The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[frogbeastegg]

Side by side Fulk and Eleanor rode through the morning mists, the chill of the air turning their breath to white plumes of steam. Movement at the tree line that ran alongside the road a quarter mile away caught Fulk’s attention. Sharply he turned his head, eyes narrowing to get a better view. “Look!”

Eleanor followed the direction of his pointing finger. “I see him,” she said grimly.

The horseman remained in view for only seconds more before crossing the rest of the sparsely foliaged gap and vanishing.

Fulk mused, “No obvious armour, but at this distance it’s hard to say. Local?”

“Alone?” asked Eleanor sceptically. “Why the stealth? Why ride beside the road at distance rather than upon it?”

Fulk unhooked his helmet from where it swung from his saddle near his right knee. He let his horse have its head while he laced the helm’s chinstrap, leaving his mail coif down so as to keep clear hearing and avoid the need to grovel about in the nearly empty saddlebags for his arming cap. “Could be trouble,” he commented starkly. He slipped his shield down from the rest position so it was firmly on his arm, ready for action.

Wary, they rode on.





They timed their journey carefully so they arrived at their destination about an hour after sunset, relying on darkness to act as a cover. For once winter’s gloom was a boon instead of a bane, giving them around twelve hours to find the treasury, retrieve it and put distance between them and potential pursuit. Travelling by night was never easy, but the moon was just waning from full and the stars were out in force.

The trickiest part would be finding the marked tree. Trempwick’s spy had given them a good, detailed set of directions but even a small torch would act as a beacon, visible for a long distance. They had no reason to assume there would not be guards placed somewhere on the land, even though this was a simple manor house like that at Woburn instead of a castle.

Again winter aided; the bare trees let the weak night’s light flood into the small coppice. All the same it took nearly an hour of blundering about before they found the oak with a single horizontal line cut in the bark, exposing white wood to shine with the moon’s reflected light. At the foot of the tree, on the east side, there was a small mound under the snow. This was the spot.

Trempwick had thought of everything; he had provided them with a single shovel, the handle sawn off a foot above the blade so it could be concealed in their saddlebags. Fulk fished the shovel out, grabbed one of Eleanor’s hands and plonked the shovel in it. “Here you go,” he whispered.

“You are the menial labourer, not me,” she whispered back.

“I’m a knight so I’m above digging.”

“I am royalty.”

“I’m wearing armour; it’ll be noisy if I dig.”

“I employ you, so I cannot do all the hard work.”

Fulk sighed, shook his head and said regretfully. “We should have brought a serf.”

“I shall remember to pack one next time,” she replied wryly. “We can take turns. I will go first.” Yes, because then she would get the easy task of clearing away snow instead of half frozen earth.

Eleanor crouched down and scraped the snow away with ease. Breaking the ground proved difficult and slow; the short handle of the spade helped very little, and the need for stealth even the slightest sound feel loud enough to bring a horde of angry people down on them. Hands aching, and only slight progress made, she handed things over to Fulk. “Here you go,” she whispered with annoying cheerfulness. “Never say royalty is lazy.”

Fulk grumbled indecipherable and started work.

They traded the spade back and forth, comments growing more and more outlandish with each swap over, and their on-going quarrel over Ireland seemingly forgotten.

By the time they reached the leather bundles with the treasury the moon had moved quite some distance across the sky. Fulk pulled the bundles out of the hole and opened one to peek inside. “Money,” he said quietly. He refastened it and placed it in the saddlebag Eleanor was holding open. The process was repeated with each bag; most contained gold and silver coins but there was also many small items of jewellery, a pair of gold goblets, and a set of silver candle sticks. Between them their rough estimate came in at just over two thousand pounds; a small fortune. Heavy wealth, and it did not all fit in the saddlebags as Trempwick had blithely assured them.

Bags loaded and placed on Eleanor’s horse, with the excess tied to the saddle, they quickly kicked the dirt back into the hole, trod it down and tried to restore some semblance of harmony to the snow. The scene restored as best as possible they began to retrace their steps, Eleanor leading both horses while Fulk tried to cover their tracks.

They kept this up until they were about a mile from the coppice. They could not hide their tracks completely, and dogs would still find their scent easily enough, but they had done enough to delay any pursuit for a good while.

Fulk had slung his shield by its guige strap from his war saddle’s high back. Now, mindful of the horseman they had seen earlier as well as the risk of angry pursuit, he reclaimed it and kept it at the ready position instead of at rest. He swung up into his saddle, shield hand on the reins and ready for combat. He frowned down at Eleanor. “Your horse is overburdened to carry you too, but in the event of a fight I’d rather not have you clinging on behind me.”

She did not look pleased. “Fine. I can take a hint; I shall walk.”

“No, I meant you should get off if anyone tries to kill us.” He extended his free hand to help her up. “Ride up front,” he instructed her, “it’ll be safer when we’re moving fast.”

Eleanor rested a foot on Fulk’s and boosted herself up onto the horse’s withers, settling just in front of the saddle with her back against Fulk’s left arm and her legs dangling down the right side of the courser. She wound the arm nearest Fulk about his waist and gripped his surcoat with her other hand, holding on for dear life. It was not the most comfortable of seats. Fulk kept hold of the other horse’s reins in his right hand; he could release them as he deposited Eleanor on the ground if things got rough.

Fulk spurred his horse into a trot, balancing speed and long distance endurance. “You evil bastard,” swore Eleanor as she bounced along, jarring every bone in her body. It was impossible to rise to the trot when riding pillion.

“If you get horse sick please vomit over the side, not over me.” Not entirely a joke.






Fulk kept things moving at a rapid trot until the horses began to tire. He slowed to a walk, and asked Eleanor, “How are we feeling?”

“I think it is a very good thing I did not eat anything last night.”

“We needed the speed, oh nauseous one. I’m sure you’d complain more if people caught up with us and began poking us full of holes. By the way,” he said mischievously, “I thought you might like to know you’ve gone a nice gooseberry green.” Well, she wasn’t quite that bad but she did look quite sick, poor thing. Cruelty to Eleanors was not something Fulk approved of, but they absolutely needed the speed. They would keep this alternation between walk and trot going all the way back to Woburn.

Ah, Woburn. Fulk decided it was worth another go; he would not give up so easily. “So, back to Woburn or to the nearest western port?”

There was a very long silence before she said quietly, “You know what Trempwick said to me as we left? He threatened me; he said he would know if I ‘pulled an Adele’, and even he would not be able to save me if I did. He threatened me before as well, very, very carefully, but he was clear none the less. Even a hint more suspicion and you die. We should … I resolved to … ” She smiled sadly. “It is too hard to say, and to do. I do not wish this to end; it would be sensible but somehow I … it does not work. I try. I fail. Both at saying it, and at acting upon it. I can’t give you up, or lose you.” A pause, then she admitted simply, “I need you.”

I need you. Fulk found himself beaming like an idiot. “So you’re trying to dump me and not getting very far? I could have told you it wouldn’t work, based on long experience. I’m a sucker for distressed gooseberries, they punch right through my nice, safe resolve to keep my distance from people who are out of my reach. Must be the heroic knight in shiny armour in me.”

“And for some reason I am immune to common sense; it must be the princess in me.”

“No, you’re just vulnerable to knights with broken noses, and that’s the inner gooseberry.”

“How did we get into this mess?”

“I think it started when you killed Aidney.”

“You mean when you refused to die neatly,” she shot back. She sniffed and told him loftily, “Do not blame me for your deficiencies.”

Fulk was all mock indignation. “Oh nice!”

“You see?” Eleanor said more seriously. “How can I lose my only source of a good argument?”

“So, back to Woburn and your Trempwick. Then what?” Not the obvious, the what would she do about Trempwick, but the less obvious, the what about them.

“I have to marry him,” she said dully. “I cannot risk his enmity either. You know a man can treat his wife as he will; he will make my life hell if given excuse. I will not place you at risk; I will somehow have to become a dutiful wife.”

“A discreet relationship, then?” Better than nothing. It seemed a lifetime ago he had sat in the king’s great hall, thinking this over. Back then he had possessed two answers, the heart saying yes the head saying no. The battle had resolved itself; total victory for the heart. She didn’t answer. “Let me guess; logic says no and the inner gooseberry is loudly arguing in that noisy, persistent way only a gooseberry can?”

“Plenty of other wives manage, although none of them are stuck with Trempwick and their circumstances are very different. But … for all the spymasters and creepy servants I do not have constant chaperones, and we do have these missions. It would be playing with fire.” She said the last a little louder than the rest, emphasising it.

“You have to think about what you want, and decide if it is worth pursuing.” Sage advice, from Juliana that lifetime ago.

She said nothing but he knew she was thinking it over carefully. He left her to it.





Throughout the night and much of the following day they kept travelling, stopping for the occasional, brief rest but otherwise perpetually moving between walk and trot. After that initial burst of conversation they remained quiet for the most part, keeping to business or neutral topics.

The trailing horseman was spotted once again, at a such distance he was barely larger than a child’s toy.





From the position of the sun it was about three o’clock when they were forced to another halt; the horse had gone lame. “Probably a stone,” Eleanor said as she dropped down from her uncomfortable perch. She took the packhorse’s reins from Fulk and led the animal off out of the way.

“More than likely,” agreed Fulk. He slung his shield back out of his way and dismounted. He picked up the courser’s front left leg. “Holy Jesú!” A caltrop, a small set of iron spikes designed to always land with a point upper most, was embedded in the poor animal’s hoof. An ambush.

Everything happened at once. Men in a motley of armours and brandishing weapons began pouring out of their hiding places. Fulk was struggling to draw his sword and get his shield back into use while shouting a warning to Eleanor. The princess herself was drawing both of her wrist knives and running back over to Fulk, abandoning the packhorse.

Fulk and Eleanor stood back to back as the bandits completed their loose ring about them. Fulk took a quick head count. Five men, all lean and tough with an iron hard appearance to them. Hardened bandits, not desperate newcomers. Hauberk, as Fulk tagged the leader, with his short sleeved mail hauberk, spangenhelm and sword. Then another, Sword One, with a padded aketon in addition to his crude iron sword. Sword Two lacked the aketon but possessed a simple kettle helm like Fulk’s. Axe was the runt of the litter, with just plain clothes and a long knife to back his woodcutter’s axe. Billhook’s weapon was intended for peaceful farming but now put to a grimmer harvest; Fulk knew they were efficient weapons in the hands of skilled.

Hauberk grinned and slashed lazily at the air with his sword. “Put up your weapons, dear friends. It’d be a right pity to splash blood about on such a fine day. Deal’s here; she’s,” the tip of his sword aimed at Eleanor, “valuable. We’ve a customer who’d pay a small fortune for her alive and unharmed. He’s not minding if you’re,” the point flicked at Fulk, “dead. I’m a great believer in taking the easy way; hand over the girl and we’ll let you live. I’ll even let you keep the fancy armour.” From the way he spoke Hauberk must have been a noble at some point, a broken down knight or a lesser son of a poor lord.

Fulk asked Eleanor, “What do you think, dear heart? Do you want to go with the nice men?”

“I do appreciate their offer but he,” Eleanor shrugged her shoulders lightly and aimed a dagger at Axe, deliberately mimicking Hauberk, “has a beard, and I do so hate beards.”

Hauberk threw his head back and laughed with the confidence of one who was sure of victory, even if he was equally sure it’d be a costly one. “Cute. Kill him, but remember the girl’s our pay.”

