to clean his dagger and began wiping the blood off. It was of a faintly different design to the average hairpin; it was slightly longer and of sturdier build so it could stab without bending, and carefully balanced for throwing. Fulk believed it was made of iron for extra strength with a gold coating to make it appear harmless. Decoratively it was quite simple, with only a small chip of garnet set in a small knot work design on the blunt end.

Fulk held out her cleaned pin. On impulse she told him, “Keep it, in exchange for the necklace.” After a bit of consideration he tucked the pin behind his dagger’s sheath. He would visit one of the leatherworkers in town tomorrow and get a couple of loops added to the back of the scabbard so the pin could be kept there, safe and out of sight but still close to hand.

She waved vaguely at her comb where it lay on the room’s table. “Can you pass me that?” she requested. Fulk fetched the comb and watched with mild fascination as she gathered her hair, brought it forward over one shoulder and set to work trying to remove the tangles.

As she worked at her hair Eleanor said, “I should thank you for your tip about codpieces.”

Fulk deliberately played dumb for the sake of repartee. “I don’t recall giving you fashion advice, nor do you need it unless you’re branching out into cross-dressing.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think I prefer you in a dress.”

“Idiot,” Eleanor told him loftily. She teased a particularly stubborn tangle out with her fingers. “I meant your tip about hitting below the belt.”

Fulk looked alarmed. “You needed to discourage someone else?”

She nodded. “I know; ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“So, you punched one chap in the codpiece and stabbed another in the arm?” said Fulk weakly. He took a step back. “Please notice how I am standing a good way back and being very non-threatening and nice, also harmless.” He gave her a big, goofy smile and said nicely, “Please don’t hurt me?”

Eleanor laughed and stopped combing. “Thanks fumbletoes, you just reminded me I still owe you for that song, and for Judith too, for that matter.”

“Oh damn!” groaned Fulk, snapping his fingers in faked aggravation. He sighed and held his arms out to the sides showing he was defenceless aside from the dagger and hairpin, both of which would now take precious moments to draw. “Well, here I am. I’ll act like a man and take what’s coming to me without trying to run.”

Eleanor started combing her hair again. “For that kind of thing you need my beloved regal ancestor, and as of this moment he is otherwise engaged. I keep telling you I prefer to wait for the perfect moment to exact the perfect revenge.”

Fulk’s arms dropped back to his sides and he told her boldly, “And I keep telling you you’re nothing but a warm, fuzzy thing and mostly harmless.”

“I shall argue the warm and fuzzy,” she replied serenely, “but you can have the mostly harmless – I miss my wrist knives.”

“Since you’re mostly harmless,” Fulk began humming his gooseberry song. A few notes in he had to duck as the comb flew overhead. He looked pointedly at the comb where it had landed on the floor near the wall behind him. “You can fetch that yourself, oh acidic one.”

Eleanor rose and went to collect her comb, rather mortified that she had allowed him to goad her into a reaction. “Do not mock me,” she ordered.

With a slightly strained smile Fulk pointed out, “Eleanor, I spend half my time mocking you and you like it.”

“That is different,” she replied stiffly.

“Why?” he demanded, sounding harsher than he had intended. The song was half in earnest, the only way he could say what he felt; surely she knew that? A gooseberry was his delight, and when she did that dangerous glare she truly was a wondrous sight. She was doing a version of that same glare now, but it was more a hurt and defensive kind of dangerous than the playful, alert dangerous he loved. Perhaps she didn’t want to hear; perhaps she too was trying to keep at a distance? He had not thought of that until now, but then he had been given no reason to.

Eleanor refused to be drawn. “It is blindingly obvious.” She threw the comb onto the bed but remained standing to fight on equal footing.

“Not to me.”

Eleanor fairly growled; so he wanted to force her to say it herself, did he? Fine, she knew what she was; she could admit to it. She could. If she was the one making the accusations this time it would rob them of their power and prove she was not bothered by them. They were only words, after all, and they only hurt if you let them.

“If you cannot see the difference between humour and ramming the truth into someone’s face and expecting them to laugh along then you are more of an idiot than I ever thought possible. I do not need reminding how …” For a moment she flinched away from the words but she steeled herself and pushed on with a steady voice, “how horrible I am – cold, ugly, wilful, disobedient, unlovable, eminently hateable. No one wants me because there is not enough money in all of England to make it worthwhile. I already know; you do not need to tell me again.” There, she had done it. She didn’t hide from the truth; she could confront it head on. She glared defiantly at him, her head held high, daring him to find something more.

“I wasn’t-”

She cut his worthless protest off, “I have to put up with it from many people but not you.”

He stepped in and grasped her by the shoulders, needing to get her to listen. He looked down at her, his eyes boring into hers and he said intensely, “Someone had been filling your head with rubbish!” He thought he could guess who but it was best not to let loose unfounded accusations.

“Rubbish? You have heard Aveline ever since she arrived, you probably heard Aidney’s many complaints, you must have heard Trempwick’s servants talking, you certainly know my father’s opinion, you heard a condensed version of Matilda’s letter-”

Unable to listen to the growing list he interrupted, “And you value their opinion more than mine?” Some of the names were as he’d suspected, some were not and it seemed as though there were plenty more. He was surprised that Trempwick’s name was not on the list, but then, Fulk allowed, the spymaster had been rather ruthless in his attempts to keep control over her but he had not ventured into petty putdowns.

All of these people telling her such nonsense. Yes, she was undeniably wilful but that was not exactly a bad thing unless you were looking for slavish deference. To some people she really was some of those things; she could hardly be accused of being obedient to her father. But the rest? The rest he could easily see being said in spite. If you wanted to hurt someone you aimed for their weak point and Eleanor’s was rather glaring if you looked for it; he had not looked and so he had not spotted it but many others would take delight in finding a way to get the better of her.

He paused for a second to give her time to think on that, then explained, “Aveline is a sour old cow, Aidney was a pompous fool who blamed others for his own lacks, Trempwick’s servants hate you because you dare defy their beloved master occasionally, your father expects a deal too much, Matilda would know what she has been told by others – need I go on? It’s rubbish,” he repeated again for emphasis.

Eleanor’s head went down; she had nothing to say to that. She had not intended to start down this line at all. She didn’t know what to believe; he sounded earnest enough but he must be trying to placate her, to gloss over his mistake. He was most likely rather discomfited by the fact his joke had backfired so spectacularly; she was supposed to be a good victim.

Looking down at her Fulk’s resolve to keep his distance vanished as if it had never been. His hands slid down from her shoulders as he stepped forward and pulled her against him in a tender embrace. Just like last time she didn’t resist. As she leaned against him slightly Fulk remembered Aidney’s verdict, mostly because Eleanor had mentioned it earlier; he had called her statuesque. Back then Fulk had suspected his ex-employer was doing something wrong, now he knew for certain. Lacking in confidence and rather endearingly innocent, yes. Cold and unresponsive, no.

He ran his fingers through her hair, twining a tress between his first two fingers. His other hand went to her waist. “I hate you,” he said softly but it was obvious he meant something quite different. Startled Eleanor pulled back a little, looked up and searched his face for meaning. And it was there in his eyes, his smile, the tender expression on his face, the way he was looking at her. Even she could not deny it or mistake it for something else. He loved her.

Stupidly she felt like crying. Not quite sure of herself she placed the palm of her right hand against his chest, on his breast bone, a tentative response because she didn’t know what else to do. His right hand stopped playing with her hair and caressed the side of her face, resting so his thumb could trace the scar under her left eye. She leaned her head into his hand slightly and continued to look up at him; as long as she could see the truth she could not stop believing.

Her lips were parted slightly, an invitation Fulk took. He started to lean down to kiss her. At the last second Eleanor found herself pushed away and Fulk leapt back as if he’d been stung.

Eleanor’s immediate thought was that Walter, Trempwick’s stable boy, had been right when he’d said that the only way anyone could stand to kiss her without a pile of cash at stake would be in the dark, and in the dark you wouldn’t be able to find her because she was so short and that would be a definite improvement.

It was painful to watch Eleanor revert back to the defensive posture she’d had earlier, even though Fulk started talking almost immediately after he pushed her away he was not fast enough. “I don’t trust myself,” he explained huskily. How damning that sounded, and how idiotic. He owed her an explanation, he needed to give her one before she decided on her own but the whole story was very long. If he told it then she would know exactly what he was and he couldn’t abide the possibility that she might reject him, disgusted by the hero of Fauville, as Trempwick had called him. Yes, Trempwick knew, at least a part of it. How long before it was divulged as part of the spymaster’s attempt to push him away from Eleanor?

An explanation was owing and he would have to provide one, and better that she should hear it from him. He would tell the truth and knew the whole story; he was not sure the same could be said of the spymaster. “It is a long story, tomorrow …” he took a breath and gathered his courage, “tomorrow I will tell you, I swear on my honour, such as it is.” He added the last more for his own benefit; in his time with her he had managed to find that sense of honour he had always wanted but never quite possessed before. He would keep his word for her; he was committed and would not ‘forget’ this time.

“For now suffice it to say that I did something like this with the only other person I have loved, and it went a deal too far. It was disastrous then; now it would-”

“Get you killed and me caged in a convent for the rest of my life, unless they decide to kill me as well,” Eleanor finished for him.

Trempwick’s threat echoed through Fulk’s mind as it did on a daily basis, “So much as a single hair…” “We are stuck as we are now; if anything alters, even the slightest bit, your Trempwick will find out sooner or later.” Most of the risk fell on him but he was far more concerned about what Trempwick would do with Eleanor; he knew the spymaster’s relationship with Eleanor well enough to say beyond a doubt that his retribution would be swift, brutal and very long lasting. Trempwick would insist it was for her own good, to stop her from doing the same thing again.

“I know; I have managed to fool him only once.” Her hand went to the crystal teardrop pendant. “Suspicion alone is enough for him to remove you; he will remove you before I am placed in danger, and then he will turn his attention to me.” Trempwick’s displeasure would be spectacular and highly unpleasant but she was only anxious about Fulk. He would not survive.

There was a long pause before Fulk drew a shaky breath, let it out and said, “I am the most loyal servant you could ever get.” To say he would do anything for her was only a minor exaggeration.

“I do not want a servant,” replied Eleanor softly. She was painfully aware of the gap between them; they were still looking at each other in the same way, unable to break their gazes away but now there was a gap so they were not touching. A few inches, as good as a few miles. She had discovered she liked being in his arms; a gap was the last thing she wanted.

“Then what do you want?” He thought he knew; he was expecting her to say “You.” He prayed she would not; the more he knew he was letting slip through his fingers the harder it got to prevent himself from closing his fist and holding tight to what was there.

She was not sure, so much had happened, so much had changed in these few minutes; she was still struggling to grasp even the simplest element – he loved her! – even as her mind worked out what was possible and what was not. So far this had all been very pleasant but that did not mean it would remain so, and some fears were too deep to be removed in the space of a minute. He could change his mind, there could still be some other motive to this, his excuse for dropping her like a hot coal could be nothing more than a convenient lie made to play to their situation, she might not be suited to this romance business.

Eventually she said, “Whatever you have been until now.” She didn’t want him to change; that much was certain.

Fulk dipped his head in agreement. They couldn’t stand here all night, and other people could arrive at any time. He could not bear to leave her, not yet. They needed to do something innocent looking. “Game of knucklebones?” he asked, forcing a bit of chirpiness into his tone.

Eleanor twigged what he was doing right away; she matched her tone to his, “Yes, I do believe that might be a good idea.”

Fulk finally managed to break the gaze they had held since he had pushed her away; he went into the nursery to collect his knucklebones from his pack. As he knelt next to his pallet near the door to Eleanor’s room and dug around in his bag he wondered if he was angry with himself because he had nearly kissed her, or because he had let the opportunity slip.




Trempwick returned as the candle clock burned down to slightly past ten o’clock. He entered the room without bothering to knock, something which infuriated Eleanor – it made it look as if he owned the place, and her too. He paused in the doorway, his eyes riveted on Fulk. Princess and bodyguard sat on the floor opposite each other, a game of knucklebones in progress. It looked harmless enough, Eleanor was sure.

Eleanor dropped her knucklebones and scrambled to her feet, shaking her skirts to dislodge the rushes clinging to the heavy wool. “Fulk saved me,” she explained, thinking rapidly and using the truth to explain his presence here. “A drunken fool did not realise who I was.”

“Another one?” Trempwick inclined his head in a very grudging bow towards Fulk. “Then you have my thanks, bodyguard. However you can leave now; I shall look after Nell now.”

Fulk left without argument or show of reluctance, reasoning it was best not to cause a scene. Trempwick pulled a small purse from his belt, crossed the room and gave it to Eleanor. “Here, compensation from the count of Lyon. I had a very polite word with him about watching where he places his hands.” Trempwick smiled ferociously and said with relish, “I do believe he considers himself lucky to still be alive. By the way I was rather gratified by the efficiency with which you rescued yourself; I was on my way but it would have taken time to get through the mob. You were lucky I saw what happened.”

Eleanor opened the purse and took a cursory look at the contents. There had to be the best part of two pounds in silver in the palm of her hand.

“No one bothers my princess,” said Trempwick fiercely. “I do hate the bedding down revels; such witlessness. Believe it or not they were comparatively tame; no one wants to upset a king.”

“Tame?!” squeaked Eleanor. Her mind reeled as she tried to imagine how it could have been worse. She couldn’t.

Trempwick laughed. “Yes, tame. If I ever get married I plan on standing up and declaring loudly that I am not willing to wait any longer, then grabbing my bride and running for it before the shock wears off. I think I should just have time to bar the bedroom door before the crowd reached it.”

“I doubt your bride would appreciate being torn away from her feast.”

“Oh, I think she might enjoy the havoc,” he said mysteriously, as if he had a specific person in mind. A pause, then he ventured, “The last two days have been pleasurable, even if there have been some less than agreeable events.”

Eleanor remembered the touch of Fulk’s hand on her face, the way he had looked at her, the feel of his arms around her, the way he had said he hated her, and her face lit up with a gentle, dreamy expression. “Yes,” she agreed languorously.

Trempwick seemed very relieved. He stepped a bit closer, placed one hand under her chin and raised it while simultaneously leaning down. He planted a chaste, lingering kiss on her lips then let her go. “You should have someone to love you,” he commented quietly. “Goodnight, sweet Nell.” He left without so much as a backwards glance, leaving her stood frozen to the spot, staring after him.

Her first coherent thought was that she did have someone - Fulk.

Her second was that that had been an utterly disappointing experience; it had not been unpleasant but nor had it been enjoyable. Was that what she had so narrowly missed out on with Fulk? Even the lightest brush of Fulk’s fingers had set her skin tingling; Trempwick’s touch had done nothing. Something … unknown had been there with Fulk, whatever it was had been lacking with Trempwick

Bringing up the rear in third place came what would usually have been her first thought; what was Trempwick’s motive?






And that should keep the mush addicts happy :p

Am I the only one hearing that awful, horrifically catchy song from Disney’s The Little Mermaid, ‘Kiss the Girl’ or whatever it’s called, when Fulk nearly kisses her? I saw that film the year it came out, it was the first film I ever saw at the cinema and I still remember that song. :starts singing: my oh my, looks like the boy too shy ain’t gonna kiss de girl :D

Speaking of songs and this story I had a mildly spooky experience when doing a bit of shopping this morning. As I looked at books with half my mind on how I was going to write Fulk’s side of the Fulk/Eleanor mush scene I noticed that Britney Spears (urk! So sayth the mostly orchestral froggy) song, Sometimes, was playing. More accurately I didn’t manage to tune out the chorus despite a valiant effort. For those who don’t know it goes:
Sometimes I run.
Sometimes I hide.
Sometimes I'm scared of you.
But all I really want is to hold you tight.
Treat you right, be with you day and night.

Fulk’s thoughts exactly. Odd; I now have that song playing on endless loop having picked up a copy on a freakish whim. After it repeats the first 7 times it starts to sound ok, after an hour I’m beginning to like it :starts worrying about degrading musical taste: Well, part of this scene was written to it and I don't think it turned out so badly.


Poor Axeknight. I always picture William as being in quite good shape for his age; he is very active and still in fighting trim. All the same I admit it's not the kind of mental image a frog wants; a muscled 51 year old king with a bit of a paunch and erm ... stood to attention, so to speak :help: The thing we writers have to suffer for the sake of plot ~:mecry:

zelda12
11-09-2004, 16:49
I know the feeling milady frog.

Two weeks ago I picked up a cheap copy of one of Queens greatest hits cd's on a whim. (Being the rock fan that I am + my parents old vinyl ablbums will never be played again as the record players gone the way of the dodo.) So I was revising for a maths exam listening to the cd and after listening to it once I had the vague outlines of a couple of characters and plot. After seven or so more play throughs the idea was almost soldified. The problem is I'm lacking the will and the time to write it. (Not to mention the question of what time period to place it in.)

Axeknight
11-09-2004, 17:31
Interesting. I think the Alice Cooper song Poison suits this part.

I wanna love you but I better not touch (don't touch)
I wanna hold you but my senses tell me to stop
I wanna kiss you my I want it too much (too much)
I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison

The Coop is actually singing about a cold hard heartbreaker type of girl, but Fulk knows he's dead if he gets too close just as surely, so this song is a reflection on Fulk's feelings, just like yours was Eleanor's feelings Froggy.


“Oh, I think she might enjoy the havoc,” he said mysteriously, as if he had a specific person in mind
I liked this. Perhaps it's not the most subtle of hints, and there have been many others alluding to the same thing, but don't take that as criticism. Its very easy to make your subtle hints too subtle, so you, being the one writing the story and knowing what is going to happen later on in the story, are the only one who can see it. Casting pearls before swine and all ~D . Heh, far be it from me to give you writing tips though. Great part.

zelda12
11-09-2004, 18:58
Quote:
“Oh, I think she might enjoy the havoc,” he said mysteriously, as if he had a specific person in mind


Ah the penny drops. Very spectacularly as it seems it was drooped from several miles up and by the time it hit it had reached a velocity so intense that when it finally drooped it left quite a large smoking crater in the ground.

~D

By the way milady, the last couple of posts were brilliant. If this is half as good as your publishing work then I'll be eagerly camping outside the bookshop once I find out red hands being published... who cares that it will be a six month wait. ~:handball:

frogbeastegg
11-09-2004, 20:17
The spymaster was up bright and early, dressed and his usual dapper self before most of the other nobles had even crawled out of bed. He had requested an audience with the king first thing in the morning, even going so far as to wait impatiently outside in the solar while the hung-over William struggled to dress with the aid of his equally hung-over squires.

Trempwick’s urgency had alarmed him, but William insisted on being careful not to wake Anne up. He thought it a minor mercy to leave her sleeping; kings never had much in the way of privacy and as soon as she emerged from their room Anne would be subjected to speculation. People would look from the displayed bed sheet with its small patch of blood to her and wonder exactly what had passed last night. The outline was never enough for some people; they wanted to know everything. It may not be as much of an ordeal as the revels but he doubted she would like it.

Trempwick was admitted as William made his way to one of the fireside chairs with the intention of sitting and nursing his headache. The two squires made themselves scarce once the spymaster was admitted, shuffling off to fetch food to settle their lord’s stomach, and more than likely to get something for themselves.

Trempwick refused the offer of a seat, standing before his liege instead. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously; he played his tongue over his dry lips. “Sire,” he said with as much formality as he would have used if they had been down in the main hall, “I wanted to bring a matter to your attention, one which has been bothering me for some time now.”
“It had better be important, Raoul, important like the discovery of the Holy Grail.” William winced and massaged his temples with both hands in an effort to relieve the pounding. He wished he had kept Trempwick waiting long enough for him to clean his teeth with sage tooth rub, a mixture of sage and salt, and swill his mouth out with some mint mouthwash as he did every morning. Foul tasting as both substances might be they left his teeth clean and, more importantly just now, removed any foul tastes and bad breath caused by excessive drinking. If the king of France had been handy William would have tested his hypothesis that currently his breath could kill.

The reply was respectful, “Sire, it is not, except perhaps to me.”

William prised his head out of his hands and sat up as if he were not feeling mostly dead; the room spun a little but steadied before his stomach could take issue. “Oh, get on with it so I can go back to feeling sorry for myself,” he instructed queasily.

“As you know these fourteen years past Eleanor has been my wife in all but name and a few details. I think it may be advantageous to … formalise things.”

William sat up properly in earnest, his headache forgotten. “Are you asking for my permission to marry her?” he asked incredulously.

Trempwick bent his head in assent. “Sire, for the sake of her reputation, and therefore that of your family, it seems best to me to formalise things before people get the wrong idea.”

“Has she given you any encouragement?” William demanded.

Trempwick’s reply was instant and forceful, “Never. I am only aware of how people may interpret this to your disadvantage; I have always worked to your benefit, you know that.”

William was willing to admit that his spymaster spoke the truth about his loyalty. He was also willing to admit that Trempwick did have a good point concerning Eleanor and rumour. He owned it was unlikely his daughter had been encouraging the spymaster; one of the problems with Eleanor had been that she was always intent on discouraging rather than encouraging potential suitors. He owed Trempwick enough that he would have gladly agreed to nearly any request that he had, even if he had come here asking for personal reasons instead of political ones. But one issue remained.

“You are entirely unsuitable,” he said bluntly. Since Trempwick didn’t want the brat for himself he didn’t need to tiptoe around feelings, only rebuff the political reasoning with more of the same. Regardless of Trempwick’s motivation the answer would have been the same. “Your rank is too low, and you may have risen high but your roots are still humble; the son of an earl does not marry the daughter of a king with an empire at his feet. There would be speculation over why I gave her to such as you, speculation which would get every bit as bad as what may arise from the present situation. Nothing would be gained, indeed it would potentially make matters worse – as of yet, even after all these years, there has not been a whiff of scandal. You do good work, Raoul.”

Trempwick took the refusal well. He bowed his head in acknowledgement, his face impassive. “As you say; I do good work. If you think it needless then so do I. With your permission I shall withdraw?”

William nodded as much as he dared, not much, his mind already going to the bottle of mouthwash. The spymaster let himself out and William half walked, half staggered back into his room to clean his teeth. He started with the sage tooth rub, smearing the mixture over his teeth with a finger, gagging reflexively at the mouth puckering salt.

He had never thought to see someone asking him for Eleanor, someone other than an ambitious upstart in need of a sharp lesson in his place. While Trempwick was unsuitable he had not been motivated by ambition. Marrying Eleanor off was an interesting idea, now it had been brought back to the front of his mind he could not resist probing it once again. If he found her a husband he would not have failed her quite so badly.

William swilled his mouth out with some small ale left in the room overnight for that purpose and spat into a bowl. Despite the unavoidable lingering salty taste he felt better already. He reached for the mint and vinegar mixture, took a mouthful and started swilling it around his mouth.

While William was certain he could get Eleanor to say her vows no matter how recalcitrant she insisted on being finding someone suitable willing to take her was another matter. She lacked a dowry but he could fix that easily enough if he saw reason to, even if he would need to add a bit extra to it to compensate for her age. Anyway that was of little consequence - it was quite impossible now; no matter who offered for her they would be unsuitable. She knew too much about things he wished kept quiet, she had too many unorthodox skills and lacked many of the abilities a woman of her rank was expected to have. It was one thing to force her to marry; it was another entirely to get her to let her new husband live.

He also had a selfish reason, one he did not like to admit to even to himself. Whoever married her would see the mess he had made out of her, both figuratively in terms of upbringing and literally in terms of scars.

No, she would remain as she was, keeping this colossal mess secret. William spat the mouthwash into the bowl and sighed. Finally he felt better. The salt and vinegar taste might linger for a good quarter of an hour but his mouth felt clean and his teeth weren’t covered in gunk. A bit of freshly baked bread to settle his stomach and a few cups of small ale to quench his thirst and he’d feel human again.

Anne stirred in the bed behind him; he’d woken her up. “Feeling alright?” inquired William kindly. She nodded dutifully. “The room next door is now yours; you may alter and furnish it as you see fit. Speak to my steward for whatever you need.” The room had been Joanna’s; unlike the crown he could not have a new version made. It would be unreasonable to insist that the girl kept everything as it was.

William looked at his wife, sat in the middle of his great bed with the covers gathered up in front of her and her hair falling in disarray around her. Despite her youth it was an appealing sight. None the less he told her, “You will be pleased to hear I do not plan on sharing your bed again until you are older, a lot older.” To William’s immense surprise, and gratification, she looked disappointed. He had expected her to be happy, ecstatic even.

“Will you ask my maids to come and help me dress?” she asked eventually.

William tried a smile, not sure if he could manage the expression without his head splitting in two. He managed with startling ease. “You want to stay where you are for a bit, pretend you are still asleep. You will be subjected to everyone’s curiosity, stay here and avoid it for a time.”

Anne bit her lip and looked unsure. “But that would be indecent, and my grandmother said I should do nothing that might bring shame on the family or you.”

William refrained from rolling his eyes; he had heard plenty about this grandmother of hers. The hag appeared to possess an opinion about everything, opinions she had firmly transplanted into Anne’s mind. He was going to have to encourage the girl to think for herself a bit more or he’d be hearing her grandmother’s outlook on everything. Worse still Anne got upset if she was forced to go against granny’s advice. “I shall indulge you one small scandal, if you wish to stay.”

The pattern held true. “That is very kind of you, but I really should not.”

William sighed; he would begin to tackle granny on another day. He granted her permission to do whatever she wanted with a shrug of his shoulders and turned to go.

“William?” called Anne’s voice from behind him, anxious as if she was not sure she should be saying whatever it was she was about to.

“Yes?”

The anxiety increased; he could tell it took real effort for her to say this and she was expecting to get in trouble for it. “You will remember to do as you promised, won’t you?”

He laughed. Young though she might be Anne had proven to possess very good timing when asking for things, along with the wit to follow up and remind him so he couldn’t claim he had forgotten. He had to admit he was beginning to like her, if only granny could be exorcised he might even get fond of her. “I remember; I will see about it this morning.”

“Thank you.” She sounded genuinely happy for the first time

William left his bedchamber, crossed the solar and opened the door to the staircase. He called for a messenger. When one arrived William instructed him, “Tell my daughter I wish to see her at her earliest convenience.” Which meant, of course, immediately.






Rush, rush, not got much time...

Nice choice, Axeknight. It does suit quite well. At this rate there'll be an Eleanor soundtrack :tongueg: The song I had inflicted on me could suit either of them, certain lines apply to one and not the other but much of it would work for either of them. The "treat you right" bit is Fulk, the "give me time" bit is her, and so on. Blergh.

Both penny drops: Yes, subtle but also very bold; this time it is there to be seen. Trempwick's been hinting the same thing ever since the beginning, well the beginning of the bit where Nell is grown up. If you look back now you know you will spot it running through their scenes, growing steadily stronger and more obvious with time. It's one of those subtle things I was talking about a long time ago. Eleanor is a story that really should shine when you re-read it after finishing it.

:doorbell: gotta go, finish the rest later...

EDIT: back, fixed typos etc.

frogbeastegg
11-11-2004, 21:14
When Eleanor received her father’s summons she felt sick with fear. She had to be in trouble again, otherwise he never would have sent for her. Incensed with herself she crushed that fear away, not gone but contained. She replaced it with anger, feeble anger still tainted by dread. She had done nothing to upset her father; someone else must have upset him again, someone she would take the fall for. Her fury at the injustice of it all wavered then crumpled before a fresh onset of trepidation. She was still healing from last time, nearly better but not quite.

Trempwick. She had to get Trempwick; he would protect her, as far as he ever could. Trempwick, a sudden flash of inspiration hit her – maybe that was why the king was upset. No, no, couldn’t be. No one spied on the spymaster; no one ever got the drop on him - if he didn’t want people to know what he was doing no one ever found out. He wouldn’t want anyone to know what had happened last night, and there had been no one to see.

Another spike of panic hit her; what was she supposed to do about Trempwick now anyway? She had spent a restless night trying to figure out what his motivation was and she had drawn a blank. Only one thing had she decided for certain; she did not want him to kiss her again. Her feelings towards the spymaster were so mixed she doubted she could ever unravel them, but she unquestionably did not want anything to do with him in a romantic light. Trempwick, however, would be difficult to refuse.

And then there was Fulk.

Suddenly the idea of going back to bed, pulling the covers over her head and pretending the world didn’t exist seemed highly attractive. That had not worked when she was five; it would not work now.

“Well don’t just stand there,” snapped Aveline, “get going. You cannot leave your lord father waiting.”

“If I could I would leave him to wait for an eternity,” returned Eleanor caustically.

“You are a foolish girl, more than foolish. I do not understand what my son sees in you; he should leave you to your well deserved fate and be done with it.”

“Well deserved?” demanded Eleanor incredulously. “You are very quick to talk about that which you do not understand.”

“All I need to understand is my son keeps risking his life and position for you, and he has never had so much as a word of gratitude for his pains.”

That was too true for Eleanor’s comfort. She seized her irritation at Aveline and used it to squelch her fear, then set out in search of Trempwick before her nerve failed again.





In the end she went alone having decided that she was not so craven she would hide behind the spymaster. She never had in the past and she would not do so now. Her pride had always been an essential strength to draw on when fighting with her father; it was in tatters now, and had been ever since she had cried out as his boot drove into her ribs, but it would never heal if she allowed herself to go running to Trempwick for help. She did not want his help, not now, not ever. If she began relying on others to fight her battles she would lose far sooner and more surely than if she fought herself.

She presented herself at the solar door immaculately turned out with her hair pinned up after dawdling on her way up. She didn’t take long enough to exacerbate matters, just enough to make it clear she did not spend her days sat around waiting to be called by him.

William was sat at the solar’s table, a drink in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. When she appeared he swallowed his mouthful of bread with a grimace, placed his mug down with enough force to slosh some of the contents onto the wooden surface. “You took your sweet time,” he complained. After a bit of consideration he threw the remains of his bread onto the table and pushed himself to his feet.

Now she was here, alone and irrevocably locked into battle her fear was forgotten. There simply wasn’t time to notice it; she was too occupied watching his every movement for warning of an attack, examining his every word and tone for something she could use, thinking of the best way to respond with a tiny hint of bite without overdoing it and getting into more trouble. “I do not spend my life waiting for you to call me; it would not be useful.”

William’s right hand went to his belt, clasping about the band of leather near the buckle in a pose that was both faintly threatening and dominant. “The sooner we conclude the matter I called you here for the sooner you can get out of my sight. I will not be lectured by my spymaster on the import of keeping a truce, nor will I suffer your company longer than required. I am giving you a badge; I am also going to settle a manor on you. I have chosen one near Derby, Allestree.”

The ensuring silence was strained; neither of them really knew what to do next. For nearly two decades they had hardly exchanged a civil word. “Thank you,” said Eleanor eventually, deciding that the king had finished speaking and she would be safe from accusations of interrupting.

“Do not think I am going soft,” protested William so quickly it was obvious he thought he was. “The manor is payment for services rendered; the badge you can thank Anne for. She said a gooseberry would fit you, so that is what you will use.”

He paused, evidently waiting for her to say something. “Thank you,” she ventured again. A gooseberry? Not again! That fruit was beginning to dominate her life. She was not sure what else she could have chosen; a bloodied hairpin with the word ‘surprise’ written under it was out of the question. She was going to go through life, and death too as the badge would appear on her tomb, with a symbol born from a joke about her being short, unpopular and sour.

William cleared his throat then moved the conversation to the safe territory of business, his manner brusque and businesslike, “The manor is already fully staffed and in possession of an experienced steward. You will change nothing; the revenues will be paid to you but otherwise things will continue as they always have.” He glared at her and said balefully, “You do not know how to run a manor and I will not sit idly by while you ruin a good bit of land.”

That was unfair; she should have learned years ago by dealing with the necessary aspects of running her land with the assistance of someone more knowledgeable. It was not her fault she had never been given any land, well not entirely her fault. She would have to see if she could get a crash course from Trempwick; she did not want to be entirely dependant on stewards for the rest of her life, as they would rob her blind if they knew she could not check their accounting and decisions.

But perhaps it was best not to tell her father that she intended to learn. It would start a potential fight; she would appear to be playing into his hands by learning something he wanted her to.

The king’s eyes flicked to the bedroom door; it was closed. “I will give you another manor if you find out how Anne really is; my inquires run into dutiful answers I do not believe.” He hated asking her for help, he hated admitting to being less than omniscient and he hated looking weak – it was obvious in his posture, his tone, even though his words were innocuous enough.

Today was proving to be her lucky day; another manor for doing something she would have done anyway. “I shall do what I can.”

The conversation, if it could be called one, petered out. Away from business they had nothing to talk about and they had been at war for too long to slip easily into the polite nothings that strangers exchanged. In the end William escaped the uncomfortable scene with an excuse about going hawking, leaving Eleanor to wait alone for Anne to finish dressing and emerge into the solar.

When Anne materialized her face lit up as soon as she saw Eleanor. She turned to her two maids and told them, “I shall stay here and talk for a bit, you may leave us.” As the two other girls filed out Anne glanced around, then asked Eleanor, “Where is William?”

“Hawking, or so he said.”

Anne’s face fell. “Oh.”

And that was amazing; Eleanor had not expected Anne to want William’s presence. In an effort to cheer her up Eleanor said, “Thank you for my badge.”

“I thought you might like it, and I did promise. I thought a gooseberry to remind you of him.”

It did; she was not sure what Fulk would think of walking around with a gooseberry sewn on his tunic breast. “Thank you,” she repeated. She seemed to be saying that a lot recently, always filling a gap because she could think of no better. “How are you?”

Anne’s mood immediately became downcast. “It has all gone so wrong. I thought it was going so well and now it is not.” Most people aged when weighted down by worries and unhappiness but Anne did not; she looked even younger, lost.

Not knowing what to do Eleanor stood there uselessly, feeling like a prize ass. She was torn between two conflicting needs; to comfort Anne and to avoid finding out exactly what had caused this reaction. “I know my father can be rather … dislikeable sometimes …” she ventured hesitantly.

“No, it is all my fault.” She blinked rapidly as a couple of tears ran down her face. Her precise dictation broke down as her voice wobbled under the flood of tears, “I didn’t please him and now he hates me. Now I have no one at all because you will leave soon and he’s going to ignore me. Everyone will know he hates me and laugh at me, and I’m going to be here all alone with nothing to do but listen. My grandmother said I’d be cherished but I’m just going to be ignored and hated and laughed at.”

It was on days like this that being an agent didn’t seem such a bad thing to Eleanor, even if she did still have nightmares about her first, and only, murder. But for the grace of God and her own stubbornness she would once have been in the same situation Anne was in now. Somehow the cost of avoiding such a fate didn’t seem so excessive any more.

Reality had finally caught up with Anne. She was in a court full of strangers with only two people from home, occupying a position that attracted attention and gossip like a rotting corpse attracted flies, married to a man who may not be as wonderful as she had hoped, shackled to a new burden of duties and responsibilities that may be too much for her growing shoulders to bear. She was in her own way every bit as lonely as Eleanor.

Eleanor cut across the girl’s sobs and asked, “What exactly did he say?” Since William had asked her to find out if something was wrong with Anne she doubted he would have said anything cruel to the girl. This was probably a misunderstanding, combined with a large dose of shattered illusions.

Anne hiccoughed and sniffed again. “He said he would leave me alone until I am older.”

“Well there you go; that is precisely what he meant. If our king hates someone he is not shy about telling them clearly, take it from someone who knows.”

“But he will still be ignoring me and everyone will know and laugh at me, and I’ll still have no friends. Last night was really horrible, but being laughed at everywhere I go will be worse - I don’t want to be like queen Elise.” More noisy sobs ensued.

Eleanor sighed. What a mess this was, a mess she didn’t really want to be involved in at all. A part of this, the main part Eleanor surmised, was the quintessential problem faced by political wives and there was no real solution; ignored or not either way you lost. Either you were forced to submit to the sexual whims of your husband or you watched as he chased after other women; one was horribly invasive and carried the threat of pregnancy, the other was humiliating to varying degrees. Only a few were unfortunate enough to end up a laughing stock because of their husband’s antics, just as only a handful ended up totally ignored. Queen Elise was something of a legend, precisely because her fate had been unusual.

Queen Elise was famous for being married to king Sven of Denmark, a man who had fathered somewhere in the region of thirty bastards that he cared to acknowledge while never getting around to obtaining a legitimate heir, instead letting the throne pass to his younger brother’s son. He had claimed his wife resembled the back end of a cow. Sven was notorious during his time for his excessive lust; he would chase any woman who caught his eye, regardless of who she was. He had made no effort whatsoever to keep his countless affairs discreet, and just about the whole world had known what he had thought of his unfortunate wife. Even now, nearly a hundred years later, people were still sniggering. The royal family tree of Denmark was still a complex mess today because of Sven’s energetic hobby.

Eleanor searched furiously for something likely to cheer Anne up, anything. The sooner Anne stopped crying the sooner Eleanor could make a run for it without feeling too guilty, leaving someone more qualified to handle the rest. She had to say something to fill the gap; still wracking her brains she began to speak as slowly as she dared, “Um, well … you see … my father is …” Inspiration struck; the honest truth. “ He has no bastards.” Well, there had been a few rumours here and there but nothing much, more the kind of thing people invented to fill a gap. The only persistent tale had centred on a little boy who had died before his third birthday.