The bandits exploded into action. Billhook reached out a hand towards Eleanor, saying patronisingly, “Put the knives dow-” His words were lost in a scream of pain as Eleanor sliced his hand open, cutting through to bone and severing tendons in a gush of blood. Sword Two swore and brought his blade up to guard position as Billhook staggered back, dropping his weapon and clutching his wrist tightly to get the bleeding under control.

Axe aimed a cleaving blow at Fulk’s shoulder. Fulk blocked with his shield, his arm going numb with the force of the impact. The axe bit deep into the top of the shield, then pulled free. Still recovering, but knowing he could waste no time if he wanted to live, Fulk lunged at Axe, slightly off-balance. The sword tip sank into guts; Fulk twisted the blade and pulled it free, flinging his shield wide to deflect Sword One’s own thrust.

Eleanor took a risk and threw her left knife at Sword Two; he dodged and jumped in. Reflexively Eleanor stabbed with her other dagger, catching him in the ribs; the force of Sword Two’s movement sending him crashing further onto the blade. The dagger twisted from Eleanor’s hand as Sword Two collapsed, her grip made slick by blood and sweat. She was disarmed.

Fulk was fending off both Hauberk and Sword One, sheltering behind his shield and parrying with a calm, controlled fluidity. He needed to keep them both in front of him; they were doing their best to flank him. Position was everything.

Billhook had seized hold of Eleanor with his good hand and was using his crippled hand to try and bash her into submission. Eleanor had lapsed into a kind of panicked frenzy, kicking, scratching, hitting and using every trick she knew to escape.

Fulk dodged right, turning as he moved to keep both his foes in front of him. Hauberk lunged, aiming at his unprotected lower legs. Fulk brought his sword in and parried, but too late. He felt hauberk’s sword burn a line across his knee, followed by the warm flow of blood. Hauberk grinned, sensing victory and enjoying himself. Sword One hung back, letting his chief have the kill. Fulk and Hauberk circled warily, launching the occasional faint and attack but neither managed to get an advantage. The few, glancing attacks that made it through were harmlessly deflected on mail.

Eleanor gave up and allowed Billhook to reel her in; he kept hold of her right arm and crushed her to him, subduing her. She gave up the pretence; her left handed uppercut to his jaw was blocked with condescending ease. Her knee to the groin was not quite. She began to struggle again, now in range for a new set of attacks.

Hauberk was good, too damned good for Fulk’s liking. They exchanged a few more blows, again doing no harm with only a few cuts even touching body armour lightly. Changing tactics Fulk waited until he blocked the next attack, then stepped in with lightning speed. Hauberk was forced to back-pedal to maintain the gap, but he lost balance doing so. Fulk kept pressing in, now raining blows down, keeping Hauberk off balance and unable to recover. Hauberk stumbled on the uneven ground. It was all Fulk needed; the edge of his sword smashed into Hauberk’s unprotected face, shattering the cheekbone, then slicing away the rest of his cheek as Fulk pulled his cut and drew the blade back before it could lodge in bone.

Sword One braced himself, came at Fulk, then lost courage and ran, casting away his weapon. Safe, Fulk turned and found Eleanor still grappling with Billhook. Billhook saw he was alone and cursed. He shoved Eleanor away from him and began to run too, heading in the opposite direction to his other surviving comrade.

Peace fell as suddenly as it had been shattered. Fulk dropped his bloodied sword and caught Eleanor in a tight embrace. Wordlessly they clung together.







Yes, I do realise this leaves quite a bit unsaid. There should actually be a few more scenes, one at the very least, paired with this but I don’t have time to write them now and this was getting a bit long. Now’s as good a stopping place as any. Think of it as a kind of two parter, just like those TV series where they cut off just when things start to get interesting and then spend five minutes recapping what happened last week.

Suddenly I’m reminded I haven’t written a proper fight in months, and I was never too practised at it anyway.

Thanks for that, zelda. Effect noted for further reference ...

Well ... if you see a man limping about on a twisted leg start to wonder. :gring:

Discerning, hehe, I have (scattered across my various audiences) people who want Fulk and Nell to get together, people who want Nell and Trempwick to get together, people who would love to see Trempwick get hurt, people who would love to see Fulk get hurt, people who want more mush, people who would love more fighting, and probably more besides! I can never say my readership is boring and predictable :)


Yes, I have had that feeling, Axeknight. Most pesky.

[DemonArchangel]

Oh, i'll start to wonder alright. I suspect Stephan will make a reappearance, after all, he might have planned for his father to try and off him, so he made his own arrangements.

[scooter_the_shooter]

well thats a great part frog :bow:

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor raised her face from Fulk’s shoulder and said ruefully, “I think I now have a mail imprint pattern on my front.”

“Really? I can check if you like.”

“Hooligan.”

“We’d better get out of here. You collect the horses; I’ll take care of the rest.” She nodded her agreement and set off after the horses. The courser, battle trained as it was, had not gone far. The other animal’s herd instincts had kept it from bolting, and it stood at its companion’s side, shivering and showing the whites of its eyes.

Fulk made his way to Sword Two’s corpse and kicked it over so it sprawled on its back with mouth and eyes slackly open. Planting one foot on the ribcage he tugged Eleanor’s knife out. He didn’t stop to see if the man had possessed anything worth taking; with one lame horse and one fully burdened animal they already had more than they could carry, and the promise of further trouble was not far from the forefront of Fulk’s mind.

Hauberk was still alive, his chest rising and falling feebly. He was unconscious, perhaps mercifully so. No such blessing for Axe; he was awake and slowly becoming more aware of what had happened to him as each second passed. His stunned silence had given way to groaning blended with curses and pleas for help. There was only one kind of help for a man badly wounded in the gut and Fulk gave it, stabbing Eleanor’s knife in under Axe’s armpit so it found his heart. To Hauberk he dealt the same mercy, better than a slow, agonising death alone in the snow.

A bit of searching turned up Eleanor’s second knife and Fulk’s dropped sword. He cleaned the weapons on Axe’s tunic, scrubbing off the clotting, freezing blood so it could not foul the weapons’ sheathes. He returned his sword to his side and, all that needed doing done, headed to meet Eleanor.

Eleanor has gone ashen, stood in the middle of the carnage and staring at what was left of Hauberk’s face. Fulk took the horses’ reins from her unresisting hand and stood to block her view. “Here, your knives.”

Unable to see the mangled visage she seemed to recover a bit; she took the knives and replaced them in their sheathes. “Your leg is wounded.” She crouched at his side and gently peeled the blood-sodden woollen material of his hose back from the wound. A shallow gash about a handspan long travelled up the side of his leg from just below the knee to well above it. It was bleeding steadily but not deep. “It is not bad,” Eleanor managed to say, her already loudly protesting stomach performing new twists as her eyes found themselves unable to look away from the cut. The blood seemed so bright, and the wound itself leapt out at her from the surrounding skin like the foreground of a picture standing out from the background.

With difficulty she looked away and rose again. “We can …” Her eyes lit on the body of Sword Two. “Oh Jesú,” she groaned, and dropped to the ground, one hand gathering her hair at the back of her neck and the other on the ground for balance as she brought up what little there was in her stomach.

Fulk knelt at her side, wincing as his knee protested. Gently he took hold of her hair in one hand, brushing stray wisps back from her face. Eleanor let him take over and dropped her other hand to the ground as she retched dryly. Working from his store of Eleanor lore Fulk offered the comfort he thought best. “There’s no shame in it. It takes battlefield experience before you gain some immunity to carnage such as this; seeing criminals executed or animals slaughtered is not the same.”

Between retches she managed to say, “For God’s sake do not tell Trempwick that! He would be deeply disgruntled if he knew his attempts to provide me with a cast iron stomach had failed, and I would not be the least bit surprised if he arranged a battlefield tour or two for me, even if it meant organising the battlefields himself.”

Fulk would not put it past the spymaster to arrange something like that either. Almost selfishly Fulk slammed a mental foot down on the Trempwick’s presence; these were his few days with his love, and the spymaster could damned well stop intruding. He turned to business in a smoothing murmur, “We’ll have to walk; my horse won’t carry any weight and the other is still loaded. We passed a small settlement a few miles from here on our way out; we should be able to get a night’s shelter there.”

Eleanor’s stomach finally seemed to register that it had long been empty, and she managed to stop heaving. She used a handful of clean snow to wipe her lips and stood up. Fulk fished out a costrel of small ale from their supplies and gave it to her so she could rinse her mouth out. He grinned. “Forgive me, your gooseberryness, if I refuse to kiss you for a bit.”

“Yes, it would be a pity if I got sick again,” she retorted.

Fulk rolled his eyes and said mournfully to himself, “As usual she blames me for everything. I don’t know why I bother.”

They began to walk, leading one horse each. “Because,” she said with a glint, “you are hopelessly in love with me.”

"Well, there is that. I also feel this sense of obligation to gooseberries who are hopelessly in love with me.”






As soon as they were away from the stench of blood and death they paused to clean off the blood from their skin with handfuls of snow. They did what they could with their clothes, but nothing short of several good washes would remove the blood from the wool. At least they looked a little better.






A little further down the road the effects of the battle were both wearing off and coming keen. Once the fire of battle left your blood the effects were well known and predictable. If it hurt already then it began to hurt tenfold, if it did not already hurt then it began to, until you slowly became aware that your body was covered in many small cuts and bruises you did not even notice getting and those hurts you were aware of slowly became more insistent.

Aware of Eleanor’s constant covert glances Fulk tried to disguise his increasing limp as a swagger. The joint was stiffening as the long cut scabbed over. Nothing serious, but he didn’t want her worrying.





During the last third of their journey to the village the horseman was spotted again, still following discreetly. This time he was a little closer, and they could just make out a very few details. The man’s heavy cloak hid any armour he might have, but a sword of some kind could just be made out. The horse looked like a grey, but with the sun beginning to go down and at this distance that was more an impression than a certain fact.

As ever the glimpse was brief; horse and rider melted away into cover once more.







Together Fulk and Eleanor headed to the tiny stone church to the northern side of the settlement. In the absence of an inn their best bet was to beg for shelter from the priest. Anticipating this issue Fulk had given Eleanor a brief tutorial on village priests and how to handle them, seeing how she had never encountered this low rung of the clergy before.

Generally speaking the average village priest was more worldly and less strict than his more sheltered and highly placed brethren. Living amongst the people and sharing their cares and joys gave then an insight lacking amongst the cloisters and towns. That was not to say all village priests were jolly old beans who loved nothing more than joining in with the local celebrations. No, there was a good sprinkling of men working to the strictest schools and interpretations of God’s word.

This priest, most fortunately, turned out to be one of the more worldly types and he was glad enough to offer them his humble bed for the night once he found they had removed several of the thugs who had been plaguing the area. “A night in prayer’s going to do me no harm,” he told them cheerfully. “We’ve been asking our lord to send a troop to rouse out those bandits for a good while now, and he’s not answered. I’ve little enough food for myself, but once words spreads about I’m sure others will donate a little of what they can spare in gratitude.”

Fulk handled much of the conversation and organising, while Eleanor hovered respectfully at his elbow, looking demure and suffering bravely as Fulk had instructed. This priest was unlikely to break out into sermons on a woman’s place if she took a little initiative herself, but capturing sympathy never hurt. She did insist very politely that she needed no help in tending to Fulk’s wound, and that seemed to go down well.

The priest’s dwelling was a single large room inside a wattle and daub walled thatched building, much like any other in the village but smaller. The interior was plain, though whether that was because he took his vow of poverty seriously or because he really was very poor was anyone’s guess. There was a simple table paired with a bench, and a small array of earthenware vessels sat in parade on the tabletop. The bed was made up of a few wooden planks placed so they formed a hollow box in one corner of the room. The outlined area was be filled with straw and a linen sheet placed over it to form a crude mattress. Several thick blankets were heaped on the bed, along with a meagre looking pillow. The rushes on the beaten earth floor had seen better days, but there was a good dose of dried flea’s bane mixed in with them.

They piled their bags in the corner nearest the small bed. Fulk sat on the low bed with his leg stiffly stuck out in front of him. He took his helmet off and handed it to Eleanor, then began examining his shield by the flickering light coming from the small cooking fire. “I’ll have to get a new one,” he told her glumly. “The board’s damaged, the facing’s worse. To patch it is to leave it weak.”

“Leave the shield; I will help you off with your armour and see to your knee.”

Fulk was just about to untie the lacing holding his right hose up when the priest returned with a plain jug and a small iron caldron of pottage. He was followed by one of the village woman bearing another small caldron with heated water, a pot of salve and a few bits of very cheap linen. “Barley spirit,” explained the priest as he handed the bottle to Eleanor. “To clean your wounds.” He placed the pottage next to the hot water on the stones surrounding the fire. “Goodnight, and God bless.”

When they were alone again Eleanor asked Fulk, “Clean your wound first, or food first?”

Fulk’s reply was speedy and resolute. “Food.” Get your priorities right; leave the painful stuff until later and eat your dinner while it’s hot. They carted the pottage over to the table and sat side by side. Not wanting to waste time with unnecessary faffing about they ate from the iron pot itself with the spoons every sensible traveller carried. Plain pottage with a handful of dried peas stirred in to add flavour and variety, bland but the first decent food they had had in over a day. The pot was soon scraped clean.

“Right then,” said Eleanor, standing up, “your leg.”

Fulk reluctantly pushed himself up and limped over to the bed. “You do know what you’re doing, right?”

“Of course. I patched up my own cuts all the time until I met you.”

“Oh.” Somehow he did not find that reassuring. He untied the lace holding the right leg of his hose to the cord belt holding up his braies and let Eleanor remove it along with his boot. He ventured, “Um, if you don’t want to do this I can take care of it myself.”

“Nonsense.” She shooed him over until he was arranged with his cut facing the flickering light so she could see to work.

“It really wouldn’t be any trouble …”

"Stop wriggling,” she said sternly. She took a piece of linen, soaked it in the water and began sponging away the dried blood on his skin, before talking the clotted blood on the cut itself. There were some strands of wool stuck in the cut; she removed those carefully. She was proving quite competent and gentle; Fulk would have relaxed and lay back on the bed instead of sitting up and watching her every move hawkishly but he wanted warning when she went for that barley spirit.

Cleaning done Eleanor placed the used bit of linen to one side and picked up the jug. “Ready?” she asked. “And do note I am polite enough to give you fair warning, unlike some people.” She glared at him then.

Fulk smiled weakly. “Please tell me you’re not carrying a grudge.”

“Not at all.” She began to pour. Fulk’s muscles clenched but he didn’t make a sound. When she’d finished Eleanor patted his head and told him, “Good knight.”

“I feel like a damned dog!”

Eleanor didn’t reply. She blobbed some of the ointment on and used the leftover linen to bandage the cut. “Done.”

While she tidied away Fulk got up and limped over to the door. A bit of investigating revealed a good, strong wooden bar that slipped into a pair of holding loops. He slotted it in place, keeping the world out, then retuned to the bed. He pulled off his other boot but remained sat up in the middle with both legs stretched out in front of him. He patted the space at his side. “Let me fix that bird’s nest you are calling your hair.”

“Typical,” grumbled Eleanor good naturedly as she dug out her comb, “we have the rest of our journey to worry about and he wants to play with my hair.”

“The worrying is easy, oh agitated one. We will have to continue to walk, and pray no one else attacks us. It will be a week at least before my poor horse can bear heavy weight again.”

Eleanor removed her own shoes and sat where he indicated with her back to him and her legs gathered up to one side. He untied the ribbon and began to undo what was left of her single braid, gently teasing apart tangles with his fingers. His fingers brushed hers as he took the comb from her, and when he began to brush it was quite different from his usual efficient work, more languorous. He kept working long after the last of the knots had disappeared, moving from crown of head to ends of her hair in one fluid stroke after another, his free hand gliding after the comb in a light caress.

After a while Eleanor glanced back over a shoulder and inquired, “Having fun?”

His reply was honest, accompanied by a slight smile. “Yes.” He ceased his brushing and very delicately kissed her on the lips. “Time, space – they change so much.” He began to play with a lock of hair near her ear, running his fingers down through it until they reached the curve of her breast then returning to her ear again. “No lake of oil caught by a spark effect this time, and we’re not nearly so likely to get charred. Much more enjoyable too, slow.”

“Erm …”

“Yes, I know – no repeat of Maude, but after the day I’ve had I’m in no fit state.” A lie. “Besides, this is a priest’s house.” So what? “And finally,” he leaned forward to confide this one in a very soft voice, “I have tied my braises belt in so many knots it takes a clear head, steady hands and a lot of time to get them off!” Very, very true, and a real nuisance when he went to the privy.

Eleanor blinked, then began to laugh. “Interesting thinking, helmet head.”

“I pride myself on my ability to think my way around a problem.” He kissed her again, long, slow and tender, forestalling any more chatter.

Eleanor said, “I have heard much about arguing and then making things up afterwards.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. We have been fighting quite a bit …”

“And you want to make up?”

“Well … I suppose I can show mercy and settle for a white peace instead of pressing for total victory.” She shifted position so she was facing him.

“Mmm,” agreed Fulk shortly before they kissed again. “Generous of you.” Another long kiss. “But sadly we miss half the fun.” Yet another kiss. “Nothing to stop us putting in a good showing on the other half though. But first …” He took her right arm in a gentle grip slid the outer sleeve up. With a crooked grin he told her lightly, “Better safe than stabbed to death.” He rapidly began to unfasten the straps holding the knife in place.

“I would not stab you,” Eleanor told him solemnly. “Trempwick, now then I might think about it, but not you.” That was because Trempwick always had an element of fear and panic attached to him, fear of stepping off into the unknown, an unknown she had repeatedly been told she was not suited to. That fear was still here with Fulk, but only a trace, distant unless she thought about it. She realised too late what she had done in mentioning the spymaster. “Sorry.” She watched as Fulk removed the second knife. “I think the only way this will ever work is to compartmentalise; forget him when I am with you, and forget you when I am with him.” She knew immediately whom would prove easiest to forget; Trempwick.

Trying to fix her error Eleanor ran a finger down his nose, lingering at the crooked break. “Springy tree branch,” she said in a soft murmur with a shake of her head and a hint of a smile.

While they kissed again Fulk began to work at the knot tying her girdle in a leisurely manner, testing out her reaction. The lack of sudden pain was encouraging and he soon had the knot free. He unwrapped the two loops of the belt and cast it to one side to join the knives on the floor.

Eleanor shifted over once again, this time sitting on Fulk’s lap with one arm about his shoulders. “Fair’s fair,” she told him as she tweaked his belt off and threw it on the ground.

“I’ve already got one bare leg,” he replied amiably as he brushed a hand up her leg, moving her skirts out the way until the garter for her stocking come into view. He untied the garter and rolled the stocking off. “Now we’re even.”

“No, you know what you are doing whereas I am clueless.”

He chuckled. “You, oh dearest sour fruit thing, are a very fast study.”

They sat closer, forehead to forehead, their noses touching. Fulk’s hands began a slow exploration of her assorted curves. Eleanor idly picked up a lock of his hair; it had now grown from its previous style so it hung just past his jaw and was in need of barbering into the correct shape for the new style. “Fast study,” she repeated thoughtfully. She tried running her fingers through his hair in an echo of his earlier thing. While Fulk’s fingers worked daintily on the side lacings of her dress Eleanor told him, “It is quite soothing. Stress relief, pet a knight.”

“Do I get a promotion with that? Royal stress reliever, maybe?”

Eleanor thought, and Fulk began to unlace the other side of her dress. “Nope, some might say the job is its own reward.”

“Well …” Fulk swept her hair to one side away from her neck and began kissing the hollow under her jaw. “I suppose it’s not so bad.”

Tired of nibbling earlobes Fulk sat back and surveyed her. He tried to raise one eyebrow but as usual he couldn’t manage it; after a brief struggle he just raised both instead. “Dear, dear – now you’ve turned into a shapeless blob! We can’t have that.” With the side lacings of her dress undone the top half of her clothes was no longer even slightly form fitting. A bit of joint effort and the dress joined the growing pile on the floor.

“A chivalrous man never leaves his lady to freeze while he is nice and warm,” said Eleanor insistently as she began to tug at his tunic.

“Told you you’re a fast study.” Fulk batted her hands away, leaned back so he wouldn’t knock her with an elbow, and pulled his tunic off himself in one swift movement. He caught her up in another close embrace and kissed her again unhurriedly, taking the opportunity to explore those curves again.

A good while later he ventured, “That underdress of yours is really quite terrible, all faded and patched in several places. Doesn’t suit you at all.” A bit more work and it too joined the heap of clothing on the floor, followed by Fulk’s shirt, the other leg of his hose and Eleanor’s other stocking.

Fulk could tell Eleanor was not going to part with her shift, and all he had left was his braes, so the game ended there. Shivering they dived under the mound of blankets on the bed, huddling together for warmth and comfort.






Anne was not eating, and nor was William. Lacking any appetite of his own since John’s execution he ate when Anne did, splitting everything in two with her to keep her from fretting about him starving himself to death. The others at the feast appeared not to have noticed the royal couple’s melancholy.

William asked her, “You are not sickening for something, are you?”

“No, my lord.”

“William,” he reminded her. People could overhear, they were using the falsely private volume of speech as it mattered not if people overheard his concern for her health and she was following his lead. That said her usage of the wrong term of address was a genuine mistake this time, not for the benefit of the audience. William was concerned. He dropped his voice lower, “You have been downhearted ever since our trip to Woburn yesterday, are you sure nothing is wrong?”

Anne frowned and appeared content to keep her peace. She blurted out, “She can’t have given up. I will not believe it.”

“Who given up what?”

"Eleanor; I cannot believe she has been won over by your spymaster. Not when she lo-,” there she swapped words, one for another, neatly done but not artful enough to escape William’s notice. “disliked the idea so much at first.”

‘Lo-’, now what could be made out of that? Loathe? Perhaps, dropped for a more diplomatic word. “She is seeing sense, thinking instead of being mulish.”

“Head over heart?” she asked forlornly.

“Yes, just so.” Although quite what hearts had to do with the brat’s obstinate insistence on going her own way William could not say.

“Not a happy ending,” she sighed.

William frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean? It is a very happy ending; she is finally learning her place and she will be happier in the end for it, as will we all.”

Anne didn’t answer, nor did she lift from her depression.






That last Fulk/Nell scene was a miniturised, frog specific hell to write.

He might have, Demon. Keep your eyes peeled.

Thanks, caesar. It's much easier to write a fight then mush, even if I am badly out of practise at fights. There's probabyl a moral there somewhere ...

[DemonArchangel]

Hmm.... finally, Fulk and Eleanor get closer...
Damnit, someone needs to kick william's and trempwick's asses.