On a roll Eleanor found something else to offer. “How many of his past mistresses have you heard of?”

Anne frowned, still sniffling slightly. “None.”

“Exactly.” All that meant was her father was very good at keeping things quiet, but Eleanor was willing to leave Anne to interpret it how she wanted. Even if Anne saw past the surface it was still good news, in a way. People had to have a reason to laugh; the king never gave them one.

Anne pulled herself together and wiped her face on the sleeve of her dress. “So no one will laugh at me, then?” She looked at Eleanor with big, hopeful eyes that reminded Eleanor of a puppy begging for scraps.

“Yes, that is right. You will soon settle in, and then you will feel much better.”

“Can you get my maids back, please? I cannot go down looking like this.” She gestured at her tearstained face.

That was the invitation Eleanor had been hoping for.





Once the maids had been located and sent back up Eleanor started to head back to her guest house, thinking to find Fulk and hear that story of his. A few paces short of her front door a man in royal livery jogged up to her, bowed respectfully and said, “Your highness, the king your father requested to see you if you returned before he left. He will be in the stables, if he has not left yet.”

Left with no choice Eleanor thanked the man and let him escort her to the stables for her second royal audience of the morning.

William was just about to leave, mounted up on his favourite horse with his falcon on his fist. A cluster of hung-over looking noblemen were also mounted up and ready to accompany him. He kneed his horse away from the group so he could speak to Eleanor privately. “Well?” he demanded.

Eleanor made her report succinctly in a tone pitched so it would not carry beyond their ears, “She thinks you hate her; she is homesick and lonely.”

“Hate her? Why does she think that?”

Eleanor’s eyes moved to the audience, although they could not easily hear and they looked innocent enough she knew their ears were straining to overhear. “It has something to do with the time you promised her,” she said circumspectly.

William frowned. “I see. That explains a bit.” He stroked his falcon with the tip of an index finger, smoothing down the feathers where the breeze ruffled them. After a while he looked to the group of men and called, “Falconer, take my bird for me. The hunt is cancelled; I have business to attend to.”

The king’s personal falconer came forward and reached up a gloved hand to take the jesses and encourage the bird to move over. Freed from the need to provide a perch for his bird William dismounted, handing his horse over to his groom. He directed Eleanor to walk with him back towards the keep. “You are surprised,” he stated. “If left this will fester; that would be … a pity.”

As they neared the royal nursery he stopped walking and said, “You need not follow past here. I shall have the details of your new manors sent down along with the design for your badge. Remember, the manors are dependant on your good behaviour; disappoint me and you lose them.” He gave her no chance to reply; without a backwards glance he walked off, slightly faster than was his usual pace, Eleanor thought.

zelda12
11-12-2004, 12:31
Well now we get an insight into Williams inner shell. The way he's treating anne almost makes him seem nice... almost. Well at least Eleanor gets to have a little manor where she can cavort with Fulk away from Trempwick.

frogbeastegg
11-13-2004, 00:55
The badge proved every bit as odd as Eleanor had expected. A single green berry banded with the characteristic yellow stripes with a gold crown about its middle, probably intended to make it look less like a boring green blob. Well, there was nothing she could do and now her father had decided on it she had to use it.

Fulk was going to be ecstatic.





It took most of the day for Fulk and Eleanor to get chance to talk alone. In the end Eleanor had to resort to a family favourite; the garden. She declared she wanted a bit of air. Because it was a cool day Aveline wanted to stay inside and Juliana was trapped with her. Fulk ‘escorted’ her over to the garden and left her at the gate before looping around and making his way unseen to the back wall where he could climb over.

They would not be disturbed because Eleanor had told the guards she wished to be alone. As long as they kept their voices down no one could hear them talking, so the guards would swear she had been alone if anyone asked. They made their way to a bench near the middle of the garden and sat down. As they were side by side Fulk speculated about risking putting an arm around her but he decided against it. It might be safe in every meaning of the word but with the story he was going to tell it would not be a good idea.

He began his story with a question. “You remember how I told you about Cicely?” Eleanor confirmed she did with a nod. “Well, as I said that ended when I left for France with my father. After we crossed the narrow sea we made our way to a friend of my father’s in Evrout. He had a small fief at Tancarville, near the coast where we landed. Visiting him was one of the reasons my father had been eager to make the trip; the itch to do a bit of fighting and make some money was only a secondary reason.”

“Mathieu de Tancarville and my father had fought side by side in their youth, in one of the previous wars. They had become fast friends. On my second day in his castle I heard someone crying; I investigated, reasoning I’d nothing better to do. I found a girl sat in the small garden, crying because her pet cat had been run over by a cart and killed. Her name was Maude.” It had been years since he had said that name aloud, and now it felt unfamiliar on his lips. “She was de Tancarville’s only child. He doted on her; poor chap had lost all his other children in infancy. Being the gallant type I am I couldn’t just leave her so I went over and talked to her.”

“Was she beautiful?” asked Eleanor. It was clear she thought she could see why Fulk had remained; in light of his Cicely story he couldn’t blame her.

Fulk remembered golden hair, delicate blue eyes set in an oval face, a mouth that, as the troubadours said, just begged to be kissed. “Yes, she was,” he agreed. Eleanor looked worried, as if she thought he preferred Maude to her. He reassured her, “There’s no comparison between the two of you. She was cute and mild tempered, whereas you’re…” He shrugged.

Eleanor produced her graceful frown, just as he’d hoped. “What? I am what?”

“Annoying,” he said with a disarming grin.

“Thank you, turbot face,” grumbled Eleanor.

“My pleasure, oh dewdrop of delight. Now, back to Maude. I kept talking away, using my nice noble’s manners and all. She barely said a word, even when she did it was no more than two or three strung together. I think the longest thing she said was, ‘My name is Maude.’ I did get a few smiles, and because of that I kept going. She had a nice smile, and I could see she was cheering up a bit. Eventually I took her back inside.”

“That’s when we both found out who the other was; you can imagine the scene – her father thought I was some dreck chasing after his pretty daughter and mine wondered what I’d picked up this time.” Fulk winced slightly. “Ah yes, that was fun.” Maude’s father had threatened to geld him with a blunt knife while his own had complained that one day Fulk was going to get himself killed by a wronged husband.

Eleanor laughed. “I see you come out as the villain in both parent’s eyes.”

“I know – it was so unfair,” whined Fulk overemotionally. His face set into an unconsciously hard expression as the story began in earnest. “Things calmed down when they found out what had happened. We stayed at Tancarville for just over a week. I spent most of my time with Maude, partly because she sought me out, partly because I liked trying to get her to smile. By the time I rode out with my father’s few soldiers and de Tancarville’s levy Maude and I had become quite close.”

“We joined up with one of the local count’s armies, patrolling for French raiders and doing a bit of raiding ourselves. I was disgusted; there was no real fighting and no chances for glory. We were out for the best part of three weeks, finally returning to Tancarville when the army broke up with it’s job done.”

“We’d been back for a few weeks when de Tancarville took me to one side and told me he’d been trying to find Maude a good match; she was fifteen and of an age to marry even to his protective eyes. He had promised that he would give her a say in matters, I told you he was soppy for her, and that she’d kept refusing everyone. Then he stunned me; he said she’d asked him to consider me. He said he’d never heard her string so many words together at once in all her life. He liked what he’d seen of me and he was willing to overlook my bastard’s status because of his friendship with my father. All I had to do was earn a knighthood so Maude wouldn’t be disgraced by the match; nobles don’t marry bastard nothings. A bit of status combined with the promise of my future and my skills would be enough just enough to enable to me to marry into the minor mobility.”

“So, we were betrothed. She loved me and I …” he sighed, some of the hard set of his face easing as he thought back to the boy he had been, “and I loved her with all the fervour of a seventeen year old boy.” He glanced sidelong at Eleanor, uncertain as to how she would react to that. Nothing. Her face was well schooled into neutrality. Already he was losing her. His heart ached and in that moment he was not sure what he would do if she discarded him.

He resolutely fixed his gaze back at the garden ahead of him and continued, his earlier briskness of speech augmented now by a touch of defensiveness. “I wasn’t too happy with waiting; any knight can make another and I was surrounded with them. I’d always assumed I’d be knighted, and I’d always craved the extra status to counter my parentage somewhat. Suddenly that knighthood became an obstacle; it was all that stood between me and what I wanted – Maude, land that would undoubtedly be mine, respectability, the kind of future I’d have had if I’d been legitimate.”

“I kept asking my father to knight me or recommend me to another who would but he always refused, counselling prudence. I was too young, he said, another year and he’d be happy to speak to someone on my behalf. A year would give me time to grow and mature, to make a bit of a name for myself and for the details of my roundabout inheritance to be settled. Maude was a heiress but I should bring something to the match myself, he said. He was still negotiating with his liege to let his land pass to me as a new tenant, with a bit more time I would be his heir in all but name. I didn’t want to hear about time, or prudence or patience. I wanted it all now. We quarrelled; I remember my exact words.” Fulk stopped. When he continued his voice was low, “I told him ‘I will be a knight, with or without your help, faithless bastard.’”

“That was too much; when they left to join the next army they left me behind to cool my heels. I was too arrogant to see anything other than a slight to my skills, to see anything other than them holding me back and denying me my chance. The castle was fairly empty; most of the men were gone.”

Here it came, the bit which still reverberated in his life now, the indirect reason he was telling Eleanor his story instead of continuing to leave it to rot in a dark corner. He spoke dispassionately, as if he were telling of events that had happened to someone else, “One day Maude and I found ourselves alone in the solar; her maid was sympathetic to young love and all that so she vanished for a bit. Aside from that day in the garden we had never been left alone, there was always someone watching from a discreet distance. We’d exchanged a few chaste kisses and the like but being watched is very off-putting. That was the first time there had ever been any real passion involved and it was like throwing a lit torch on a bonfire of oil soaked wood.”

He paused, not needing to say more. He wondered if Eleanor now feared him and what he might do, just as he feared himself. He hoped not. He did not want to see her keeping him at arms length, always afraid the same thing might happen with her.

He couldn’t leave the story there, but to continue was only to get more damning. Regardless he had to go on. “Afterwards we panicked, her more than me but that was understandable. We worked through things; it wouldn’t matter – we would fake the bloodstain when we did marry so no one would be any the wiser that we’d … pre-empted things. Thanks to my plentiful experience with Cicely the whole coitus interruptus thing was nearly second nature to me so I had remembered that at least. It was unlikely there would be any inconveniently timed babies to complicate matters, but just to be sure I would get her some of the herbal tea my mother swore by. So, you see in the end it didn’t matter – no one but us would know.”

It was obvious Eleanor had no idea what half of what he’d just said meant. He wasn’t going to explain; there are some things you don’t talk about with princesses you have an inappropriate love for. At least Eleanor was never likely to get religious on him and point out it was a sin to impede conception, unlike Maude. Her poor confessor would have had to sit through her telling a story he had heard many times before from many people.

“Yes, well I think that maid knew – she damn well vanished the next day too, and the same thing happened again even though I had sworn to myself it would not.” Fulk flushed a deep red. “I was not very well acquainted with the concept of self-control. She was nervous and rather reluctant at being left with me but that soon wore off; a single kiss can spark things off if you get it right, though it honestly was not my intent.” No, this was how he had learned. “The third day-”

“I can guess,” interrupted Eleanor. She had gone slightly pink.

Fulk shook his head. She may as well have the full, unflattering truth. “No, there was one minor difference from the third day on – I stopped trying to control myself and started planning ahead. On the third day I showed up with a bit of fleece and some vinegar and the intention of seducing her.” Explaining to Maude exactly what they were for had been an unforgettable experience; they had both nearly died of embarrassment. “The maid was on our side, I was enjoying myself and I was finally getting somewhere with the idea of pleasing my partner too because I had a reason to care. Besides, we were to be married so it didn’t really matter what we were doing. The only reason we weren’t married already was because everyone was holding me back. That made it their fault, not mine. I had tried to be honourable and they had prevented me; any guilt or blame was theirs, or so I believed.”

“Our fathers were gone for about a week and a half before they sent a man back to fetch me; a sizeable French raiding party had been sighted heading towards Fauville. I was to go out and join them so I could experience a proper fight. Maude was not too happy, but I told her I would return a knight and then we could marry. She gave me a sword that had belonged to her grandfather, the blade I still carry, and told me to use it to win my spurs. I armed up and rode off with high hopes and great dreams.” His tone alone told that those dreams had turned to ashes.

“Our force caught up with the French one just outside Fauville. Since there were only a couple of hundred per side it was more a skirmish than a real battle. I was with the tiny contingent of knights and other heavy cavalry, mounted up and praying devoutly for the glory of a cavalry charge, to sweep down on the French and crush them beneath my horse’s hooves in a wave of glory that could win my spurs and make me famous. The archers skirmished a bit, and the cavalry waited. The infantry lines joined and still the cavalry waited. It was too much; I thought we were never going to see action. I could see my dreams fading away with each Frenchman someone else killed.”

Oh Jesú, the further he got into this the worse it grew. Time to tell her he had lied to her, and to explain why the spymaster had called him the hero of Fauville. “Remember how I told you the story of this battle before? I said a reckless young fool seeking glory started the charge alone. That fool was me. I knew the others would follow me, not wanting to be left out of the glory themselves, and I thought I would get the glory of being the man to lead the charge. I believed the charge would win the battle, and so I would have the glory of being responsible for our victory too. I targeted a group of infantry just in front of us; they were being held in reserve and protecting the right flank.”

“I was shot down by a crossbowman some twenty odd yards from the enemy line, my horse dead and a bolt stuck clean through my thigh. The others had begun to follow me but they too rode into crossbow bolts. There were not many archers in support of our target infantry but then there were mayhap thirty horsemen, so even a few bolts made a big difference. It had been a poor and disorganised charge to begin with and the ground was so muddy the horses had difficulty keeping their feet. It did not take much to put an end to the charge I had begun. That is why our leader had not ordered us forward himself.”

“As the enemy infantry rushed to destroy our beleaguered cavalry my father appeared to protect me. I didn’t know it until someone told me afterwards but he had instantly detached and followed me with the aim of bringing me back. Cavalry don’t do well when they are stopped and mobbed by infantry; I watched as my father was pulled from his saddle and hacked to pieces.”

Fulk smiled bitterly. “The remaining cavalry regrouped and managed a proper charge; the infantry broke and ran. Someone hauled me from the field to the surgeon’s tent for treatment but no one would have anything to do with me after my stupidity. All I had left was my armour and the few bits and pieces in our tent; my father’s corpse was picked clean by looters. I didn’t even go to his funeral – I was in a deep fever because of my own wound. I nearly died.” Miserably he admitted, “Sometimes I wish I had.” Eleanor didn’t say anything; he glanced at her again and found she was looking at him with what might be sympathy.

From that he drew the nerve to finish, to recount the worst part. “Maude’s father was the first person I saw once the fever broke. He told me I was no longer welcome in his lands, the betrothal was cancelled and I was lucky he didn’t wring my neck. I knew then my future had died along with my father. I was just the penniless bastard of a minor knight with some outdated armour, no employment, no friends and a leg wound. The agreement with my father’s liege had not been finalised, and in any case I had proved myself to be undesirable as a vassal, so his fief would go to someone else. I couldn’t go home; it would mean telling everyone what I had done. I couldn’t bring myself to send a message to my mother, not even to tell her I was alive. She must believe me dead.”

“I decided I would go and earn my fortune, get my knighthood and then return for Maude. Once I had restored my fortunes I could contact my mother and she would be overjoyed to see how well I had done for myself. Everything would be alright as long as I could call myself Sir Fulk. Maude and I were betrothed; despite what he said her father would not break that contract. He would never force her to marry against her will, and she would wait for me. With my skills as a warrior and with my education it would be easy for me to find a place with a lord who had not heard of me, then I could soon prove myself to be a desirable vassal. Nothing could go wrong.”

“About two and a half weeks after the battle Maude turned up in my tent; she had come out to find me even though her father had forbidden it. She had heard about the battle, she was not happy but she needed me. Her father had arranged a marriage for her to one of the local landowners; her own judgment had proven so poor her father felt obliged to rescue the situation. Between the known fool and the unknown quantity she chose me. She begged me to save her, to stand on my rights and marry her before she was forced to marry this landowner.” Fulk swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. If he hadn’t lost Eleanor by now then this would be the proving point. It got no worse.

“I refused,” he admitted hoarsely. “I would not let her marry a penniless bastard. I said it was for the sake of her name,” Fulk’s head bowed, “It was for the sake of my own pride. I didn’t want to be overshadowed by her. Before I had not cared, but now I had nothing except my armour while she was the same.”

He looked up again and said urgently, “I truly did not believe she would marry, if I had things would have been different. I was too stuck in my own dream, too stubborn, too insistent on saving my pride. She did not ask again, if she had maybe I would have believed this new match was something other than a bluff.” He remembered the way she had crumpled, the way she had been so hopeless as she had left. He remembered his insistence that everything would be fine; she would not marry and he would be a knight, then he would come back for her. She had known he would not. She must have thought he didn’t want her any more, perhaps even going so far as to think he had been using her all along.

“I heard about the wedding four days later. I never had the courage to find out what had happened to her. She was supposed to be a virgin bride. I did not hear of any scandal surrounding the marriage, but ...” He let himself trail off, not needing to say more. The one person most likely to take exception to her unexpected experience would be the one best placed to make her life a living hell, the only one nearly guaranteed to find out. Her husband. Some women would have had found a credible excuse, but not Maude. Deception was out of the question too; she had never had a deceptive bone in her body. Maude would never think to get her husband so drunk he could barely remember getting married, let alone the fine detail, then splotch a bit of blood from a cut on the sheet.

“When I had healed enough I left in search of an employer; I ended up with Aidney. I have spent most of my life since then trying to become something worth the cost of saving, since the price has already been paid.” Until recently he’d not had much success.

There was a long silence; Fulk waited tensely for her to say something, anything. Eventually she spoke up, “All of this was eight years ago, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you still expect to behave like the boy you were?”

“I don’t want to risk repeating the same mistakes again.”

“If you never test yourself how can you know if you have learned control or not? Or would you rather always live in fear based on the suspicion that you might not have? Currently loving someone does rather appear to be the death knell of the relationship, assuming there is one there in the first place.” Eleanor cocked her head slightly, looking at him curiously. “So what do you plan to do now?”

That could be understood as an invitation; it certainly was not the disgust, abhorrence or rejection he had expected. Fulk was so relieved his worst fears had proven groundless that he felt giddy. He knew what he wanted to do - the same thing he had wanted to do the night before, and too many times to count before that. They would not get many opportunities like this, alone and safe even from Trempwick’s spying eyes. Oh sod it - why not? She was right; if he never tried he would never know and now she was warned. Surely one kiss couldn’t hurt, not if he watched himself, and Eleanor would be watching too. She was not Maude to stand there almost helplessly, not realising what was happening until it was already too late and they were both swept away by desire. No, she’d probably knee him in the groin if he so much as tweaked any part of her clothing.

He slid up on the bench and shifted the angle he was sitting at slightly so he was facing her. His left hand took hers and clasped it lightly. He sat looking at her for a bit, trying to decide on the best way to approach this. They had so little time every instant had to be special. He hopped to his feet, pulling her up as well. “Now, where were we?” he murmured. “Ah yes.” He stepped closer to her, one had on her waist and the other on the side of her face repeating their pose from the night before.

Once again he leaned down but this time he didn’t change his mind at the last instant; he kissed her delicately on the lips, testing at first but then with increasing confidence and passion. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head while the other went round to the small of her back, pulling her closer still. After a small delay Eleanor’s arms went around his neck and she leaned into his embrace.

Finally they broke for air. They stared at each other, rather stunned. Eleanor chewed her lower lip slightly, thinking. “Are you supposed to do that with your tongue?”

“Not according to the Pope. Didn’t you like it?”

“I am not quite sure … perhaps we could try again?” A pretext. She liked it; he was sure.

Fulk was only too happy to oblige.

A few minutes later he pushed Eleanor away from him slightly. “We should get back.” As much as he was enjoying himself Fulk was skating on the edge of seeing if she really would knee him in the groin if he tried something a bit more advanced. Better to err on the side of caution and stop now.

They returned separately, Eleanor by the garden gate, Fulk by the back wall and a long, circular walk back. He returned to the guest house fully half an hour after Eleanor. As far as the world was concerned they had parted ways as Eleanor entered the garden.







So there you go, Fulk’s story … or should I say the main part of it? He does have eight years of missing time, and seventeen years before this. If you’ve been gathering your hints and clues you will probably have guessed much of this already. It’s one of those subtle things, but less subtle than the rest.

Fulk's POV there is one of those very rare occasions where I'm painfully aware of being female and writing a male POV with not real clue of what I'm doing. Yes, well I suppose it is safe enough to assume that at least one man out there is like that ...

Page 187 and they finally kissed :p

Nice theory, zelda, but she'd never manage to get away from Trempwick to investigate her new manors, let alone cavort with Fulk. Even when she's off on a mission he's spying on her.

Ludens
11-13-2004, 12:41
How many people are still reading this? On paradox forum I'm getting something like 6 replies per part and people are tied in knots with suspense, but here things have dropped off. You know frogs, always curious especially when it comes to readerships.
I still read it, even when I do not visit the Org. In fact I read every part twice. It makes wonderful reading for when you are halfway through a boring computer practical waiting for the computer to come up with the results of the umpteenth genome-scan. I do wonder why there are so little people reading this, but perhaps it's not the quality. It's the quantity. I've just worked my way through five days worth of instalments and my eyes are starting to hurt. I guess that if you have left the forum for a while, the sheer size of the text you need to read is discouraging.

Anyway, things are looking well. I didn't spot any typos and the characters are getting more interesting with every new post. I didn't like the love scene in the nursery though. I guess it's the swinging perspective. It is so hard to identify yourself with a character when the character keeps changing ~:D .

zelda12
11-13-2004, 14:10
I've been reading it avidly. Even though the daunting task of reading a week and halfs worth did make my eyes and head hurt. I don't often reply now as theres only so many ways I can say Brilliant I really liked so and so, and what happened here and here were really good plot twists etc. Plus I leave all the critiquing buisness to Ludens and Axeknight as they're a lot better at it than me. ~:)

Monk
11-13-2004, 18:26
...i'm going to make a note, never stop reading this for two weeks then come back to catch up...my eyes hurt so much... must sleep :sleeping:

But dispite having a lot of posts i had to go through this is still a pretty good read. the only problem is...i'm too tired to think of any comments worth while...(another note: don't start reading late at night and expect to be done anytime soon ~;) ) but, maybe a simple "good job" or "keep up the great work" will do? i hope so...cuz that's all i got ~D

now...sleep...

Axeknight
11-13-2004, 20:14
“Are you supposed to do that with your tongue?”

“Not according to the Pope.
~D Fantastic, loved that bit

Zelda, thanks for the compliment, but I'm rubbish at critiquing. I'm just trying to add my thoughts, and trying to be funny but ending up just irritating. ~D

zelda12
11-13-2004, 21:57
Well you do it better than I can, and that is a fact. ~:)

Anyway at least Froggy can't complain about not enough posts here anymore. ~:)

Kommodus
11-14-2004, 22:20
Yes, I've been reading it consistently as well - and I think there are probably quite a few others here who, like me, read but don't offer comments. The Org in general, and in particular the Mead Hall, seems to have quieted down somewhat, since PBM dropped off. Still, this is a good story, and it's kept my interest. I'm just not often predisposed to offer literary critique.

You'd probably get more feedback if you also posted it on sites where literature is the primary focus (like fanfiction.net). A lot of people here will enjoy the stories, but stick to talking about the games.

frogbeastegg
11-14-2004, 23:51
I wasn't exactly complaining about a lack of posts; I was more curious to see if some of the 'old' readers who hadn't posted in a while were still here. None the less this has been fascinating.

People actually get eyestrain while reading this? Believe it or not I write it, then read each bit about 3 times consecutively before I post it and once after posting it. Before I wrote that last part I read the whole thing from start to finish in one sitting. I must be lucky. :is glad:

The issue of the story being hard to keep up with is one that I have pondered several times. Simply there's nothing I can do. My current estimate is 400 pages; at the current rate that is about another 3 months worth, making about half a year total. I can't really slow it down or it will take forever to finish. Also there is the problem of being forgetting things if the story drags on for too long.

Ludens, the swinging perspective was the only way the scene could ever be done. I've known that for a long time; that's the scene I was talking about way back when they were in John's castle, the scene where I said I had to do dual POVs and get it working. Working it like most of the other scenes where you only get the odd thought from both characters wouldn't work; it had to be the in-depth version of both characters. I didn't find it to be a problem, reading or writing, but then I'm in a unique position here. I've seen some books I enjoyed do the same thing; I guess it depends on how you identify with the characters. I think we said before that we tend to work a bit differently as readers, didn’t we? You tend to latch on to one or two characters in great detail whereas I prefer to swing between several characters in slightly less detail, if I recall correctly.

A literary forum, Kommodus? I've never found one; I did a few searches but I think I must have used the wrong term. :checks fanfiction.net: Hmm, this doesn't fit anywhere as it's not really fanfic of any variety.

:yawns: I'm off before I go to sleep on my keyboard. To quickly reply to the assorted other comments even the occasional 'neat, keep going' is a good thing - it shows there is an interest. If the topic starts to resemble a graveyard I start thinking I scared my readers off. Maybe you can arrange to comment in shifts? :winkg:

DemonArchangel
11-15-2004, 02:28
Froggy, please bundle all the chapters into a biiig book once you're done.

Kommodus
11-15-2004, 17:24
A literary forum, Kommodus? I've never found one; I did a few searches but I think I must have used the wrong term. :checks fanfiction.net: Hmm, this doesn't fit anywhere as it's not really fanfic of any variety.

Yes, but the good folks over at fanfiction.net thought of that and created a section for original fiction. I can't remember where it is but I know I've seen it.

Of course, there may be sites that fit the "original fiction" category better than fanfiction.net, but that one is pretty popular.

Correction: I just remembered, the original fiction in fanfiction.net was split out to a different website some time ago. I think it's originalfiction.net.

frogbeastegg
11-15-2004, 17:49
Trempwick had been looking for Eleanor that morning but had not been able to locate her. His afternoon had been taken up with business so by the time he found her it was time for them to join the crowds in the main hall. He didn’t seem concerned with time keeping; as soon as he met Eleanor in her guest house he threw his mother out of the room, shut the door and demanded, “Where were you?” Eleanor hadn’t seem him this angry since she brought Fulk back to the manor.

Carefully she replied, “I have been here all day, except for a brief time when I went to get some air.”

“Where?” he demanded again.

“In the garden.”

He said flatly, “You will not go there again.”

“I do not-”

“We will not repeat this exercise again, dear Nell,” once again he twisted the ‘dear Nell’ into a sarcastic, wounding barb, “you will stay where I can find you easily.” When he used that tone of voice there was no arguing, not if you had any interest in your personal comfort for a few weeks. He glared at her for a moment to be sure his point had sunk in. “And now we shall go to dinner, come.” As they made the trip over to the main hall she reflected that she much preferred the more relaxed version of the spymaster, the one she had only seen these last few days.





Trempwick remained cool throughout the first part of dinner; he was sparing with his attention, he barely spoke and tension hung in the air. Eleanor felt wretched; she wanted him to return to the affable person he had proved to be these last few days. She liked it when he was kind to her, she almost craved his benevolence. It was so rare, addictive; it filled a gap she had not even known existed.

She barely touched the lamprey pie Trempwick had placed on their platter, instead watching it cool and congeal. She was not used to all this rich food, and the same could be said of much of court life. It had been a pleasant change at first but now she only wanted to leave. Too much rich food, too much pageantry, too much show, too much wasted time, too many people, the need to play proper princess much of the time, the ever present threat of the king, the way her brother steadfastly ignored her – the list went on and on.

She addressed the silent, ominous figure next to her. “When will we return home, master?”

“Home?”

She clarified, “To Woburn.”

Trempwick’s face lit up with a genuine smile, one which made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Many would say this is your home, dear Nell. I am … flattered you think otherwise.” This ‘Dear Nell’ had regained the gentle hint of liking. “I thought you were enjoying yourself?”

“It is all …” she groped for the right words, “too much. I do not belong here.”

“But you do belong at Woburn?” He seemed immensely pleased by this.

“More than I do here,” she hedged. She didn’t exactly fit there either, but the sense of being out of place was much less.

“We shall leave soon, Wednesday at the latest. We shall not attend the coronation unless you wish to, or if we cannot avoid it. Four more days, sweet Nell, four more at the most.” Trempwick prodded the cold pie with his spoon; he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You have barely eaten, not hungry?”

Eleanor shook her head, “Not really.”

Further along the table William stood up; the hall dropped into an expectant hush, thinking he was about to speak. Instead he extended his hand to Anne and then together they disappeared up the stairs leading to the royal suite without so much as a word of explanation. The tranquillity broke, replaced by much nudging and winking, and the more daring made quips about newlyweds and their insatiable passions.

Trempwick leaned to Eleanor and said softly, “Tell me, beloved Nell, truth or deception?”

Eleanor cast her mind back to her morning’s work, factoring in what she knew of both parties, but mostly what she knew of her father. “Deception, I think,” she answered doubtfully. “It is hard to say for certain. I would not be surprised if they were playing chess up there but there is room for doubt.”

Trempwick considered this carefully. “Find out for me, sweet Nell.” His teeth flashed in a quick grin and he became more light-hearted again. “Remember my hobby; looking after beleaguered princesses. Since you do not require saving at this point in time I shall have to turn my attention elsewhere or I shall get bored. You are, as ever, my rescuee of choice, so scream if you need me and I shall drop Anne and come running.”

“Nonsense.”

“Ah, but is it, dear Nell? I have been rescuing you for years now and it has never quite lost its appeal.” He smiled at her in a somewhat odd way before sobering and saying, “I hear you got a badge today, and about time too.”

She still hadn’t broken the news to Fulk. Crossly she told herself that if he didn’t like having a gooseberry stuck on his tunic then it was entirely his own fault – he had started the gooseberry thing, and he had passed it on to Anne. “Yes, it is a little … unusual.”

“It matches the owner, then. I cannot wait to see it.” He looked away from her, at the hall full of people and the trio of jesters capering on stilts in the middle of the hall. His scorn was apparent. “Let us go now, dear Nell. There is no point in remaining; we can amuse ourselves back at your guesthouse with none of this … inanity.”





From his usual place at one of the lower tables Fulk watched as Eleanor and the spymaster slipped out, pausing only to collect Aveline to act as chaperone. Even the spymaster had to be cautious, but Fulk would have changed places with him in a heartbeat. Trempwick would simply tell his mother to go away once they were safely behind closed doors, leaving him alone with the princess but respectable in the eyes of the world. It mattered little that the spymaster would behave as he always did; the opportunity was what Fulk hungered for.

Whatever they were doing it should be him with Eleanor, not Trempwick. Him talking, him playing games, him making her laugh, him spending time with her.

Looking forward Fulk could see no certain way to repeat their earlier opportunity, no way to be sure they would be safe. Behind every closed door there could be listening ears, in every empty stretch of ground there were spying eyes. Even silence could be damning; people generally didn’t sit in the same room saying and doing nothing. Their only real hope lay in whatever missions they were sent on, and even then nothing was assured. Any time Trempwick knew they were alone together he would be extra vigilant. It would only take the faintest of doubts for the spymaster to act; they must always be above suspicion.

Until their arrival at court it had not mattered much if Trempwick was spying on them; the only thing that had needed to remain secret had been their solitary fencing lesson. Now they had to hide two conversations, one gift of a necklace, one gift of a hairpin and a garden interlude which promised great things assuming they ever got the chance to do it again, and all of this from just three days.

Opportunity was not the only issue; there was also the fear of Trempwick seeing a smile at the wrong time, an unguarded look exchanged between them or any one of those thousands of telltale signs. Things always change when feelings are clearly expressed, it was a part of why he had kept silent for so long. Their behaviour to each other was forever altered, if only because now they were trying to seem as if nothing was different.

All he had done in that garden was briefly glimpse what he longed for, a glimpse that would now torture him while he searched for a way to do it again. He would do anything to have her in his arms again, but, perhaps because of that, he still didn’t entirely trust himself. There was far too much at stake; one tiny falter and they would both die. He might not be the boy any more, and Eleanor was no Maude, but still …

“My, you are maudlin tonight,” commented Juliana, a bite of capon halfway to her mouth.

Fulk said nothing, lost in remembering the feel of Eleanor’s lips beneath his own.

He would find a way.





Trempwick stared at the gooseberry and crown design illustrated on the bit of parchment Eleanor had handed to him when they arrived back at her room. “I shall get it changed for you,” he said finally. After some deliberation he suggested, “A unicorn; I think you will find the unexpected joke pleasing. Maidens catching their unicorns are always supposed to be demure, whereas you are decidedly not. So, you shall be declaring what you are and misleading people with what you are not, your cover personality displayed to the world and not a one shall understand it. I do love the irony there.” He chuckled. “Yes, most fitting.”

Eleanor was not entirely happy with Trempwick’s idea but she knew better than to say so. A unicorn would represent a significant improvement over a gooseberry, if nothing else. A stab of inspiration caused her to add acrimoniously, “Make sure it has a crown around its neck, hampering and choking the poor beast even as the world clucks admiringly at how impressive it looks.” At his enquiring look she explained, “The proper princess, strangling the real person.”

“Very nice,” said Trempwick approvingly. “I shall speak to the king, if not tonight then tomorrow.” His face brightened as another meaning to the badge occurred to him. “Unicorn horn is supposed to guard against any poison because the beast is so pure, most amusing. Now, what say you to a game of chess?”

Eleanor’s reply was less than wholehearted. “If you wish, master.” Oh God, not that accursed game again!

“I shall have to see if I can get your game to a better standard, sweet Nell,” said Trempwick. He apparently thought he was doing her some huge favour, even though he knew she hated the game.

Eleanor started to unpin her hair; she may as well lose in comfort. Before she had pulled the second pin lose Trempwick said, “No, leave it.” He stood and picked up the removed pin, then stood behind her and delicately replaced it. “I prefer your hair like this.” And that was a small unexpected thunderbolt from above; he had never complained before, and he was partly responsible for her always having her hair loose anyway. He had never provided a maid to help her with it. Prefer it how? As a weapons cache yes, her hair did work nicely like this but that made little sense, as they were not going back to the hall. It almost sounded as if the spymaster liked the way it looked, as in honestly liked it. Call her suspicious but something was going on here; Trempwick was after something.

Pin replaced Trempwick stepped back. “I shall go find us a chess set.”





“Here you go, bodyguard,” sneered Trempwick as he dangled a bit of parchment in front of Fulk the next morning. “Dear Nell’s new badge. Go on, take a look.”

Fulk did as the spymaster ordered. It was a unicorn, stood still with one foot lifted in the pose called ‘passant’ by the heralds. Unlike the usual design for unicorns this one looked more like a white horse with a horn stuck to its forehead; it had none of the curled, long hair at its knees and its tail was not that of a lion. Around the beast’s neck was a gold crown, worn like a collar.

“I trust you know the legends?” asked Trempwick archly.

“Of course.”

Trempwick laughed. “Remember them well, bodyguard; I might need Nell to catch a unicorn one day. So much as a dream of a single hair, bodyguard, so much as a dream.”

“Do you have reason for this latest threat or are you just keeping in practise?” inquired Fulk with a calmness he didn’t feel.

“I know what you are, bodyguard. Little more than a beast, I do think. I will not let you use Nell like you used so many others.” Fulk would argue the used; as far as he was concerned only Cicely fell into that category.

Fulk forced himself to smile sardonically. “Since you’ve been so busy poking about in my past I’m shocked you’ve not noticed I’ve an eye for beauty. Dear Nell might be amusing but,” he shrugged carelessly, “I’ve never been one for romancing in the dark.” He wasn’t sure if the was misleading the spymaster or not; for good measure he added, “I like her in the same way I’d like a sister, and just like a sister the idea of seducing her makes me feel ill.”

Trempwick backhanded Fulk across the face, splitting his lip. “You will speak of her with more respect, bodyguard.”

Fulk dabbed blood away with the back of his hand; the spymaster hit hard, harder than Fulk would have thought possible. Beneath that dapper exterior lurked the trained muscles of a fighter. Fulk had never seen the spymaster practise, and from what he had gathered nor had Eleanor. Interesting. “I thought it best to make it clear you’re barking up the wrong tree – I’ve a liking for being alive.”

“Good.” Trempwick’s smile was nothing if not wolfish. “Dear Nell would get rather upset if I had to kill her pet; for reasons I cannot understand she likes you.”

“Like a brother, making us a happy little family.”

“Just so,” agreed Trempwick. “Go get your badge made, bodyguard.”








Not a bad idea, Demon. I shall try to remember.

Originalfiction.net ... :searches: found it. Thanks; I shall take a look around.

zelda12
11-15-2004, 22:51
“Let us go now, dear Nell. There is no point in remaining; we can amuse ourselves back at your guesthouse with none of this … inanity.”

inanity?


Sorry but its a shame to leave a great piece of writing with a simple typo.


About giving eyestrain it might be that Monk and myself read over a weeks worth of posts. Plus I have a dodgy screen.

frogbeastegg
11-15-2004, 23:07
:checks dictionary to see if she accidentally wrote a word which sounds similar but has a different meaning, aka the discrete/discreet, breeches/breaches thing all over again: Nope, I got it right. Inanity: senselessness; mental vacuity; emptiness; an insipid frivolous utterance.

It sounded posher than yet another repeat of 'stupidity' :tongueg:

Thanks anyway; with my track record of typos and mixed up words you can never be too careful ~:)

I have a nice flatscreen monitor now; I used to have a crap CRT but it kind of did a very mini explosion ... Ahem, yes, well flatscreen is supposed to be better for your eyes so maybe that's it?

frogbeastegg
11-17-2004, 01:19
Eleanor spent the day trapped with Aveline and Juliana, sewing. She was not left alone except when she went to the privy. All her efforts to get away met with flat refusal and dire threats that the spymaster would be informed and he would be most displeased if she left without permission. She didn’t see Fulk at all.





Dinner proved to be the same as all the previous feasts. While she still enjoyed all the attention Trempwick lavished on her she was getting more than a little bored. Floating around in this protected little bubble with nothing much to do and no real need to think much of the time was numbing her mind and leaving her feeling sluggish and dull witted.

After the first hour things livened up unexpectedly. A noble and his escort of four men were ushered into the hall. The noble was well dressed in the latest French fashions and all four of his men wore spotless armour, polished until it reflected the torchlight and people in an ever shifting pattern of fire reds and deep blacks. All five of them had been completely disarmed. In the centre of the four soldiers stood a fifth man, but Eleanor couldn’t see his face or any identifying detail, so closely was he guarded.

The party made their way up the central space until they were just short of the high table; there they stopped. The nobleman stepped forward a few paces, then dropped to one knee before the king. He spoke in French, educated and refined. “My lord king, permit me to introduce myself. I am count Guillaume de Guines.” He waited for a reaction.

William sat up straight and raised his chin, shifting from relaxed diner to attentive king. “Then you had best speak up and explain why you are here. You have counted yourself amongst my enemies before now.” He answered in French, assuming the count would have demonstrated an ability to speak English if he understood the tongue.

Still kneeling Guillaume bowed his head again. “Sire, forgive my tardiness; I did intend to bring my gift and loyalty both on your wedding day. I am here to offer you my services, along with the loyalty and resources of Guines.” He looked to William for permission to rise; after a pause he received it.

He stood and continued in his elegant French, “Sire, in the hopes of proving my good intentions to you I bring not only my own person, but also a gift of sorts, a show of loyalty.”

He stepped to one side and indicated to his escort to do the same. The men rippled outwards like a flower opening its petals, revealing a man with bound hands in their midst. The man’s clothing had once been splendid but now it was torn and dirty, and he was rather ill-kempt. To her horror Eleanor found she recognised the prisoner instantly.

It was John.

De Guines identified his prisoner with a flourish; “I bring your grace’s traitor, the duke of York.”

A ripple ran around the hall, sharp intakes of breath followed by murmurings of surprise and speculation. William’s hand dropped to the tabletop with a thump and he stared with his mouth partly open, the blood draining from his face. His lips moved in an expression of disbelief, but no sound came out.

Beneath the table Eleanor clenched both her hands into fists, crushing handfuls of her dress, unable to tear her eyes away from her returned brother. Ice filled the pit of her stomach, numbing her emotionally in a different way to the earlier tedium but every bit as effectively. He was going to die, and once again she would find herself the target for her father’s rage. They were doomed.

It was John who reacted first, flinging himself to his knees and stretching his hands out in entreaty. “Father, please forgive me. I was misled, I-”

“Silence!” commanded William, his voice hard. “Clear the hall, everybody out – now! You,” he jabbed one finger at Hugh, “and you,” this time Trempwick, “and you,” the count, “stay. Everybody else out! Now! Put the prisoner in one of the gatehouse cells and mind he is guarded well.”

People began to file out, many of them taking whatever food they could easily carry. Trempwick said quietly to Eleanor, “Go back to your guest house and stay there; I will do what I can for your hopeless brother.”

She didn’t argue, but nor did she get very far. Anne hurried to her side and said, “This way.” She started towards the stairs leading up to the royal solar; when she noticed Eleanor wasn’t following she stopped and beckoned. This was not a good idea, it was walking right into the lion’s den but, Eleanor reasoned, this lion would come looking for her if she tried to hide. He would find her again, pulverise her again, they would be carrying her away again, and it would take her weeks to recover again. But not while Anne was around. William was a stickler for manners, and Eleanor doubted he wanted to scare his new wife witless by showing her what he was capable of. When Anne beckoned again Eleanor followed.





William waited until the hall was empty except for those he had specified. They congregated in small cluster near the high table. William schooled his features and demeanour into as close to calm as he could manage. Outwardly he was sure he looked dignified. Inwardly he was raging; anger, pain, fear, panic, self loathing and many more emotions, all boiling together in a seething mass that he thought would sear him to the very bone.

He fixed his gaze on the count and said, “Explain.”

De Guines bowed. “Sire. A few short weeks ago your son and those traitors aiding him landed in one of my ports. They came to me seeking aid, asking that I equipped them suitably to make their way to Paris to plead for the aid of the king. I have long been growing anxious about the intentions of the French king’s council of regents intentions towards me – I have enemies amongst them, men who remember and hold grudges for a disagreement long gone. These men would see me fall and my dynasty stripped of the land we have held for generations. When your son and his party turned up it seemed an omen from the Good Lord himself, bidding me to cast my lot in with yours. I had long been trying to find a way to approach you while being sure I could prove my honest intentions and this was a God given opportunity.”

William said, “We shall speak of your becoming my vassal later. You must be weary after your trip and it grows late; speak to the men guarding the main door and they will see you are taken care of.” The count bowed once again and left to do as he was told.

When the door clanged shut behind the count William slumped back down into his chair. “I executed Northumberland,” he said bleakly. It was the thing foremost on his mind; Northumberland was dead and because of that John’s fate was sealed.

"Sire,” began Trempwick, “he is your son.”

Prince Hugh raised an eyebrow and enquired, “And because of that he is above the law?”

Hugh resembled none of his siblings; he was tall, more golden than the usual sandy or dark, sturdily built with little grace but considerable strength. His eyes were hazel, the only one of William’s children not to inherit his blue. As was ever the case this made Hugh the subject of rumour, suggesting he was a bastard instead of the king’s trueborn son. William was probably the only man in England who had never wondered; in temperament Hugh reminded William of himself in his younger days, just calmer and better able to judge a situation by what the crown needed rather than by sentiment. Hugh was governed strongly by his head, never by his heart.

Trempwick turned his attention to the prince. “All I am saying is that if John’s life is spared people will understand.”

“They will understand the law only does as the king wishes, surely you can see the effect that would have?” returned Hugh hotly. “The king’s justice applies to all, no one is above it and because of that it works – even the highest in the land know they will not get off if called to account for their crimes. Without the law we have nothing; if treachery is pardoned the other lords will grow bold and next time the revolt will be both larger and more dangerous.”

“And if John’s head does fly what then? One potential heir less, and there are few enough of them as it is. You have not yet managed a son-”

Hugh’s face clenched. “I had a son.”

Trempwick snorted derisively. “Born a month early and dead within the hour; he shall make a fine king, I do not think.”

“It proves capability – and that puts me a good stretch ahead of you.”

“Capability? I suppose an assortment miscarriages and a dead baby scattered across a wife and several other women might count as capability, though for what I shudder to think.”

“Enough!” ordered William. This petty bickering did little to aid the situation and hit rather too close to home. William’s succession was painfully fragile. What hurt worse was that it was partly of his own making; if Stephan were alive there would be one more heir, and one more potential source of children … and a cripple on England’s throne. That could never be allowed; a cripple could not rule effectively and the vultures would soon take advantage. As hard as it was to face he had made the right decision for the sake of the realm. That did not make it any easier for the father who still mourned his son’s passing.

“The law of the land is simple; John has been accused of high treason, stripped of all he owns, stricken from the succession and declared outlaw, and I …” William sighed, “and I executed Northumberland when he was captured after the same, for being a ringleader in the same plot.” He did not want to do this but he was trapped. He was a just man and his vassals expected even handed treatment, as was their right. If John was spared where Northumberland was not it would only be because of his blood; unrest would grow and rebellion could ferment. On one side of the scales lay John’s life, on the other the security and stability of the realm and the balance was clear. He had known it would come to this; he had weighed his decisions over and over, plotted and planned carefully, searching for a loophole or way out if John ever returned and he had found none.

He had found none, but perhaps someone else’s eyes would prove clearer. “Maybe if he were exiled …?”

Trempwick instantly said, “Sire, I am confident that we could handle any unrest it might cause.”

“Handle,” repeated William dully, his hope ebbing away back into the morass of feelings tearing his heart apart.

“Yes, sire. A few judicious assassinations, mayhap a siege or two if the lords rise, perhaps a skirmish-”

William held up his hand to cut off the flow. He had heard enough; Trempwick could not have chosen his words better if he had wanted John dead. The scales tilted so John’s life was but a featherweight to the heavy boulder that was the good of England. “What you speak of is anarchy, and all from lowest peasant to highest lord would be adversely affected.” His next words seemed to come from far away, as if someone else spoke and he was observing. There was no point in hiding from what would happen any longer. “My son is back and now I have to have him castrated, hung, gutted, and then beheaded, just as Northumberland was.” Such small words, so harmless sounding and yet so important.

Hugh laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “It is just, and justice is often hard.” Jesú, the boy was so like him; William could hear his own voice echo in those words. “But I think a little mercy may be possible without undue trouble.” Hope burst to life in William’s heart; his son had found a way to save his brother! It was dashed, shattering agonisingly into smithereens when Hugh finished, “We could have him beheaded, a clean, honourable death. None could fault us that.” A small mercy but in the end all one of Christendom’s most powerful men could do. What a fine man he was, thought William bitterly, so powerful and so God damned helpless.

William stood, causing his son’s hand to fall away. “I would be alone; leave me.” Despite his command he was the one to go, shuffling away to the stairs leading upwards like an old man, drowning under the weight of self-loathing and futile anger at being trapped like a serpent between a forked stick. If he spared John he would had been unjust; if he was just then he lost his youngest boy. The king needed John’s head on a spike; the father wanted the son safe.





William did not get his wish for solitude; when he arrived in the solar he found his wife and his daughter talking. Eleanor had been explaining the background to tonight’s unexpected events but she froze the instant she saw him. For a brief instant William noted she could not hide her fear; after a brief struggle it was mastered and as if it had never been. He compared that to John, the son who had not bothered to hide his fright before an audience, shaming himself with his begging. Not for the first time William thought Eleanor should have been a son.

He managed a small, shabby smile for his wife. “Anne, could you go to the church to light a few candles and offer up some prayers?” With a neat curtsey Anne disappeared on her errand without question. He was glad; his temper was boiling, mixed with the other emotions and liable to go off at the slightest provocation. He didn’t want Anne involved.

“Candles and prayers for John or for you?” asked Eleanor quietly.

Both. His self-hatred boiled over, mixing with his pain and rage at his impotence, his being trapped. With a snarl of naked fury he sent her flying with a back swipe of one arm. “So it is all my fault? You blame me, you hate me – you accuse me and I will not have it!”

He drove a boot into her prone form, catching her near the top of one thigh. “Get up!” he roared. He didn’t give her chance to move, reaching down immediately and seizing one arm. He hauled her to her feet screaming, “Up, damn you!”

Hairpins. She had hairpins. William’s long standing fear that she might try to use them on him came back full force and he began tearing the pins out, casting them carelessly across the room. “I will not give you chance to kill me, you conniving bitch!”

The tiny spark of reason left beneath the fury reminded him that last time he had broken bones, both his and hers. Not this time. He knotted one hand in her long hair so she couldn’t escape or fight back effectively. He seized the back of her dress in one hand and tried to rip it away; the material was strong and resisted at first but he flung all his considerable strength and anger at it until it gave way. He released her hair and with one hard shove he sent her sprawling, then began to get the only suitable weapon he had to hand; his belt. His rage made his fingers clumsy; by the time he had it free Eleanor had scrambled to her feet and was headed for the door, trying to escape. She had never run before and he was not pleased she had done so now.

He launched himself after her even as he was wrenching the dagger sheath off his belt. He caught her a few steps short of the door, dragging her back. He kicked her legs out from under her and flung her groundwards again. He began laying into her with the end of his belt, transferring his rage and pain onto her, overwriting the old marks on her skin with new ones. Blood began to bead on fresh cuts, then flow, then splatter on the floor and on William as each blow landed. In a frenzy he barely even noticed, only caring about exorcising the pain gripping his heart. Let someone else hurt, let them feel powerless, let them have the futile rage against circumstances they could not control, let them suffer, not him.

Eventually his fury burned down to ashes and he stood gasping for breath, his arm aching and half numb with exertion, his sense returning. He looked down at his daughter, curled up into a ball at his feet with her hands protecting her head, not moving and once again a blood covered mess with barely a square inch of unharmed flesh on her back. He saw that he had missed his aim once and caught her hands, leaving bloodied welt running across the backs of them. He felt an irrational pang of guilt for just a brief heartbeat, then it vanished. He had done nothing wrong, and it was for her own good, after all. She had been rude; he had corrected it. He felt better now; his anger had burned out and the other feelings had lessened somewhat.

He wanted the brat gone but she couldn’t leave like this or everyone would see what he had done. William stalked into Anne’s room and retrieved a long, hooded cloak. Returning to the solar he threw it at Eleanor. “Get out,” he said coldly. He wanted her gone before Anne returned; he wanted to be alone to brood on his son’s end.





Wrapped in the long cloak to hide her dishevelled hair and ruined, bloody clothes Eleanor somehow managed to make her way down the spiral staircase, leaning much of her weight against the outer wall for support. As she went she catalogued her injuries; no broken bones and few bruises but her back and hands were a mess. It didn’t hurt much now but once the numbness and shock wore off she knew it would be agony. The side of her face had also been cut when William had missed his aim. She felt giddy and light-headed, and the high pitched ringing in her ears combined with darkness nibbling away at the edges of her vision she remembered from last time was here again, indicating she was in danger of fainting.

The flat floor of the main hall was worse than the stairs; it bobbed and swayed like the deck of a ship as she stumbled across it and there was nothing to lean on. She was not quite sure how she kept her feet and her legs seemed to be in possession of a kind of their own. The ringing grew worse and her vision gradually faded but she reached the main door. She sagged against it for a while, resting and trying to stave off the beckoning blackness and its invitation of escape from the growing pain of her back.

The cold night air out in the bailey helped, bringing her back from the brink but the effect was very short lived. By the time she reached the door of her guest house, barely twenty feet away, she could hardly see through the speckled blackness filling her vision.

She managed to get the door open and stumble inside the entrance hall. That was as far as she got; her legs buckled and she gave up fighting to remain conscious.





Told you he'd be back.

zelda12
11-17-2004, 17:59
~:eek:

Ouch!

I jus kept on willing Fulk to walk in and give William a taste of his own medicine.

frogbeastegg
11-18-2004, 00:33
The next morning William called all his lords to a field outside the palace to bear witness to John’s execution. After an agonising night he had decided swiftness would be a boon for all involved. A thick log provided the block and the executioner was the captain of William’s guard, a man not normally given that task but skilled with an axe and battle hardened. Beside the executioner stood a priest, black clad and with a copy of the bible clasped in his hands.

John was brought out with his hands bound behind his back. An armed soldier marched at either side of him, preventing his escape. At first John walked calmly, almost contemptuously. Then he saw the block and the sunlight glistening on the edge of the axe and his stride faltered. He spat on the ground and said loudly, “So be it father, play your little game – you would not kill me and I will not squeal for your satisfaction.”

One of the guards roughly pushed him forwards and they began to walk again. As he got closer John picked up on the mood of the audience and he stopped again. “Oh sweet Jesú, tell me this is a game,” he whispered in disbelief. The two guards seized him by either arm and bundled him forward. John began to struggle, screaming, “You can’t kill me – I’m your son, I am your son. For pity’s sake!”

John had never been much of a fighter but his struggles halted his progress and kept the two guards busy. At a wave from the captain of the guard another two men at arms detached from their places keeping order amongst the crowd and went to aid their comrades. All the while John pleaded, begged and sobbed.

William forced himself to watch, just as he had forced himself to attend when strictly speaking he did not need to. He had believed the agony gripping his heart could grow no worse but he had been wrong; it could and did, expanding until it filled his world and his eyes misted over with held back tears.

John was moving again, more carried than walking. His shouts changed tune, fear and disbelief giving way to what revenge he could get. “Look at him,” he harangued the crowd, “Look at him, our brave king having his dear son killed to salve his poxy conscience. Our king is a fine man; he is quick to believe rumour and the worst of everyone – if he does this to me then think well on what he might do to you! He acts on the faintest suspicion – he is nothing more than a tyrant, a madman!”

He stood before the block, still struggling to get away. He saw Hugh, stood at their father’s side, his face grim. John resumed shouting at the top of his lungs. “My glorious brother - look at him too, and look well. Is he not the very spitting image of our king? No! He is false – the throne should be mine. I am the trueborn son!”

One of the guards clamped his hand over John’s mouth, trying to stem the flow. He leaped back with a yell, his hand pouring blood where John had bitten a chunk away. The prince spat blood and flesh and filled his lungs for another outburst. “Remember Adele? Probably not for our wondrous king abandoned her to a foreign prison! What kind of man would leave his own daughter to rot under false accusations of adultery? NO REAL MAN! Ask yourselves what he has done to my sister, how often do you see Eleanor? How much land and wealth does she have? Where is her future? Is she convent bound or married? NO!” A fist hammered into the back of John’s skull and he staggered, shaking his head to clear it. “My lords, any who wants the throne has but to find and rescue my sister – marry her and she gives you a claim to the throne!”

He was forced to his knees. “Depose that devil in human form and replace him before it is too late! Do not -” The executioner slammed the butt of the axe into Jon’s temple, stunning him.

Taking advantage of that the guards shoved him down so his neck was on the log and stepped back. The axe swung down, biting deep into John’s shoulder as the unnerved executioner missed. John shrieked and blood began to spurt, soaking everything nearby. The axe came down again, this time taking John squarely in the middle of the neck but without sufficient force to sever the head. The executioner swore ferociously and swung again, catching the neck in a different place and again not severing the head. A fourth blow finally removed John’s head. The executioner let the axe slip to the ground from his numbed, sweaty grasp and crossed himself. The priest began to pray. One of the soldiers from John’s guard turned and threw up into the grass, not caring that all could see his weakness.

And William wept, not caring who could see his tears.





William closeted himself away for the remainder of the morning. He occupied himself by going over and over what had happened, not just that morning but during the whole of John’s life and wondering just where things had gone wrong. William knew it was his own fault; it had to be. Somehow he had failed his youngest son. He had not even managed to teach him courage, that most essential manly virtue.

Over and above all else his mind returned to one thing John had said, and it was because of this he broke his solitude, summoning his spymaster. For a long while after Trempwick arrived William said nothing, not even acknowledging his spymaster’s presence as he stood at a window, looking out with his hands clasped behind his back.

When he did speak his voice was low and emotionless. “Do you still want the brat?”

Behind him he heard Trempwick’s sharp intake of breath. “Sire?” he asked, something akin to nervous tension in his voice. Odd that; the spymaster was usually so guarded and in control.

William looked upwards, towards the sky. “She is a loose end, dangerous, and now the whole court knows. Before it was only there if you thought on it but now everyone has had it pointed out as clear as day. She has a claim on my throne and people do not accept Hugh. It will become a contest between Hugh and those who think a crown would suit them well, and Eleanor is … she is the only one with a good claim still in England. Whoever gets her gets the best chance to beat Hugh; she will be used against her brother whether she wills it or no. It seems best to tie that loose end up, publicly. You say over and over that you will keep her safe; I say it is safer still to remove other people’s hope of using her to their own advantage.”

He turned away from the window and leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him. “You are beneath her but you are also the only one who knows her for what she is. You alone might have some chance of surviving. You alone provide the opportunity to continue using her as an agent. You alone know everything and will not be shocked. You alone I trust. Better the small shame of giving her to my most loyal servant than the greater shame that would result if she married someone who did not know. What say you, Raoul?”

Trempwick’s reply was instant and firm. “You honour me, and I will give you no cause to regret it.”

William nodded slowly. “The detail is all that remains then. I will not give up my rights on her; it may be unusual but we both know she is … I always rectify my mistakes, and she will be no different. She will continue to act as an agent; I will not lose her most valuable capacity. I will give her a dowry of three thousand pounds. You will not set aside a third of your lands for her to provide for her in widowhood; it would only encourage her to kill you and I am wary of allowing the brat too much power. You will instead say before witnesses that you will allow her to keep all that is already hers to that end. It will look impressive, few know how poor she is. Is that agreeable?”

Trempwick bent his head and said gravely, “It is.”

William continued to set his terms in a brisk manner. “The betrothal will be today and the wedding two months hence; I shall not make the mistake of marrying you in haste as it would only fuel the rumour which is going to grow from this. I shall make this betrothal nearly as binding as marriage, so it will still serve my purposes during that time.”

“Two months is a little long,” said Trempwick tentatively, “a month would more than suffice.”

“No; I will leave no room for scandal. Similarly I would prefer it if there were no children for a good few months after the marriage.”

Trempwick didn’t seem unduly bothered. “As you wish, William. Two months so all can see there is no curly headed accident prompting this match, and no screaming brats. Motherhood would only make her useless as an agent, and I have doubts as to her ability to survive labour. Better to take the lesser gamble with hyssop and pennyroyal tea in the event of an accident than take the greater risk in the hopes she survives. She is no good to us dead.”

“Whatever you wish; I do not much care what you do with her.” The king hesitated; wanting to ask how Eleanor would fare but fearing how weak he would look.

Trempwick seemed to guess, because he said, “I believe she will become reconciled.”

Reconciled; it was not much but a good deal better than nothing. He had not found her a good match and he had not found her one where she would be happy, but he could have done a lot worse. “Then all that remains is to persuade her,” he said grimly.






Eleanor’s day had not been a good one. She had heard of John’s execution but not exactly what had happened. All she knew was her brother was dead and he had disgraced himself with his cowardice. Aveline had not let her find out more, claiming she needed to rest and recuperate. That was true enough, although this time she was not bruised and broken so it was more a case of remaining still enough for her back to knit. The mark on her face would not scar, according to Aveline.

Once again she barely saw Fulk; he had not been allowed to play his usual role of royal cut tender thanks to Aveline’s instance on doing it herself. Eleanor was not pleased; Aveline had clumsy, ungentle hands and a liking for pouring strong wine on anything which might possibly get infected. Fulk had used honey; it was about as effective and it didn’t burn like fire when applied.

It was early afternoon when her father and Trempwick arrived. Aveline and Juliana shot to their feet and curtseyed immediately. Painfully Eleanor followed their example; if this was what she had to do to avoid being hit again then so be it. Her courage had failed entirely, tested beyond its limits again before it had been able to heal from its first failing.

William said, “We would speak with my daughter alone; leave us.” Aveline and Juliana filed out and Eleanor wished she could go with them. William wasted no time; as soon as the door closed he told her, “I have found you a husband; Trempwick has agreed to put up with you. The betrothal ceremony will take place in an hour. Get ready; you will look your best and God help you if you do not play your part to perfection.”

Everything past the word husband was lost on Eleanor; she had spent much of her life having nightmares about this moment and now it was here. Rudely kicked out of her near dreamlike state she hit reality running. “No,” she returned firmly, knowing this was going to hurt. It was not a matter of courage, more finding she was cornered with no way out. Like a wild animal brought to bay she didn’t need valour to fight now. It was desperation, despair, the knowledge that if she did not fight then she would be saying her vows with Trempwick before the day was out.

William took a step forward, his right hand clenching to a fist. “What did you say?” Each word was separated from its companions, deliberately phrased and menacing.

She grabbed the best reason she could find. “He is beneath me.” She didn’t care, but her father would never accept “I do not want him.”

“There is no one else who will have you,” retorted the king. “You could have had a prince if you had wanted one but no, you scorned them all.”

“I refuse.”

“You do not.”

“I do.”

“No, I think you do not. You do not leave this room until you agree; no one will bring you food or drink so you will slowly starve. Every other hour I shall return for your answer and if you refuse I shall thrash you. A test of endurance brat, and one I shall win. So, your answer?”

She met his eyes and said clearly, “No.” This was going to hurt, oh dear God this would hurt, in all probability more than she could stand. Even thinking about it made her sick and feel like breaking down and crying like a child. If William hadn’t been blocking the door she would have tried to break out; as it was there was nowhere to go. She had to fight; she could not give up. Everything was at stake.

William’s eyes hardened. “Raoul, go and buy your ring.”

Trempwick looked most unhappy. “Sire, perhaps I could speak to her?”

The king did not look away from his daughter. “Not now, Raoul,” he said decisively. “Go buy your ring; you shall have need of it soon enough.”

Trempwick left sorrowfully and William was as good as his word. He didn’t have to do much to reopen all the wounds from last night and leave her in fresh torment. “Two hours, brat,” he said as he left, “Two hours until we do this again. Think hard.”






When Eleanor gathered her battered wits enough to stand and try to find a way to escape she found the door, which opened out from the room, blocked by something too heavy for her to move. The window with all its fancy, breakable glass was guarded by a man in steel and mail wearing the king’s lion badge. The simple chimney was too small and narrow for her to climb up, even assuming she had the strength left to try. No matter how much she hammered on the door and yelled for help no one answered.






The king’s second visit was brief and if anyone had been in the room outside they would have heard her bitten off cries of pain.





The third visit was much the same, except anyone nearby could have heard her screaming.





When the door opened the fourth time Eleanor cowered in a corner, too defeated to even give a pretence of bravery. She was having a hard time keeping her will strong; the idea of surrender was becoming increasingly tempting. Her right hand was clenched around the pendant of Fulk’s necklace for comfort, and Fulk’s ring was pressing into her flesh. She would have bartered her soul away to have him here now.

This visitor was not her father; it was Trempwick. He looked at her with obvious pity. “What can I do to you that is so bad you feel you must put yourself through this?”

She did not care to answer that. “Is this how you keep your promises?” she asked resentfully, her voice thick with pain and hoarse from all her shouting and screaming. He had promised no one would marry her and she had almost trusted him.

“It seemed the only way I could keep it, sweet Nell.” He came and knelt at her side. He did nothing, just remained still and calm, radiating sympathy. “He is determined to see you married now; our king wants you publicly removed from the marriage market so none can use you to oppose your brother. You can thank John for placing the idea in his head.”

“You said you would save him.”

“I tried but I could not.”

“No, you could not,” she agreed wearily.

“Nell, if you do not give up soon he will kill you. He may not intend to but he will.” She said nothing; she already knew and that was partly why her will was ebbing away. She did not want to die. “Nell, I would honour you,” said Trempwick emotionally.

“Honour,” she repeated wretchedly. She did not want honouring; she wanted freedom.

“I would care for you, treat you with nothing but affection unless you gave me cause to do otherwise.”

“Just like these past fourteen years?” she inquired listlessly.

He corrected her gently, “Just like these past few days. What can I do to you that is so bad?” he asked again. She still did not care to answer. “I would not suddenly change overnight, Nell. You know I am not violent, I do not keep mistresses or act in a way which might shame you, I do not get drunk, I am not old or foul to look on, you do not care much about rank. What else is left?”

Quite a lot.

“Let me guess,” he said softly. “You will not be free until both I and your father die? Nell, married or not it makes no difference – I still have control over much of your life.”

It was true; she always known it was true. Now that would be formalised, giving him the undeniable right to meddle in her life. It only gave him permission to do what he already did, leaving her with no room even for indignation.

“As a widow you would have a better chance at that independence you crave. Yes, people would target you again for your blood and your resources but you would be better placed to protect yourself from them.” Trempwick thought for a while. “I suppose you may have been upset by the horror stories my mother and others keep telling you, about how you will die in childbirth because your hips are so narrow and you are so small. As a wife as a duty to provide children that is an understandable concern. You do not need to worry; I prize your life far more than some mewling brat who will probably die anyway. It is not a situation you will end up in.”

Great, she was going to end up a neglected wife. She could not decide if that was good or bad. It seemed so very … sad. Given a choice she would rather Trempwick remained several paces away, but it was one thing to reject someone and another entirely to have them reject you.

“Perhaps you think I will keep you shut away with nothing much to do? Nothing would change,” he promised, “you would still be my agent when I have need of you.”

This was why she had never wanted him to gain more insight into her mind than she could help; he was too good at unpicking her thoughts. He was missing some but he had not been wrong yet. He was unravelling her mind, eating away at the last of her resolve and there was nothing she could do.

He continued to crouch there, still and quiet almost like a man dealing with an injured animal he did not want to startle. “Nothing would change; that sums it all up very well. Life would continue much the same, except I will no longer need to play mentor quite so much. So will you agree, Nell? It stands as a choice between me and death; I would be gratified if you preferred me.”

She did not want to die; she did not want Trempwick either but it was the least loathsome choice. People would finally stop asking her why she was not married; that would be … nice. Her father would be unable to touch her, that too would be good. She would theoretically have real access to Trempwick’s money and the right to manage his household and do something about those servants of his; whether either of those potentials would transfer over to reality she could not say. In the end who else was there? Fulk was impossible and no other nobles would have her on any grounds except her royal blood. They would probably not treat her too well. Fulk. It was not Fulk who had come to save her. It was Trempwick.

The last of her resistance crumbled away and her head bowed. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to; Trempwick sensed his victory. He stood and extended a hand to her; she took it and let him help her to her feet. “Put your arm around my waist and lean on me,” he directed, “or you will fall down.” She did as he said; it was better than falling flat on her face again. Trempwick said encouragingly, “That’s the idea, now let’s get you away from here and looked after.”






Several hours later Eleanor stood in the church before a gathering of lords. She was cleaned up and her ravaged back had been plastered in a honey and comfrey poultice and swathed with bandages. She was unsure as to how she managed to remain on her feet and put on a reasonable show of strength. She was dressed in her best clothes and Aveline had fussed until she looked as good as she ever could. She stood before the altar one hand clasped in Trempwick’s as tradition dictated, feeling dizzy and weak as she listened to the terms of the marriage being read out and agreed to. Predictably the king had opted for a formal church betrothal; unlike the more informal agreements this type was as binding as marriage and, just like marriage, could only be ended by church dispensation or death.

Finally it was time for the vows. Trempwick went first, his voice steady and pitched to carry. “I, Raoul, plight thee, Eleanor, my troth, as God is my witness.”

Eleanor hesitated, clinging to her last true moments of freedom. When she could safely delay no more she said in a quiet, hopeless voice, “I, Eleanor, plight thee, Raoul, my troth, as God is my witness.” It was done, the rest was just window dressing.

The bishop bound their clasped hands together with his silk stole and held them up for all to see. He then unbound them and Trempwick gave her the ring. It was a band of gold set with a piece of sapphire. “To match your eyes,” Trempwick told her quietly as he slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. It hung loosely and was rather too gaudy for her taste. She remembered another ring, the one Fulk had got her, the one she still wore on her right hand. That ring had fitted perfectly and she liked the design. This new one would have to be adjusted to fit.

Ring in place that really was that. She was tied for life to the man who had murdered her brother.






Fulk sat on the cold stone floor of his cell, his knees drawn up to his body for warmth, wondering how much longer it would be before someone released him. A group of guardsmen in royal livery had approached him around midday, ordering him to surrender his sword and come along peacefully. They had not accused him of anything nor given a reason, only told him that if he resisted he would be taken by force.

Eleanor would come for him, he never doubted it, but how long before she found out he was in the gatehouse cells?







I know, zelda, me too. It would be nice if Fulk had chance to kick rear for once .... and sweap her off on his fiery charger to a blissful life somewhere nice. :sigh: I'm going soft.

zelda12
11-18-2004, 19:55
Man, I mean... man that was unexpected.

I really, really, really want Fulk to do the whole one man army thing and ingeniously break his way out from the cell using a small herring bone a piece of cloth and the chamber pot.

Kommodus
11-19-2004, 16:02
Hm, this is indeed an interesting reversal of roles. What I mean is that Trempwick now appears to be more of a villian than William himself.

In the beginning, Trempwick appeared to have Eleanor's interests in mind, although only so long as it served him. He also appeared to be fairly loyal to the king, and even to show some concern for Eleanor's brothers. He did always have a sadistic streak though, and one always got the feeling he was up to something bigger.

Now Trempwick's plans appear to be rather clear (to the reader). He aims to usurp the crown for himself. I originally thought he had an attraction to Eleanor (and he still may), but forcing Eleanor to marry him against her will exposes his true motives for what they are. Having Fulk imprisoned was an essential part of the plan, since Trempwick would have known that Fulk could come between him and Eleanor. I wouldn't be surprised if Trempwick had something to do with John's reappearance, and one wonders how long it will be till he makes his move against Hugh, leaving himself the only reasonable successor.

As for William, he certainly came off as a terrible tyrant in the beginning. Recent chapters, however, have portrayed him as a man trying his best to be a good king, in the face of dreadful circumstances and some debilitating character flaws. He feels forced into a lot of the decisions he makes (one wonders how much of this is Trempwick's doing), and regrets a great deal of them. Even when Trempwick appears to be arguing for the "moral" decision, he is disingenuous. He only tried to prevent the king from sleeping with Anne because he didn't want to risk more potential heirs, and he argued for sparing John in such a way as to ensure he would be killed.

Thus, William was never the real villian; it was Trempwick all along. What a crafty fellow...

Ludens
11-19-2004, 18:06
Plus I leave all the critiquing buisness to Ludens and Axeknight as they're a lot better at it than me.
Thanks for the compliment, but it is not true. I haven't seen you criticize often, but when you do you always have a good point.


Ludens, the swinging perspective was the only way the scene could ever be done. I've known that for a long time; that's the scene I was talking about way back when they were in John's castle, the scene where I said I had to do dual POVs and get it working. Working it like most of the other scenes where you only get the odd thought from both characters wouldn't work; it had to be the in-depth version of both characters. I didn't find it to be a problem, reading or writing, but then I'm in a unique position here. I've seen some books I enjoyed do the same thing; I guess it depends on how you identify with the characters. I think we said before that we tend to work a bit differently as readers, didn’t we? You tend to latch on to one or two characters in great detail whereas I prefer to swing between several characters in slightly less detail, if I recall correctly.
I am still not convinced that either that scene or the one in the abbey couldn't be done otherwise. I've actually been trying to redo them in my mind ~D .

Point is: I don't necessarily need few characters to enjoy a story, but I want to have them thoroughly separated. And the swinging perspective does not help that. It is also a standard thing literary nit-picks will complain about ~:cool: .

Ugh, I am too tired to do any decent commenting. I will just say that I really liked the last part.

:starts dreaming about a alternative version of the story where Fulk is locked up for ten years before he escapes and plots his bloody revenge on Trempwick:

frogbeastegg
11-20-2004, 17:16
As it was late in the evening by the time the betrothal ceremony ended many of the witnesses filed into the great hall for dinner. Eleanor and Trempwick separated from the crowd, returning with Aveline to the guest house. Aveline could not contain her glee; she almost exploded as they entered the nursery outside Eleanor’s chamber. “Well done, my son, well done,” she enthused warmly. “Such a fine match.” Evidently all was forgiven now Eleanor was going to be part of the family. “Who would ever have thought it, my son and a princess. I am sure you can soon mould her into shape.” Or not forgiven.

Trempwick’s dutiful answer was tinged with tolerance, “Thank you, mother dear.” He began to scoot her towards the door. “Why don’t you go and see what people are saying over in the hall?”

“Yes, I shall bring you back a full report.” With that Aveline disappeared purposefully.

The silence she left behind was uncomfortable; Eleanor only wanted Trempwick to go away but he seemed intent on remaining. “It is a good thing I had your badge changed,” he said eventually with strained lightness. “Your unicorn will wed with my fox quite nicely.” So he was planning to display her badge alongside his own everywhere? Not surprising; when you married above what was normal you boasted of it to the world, and any noblewoman worth her salt would refuse to allow her badge to be entire eclipsed. She could see Trempwick using the fox and unicorn badge on everything and everyone possible. Eleanor resolved to change hers back to a gooseberry tomorrow. That should kill a portion of his joy quite nicely.

“We can go across to the hall ourselves, if you like,” he offered. “Or we can remain here and I shall have someone send a tray over.”

He didn’t know what to do, Eleanor noted with secret delight. She was not about to give him any assistance but she used the opportunity to ask a question she wanted to in the guise of another. “Where is Fulk? We can send him to get some food.”

“I have not seen him since this morning. He is probably in the hall now.”

“It is not like him to disappear.”

“Dear Nell, your pet is keeping to form. Today he has vanished; yesterday he was involved in a fight. If you think on it you have barely seen him since we arrived here.”

“A fight?” asked Eleanor in disbelief.

“Oh yes, his face is a mess because of it. Now, shall I go and get some food?”

Mutely she nodded, anything to get rid of him. Trempwick continued to surprise Eleanor; he dithered as if trying to make up his mind what to do. He took one halting step towards her, froze, then beat a rapid retreat.