[zelda12]

*day dreams about Fulk doing commando style action hero trip on Tremps and Williams butts.*

Edit:
Ignore me I'm suffering from writers block. Last piece was good Milady. Good ending with Annes hinting, I have a feeling Williams gonna croak (no pun intended) before the wedding and Anne'll...

[frogbeastegg]

Jocelyn was aware by the sudden, meaningful gap in his wife’s prattling that he was finally expected to say something. He hadn’t been paying attention for … oh, minutes now. He seldom did; Richildis could bore the hind leg off a warhorse with all her gossip and talk of the household. The gap drew out. He grunted something noncommittal and hoped that would suffice.

“You’ve not been listening to a word I have been saying!” she accused stridently.

“I have, and you know it.”

“Go on then – give me the benefit of your advice.”

“You know I always let you handle your own problems.”

“Pah! I knew it, not listening at all. I was saying something needs to be done about Mahaut; she was chasing one of your pages about today using her spindle like a sword, insisting she was a Valkyrie from legend.”

“She’s your daughter.”

“Yours too.” Almost defensively she added, “She has your stubborn chin and fair colouring; anyone can see she’s yours.”

“Yes, yes, I don’t doubt that,” replied Jocelyn crossly. If he did the girl would have found herself in a convent, closely followed by her mother. “You know our arrangement; you deal with her and I handle our sons.”

“You sent Thierry away and Jean is still in his crib; you have nothing to do. You might as well take an interest in your daughter, as I take an interest in my sons.”

Jocelyn stiffed a groan; so she was still in high dudgeon over Thierry? Amazing; the woman could do nothing if not hold a grudge. It had been over two weeks now. “The boy is seven, it is high time he began his training in earnest. It might be unusual to foster the heir out, but a place with our liege – the count of Tourraine no less - is nothing to be sneezed at, woman.”

“If you say so. I am after all only his mother, and as such don’t need to be consulted before the boy leaves, or even warned until the evening before he goes.”

“Exactly.” He left time for his barb to be recognised and sink in and then continued, “I leave Mahaut in your capable hands. And now, unless there’s something else we can be doing,” he rested a hand suggestively on her thigh, “I shall go to sleep.”

Richildis said frostily, “I have a headache.”

Jocelyn smiled into his beard and said with saccharine false concern, “You should see a physician, dear. All these headaches, night after night. You must be ill.” Miserable cow. He could press his rights but it really wasn’t worth the pouting, glowering, fuming and general resentment he’d have to put up with for days afterwards. He rolled over with his back to her. Pity Ardentes was only a small castle; if there’d been space Jocelyn would have dumped Richildis in her own bedroom. They’d been married for eight years, since she was fifteen and he twenty, and the best they’d ever managed was a kind of tolerant dislike.

This evening’s battle was not yet done. “Yves has summoned me to Saint Maur. I depart tomorrow.” The expected complaining never came; she must be privately celebrating that she would have a few days without him. Perhaps if he brought her back enough material for a new dress she would finally stop sulking about Thierry? Anything to buy a bit of peace!






The weather at last began to change; the new day dawned clear and bright with no new snow or frost. The air was a touch warmer. Fulk and Eleanor set out early, declining the priest’s offer of another night’s shelter, knowing he made it out of politeness only. They walked much as they had done on their way into the village; each leading a horse, Fulk in full armour and trying to hide his limp, and Eleanor looking generic and harmless.

They would make it back into the spymaster’s territory tonight, by Eleanor’s calculations. Back to safety, plentiful food, decent lodgings, warmth, clean clothes, and, if she had any say in the matter, a hot bath. The food would be terrible, the bath would take such effort to organise that the prospect wearied her, and safety would be from marauding bandits but not spymasters and servants.

God alone knew what precisely Trempwick would say when he saw them, but Eleanor could guess and that guess was bad enough. His diatribe would run along the lines of, “Bah! Nearly dead! Blah, blah, blah, no more risks like this. Blah, blah, too important to let die, blah. You could have been killed! Shock horror, whinge, blah, blah.” Cue unpleasant method of teaching her to be more cautious in future, even though this had not been her fault. His concern should probably be flattering … or something.

One last day, just one more day minus the evening and night, to be alone with Fulk, and not another chance until she was sent off to do something else. A day of fear, waiting and watching for another attack, either from bandits or from the treasury’s keepers. A day of hurried travel, racing against those who must surely be hunting them. A day of hiding in fake personalities that had such potential but little opportunity to utilise the most appealing aspects. A day of wading through mud, snow, ice and slush. A day filled with the protests and aches of the many minor injuries they had both picked up in yesterday’s fight.

A month and nine days until her father’s two month limit ran out.










A tiny bit; I had hoped to introduce Jocelyn with two scenes instead of one but the second scene still needs a little tweak here and there. I'm horrifically busy so I haven't had much time to write. I don't see that being any better tomorrow, but past then it might pick up ... as long as I can mostly ignore Chirstmas.

I haven't forgotten the reader's request I promised to do as a side scene; I hope to post something as a Christmas special type thing, although some readers will hate it because they prefer Trempwick over Fulk, and a few others like William.

[frogbeastegg]

Jocelyn watched as his son and heir poured wine. The boy did well, the ruby liquid falling in a graceful arc from a good height above the cup, but his nerves betrayed him and a few tiny droplets spilled onto his father’s hand and wrist. Thierry stepped back to his place behind his lord and his father, standing to attention with the jug still in hand.

“Your family is well?” inquired Yves de Tourraine.

“Yes, my liege.” Jocelyn took a swallow of his drink so as not to snub his lord’s hospitality. “My wife is in good health, although missing our eldest boy. Mahaut is energetic and … assured for her four years, and the baby begins to talk and walk in some decent manner.” The son his wife missed so much stood behind them, and to Jocelyn’s enormous pride did not make his presence known even during a conversation staged mostly for his benefit, to give him news of home without taking him away from his studies. Still as a statue, blending in to the background, forgettable, like a good page should be. Thierry was doing his old man proud.

The count waved a hand. “Boy.” Thierry stepped forward, attent and straight-backed. “You will go and join the others in the armoury now. Polish my shield boss; I expect to see my face in it. Leave the care of the facing to the older boys.”

Thierry bowed, still holding his wine jug before his chest, and silently filed out. When the door closed Yves remarked, “A fine lad.”

“I am glad you think it, my lord. He is fast with his hands, and a good horseman already. He shows great promise, although I say it myself.” Just a pity that the great boost from being in a count’s household was tempered by the personality of the count himself. Most fortuitous, and Jocelyn thanked God for it each day, that Yves would have little to do with the boy’s training, instead delegating it to others more able.

De Tourraine held up his hands to stem the flow or parental pride and said jokingly, “Enough; you have already sold him to me, he has his place in my house.” More seriously, “It is his father I have need of.”

“My sword is yours, as always.”

“Good; I have need of it.” Yves paused, checking about his small solar as if expecting someone to have snuck in to listen in on the two men. In a hushed voice he said, “The King of England is a crazed, blood hungry fool bent on destruction. I bowed to him because it suited me; now it suits me to break away.”

“My lord, the King of England is merciless - he executed his own son for treason.”

“That is, in part, why I feel I must risk much and break away.” Yves suddenly laughed. “He forbids all to speak French, instead using English for everything. But look at us, Jocelyn, we are speaking langue d’oil, French as he so calls it. What is he to do about it? Nothing!” A contemptuous flap of a hand dismissed William’s power. Yves always spoke with his hands, sometimes making more sense with their flapping than with the words flowing from his mouth. “He is old, weakening, growing ever more unpopular. His heir is a bastard, and he would foist that on us as king and have us pay homage to it on bended knee. I think not. There is no other son. Out here this William is but a distant spectre. Can the same be said of Henri, King of France? Our lands border on those owing allegiance to him. He is young; there is plenty of hope for the future there. I have been given assurances by a certain party that I will be well supported in my attempt; I shall have powerful allies, powerful.”

Jocelyn could not believe his ears. What folly, sheer, unredeemable, complete folly. He did not care to hear more; he could see little to improve this from base foolishness. It was humiliating, being beholden to such a man. Yves had never shown ability for intrigue, never. Jocelyn had once joked that his lord could not out-scheme a rock, and, as God was his witness, it was true. Bowing to the English king upon inheriting his father’s position was the best move Yves had ever made on the political front. The English king could crush Yves like a flea.

Ah, and yet did not Jocelyn pray nightly for someone worthy to serve? For someone worthy to take the title of count? If he followed his lord to war he would be doing so only for the sake of his oath, proving to all he was a loyal and trustworthy vassal. That much he must do; to hold back when his liege called was to shame himself before all, and to ensure that none would ever trust him again until the day of his death.

A loyal vassal, one who showed he was torn between loyalty to his lord and to his king, would be worth treating with when the foolish count was inevitably removed. With careful manoeuvring he could emerge from this enriched, more powerful, more important, more prestigious. Yes … a loyal man would be needed to take up the title of count of Tourraine when Yves lost it, either dead or stripped of his title.

Had he not prayed daily for a worthy man to take the title of Count of Tourraine? Yes! Had he also spent many hours pleading with the Almighty for a sign of favour? Yes! This was his sign! Tourraine would soon have a new count, and Jocelyn could profit handsomely from it, maybe even rising to count himself. He knew the land, the people, the requirements, he was able, skilled, pious and loyal.

Jocelyn had to work to hold back a smile. Thierry’s position would prove more useful than he had previously thought. His claim that his son and heir had been held hostage in the guise of serving as a page would prove most … heartrending.

“My lord,” he said solemnly, “my sword is yours.” Yves would not take long to lose, and Jocelyn would ensure he got to the English king the instant that happened. He could even be responsible for ending the rebellion; if he ordered men to put down their weapons many would listen.

By boat it had only taken him a few hours to get here from his own holdings; he had time aplenty to stop in Chateauroux on his return trip this afternoon to offer a generous donation at the cathedral. God favoured him and in His wisdom had seen fit to answer Jocelyn’s prayers.







The second Jocelyn scene, explaining a bit more about who he is and why he is here.

[frogbeastegg]

This is not at all part of the story; it takes place in an alternate universe … or something. It’s just a bit of silliness to fill several reader’s requests, and to provide a bit of stupid fun for Christmas. It also makes handy relief for a frog who is beginning to get strained juggling so many plot related balls at once.

NB: Please don’t kill me for the fanmail. I’m not basing them on anyone’s comments, just typical fanmail stuff.







Fulk and Eleanor walked in through the gate of Woburn manor, leading their two horses. They were footsore and weary, more than a little muddy and the gore produced by their fight against the bandits yesterday had now dried to a deep brownish black. Fulk’s armour was beginning to rust.

Their arrival was greeted in an unexpected manner; William came hurtling out the main door with Anne hanging on to the back of his belt with both hands, dragging along and digging her heels in as she tried to hold him back. “Stop!” she pleaded, nearly losing her grip and balance as William banked into a turn and headed right for Eleanor.

“Brat!” bellowed William, his face turning purple. “Have a nice trip?”

“Not bad,” replied Eleanor mildly.

William stopped just short of his daughter and looked over his shoulder at Anne. “I say, do you mind letting go? It is a bit hard to go into a proper apocalyptic rage with you clinging on back there.”

“That is the idea.” Anne tightened her grip and prepared to be all brave and martyrish.

“Look, sweetheart-”

“Don’t sweetheart me, you great lump. You know I am chairwoman of the Society for the Protection of Eleanor, or SPE as I like to call it.”

“Darling, please let go? Please? I promise I will not break any bones or kill her, please?"