Wondering what that had been in aid of Eleanor moved through into her room and sat down on the bed. What was she going to do now? As far as she could see she had two main options: make the best she could out of the situation, or try and delay the wedding. Having seen what his last promises had turned out like Eleanor was not in a great hurry to believe that he would keep his word and treat her well but her chances of being locked into a never ending war with a husband who hated her grew significantly if she antagonised him now. Unless she cared to live in wretchedness for the rest of her married life she had no choice at all.

Furious at being so helpless Eleanor ripped the betrothal ring off her ringer and hurled it across the room. It hit the stone wall and ricocheted off, bouncing and skipping along the floor, then rolling off into the rushes.

She looked at the glimmer of gold partly obscured by the carpet of fragrant herbs and rushes. Reluctantly, more because she was conscious of the ring being one of her few expensive possessions and therefore likely to incur Trempwick’s wrath if mistreated, she started to get up to retrieve it. She didn’t move far before she stopped. No, after the day she had had surely even Trempwick could not complain if she did not instantly give up and play along to whatever tune he called, and expensive or not she did not want the cursed thing. This, and her going back to her gooseberry badge, would be her last real, overt acts of defiance. She may as well relish them while they lasted; Trempwick always won in the end.

But only if he knew if counter her. Eleanor allowed herself a grim smile; she would keep fighting covertly using every means available to her.

The smiled faded; but where was the point? If she set her heart on this marriage being a miserable disaster then that is what it surely would become. A more optimistic approach may yield a tolerable result.

She would play it by ear, trying to make this tolerable while still retaining the most valuable aspects of her old life. If she found a way out then so much the better, but that was so unlikely it was best not to even think of it.





Trempwick returned with two big bowls of beef stew, a jug of good red wine and a pair of cups. “I thought you might like some plainer food,” he said as he pushed the door shut with his elbow. He advanced towards the bed until he stepped on something which crunched. Eleanor winced; she had not expected him to trample her ring. Slowly he looked down, moving his foot out of the way. He looked back up, his face a mask of cold anger. “That ring cost me a small fortune.”

“I did not ask for it.” Out aloud that sounded very petulant and stupid; Eleanor wished she had bitten her tongue.

He placed the tray down on the bed next to her, then recovered the ring. It had hit the wall with sufficient force to flatten one side but his stepping on it had done no harm. “I will indulge you this one fit of childish pique, but only this one. The king decided on this match; neither of us really had a choice. I do not mind; you have some unique qualities I am rather fond of. I am determined to make the best of this; I suggest you decide similarly because like it or not there is no way out for either of us.” Not unkindly he added, “There really is no reason why we cannot be happy together.”

Eleanor remained silent, feeling wretchedly similar to a small child told off for insisting they did not want to eat their vegetables. Trempwick sat himself down, picked up one stew bowl and took her hand with his free one. He pressed the bowl into it and ordered, “Eat, if you wanted to starve yourself to death you wasted a good opportunity earlier today.”

She did not need ordering and she certainly did not like it. “Will you stop treating me like a child?” she asked with a trace of anger that sounded nothing if not sullen. It seemed that she could not say anything without it coming out wrong.

“If you stop behaving like one I shall be happy to do so, now eat up.”

Discretion being the better half of valour Eleanor started to eat her stew; she was starving anyway. At least he was being nicer than he usually was when she upset him, nicer, but still unpleasant. Looking forward she could foresee a lifetime of this, of having to do exactly as he wanted. It was the same situation she was in before but made worse by the removal of hope. She could never get away from him now.

They finished their meal in wretched silence; Eleanor eating unthinkingly while her mind wandered that new future, Trempwick watching her from the corner of his eye. When he took her empty bowl from her and placed it with his own on the tray Trempwick said kindly, “Nell, you may find you like our new status, given time. It is understandable that you are resentful now but that will pass unless you keep prodding the wound and not giving it chance to heal.”

He placed one hand under her chin in a gesture she remembered from last time, tilted her face up and then kissed her on the lips. Despite his subtle prompting to do otherwise she kept her mouth firmly clamped shut. When he pulled away he seemed rather amused. “Nell, dearest, you are supposed to open your mouth.”

She felt herself blush, remembering Fulk had not needed to tell her. Well, better to act the innocent and make Trempwick play her own game for a little. She would only have this particular chance to claim ignorance once and she did not want him wondering where she had picked up her admittedly limited experience. Trempwick tried again, only to jerk back as she nearly bit his tongue off. “You startled me,” she explained innocently. This might be fun after all …

Trempwick sighed and scratched his head. “You know this promises to be very interesting, sweet Nell. Very interesting.”

“It does?” she asked sceptically.

“Oh yes, enjoyable too, although it will more than likely take you a while before you agree. I think by a couple of weeks after our wedding you will be more than happy to share my bed, dear Nell.” So he was not going to leave her alone after all. She supposed she should be surprised but somehow she was not; maybe she had known he never would, choosing instead to delude herself.

He planted a quick kiss on her forehead then rose. “I shall take this ring to the goldsmith and get it repaired and altered to fit. He can work through the night if I provide enough candles. You rest and heal, sweetest Nell. We leave the day after tomorrow as long as you are fit to travel.” He took the tray with him when he left.

Eleanor was not confident she would be fit to travel any time this week but if it meant getting away from here she would gladly leave draped over her saddle like a corpse.






I've been busier than usual with real life recently, much of it very tedious ... no, all of it very tedious. The enjoyable bits were all part of my regular schedule. The next part should appear in a more timely manner.

Well, if Fulk was that well equipped he could break out, Zelda. Pity he doesn’t have the herring bone :tongueg:

You have obviously put a lot of thought into your theory, Kommodus. As you might imagine for plot purposes I can’t really comment. I will say you have found clues and worked with them well, finding one of several possible hinted subtexts.

“It is also a standard thing literary nit-picks will complain about” It is? I’ve seen it praised … It’s also something I like to read.

I say it has to be from both POVs because there are things in both character’s minds that you have to know for certain, things that cannot be left to inferring or added in retrospect. Doing the scene from just one POV, no matter which one, left some “What the?!” moments.

frogbeastegg
11-22-2004, 15:59
Trempwick brought her ring back about eight o’clock the next morning. “Try this for a fit,” he said. He took her left hand and slipped the ring on; this time it fitted perfectly. He kept hold of her hand, a light grip that avoided irritating the welt that snaked across the back and onto her wrist. “It took the goldsmith much of the night. I filled his workshop with so many candles it looked like daytime and threatened him with dire consequences if his work was anything less than faultless.”

“Impressive,” mumbled Eleanor neutrally. She thought it anything but; she came from a family that excelled in extravagance when need arose, and to her own tastes such profligacy was nothing but wasteful. Being a pauper princess for so long had left its mark on her.

“Tyrannical,” corrected Trempwick. He seemed in good humour. “But I appreciate your effort at polite flattery, dearly beloved Nell.” His thumb was stroking the palm of her hand. This was not boding well for a quick departure involving absolutely no more attempted romance. Eleanor began thinking of an excuse to get away before he kissed her again. Too late. “This would be a damn sight easier if you were taller,” he told her, gently mocking as he once again repeated his hand under her chin trick until she was looking up at him instead of his collar bone. His humour was harmless and intended as familiar but it still stung.

This time there was nothing much to do as Trempwick kissed her except stand there feeling mildly stupid. Even in her current mood she couldn’t honestly say it was bad, it was just no matter how generous she might want to be she could not call it good either. Boring, now there was the word, with perhaps company from nothing, as in ‘feeling nothing’.

“Relax a bit, Nell,” he encouraged her. She tried; if she had to go along with this she may as well try to get something more than boredom from the experience. This exact same thing had been rather pleasant with Fulk. Obviously the slight loss of tension from her body wasn’t enough because Trempwick gave up quite quickly. “If that is relaxed I would truly hate to see tense.” He tried to keep his tone nonchalant but she could tell he was not happy. “Nell, sweetheart, relax. Honestly I have seen statues with more give than you.” Now he was echoing Aidney; this was hopeless, really hopeless. She had no idea what she was doing and the one time in her life this had worked – or at least the one time no one had complained – she had not been conscious of doing anything, so she couldn’t even aim to repeat that.

Trempwick placed the hand he was holding behind his back, then took her other hand and did the same with it so her arms were around his waist. He linked her hands together then let them go. “Try that,” he instructed, placing one of his own hands at her waist while the other returned to her chin and tiled her face back up again. That done he let go of her head and placed his arm around her in a light grip that just barely brushed her ruined back. “Now try leaning on me, and doing something other than standing there.” He kissed her again.

Eleanor leaned into him minutely, resting rather rigidly against his chest. She could just feel his chest and arm muscles; they were built up, the kind of build you would expect on an active warrior. That was both unexpected and remarkable; Trempwick had never done heavy weapons practise, relying instead on the lighter, speed oriented fighting style he had instructed her in. Even lessons and practise in that style were rare; he had always insisted that if you had to fight you were as good as dead anyway. She had never seen him use a sword or lance. Nor had she ever seen him bare-chested, unlike some other men in the heat of summer, and with his clothes on he looked stocky, not muscled. She remembered back to the one time he had hit her, when she was leaving to warn John his plot had been discovered, and recalled that she had noted back then he could hit harder than expected. What had Trempwick been doing, and why did he feel the need to train in secret?

She would have to see what she could find out … or perhaps she was reading far too much into this; she only found it remarkable because she was comparing Trempwick with Fulk. How much difference could there be? Trempwick was fairly active, maybe that would be enough to provide matching muscles? For the first, and probably only, time in her life Eleanor cursed her lack of knowledge when it came to men and muscles.

Trempwick let her go with a sigh. “Well, you are getting somewhere with the relaxed, although not with the doing something. Suddenly two months seems an inordinately long time, dear Nell, also a short time.” He let her go and stepped back. “I have to leave, we can resume this later. Goodbye, darling Nell, and do spend the day resting so you heal.”

Later. Oh joy, thought Eleanor, more boredom. This had worked so much better with Fulk. Speaking of which. “Master,” she called, hastening after Trempwick. She caught him near the doorway out to the bailey.

His face lit up, perhaps thinking that she wanted to say goodbye or something. “Yes, dear Nell?”

“Fulk still has not returned.”

Trempwick’s face fell. “He probably spent the night with company; I would not worry unduly. If he has not shown his face by afternoon I shall start a search for you.”

Company. She hadn’t thought of that, and she didn’t want to either.






It was mid morning when Fulk was finally let out of his cell. He was escorted towards the keep by two men in the king’s livery. His hands were not bound but his weapons were not returned either. Once again he was given no explanation; the men at arms only spoke to roughly order him to come with them. His time in the cell had left his legs cramped and half numb; the guards suited their pace to his instead of hurrying him along. This suggested to Fulk that he was not due for execution or anything else drastic. That was reassuring.

He found himself whisked up the staircase to the king’s rooms and then shown into the solar. William sat at his table with Fulk’s sword and dagger before him. A cold sweat broke out on Fulk’s forehead – Eleanor’s hairpin had been with his dagger sheath and it was easily identifiable as hers if you knew what to look for. There could only be two explanations for him having one of her pins, the truth and that he had stolen it. Neither option offered much hope for his future, and the truth would finish Eleanor off as well. He would lie if asked, and hang as a thief.

The guards bowed and left. Belatedly Fulk bowed too. The king spoke, “My apologies for your recent inconvenience; it was … necessary.” William sighed; his mind appeared to wander for a moment before returning. “I could not take the chance on you rescuing her; it would only have made matters worse.” William pulled a ring off his right hand and placed it on the table next to Fulk’s weapons with a deliberate click. “Compensation,” he explained. “You may take your weapons back; I had them brought up here so none could steal them. Then you can go.”

“Thank you, sire.” Fulk picked up the ring and slipped it on his left hand where it could not spoil his grip on his sword hilt; it was quite a good fit for his second finger. He picked up the dagger first, his fingers finding that the pin was missing, then the sword. He would not ask what had happened to the pin; it was far too risky. He bowed again and left, wanting to get to Eleanor and find out what exactly he might have rescued her from.

As he made his way down the stairs past the second floor Anne stepped out of the stairwell door. “I would be grateful if you could accompany me to Eleanor’s guest house,” she said in a tone which left little space for argument. She was beginning to learn how to command like a queen.

Already anxious to get there Fulk didn’t waste time wondering why the queen wanted to visit Eleanor. “I would be honoured, your highness.”

Anne endeared herself to Fulk forever by saying, “Then let us hurry, I do not have all day and I wanted to return her hairpins.”

Further conversation was limited by their descent of the stairs. As soon as they emerged at the bottom Fulk asked, “Hairpins, your highness?” There was something about the way she had said that.

“Yes,” replied Anne inscrutably as they made rapid progress through the hall. “I found them scattered all over the solar floor on the day before John was executed. William said I could return them.”

Fulk wanted to ask many things but he would ask none; he hoped to find out much of what had happened from Eleanor later, and it was none of his business what Anne thought of her husband now. The hairpins would reveal themselves soon enough.

They found Eleanor in her guest room with Aveline for company. A small, joyous smile lit up Eleanor’s face when she saw him but she quickly got it under control. It was a good thing the spymaster was not here; he would not have missed either the smile or the significance as his mother did. Eleanor seemed alright; she looked exhausted and run down, and from the way she was sat stiffly her back was troubling her. She had a cut on her face, a welt on the back of her right hand and her left hand was out of view, but otherwise she was alright. Fulk suspected most of that came from her fight with her father the day before John died; he did not know for certain because they had not allowed him near her since before then. He was none the wiser as to why he had spent over a day in a prison.

Eleanor said to Aveline, “You may go, and do not come back for a while.”

“My son said-”

Eleanor was going from strength to strength before Fulk’s eyes, recovering some of her spirit and energy. “I do not give two figs for what your son said; I am not his prisoner and you are not my jailor. You may tell, him that if you wish.”

“I shall, you may be assured of that.” Aveline stood and shook her skirts out to remove the creases caused by sitting down. She curtseyed to the queen and stalked out haughtily, like a cat with its tail stuck in the air.

Anne gave a cluster of hairpins to Eleanor. “Your pins. William said I could bring them.”

“Thank you,” replied Eleanor politely. Fulk knew she wanted Anne to leave so she could speak to him, well probably more than speak, but she hid it well. Good, she back to her old self.

Anne knelt in the straw and began feeling the hem of her dress. “It is here somewhere,” she muttered absently to herself. With an exclamation she found what she was looking for and pulled it free of the material. She stood and offered her prize to Fulk. “And your pin.” Anne had the hairpin Eleanor had gifted to him. Anne looked back to Eleanor and said shyly, “I had thought you meant Trempwick, until I found this. It was because of the way he commented on your necklace, and you seemed to like him and he was unsuitable to win your hand too, but when I found this I knew otherwise. It makes a lot more sense.” She turned back to Fulk, “I found it before William did and I recognised it, so I stole it and hid it away.”

Fulk took the pin and replaced it in the special loops on his dagger sheath. “Thank you,” he said solemnly.

Anne demonstrated that she had matured in these last few days. “I do not think this story can have a happy ending,” she said sorrowfully. “I can give you a few moments alone, it is not much but …”

“It is all we will ever get,” Eleanor finished for her. She hesitated, then asked, “Could you persuade my father into restoring my gooseberry badge? Tell him I did not wish to change it; it was Trempwick’s doing.”

Anne nodded. “I shall wait outside to make sure no one comes in. A few minutes is all I can do,” she warned.

The instant they were alone they were locked in each other’s arms. After a passionate, long lived kiss she asked him breathlessly, “Where were you?”

“Your father had me tossed in a prison cell,” he replied, before kissing her again.

At their next opportunity to speak she said reproachfully, “You have been fighting.”

He grinned wryly. “No, if I’d been fighting your Trempwick would be a mess.”

“Trempwick?” she repeated. “But he said …”

“He’s hardly going to tell you he thumped me for being extremely rude about you.” Fulk kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyelids, then finally her mouth again. “I had to convince him I’d no interest in doing this.” He kissed her ardently. “But as you can see I do have an interest.” Which he demonstrated by kissing her again.

“I see you have gotten over your qualms about self-control,” she told him dryly.

“You try being locked in a cell for over a day with nothing but dreams of a gooseberry to keep you company; it works wonders.”

“I believe it is traditional to dream about revenge,” she chided him mock seriously.

“Maybe, but there’s only so many ways to imagine killing someone. Gooseberries have a lot more potential.” He paused, then listed them gravely, “Stewed gooseberries, gooseberry pie, gooseberry sauce, meat with gooseberry stuffing, plain freshly picked gooseberries, gooseberries with honey, gooseberries with cream … it made me very hungry.” One of his fingers had been tickling the back of her neck and slowing working down her spine. Just below shoulder level he encountered bandages. “What idiot covered you in bandages?” he asked. “It’s going to make a hell of a mess when we remove them. Far better to have left your back to seal up on its own.”

“Aveline.”

“You should have refused that hag’s help; she’s obviously never dealt with more than small injuries before.”

“I kept asking for you but you were nowhere to be found.” That sounded so sad Fulk’s heart twisted. His mind rocketed back from gooseberries and honey to the king’s words, I could not take the chance on you rescuing her, a change of direction the church would have approved of. ‘Nowhere to be found’ – that implied she had been hurt again while he was imprisoned. “And anyway they were more concerned about rushing me off to the church before I could change my mind again.”

“Change your mind on what?” Church; this did not sound good, not at all. Why would they need her in the church if not … no, no, Eleanor would never agree to marry; they had an agreement of sorts. They could never marry each other but they could remain faithful and not take anyone else instead. Ok, they had never put that in words but he thought it was so obvious it did not need saying, and he knew she wasn’t interesting in being anyone’s wife. He was just jumping to silly conclusions.

“You do not know?” She seemed amazed. “The whole castle knows.”

“Know what?” She would not marry, it would be something else, but what?

“They have forced me to marry Trempwick; we betrothed now and the wedding is around two months away.” And so much for that.

“You agreed?” He could not believe it – why in hell’s name had she agreed?! She was not Maude to tamely go along with her family’s whims and she had proven herself more than capable of standing her ground. Oh yes, she liked the spymaster’s attention, remember? She’d been lapping up Trempwick’s not quite flirting for days now. Evidently Fulk was nothing more than a … a pet to her, despite appearances otherwise. He shoved her roughly away from him. “How could you?” he demanded, anguish and incredulity mixed together.

“How could I not?” she shot back. “They had me locked up to starve until I agreed, and every two hours that … that fiend who calls himself my father,” her face contorted with hate as she spat those words, “came along and reopened the wounds on my back. After half a day it was more than I could bear.” And this was the same Eleanor who was covered in scars as testament to her ability to survive whatever her father could throw at her? It looked like this time she had put in a token resistance, nothing more. Half a day, not long then. Fulk hoped she hadn’t been inconvenienced too badly.

Once again he’d have to stand by and watch as his love was handed off to someone else, only this time he had not thrown his own chance away. If he had been offered a chance, no matter how slender, he would have grabbed it with both hands. Now he would remain in Eleanor’s household, forced to watch Trempwick and Eleanor … his stomach revolted at that and he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. He’d leave if he could, but the only way out was death, and so he’d have to watch and pretend he didn’t care.

Even assuming he had been there and she had wanted his help there was nothing he could have done. Trempwick could take on the king; he couldn’t. Oh yes, Trempwick the human wonder, everything Fulk was not – rich, powerful, a true noble, in good favour with the king, sadistic, a murderer, honourless. What an appealing man.

He was useless and she hadn’t seen fit to resist for very long, and on that note he would leave, thank you very much. This whole damned thing had been a disaster waiting to happen; it had happened and now it was time to bail out before he went down with the ship. He started towards the door. Eleanor threw herself after him and managed to grab his arm just before he opened the door and effectively ended their discussion, if it could be called that. “Where you going?” she asked. She looked distressed but he really didn’t care; she’d made her choice and now she could deal with the consequences. He was no one’s pet.

“Back where I belong.” He pulled her hand from his arm and flung it back down at her side. “Have a nice time with your Trempwick.” She would; she’d been playing along to his courtship for days.

“He is not my Trempwick!” she insisted loudly.

“He is,” he said viciously, “and you’re his little Nell.” She flinched; somehow that was satisfying.

She didn’t stop him when he tried to leave again, though part of him wished she had. He blasted right past Anne, ignoring her, and out the door into the bailey. He made his way to the second hall, the one for common soldiers, worthless knights and ordinary servants, anger lending his legs a powerful, fluid speed.

Within minutes he had found himself a place at the high end one of the tables. He had a tankard of strong ale in one hand and a lithe blonde sat on his lap. Back where he belonged.






There's some good lines in that part, even if I do say so myself.

Axeknight
11-22-2004, 23:52
What had Trempwick been doing, and why did he feel the need to train in secret?
Trempwick the chiselled Greek god... Heh, maybe buffing up so his mates don't laugh at him when they take his clothes on the wedding night? ~D

Sorry, stressful days make me want to be puerile. :embarassed: I didn't expect Fulk to walk off like that, that bit was nicely done. And yes, some excellent lines in there.

DemonArchangel
11-22-2004, 23:57
Maybe Eleanor doesn't keep track of Trempwick well enough to know when he trains.

scooter_the_shooter
11-23-2004, 01:29
well i didnt read it for a month i missed all updates so i recently did much reading. and you have gotten me addicted AGAIN froggy great story keep it up.
also i wasnt expecting the whole marriage thing good twist froggy.

i was looking at all the old stories and i saw red hand was about to scroll passed but i couldnt i began to read it again and will probably read all again over the next few weeks one of your best froggy. (didnt get far though cause i got addicted last time .) sense i live in the states froggy if its published i probibaly wont be able to get it. please do send the new version to me on email when its done. :bow:

scooter_the_shooter
11-24-2004, 00:43
also to all the people who read the first one i have been tempted to read it so i can see what happens cuase just as red hand i cant wait for up dates for this either ~:) . but would it spoil it and make me less intereseted in this. is it a good idea :help:

frogbeastegg
11-24-2004, 18:17
Eleanor stood where Fulk had left her, too shell shocked to do anything other than gaze into the empty space where he had been. He hatred her. He was all she had and she had lost him. A hand touched hers and Anne said, “He will come back.”

“Go away,” Eleanor told her woodenly.

Anne bit her lip. “William wants to know if you will be alright,” she said hesitantly. “But I am not supposed to tell you that.”

Eleanor laughed; it was unpleasant and tinted with madness. “Does he indeed?” she said harshly. “He beats me senseless, forces me to marry against my will and executes my brother, and then wonders if I am going to be happy? Tell my dear, dear father from me that if he cannot work out the answer for himself he should prod his brain into action with a crossbow bolt launched through his ear.”

“I will not tell him that because it will just upset him,” Anne said sensibly. “He really is concerned.”

“Oh yes, and I am concerned about him too,” She stopped staring after Fulk and turned on Anne, her blue eyes burning with hate. “Concerned that he may die peacefully instead of in the anguish he deserves. I do not know how you can stomach being married to him now you know what he is.”

“He is kind to me-”

“He executed his son.”

“And he wept bitter tears because of it,” said Anne heatedly, “and because of you too.”

“That monster is not capable of anything so human as tears. Now go away and leave me alone.”





The sentry marched along his assigned section of the wall towards Fulk, his hands warily shifting to a fighting grip on his billhook. Fulk told him loudly, “I’m harmless; I only want some air and a view.” He was sat with his back against the stone parapets of the inner curtain wall looking down at the inner bailey, the early evening chill of the icy stone seeping through his clothes and into his bones. He didn’t much care; he had left the hall before he had been able to get even slightly drunk, feeling worse than when he had arrived.

The sentry halted a few feet away from Fulk. He grounded his billhook’s butt and leaned on the weapon’s long wooden shaft. “Rather you than me mate, it’s bloody freezing out here. Could freeze the balls off God himself if he stopped out for long enough.” The man’s breath came out as plumes of white steam. He grinned, pale teeth in stark contrast to his dark beard. “Course I hope to be inside and warm long afore my own drop off.”

“Don’t we all?” returned Fulk. Back inside in the warm; eventually he’d have to go back and play bodyguard and he’d be willing to bet the atmosphere would be far frostier than the air out here.

“I’ll leave you be then, but if you try anything funny I’ll have your bloody guts cut out and your soul off to hell faster than you can wink.” He began walking his rounds again, his boots clomping on the paved wall walk.

That man was a good example of why Fulk was here. The sentry was a member of the king’s own household, dressed in royal livery with the king’s badge on his arm and breast, and yet he still talked in a far cruder manner than Fulk. His sword was of poorer quality than Fulk’s, as was the man’s knife. His royal livery had been of an inferior cloth to Fulk’s. His training and equipment was that of an infantry man, not a knight, and he certainly hadn’t been a knight of any variety. In short Fulk was quite some distance above him. He no longer fitted amongst the common orders, if he had ever truly fitted at all.

He was a bastard in nature as well as birth; part noble, part common. He didn’t belong anywhere.

At first he hadn’t seen it, too occupied with his own anger and sense of betrayal. As that wore off he had insisted to himself he was where he belonged, far away from Eleanor and happier for it. But then he’d started to notice how people moved away from him and he saw that he had gained one of the best places in the hall because of his rich appearance, not his charm. Conversation became stilted and falsely polite when he tried to join in; a few had even my lorded him – him, of all men.

From there it had only grown worse. While the blonde has been appealing there had been one glaring problem; she wasn’t Eleanor and so he wasn’t really interested even as he tried to tell himself he didn’t care any more. The fact she’d tried to steal his purse had only clinched the deal. Like it or not his predilection for a certain princess was not so easily disposed of. It was not fair; he had never asked to fall for her, quite the opposite, in fact.

Still worse had been the conversation, or more accurately the overheard gossip. It seemed as if everybody had been talking of the last few day’s events. Talk of the execution was bad enough. Talk of the wedding was dull. Talk of the betrothal only served to remind him of why he was in the hall.

Worst of all was the story a guardsman was telling to a rapt audience, a tale of chilling screams and angry shouting. He had been put on duty outside Eleanor’s window for a couple of hours. His story had to be embellished but if just half of it was true then Fulk had reason to feel guilty. He didn’t really believe it - Eleanor never screamed; she was very good at suffering in silence. She might make a big deal out of the one and only time she had made a sound while her father pummelled her but she blew it out of all proportion – no one outside the room had heard. To hear her from outside a building …

They had needed to patch her together with bandages. No, actually he didn’t know that, not for certain. He knew Aveline had bandaged Eleanor’s back, but not how necessary it had been. It could be the equivalent of bandaging an entire arm for a small cut on the forearm. Aveline clearly had no idea of how to handle Eleanor’s injuries so she might overreact.

Least of all did he want to hear about Eleanor begging for help. The guardsman had recounted that bit in a hushed voice, causing his listeners to lean forward to hear better, hanging off his every word. A beautiful princess – ha! – locked away and begging for a brave hero to rescue her. Her pleas would have melted all but the hardest of hearts but, like in every good story, they had no effect on her father. The guardsman revealed that he had been about to chance his luck and rescue her when he had been relieved by another guard. Fulk knew he was lying for the sake of his audience – it would have been suicide to intervene.

He didn’t believe it – the story just did not tally with reality. The parts which did tally were enough to make him doubt slightly, but not enough to change his mind. But still he could not entirely believe she was only playing with him, or that she wanted to marry Trempwick. None of this fit the Eleanor he knew. There was so much he didn’t know; being out of the picture for over a day had left him lagging behind.

Oh damn it, he didn’t want to believe she had dumped him so easily, but nor did he want to believe he had been so wrong. What he could see did not fit with what he knew, and what he heard fit with neither. But … proof of how much she had been hurt would be right there on her back, waiting for inspection. All he needed to do was go and see. That would resolve one part of this, and perhaps shed light on the rest too.





He hurried back to Eleanor’s guest house, almost running in his haste. Everyone would in the main hall now, Eleanor included, but there was no harm in checking. If she wasn’t there he could wait; hopefully he would get an opportunity to see her before Trempwick removed him again. If he arrived while the spymaster or his mother were there he was unlikely to get past the front door, but if Eleanor saw him then he was less likely to be removed. He would then have time to suggest taking over his usual role as royal cut tender. From there it would be in her hands.

He pounded in through the entrance hall and into the nursery. There he skidded to a halt. A large chest had been dragged over in front of the door to Eleanor’s bed chamber. How odd; the chest had not even been part of this room before. As the door opened outwards the chest effectively locked the door from the outside. From behind the door he heard Eleanor say, “If you have come back here expecting me to be contrite you shall be sorely disappointed.”

Despite himself he grinned. That was the Eleanor he knew, the one who fought instead of giving up, even when giving up was the wiser option. “Will I?”

“Fulk?” Her voice was full of relief. “Get me out of here.”

His resentment returned. “Oh yes, you want me to rescue you now? What happened to your darling Trempwick?”

There was a pause, then she said in a low voice, “He is not now, nor ever has been, nor ever will be, my Trempwick.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Pity I cannot fool myself then; I would have a blissful future ahead of me if only I could.”

It sounded sincere but he had seen her delighting in Trempwick’s company. Contradictory evidence. There was no time for this; he had no idea how long he would have before someone returned. He tried to push the chest of the way with a foot but it didn’t budge; something inside it weighted it down. He bent down, grabbed the iron handle fixed on the side and began to drag it back out of the way. It was slow, laborious work; he strongly suspected it had taken two men to put this in place. By the time the door was clear he was panting for breath and his muscles ached as much as if he’d just come out of a hard fight.

On opening the door he was once again presented with a sight he had never expected. Eleanor was sat on her bed with her hands bound together in front of her by a bit of rope. One end of the rope was fastened securely to a bedpost, tethering her in place and giving her less then three feet of line to play with. Her hands rested in her lap and one hand’s worth of fingers was drumming impatiently on her knee cap. She looked more than a little exasperated. Someone had thoughtfully placed a tray of food, including a chunk of cheese, just out of her reach.

“Trempwick was not happy with my remark about being treated like his prisoner; he is teaching me the difference, or so he insists.” The fingers stopped drumming and she fidgeted slightly, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles. She made an attempt at an open handed gesture with her hands. “So, have you come to shout some more before storming out again? If you have I would be grateful if you would get on with it so I can return to feeling sorry for myself.”

He drew his dagger and cut her free. Guilt prickled at his conscience; she had made that comment so she could talk to him, and she had known Trempwick would do something like this. You don’t make sacrifices like this for a pet; you don’t do anything for a pet. He watched as she rubbed her wrists where the rope had hampered circulation, trying to restore life to her hands. “I’m here to do something with those bandages.” The sooner he saw the sooner his mind would be at ease.

“Somehow I did not think you had come to see me. Very well, go collect whatever you need and I shall get ready. Make sure you lock the doors on your way back.”

“You’ll upset your Trempwick again if we lock him out.”

“Yes,” she sighed and wilted. “I have no reason to do that now.” The words taken alone sounded as if she wanted to appease the spymaster but the sheer hopelessness of her posture and tone indicated otherwise. She thought she had nothing left to fight for. Before she had been fighting for him, and for her independence. Fulk’s heart twisted and he nearly told her that she still had reason, if she wanted it but he steeled himself and said nothing. He would untangle the conflicting stories here first, then go from there. He would not keep changing his mind; he would come to a solid conclusion before saying anything.






It did not take him long to find the necessary items; Aveline had left plenty of linen scraps, a bowl, the salve and enough wine to fuel a good party in the nursery outside Eleanor’s room. Fulk couldn’t be bothered to brave the cold outdoors to fetch some water; he’d use the wine to soak the bandages off instead. If Aveline had done as poor a job as he expected then wine would be better suited to the task, as it combated infection. He was left waiting while she finished undressing with the door firmly shut.

“Alright,” she called resignedly, “let’s get this over with.”

She had repeated the usual arrangement, lying on her front with a sheet obscuring all those bits Fulk would rather like to look at. Also as per the usual arrangement he left the door slightly ajar and placed his assortment of items in clear view. If anyone entered the room it would be immediately apparent that there was nothing improper going on. Really they should have had a chaperone; the only person Fulk wouldn’t have minded filling that capacity was Anne, and she would be sat in the middle of the high table queening it over dinner.

Right from the off things didn’t meet Fulk’s expectations. Aveline knew how to do good bandaging even if she did not know when it was appropriate. The bandages themselves were liberally spotted with blood in many places. The stains ranged from a long dried near black to a still fresh bright crimson. Some of the cuts had not sealed firmly, or Eleanor had been doing something to keep tearing the wounds open.

He drew his dagger and began to decide where it would be best to cut the linen strips so they would be easier to remove, idly tapping the flat of the blade against the palm of his other hand. His favourite would have been a single cut right down the front; it would not only take advantage of the slight gap between linen and skin provided by her cleavage but it would also have afforded him a very nice view. Hastily squashing the distracting image that called to mind he started working on her left side instead.

His knife was just parting the last few strips when she said, “I want to be awake when Trempwick arrives; someone had best explain why I am no longer tied up, and that someone will have to be me.”

“You sound like you’re expecting to pass out.” He didn’t believe for a moment that she would.

“I am.”

“You didn’t pass out with that first set of wounds I treated; this is only more of the same.” Well it was; she had no broken bones, she was not covered from head to toe in bruises and she was up and about already, therefore it could not possibly be anywhere near as bad as last time.

“More of the same? Wait until you see and then tell me that,” she said acidly.

She had never made a fuss out of her injuries before, tending to underplay them rather than overstate. A tiny new strand of doubt joined those tendrils already present. Fulk carefully pulled away the few strips of linen bandage that had no blood at all on them, folding them open like the pages of a book. Next he started to soak the blood clots on the remaining mass of bandages, trying to loosen them so they would not rip the wounds open as he removed them.

As he began work on the next phase Fulk’s doubts began to grow; as he slowly worked down towards her skin he found more and more old blood, bonding the linen to Eleanor’s skin. He was not at all comforted to notice she was biting one corner of the bed’s bolster in an effort not to scream and she wasn’t managing to hold still, flinching away from his touch. The poultice had prevented too much sticking but all the same as he removed the layers closest to her skin he was more often than not taking parts of the scabs off with the linen.

Then he got down to skin and the last lingering traces of his doubt died. One day when he’d been in Aidney’s service Fulk and a few other men at arms had been sat around a table sharing a drink and talking, as soldiers tend to do, of their worst wounds and how horrible the pain had been. Each story had been aimed to make the others seem like nothing and all of them had been of large and spectacular wounds, such as his own crossbow bolt right through the thigh.

The contest had been ended by the youngest of their company, a youth who’d only seen a half year’s service with Aidney. He had been a quiet type but he had managed to silence the louder, older men. “If you wanna hurt someone bad,” he’d said with calm authority, “you go small. Breaking arms is for amateurs; break fingers. Loads’a small hurts are far worse than one big’un.” Everyone had stared at him, not believing it. The youth had grinned, a chilling expression that showed his two missing front teeth. “Me pa were a torturer and I learned his craft a bit afore deciding it weren’t for me. The one wound only hurts in one place and in one throb, see. Loads’a small ‘uns hurt all over and in different time, see. You feel em all.”

William had learned a type of finesse. From waist to shoulders Eleanor was covered in hundreds of cuts. There was the usual attendant bruising but no broken bones or anything crude. The cuts were not deep, only going about half way through the skin, but they were evenly applied all over in both distribution and severity, unlike previously where it had been a mishmash with some parts far worse than others. She had said, “reopened the wounds on my back”; reopening a cut was every bit as painful as getting it in the first place, frequently more so because the already ravaged flesh tore instead of being parted cleanly. It was small wonder the guard had heard screaming.

“You were right, dear gooseberry,” he told her softly.

She mumbled something in reply but the pillow stifled it and she apparently didn’t have the strength to lift her head up clear. He leaned over and pressed the pillow down so her mouth was clear. “Whatever that means,” she repeated weakly.

Warily he checked the doorway was still clear and wished he did not need to worry about them being overheard. “It means that I’m convinced you didn’t give up that easily. You do a good job of looking fitter than you are.”

“Of course I did not give up easily,” said Eleanor with tired exasperation. “As I have been repeatedly telling you I do not want to marry Trempwick; the man did murder my brother, if nothing else.”

“And yet you’ve loved the way he’s been pouring attention on you.”

“Friendly I like; when he is being friendly he is not being vindictive,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Now he is far too friendly, and still prone to being cruel.”

He wanted to hear her say it plainly, but first he glanced once more to the door. “So you don’t have a thing for him, you don’t want to marry him and you did try to avoid this.”

“Got it in a nutshell, flatnose.” She was trying hard to sound normal but there was no hiding the pain she was in, and that hopelessness was still present.

Fulk shot a quick look at the door, making sure it was still safe. “I thought otherwise. Forgive me?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she said graciously. “But you are an idiot.” That sounded a bit more like it; no bleakness and a bit more of her usual zest.

Fulk checked the door again and then planted a quick kiss on her temple. “You could sound more enthusiastic.”

“Hmmm,” she agreed. “But I prefer to watch you wriggle. I would drag this out and get you to grovel but it is not safe.”

He grinned, the dead weight cleared from his heart and mind. “You’re so kind to me.”

“I am far too generous for my own good,” she agreed pleasantly.

Fulk surveyed her back again; many of the cuts were slowly oozing blood and some were showing signs of infection. He fetched the jug of wine from where he had left it. He kept up the conversation so Eleanor wouldn’t pay much attention to what he was doing; sometimes being warned only made things worse. “I know; it’s the soft, fuzzy thing at work, your true nature.” He returned with the jug, keeping out of her sight.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a trace of anxiety under the pain in her voice.

“Eleanor, I do love you, remember that.”

She started to look over her shoulder, suspecting something was going on. “Why would I-” The rest of that was cut off by a howl of unbridled pain as he briskly started pouring the wine over her back. The howl itself died when she mercifully passed out.





Who wouldn't buff up, Axeknight? Although he does admit to intending to skip the part where everyone sees him naked.

That is .... obliquely it, Demon. Right and yet not right. :looks mysterious:

Weclome back, caesar. :hands over some eye drops: According to some other readers you will be needing these. I really can't recommend reading the original Eleanor; basically it stinks in comparison to this and is a totally different story and plot anyway. The two versions perminantly parted company when this story was on page 2 of the topic.

DemonArchangel
11-24-2004, 20:01
Ouch!
Alcohol on a couple hundred open cuts isn't a good idea.

zelda12
11-24-2004, 20:27
*sigh*
I would think that Trempwick would of seen fit to teach Eleanor that when you're at the mercy of a strong man you go for their weakest spot.
Or in the words of a random troll, "Kick 'im inna rocks."

If I was Trempwicks boss I'd sack him on the grounds of incompitence.

scooter_the_shooter
11-24-2004, 22:30
good add on froggy i have a guess of what happens next but wont say

frogbeastegg
11-25-2004, 19:49
William removed the decorative feather from the little pie shaped like a jaunty cap and bit into it. He chewed absently, his mind occupied with more important matters than the pie’s filling. His attention was sharply recalled as a piece of walnut dug into his gum. One missing tooth had been more than enough to convince him never to lose another; he’d rather have a finger cut off than another tooth wrenched out, and the gap at the back of his jaw was a persistent nuisance. He slapped the pie back down on his shared trencher.

“Is something wrong?” enquired Anne.

“Never lose teeth,” he told her sourly.

“Would you like some pottage instead?”

A reminder of just how old he must seem to her. “I am not so ancient or gap-toothed I can only eat soft food.” To prove his point he took another large bite of his pasty, this time being careful to chew only on one side of his mouth. The stuffing turned out to be veal, pork, bone marrow, dates, currents, walnuts and assorted spices; a dish fit for a king, if said king was paying attention.

“It is not kingly to display your foul humour before all and sundry,” Anne told him in a hushed voice, carefully maintaining her mask of polite, neutral happiness.

William nearly choked. They were at the high table in the main hall, surrounded by people and watched by the most important in the land and she was complaining of his manners. A surreptitious check revealed none but him had heard her. Equally stealthily he told her, “You are getting better at this.” She was; he was slowly crushing back the spectre of Anne’s grandmother. Queens worked; they did not sit around idly doing nothing other than popping out the occasional child. Now William had a queen again he expected her to do her job, including the parts which prevented him making an ass out of himself. Especially those parts.

“Thank you, my lord.” This she said louder so those closest to them could hear. That took care of her other prime function at this feast; making sure everyone knew of the harmonious relationship of the royal couple. Anne was beginning to prove she had plenty of diplomatic potential.

“Call me William, please,” he reminded her in matching volume and tone. She already knew but they had agreed to spend a few days repeating this rigmarole to prove how polite and well bred she was, and how warm he was towards her. A stage show, but indispensable.

Dropping back to his quietest voice William said, “What do you want to do tonight?”

“I thought perhaps I might read, if you do not mind.”

He nodded his approval and returned to his thoughts. Around a quarter of an hour later William put his latest pie down; he wanted to be out of public view so he could brood in peace. “Have you finished eating?”

She caught the hint with admirable speed. “Yes, my l-William.” A very neat touch, that sudden change of direction.

He pitched his voice at that falsely private level, the one which made it seem as if he intended none to hear but was marginally too loud to truly remain private. “Then let us withdraw, my lady.”

Together they stood and hand in hand they left the hall. When they were out of sight at the foot of the stairwell William halted and listened to the hall’s reaction for a while. He smiled at his wife and began to climb up the stairs with her. “Their jokes begin to repeat.”

“They were repeating on our wedding day,” she pointed out bashfully.

“In theme, yes, but there were minute differences in the phrasing.”

In their solar William left Anne to her own devices; she was reading Guigemar, a tale of a beautiful young woman locked away in an enclosure guarded by a castrated priest because her aged husband was rampantly jealous and paranoid. Predictably a handsome young man by the name of Guigemar managed to reach her. Also predictably Guigemar was under a curse to suffer from an old wound until a woman suffers greatly because of her love for him. Even more predictably from their first meeting the usual, boring true love combined with plenty of escapades involving near death befell the lovers. It was a very fashionable story.

For nearly half an hour the only sounds were the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the sound of pages being turned. “Repeat again what Eleanor said,” William asked.

Anne frowned slightly and looked up. “But I already told you several times.”

“I want to hear it again.”

She sighed and closed her book, leaving one finger between the pages to mark her place. “She said she did not think she could be happy with Trempwick, and she is upset about her brother.”

William knew Eleanor’s real words had to have been more … explosive, unless he had worked a miracle and finally turned the brat into a civilised human. He scowled. “It is not her place to be happy; it is her place do marry as I tell her.” He returned to his brooding for a while, then burst out, “And anyway I do not see why she is so intent on being miserable. She knows Trempwick, she has lived with him for years, and he is not a bad sort.” But he was unsuitable, as she had said. That got no reply. “Well?” he asked crossly. “Do you have any ideas?”

Anne put her book down again. “You have been fretting about this ever since she agreed; if the marriage bothers you so much maybe you should cancel it?”

William slumped lower in his chair. “Oh, I can’t do that,” he groused. “I would be a laughing stock and it cost everyone involved quite a bit to get the damned thing arranged in the first place. It is expedient, it is for the good of the realm and the stability of the succession, it neatly solves a whole set of otherwise dangerous problems, and I think both bride and groom have something to gain. The marriage will take place and that is final.”

It was all entirely true; Eleanor would marry Trempwick even if he had to repeat the gruelling process that had got her to agree to the betrothal. Anyway it was his right, and duty, to find Eleanor a husband. All the same Joanna would have hated him for what he had done to their children; William was not certain his first wife would have seen that he really did have no option to do anything other than what he had done. He supposed he would find out when he saw her again in the next life.

After another long pause he asked, “Did you see the bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

“Did he seem content with his compensation?” He had not been happy with imprisoning an innocent man for no reason other than convenience but this Fulk had proven persistently loyal to Eleanor. Breaking Eleanor’s will required carefully controlled conditions; she had to have no hope of rescue or support, to see that she had no option except to give way. Trempwick had argued Fulk’s imprisonment unnecessary but William had known otherwise; he did not want to kill yet another person, assuming the bodyguard did intervene. William sighed; he had turned from king to torturer, and found himself lacking. Those screams …

He realised Anne had answered. “Pardon?”

“I said he seemed to have no complaints.”

William nodded slowly. His mind began to wander towards John; what an accursed mess that had been. He had thought it kindest to get it over with quickly so the boy wasn’t waiting in dread for days but in hindsight William wondered if instead it may have been more merciful to wait until a professional headsman had been available. He shut his eyes, only to see again the crimson fountain of blood spurting from his son’s neck, and to hear once again his angry denunciation of William as both king and father.

His eyes shot open; it was too much, too much. Better to focus on the here and now; what’s done is done and as king he did not have the liberty, or indeed right, to disappear off into the shadowy depths of his own mind. Or as husband. He sat up properly and said to Anne, “Let’s have a look at this book of yours. It must be good; you have been reading it avidly.”

Anne began to hold out the book for him. She stopped and chewed her lip uncertainly. Shyly she stood and brought the book over to him, something unnecessary as she had been well within arm’s reach before. She offered the book to him but remained hovering at his side when he took it from her. Carefully William opened the book and leafed thorough the first few pages, passing several detailed illustrations and admiring the neat and of the clerk who had copied the book. He looked up again; she was still there. He gave the book back to her. “Very nice.”

“It was a gift from my uncle Robert.” She was still there.

Nearly four decades of experience gave William an idea of what she might have in mind. “Why not sit down?” She looked crestfallen and started back towards her own chair. “No, here … if you like.” He left ‘here’ deliberately ambiguous. Just as he’d thought she hopped onto his lap and settled back against his chest quite happily. He tucked one arm around her. “You surprise me,” he told her.

Anne blushed as red as her hair. In a mortified whisper she confided, “It was the only part of out wedding night I liked, the being held.”

Some men would have found that offensive but William laughed. He opened her book to the page she had marked and held it open with his spare hand while she read.

Whatever the problems with his children, William mused, he was exceptionally lucky in his wives. He liked them both, well had loved one and was growing quite fond of the other too. Considering both were entirely political matches that was extraordinary. He hadn’t expected to be happy either time; he had been wrong. The same would happen to Eleanor once she accepted the way things were, he was sure. That would go some small way to settling the encumbrance on his conscience.








I did watered down disinfectant on the palms of my hands after I had fallen over and taken massive chunks out of them once. There is no way to describe how much that hurt. Just thinking about wine over an entire back covered in cuts makes me feel ill.

In my view the two men who need kicking most are William and Trempwick. William would batter her until she passed out and/or died. Trempwick would get horrifically creative. William is also Trempwick's boss. Hmm, interesting situation there.

And I bet that wasn't what you predicted for the next part, caesar :tongueg: We'll get back to the gooseberry in the next part.

zelda12
11-25-2004, 21:40
"Have you finished easting?”

Easting? Sorry is this a typo?


Another good piece I always like it when you focus a little on the secondary chracters like William or anne.

frogbeastegg
11-25-2004, 21:48
Indeed, a typo. Fixed, thanks. I also fixed up an illogical not-exactly-an-error; it took William over 15 minutes to eat a pie slightly smaller than his clenched fist. I don't think anyone eats that slowly.

scooter_the_shooter
11-26-2004, 02:56
lol it wasnt but i was dead wrong about one thig. i thought william would start beating anne too.

DemonArchangel
11-26-2004, 03:31
Hell, I thought he beat his first wife to death

scooter_the_shooter
11-26-2004, 15:25
more froggy more more more http://webpages.charter.net/connectingzone/happy/33.gif ~:cheers:

frogbeastegg
11-26-2004, 23:42
“… wanted to leave tomorrow!”

“It couldn’t wait.”

“One day, bodyguard, it could have waited one more day.”

“Another day would only have made matters worse; better to act now before the infection became too severe.”

Eleanor fought her way towards the voices, emerging from the black fug into a blaze of agony. Taking stock of her surroundings could wait until later. “If you do not mind,” she mumbled, “I am trying to be unconscious here.”

The arguing stopped and footsteps headed her way. Trempwick appeared in her view. “You should have got my mother to do this,” he told her sternly.

“No thanks,” she replied with a hazy kind of cheerfulness. The world had a certain dreamlike quality to it and talking was a lot of work. “She’s crap at this.” Hmmm, that did not sound very regal; no doubt Trempwick would complain copiously. If he did she would just go back to sleep.

Trempwick looked disgruntled. “I shall blame that on your being only half awake; consider yourself fortunate.” That was really quite nice of him, now she didn’t have to listen to yet more moaning. A cool hand rested itself on her forehead. “She is slightly feverish.”

“See,” came Fulk’s voice, “I told you it couldn’t wait. Your mother might do well enough with simple hurts but this is far beyond her. You should have got me in the first place, if you didn’t want to get a proper healer.”

The hand left her forehead and Trempwick altered his stance so he could glare at Fulk. “You had vanished, bodyguard.”

“I was thrown in a prison cell; our king was concerned I may try to help her.” Fulk’s voice became nonchalant. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

Trempwick’s reply sounded bored, like a teacher explaining something to a particularly dense student. “I am the king’s spymaster; if he chooses to keep something from me that is his prerogative. I do not spy on him. You will leave now; I shall sit with her.”

“As you like,” came Fulk’s casual answer. He was doing a very good job of making his interest in her sound professional with a hint of friendship, just what they needed to convince Trempwick there was nothing between them. It was obvious they got on well enough to consider themselves friends, so there was no point in trying to sound purely professional. “But you may want to lift her out of that puddle of wine, and there’s still a few areas that need salving.”

Trempwick said sardonically, “Yes, thank you; I think I can manage.”

Fulk’s footsteps retreated, leaving her alone with Trempwick. She felt at a distinct disadvantage here, lying face down on the bed with her back bare and only a carefully arranged sheet and her loincloth to cover the rest of her. She heard the door close and Trempwick moving about out of her range of vision. “Well, dear Nell,” he told her, trying to sound at ease. “It is a good thing we are to be married.” She didn’t see why until he returned to her field of view and picked her up.

She flailed an arm and managed to catch the sheet before it fell off, keeping it in place over her lower half but she could feel a draft on her legs. Oh Christ, he could see everything from mid thigh down! Even peasants with their skirts kilted up to work never showed anywhere near that much off. The less said about where his other arm, the one under her torso, was the better. This was a nightmare. Given a choice she would have by far preferred to wriggle her own slow, painful way over to the other half of the bed, or even remained where she was.

Trempwick deposited her face down on the dry side of the bed; he had moved the covers back out of the way on this side. If he was chivalrous, Eleanor told herself as she extracted her face from the bolster before she suffocated, he wouldn’t say a thing.

“You have nice legs,” he commented. Eleanor began contemplating how best to cause him a lot of pain without leaving herself open to reprisal. Sadly she couldn’t see a way to so much as scratch him without inviting disaster. She began rearranging the sheet as best she could, noticing a distinct lack of assistance from him. She got the distinct impression he was enjoying the view; her flesh crawled.

Pot of salve in hand Trempwick began smearing ointment over her back, working from top to bottom and redoing all of Fulk’s work. He was not ungentle, that at least was some improvement over his mother. When he finished he wiped his hands on a rag. “We will still leave tomorrow; we can travel at a slower pace.”

Trempwick cleared all the debris away then inspected the other half of the bed. Turning her head to look at where she had moved from she could see an Eleanor-shaped outline in wine mixed with blood on the fancy bedspread. “Servants are going to be happy,” she slurred.

Trempwick agreed. “Your pet could have made less of a mess with a bit more thought,” he griped. Trempwick peeled back the bedspread and dumped it in a pile at the bottom of the large bed. He felt the covers underneath where the wine had sloshed. “Dry enough; good.” He unlatched his belt and dropped it on the floor next to the bed, then sat down and began pulling his boots off.

“What the hell are you doing?” squeaked Eleanor, suddenly feeling a lot more awake. She had been forced to leave her wrist knives at Woburn; she would have felt significantly better if she had one tucked under her pillow in easy reach right now.

One boot dropped to the floor with a thud. Trempwick glanced over his shoulder at her. “I said I would stay here overnight, and I do not see the point in sitting up while I can lie down comfortably.”

“This really is not necessary,” she tried.

He smiled, then began to prise off his other boot. “Perhaps not,” he agreed. The second boot landed on the floor. “But when your back has finally clotted properly I can tuck you in.”

Would it be churlish to begin shouting for Fulk at this point? “I always manage that myself.”

“Yes, but you do not have to now.”

Couldn’t he take a hint!? “People may get the wrong idea …”

He swung his legs up onto the bed and flopped backwards, still fully dressed. “My mother will swear she was in here with us; only the three of us and your pet will know any different.”

Perhaps if she tried “Get lost!!” he might go? No, more than likely not. Trempwick was not so dense as to overlook her not entirely subtle attempts to get rid of him; he intended to stay.

Trempwick sat up again and punched the bolster several times, softening it up. He lay back again. “Ah yes, much better.” He turned his head, mussing up his straight brown hair, and grinned at her. It was a slightly … feral grin. “And as I am here,” he said with distinguishable menace, “we can discuss why exactly you thought it a good idea to get your pet to patch you back together without so much as a single chaperone.”

“It is only the same arrangement we used many times at Woburn.”

“We are not at Woburn now,” he snapped. “You are my betrothed and you will not gamble with your reputation like this.”

“But it is acceptable for you to gamble with my reputation?”

Trempwick’s face darkened still further. “I told you my mother will vouch for us – there is no gamble.”

Agree, apologise, be approved of – the three ‘a’s Eleanor had patched together and planned to live by from now on where Trempwick was concerned. Fighting was futile and would only make things worse, except in certain very select cases. Those she would exploit to the full, but if Trempwick thought he had managed to tame her he would be more likely to overlook her real resistance. She had already done enough for today, and for quite some time to come, with her comment about being a prisoner. “Yes master,” she said contritely. “I am sorry; it will not happen again.” It wouldn’t –Fulk wouldn’t need to treat her wounds again before they left court. However back at Woburn …

“It had better not.” The hard lines of his face eased minutely. “Get some sleep,” he commanded her brusquely.

Eleanor didn’t think it would be possible to sleep with the spymaster in the same room, especially not when he was lying at her side less then two feet away. For the sake of avoiding further trouble she shut her eyes. After a few minutes the pretence became real.





Next morning Eleanor felt tired and wretched. Her neck ached from spending so long lying on her front with her head twisted to one side and her back, unsurprisingly, hurt like blazes. The slight fever was still there, adding onto a sleepless night. She had managed to get maybe a half hour’s rest before Trempwick had decided her back had clotted enough to cover her up. Waking up to find the spymaster leaning over her had nearly given her a heart seizure, and from there it had proven impossible to get back to sleep. Once she had been tucked in Trempwick had drawn the bed’s curtains, then promoted another outraged “What the hell are you doing!?” when he stripped down to shirt and braies and joined her. He did not want to rumple his clothes, he said. The curtains would keep them warmer, he said. This was far more comfortable, he said.

Safely buried under the blankets she had painfully shifted onto her side to relieve the strain on her neck and be more comfortable, turning her back on the spymaster. She had also taken advantage of this motion to inch over until she was as far away from Trempwick as she could get without falling out of the bed. That had, in another near seizure provoking event, prompted him to take advantage of the gap between body and mattress afforded by her shoulder and neck and stick an arm around her.

After another round of “What the hell are you doing!?” he had nicely explained that he intended to take things slowly, working up to their wedding night. This was supposedly for her own benefit. “You will soon get used to being held,” he had informed her, making her wish once again she had a knife handy. “In time you will even like it. Relax, dearest Nell; it is something of a prerequisite to enjoying yourself.” In an effort to put an end to this ordeal she had pointed out that they were not married, so he had absolutely no right to do any of this. Maddeningly he had just smiled benignly and told her that, once again, no one would ever know and it was for her benefit anyway.

She had spent much of the night with Trempwick lying on his side behind her in an echo of her own pose, a slight gap between them so he did not aggravate her back and his arm around her. She had been painstakingly aware of his every move, and as he woke up every time she moved even slightly it appeared he was equally paranoid. Two agents did not make a good pairing, it appeared. The nice, posh bed which had seemed so attractive just days before suddenly had no appeal when compared to her own small bed back home – it would be far too cramped for this kind of thing. Alleluia.






Hugh found he could no longer delay his mandatory visit to his sister; she was leaving today. Resignedly he made his way down to her guest house first thing in the morning. Servants bustled about, carrying out saddle bags and other items for transport. Most of the men wore a burnt orange and forest green livery with a fox’s head badge affixed to the breast, the spymaster’s men.

One man wore the royal red and white with a gooseberry and crown badge on his breast; Eleanor’s man, the one father had imprisoned out of fear for his loyalty. Hugh had seen this bodyguard several times but always from a distance; now he took advantage of their proximity to give him a proper look over. His conclusion was favourable; the man clearly was a competent fighter, healthy, well turned out and quite impressive looking. The brat, as their father called her, may be lamentable in many respects but she could choose her servants well.

As he threaded his way through the busy servants Hugh rebuked himself. Calling his little sister brat was clearly unchivalrous, and it showed he was allowing emotion and memory to cloud his judgement, grave flaws in a future king. In an effort to be even handed Hugh reminded himself that he had delayed this visit and ignored Eleanor because of a certain incident when she had been seven and he fifteen. He still quailed to recall that day, her last visit to court where he had been present. That too was an emotional action and he was gravely at fault. This error would not be allowed to happen again.

Content that he had schooled himself to the logical, kingly assessment he had always strove for since becoming the heir Hugh continued on his way at a slightly speedier pace. He could identify his flaws, and so he would eliminate them. He would be king; he had not been born to it but he was shaping himself to rule. There were those who doubted his ability as well as his lineage but Hugh was determined to prove himself every bit as able as his deceased elder brother.

Once inside the building Hugh had no difficulty in getting to see his sister; even when you are busy packing to leave you do not refuse the crown prince. He was reverently ushered into the bedchamber where Eleanor was passing time while waiting to depart. She was wearing deep red and while she looked quite noble and neat her clothing was of a lower quality to what she had been wearing since she had arrived. Hugh observed his formalities flawlessly; he kissed his sister on one cheek and politely asked how she was. They exchanged the usual banalities about being in good health and happy to see one another. Then conversation died, instead of transferring smoothly to the more personal topics as it should have.

Hugh was certain he looked resplendent in his finely tailored clothes, all in yellows and oranges chosen to compliment his golden colouring. He may be graceless, as his detractors frequently accused, but his presence had been carefully cultivated to demonstrate his better points; his strength, height, noble bearing, and to possess a certain male dominance. As was his habit he wore a golden version of his own badge on his clothes somewhere for decoration, today a golden pin badge of his feather. He wore his sword and dagger, a subtle statement that he was always ready for action. The weapons were as fine as his clothes, and he was skilled with them. He was an anointed prince, the heir to the throne of an empire, a proven warrior, an educated and refined man.


Now, scrutinised by his sister’s blue eyes he felt once again like the uncertain fifteen year old youth interrupted just as he gathered his confidence to try and seduce his first girl. He hoped Eleanor was not remembering that too. He felt heat flooding to his face; even after all these years he was still mortified to recall her catching him cautiously moving to kiss the vaguely pretty young daughter of some noble or other that he had taken a liking to. Hugh was an immensely private person, and that day he had learned even the vaunted royal garden was not safe.

Eleanor asked, “Is something wrong, Hugh?”

“No,” he replied hurriedly. He should do what he had come for and then leave; she had a journey to begin and he had work to do, so it would not be solely for his own comfort to conclude this swiftly. “I know what you are,” he stated with his usual decisive bluntness. “I do not approve, but father has made his decision and it has reaped some rewards. I do not and will not question his judgment. When I am king I shall expect to use you in the same capacity. It is a discredit to our family and an abomination before God, but for the good of the realm I will allow you to remain as you are.” His eyes narrowed. “A murderer and petty agent.”

“How very kind of you,” she replied with icy sarcasm. She never did have any idea of what was proper.

Again heat flooded his cheeks; speaking of proper he was breaching etiquette himself and mis-saying himself in his attempt to be neutral towards both her and father. He tried again. “I mean that I do not approve of my little sister being put to such appalling usage, but I see why father has made this decision and I shall continue it.”

“You do not approve?” She raised an eyebrow. Somewhere in the years since he had last seen her she had learned to do a very elegant version of a raised eyebrow. With his usual scrupulous honesty Hugh admitted that she had changed quite a bit from the rather wild young girl he had known; she had … poise, and the grace he so devastatingly lacked.

“I see why father has made these decisions,” he repeated once again. He would not allow personal feelings to enter this; feelings were to be locked away and kept private.

“Am I to presume you do not approve of my … employment, or my marriage, or perhaps our dear father’s treatment of me?”

Hugh frowned. “You may presume all three. However all three are expedient and necessary, and so I will continue them on my accession, with the exception of the last if you prove it needless.” That was closer than he liked to get to revealing his own view and placing it as more important than logic. Disliking that his sister was covered in scars from past beatings was pure emotion, and scarcely logical. What was logical was that her behaviour was dreadful and in dire need of correcting. Logic versus emotion, and emotion would lead him astray. He could not afford that.

He bowed his head stiffly, “I shall take my leave now, dear sister. Have a pleasant journey, and I shall see you at your wedding.” He thought she looked a touch ill when he mentioned the wedding; it was apparent she had still not seen that the match was logical and her resistance purely emotional. A pity, but then many scholars did say that women were emotional, fickle creatures with scant sense.






:Twilight zone music: The number of replies for this topic matches the page count of the story exactly; 223.

Yes, that's what Nell thinks too. She thinks her mother spent much of her married life being battered and that Anne will eventually end up the same. She's wrong, at least about the past. The future, well frogs shouldn't say too much as the future is always in motion to a certain extent. It seems very unlikely; Anne just doesn't meet any of the criteria for triggering that reaction. As much of the story is told through Eleanor's eyes the reader can end up misled, only to find out the truth later. I could actually do this story from several different viewpoints and it would be quite different for each character.

scooter_the_shooter
11-27-2004, 00:48
an other great update. ~:cheers:

Ludens
11-28-2004, 16:27
Good job, Froggy. I think I am going to like Hugh very much.

Gah! I am too tired to argue why I think a switch in perspective is amateurish. Just keep the story coming and I'll comment on it another time ~:thumb: .

scooter_the_shooter
11-28-2004, 21:03
hay froggy this isnt complaining just a question. on redhand we would get 2 sometimes 3 updates a day. but now we get one or none are you to busy to post or just not as interested in this.

frogbeastegg
11-28-2004, 21:22
Eleanor rode along in the middle of the column, at Trempwick’s side, ahead of Aveline and Juliana but behind four of Trempwick’s soldiers. The remaining soldier and Fulk brought up the rear. It was snowing lightly and had been all day. Everyone was coated in a dusting of snow, Eleanor more so than most. Brushing the accumulated snow off seemed like such an effort and she was so tired.

Looking at everyone else Eleanor knew it must be cold, her companions were wrapped up in their thick cloaks and still shivering, their faces pinched and reddened by the icy edge of the air, and yet she was baking. She was warmer then if it had been a summer’s day. The heat had even reached her eyes; they felt as though they were burning. Blinking did little to ease the unpleasant sensation, if anything it only made it worse.

Her mare had a good, even gait but she was still being jogged and jolted enough for her wounds to protest very loudly. Periodically throughout the day’s travelling she had felt blood trickling down her back, at least she assumed it was blood, not sweat. So hot.





Ireland. The thought loomed large in Fulk’s mind; Ireland. Whenever someone fled England they always went west and south, towards France and the other continental countries, seldom eastwards and across the sea to Ireland. Trempwick would have eyes in France or any of the other usual destinations, but maybe not Ireland. Even if he did have agents in Ireland it would be harder for him to act. In Ireland a runaway princess and her knight might be harder to find. They might be safe.

Would Eleanor want to leave, though? Granted she might not like this marriage but that did not mean she wanted to spend the rest of her life on the run, always fearing her past might catch up with her. It did not mean she wanted to tag along with some penniless knight travelling from place to place looking for a lord to serve. She might not be royal in the expensive, luxury consuming meaning of the word but that did not mean she would be content with such a hard life. It did not mean that he liked the idea either.

With a sigh Fulk put the idea from his mind; they would not be safe and the life they would have together would only have one merit amongst many downsides. They would be together. They would be homeless, penniless, starving, in danger, friendless, in a strange land …

Alright, forget that idea. Let’s go over the facts once again.

Eleanor had been forced into this betrothal and it was common knowledge. Forced betrothals, even forced marriages, were not binding. All it took was a trial before a court to prove that the contract had been made under duress and then it would be dissolved. Problem: Eleanor could not prosecute the case herself, she had to have a husband or male relative do it for her. Her father and brother were in favour of this match and Fulk couldn’t see Trempwick helping her.

Another angle: the contract was already null and void precisely because it was made under duress; Eleanor was free to enter a contract with someone else. That new husband could then push for the old contract to be torn up, arguing that it had never been binding. The problem there was twofold. Firstly Fulk wanted to marry Eleanor himself and he was not nearly powerful enough to take the king and his spymaster to court and win, assuming they bothered with the niceties and didn’t remove his head right at the beginning. That led to the second issue; namely that those in a position to pull the scheme off were every bit as problematic as Trempwick so nothing at all would be gained for a significant risk.

All the legal wrangling in the world meant nothing when someone kicked you around a room and told you to say your vows now or else; once the wedding had taken place it was notoriously tricky to get it dissolved, and that’s assuming your family is on your side. Heiresses and widows were frequently abducted and forced to marry their captors for this very reason. Fulk grinned down at his saddlebow; of course many enterprising ladies had arranged for someone they liked to abduct and marry them, a kind of elopement. Abduction allowed marriages between two people who would normally be considered too far apart on the social scale; it also allowed marriages unapproved of by the family. If Eleanor wasn’t enterprising then no one was.

They could elope and marry, either a simple church ceremony with only first names and no family mentioned, or a secret wedding. Two people who agreed that they were married, and then clung consistently to that statement were considered man and wife even if the marriage had not been witnessed by anyone, blessed by the church or consummated. If they picked their moment with extraordinary care they would even have a day or two lead on the spymaster. No, the only problem arose afterwards – royalty did not like bastard knights from the lowest part of the nobility swiping their daughters. His head would be on a spike faster than he cared to imagine. They wouldn’t even have to be subtle about it; Fulk had no family or friends to come to his aid. It would be unprecedented; a gap in rank so large had never been crossed in this way.

If he managed to marry Eleanor legally and without impending death to spoil things they’d be able to take advantage of those nice new manors she had been given. In this scenario they would not be sleeping under a hedge. Ah yes, if they did the impossible they could have quite a nice life. Wasn’t that always the case?

Fulk looked up and along the column so he could catch a glimpse of Eleanor. She was slumped in her saddle and swaying slightly. They should not be on the road; she was ill and anyone with eyes could see it. For a spymaster Trempwick was amazingly blind sometimes. Fulk battled his exasperation; he wanted nothing more than to ride up to her side and see how she was doing but he could not. Propriety. She had Trempwick to care for her, in addition to Aveline and Juliana. A posh wall of steel keeping them apart. Bodyguards are only allowed to be concerned if there is no one better suited present.

Still watching Eleanor Fulk turned his thoughts to a new tack. What if Trempwick died, either before or after the wedding? Before, well the king wanted his daughter married off but it appeared he also acknowledged that Trempwick was the only man likely to survive the experience, although Fulk liked to think he himself had a much better chance. William was not the kind to give up once his mind was settled; if Trempwick died either before or after the wedding William would find someone new for Eleanor. He wanted the claim to his throne tied up so none could use to against him or his heir, or so everybody had been saying. Trempwick was only his best bet; there was nothing much to be lost by trying a few other prospective husbands to see if they could handle being married to a grumpy assassin who hated their guts.

Fulk sobered, the wry smile vanishing from his lips. As funny as that sounded it was true, and as long as you were forewarned Eleanor would actually be quite easy to handle. You would just lock her away in a room under trusted guard, only visiting occasionally and for a few minutes at a time. You would never allow her anything that might be used as a weapon, nor would you ever give her even a hint of freedom. From time to time you’d trot her out in public, but with careful arrangements and guard that would not be so problematic. Trempwick had a head start and an existing knowledge of one of the king’s best kept secrets, nothing more.

Also there was one matter Fulk did not like to think about; Eleanor needed Trempwick. He hated that; his princess should not be dependant on the spymaster, but she was and that was that. Trempwick protected her, and without the spymaster to make use of her Eleanor’s agent skills became worthless, in turn making her next to worthless. Without Trempwick Eleanor had two small manors, a bodyguard and a very little bit of money. She had no friends, and her family would not truly help her. Someone would snatch her up for her stake on the throne, or she would be forced into a new marriage to suit her family’s needs, or they might simply kill her. That last was certainly believable to Fulk now; William had killed two of his sons already.

And so, for what must be the hundredth time, Fulk concluded there was nothing he could do except sit and watch as his love married someone else, someone she did not want. If he ever had the chance to have a word with whichever entity had decided this whole forbidden romance thing between him and Eleanor was a good idea he would have to have some very stiff words with them.






Small but I've been unexpectedly busy today.

I'll wait until you're awake then, Ludens.

Caesar, Red Hand was ... different to this. Each chapter of Red Hand was actually shorter than the average Eleanor chapter, something like 4 pages instead of the 5, 6 or even 7 that Eleanor usually totals. The writing was also of a far lower quality and I was restraining myself to keep to that very narrow, game based focus. Eleanor is written to book standards (well, as close as I can get without an editor to prod me along) and it has a book worthy plot - it is *much* more complicated in every possible way. That slows things down, but not nearly as much as it used to as I'm now far more at home and practised with this kind of writing. I'm also working on my book, the new Red Hand, and on the RTW beginner's guide. It's definitely not a lack of interest.

DemonArchangel
11-29-2004, 00:14
Eleanor wanted to kill fulk for seeing her legs?
sheesh, wait until she sees a modern day beach.

scooter_the_shooter
11-29-2004, 01:21
aha froggy my prediction are right so far

frogbeastegg
11-30-2004, 17:49
Because of the poor weather it took six days to return to Woburn. To Eleanor’s joy they dropped Aveline, Juliana and three of Trempwick’s men at arms off in St Albans and made the rest of the trip with just the two remaining men at arms. She had been lumbered with Aveline’s carping for so long now she had forgotten just how sweet it was to be able to live her life without an endless commentary on how disgraceful, disrespectful, evil, insubordinate, plain, boring, reckless, wild, unsuitable, unchristian, undignified, ignorant, and improper she was. That was the short listing; Aveline had managed to use nearly every negative word in the English language at least once.

Without Juliana to battle with her hair Eleanor reverted to leaving it loose. This lasted all of twenty minutes; Trempwick complained profusely as soon as he saw. With some careful manoeuvring to take advantage of the spymaster’s sudden mania for braided and pinned up hair Eleanor managed to negotiate him into letting Fulk play lady’s maid, at least in this one aspect. The spymaster had made much of how Fulk must have learned his hairdressing skills but Eleanor didn’t much care; she had avoiding being given a maid of her own, or more accurately being assigned a permanent spy for Trempwick. She also thought that while the source of Fulk’s skills was not terribly agreeable it showed he had consideration, if nothing else. Not many men helped their lady love fix their damaged hairstyle after a tryst. Trempwick, Eleanor was beginning to suspect, was the type who would smile blithely and tell you it was your own problem before disappearing and leaving you to sink or swim on your own.

Her fever lasted for a couple of days before burning out as the last traces of infection cleared up and her back finally began to heal correctly. True to her word she had made certain Aveline acted as chaperone while Fulk doused her cuts in wine and applied a salve to them twice each day, but when Aveline left there was no one suitable to play chaperone. Trempwick had grumbled for a bit and tried to insist she returned to treating her own wounds as she had done before Fulk had been acquired, but in the end he had given way and let them resume their old arrangement.

Once they were back at Woburn everything settled back down and normality resumed. The cook’s food was still foul. The servants were still sullen and resentful, although they did seem highly pleased to learn that their master was betrothed to the despised princess. Eleanor was very aware that was because of the social boost she would be giving Trempwick, not because they thought her worthy of their precious master. Eleanor returned to her out of fashion clothes, Fulk swapped his royal livery for his usual plain clothes, and Trempwick returned to his dapper yet unremarkable look.

In many ways it was as if they had never left.





The morning of their second day at Woburn Eleanor opened her room’s shutters to find even more snow had fallen overnight and the world was shining clean and white. Judging from the foot prints in the snow in the courtyard it was quite deep. She grinned mischievously; this was perfect.





Roughly half an hour later she sat in the shelter of the open-fronted outbuilding used for storing hay and other such resources near the manor house’s main door, warmly dressed and waiting in ambush. Her prey put in an appearance just as she was beginning to wonder if he had changed his morning habit; he always checked his horse early each morning. Scooping up a handful of snow Eleanor leapt out of cover and hurled her missile, hitting her target with her usual accuracy.

The snowball exploded across the side of Trempwick’s face, leaving a reddened mark. Wiping snow from his face Trempwick stood stock-still, searching with hawk-like intensity for his assailant. Careless; he left himself open to another attack by not taking cover. It was an invitation Eleanor was happy to accept. Her second missile crashed into his neck with all the force she could manage. She was aiming to hurt as much as she could while disguising this as something harmless. Snow showered about the spymaster, some even going inside his clothes, and another red patch appeared on his flesh but he didn’t utter a sound.

He began to stalk in the direction the snowball had come from, heading towards her with furious intensity. She made it easy for him, standing in plain sight before the timber building, another snowball in her hand ready to throw. Her arm began to go back and she took aim. Trempwick was livid; one finger pointed like a loaded crossbow at her handful of snow and he snarled, “If you throw that I shall leave you out here to freeze until nightfall!” She aborted the throw midway through.

There were two ways this could work out; well if she was honest Eleanor could see several other, less likely ways in addition to the two most likely ways. Either Trempwick would accept her challenge and she would be able to pelt him with snow until she worked off a little of her frustration or he would tell her to go bother someone else, in which case she would be able to pelt Fulk instead. It was a win/win situation, though she favoured the chance to play with Fulk over the chance to get a little revenge.

Eleanor carelessly tossed her snowball over her shoulder. “I need some exercise,” she proclaimed. “I have been sat about idle for weeks now.” He glared and she added politely, “Master.” For all his earlier talk about not playing the mentor so much he was most insistent about that honorific.

“Then perhaps I can arrange for you to go on a run, dear Nell. A few miles will soon give you the exercise you crave.”

She smiled and dipped her head slightly so she was looking at him from under her eyelashes. Playing coy, a new addition to her arsenal, added on the basis that she now needed every weapon available to her including ones she had previously classed as distasteful, unlikely to work and liable to have unwanted side effects. This was the first time she had used it and it was still very much in the experimental phase. “But not the exercise for my wits, nor for my agility.”