“No!”

Eleanor and Fulk exchanged a meaningful glance, one which said “What in the name of boiled eggs is going on here!?”

The meaningful looks and assorted husband/wife pleading was interrupted by Trempwick, arriving in high dudgeon and asking in a dramatically wounded voice, “Nell, how could you?”

“How could I what, master?”

“You know what I mean, and frankly, dear Nell, I am more than a little annoyed.”

“About what?”

“You know, Nell. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“No, I really do not know.” Eleanor frowned slightly. “Are you going senile, master?”

Trempwick choked. “I am only thirty-four!”

“I always thought you were older …”

“Insult to injury, darling Nell, insult to injury. I shall have to work hard to think of something appropriately sadistic to put you through for this.”

Eleanor snapped her fingers and pulled a wry face. “Oh darn!”

Fulk had had enough. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “SPE? Raging kings? Upset spymasters? Honestly it’s like the world has gone mad overnight!”

William levelled an accusing finger at Eleanor. “You slut! Pain! Much pain! More pain! Yes, pain will follow for this!” His maniacal evil villain style speech was cut off by Anne elbowing him in the back and scowling furiously at him.

Trempwick, Eleanor and Fulk watched the start of a new king/queen bout of squabbling, then looked away feeling totally embarrassed. Trempwick clearly felt the onerous duty of outlining the weak plot of this story had fallen upon his shoulders. He cleared his throat and said balefully, “Your night of ‘fun’ with your pet, dear Nell. We know all about it. In detail.”

Eleanor turned on her ‘so innocent butterflies come out of my nose when I sneeze’ act. “What night of ‘fun’, master?”

“You, him, a priest’s hut, and there is no point in explaining further because the readers only read that bit a few days ago so they should remember it all very well.”

“It is all an evil lie,” insisted Eleanor virtuously.

Fulk nodded vigorously. “Whatever it was we didn’t do it.”

Trempwick brandished a bundle of letters. “Ah ha! But there is no denying it, dear Nell - I have proof! The Fulk hating readers wrote in en masse to tell me about your antics.”

He selected one letter and began to read. “Dear Raoul (can I call you that? I’m your biggest fan! You’re so great, and so not like that annoying Fulk idiot.) I enclose here a copy of the scene where your little Nell (you deserve better, but maybe she will one day see how special you are and fall totally and deeply in love with you. I do hope so!!) starts doing unspeakable things with her stupid pet (kill him! Kill him please! You’re so much cooler than him and he takes up space in the story you could occupy instead!). I couldn’t bear watching them make a fool out of you. Please do something, for the sake of your fans (I’m your biggest fan ever!).”

Eleanor smartly shot back, “It’s a lie, slander. Yes - lies.”

Trempwick selected another letter. “Dear Trempwick. I feel it is in your best interests to inform you that Eleanor is carrying on with Fulk. I don’t really like Fulk much so please kill him. Thanks, signed a reader who hates Fulk.”

“Erm … more lies?” tried Eleanor.

“‘A chivalrous man never leaves his lady to freeze while he is nice and warm,” said Eleanor insistently as she began to tug at his tunic.’” Trempwick lowered this bit of paper and looked at her reprovingly. “Oh Nell, how could you?” He read another section, “‘“Springy tree branch,” she said in a soft murmur with a shake of her head and a hint of a smile.’” This time his expression was hurt. “Sweet Nell, you never talk to me like that, and you never run your finger down my nose and make mushy jokes based on back story that readers will have probably forgotten.”

Eleanor had the grace to blush. “Yes, well, it is all to do with attraction, master. We don’t have any. At all.” As an afterthought, “Oh yes – that scene is fake, also lies and slander to discredit me!”

William had finally won free of Anne. “Enough of this! I say we batter the brat, kill the knight, and live happily ever after.”

He threw himself at Eleanor, only to find Anne had grabbed him about the waist in a bear hug. “And I say we don’t batter Eleanor and kill Fulk!”

Trempwick glowered. “I am quite happy to settle for killing the pet in a hideous and painful manner and then marrying Nell right away. I would actually prefer it if you did not make a mess out of her for once, William.”

William lurched a few steps closer to Eleanor. She was currently watching him with mild fascination. William balled a hand up into a fist, began to swing, then missed as she stepped back a pace out of range. “Damn it! Hold still when I am trying to thump you,” he complained. “It is hard to hit a moving target at my age.”

Anne began to loudly tell him that the SPE did not approve of this. Trempwick had to shout to be heard over the queen’s diatribe, “Can we just skip to the bit where we hurt Fulk a lot now, please? The readers want it.”

Fulk had something to say about that, “Oh no they don’t! I have letters of my own, spymaster. I also have the gooseberry’s approval, which is more than you’ll ever get.” Fulk produced his own bundle of fanmail, selected one at random and began to read. “Dear Fulk, you are my number 1 hero and I think you are really great. You and Nell are a cute couple. I think you should kick the king and spymaster about a lot, please? I live in hope of this happening, and I know you’re more than capable.”

He gave the assemblage a proud smirk, then moved to another letter. “Dear Fulk, someone needs to kill William and Trempwick; I hope it’s you. I love all your scenes. Can I have your autograph?”

He began to read a third letter, this one on pink scented note paper. “Dear Fulk. You look really cute in that armour. It makes me want to-” Fulk pulled a face and stopped reading very quickly. “Yes, well there’s no need to finish that one.”

Eleanor was incensed. “You get love letters?”

Fulk scratched the back of his neck and suddenly found the ground very interesting and eye-catching. “Well, one or two. I put them on the fire; you’re the only gooseberry in my life.”

Eleanor sniffled. “I don’t even get fanmail.”

Fulk gathered her into a hug and kissed her on the forehead. “Never mind, oh dejected one. I’m sure you have plenty of fans out there.”

William and Trempwick both pointed fingers and yelled in unison, “Ah ha! Proof!” while Anne went all misty-eyed and cooed, “Aaaahhhh, how sweeeeet.”

Trempwick was quick to take back command of the situation. “Right, I have a plan that will hopefully make everybody happy. If you will all calm down and hear me out?” Hush fell. William and Anne’s struggling ceased but they kept on holding on to each other. Fulk and Eleanor, now the game was up, chose to take up that delightful looking pose so often used by doomed loves in films, the one where the woman clings fearfully to the man while he stands there with an arm about her waist looking all brave and determined.

Trempwick began to explain, “I shall play benevolent spymaster and overlook Nell’s little indiscretion. I shall marry her now because I have been waiting years and frankly I am tired of being lonely. The travelling to find someone suitably accommodating is really getting me down, and Nell substitutes are not the same anyway. That makes me happy, and after a while I am sure she will be happy too. She will, yes, happy, it just takes a bit of time, yes – yes.” He sounded almost hysterical in his need to believe that.

Eleanor had but one comment. “Disgusting!”

“Thank you, sweet Nell,” said Trempwick dryly. “Now, the king and queen will then stop arguing because Nell is safely sorted out. That makes the two of you happy. Finally, we have the pet.”

“And I fail to see how I’ll be happy with this plan of yours – the princess is mine,” said Fulk firmly.

Eleanor glared up at him. “I am not property, you know.”

William helpfully said, “Actually, you are. In many respects, anyway.”

Fulk patted Eleanor on the head and said soothingly, “Never mind. I actually meant ‘mine’ as in ‘her heart is mine’. It’s a common thing for the hopelessly besotted to say.”

Eleanor was slightly mollified. “Oh. Well, that is alright, then.” The exceptionally long and passionate kiss from Fulk aided the mollification effort considerably.

Trempwick coughed loudly and importantly, but failed to break up the kiss. “Ahem,” he tried. That too failed. His shout of, “Oi! Put her down!” bounced right off the protective glow of mushiness enveloping the duo. “I’m waiting.” Still nothing. “Why does she never do that with me?” wondered Trempwick plaintively. “Time, yes, a bit more time and she will.”

Several minutes later his patience died. “I will continue without you,” he threatened. Finally they broke the kiss; the secretive, soppy smiles they exchanged immediately afterwards only salted Trempwick’s wounds. “Finally, the pet. He dies. This makes the largest part of the readership happy, makes me happy, makes William happy, Nell will grow to be happy about it, and Anne will get over it too.”

Fulk muttered, “I won’t be happy about it.”

“You will be dead; you will not matter.”

Eleanor was quick on her mental feet, and determined to rescue her broken-nosed follower. “But it appears more of the readership likes Fulk than hates him, so you will upset them. I also swear I will never forgive you if you kill him, ever, no matter what you do.”

Anne eagerly joined in. “Me too! As chairwoman of the SPE I refuse to countenance anything which might upset Eleanor. I also love soppy love stories.”

William sighed. “If only we knew how the readership was split, then the argument would become much easier.”

A small, cute frog no one had noticed until now spoke up, “Actually the split between Trempwick and Fulk is about even.”

“Oh, thanks.” William did a comedy double take and stared at the frog. “Did you just talk?”

“Ribbit,” replied the frog glumly. “Ribbit, also generic frog noises.”

William smiled with relief. “Good, good, talking frogs are the work of the devil. Ok, everybody. We have heard the spymaster’s cunning plan, and it won’t work. Anyone else got an idea?”

Eleanor shot in the gap. “I have, and this one is pure brilliance, if I do say so myself. Here we go: I marry Fulk, making myself, Fulk, Anne and half the readership very happy indeed-”

“No!” interrupted William and Trempwick simultaneously. Eleanor pouted. William alone added, “Has anyone got a good idea?”

The frog shrugged its froggy little shoulders. “I do, but I’m not telling. Oh, er, ribbit, ribbit, I am a froggy frog making frog noises. Nothing to burn at the stake here, ribbit. Barbequed frog tastes nasty anyway, ribbit.”

William took up a decisive, masculine pose with his hands on his belt. “Then it is up to me to solve all this, and as king my word is law. Ha!”

Anne tugged on the nearest tunic sleeve. “Don’t do anything I won’t like or I shall cry.”

William’s pose deflated, then bounced back to its former glory. “If you will just let go of me, dear, so I can think properly …” Anne warily let go. “Thank you,” beamed William, ruffling her hair with one hand. Suddenly he flew at Eleanor, fists flying. He found his path blocked by Fulk. The knight smiled, them punched William in the stomach. William groaned and staggered back. “I’m getting too old for this.”

Anne said seriously, “Bad king. You deserved that.” and kicked his ankle.

William appealed to Trempwick. “And you still want to get married? Even after seeing what I have to live with?”

Trempwick shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what can I say? All those years of quietly stewing while living near the woman I cautiously admit to having a mild fondness for has addled my brains a bit. Can we drop this subject? I really don’t feel comfortable talking about love, sex or my feelings.”

“Sorry, Raoul. I never knew that.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I understand, old thing.” William patted his spymaster on the shoulder in a companionable, macho male bonding, not even slightly gay way.

Meanwhile Eleanor and Fulk were busy with the whole kissing thing again.

When the gathering regained some semblance of order again Anne suggested, “We could always do what they do in the stories. We could let Fulk and Trempwick fight in a duel, and the winner gets Eleanor’s hand in marriage.”

“Great!” said Fulk.

“Bad!” said Trempwick, at exactly the same time. He scuffled the toe of his boot on the cobblestones of the courtyard. “I mean why is it always fighting?” he demanded. “What about the slightly less belligerent man? Why do we never have contests of brains? Why does the idiot in armour who is more talented at hitting people always get the girl?”