“Bursting with energy, I see,” said the spymaster a touch more nicely.

“Yes!” agreed Eleanor exuberantly. She did not need to fain that emotion, only make what was already there seem much larger than it was. “I am young, remember?”

“Young perhaps, but much too old to play in the snow.”

She flashed him a smile she hoped classed as appealing. “Whoever said anything about playing?”

Trempwick closed the few paces left between them. Damn, she had hoped to avoid more of his endless attempts at affection. “Dear Nell, I can read you like a book.” He could, but he was not always able to read between the lines.

Just as he gathered her in close and moved to kiss her she averted her face slightly and started talking, foiling his attempt. “You are only partially right, master; I have been playing proper princess for days now, weeks even. It is quite taxing. A little bit of fun and something which allows me to play agent even slightly will return me to a more usual frame of mind.”

“Then you shall have to bother someone else, sweet Nell. Do stay within sight of the manor.” This time she couldn’t evade the kiss. When he had finally finished Trempwick said, “I am going out; I expect to be gone all day and perhaps overnight. Spymaster’s holiday.”

“You are usually gone for several days,” she said, digging for information. Approximately two of every eight trips he made only lasted for such a short time. She thought the longer trips ended in London. The shorter trips had to end in one of the several nearby settlements.

“Yes, but the weather is poor and I do not wish to be on the road for too long. And now I shall be off,” he proclaimed. He kissed her again; as usual she stood there passively and let him do whatever he wanted. He was getting exasperated with her lack of response or enthusiasm but for now at least it worked. Eleanor doubted it would work for much longer, especially as he had decided her back was now healed enough to tolerate a tight hug or whatever else he wanted to throw at her. It wasn’t, but the one time she had said as much he had got snippy and once again repeated his speech about her growing to like his attention. She tried to do as he said, and she tried to wring some enjoyment out of things but it never worked.

He let her go and gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Your goodbye matches the weather,” he informed her, his frustration plain to see. “Freezing.” Not for the first time Eleanor wondered if the spymaster could read minds. Up to this point he had not really complained, limiting himself to trying to cajole her into doing as he wanted. He turned and crunched his way through the freshly fallen snow towards the stables.






For the second time that day Eleanor went hunting with specific prey in mind. A quick check of the main hall revealed it was empty. She knew Fulk was not in the stables or outside, so that left one location as the most likely place to find him. She hurried up the stairs to her room, knowing speed was of the essence and even a few seconds could make a significant difference. Sure enough there he was, checking over his new mail hauberk for signs of rust.

He looked up as she entered the room but said nothing until she reached his side. He took in the warm clothes including a cloak, the way she was stood with her hands behind her back and the impish smile, and said suspiciously, “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” replied Eleanor innocently. Fulk grunted and returned to his armour. Seizing her chance before it was too late Eleanor’s left hand shot out and seized the necks of his tunic and shirt while her right brought around the melting snowball and shoved it down the gap. His defence was hampered by the mail on his lap and she had the element of surprise to her aid.

Fulk yelped in shock as snow met skin and jumped up, his armour falling onto the floor and his feet in a resounding clatter mingled with the waterfall roar of thousands of tiny iron rings brushing against each other. He leaned forward slightly and pulled his tunic away from his body so the snow was in contact with less of him, then yanked his belt off with his other hand and let the snow fall out the bottom of his shirt. “Jesú!” he exclaimed. That had been an unwelcome surprise, and his shirt now had a sizeable cold, damp patch to torment him further unless he cared to change it.

Eleanor stopped laughing just long enough to say, “Revenge for Judith, delayed but not forgotten.”

“I feel so abused and deceived,” sighed Fulk. He let his clothes go, grimacing as his damp shirt touched his skin.

Eleanor replied merrily, “Good!”

“I doubt your Trempwick would approve.”

“He is not my Trempwick, and anyway he has gone on one of his spymaster’s holidays.”

Fulk snorted in disgust. “If I had a gooseberry to play with you wouldn’t find me in a brothel.” It was little more than a whisper; the servants did not need to be visible for their presence to be felt. As long as they were somewhere in the manor it had to be assumed they could overhear. He started to strip his tunic off, intending to swap his shirt for a dry one.

“Leave it,” Eleanor told him, a certain glint in her eye. “As Trempwick is away I have permission to entertain myself with someone else; we are going out in the snow and we are going to have a snowball fight.”

Fulk let his tunic hem drop back down and looked at her. She cocked an eyebrow and produced a smile to match that glint; the hairs stood up on the back of Fulk’s neck. He stooped and retrieved his belt quickly, then fastened it in place. “Well then, what are we waiting for?” He snatched up his cloak with equal speed and started swiftly towards the door.





They trooped out of the manor building and into the clear ground outside the manor’s walls. Eleanor was the first to act once again, scooping up a handful of snow and throwing it at Fulk. It caught him on the chest; she was not going to aim at his face or anywhere else she might do damage. That was reserved for Trempwick. She evaded his return shots, and Fulk quickly took the hint and did likewise.

From there the battle took the form of an elaborate dance, with both parties trying to dodge while attempting to turn their opponent into a human snowman. All the ducking and dodging only furthered Eleanor’s deception that this was serious exercise rather than an excuse to fool about with Fulk. Her earlier conversation with the spymaster had only been the preliminaries; Trempwick would bring this up again at some point in the future and she had better be able to allay his suspicion then too.

Just as she had expected they were being watched, subtly but just barely visibly. As she skipped several steps to one side and pivoted to face both Fulk and the manor house Eleanor noticed someone observing their game through the window of Trempwick’s room. He probably thought they would not spot him if he lurked there; he had nearly been right – Eleanor’s eye had only been drawn to him because he had moved while she chanced to be looking.

Her distraction cost her dear; a missile impacted on the edge of her collarbone and she shrieked as a load of snow went down into her clothes. “Got you!” crowed Fulk, “Got you right and proper! Revenge for your rev-” He twisted his upper body to one side, only just avoiding getting a mouthful of powdery snow. She had aimed to distract, not to hit; by the time he began to turn his view back to Eleanor she had already begun her charge and built up considerable speed. She barrelled into him and send him flying. Fulk grabbed her as he fell, dragging her down after him.

He didn’t quite manage to shift her to one side so she landed next to him; Eleanor crashed full force down on top of him. Fulk’s wind was knocked out of him and he lay on the snow, stunned for a few milliseconds. Those instants were just enough for her to grab a head start in the rush to continue the battle; she righted herself and sat on his stomach. She grinned down at him, that dangerous glimmer he loved so much in her eyes.

He gave up his half-hearted resistance and lay still, his stomach muscles tensed and easily taking her slight weight without causing him discomfort. Being sat on by a gooseberry, not quite the stuff of his dreams but close enough - this was actually rather enjoyable. He said affectionately, “I love it when you look at me like that, your eyes gleaming as you wonder how to kill me.” Truth be told he was rather tempted to kiss her. A lot.

She must have guessed his intent because he informed him, “There is someone watching from Trempwick’s room.”

“No fair,” he grumbled with good nature he did not feel. “Where’s the point in frolicking in the snow with your love if you can’t even exchange the odd kiss?”

For the benefit of their observer, and for her own reasons, Eleanor grabbed a handful of snow and reached for the neck of Fulk’s clothes again. He grappled with her, fending off her hands but eventually she managed to dump part of the handful down his neck. “Revenge for your revenge for my revenge for Judith.”

“She was only revenge for your perfume!” protested Fulk as he tried to prevent more snow joining the last handful.

“That was revenge for your crack about us being married!” she retorted. She was struggling to get past his defences this time, and most of her snow was scattering onto Fulk’s torso and the ground.

He stopped fighting at that. “I wish we were,” he said seriously.

She too stopped fighting and looked away, fixing her gaze on the bleak January horizon. “That is impossible,” she told him, her voice trembling just perceptibly.

Fulk laughed harshly. “I know - I’ve been wracking my brains day and night and I always draw a blank.” The mood was gone; Eleanor stood up, freeing him. Stiffly he pushed himself to his feet and began brushing snow off his cloak. “All I see is something …” He sighed. “It is scant comfort, but another case of better than nothing, maybe.”

“What?” The hope in her voice was painful.

He looked her in the eye and said sadly, “I said I would not place you in the same situation as Maude, well once you’re married that will be impossible. Adultery is so much easier; no one can tell the difference.” Easier but still dangerous and tricky in this situation, and costly to the soul. “I hate it; the idea of you and him is …” He pulled a face as though he were about to be sick. “I know you like it no better. He’s going to ruin you; he’s going to teach you most of the bad and none of the good, and if we ever get the chance it will be spoiled because he will have taught you … distaste, fear, disgust, disinterest.” He was dancing around speaking plainly; one part seemed unreal and distant if left unsaid and was far more palatable that way, the other a wish that seemed too fragile to put into blunt words. There was some protection in allusions.

“Why do you say that?” asked Eleanor, but she already knew. He was echoing her own thoughts; that this match could never work and she was going to be condemned to a married life of enduring in tedium while being rebuked for not having the least bit of passion.

“Because you and Trempwick have as much spark as a wet kipper; attraction matched to revulsion. It’s not going to work, and I severely doubt you will grow to care for him; you’ve known him for too long for things to change much now.”

Eleanor looked away, to the Fulk shaped imprint in the snow. “Our observer will be growing curious; we should probably go back now.”

They did, walking along in unhappy silence and very aware of the eyes following them.




They headed to the solar, in search of a warm fire and what little privacy they could get. Fulk draped both their cloaks near the fire to dry. He shifted his shoulders and dabbed at his tunic. “Get me a dry shirt and tunic?” he asked hopefully.

Eleanor rolled her eyes and said with a hint of amusement, “Some big tough man thing you are.”

“Well someone,” he glared at her, “filled my clothes with snow so they’re all wet.” His hose were soaked too, the pale blue wool gone temporarily to a middle hue. He’d have to leave them; generally people started fussing and getting the wrong idea when men took their hose off. Eleanor was unlikely to scream the manor down – she preferred to do her own maiming when someone offended her - but if a servant should wander in …

“You poor thing,” she commiserated cheerfully.

“Yes, exactly.” He hunched down next to the fire and ruffled his long hair, trying to shake any remaining snow out of it and encourage it to dry. He looked up through a curtain of tousled chestnut brown to find her standing in exactly the same place. “Do I need to start sneezing and looking pathetic before you take sympathy?”

“You are already pathetic,” she informed him loftily. She raised her chin and said magnanimously, “I suppose I can be prevailed on to descend from on high and show charity to lesser creatures this once.” She exited in an elegant swish of her skirts. Fulk grinned and began combing his hair back into some semblance of order with his fingers; her fake snootiness was half the fun.

She returned a short while later with a fresh white linen shirt and his fawn brown tunic. Trempwick had paid for Fulk’s clothes but he had left the choice of colours to Fulk, and he’d taken advantage of the occasion and selected only shades which suited him well. He didn’t think the spymaster had been very pleased. As he stripped off his damp clothes Eleanor stood near the fire and held his fresh ones out to warm. “I should make you my squire,” he told her as he dragged his shirt off, his voice muffled by the material.

“I already am, I think.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, only to blush and quickly look away because he was bare-chested. She reverted to proper noble at the oddest of times. Eleanor tried to sound normal as she continued, “I help you with your armour and now I am playing body servant. Good Lord, my family would have a fit.”

“It’s only good manners.”

“If you were a guest and I had a mob of maids at my back to protect me from your … your …” She struggled to find a suitable threat, one which would not cause panic if overheard. “Chest hair,” she finished gamely. “It is a corrupting influence … or something.”

He chuckled and joined her near the fire, wanting his skin to warm and dry before he dressed again. “Probably,” he agreed. “But not nearly as dangerous as my roguish smile and dashing good looks.”

Eleanor glanced at him from the corner of her eye and this time didn’t look away quite so quickly. Fulk got the distinct feeling she liked the view. “You look far better when you wear that big, face covering helm of yours.”

“Thanks for the tip, oh blushing beacon of embarrassment.”

She tried to regain a little of her usual dignity and banish the blush. “Anyway, guest or not I would be expected to keep my eyes firmly on the ground so your point is invalid.”

“Yes, but you’re looking at the ceiling!” He added with overdone concern, “You’ll trip over something if you’re not careful; you might get hurt.”

Eleanor draped his tunic over her arm and held out his shirt, plucking up her courage and dumping propriety as she turned to face him. She glanced at the door, then back at his torso. When he didn’t take his shirt she draped it over her arm along with the tunic. “Is that scar from what I think it is from?” she asked in a hushed voice, lightly tracing the scar on the lowest part of his ribcage on his right flank with one finger.

He replied in kind; when they kept their voices low there was no chance for their words to carry beyond the thick wooden door. “Your Trempwick’s attempt to kill me when we left for that abbey, yes.”

She scowled and said in a incensed whisper, “He dented the finish on my knight! How rude.” She traced another scar, this one curving along the edge of his right shoulder. “And you acquired this one doing ….?”

Fulk felt his blood rushing south for the winter again; oh Christ. “One of my first training fights with live steel; my opponent wasn’t good as he thought and he sliced right through my padding and gashed me.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Most interesting,” she declared. “And this one?” This time she selected the scar twisting around the top of his left arm.

Fulk swallowed with difficulty. He’d always laughed when people had said innocence could be dangerous; now he understood – she really had no idea what she was doing to him otherwise she wouldn’t be doing it. “My enemy’s blade went in over my shield rim.” He caught her hand before she could find any more scars to investigate. “My shirt,” he requested, his voice not quite sounding even. Her proximity was both intoxicating and highly tempting. He had to get dressed and get to a safe distance before he did something stupid, or before someone caught them - they had been watched earlier; they had no reason to assume they were safe now.

He took the shirt from her; great, step one in progress. That was as far as it got; before they knew what they were doing they were in each other’s arms and kissing passionately. Eleanor’s arm went around his neck; her hand burying itself in his damp hair and dragging his head down, crushing his mouth against hers. Her other arm, the one with his tunic draped over it, went around his waist, crumpling the wool but neither of them noticed or cared. Fulk slid one arm down her back until it gripped her rear, pulling her even closer, almost crushing her against his body. Absently his other hand began removing her hairpins, pulling them out and gathering them in a bunch.

Because his hand was full he fumbled with the final pin, dropping it; it fell to the floor with a small clatter. The sound brought them back to their senses and they sprang apart. With a shaking hand Fulk retrieved the pin from the floor. Eleanor immediately checked the door, then began to unbraid her hair. “My hair is soaked; it will dry much faster if loose,” she said in a loud, somewhat wobbly voice for the benefit of their potential listener. It would be faster to completely ruin the style than to fix it.

Fulk placed the handful of pins down on the table and dragged his shirt on. He took his tunic from her and examined the new creases. Pulling a wry face he tugged the tunic on over the shirt and tried to smooth the worst of the creases away. If Eleanor and Trempwick had as much chance of catching fire as a puddle of water, Fulk thought, then he and Eleanor were a lake of oil.

The door burst open without so much as a knock. Gerbert, one of the two general servants, stood there with a closed expression on his face. “You want some mulled wine?” he asked, rude as only Trempwick’s darling servants dared. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on Fulk still fastening his belt, Eleanor’s dishevelled hair and the blush staining her face.

Eleanor’s reply strove for calm normality, and succeeded, all those years of training paying off. “Yes, that would be pleasant.”

Gerbert stumped away, making the noise he had not made on his approach. He must have been lingering out in the corridor, listening. When they had stopped talking audibly he must have begun to get suspicious. They waited until they were sure he was out of earshot. Fulk was the first to speak. “Oh Jesú!” he cursed under his breath. His ardour was well and truly dead now; shocks like that were not good.

Eleanor whispered, “Survivable, I think. All he really has is suspicion.”

Fulk pulled a face and rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “All we can do is wait and see. Best take to wearing your knives again.”








Seven pages; one long update. I have to say I love that last scene, right up until they kiss.

Stupid, puerile joke of the day: A certain part of Fulk's anatomy is beginning to resemble a yoyo; up, down, up, down, :p Ahem, sorry, dunno what came over me.

Trempwick, not Fulk, Demon. If it had been Fulk I somehow doubt she would have made quite so much fuss :tongueg: Remember this is before the invention of the mini skirt; even showing a few inches of your leg above your ankle was considered rather racy. The modern equivolent to that situation would be Trempwick wandering in while Eleanor was naked and stood so he could see everything.

Good for you, caesar. Let me know if that changes.

scooter_the_shooter
11-30-2004, 22:49
they just did with this new update. ~:cheers:

frogbeastegg
12-04-2004, 18:40
“His lordship wants to see you,” Gerbert informed Eleanor with a smirk that left nothing to the imagination. He had told Trempwick, Trempwick was furious, and she was in deep trouble. The spymaster had only been back for a quarter hour; Gerbert had lost no time in scurrying off to report. “I told him what a slut you are, and he won’t stand for it.”

“I do hope you enjoyed relaying your tales,” she told him with polite venom as she followed him from her room. He insisted on leading her as if she had no idea of where the solar was. Exasperated Eleanor walked so swiftly she kept treading on his heels.

Gerbert had the bearing and insufferable attitude of an over important noble; it was totally out of place in a servant. “It pains my heart to bring such bad tidings to such a good man.”

“Dear, dear,” she said sweetly, “then perhaps you should not carry tales.”

“He’s a right to know what you’re up to.” They reached the solar door. When Eleanor stooped to open it Gerbert kept walking. “Wrong place,” he sneered. Without being given further hint Eleanor knew at once where they were going; Trempwick’s bedchamber. She had never set foot in there before and the fact Trempwick had decided to have her brought to him there now was not comforting.

Eleanor increased her speed, scraping Gerbert’s heel with the sturdy toe of her shoe and making him stumble. The spymaster wanted her off balance and she was not inclined to give him that satisfaction. She was as safe now as she ever was; Trempwick was not, as he himself admitted, a violent man. “But you do not have a right,” she told Gerbert nicely, “to slander me.”

“Your sister’s been claiming innocence all these years, aye and for the same thing. Must run in the family, tainted blood.”

They reached the door to Trempwick’s room and stopped. Eleanor called on the calm, icy confidence every good noblewoman should have, noting that the door was open so Trempwick would be able to overhear. “As everybody keeps reminding me I am betrothed to your dear lord and master. I think you may find yourself short of a job; I will not tolerate servants like you in my household. You had best begin praying the wedding never takes place.” It would certainly be her right as Trempwick’s wife to have some say in his servants; in truth she suspected he would stubbornly continue to cling to them but if he insisted on claiming his rights she would damn well have hers. Gerbert would be gone, one way or another.

Gerbert was unfazed. “He’ll never sack me, not for your whims and certainly not for informing him of what he’s lumbered with.”

“We shall see.” Leaving him to chew that over Eleanor ducked through into Trempwick’s room, shutting the door in Gerbert’s face.

Trempwick was seated at his fire, a goblet in one hand. He had taken the time to shed his cloak but not to have the mud cleaned off his ankle boots. As she appeared he put the goblet on the ground near the hearth and stood. “Ah, Nell.” He sounded more amicable than irate. He gestured about him at the room. “What do you think?” So he wanted to play first? Fine, but she would not be lulled into a false sense of ease.

Eleanor turned slowly, taking in the whitewashed walls, the big bed, the single chair, the lone tapestry of a king on his throne and the wolf skin on the floor. “It is very …” Very what? She was not entirely sure. Cosy, in an unspymaster-like way.

“I shall have a matching chair made for you, and I am having the bedspread and curtains redone with our fox and gooseberry design.” He still was not happy with the gooseberry; it showed in the way he said it. “I realise it is traditional for the woman to do the embroidery between betrothal and wedding day but you have never been one for needlework and you have no one to help you.” He waited for a reaction and got none. Almost anxiously he said, “If there is anything you want to add or change ….?”

As it seemed required Eleanor took another look about. Her eyes settled on the picture of the enthroned king. “That will have to go,” she said, as firmly as she dared. There was a spot next to the king where the wall was marginally cleaner than the surrounding paintwork; another image had hung there until recently.

“Yes, I did not think you would appreciate it. I shall have it removed; you can choose something to replace it.” A shocking development – she was actually being given a real say here.

Her gaze lighted on the sword hanging from a peg on the wall by its belt. It seemed a rather foolish way to store the weapon; the belt was a waist belt so it was getting twisted out of shape by the sword’s weight. “You have a sword.”

He seemed highly amused. “Dearest Nell, I am a knight of the realm – of course I have a sword.”

“I have never seen you with one, not in all these years.”

“No, and for good reason. You have always been attracted to the blasted things; I had visions of finding you playing with the weapon and losing a few fingers.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “Can you use it?” If he still kept in practise it would go some way to explaining those muscles.

He laughed again. “Of course! Beloved Nell, I served my years as page and squire like any other nobleman.”

She risked that hopefully appealing smile of hers for the second time that day. “Past ability means little; only present skill counts.”

He stood for a while, his face blank as he thought. After a long wait he took the sword down and drew the blade, casting the belt and sheath onto his bed. Without pause he began to work through a never-ending dance of cuts, parries, slashes, stabs and dodges, a practise workout for a man without a competent partner. He was fluid and sure, and possessed the same quickness she had witnessed on the few occasions he had done combat of any kind. He was good, better than she had expected.

Eleanor had seen Fulk work the same routines many times; her knight was better, though only by a shade. The real test came in combat against a foe, and there Trempwick’s lack of a training partner would show. She thought Fulk would win if the two men ever had occasion to cross swords. Fulk had more experience, even if he now lacked a partner to spar with. He also had more recent combat experience; Trempwick must not have faced another human for years.

What Eleanor could not see was a motive. Why did a spymaster who abhorred the crudity of violence and proclaimed that when one needed to fight one had already lost feel the need to remain a competent swordsman?

Trempwick did not keep his demonstration going for long enough to speed his breathing or cause him to sweat, only enough to prove his capability. He replaced the blade in its case and returned it to the wall hook.

Eleanor made the correct admiring noises, and for the most part they were sincere. So he had been practising in private with a sword all these years and she had had no idea; what else had he been doing? At this moment in time she would not be too shocked to find a warhorse and quintain stashed under his bed.

“Dear Nell, I do think if I borrow a horse and armour you will swoon at my feet! The troubadours have it right, or so it seems, when they say ladies love a heroic knight. What, pray, is wrong with spymasters?”

He was trying to revive the banter they had been exchanging before the storm of the betrothal hit. Eleanor looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed, suspicious as to his motives. After a pause she took the bait and said with a glint, “You do not rust if left outside; it makes it harder to dispose of unwanted spymaster followers. Knights are easy to handle, and thus more appealing.”

“So you always pick your suitors with an eye to disposal?”

“But of course! Any toy gets boring after time, or becomes broken.”

“Do you always break your toys?”

“Only sometimes.”

“My sweet little Nell has learned to flirt; like any good mentor I am both proud and horrified. I now fully expect to spend the rest of my days chasing after you, scaring off the love struck twits following you around with great big, hopeful eyes.”

Ha! Hell would freeze over before she obtained more than the one love struck twit she had now. But still, the game must go on. She smiled, revealing her fangs. “Oh I do hope not; I prefer to handle my own scaring off.”

“Everyone knows the poor old husband is supposed to be the one doing the scaring; it is his lot in life, according to the ballads. That and dying horribly so the lovers can get married.”

A very topical joke; did this signal the beginning of the real game? “For old time’s sake I shall kill you painlessly.” She doubted she would ever kill him; it would be incredibly tricky, she needed him, she would immediately attract the blame, and she was not altogether sure she wanted him dead anyway.

“That warms my heart, darling Nell, it really does.” Eleanor could think of no suitable reply to that. Trempwick collected his goblet from the fireside and sauntered over to her side. He sipped his drink, then offered the goblet to her, holding it out casually in a loose grip. “Here, try some of this.” When she did not take the proffered cup he shrugged and drank another sip himself. “I taught you mistrust well,” he observed ruefully. “Or perhaps it is all your own and I only honed what was already present? The drink is not tampered with, as you can see I am still hale and hearty.” The second time he held out the goblet she took it. As she raised the vessel to her lips Trempwick cautioned her, “Not too much; it is very heady.”

He was correct; the wine was stronger than anything she had encountered and it burned her throat and tongue on its way down. Involuntarily she gagged and choked, nearly bringing the liquid straight back up. She thrust the cup back at Trempwick. “That stuff is foul!”

He laughed and accepted the goblet again, his fingers brushing lightly against hers as the vessel changed hands. “Ice wine, made from freezing ordinary wine and then throwing the ice away. The ice is mostly water, and the remnant is concentrated wine. It imparts a certain warm glow; perfect after a trip in the snow.” She was expecting him to kiss her; he always did now when he got close enough to touch her. He did not; with a slightly ironic smile he backed off and went to sit down. He turned his chair about so it was sideways to the fire in the hearth and facing her instead of the flames, his actions careless of Eleanor’s scrutiny.

This was all most puzzling; ever since their betrothal he had been persistent in his pursuit of her, predatory even. It crossed Eleanor’s mind that he may have given up, repelled by her obvious indifference. No, more than likely he was repelled by her; the endless jibes from Aveline and others came flooding back to her, paired with a quote she’d once heard a knight say, “Even the bravest man’s courage fails if tested beyond its limits once too often.”

She told herself she should be happy; she had never wanted or welcomed his attention. Now she would be left in peace. She should be relieved, delighted, not … dismayed. For a brief while it had been pleasant to believe there was more to his decision to marry her then politics and necessity. Eleanor halted that line of thought, hauling on the reins and dragging it around like a recalcitrant horse. He would not invite her to redo this room if he did not intend for her to spend time here, and he was unlikely to invite her up here to do nothing but talk.

Trempwick sipped his drink. “Sit down, Nell.” It was a request, not an order. He was still being nice; when was he going to tire of this and get around to the real reason he had called her up here? Since the chair was taken only the bed remained; Eleanor perched herself on the edge near the head end, facing Trempwick and continuing to watch his every movement. Trempwick tucked a hand under his chair, stood slightly and realigned it to continue watching her, the wooden legs scraping on the rush strewn floorboards and raising a pained screech that set Eleanor’s teeth on edge.

“Did you have fun in the snow, dear Nell?” Mildly said.

Here we are; the game began in earnest. “Yes, master. It was pleasant to get some exercise.”

“Good, good.” He took another swallow of his drink.” And you had a pleasant afternoon?”

“Not really; I spent it playing chess with Fulk.” It had been a very safe afternoon; chess, chess and more chess, played at the fireside in the solar with the door ajar.

“Did you win at all?” he inquired indolently.

She pursed her lips. “No.”

He smiled sympathetically. “Poor Nell. Was dinner tolerable, at least?”

“No. Your cook, and I use that term loosely, managed to burn both the partridge and its accompanying wine sauce. His ideas have grown but not his skill.” Time to go on the attack. “Did you have a pleasurable day, master?”

Trempwick sucked his teeth and frowned. “Yes,” he said at length. “It was quite educational.”

“So you were counting how many angels can fit on the head of a pin?”

He chuckled. “No, my adored Nell.”

“Learning of strange new lands and beasts lying beyond the borders of Christendom?”

“No.”

“Ah, then you were studying new methods of waging war.”

“No, not even close, sweet Nell. I was talking with an old friend, one who I have learned much from over the years.” So much for Fulk’s theory. Trempwick stood up and came to sit next to her, saying as he moved, “My manners are uneasy; it does not seem right to sit there in a chair while you make do with perching on the bed.” He sighed as he sat down at her side and gave her a weary, disarming smile. “People do insist on attaching such status to chairs because of the extra labour that goes into them. I find it only makes them feel uncomfortable when I have guests not seated similarly.”

He was in range once again, and once again she was surprised to find he did not embark on his usual decisive affection. He really must have gone off her; his asking for her opinion was a pretext for bringing her up here, and an attempt to get her off guard. She asked, “So, what did you learn today then, master?”

He said lightly, “That is for me to know and you to find out.”

She cocked an eyebrow and instantly returned, “I know; it is why I ask – to find out.”

Trempwick raised one index finger from his goblet in acknowledgement of her parry and counter. “Touché, dearest Nell. You shall not find out by asking; you can consider it more exercise for that wit of yours.” Trempwick rubbed his forehead with one hand as if he had a headache. “Gerbert had a rather bothersome tale for me today.” Her protest died under his cold brown stare before it had fully formed on her lips. “I do not need to hear your explanation; I can guess.”

Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn! “Master-”

He cut across her, his tone flat and controlled; it stung like a whip. “The blush came from your very proper and dignified innocence, your hair was loose because it was wet and in need of drying, your pet had just changed his tunic because you stuffed snow down it, and you certainly did not do that simply so you could get a good look at what lies under said tunic. That is all; there nothing more to it. A good thing; if there was more to it your pet would need to die in a manner that will serve as an object lesson, and I would need to do something outstandingly harsh with you. It would also bode ill for our marriage, and it would mean you lied to me when you said you would crush this spark.” He swallowed, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords as he clenched his jaw. “It would also mean you are stupid, reckless, cruel, lacking in self control and sense, focused on the short term rather than the larger picture. Gambling with a man’s life because of your attraction, a man who cannot even refuse you and who has no return attraction. I do not think you that type, Nell.” He looked back at her, his light brown eyes boring into her blue ones. “Am I correct in my interpretation?”

For whatever reason he was offering her a lifeline, a chance to label this as a misunderstanding and forget it. He must believe that if anything else had happened it had been at her instigation with Fulk as a very reluctant victim, one who would keep well out of it if given a choice. “Yes,” she agreed quietly.

He held their locked gaze for a moment longer, then looked to the floor. He spoke cautiously, choosing both his words and intonation with care. “I shall remind you of what I told you before, Nell. You are setting yourself up to be hurt, badly. Even if he did match your feelings – and he does not, make no mistake about it – even if this were one of those epic loves that storytellers delight in it has no hope.” It was the spymaster who was mistaken, and this is probably why he had not reacted as she had expected. He still believed it was a one sided spark, not even one sided love. She sagged with relief; let him think it was relief at his clemency towards her. She knew it was relief that in this most vital thing they had deceived the spymaster.

He did not need to tell her she and Fulk were doomed; she knew it only too well. They would not get another reprieve if more stories worked their way to Trempwick’s ears. “I know.”

“Then focus on what you do have. I shall remind you of something else I said; there is no reason we cannot be happy together. We do not have a choice about our marriage, but we do have some choice in how it works out.”

“I try-”

“No you do not,” he said sharply. He looked back at her, his gaze cool and his face immobile, set in an unreadable expression. “You are struggling like a child told to go to bed instead of staying up late to see a grand feast. If you think there is the slightest chance you can get away with something that will upset me you do it. You do your best to make it known my attempts at affection are ineffective, even though it is primarily your own fault.”

“But I try to do as you say -”

“No, you do not,” he repeated, his tone sharper than the edge on his sword. “You just stand there, limp as a corpse, doing nothing. That, Nell, is cold, bloody cold. If you tried to claw my eyes out you would be less cold – you would at least be showing something other than studied indifference.” He closed his eyes and Eleanor could tell he was having difficulty keeping his calm façade. It was not often the spymaster lost his vaunted control; he was perilously close now. “I think you focus solely on the bad to the neglect of the good. I could have chosen to interpret Gerbert’s news badly but I did not out of faith in you. Most people would punish you for getting into a situation where scandal could arise, but I am not going to because I have some measure of understanding. This too I think will be forgotten, if you even bothered to see it first place. I am always the man who murdered your brother; never the man who saved your life many times over, isn’t that right, Nell?”

Eleanor said nothing, her face turned away towards the wall as she fought her own battle for control, desperate not to give even the slightest thing away. He was right, and she did not much care for this truth. Trempwick was the man who had murdered Stephan, and he was not Fulk; damned on two counts before he even started, then blamed for his inability to overcome the insurmountable obstacle.

Her silence said it all. “I am right,” he declared softly. He drained his goblet, tossing the ice wine in one go. Deliberately he placed the empty vessel on the floor, placing it just under the bed. “So, Nell, this makes you happy, does it? Being tied to the man who murdered your brother and pining for the impossible.”

“Not at all,” she answered wretchedly. It was tearing her apart.

“Then perhaps you should let go of the impossible and marry the man who …” He tripped over his tongue and flushed slightly. “Who is fond of you,” he mumbled at last, almost defensive in his obvious embarrassment.

Eleanor’s battle for self control switched direction; if she started to laugh now she was really going to break this situation beyond repair. It must be her lucky month; two people professing to love her, well wasn’t she suddenly oh so popular? A few score more and she would begin to catch all the other princesses up. “If your mother had heard that she would probably have a heart seizure!”

Trempwick muttered something which could have been, “Good.”

Like it or not she was going to have to marry Trempwick. Fulk could never be anything other than what he was now. That was reality; time she faced up to it, properly instead of knowing and behaving as if matters were otherwise. She was stuck with this; she may as well do her best to make it tolerable. She had told herself that before but how could it ever have worked when she always privately felt like a traitor, both to Fulk and to Stephan, every time she began to enjoy the spymaster’s company or viewed him with anything other than hate?

Fulk had no claim on her; Trempwick did. Stephan … after John’s miserable end Eleanor was now willing to place the blame for Stephan’s murder squarely on her father’s shoulders. She was related to an inhuman monster; there was no point in denying it any longer. She had inherited the very demon that drove him; the family temper. She was a potential monster too.

She knew she should let Fulk go; she also knew she could not. The best protection she could give him now was one he would not welcome or perhaps even understand. A devoted wife was above suspicion. Things could not continue as they were; unless something changed Fulk’s prediction on her future with Trempwick was frighteningly likely to come true. In just two short weeks she and Fulk had alerted suspicion no fewer than three times, and they were hiding a perilous amount of secrets from a man who made his living sniffing out the hidden. They had been exceptionally lucky thus far; eventually that luck would desert them. It would be better for them both if they stopped playing with fire; feeling but not acting.

Dump the emotional baggage, focus on what was most important, stop acting like … like Adele. Grow up – Anne was some six years younger and she had handled her considerably more daunting wedding with far more maturity. She took a deep, steadying breath and said resolutely, “I shall try.”

Trempwick put his arm about her shoulders, pulling her over so she leant against him. “A fresh start then.”

There was a gap of several inches between them; her spine was quick to protest at the angle. Try. Eleanor steeled herself and shuffled over, closing the gap. Ok, not difficult, not instinctive as it had been with Fulk but a little thought and deduction and it had worked. Alright, relax, he was always going on about relax. She willed her muscles to lose tension; it worked slightly. She had been more relaxed when they had been talking earlier; now she was acutely focused on what they were doing and who she was doing it with.

Illumination dawned – she had had the wrong interpretation of relax. Oh yes, now she felt like a real idiot. That was the result of an agent’s mind for you; concerned with appearances instead of mental states. ‘Relax, look relaxed, ergo alter your body language to seem relaxed but keep your mind very active and wary’, as opposed to ‘relax, be relaxed, ergo stop worrying’. So astoundingly obvious if you were not trained to remain vigilant and shrewd much of the time while seeming to be in the same unaware fug that near permanently clouded the minds of most other people.

After a long pause for thought Trempwick said, “I heard what you said to Gerbert; I shall support you in this. He will be gone by tomorrow afternoon. Do not make a habit out of this; I will not be dragged into private disputes.”

“Thank you.” The gratitude was real; Gerbert would be gone and the remaining servants may gain a healthy bit of fear. Reinforcements had arrived and she could sally forth from her defensive position to crack a few skulls. As they talked a miniscule amount of tension seeped away from her, gratitude playing no small part.

He dropped his arm a bit lower, resting his hand on the crook of her elbow. “It has occurred to me, with credit to another for confirming it, that I may have been a little too zealous, for all my talk of going slowly. The fault has not been entirely yours.”

No, he could have remembered who he was talking to and made his definitions clear! His candidness was appreciated though. Moving swiftly on, a tantalising hint into his spymaster’s holidays. “Another?”

“My acquaintance.” He laughed. “You do not think I managed purely on my own resources for all these years? I have no idea what to do with children, girls even less so.”

“So that is what a spymaster’s holiday entails – a trip for advice on dealing with me.” What a cop out. For years she had expected him to be off doing something incredibly spymasterish and all the time he had been talking to an agony aunt. She could see it now, Trempwick asking, “So, what do you do when your little princess wants to play with swords? I don’t want her to lose fingers…”

“Not all of them, no. Even you are not so problematic as to warrant that. Only a few trips were in search of such arcane knowledge.”

“Now you are just trying to keep your mystique,” she told him authoritatively.

He grinned as he agreed with her, “Yes; a spymaster must have a certain air of mystery, dear Nell.”

“Mystery …” She returned to something he had said before. “Some measure of understanding? You cannot leave that as a mystery.”

“So sharp; I can say nothing without having it analysed!” he said teasingly. His tone became almost melancholy, “Nell, I would have married you years ago if I could, but not like this. I got what I wanted in a backhanded way; you have been forced into this and I cannot decline to wait until you are more favourable to the idea, so I too have been forced.” He smiled shakily. “Your dear father has made a real mess out of my dream for me.”

“He makes a mess out of everything,” she said blackly.

Trempwick apparently decided it would be prudent to cease talking, before the king’s shadow could cast itself too boldly on them. Not given further chance to grumble Eleanor subsided.