William considered. “I know you have a good point, Raoul, but a fight is traditional. Perhaps we can compromise? A test of brains, and a test of swordsmanship? A game of chess too?”

Eleanor said, “But Fulk will win the swordfight and Trempwick will win the chess game.”

"Hey!” protested Fulk.

Eleanor smiled apologetically at him. “Sorry, but I am trying to be realistic here.”

William sighed heavily. “So that is no good either. You do cause trouble, brat. I hope you know that.”

“Sorry, father.”

“I should hope so – my hair has begun to fall out and go grey because of you.”

“And I am covered in scars because of you.”

“Your fault, brat.”

“Yours, baldy.”

“Yours!”

“Yours!”

“Yours times ten!”

“Yours times one hundred million!”

“Yours times infinity! Ha! Take that, brat! Schooled by your old man.” William started doing a very stupid dance and chanted, “I win, I win, I win, I win, go me, go me, go me, yo!”

Eleanor muttered something nasty and wriggled deeper into Fulk’s embrace. “I am not related to him,” she declared, her voice muffled by the fact she had her face buried in Fulk’s tunic. “He is too embarrassing;. I don’t even know him. Never seen him before in my life.”

The little frog sighed and said in a saintly manner, “To think, right back at the beginning people wished Fulk would fall for Nell. Well he did, and now look at the mess. Mush, love, feelings, romance and all that crap are just trouble!” Everyone ignored the amphibian.

Trempwick said very innocently, “I have an idea; how about we both learn to share? Fulk has Nell as his wife for one half of the year, and I for the other. I shall even let him choose; he can have her while the trees have no leaves, or while the leaves are out.”

Eleanor dissented, “I do not want to be a time share!” She was ignored, just like the poor frog.

Fulk looked at the bare winter trees and grinned. “Ok, I choose-”

Eleanor slapped a hand over his mouth. “No! Not that old trick.”

Trempwick spread his hands and continued his not at all overdone innocent act. “Nell, Nell, you wound me. What old trick?”

“Hold on.” Eleanor removed her hand from Fulk’s mouth and asked urgently, “What were you going to say? While there were leaves or no leaves?”

“No leaves, as in right now.”

“Twit.” She raised her voice again, “The old trick where the eager moron,” she glared witheringly at Fulk, “chooses when there are no leaves, thinking it means winter, conveniently when the question is always asked. As there are some plants with leaves all year around his time never comes.”

There was a long pause as everyone wracked their brains. Fulk was the one to speak in the end. “This whole interlude was a reader request thing, right?” The gathering nodded, for once all able to agree. “So, two of the readers requested that I beat the crap out of you two,” he waved at the king and Trempwick. “Seems obvious to me.”

“But that is not fair!” complained Trempwick vociferously. “I do not like pain, and I have just as many fans as you!”

Fulk held up a finger. “Ah, but think. Two against one, and I am wounded. By the terms of the request Eleanor is not allowed to get involved. The reader can request but there is nothing to stop you overpowering me; reality can’t be bent.”

Oh no?” muttered the frog. “Take a good look around, rusty.”

William and Trempwick exchanged a few covert words then began to smile. William said, “Is this agreeable to everyone?” Again the gathering nodded. “Right, then let us begin.”

Before the king had finished talking Trempwick threw himself at Fulk, pummelling away. The knight blocked and defended himself, searching for a chance to lay the spymaster out in one go as painfully as possible. William dodged around to behind Fulk and wrapped his hands around his throat. Fulk began to choke, clawing at the hands while Trempwick very carefully began landing blows all over Fulk, avoiding his armour to catch him in unprotected areas.

Fulk rolled his eyes and gasped, “Cute.” He pushed off from the ground, springing backwards so William lost his balance and got crushed under one armour coated knight. The king said something akin to, “Oahshgdge!!!!” and lay still. Fulk rolled, then sprang back onto his feet. Cockily he beckoned to the spymaster. “Come on, I have been waiting 229 pages to get you.”

Trempwick began to move backwards, keeping his distance from the advancing knight. Eleanor called, “Come on master. If you are really that bothered about marrying me you could at least fight with a bit more enthusiasm. If not you can just let me go.”

Trempwick sighed and began to exchange blows with Fulk, each attacking and blocking at a blur in a cheap imitation of a martial arts film. This was clearly an anachronism because oriental martial arts had not made their way to medieval England at this time. “Why does she have to have a thing for fighting men?” he asked mournfully.

“No idea,” replied Fulk, jumping over a kick. “But it comes in handy for me.”

From the sidelines Eleanor instructed sternly, “Less talking; more fighting.”

Fulk’s fist slammed into the side of Trempwick’s head and the spymaster dropped like a pole axed ox. Fulk rested one foot on his foe’s chest and raised both fists in a triumphant celebration. “I win!”

At this point a horse magically appeared in the courtyard, saddled up and ready to go. Fulk lifted Eleanor up onto the horse’s withers and swung into the saddle. They began to ride away. Trempwick scraped himself off the ground and waved a fist after them. “This isn’t over, you’ll see! We still have the real story to get on with! I will-” He conveniently fainted away before he could give out any spoilers.

Together Eleanor and Fulk rode away. “Now what?” asked Eleanor.

“Quick stop at the nearest church, I think.”

“Then what?” Fulk answered with a grin. Eleanor sighed. “Typical male.”

“How would you know, oh innocent one?”

“I have heard stories.”

“Really? And you’re also a mind reader?”

“I don’t need to mind read – I was enquiring as to what we are going to do with the rest of our lives now we are homeless, jobless, friendless and penniless. You do not answer a question like that with a grin that drips … intent.”

“Intent for what?”

“You know what.”

The bickering continued as they rode off into the sunset.

finis


Remember: none of this actually happened.



:stretches lazily: That was fun; it has been far too long since I indulged my mad comedy streak. Less than an hour’s work, and 6 ½ pages long.

The real story will resume soon.

[Axeknight]

Somone's been going to bed with a wedge of cheese again...

Made me laugh. Very good, Froggy ~D

[zelda12]

*sits down to read froggy's festive post.*
:book:
~:eek:
:duel:
~D

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.

lmao, That was brilliant. You need to do more like this. Reminds me of Jasper Fforde and his literary series.

Have a Christmass drink on me. ~:cheers:

I bow to your briliance. :bow:

Can we have more please, comedy preferably. Maybe when this ones finished. As it is funny beyond compare.

[frogbeastegg]

If you like my comedy then you should probably check a story I only posted on the paradox forums. It's about my efforts to learn their most complex game, Victoria. If you haven't played the game it will probably not make much sense, but you might get a few giggles from it. link (http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/showthread.php?p=3093183#post3093183)

[Ludens]

Someone call the Guiness Book of Records. This must be a competitor for the 'most clichés in one scene' record ~D .

Very good work, Froggy. You are getting the hang of love scenes. Good combination of action and romance over the last few parts. Looking forward to the next episode.

[frogbeastegg]

The spymaster’s face as Eleanor rode through the gate into the manor’s courtyard was a picture. Eleanor handed the reins of the horse she was leading to Fulk and went to report while the knight took the animals to the stables and unloaded them.

Trempwick inspected Eleanor with a mildly distressed expression. “Blood, mud, melting snow,” his eyes went to the hem of her dress and cloak, “dead leaves, and what looks like a small patch of spilled pottage. Numerous minor tears and rents to your clothes.” He walked around behind her and lifted her untidy plait between one thumb and forefinger. “You even have some blood in your hair.” He came back around in front of her, sniffing the air as he went. “Sweat, both human and horse, and a strong note of flea’s bane.” He shook his head, unsuccessfully fighting off a chuckle. “Dear Nell, I cannot let you go anywhere!”

Eleanor simmered quietly; as if she could help this! Through gritted teeth she asked, “Can I have a bath, please, master?”

Trempwick’s nose twitched again. “Yes, I think you had better.” He turned away to find a handy servant. Well, at least that had proved painless enough. Normally it took long minutes of protracted servant abuse before she could convince them that yes they really did want to spend an age heating water and carrying it upstairs in buckets to fill the wooden bathtub they had manoeuvred with great difficulty up to her room.

Young Walter ran out of the manor and across the courtyard to the stables to attend to the horses. Late to attend to his duties – Gerbert’s removal didn’t seem to have made much of an impact after all. He was fortunate the snow and slush had been shovelled off the cobbles and dumped in a few heaps against the door to melt harmlessly.

“Water is heating already; I thought you may require a bath when I heard the description of your approach, darling Nell. Clean clothes are also laid out, and food is cooking.”

Eleanor mumbled her thanks and began to follow Trempwick inside.

Fulk limped out of the stables, juggling his battered shield and two of the smaller, loose bags of gold. “You’ll have to get someone else to move the rest,” he told Trempwick curtly as he caught up with them.

Trempwick’s nose wrinkled once again. “Beloved Nell, your pet can wash in the remaining water in the kitchen. Not glamorous, but more than sufficient. Help him disarm, then come up to my room; I am having the bath set up there, out of the way.”






Eleanor dodged swiftly to one side and gave Bertram a filthy look as he nearly smacked her kneecap with one of his empty buckets. As calm and serene as a lake on a clear day the servant ambled out to refill his buckets with more hot water, her hostility not bothering him. So much for servants making way for royalty when both wanted to go through a door.

Trempwick turned from his window at the scuffle of evasive feet and saw the end of the latest skirmish in the war between Eleanor and the servants. Letting Bertram go unreprimanded Trempwick said to Eleanor, “Dear Nell, I truly have no idea how you manage to upset so many people so comprehensively.”

“It is easy, master. I just be myself; everybody apparently hates that.” Except Fulk!

Trempwick produced a rather peculiar smile. “Sweet Nell, you being yourself, as you put it, might often fray my nerves, but that does not mean I dislike it. But I know you are right; I am lonely in my … appreciation of your … finer qualities.”

Except for Fulk! “Thank you, master.”

Edward, the steward but seemingly filling in for the second general servant, lugged two more buckets in and began pouring the water into the tub. It was about two thirds full now. Trempwick watched with an eagle eye for any unnecessary spillage. The iron bound tub had been placed in front of the fire on large swaths of cheap, absorbent cloth to limit the damage any spilled water might do to the floor but that did not stop Trempwick from worrying. Out of the blue the spymaster announced, “I am thinking of having this room’s window glazed, dear Nell.”

“Won’t that disrupt your illusion of an average, unnoteworthy manor, master?”

“A single window will not make so much of a difference, and those who end up in a position to see it will be those whom I have authorised to get close.”

“That makes me wonder why you have left matters so long.”

“Ah! That is my suspicious little Nell!” His jesting met with no similar reply, making it difficult for him to evade the question. “I was thinking of you, actually. I thought you might welcome the luxury.”

The fact he was willing to spend a considerable sum on something frivolous and indulgently lavish just for her made Eleanor genuinely happy. She couldn’t remember the last time, if indeed there had been one, that someone had forked over cash, especially in such a large quantity, just to please her. “Thank you, master.” The moment was ruined by Gerbert arriving and dumping yet more water in her bath.

“You like the idea?” inquired Trempwick when Gerbert had gone.

“Yes.”

One of Trempwick’s rare, real smiles appeared on his face. “Good. I shall arrange matters.”

Edward delivered another load of water, followed by Bertram before Trempwick spoke again, and then it was to proclaim the bath had more then sufficient water so no more would be required. The last servant out shut the door properly behind himself, and Eleanor waited for Trempwick to make himself scarce.

He didn’t. “There are a few important things we must discuss, urgently, Nell.”