Much later Trempwick asked, “If I request you sleep here tonight will you start dropping unsubtle hints for me to go away?” Quickly he clarified, “Note I did say sleep; if I meant something else I would say so.”

He left her space to think. It would be very unorthodox but then they were an unorthodox pairing. She could not plead scandal and run for it; only the news Trempwick wanted left Woburn. In light of her new resolution she should accept. If she did not go back Fulk would wor- no, forget about that. He had no place here. “I suppose I can,” she said in the end.






Eleanor woke to find dawn’s feeble light peeping through a slit in the bed’s curtains. It had not been as bad as last time; Trempwick had been content just to have her lie next to him with his arm about her, and for her part she had not kept trying to escape. Due to the altered circumstances she had been able to keep her shift on, and somehow that worked wonders for making her feel less vulnerable. Once the comfort of the bed, lateness of hour and warmth of the blankets started to work on her Eleanor had begun to slowly relax; by the time she had dozed off she might even have described the situation as somewhat pleasant.

Trempwick was already awake, lying on his back gazing up at the canopy above them. “I have a mission for you, Nell.” Eleanor raised herself up on one elbow to look down at him. “I shall tell you the detail after I deal with Gerbert. More cleaning up after John.” He claimed his arm back from around her waist and sat up. “But for now we should get up; I shall search you out when I have finished with Gerbert.”






That was a miniaturised migraine to write!

scooter_the_shooter
12-04-2004, 19:21
another great update. and froggy i will not post here for a month. i am doing that so when i come back to this thread i will have a bunch to read. :book:

zelda12
12-04-2004, 20:35
Ok ceaser I'll take over on the reply front then.

Well that was a very long section. Lots of speech and though in it also, I liked it. ~)

DemonArchangel
12-05-2004, 17:50
Why didn't Trempwick "exercise his "rights" already?

frogbeastegg
12-06-2004, 22:19
Gerbert was closeted away with Trempwick for a good long while. He emerged with the sudden expected violence of a thunderstorm, blasting through the corridor away from Trempwick’s room shouting about the injustice of it all. The noise drew Fulk and Eleanor from her room, Eleanor’s hair still only halfway towards the pair of pinned up braids Fulk had been industriously working on. Trempwick followed out after his ex-servant with a fearsome scowl and threatening purpose in his step.

Gerbert hurled himself towards Eleanor, waving an angry finger like a bishop in mid sermon. “You arranged this! You! This is your doing!” Eleanor fell back under his furious assault; Fulk stepped in and seized the arm Gerbert was waving; Gerbert threw himself forward, grappling with Fulk. “You bewitched him!” he shrieked.

The struggle continued but was brief; Fulk soon had Gerbert’s arms pinned behind his back. He looked to Trempwick for instruction. The spymaster waved a hand. “Get him out, now.”

Gerbert was bundled off towards the stairs. His manner became pleading. “I am your loyal servant; you can’t do this.”

Trempwick rolled his eyes skyward and asked plaintively, “Why do they always say that? I can and I have. You have until nightfall to be a good ten miles away, or you shall vanish into the fairylands.” He repeated his instruction to Fulk, “Put him out.”

Gerbert’s fury echoed through the enclosed staircase but became mercifully quieter once he was dragged from the steps to the main hall. Trempwick planted a fist on his hip. “Now I shall have to get someone suitable to replace him, and that is easier said than done. I do hope you are happy, Nell.”

Eleanor replied dutifully, “Yes master. Thank you.” Hesitantly she said, “I do have an idea …”

“Really? Then we’d best go somewhere more suited to conversation than this corridor.” He led the way into the solar and slumped heavily down into his favourite chair. He steepled his hands and looked at Eleanor over the touching fingertips. “Well?”

“We could demote the cook to general servant and hire a new cook instead.”

“Dearest Nell, do you think I like listening to my servants complaining?”

“No, but think of the benefits.” She flicked several locks of hair from the side of her hair which was still loose over her shoulder and out the way, tutting in annoyance. With one half of her hair confined in a tight, heavy braid and the other floating loose she felt very off balance. Awkwardly she attempted to braid the remaining half herself, trying to restore some equilibrium to her crowning glory, and lose the insistent feeling that she must look stupid.

“Benefits,” he repeated. He tapped his fingertips together several times and considered. “You would stop complaining about the food, but any such gain would be countered by the cook’s complaining on his lost status.”

She was tempted to point out that Trempwick did not sleep with the cook, in either sense of the words, while with her he qualified for one interpretation currently and would collect the other far sooner than she would like. She passed over the opportunity; it would only encourage him to try for that second meaning. While he didn’t have any right to her body, not until after the actual wedding, he was always fiendishly difficult to dissuade if he got a notion of some sort in his head. “We would also have edible food-”

She broke off, hearing shouting coming from outside. Ever curious she hurried over to the window and peered through the narrow slit, resting her hands on the window sill and leaning forward for a better view. Trempwick was not long in following her, craning his neck and peering over the top of her head. In the yard Fulk was brawling with two other men while young Walter ran around kicking his shins. Gerbert was no where to be seen. Trempwick cursed and strode off to intervene.

Eleanor remained where she was, watching. Fulk sent the steward reeling back with a bloody nose, then aimed a sharp kick at Walter. The boy ducked back out of the way, nimble and extra wary as his broken arm had only recently had the splints removed. Edward dabbed at his nose and flung himself back into the fray just as Bertram took hold of Fulk’s right wrist in a two-handed grip. Edward had his revenge, a one-two punch to Fulk’s midsection that the knight could only half block. Fulk allowed himself to be driven back into Bertram, then scraped his boot down the other man’s shin, ending in a crushing stomp to an unwary foot. At the same time he wrenched and twisted his arm, attempting to free it.

Disparate to maintain his grip Bertram wrapped his other arm about Fulk, catching him in a clumsy bear hug. Bad idea; Fulk whipped his head backwards and head butted the servant, ignoring Edward’s insistent pummelling at his lower abdomen. Bertram lost his grip and Fulk burst free of his hold, launching himself forward at Edward, blocking the other’s latest punch as he moved in. Fulk applied his boot to the back of Edward’s knee while simultaneously shoving Bertram backwards, sending the servant sprawling as he lost his balance. Suddenly finding himself with space to breathe Fulk’s hand shot to his dagger, drawing it as he moved to keep his three now ragged and vengeful assailants in front of him.

The fight was interrupted by Gerbert, bursting out of the stables mounted on a grey palfrey. At a canter he tore out into the yard, putting the animal through a near disastrously tight turn, and out through the main gate, breaking into a gallop as soon as he had a straight course available. Moments later Trempwick arrived on the scene, shouting for the combatants to stop acting like apprentice boys on a holiday.

“He stole my horse!” Eleanor muttered indignantly, launching herself at the door to go and join the crowd. As she walked she began undoing the little work she had achieved with her hair; it had been crooked and untidy anyway. The completed braid followed suit to even things out.

As she arrived in the yard everything was over; the servants stood nursing their hurts while Trempwick berated them at length for turning his home into a battlefield. Eleanor announced her presence with an incensed, “He stole my horse!”

Trempwick diverted his attention from the bloodied and bruised men in front of him to her. “Never a dull moment,” he said glumly. Returning to his servants, “Now what in the devil’s name where you doing?”

“Sir,” ventured Edward contritely, one hand pressed to his nose to staunch the blood flow. “He was attacking Gerbert; we were only helping.”

“Gerbert is moving on,” said Trempwick tersely. The words had an instant effect on the three servants; they exchanged significant looks, eyes wide and expressions guarded. “Now get out of my sight, before I decide to dunk your hot heads in the horse trough!” Given the delightfully bracing temperature today the trough would be iced over; Eleanor secretly prayed he would dunk them anyway. This probably made her evil, but she found it hard to care.

Eleanor slipped over to Fulk’s side. “Are you alright?”

“A few scrapes, a scattering of bruises, nothing to dent my finish. A bunch of clueless amateurs.”

She struggled to squelch the smile prompted by his usage of her earlier words, along with the temptation to answer in kind. Damn it; see the trap they had worked themselves into? Even a harmless conversation could easily turn into something considerably closer to dangerous … but was it her reading more into his comment than he intended, or did he mean for his words to have that effect? “We have a mission; best go over your armour and make sure it is immaculate.” It would be; Fulk lavished care and attention on his arms in the same way others spent it on a favoured hound or horse. She had no more excuse to speak to him; best to depart.

As she returned to Trempwick’s side she could feel Fulk’s eyes following speculatively after her. She had not been able to exchange more than guarded chitchat with him, and she was not about to entertain another risk by trying to secure a few minutes safe from prying ears to tell him what had happened yesterday evening. They would be leaving soon; then she could tell him. In the meantime he would have to watch and wonder, and take heart from the fact they were both still alive.

Trempwick began to walk back inside. “Let us return to our discussion, dear Nell.”

Without so much as a backwards glance Eleanor followed him, her neck uncommonly stiff as she battled the natural urge to look back and reassure Fulk.






“And that has harmed my plans,” said Trempwick sourly as he shut the solar door behind Eleanor. “You needed that horse and we do not have time to replace it. You shall have to take a spare; there is no help for it. A lesser animal will be a hindrance to you but it should not send thing too far out of kilter.” He gnawed on his thumb nail and paced up and down so rapidly Eleanor began to feel dizzy just watching.

He halted and began to talk, quickly, resolutely, entirely focused on business, “You and your pet will leave tomorrow. You will travel to the manor of Sir Edward FitzGilbert near Dunstaple. There you will locate and retrieve the treasury Sir Edward is – was storing for your brother. Sir Edward and his family are presently at the manor; they usually live in his castle near Selby but at present they are staying in Ithingby manor, his wife’s dower lands, after their trip to the royal wedding and coronation. One of my agents has been able to get an approximate location for the treasury as well as an estimate of size and weight. It will be containable in a single set of saddlebags.”

“Why me? Why not the agent who located the treasure?” Not that she was complaining … as such. The idea of yet more winter travel was not appealing. The idea of getting away from Trempwick for any amount of time was appealing, and for that she admonished herself. The idea of people potentially trying to kill her was definitely not appealing. The idea of being alone with Fulk was entirely too appealing.

“She is a spy in their household, a kitchen maid, totally unequipped to deal with this and better used as she is. There is no one else suitable within good range; the treasure must be collected before it can be conveyed elsewhere. Now John is dead FitzGilbert will begin to take alternative measures. An armed party would be safest but it would also alert suspicion; you and your pet will be able to play,” his mouth twisted around the words, “travelling knight and his wife again. With that guise you should be more than able to procure the treasury and leave without arousing suspicion.”

He began his pacing again, hands clasped at the small of his back. “You will remember our pleasant conversation last night, and so I have no cause for concern with this … less than desirable cover act. You will only do the bare minimum to maintain the cover, and there will be no ulterior motivations involved because you are better than that.” He made it a statement, not even a rhetorical question, telling her exactly how things would be. She wished she shared his seemingly unshakable belief. “Even in this weather it should only be two days travel there and two back, so you will be gone less than a week – indeed if you are gone more than six days I shall send out a search and rescue party.”

He strode over to her side and radiated concern. “I do not like this, Nell. The roads are foul, and travelling in such a small party is hazardous, even more so when the bandits are frozen and starving in the snows. If you are spotted or your cover is blown you can expect to end up pursued with no chance of mercy if caught. You are still healing too, and your skills are somewhat rusty. You should be at home, safe.”

“Minding my spinning?” she suggested lightly. He has possessed no qualms about sending her off to do his dirty work before, and she would not risk him developing them now. The absolute, final insult to this new status of theirs would be him deciding to put an end to her agenting, keeping her cooped up at home to play nice noble lady.

He scowled at that. “Don’t be foolish; you know very well what I meant.”

Coolly she retorted, “And you know what I meant. This job is never safe.”

“No, but your previous assignments have been safer.” His concern only grew more cloying as the conversation developed.

Not wishing to give him time to further expand his new found anxiety, and with far more important things to hear about, she asked, “How did this Edward get part of John’s treasury?”

“When John fled the country he split his gold up, taking what he could with him and sending the rest in small portions to those he believed most loyal. Edward is one such recipient.”

“How is it this Edward still lives if he was so deeply involved?”

“He went to court and made his obeisances like a good vassal, repenting most impressively. It suits the king’s needs not to mention the treasury, instead regaining it through stealth. A fine of one thousand five hundred and seventy pounds has been imposed on FitzGilbert; it is my belief he aims to take much of that from John’s treasury. He also had two of his other manors confiscated. This was all in the days after our betrothal, so you would not have known as you were recuperating in your room.” Imprisoned, he meant, and at his behest too.


“And this treasure is hidden where?”

“It is buried at the foot of a tree in the small coppice outside the main manor building. The tree has been marked; a strip of bark has been cut away, according to my source. You should be able to dig it up at night without being seen, then load it up and get some distance between you and potential trouble before dawn.”

“What about horses?” A sore point; she had been fond of her grey. “I shall attract more attention if I travel with a spare, unused horse. An extra animal represents more for bandits to steal, and if it is loaded it represents more still.”

“True; your pet can take his warhorse and you can have the spare. Both animals look drab but are fine creatures; I chose them carefully, just like your grey. You will either have to divide the burden or ride pillion on the return trip.”

He took her left hand in his and ran his thumb over the betrothal ring. “You will have to part with this; it is too expensive for the wife of a landless knight. I perhaps did not opt for the best choice for your needs, but then the ring did have to be fit for royalty.”

“I can wear it on a thong about my neck.” A constant, chafing reminder of her vow to cease gambling with lives.

That pleased him, and his eyes glowed warmly. “I shall not make the same mistake with your wedding ring; I shall get you a plain ring and a fancy one, to swap and wear as appropriate,” he vowed. This kiss was not as aggressive as those previous, and for the first time, very timidly, Eleanor kissed him back. It helped if you shut your eyes, she found, and focused on what you could feel to the exclusion of all else. It was not instinctive, not at all, but the result was … agreeable enough.

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, then had a second go. “You will stay with me again tonight?” She nodded. He celebrated that with another kiss, more demanding. One hand moved to cup her breast; an unexpected move that caused her eyes to snap open and momentarily trampled all over the very fragile, very limited contentment she had achieved. Oh well, it was not as if she was hiding a dagger she didn’t want him to know about down there, and it really wasn’t so bad, all things considered and comparatively speaking. Her eyes flicked shut again. She’d take mildly enjoyable over boring any day, since this activity was compulsory. She tried not to think of the all-consuming, red hot conflagration that this could be; it would be like comparing a simple rushlight to the noonday sun.

Eventually he released her. “Go make your plans.”






That night, in the long gap between them getting into bed and relaxing enough with each other’s presence to begin to feel drowsy, Trempwick asked, “You do not want a fancy wedding, do you, Nell?”

She did not want a wedding at all, thanks. “No, but it is sadly unavoidable. It goes with the rank.”

Trempwick made a thoughtful noise, his hand idly stroking her upper arm. “True.” There was a long pause; all the while his hand continued its motion. “I wonder … if we might disarm the worst part, making it more bearable?”

A prickling feeling of premonition crept up Eleanor’s spine. The worst part in an already foul day, without a doubt, would be the consummation. Well, certainly for her; God only knew how Trempwick’s mind worked. She could only think of one way to disarm that – prior practise. No thank you! This required delicacy; she would not allow him to scent fear, nor would she let him think it was something her mind dwelled on, as that would only encourage him. She recalled something he had said a long time ago. “You mean your plan to run out part way through the feast, proclaiming that you are tired of waiting?” She had been considering that for a few days now, trying to decide which prospect dismayed her the most: having to survive the bedding down revels, or being picked up and carried off in an episode which would become semi-legend.

He laughed; tucked in against his side she felt his body vibrate with mirth. “Yes, that is certainly one very good part of my cunning plan. In this instance, however, I was actually thinking of the consummation.” Oh hurrah.

“Unless you propose to forget it entirely there is nothing you can do.” Forgetting it entirely sounded just wonderful to her, yes indeed.

He ignored that, continuing in a maddeningly rational tone of voice, “It will be considerably easier on us if we do not have people hammering on the door and shouting drunken advice every few minutes, combined with a lot of fuss, scare mongering, crudity, and a very long wait in which to fret.” Of course when he said ‘us’ what he really meant was ‘you’. How … cute of him.

In situations like this there was only one thing a self respecting gooseberry could do. Excuses, plenty of them, and of sufficient quality to baffle pursuit while she ran for her life. She cleared her throat and said, “Yes well, that really is very …” horrifying, “sweet of you, but you forget there will be a hall full of people waiting to see proof of my virginity and I would hate to disappoint.” Not least because she would be condemned as a whore for the rest of her days, and her father would knock her into the next century despite technically not being allowed to do that any more.

He hitched a shoulder. “If a spymaster cannot even fake a simple bloodstain than what use is he?”

Oh crud. Trempwick was so helpful sometimes, such a darling. “Yes, but it is really very risky; if something should go wrong …”

“I am a spymaster, not a country oaf who has consumed too much mead and has scant clue of what subterfuge means even when sober.”

New ammunition, time honoured and traditional ammunition. “What if I fall pregnant?”

“Nell, Nell, I told you before I do not intend risking you for some mewling brat. I shall minimalise the risks, and if the worst should come to the worst a dose or two of herbal tea will soon set things to rights.” Oh, nice – if at first you don’t succeed keep on feeding the princess poison until you do, or until she drops dead.

He had never once asked her how she felt about children. Grudgingly she admitted she would agree with him; the idea of pregnancy was not an appealing one, and childbirth was one big gamble between life and death. People had been extremely vocal on her ability to survive, and not a one of them had predicated anything better than a tremendously difficult birth which she might survive if God willed it. Small stature, slender figure, narrow hips; apparently death was writ large all over her. In the end the child itself often died, making all the effort and pain pointless. Beyond that things got little better; any child of hers would be a pawn, every bit a victim of it’s royal blood as she was. Girls would have to be directed towards the life she had rejected for herself. Sons might not be too bad, but you did not get to pick and choose the baby’s gender, as many frustrated couples would testify.

Saying “Urk!” would be very inelegant, so instead she said, “I thought you planned on going slowly?”

“Yes, but then it struck me that the waiting and not knowing is often the worst part of most things.” Where Trempwick was concerned Eleanor was quite happy to wait forever, if at all possible.

Try yet again. “And anyway I thought you were going to be all protective of my honour.”

“I am. No one would know but us.”

“And everyone else in the building.” Her mind was concerned more with one person above all others.

“They are of no consequence, and will say nothing.”

“What if the wedding is called off?” Please God!

“Your father will not do that; to cancel would be to expose himself as indecisive and fickle.” He was persistent, she’d say that much of him.

“In any case I am leaving tomorrow-”

“Precisely.”

“- and so I need my sleep,” she finished brightly without missing a beat.

“Slippery as an eel,” he commented sourly. “Alright; what if I get permission for us to have a small, quiet wedding here, then the obligatory public wedding will only be a confirmation.”

It would never happen; her father had set a minimum date and he would not change his mind. With that rock solid certainty behind her she answered, “If you like. Goodnight.” And with that it seemed a most excellent idea to pretend to be asleep as soon as it could be believable.









Hands up everyone who wants to see an Eleanor/Trempwick sex scene :sits on hands: Now how about an Eleanor/Fulk one? :still sits on hands: Alright, how about some more assorted mush not including any actual sex? :those hands are quite a comfy seat: Ok, how about a nice scene involving sword fighting and deeds of daring do? :raises both hands and waves them frantically:

Yes! I agree with the frog sat at the back! Less mush, more killing! Less mush, more killing! :takes up chant: Plot is a cruel mistress and all this mush is driving poor froggy crackers ~:(

See you when you return, caesar.

That last part was one of the better recent parts for me too, zelda - less mush!

Trempwick’s rights. (good timing)
Nell and Trempwick are only betrothed; he gets most of the husbandly rights but not all of them. The actual wedding gives him the last few. He only gets the right to sex when they are married; before it is off limits and, properly speaking, he shouldn't even be alone with her at any time. He also only gets ownership of all her possessions when they are finally married. Depending on which source you look at he can either beat her now if he likes or has to wait until they are married.

That's just theory, of course, and Trempwick is slippery enough to get around it. Simply he didn't think he had a good chance of achieving it peacefully; he only just decided he had a reasonable chance and look how it turned out. Considering who she is it's not a good idea to piss her off by getting forceful, not when you are going to be stuck with her for the rest of your (potentially much shorter) life.

Now when he gets that wedding ring jammed on her finger he’s home free; he knows even she won’t risk upsetting him by trying to wriggle out of her ‘duty’. Patience is key, and the spymaster has it in abundance.

scooter_the_shooter
12-06-2004, 23:03
this stories like nicotine i had to read it :embarassed:

zelda12
12-07-2004, 16:11
Can you rewrite the scene when Fulk gets thrown in the cell so he breaks out kills all the guards throws Elly's dad down the privy rams a sword into Trempwicks stomach picks Nell throws her over his shoulder and rides of into the sunset. Now that is a good scene. Ahhh, would be nice... oh yes lots more violence please. Maybe even some obligitory cliched scenes and some comedy thrown in for good measure.

Liked the part with Fulk fighting those three servants. :D

DemonArchangel
12-07-2004, 23:51
Eh, I thought Trempwick (being a male) would leap at the chance to sexually exploit eleanor.

And also, wouldn't he have seen her naked at least once before the leg part (i.e: training?)

frogbeastegg
12-08-2004, 21:33
By the time Eleanor reached her room in the morning Fulk was already up and dressed, wearing his gambeson over his clothes and his spurs on his boots. He was seated on her bed with a hotchpotch of armour arranged about him. Eleanor paused in the doorway, struck by the feeling that this was his room and she was barging in uninvited. Nonsense; this was still her room. All her possessions were still in here, and she had not agreed to leave permanently. Even when she was married she did not have to share with Trempwick, unless he insisted.

As she wandered in she noticed his pallet lying on the floor in front of the hearth, still made up with blankets. Seeing the direction of her gaze Fulk said brusquely, “Well I wasn’t sure if you were coming back. I didn’t want to block the doorway.” It had not been safe to explain to him. If she told him everything someone may overhear, and then all hell would be let loose. If she told him a cut down version he wouldn’t understand, and then he would be hurt, perhaps badly, and she could not abide that. For now let him think it was Trempwick’s doing, let him think she had no choice. For now.

The idea of him sitting, waiting and worrying twisted her heartstrings in an alarming direction, a direction she was trying to avoid. “The sooner you are armed up the sooner we can leave.” His eyes sparked; he thought she was eager to get away to be alone with him. She was. She shouldn’t be. “Time is of the essence,” she added coolly, for the benefit of anyone listening, and perhaps for her own too. “We do not have much daylight to work with.”

“Don’t I get a look at my wife first? To make sure you look the part.” It was all said very normally, but the word ‘wife’ leapt out at her as if he’d emphasised it.

She stood for inspection, eyes fixed ahead and trying not to note where his eyes lingered. She knew what he was seeing; a glimpse of her plainest linen shift at her neck, a little of the sleeves, neck and hem of a faded crimson underdress, topped off by a plain, very warm russet dress in the usual outdated style with loose sleeves. The toes of a pair of very solid shoes peeked out from under the bottom of her clothes. A plain leather girdle with silvered ends was hung with her horn handled eating knife and a small pouch with their displayed money completed the mundane effect. She looked like any minor knight’s wife. She only needed to collect her winter cloak from the chest where it was stored; she had not brought it up to Trempwick’s room along with the other articles.

There was just one thing, and like a cat Fulk pounced on it. Her hair was still loose, as he’d not yet had opportunity to play hairdresser. “You can’t leave your hair like that, as much as I like it. Sit down and I’ll sort it out for you.”

As she sat impatiently on her bed while Fulk styled her hair Eleanor wondered why she had ever considered this to be a good thing. A few minutes alone with Fulk, a few minutes in which he combed her hair as if she had done a poor job of it herself, then tugged her protesting tresses into a pair of plaits which he then, with a bit of trial and error, pinned up in such a way that they did not either fall down or pull her hair out by the roots. They couldn’t talk about anything remotely important, and the closest they had got to anything … fun was him tweaking her earlobe once. Damnation – no more ‘fun’ with Fulk! She should not even be thinking on it. A few short days ago this trip would have seemed heaven sent; now she wondered if the sender might be in possession of a pair of horns, a tail, and cloven hooves.

Today Fulk lumped all her hair together into a single, tight braid and left it hanging down her back. “This style’s faster,” he explained, “since we’re in a hurry. It’s also more likely to survive without self destructing. You won’t be needing your hairpins, not unless things take a very unexpected turn.”

Eleanor slipped off the bed and crossed to the chest where she kept her knives. She had not quite dared take them to Trempwick’s room along with the clothes; she did not like to think how he might interpret such an action, and what he might do to her because of it. Kneeling on the floor she strapped the left knife in place first, resting the weight of the blade and scabbard on her raised knee. The right followed suit soon after, standing she brushed the clinging rushes off the thick wool of her dress and shook her arms to encourage the loose outer sleeves to hang normally. “How do I look?” she asked Fulk, thinking of the concealed weapons.

He answered with a lopsided smile. “Perfectly … Eleanorish.” The smile lasted just long enough to make it known that looking Eleanorish was a good thing, then it disappeared as if it had never been. “Now my delinquent squire has finally shown up I can get my armour on. I am only going to wear part of the set your brother gave me; I don’t want to look too rich.” He indicated the pool of mail resting on the foot of her bed. “The hauberk first, but make sure the hem of my tunic’s displayed nicely before you do anything.” She didn’t move. He extrapolated slightly impatiently, “I’m supposedly wearing all my wealth to impress people; I want the world to see I’ve got a wife who sews a nice border, and that I can buy her silk thread to work with.”

“Your wife hates sewing,” she grumbled as she hunched over and checked the embroidered hem of his tunic showed beneath the bottom of his gambeson all the way around.

“And why’s that?”

“It is profoundly boring.” She gave the rear of his tunic a good tug, bringing the hemline down equal with the rest.

“It’s supposed to be calming, and give you occasion to order your thoughts.” He watched as she began to struggle with the slippery weight of his mail hauberk.

“You should try it sometime, then.” Fulk leaned down and stuck his arms forward and began to struggle into the armour. Over the rattling of metal he nearly didn’t hear her add, “But you sadly lack the prerequisite mind and thoughts.”

With a bit more fighting his head emerged from the neck hole as Eleanor arranged the integral coif back out of his way. He began to jump up and down, shaking the mail into place over the padded gambeson. “I get no respect,” he whined exaggeratedly. The mail settled in place, hiding tunic and gambeson from view except at the middle at front and back where the hauberk was slit vertically from groin to edge to facilitate easy movement and make it possible to sit astride a horse. Typical male, Eleanor thought sniffily to herself. The mail would chafe at the embroidered hem and eventually damage it, and then Fulk would expect someone to mend it. That someone would emphatically not be her.

“Dear, dear, how dreadful,” said Eleanor briskly. Fulk held out his right hand and she began to tie the leather thong woven through the mail at the wrist, pulling it tight so the sleeve could not twist around or hang loose but not so tight it might hamper his blood flow. Right wrist done she did the same with the left. “Are you taking your coat of plates or is that too expensive for a minor knight like yourself?”

Fulk slipped his hands out the slits in the leather lined palms of the hauberk’s mail mittens, freeing his hands and leaving the mittens flopping emptily from the wrist. “I’m taking it; I always wanted one and for good reason – when you wear a surcoat over it much of the time no one can tell you are wearing one, so it’s added, unexpected protection.”

Eleanor lifted the coat of plates, one hand gripping each shoulder firmly, the riveted plates softly chiming against each other at the movement. Fulk ducked down, thrust his right arm through the armhole, his head through the head hole and stood up, lifting his left arm so she could fasten the side buckles to hold the garment together.

Once that was done Eleanor moved to pick up the surcoat. She ran the fine material through her fingers as she unfolded it. “Typical – you dress in silk while I make do with wool.” Minor knight and his wife, and the knight was the one wearing much of the money. Well darn. Shame they had not thought to get a plainer, cheaper surcoat to replace the one John had given Fulk.

“Your complaints are why this act works so well; how can anyone not believe we’re married?”

“Married,” repeated Eleanor numbly. Her hand went to the betrothal ring on its leather thong about her neck, leaving the surcoat hanging ungainly from just one hand, sweeping the floor and collecting creases. Instead of the ring her fingers encountered the teardrop of Fulk’s necklace.

Concerned, and seeing the gesture Fulk inquired, “Is something wrong?”

Everything. “No,” she replied, her voice sounding sad even to her own ears. She gathered the surcoat up and pressed it into his hands, diverting her attention as she went to collect his sword.

“My old blade,” he told her, his words muffled by the surcoat and rattle of armour as he dragged it over his head. When she turned back with sword and belt in her hands Fulk was tying the narrow girdle of twisted strands of dyed black and red leather about his waist, keeping the flowing material of the surcoat gathered in and preventing it from tangling his arms.

She stood, cradling the sword like a talisman, as if it could provide the answers she sought. He looked to see what was keeping her; their eyes met and held, a moment that lasted only seconds but felt far longer. With a wry smile and a light lift of a shoulder he told her it was her problem and returned to waiting.

The problem was simple, oh so dangerously simple. Should she hand Fulk his sword, or fasten it in place for him? In the past she had usually left the task to him. A squire or page would fasten their lord’s sword in place for him, or a wife her husband’s. It was a tender gesture, a caring one when it came from a woman, demonstrating a desire to see the wearer armed safely so he could protect himself. If armour failed the wearer might yet live with nary a scratch. If a sword was belted in place poorly it was near certain the wearer would not escape in good condition if he had occasion to use it.

She should hand him his sword, coldly stating without words she had no special attachments. She wanted to fasten it in place herself. She had an excuse to do so. It would go against her resolution.

Eleanor stepped forward, intending to hand the sword to him and let him belt it on himself. She found herself dipping gracefully to her knees in front of him and passing the belt about his hips, then working the supple, well worn leather through the large buckle and fiddling with the latch as she fastened it in place. Job done she rose and stepped back.

His smile made it all worthwhile, and for a time both pledge and Trempwick were entirely forgotten. A happy little illusion, and as it shattered, mere seconds later, Eleanor found her eyes brimming with tears. A happy little illusion; all it could ever be.

Smartly she began to rummage around in her clothing chest, retrieving her cloak and trying to master that ridiculous, shameful urge to cry. By the time she fastened the brooch in place at her throat and folded the heavy drapes of thick wool back over her shoulders out of her way she had banished that strange, unintelligible feeling of pure sorrow at glimpsing briefly something she might like but could never experience to find out. She turned back around to find Fulk had donned his cloak and was currently settling his shield on its guige strap over his left shoulder, letting it hang at rest but in easy reach should he need it. He picked up his kettle helm by its chin lacings and asked with a slight frown, “Ready?”

One last thing, a tiny detail but significant none the less. Eleanor swapped Fulk’s ring from her right hand to her left, letting it occupy once again the space on her heart finger. “Ready,” she confirmed.

Fulk grinned as he strode to join her near the door. “How do I look?”

“Perfectly … Fulkish.” And she loved it.






Trempwick awaited them with their saddled horses. As Fulk had expected the spymaster purloined Eleanor as soon as she appeared out the manor’s main door. “Dear, sweet Nell,” he said elaborately, looking her over as she stopped in front of him. Fulk had done the same thing himself earlier, but he couldn’t shake the absurd feeling Trempwick was eying Eleanor like a man buying a horse in a market. There was something very coldly possessive and assessing in the look, not the affection Fulk was sure he had exhibited. Maybe he was imagining it out of jealousy? “You will be careful?”

“Yes, master.”

“Remember, if you are not back in six days I shall send parties out to search.”

“Yes, master.”

“Do not take any unnecessary risks; I would rather you returned without the treasure than not at all.”

“Yes, master.” All this dutiful, bland agreement of hers reminded him of the many similar conversations he’d had with Aidney during his stint as bodyguard in Nantes. Polite, dutiful answers that meant little and allowed the controller of the conversation to do as he wished without upset. It was an act, calculated, Fulk was sure. If Trempwick had done something to crush Eleanor’s spirit so badly she actually meant all this docile garbage then surely Fulk would have picked up on something?

Very graciously, as if it were an enormous favour for which she would owe him a substantial return, Trempwick confided, “I shall miss you.”

“I shall miss you too, master.” Aye, so would Fulk – miss him like a cut that had healed and stopped hurting.

Fulk watched impassively as Trempwick gave Eleanor a long kiss goodbye, seeing but not seeing, his eyes turned on them but studiously ignoring any detail. It was the first time he had been subjected to the sight; until now Trempwick had kept this kind of thing behind closed doors, leaving Fulk to guess at what went on. Trempwick finally released her and walked her over to her horse. As he passed Fulk Trempwick looked him in the eye, just for a heartbeat. A shock ran through Fulk; there was something in that look, something that glittered briefly before being buried safely away again so quickly Fulk was not even certain he had seen it at all. Triumph.

Eleanor paused at her horse’s side and Trempwick caught her in yet another embrace. “Don’t I even get a hug?” he inquired with a puppy dog kind of sorrow that made Fulk itch to drive his fist through the spymaster’s teeth.

“I am wearing my knives,” she replied hesitantly.

“It will do no harm. Unless …” he caught her arm and brushed the sleeve up so he could study the knife in its sheath. “No, you have fastened the blade in place so it cannot slide out. It will also be slower for you to draw the blade and stab me, darling Nell. I think I am quite safe.” Oh hehe, Trempwick was the funny one, wasn’t he?

As he suffered through the abysmal sight of Eleanor in Trempwick’s arms in a tight, disgustingly mutual embrace Fulk could not contain an irritated sigh. Trempwick took the hint after the second loud sigh and removed his mouth from Eleanor’s. “I think your pet is getting bored,” he said, in such a way Fulk resolved sourly there should be a law against people like Trempwick.

One final lengthy kiss and Trempwick whispered something in Eleanor’s ear. Fulk could see his lips move, but not hear the words and he had never been able to lip-read. Eleanor blanched and nodded uncertainly. Enough was enough; Fulk busied himself climbing up into his saddle. Trempwick was done, at long last. He made a step out of his hands and gave Eleanor a boost up onto her horse.

Eleanor wasted little time, turning her mount’s head towards the open gate and giving it a light kick to get it moving. Fulk spurred his own horse, following behind her but intending to take his place at her side as soon as they were through the narrow gate. Trempwick walked along at Eleanor’s side, lingering like an unwelcome shadow. He stopped at the gate. “Goodbye, beloved Nell, and do be careful.”

“Yes, master,” she agreed submissively.

As the manor retreated behind them, and as Fulk rode up to Eleanor’s side, closing the gap between horses until they could reach over and touch each other, Fulk felt happier than he had in days. This was the life; him, a gooseberry, two horses, several days of peace, an act which required them to behave as they wanted to, and no spymaster or servants. Indeed, this was the life.





Eleanor could still feel the imprints of Trempwick’s fingertips on her upper arm where he had gripped her tightly during that last kiss. “Pull an Adele,” he had said, “and even I will not be able to save your skin. And do not think I would not know, my little Nell. Remember what I said; you are better than that.”





:laughs manically and keeps on adding addictive substances to each chapter:

I shall see what I can do, zelda. I'm not sure how long it will take but I'll try to do something.

Trempy is held back by the desire to sleep without worrying about Eleanor stabbing him. He has to win her over to the idea of sex or wait until he is married (because she is brought up to do her duty like a good medieval girl), otherwise he will never be certain of his safety again. Trempy would like to go to sleep for a bit afterwards, and then he'd like to wake up alive.

Nope, no man has ever seen Nell entirely nude. Trempy is the one who has seen the most, and that was in the leg scene. He's been teaching her lock picking, deception, a bit of combat etc, I don't see how he would have seen her naked doing that ...

scooter_the_shooter
12-09-2004, 02:01
an other great chapter froggy but lets see some more head bashing and hacking :charge:

Kommodus
12-09-2004, 19:25
Hm, I seem to recall that lack of funds was among the primary reasons Fulk decided against fleeing to Ireland. Now, however, it seems as if they could retrieve the treasure and make a break for it - provided, of course, they could elude Trempwick's shadowing agents, who are most likely following them...

scooter_the_shooter
12-11-2004, 16:54
is this the style your putting red hand in

frogbeastegg
12-11-2004, 21:16
“Your Trempwick got me a courser instead of a destrier,” said Fulk, opening up conversation when he judged they were a safe distance from the manor and not being followed. He was dying of curiosity, wanting to know what she had done to ease Trempwick’s mind over Gerbert’s report, but he wanted her to be the one who brought the subject up. He had his ideas about what she might, just might have done, ideas so ugly they would turn into aggrieved accusations if he voiced them, and that would be poor payback indeed if she had done what he suspected she might have to save him. “I’ve no quarrel with that; it’s still a good animal and trained for battle. It’s the fact the horse has been gelded that worries me.” There, a nice, very oblique intro that was not even slightly accusatory. He had been half expecting to be castrated himself because of Gerbert’s prying.

She glanced sidelong at him. “You think the animal will lack aggression?”

Too oblique, maybe. Oh well, forget it for now; their limited private time was best spent in an pleasurable manner. “No, I know it makes me look like a sissy. Warhorses are always stallions; it’s very macho.”