“After my bath,” replied Eleanor firmly.

“It cannot wait.” Equally firm. Hastily, before the expression of horror could be joined by wailing of any form, Trempwick added, “I promise not to jump in and join you, however tempted I might be. Nell, this cannot wait. If my suspicions are correct …” He broke off with a frown.

He was emphatically not going to leave. Eleanor could have cried at the unfairness of it all – she had been dreaming of this bath all day, and now he was going to ruin it! Left with no option she turned her back to the spymaster and began to unfasten the ribbon holding what was left of her plait together. “Well?” she asked. “What is so urgent?”

“Tell me about those bandits; did they give any clue as to who sent them?”

“They mentioned a man who was willing to play a lot for me alive and unharmed. He was not so interested in Fulk.”

“Anything else?”

Hair loosed Eleanor grabbed her comb, she had thought to bring it up knowing she would need it, and began to drag it through the tangles. “They were clearly bandits, not trained fighters in disguise; they did not have the skill. The leader was, I think, a professional at some point. He was the only one who had a real idea of what he was doing.” She paused, head cocked to one side as she considered. “Although … some of them had better equipment than I would expect from a bandit – swords, simple helms, one old style hauberk, gambesons. Granted the equipment was all of munition quality, and there were some of the expected improvised weapons, but all the same it was rather … grand.”

She worked at her hair until it was smoothly knot free, thinking all the while. She laid the comb back down on the bed next to her clean clothes and began to slowly unfasten her girdle. “They seemed … they knew what they were doing; they were not new to the game, but they had no cohesion, no real plan. They were a bunch of individual fighters made to act like a group. Bandits work like a wolf pack, don’t they?” Trempwick agreed with a nod.

Eleanor slowly began to undress, mind split between supplying the necessary details for the report and wishing Trempwick would go away. Yes, they were going to get married. Yes, that would entail him seeing her nude. No, she could not see any way to avoid this short of running out the door. No, none of that absolutely did not mean that she had to like this at all in any way! Stood in just her shift Eleanor played for time. “They could have surrounded and mobbed Fulk but they tackled him in a very haphazard manner, despite acknowledging he was the main obstacle preventing them from grabbing me. One allowed himself to be gutted in an unsupported attack, and another stood back to watch his leader fight instead of lending support. With a better approach they could have won easily.”

Trempwick mulled this over, rubbing his chin and staring pensively at the floor. Eleanor took advantage of that to remove the last of her clothes and vanish into the tub in one fluid movement. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around herself. One quick glance over her shoulder revealed that – damn him!! – he had stopped thinking to watch. It was something of a toss up as to which view was more embarrassing; front or back. Mordantly she decided it was whichever view he was currently looking at.

“Embarrassed, darling Nell?” Trempwick wandered over and rescued the washcloth from the floor. “Don’t be,” he advised cheerfully. He dipped the cloth into the bathwater, blobbed a bit of the runny soap onto it and began to scrub her back, holding her long hair out of the way with his free hand. Eleanor couldn’t decide if she should begin complaining loudly, or sink beneath the water and pray he left before she surfaced. In the end she did neither; complaining would be useless, and she would run out of air long before he took the hint and cleared off.

“Lean forward a bit, Nell,” he instructed happily, giving her shoulder a light push. She did so; the sooner she was clean the sooner she could get out the bath and get dressed. Trempwick kept scrubbing away at her back, talking as he worked, “You are certain that they wanted you, that there had been no mistake?”

“Yes, master.”

“You are very tense.” The cloth splashed down and Trempwick began to massage her shoulders. Once the initial indignation wore off it was quite … pleasant.

Trying to get matters back on the correct course Eleanor said, “I cannot see how it could be a mistake, but nor can I see how or why they would be after me.”

“I have my ideas, but they need to stew a little longer before I share them. Your back is healed quite nicely, dear Nell. Fresh scars, but no more healing left to do. A few months and you will be hard pressed to pick out the new scars from the old ones.”

Quite what she was supposed to say to that Eleanor had no idea.

Trempwick ran a fingertip across her back in a gently slanting line from high to low, presumably tracing one of the many marks. “He has made such a mess of you.” Quite regretful sounding. It did wonders for Eleanor’s already fragile, limited confidence – it shattered it. Trempwick continued to talk, his tone remote and mournful, “I have never really seen, only a few glimpses and a lot of guesswork. It could have been worse; I at least managed that much.”

After a long silence Trempwick came and crouched at her side. “It does not bother me, Nell. Most men it would, but not me.” Except Fulk?

“Your important discussion, this is not it.”

“How do you know, dear Nell? It might very well be.” Trempwick sprang lightly back to his feet and vanished off to sit on the bed next to her clothes. “You are right in that this is not what I intended to speak about, but you are wrong in dismissing it so casually.”

There was no more talk until she finished washing. Trempwick insisted on standing by the bath to hold her towel ready as she climbed out. “Nicely proportioned,” he commented. “Your hips might be narrow but the rest is better, and in any case it is all daintily to proportion with your height.” Eleanor seethed in mortified outrage, and lost no time at all in grabbing the towel and wrapping it about herself like a shroud, covering as much flesh as possible. Her wet hair she left dripping unattended; to turban it up in another towel would require letting go of this one.

Trempwick scooted her back until her legs where brushing the wooden side of the tub. Thus positioned he folded her long hair up several times and wrung it out so the excess water ended up back in the bath. He caught up one of the spare towels and began to vigorously rub the still sodden roots of her hair. Trempwick ceased his towelling and sniffed the air about her. “Much better, but there is still room for improvement. I can do something about that clinging nasty fat and wood ash undertone to the soap, something far better than waiting for it to wear off overnight.”

He dropped the soaked towel to the floor and retrieved a small glass vial from the pile of clothes. Returning to her side he uncorked it and waved it under her nose so she could test the fragrance. Delicate, floral, simple, working along a similar note to the scents added to the soap to cover the odour of the ingredients. “Quite pleasant, master.”

Trempwick put the bottle back safely on the bed and found another towel. He kept working at her hair. “Dry yourself off; mixing it with bathwater will do no good.”

When her hair was reduced to being merely damp Trempwick began to comb it, as uninvited as all his previous help. Eleanor stood stock still, keeping the towel wrapped tightly about herself. Trempwick had seen more than enough, and if she moved while he was combing she could get an ear mangled.

“Bath attendant to a princess; the job I always dreamed of when I was a boy. I ended up as a spymaster only because I took a wrong turn on bath night and found myself with the king instead.”

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I tease, dear Nell.”

“If you say so, master. I shall never quite believe you though.” She left just enough of a spark there to indicate it was a joke. The spymaster had never been quite so adept at understanding her humour as Fulk. Frivolously, on a impulse she said, “You know, I always wanted to try one of those fancy baths my grandmother was famous for.”

“Rose petals floating in the water, candles everywhere, a small buffet accompanied by a jug of chilled wine, a larger than usual tub filled with plenty of very hot water that had been perfumed, a roaring fire made up of pleasantly scented woods … that kind of bath?”

A slow, wistful smile. “Yes, that is the one.”

Trempwick’s answer was considering, “I shall see what can be done.”

Hair restored to good order, and as dry as she was likely to get using her towel as a shield from her unwanted audience’s eyes Eleanor headed over to the pile of clean clothes. A bit of careful balancing of options and Eleanor dumped modesty along with the towel to began dressing normally. All she was doing by giving in to her embarrassment was giving the spymaster new insight into her mind, and potentially new weapons to use against her. Be discomfited; don’t show it. A very old lesson. All the same once her shift was on she felt much better.

“Silk!” she exclaimed in surprise as her hand closed on the slate grey underdress. In the dim fire and candle light the material had looked somewhat odd, but it took touch to reveal why.

“A gift, and a surprise, beloved Nell.”

“Why?” Aware of how confrontational that sounded Eleanor added, “Even when we were buying my court clothes you insisted silk was too expensive.”

“To expensive for my pupil, yes. Too expensive for my future wife, not at all. I did not have the excuse before.”

With shaking hands Eleanor tried the dress on; it fitted very well. The overdress too was new, a light grey very fine wool, cut, as ever, in her out of fashion style. “How?” she asked. How, when and where had he gone shopping for all this? How had he managed to get something tailored to fit her without having her measured? Not to mention the short timescale, if he had indeed conjured the clothes up in the few days she had been away.

“I have my resources, and my contacts.” He came over and helped her into the dress, fastening the two sets of side lacings to pull the loose upper half of the dress in to a flattering, figure hugging fit. He stood back and surveyed his work. “You know you get a much better fit if someone else does the lacing for you. I shall play lady’s maid again in future, I think.”

The largess did not cease there; a pair of new silk stockings, some dainty new shoes, and a beautiful girdle worked with silver ends and a simple running flower and leaf pattern completed the new outfit. She was wearing more than the yearly income of her own paltry lands, and for no good reason except that Trempwick thought it looked nice. It was all rather too much to take in.

After dabbing some of the perfume on her neck and wrists Trempwick nodded in satisfaction. “An improvement, I think. I shall get you more clothes of similar quality.” A hesitation. “If you like?”

Dumbly Eleanor nodded; she liked.

“One final touch.” Trempwick fished out the ring she wore on a leather thong and untied the knot at the back of her neck. He offered the betrothal ring to her. “Your ring.” She swapped the solid gold band with Fulk’s little ring, placing the knight’s ring on her right hand’s ring finger instead. “Now, finally, I get to give you that welcome home kiss.”

He did, and it wasn’t actually that bad.





Eleanor watched as Bertram began filling a bucket with the bathwater and emptying it out of the open window. “If you get glass put in we will not be able to empty the bath like this,” she said thoughtfully.

“I shall make sure the glass is fitted like a shutter so we can open it. It will cost more, but the convenience is worth it. Come.” He tugged lightly at her elbow, “Dinner is waiting in the solar.”





Dinner for two; pottage with a bit of beef and a handful of winter vegetables in it. Exciting. They ate in silence, the spymaster seeming most preoccupied.

When he cleaned out his bowl and laid down his spoon Trempwick said, “The bandits, then. It seems clear enough they were after you, and only a bare handful have access to privileged information such as your whereabouts and movements. One of those people obviously feels they have much to gain by removing you from the scene, perhaps to prevent our marriage, or perhaps for other reasons. I knew where you were. Your father knew. Hugh knew.” He laid the names out with a serious flourish, inviting her to consider and arrive at her own conclusion.

Eleanor’s mind began working at full tilt. Trempwick: she could see no motive. He simply had no need to kidnap her.

Her father: if she went missing this marriage would be cancelled or delayed, but that would bring shame to the family, not benefit. If she was kidnapped he would gain nothing, even if she were ransomed back. It would only state that he left his family so unprotected that mere bandits could steal them away and demand ransom for them. If he wanted her dead there were many better, quieter ways which would not harm the family’s good name. Again, no motive to be seen.

Hugh: her brother might have plans for her to suit his own ends; perhaps he had already promised her away to a follower for when he took the throne? It would gain him serious support from one powerful ally. He could prevent the marriage and then … what? Keep her hidden until the king finally died? If she married anyone but Trempwick now the man would not last long before William’s wrath, and Trempwick’s too, caught up with and annihilated him. Or … working to a tune she seldom even thought about, she was well placed to contest his succession. To a man with an uncertain grip on his future she was a threat, a gathering place for any and all who did not want Hugh on the throne. She had her own claim, a good one. Married she would be more of a threat, gaining the support and resources of the realm’s spymaster.