“The Saracens never use stallions as warhorses, claiming they are too unruly.”

“I’m English, oh supreme one.”

“Well, everyone will be distracted while they laugh at you, giving you an unfair advantage.”

“You mean like everyone dismissing you as too short to be dangerous?”

With great dignity and decorum she answered, “Twit.”

“You know I reckon those stories about true love lie,” said Fulk gravely. “They never mention the damsel insulting and abusing the poor knight. Although … the tale of Beaumains the kitchen knight does feature a damsel who’s a bit snippy.”

“Beaumains passed her over in favour of her demure sister, despite all the adventures they had shared on their journey.” Eleanor glared at the horizon as if it had done her some terrible insult, and said scornfully, “Of course they lie; some of those stories have happy endings.”

Fulk told her lightly, “I am not Beaumains.” He’d be very happy to take the snippy damsel home at the end of the quest; the demure one could find herself another knight to simper at. Actually she could find another knight to rescue her in the first place – trekking all that way to rescue some boring blonde would only waste time that could be spent in a far more appealing manner, such as squabbling with a certain Eleanor.

That earned him a glare to match the one she had been giving the world moments ago. “Beaumains was really prince Gareth of Orkney in disguise, so unless you have something to tell me about your family you are no Beaumains.”

Ah, now that was unexpected. “Alas, I am who I have always said.” He kept his tone airy and easy.

“Pity.” An understatement in every possible way.

Inside Fulk began jumping up and down with joy. She had never said, or really even given hint, that she might like to do spend the rest of her life trying to verbally tear him to shreds and send him insane, deftly sidestepping his delicate efforts to find out what she thought, or not even answering. Now she had given herself away; she had fallen for him that badly.

The brief spurt of conversation died away; Eleanor seemingly too busy trying to be distant, Fulk planning with fevered intensity.







As the cold winter sun began its slow decent from its zenith they stopped to rest the horses for a short while, standing in the melting snow and ice to stretch their legs as the horses grazed on what frosted grass they could find. “Ireland,” said Fulk suddenly.

“Ireland to you too,” she replied indulgently.

“The dukes of Ulster have civilised the north; in most regards it’s a match for England. The land around Dublin and Ulaid is rich enough. The running feud between duke Conall and Ruaidri, count of Mide calls for fighting men; duke Conall will take any English knight he can get, and gladly.”

“It all sounds very promising; I shall buy it if you throw in the Holy Grail for free.”

Fulk found the words some of the hardest he had ever said. “Come with me to Ireland.”

Eleanor gaped at him. “What?!”

“We have two horses, money, all our important belongings, and soon we shall have that treasury. We are expected to be travelling for days now, so we get a head start before the searching begins. We have what we need and we will never get a better chance than this.” She continued to stare at him as if he had grown wings and started speaking in tongues.

Fulk restlessly strode a few paces away from her, then turned back, hands held out beseeching her. “We could marry. I could find work with one of the duke; with my talents and resources I could expect to gain a small fief of my own – I have rank, a warhorse and good armour now, I would not be stuck bodyguarding again. It would not be the royal court and to begin with things would be harder, but we have money and I have prospects so it would not be so bad.” She had to see, to understand now. She had to.

“So you want to marry me and whisk me off to Ireland? Are you quite serious?” That certainly appeared to be what he was saying, but she wanted to be sure. She found it hard enough to believe that anyone could love her, let alone that someone could have fallen for her so hopelessly that he thought this a good plan.

“Yes.” There was enough passion in that word to melt stone.

Time dragged out, tense as a bowstring, before she finally answered. Her voice was pained, “They would still catch us; it would only take longer.” He was offering her something she believed she might like, given chance. She might do well as a minor landed knight’s wife, lacking all the pageantry and demands of higher nobility, away from all the intrigues and risks of an agent or powerful noble, and she had a relatively easy time believing Fulk would treat her well as a wife. But it would not last; her father would never let her go, and Trempwick would want his bride back, his agent too.

Fulk let his held breath out in a rush and said swiftly, “Then you name somewhere, anywhere we would be safe.”

“There is nowhere.” A whole world and none of it safe, not from a vengeful king and his spymaster. Time would be all they would gain, time spaced between their flight and their discovery, and in that time they would have no true peace, worrying about the hounds put on their trail.

“Eleanor, we will never have this chance again; we should grasp it with both hands-”

Before he even had time to finish Eleanor interjected flatly, “Grasp your death and my ruin with both hands?” The more she heard the harder it became to reject it. She repeated her reasons over and over in her mind, a mantra to keep her focused on the reality she was struggling to fully come to turns with. No more playing with fire. She did not want to die. No more gambling with his life. Be a dutiful wife. Make the best out of what she had. Face reality and do not turn away. Face what has to be with dignity.

“If we remain here you will marry your Trempwick and we will never have more than a few stolen moments, moments that will be all too brief and hard to come by.”

Eleanor scowled, increasing the volume and insistency of her mantra in her mind. “At least you would still be alive.” That was the key; focus on it – to run was to kill Fulk. To stay, however bitter it may be, was to keep him safe. No more playing with fire. No more gambling with his life. She was better than that. She could not lose him. She would not lose him, not for something so simple and petty, not because she could not control herself.

Fulk took a step closer. “I’ve been thinking on this carefully; I’d never have brought it up if I did not think it had a good chance of success.”

“The risk is too great.”

Fulk could not believe this was his Eleanor talking; afraid of risk, disinclined to forge her own destiny, not even willing to consider the idea for longer than a heartbeat. “It’d be no more dangerous than what we’re doing now – conducting a covert relationship beneath a spymaster’s roof. Either we go and make a life for ourselves or we stay here and nothing changes; either way we are hiding, worrying, watching, unsafe.”

“We cannot leave; they would never let me go - don’t you see that?” she asked desperately, insistently. “In the end we are safer here; if we leave they will undoubtedly search for us, find us, and kill you. If we remain you are safe unless we give ourselves away. I have to marry Trempwick; to deny it is self-defeating. There is no way out.”

“No – there is a way, if you will just-”

“There is no way out!” She was all but shouting now, desperate to make him see and put an end to this torture. “All we can do is make the best of it; I shall endeavour to be a dutiful wife to divert suspicion and try to make it bearable.”

“And what about me? I’m supposed to sit by and watch?” She dipped her head in assent. “Never,” swore Fulk grimly. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but dropped it back to his side with the gesture dead, killed by the increasingly hostile atmosphere.

Watching was miles better than living and enduring, Eleanor thought. “You will have to. If you had any idea of how close to disaster we came with Gerbert-”

He was growing angry now; it seemed as though she wanted to stay with her Trempwick, rejecting his plan – their best hope! – for only that reason. He could truly see no other; she was making overmuch out of the risk. “Yes, go on, tell me. Tell me what you did to buy your Trempwick off. No – don’t, I can guess.”

“I doubt you can.” Not unless he had been listening at the door latch.

“You vanish and stay with him overnight not once but twice, he’s all over you like a rash and you play along, and he has a certain smug air about him – it’s damned obvious! I am not stupid!” He moderated his tone, trying to fix his accusation, to make it less hurtful, and to say the most important thing. “You should have let me help; I would have killed him rather than let him touch you.”

Eleanor was staring at him in stunned horror. At last she found her voice, loudly. “I slept next to him, not with him! I do not need you to run about like a bear with a sore head killing people left, right and centre! I need Trempwick, and I need his protection. THINK for once in your life!” She shouted that last sentence so loud it echoed through the landscape, scaring birds from the nearby treetops and causing her horse, unbattle-trained as it was, to cease eating and sidle nervously. “You would only have made things worse. He blamed me; he thinks this is solely me, some one-sided spark, and he was kind to me. He says he loves me, I owe him my life many times over, and … and he was kind to me,” she finished hopelessly. Kind; it was a pathetic motivation, a pathetic hope for the future, but it was all she had.

“You know your problem? You are that starved of affection you run blindly off wherever it is offered. You’d be grateful to the devil himself if he said something pleasant to you. Throw our chance away, then. Marry your Trempwick because he was kind and your family want it; give up into abject defeat, and become another dutiful, spiritless noble lady, and live in … in kindness. Then when you are bored get back to me; I’ll still be here for you – that is love!”

She balled her hands up into fists and shouted, “It is a political match, you dullard! Kindness is the best I can hope for! You would prefer he was cruel?”

“Of course not!” he yelled back at equal volume. “Why do you think I’m trying to get you out of this?”

She turned away, body tight with repressed anger. Her voice became flat and stilted with the effort of controlling her temper, “I have no idea; seemingly because you wish to die.”

He flung his hands up into the air. “Oh for Christ’s sake! Because I want to see you safe! Because I find the prospect of spending the rest of my life with you appealing, though at times like this I doubt God Himself knows why! Because I love you!”

This fight was proving far more vicious than the one they had had back at the royal court; there was no need to keep their voices down, and they had all time the time in the world to hurt each other. There was no pressing need to hold back; a blessing and a curse. They could say what they meant leaving little space for misunderstandings. They could tear each other to shreds.

“And I suppose the lands, incomes, status, three thousand pound dowry, and royal blood have nothing to do with it? You would make your fortune if you married me – leapfrogging your way from bottom to near top!” She knew her worth; it had adjusted significantly these past few weeks, but it only made her more of a commodity.

He clenched his jaw and worked to master himself for a moment. “I’d be happy to take you with nothing more than the clothes you’re wearing,” he told her with quiet, angry intensity. “Although seemingly that doesn’t go both ways as I thought; I’m not good enough for you.” No, he was some poor knight’s bastard. A nothing, bumped up with a knighthood to make him Sir Nothing.

“Go win my hand and my family’s approval, and I will not care if you are a prince or a pauper. I only care about our survival, something you do not much value.”

“You know I can’t win their approval, and you refuse the only way open to me. That speaks most eloquently.” He spun on his heel and marched off to untie his courser’s reins from the tree branch he had hitched them to. “The sooner we go the sooner we get back,” he said loudly, addressing his saddle instead of her, “then you’ll be reunited with your Trempwick.”






Hugh shaded his eyes with his gloved hand as he watched his falcon swoop down on a smaller bird and make its kill. “A good, clean kill, father,” he commented, turning in his saddle to the dour figure at his side.

The older man grunted a vague reply and wheeled his horse about, beckoning for Hugh to ride at his side. They rode at a gentle walk away from the hunting party; William waved away those who would have joined them for security’s sake. “I had a message regarding your sister just before we left,” said the king eventually.

Not able to mind read Hugh enquired, “Which one?” A pang of anxiety shot through him; ever since John’s execution William had … broken somehow, lost a part of his vitality and sureness. Vague sentences such as that one were becoming increasingly common, and the dark bags under his eyes indicated the king slept little. He ate only when Anne chivvied him into it. Never a deeply religious man William was in the midst of organising the founding of a new monastery. Hugh was concerned; refusing food and rest was a fool’s game, and the vagueness might one day grasp hold of William’s soul and mind completely, leaving him another dribbling old fool, lost in dreams of bygone days.

No; Hugh checked himself. Now he was the one being foolish. William was in mourning for his son; he was not capable of detaching and mastering himself as Hugh was. William would recover, and Hugh informed himself that he would do well to learn modesty. Putting himself above his elders and betters, looking down on their foibles as he had just done was undutiful and thus against God. Honour thy father and thy mother.

William’s frown gave the name away before the words. “Eleanor.”

Eleanor; inwardly Hugh sighed. There was little surprise there; the only surprise might come from what she had done this time. Unfair; she had shown signs of improvement, and a king should never be so judgemental. He left a dutiful, attentive space for his father to supply the answer in his own time.

He was rewarded moments later. “Trempwick’s message was brief, as is always the case with messages sent by bird. She has grown to accept the marriage.”

Hugh’s face lit up and he said happily, “Good; truly most excellent news.” Eleanor had discovered at long last that in duty there was much reward, and he need no longer concern himself over her. She would marry as required and be happy, and even do credit to their family. At long last, an end to the undignified strife.

“He wishes to marry her now. Your opinion?” The question innocuous, but Hugh knew it for a test of his suitability for the kingship. Once again he would prove himself. No, that was most conceited; he would do his best and be judged from there, and learn from this as he always strove to do, to better himself, to become a better man and a better king.

Hugh considered all the relevant information and detail; he would not rush. A king must always be cautious to choose the best path; if he chose to led his people towards disaster than all would suffer, not solely the one who made the poor decision. “I would say not,” he said finally. “I see no valid reason and very little gain for us and for the realm. I do see many pitfalls; you set a minimum date, no less than two months after the betrothal, and to go back upon this would be weak. You would be seen to be jumping at your vassal’s will, or hurrying unduly to perhaps provide a legitimate father for an accident. It also gives less time for the arrangement of the ceremonies, and for the decisions regarding guests and other vital, state affairs. The bans have not yet been posted; all must have opportunity to protest to this wedding if there is just cause.”

“So you would not approve of an earlier wedding?”

“I would not.”

William nodded very slowly, ponderously. “I will hear Trempwick out, of course, but your thoughts match mine.”

A warm glow of pride filled Hugh’s heart at his father’s words, only to be rigorously squashed and he castigated himself sharply for it. Pride was a deadly thing, a sin, doubly so in a king. He would not fall prey.








I've been too busy to sit and think, and I needed to do that for a while to get this part done. Things should pick up speed again from here.

Head hacking will be added wherever it suits the plot; I certainly can't say I do all this mush by choice. Plot demands and froggy obeys. Yes, caesar, this is what Red Hand looks like now. A lot more like a book, though it could use working over by an editor to get it to a better standard.

Nice anticipation, Kommodus.

Ludens
12-12-2004, 14:06
Hands up everyone who wants to see an Eleanor/Trempwick sex scene
:Raises hand, notices no-one else has, colours, withdraws hand quickly: ~D

I've only skim read the story for last couple of weeks, but I like it, especially the Trempwick-Eleanor scenes were Trempwick is behaving kinder. However, I think there are too much "thought" bits in the story. Your trump card still is dialogue and all the explanatory thoughts slow it down. I think you should cut down on them; they are not always necessary anyway.

About the perspective: imagine a book were the perspective type changes from third person semi-omniscient (the one you are using most of the time) to third person omniscient every time the writer needs to reveal something. Sounds bad, eh? Just don't do it. Why someone would praise this kind of perspective-type switch is a mystery to me: it is a failure of the writer to work within the limits he or she set when he/she started to write. Now what is praiseworthy about that?

The only thing I disliked was the fight between Eleanor in Fulk in the castle. Apart from being a big cliché and containing many unnecessary thought-lines that slow the dialogue, I do not like the way Fulk is represented. He changes from lover to jealous lover in only a few scenes and back again in just one. But then, I am a big Fulk partisan ~:cool: . Off course, Eleanor is not blameless either: the carelessness both show towards each other's feelings struck me as distinctly un-lover-like. This in contrast with the last fight-scene. In my opinion the castle scene was unnecessary, clichéd and showing both characters as being uncaring while they should be very anxious about each other's feelings. In short: I did not like it ~D .

But apart from that scene, the rest is very well done and I check my e-mail anxiously every morning to see if a new episode has arrived. Keep it up!

P.s. You may have explained this somewhere earlier in the story, but I cannot remember it so I ask you: why is Eleanor feeling so protective about John?

frogbeastegg
12-13-2004, 16:24
Fulk tucked the hunk of bread under his arm and accepted two bowls of watery pottage that looked about as appetising as the innkeeper’s wife’s moustache, balancing one bowl in each hand. Carefully he made his way through the semi gloom of the inn’s main room and started to ascend the rickety staircase leading up to the two bedchambers above. At the mid point up the stairs the blackness was so complete he had to feel for each step, balancing on one foot while the other cautiously groped about for the start of the next step. A pox on cheap inns, dark winter nights and a lack of candles!

At long last he made it to the top. The corridor giving access to the pair of rooms, one for guests and one for the owners, was pitch black. He inched a few steps along, sliding his feet along the rough hewn planking for fear of tripping or walking smack into something. He couldn’t find the door to the room they’d rented; heck he couldn’t even find the wall the door was in. A big tough knight should never be afraid to ask for help. “Eleanor, can you open the door?” Anyway, he had his hands full so he couldn’t possibly be expected to manage to lift the latch.

The door opened a crack but otherwise she left it. With a scowl Fulk booted it open the rest of the way, rejoicing as the light from a trio of cheap candles sent the darkness into sullen retreat. Eleanor was sat on the simple bed, still in the same cold, distant mood she had been in since their earlier fight. He handed Eleanor a bowl, placed his own down at her side while he broke the coarse bread into two roughly equal shares, then took his own food off to the foot of the bed, as far from her as he could get without ending up on the floor.

Fulk began spooning up the cooling pottage, swallowing rapidly so as not to taste the disagreeable mess. Watery pottage with a few preserved, scraggly winter vegetables in it. Once he had lived off muck like this, cooked over a camp fire while out on patrol. He was going soft. He ripped off a bit of bread and ate it, chewing furiously. His tooth crunched down on a bit of millstone grit; pulling a face he spat it into his near empty bowl. No fancy bread made from sieved flour here. He glared at the rest of the bread, his will to eat it gone and his temper simmering. He slammed the chunk of bread into the bowl, slopping part of the dregs of the pottage onto his wrist and hand.

Eleanor flinched, still focusing on her untouched food, still afraid of his obvious bad humour. Fulk muttered a vicious oath; she probably didn’t even know it but Eleanor had a real knack for making him feel guilty on those few occasions he got angry. Oh he knew why, understood it too – Trempwick and her father, two men who lashed out if they got upset, two men in a world full of them. If he could get her away to somewhere she would be safe and treated kindly the expectation of unpleasantness every time someone got cross would wear off after a time. Probably. Not that he’d ever find out now.

“We’ll leave early tomorrow,” he told her gruffly. He made a show of yawning and stretching as if weary; the only exhausting thing here was this atmosphere. He stood and retrieved his cloak and sword from the corner where he’d placed them along with his removed armour. He folded the cloak in two and spread it on the floor in front of the door, then added one of the lumpy, straw stuffed pillows from the bed.

He lay down on his makeshift bed, still fully clothed, with the sword at his side in easy reach. At floor level the scent of the flea’s bane mixed in with the floor rushes was strong enough to make his nose itch and prickle. Lacking a mattress of any kind Fulk knew he’d be stiff and aching in the morning, frozen too as he lacked a cover.

Fulk stared up at the thatch of the roof while Eleanor wandered about the room pinching out the three candles. Fulk’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and the weak bit of moonlight making its way through a series of cracks in the wooden window shutters provided just enough illumination for a vague view of the room. Fulk found his eyes wandering over to the bed of their own accord. An Eleanor shaped silhouette was busy removing her hair from the plait, not that there was much to do – as usual her hair had been diligently escaping of its own accord all day. Crossly he shut his eyes and resolved to go to sleep; he was not so desperate – and hopefully never would be – that he considered peeping to be a good thing.

He heard the rustle of clothes as she undressed followed by the creak of the bed as she climbed in.

Time passed in silence.

Fulk shifted on the floor, rolling onto his left side, trying to get comfortable.

More time passed.

Fulk flopped onto his back again, still uncomfortable.

Another indeterminable period of time passed.

Now his back was beginning to ache; Fulk sat up and rearranged the cloak a bit, then lay back down.

More time passed.

Now the damned pillow was too uncomfortable; Fulk sat up again and thumped it. He lay back down, sat back up almost immediately and whacked the pillow some more. He was just lying back down when Eleanor said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake! If it is that bad you can have the other half of this bed. Honestly, it is impossible to sleep if you keep making a racket.”

“Thank you, your gooseberryness.” Gratefully Fulk stood up, grabbed his sword and blundered his way over to the bed.

“Take your boots off,” ordered Eleanor, as she rolled onto her side and shuffled as far to the edge of the bed as she could get. Evidently he wasn’t forgiven for their fight, which was fine because he hadn’t forgiven her either.

The sword Fulk propped against the wall at the head of the bed. His boots he dumped under the bed frame. Having gained the benefit of blankets he could see little point in wearing his clothes; he’d only crease them up. Swiftly he stripped down to his braes and climbed in before his feet got cold. Fulk matched her pose, lying with his back to her as far away from her as he could get.







William planted a quick, soft kiss on the top of Anne’s head. There was something about the girl that sparked a tender, defensive feeling in him, and he was truthfully beginning to look forward to their evenings together with something approaching anticipation. Anne sat up slightly, keeping her balance on his lap by placing one hand on his shoulder. She had this certain considering look on her face; he was learning that meant she was trying to decide if she had the courage to do something. Evidently this time she did not, for she went back to her earlier pose, sat snuggled up on his lap.

“I may not be here tomorrow evening,” he told her with genuine regret. “I have to travel out to Woburn and I will probably be late back because of the weather.”

“Oh.” She sounded no happier about it than he was, bless her. She sat up again, twisting around to study his face. “Woburn … that is where Eleanor is?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, just a simple meeting with my spymaster. It will be disguised as another hunting trip, but because I only take a small, trusted escort you may hear people saying it is for other reasons. I am not visiting a mistress. The secrecy is necessary.”

Anne glared at him, angry, hurt. “You promised!” she accused. “You liar!” She punched him in the shoulder and scrambled off his knee. “You liar!” she repeated, beginning to cry.

Anne…” implored William, standing up and spreading his hands.

“You said – you promised that no matter what no one would ever laugh at me because it was thought you had a mistress!”

It was true; he had made such a promise. At the time he had not thought of how his trips to visit his daughter were often viewed. “Anne, it is just the one trip, and officially I am going hunting.”

“One trip now, and then what about the next time, and the next? Official excuses matter little to gossip.”

“Come with me then.” Unplanned, unintended, and one of William’s better ideas. He found he wanted her to accompany him, wanted her company, wanted to keep this promise to her. She helped keep John’s vengeful ghost at bay.

“Really?” She smeared her tears away with the back of her hand.

“Yes, if you promise not to hit me again.” William rubbed his shoulder, exaggerating his pain greatly; he’d barely even felt her blow. It was a kind of joking he was unfamiliar with, sampling it on a outlandish impulse.

Anne’s hand flew to her mouth in pure horror. “Oh no – I didn’t meant it, oh what have I done!?”

William took her in his arms and began drying her tears himself. “Actually I found it rather funny.” It was not entirely uncommon for a wife to cosh her husband, but usually the end of any such match in the nobility was predetermined; a hardened warrior versus an untrained woman could only end in one way. One blow from his fist would lay Anne out unconscious or even dead; the idea sickened him. He felt protective of her as he had of no other, not even Joanna.

He began to laugh, quietly at first but soon growing into a roar. This timid little girl, decades younger, feet shorter, miles weaker had just punched the king of England. It was ridiculous, a farce … brilliant.







Fulk had led a life that some might call adventurous, though others still would call it tame. At twenty-five he’d been an appreciator of the finer charms of the female of the species for some eleven years. He was certainly no stranger to sleeping next to a cute personage, and almost every time that cute personage was quite well known to him. He had even done the whole ‘going to bed on a fight’ thing before. He might have been on his own for months now but his memory was still in perfect working order, his imagination too.

So why was he surprised to awake to find himself tangled together with Eleanor the next morning? Like the rising and setting of the sun, the turning of the tides, and the levying of taxes it was one of life’s certainties – if you go to sleep next to a cute personage you wake up to find yourself holding them. This was going to get interesting when she woke up …

Very carefully he gauged their position in the bed. Nearly dead centre. That meant the blame for this situation was about equal; he had not gone chasing off after her or vice versa. They had not done anything stupid; he felt sure he would have remembered it. Anyway, he still had his braies on.

There was something so very … right about lying here with a princess in his arms, her breath causing a draft across his bare chest and her weight cutting off circulation in his arm until the limb felt part dead. To wake up like this every morning, it was all he wanted from life. Ok, not all, but if he was waking up like this the rest would be there too.

What did not feel right, instead choosing to be downright terrifying, was the way her up-drawn knee was lightly resting near his groin. He could guess that rule number five of sleeping with a peevish princess would be “Never, ever allow her to get a crippling shot lined up so all she needs to do when she wakes up in a bad mood is twitch slightly.” Actually for that matter he had no idea how he stood on rule number one: “Do not let the gooseberry have sharp implements, especially not knives, in easy reach when you expect her to be shocked, stunned and a tad aggressive while disoriented and half asleep.”

As pleasant as this was Fulk decided that, in the interests of public safety, she had better not wake up to find them like this. Very, very carefully he began to inch his hips back with the aim of disarming the easy groin shot. Apparently rule number eleven was “She wakes if you so much as move a muscle, therefore while trying to be sneaky remain stationary!”

Her blue eyes took in everything, steadily cataloguing while she remained still, reminding Fulk of a cat deciding if it can be bothered to dig its claws into your thigh as punishment for your being selfish enough to want to move, or if it will generously go back to sleep and let you off provided you hold still.

Eventually Eleanor said, “Well, you do have one advantage; Trempwick pushes the covers back so my shoulders freeze.”

If that was supposed to be a peace offering, and from her unfathomable tone he could not be sure if it was intended to be, it was a backhanded one. He said shortly, “I’m considerate.”

“Trempwick would say practised.”

Fulk snorted. “Your Trempwick’s practised, don’t let him tell you otherwise. What he is is inconsiderate.” Well, there went the mood of potential fence mending. Trempwick, even in ghost form, could really stomp an atmosphere flat. Fulk reached for his shirt, pulled it on and began to tie the neck lacing.

Eleanor too sat up but she did not begin dressing. “It does not matter what he is; I have no choice.”

“I gave you a choice yesterday; you chose him.” Fulk swung his legs out of the bed, turning his back on her, and pulled on his hose, tying the points to the cord belt holding his braise up.

“No, I chose to keep you as safe as I can.”

“I told you, we are about as safe now as we’d be in Ireland. I’ll put my armour on now; I doubt we want any more of this inn’s food, even if it’s just stale bread.” He stood up, reaching for his tunic. He stopped just as his hand was about to close on the material. She was still sat there, hair loose and falling about her, dressed only in her linen shift, looking faintly distressed. Overall he much preferred the I’m-going-to-kill-you! glare but distressed Eleanor still appealed in ways he’d rather she didn’t. No - Eleanor full stop appealed in ways he’d rather she didn’t. It was all minor variations on a single theme.

He ripped his eyes away and snatched up his tunic. She had chosen Trempwick over him; he would respect that and when it went wrong, as it surely would, he would still be here, waiting for her.






William and Anne rode alone into Woburn having left their small escort three miles or so back in the closest settlement. They were within the spymaster’s territory now, and safe to ride about alone. Anne’s reaction to the manor complex was unflattering; she wrinkled her nose and asked in a disgusted voice, “This is Eleanor’s home?”

“Trempwick’s, actually, under grant from the crown.”

“But it is so … so unfitting.”

“That is why it keeps her hidden safely away; only a minor noble would live in such a place as this.” He stopped his horse and swung down from the saddle, stiff as if he’d been in the saddle for days instead of mere hours. Blood of Christ but he was getting old. He gently lifted Anne down from her mare’s back.

By the time he’d set her down Trempwick had joined them. He inclined his head to William. “Sire.” To Anne, “Your majesty.” To both of them, “You will forgive me if my household seems disordered; I have recently lost a man.”

“How?” asked William sharply. He recalled how the spymaster had described his servants; a set of his best agents placed here to keep Eleanor safe. One loss was both expensive and alarming.

Trempwick smiled dryly. “Your daughter, sire. She has a certain, strong dislike for my people, and they for her. Between them Gerbert and herself managed to create a situation where I had to back one or other. I chose her, of course.”

William grunted; yet more trouble from the brat. Still and all this particular incident was handled and did not call for his involvement. Good. Arm linked with his queen William strolled inside, following Trempwick up to the solar. Anne proved to be fascinated, looking about her with keen interest at every slight detail the entire trip. William was growing to recognise this particular attitude of hers too; it was the one which accompanied the sound of money trickling out of his treasury to be spent on new furnishings.

Trempwick ushered them to seats and enquired, “Refreshments, your highnesses?”

William told him generously, “Stop the flattery, Raoul. Mulled wine, I think. Is that alright, Anne, or would you prefer something different?”

She gave her assent and Trempwick thrust the fireside poker into the blaze and disappeared out the solar door. He reappeared minutes later with a jug of wine and three cups. He knelt and placed the cups in a line at the hearth. He talked as he poured. “Hippocras, one of my better vintages at that.” Standing he took hold of the poker and thrust the heated end into the first goblet. The wine hissed as it came into contact with hot iron. He repeated the process on the second drink, then replaced the poker in the fire. The two heated drinks he gave to his guests.

William politely sipped his wine. “You will understand if we conclude our business swiftly, I am sure. Why do you wish the marriage accelerated?”

Trempwick’s words were measured, “I have won her over, and she is beginning to see the advantages as well as the downsides. If we getting the wedding rolling now we will not have to repeat the … stressful process that got her to agree to the betrothal.”

“If she is won over then she will surely remain so.”

“Perhaps, but do we wish to take this chance?”

“Raoul, I am confident in your ability to keep her under control.” This was not a conversation he wanted Anne to hear; she may not react well to hearing her step daughter discussed in such a way. Well, needs must, and he could explain in detail why it was necessary later.

“She does not view this betrothal as entirely binding, I think. If she finds a way out she will take it,” said Trempwick earnestly. “She will, however, view marriage itself as final and binding. I have her won over, but who knows when – or what - she will see as an opportunity to foil this?” Trempwick pulled the poker from the fire and plunged the tip into his own drink. Goblet held loosely in one hand Trempwick ambled over to the window and leaned his rear on the window ledge, remaining in William’s view but escaping from Anne’s.

“There is little over a month of my original stated time left. We have not yet arranged a date, aside from the minimum.”

“Yes, and so it is not difficult to alter things,” countered Trempwick strongly.

William bridled; he did not like his spymaster’s tone. “Difficult, no. Politic, no. I will not have it believed I dance to your tune, or that there is need for me to move the date forward. You know how that would be viewed.”

Trempwick pulled a face and sipped his drink. Firmly he set the goblet down on the window ledge, the louder than needful clink of metal against stone and energy of the movement giving William the distinct impression his spymaster was annoyed. “William, you leave me in a most awkward position.”

“As I have said a great many times before, I am confident in your ability.”

“And I am grateful for that, truly.” Trempwick sighed and ran a hand through his hair, digging his fingertips into his scalp.

“But?” It was plain there was a but.

“You said you did not much care what I did with her, and that I should do whatever I felt needful.”

William added promptly, “Within reason. This would not be within reason.”

“A secret marriage-”

“Would inevitably cause many potential problems.”

“William, I think not. I can guarantee there would be no scandal of any sort.”

“Once again I have confidence in your abilities, but I cannot take the chance.” William began to stare his spymaster down, locking gazes with him like an old bull locking horns with a newcomer, equally implacable, equally determined to win out and prove his superiority, equally stubborn as that animal. “The best I can do is offer to let you marry a few days after that two month limit expires. We can arrange a date and see about posting the bans, and all those other details, in the time between now and then.”

Trempwick held the deadlock. Finally his head bowed. “As you wish it, sire.”









Quickly, I'm kind of rushed currently ...

You're a Fulk partisan and you want to see Eleanor get together with Trempwick, Ludens? :questiong:

Fulk has been jealous since page 69; it's been quite a common theme whenever he sees Eleanor and Trempwick together ...

Thoughts and the necessity thereof: Tricky, from my POV all explanation is unnecessary as I know it all. It's very, very hard to judge what people do and don't get, even with very obvious, blatant things. If you (or anyone) could give a few examples of what is unnecessary I'd be able to better judge in the future.

Now, the castle fight scene. Cliché, heck yes - but then the whole Fulk/Eleanor love thing is cliché. Out of character? No. Unnecessary? No.

Fulk has been bothered by Nell's relationship with Trempy ever since he saw her walking and talking alone with Trempy (page 69), leaning in to hear what he was saying. He was burning up during those banquets because Trempy was being nice to Nell and she was liking it. Remember, he thought they were flirting, but then told himself he was being daft. Now he finds she is marrying him, and that jealously explodes. He is also smashed in the face by reality, and Fulk does not really handle reality well sometimes. He deludes himself, constantly and over many things, although this has worn off quite a lot now. The only real delusion he has left now is that somehow it is possible for him to get the girl.

Nell, well she just survived some of the worst days of her entire life, and all she was fit for was breaking down and crying, which of course her pride won’t let her do.

They aren't careful of each other's feelings like good lovers because they aren't good lovers. A few guarded kisses do not make a smooth, functional relationship. Yes, they do know each other quite well, but adding mush and this new status in alters things.

They also didn't have much time, and they did have an audience (Anne) even if she was on their side and discreet. That really makes any argument worse.

Purpose: Quite a lot, too much for me to detail just now. Take that fight scene away and see how much of a knock on effect it has. Loads; entire scenes gone, entire dialogues, gone, character growth, gone, plot points, gone. If you can't see it ask again and I'll detail when I have a minute or five.

Actually feedback on this section was mostly good.

Perspective changes: I've not chosen any limits or any one style. I do prefer to stick to one character at a time, either in great depth or in loose focus. The preference is simply economy; it allows me to keep some things hidden while revealing others. Swapping may not be the best thing, or the most professional, but in a way I’m cobbling this together as I go, making something in a style I have never encountered before (wait until it is entirely finished before you tell me others have done this; at this point in time it’s not entirely obvious). I focus on Eleanor because she sees most of the important events. I swap to any of the other characters only when they provide something Nell doesn't, be it plot, detail or characterisation. Fulk, William, Hugh - they only get a POV now and then because they provide access to something Nell can't.

Now, there are very rare occasions where I absolutely, positively need the gooseberry's POV, but also need to say something she is not aware of, misinterprets, doesn't see or whatever. Nell misses or misinterprets plenty, plenty. Much of the time that is allowable; I can explain later or leave it inferred. Sometimes it is actually very preferable to let her mistakes influence the reader. But, and it's a big but, there are a tiny, minute handful of occasions where that is going to absolutely ruin everything. On those occasions the gooseberry needs back-up.

Remember all that time ago, back when she was at John’s, she was watching Fulk's reaction to her losing her temper and she thought he hated her? Remember how seeing it through her eyes it did look like he hated her? I had plenty of people comment on that. They did not understand, just as she did not, why Fulk had suddenly gone so cold and uncaring. Of course when we hit a Fulk POV it is revealed he is actually too caring; he was at the edge of his control and doing all he could to stop himself from grabbing her and comforting her. This was intended; a part of my big plan, even down to the confusion it caused.

I tried over and over to write the scene in question from just Nell's POV, but Fulk always came out as out of character, odd, slightly ... scary, actually. I tried many times writing it from Fulk's POV, but then Nell was a lunatic, ranting for no reason, almost psychopathic seeming. To use someone else's POV was to never see the scene at all. Hence the merger; it had to be the two together. The characters could navigate the scene, but not the readers who know both Nell and Fulk so intimately. Fulk can accept that he touched a nerve with his joke and dismiss it as that. The reader, however, knows Nell better. They know there is something deeper, but they would probably not know what. It would have been the scene at John's all over again times ten, and their behaviour would never be explained in retrospect, unlike Fulk’s behaviour at John's. There was simply no space, no way to work a retrospective explanation. It would not work either; the understanding had to be paired intimately with the action.

It is not obvious by looking at the scene now, but that is a product of the merged viewpoint. Rip away everything the combined viewpoint gives, and add back in the aspects the single viewpoint gave, and you end up with two very different versions of the same scene.

John: He’s her brother, and thus she has an attachment. They spent a few years together and while her memories are not entirely happy she did not hate him. Nell kind of pities him; he used to pick fights with her and sit on her to prove he could beat someone in a fight. She finds that very sad, in a pitiable way. She also admits to liking the lovable rogue type front he presents; all style and fun, even though she knows he is a bit of an idiot. She doesn’t (didn’t) like him a huge amount, but that liking is (was) enough that she doesn’t want to see him dead. It’s not enough that she would continue to risk herself for him; as she said after her ribs were cracked she would have left him to rot if she had known she would have paid quite so highly.

Anyway, I really do have to run, or hop, or swim, or whatever it is exploding frogs do when in a hurry. I hope that helps; if not squeak up ~:)

zelda12
12-13-2004, 20:54
I find that when you switch from different places times people etc, quickly like in the last scene with Fulk and Eleanor and Ann and William, tends to increase tension and suspense in a scene. You keep on expecting something very exciting to happen. Just thought I'd say.

I did like the effect it gave the two plotlines. Climaxing with the 'stalemate'.

DemonArchangel
12-13-2004, 21:08
What if Stephan didn't die and became the king?

Axeknight
12-13-2004, 23:59
Hmm. So now Trempwick seems to be the passionate one, and William the cold voice of reason. Will's looking at the big picture and Trempo isn't.

You're a Fulk partisan and you want to see Eleanor get together with Trempwick, Ludens?
I think he just wants anyone to get it together, he doesn't sound too discerning about it to me ~D

I'm not really commenting much, am I? It's like me...

... five minutes later and I still can't think of a metaphor but you know what I mean. But I'm still reading, froggy.



Ugh, this coursework short story is so naff. So horribly, terribly naff. Ever had the feeling on reading something when there's nothing specifically wrong with it, but it still doesn't feel right? Well, most of the marks are for spelling and grammar (so naturally, I had regional accents in mine :confused: )