“Hugh,” she said in the end. It hurt. They had never been close, but he was her brother. Bitterly she laughed at herself for being so naïve; John had been her brother too, and look at how he had planned to use her - a reward for his biggest supporter, a bone handed out to a favourite dog. He had planned to remove Hugh. Brothers; treacherous scum the pair of them. She supposed they were only taking after their father. A mystery, then, where Stephan had got his goodness from.

Trempwick nodded dourly. “The same pair of shoulders I found the blame rested easiest on myself. I would prefer it to be a fourth party, but I can find no way for any out of our little circle to find out about your mission.”






Hehe! There were plenty more cliches I couldn't fit in.

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick’s light snoring provided a steady background to the stillness that only came with the middle of the night. The chill seeped into Eleanor’s arms and shoulders, covered only by the thin linen of her shift with the blankets pushed well back. It was intentional; cold staved off sleep and combated the fug of exhaustion, perfume and comfort clouding her senses. For the first time in hours she felt aware again. She kept her breathing slow and controlled and her eyes shut, giving an appearance of sleep on the chance Trempwick himself was faking.

Away from Trempwick’s persistent talk and affection, away from the stupefying warmth and relaxation, away from the unaccustomed luxury, in that small space between removing most of her clothes and getting her space in the big feather bed warm she had begun to see, see something … like a grain of gold hidden in a pan of river mud. Freezing misgiving.

Her best thinking was always done in the lonely quiet; no noise and interruptions, and no need to give a prompt verdict.

For heaven knows how long she had been sifting away at the black mud, revealing a few more specks of gold, just tiny little bits of dust, no weight or worth on their own. A small collection of these gold flecks; suspicion, mismatches, odd details, things that did not quite fit. Nothing large, nothing solid enough to sell alone, only a collection of worthless little specks that needed a deal more adding to them before they could even register on the scales. Chilled doubt.

Sieving mud would only get her so far. Action was needed; very cautious, subtle, guarded action.







The world's smallest Eleanor chapter. It's all I have time for right now, and it really belonged in with yesterday's part. I didn't have time to write it then, so it was delayed until today. A good thing, as it allowed me to make some very good chances to the original outline.

[Axeknight]

The moment was ruined by Gerbert arriving and dumping yet more water in her bath.

“You like the idea?” inquired Trempwick when Gerbert had gone.
Tiny point; wasn't Gerbert given the boot a few chapters ago?

No matter though; interesting plot twist, I'll be interested to see where that goes

[frogbeastegg]

Yes, that should be Bertram, not Gerbert. No idea what happened ....

I'll edit it in all versions tomorrow.

[frogbeastegg]

In the depths of the same night Eleanor carefully chipped away at the dam sealing away all her unshed tears, weakening it so a single push would cause it to collapse. Thus prepared she suddenly sat bolt upright, as if waking from some terrible dream. She took a deep, steadying breath and ran a hand over her face as the spymaster too shot into alertness. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, his voice thick with sleep.

“Nothing, just a dream.”

“Nell?”

“Never mind; it is not important.”

“If you are going to wake me up you could at least have the decency to tell me why.” There was a deal of his old stern coldness in his voice now.

Her reply was short, grudging, “Nightmares. About the bandit I killed.”

“Oh Nell.” The coldness was gone, replaced by sympathy. He put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close, then flopped backwards, pulling her back down with him. “Your second kill, correct?”

“Yes.” A long delay, then she said in a low voice, “There was blood everywhere. I heard the hiss as the blade went into his lung. He stared at me, even as he fell and ripped the knife from my hand.” Her voice wobbled, and the emotion was shamefully real. “Sometimes I still see Aidney, dying from poison I gave him.” The first tears began to fall, unintentionally, just like last night.

He held her close and let her cry herself to sleep. His embrace was comforting, but it lacked the tenderness Fulk had exhibited. Trempwick’s hand might be slowly stroking her shoulder in a soothing manner, but he didn’t think to murmur anything reassuring as Fulk had done in the same situation. Protective, not loving.





With the excellent timing she had carefully plotted for Eleanor met up with Trempwick in the tiny mews located in the second floor of the manor’s tower just as he was fastening a tiny note to the leg of one of their messenger birds. “To the palace?” she inquired with a gesture at the bird.

“Yes, informing the king of your success.”

Very slowly, idly she wandered over to his side. “Of course you say nothing of Hugh.”

“No,” agreed the spymaster. He stuck the bird, held carefully between his palms, out of the window and gave it a gentle throw out into empty space. A few graceful wing beats saw the bird up and away, already vanishing from view as it sped off towards Waltham. Turning back to her Trempwick said intently, “Do not worry, beloved Nell. I shall protect you.”

“I am relying on that, master.” A pause. “Did you ask about advancing our wedding?”

“I did. I was refused; the original deadline stands and will not be changed.”

“As I thought; my father is stubborn like that.”

“Disappointed, darling Nell? I did not think you would be.”

Eleanor took a while before answering, fiddling with her betrothal ring as she thought. “I will not pretend I am heartbroken, but perhaps very slightly …” her eyes focused distantly while she searched for the right word, “saddened. I am getting used to the idea.”

Another of those rare, sincere smiles lit Trempwick’s face. He pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her passionately. “Seeing the advantages?” he asked.

“Yes, you could say that.”

He kissed her again, and this time her response was less timid. “Getting used to intimacy?”

“I think so.”

A third long kiss. “Not planning to knife me as I sleep?”

Eleanor moulded her features into mock horror. “But think of the mess it would make, and I would then have nightmares about three deaths.” Trempwick’s mouth twisted, as if her joke tasted rancid. She very shyly kissed him on the lips, a chaste, brief kiss that none the less delighted the spymaster and banished his impatience with her fooling around. It was the first time she had taken any initiative. “It seems that I am beginning to enjoy all this attention,” she admitted softly, managing to sound utterly ashamed.

“Darling Nell!” exclaimed Trempwick extravagantly, “You astonish me!”

“Your predictions are proving accurate.” Eleanor poked him in the chest with one finger, “However if you say ‘I told you so!’ I shall kick you.”

“Then I shall say nothing at all.” Another kiss. “But do excuse me, dearest Nell, if I say this seems rather sudden.”

Eleanor eased away from him a bit. “I found I missed a few things in the time I was away, just a very few. During that attack … and afterwards too, no more afterwards, I guess. I found I do not want to die alone, or live alone. One night I was left to face my nightmares alone; last night I was not.” She looked up at him, meeting his eyes steadily. “So the cart can keep trundling along slowly, and as long as it does not begin to roll too fast and get out of control I think I shall settle back and enjoy the ride.”

“I presume that is your delicate way of telling me if I try to seduce you we shall end up in a repeat of the farce that was the night you left?” A flicker of something quite like wounded pride came and went in his eyes.

Eleanor quoted from memory, “‘Leaving any important matter to chance, or gambling on illusion when reality can be provided with only a little more effort is a fool’s game.’ Tell me who said that, master.”

Trempwick pulled a wry face, “I did, but never did I think you would quote it back to me in this context.”

“But it is true, and I will not risk my poor little neck taking the chance on illusion. I am entirely sick of being kicked about by my beloved regal ancestor; I shall not hand him another excuse to do so.”

He considered carefully, taking longer than Eleanor had expected to arrive at his conclusion. “I suppose another month is not so long to wait, not after all these years.” Again that brief, so rapid to vanish it may never have been there flicker of angrily damaged pride that she was refusing him. Gone before it even appeared, and another kiss to prove he was not bothered in the least. “I am going to be busy today, sweet Nell. You shall have to amuse yourself.”

“Oh.” Eleanor let her disappointment show. “Oh well; I shall find something to do with myself.”







“Papa! Papa! Look what I made.” Mahaut skidded into the armoury in a four-year-old hurricane of exuberant energy. She halted at her father’s side and thrust a drop spindle covered in lumpy thread under his nose for inspection. “Look,” she demanded proudly. “My first completed lot of thread!”

Jocelyn laid down the sword he was sharpening and took the spindle. He made a great, grave show of inspecting the uneven work. “Well done. Some of the best spinning I have seen.” He whistled sharply to catch his squire’s attention, then threw the spindle over to the lanky, ginger haired youth. “Take a look at that, Alain, and tell me it’s not the best thread you have seen.”

With a flamboyant flourish Alain caught the spindle in the bowl of the helmet he was polishing. He fished the spindle out and held it up, examining the work with an easy smile. “Very neat,” he agreed.

Mahaut twirled the end of one of her braids in her fingers. “Mama said it’s all lumpy now but I’ll get better, just like I can do a whole lot of thread now instead of a lot of little lumpy bits on their own.” The little girl stuck her chin out defiantly. “She did,” she repeated.

Jocelyn held out his hand for the spindle, and Alain sent it skimming back with a flick of his slender wrist. Jocelyn held the weighted bit of wood up between his face and his daughter. “Compared to your mother’s work, yes, it is rough.” He winked at her. “But I’ll wager she couldn’t do as well as this when she was your age, or even a few years older. I’ll also wager she is happy you decided against being a valkyrie.”

“Valkyries are silly,” she proclaimed scornfully. “I’m going to be the lady of a castle and have nice clothes.”

“Good,” beamed Jocelyn. “So you won’t be using your spindle as a sword any more?”

The girl gave him a withering look. “It was a mace. Swords don’t have lumpy bits on the end.”

“Ah, of course.” He dropped the spindle back into her waiting hands and gave her a push towards the door. “Go on, your mother will wonder what mischief you have gotten yourself into now.”

“She said the same about you!” With an angelic grin Mahaut scampered off out the door.

Jocelyn picked his sword back up and began applying the whetstone to the edge again. “Women,” he grumbled affably.







Hugh re-entered the room he shared with his wife in a panic, his heart pounding and frantic, garbled prayers racing through his mind. Oh Dear, Merciful Lord, not again! Not again! “Constance?” he called. “I heard you were unwell.”

“In here.” Her voice came from the corner privy.

He found her hunched over the hole, gagging but not quite being sick. “I heard you were unwell,” he repeated again uncertainly.

“Do I look ill?” she demanded acidly. She retched again, one hand resting on the wooden seat for support.

“You are alone.” Hugh could have punched himself - any fool with eyes could see that!

“I sent everyone away claiming I had a headache and wanted to rest.” Her words were interrupted by more heaving. “You want this to be kept a secret, remember? So I am left to vomit my heart out alone and uncared for, again.”

Hugh sagged with relief, resting one hand on the wall for support. “Praise be!” Her reply bordered on the obscene and raised Hugh’s eyebrows a notch. “I thought … another miscarriage,” he explained softly.

She laughed bitterly, then heaved some more. “If I had lost the child I would not be stuck here puking my guts out!”

“I doubt we can keep this secret for much longer.”

“Slow, Hugh, you are slow – I am already getting speculative looks.”

Hugh fiddled with his belt buckle. “You are certain …?”

“No,” she snapped. “I am huddled here because I like the view. I ate something which disagreed with me, just as I have carelessly done for weeks now. I feel tired because at night I am rebuilding the tower of Babel by hand on the sward next to the church, and my bleeding has stopped because I grew over-weary of the mess each month and wished it away. That I might be pregnant is just wishful thinking.”

The temper and mood swings were a good sign too; normally Constance was mild mannered and sensible, not prone to the more annoying tendencies of most of her gender. Hugh really could not see the excuse; it was entirely illogical. If she was being kicked day and night by the baby then perhaps she would have cause for this grumpiness, but a little sickness? Women; irrational creatures at best. “I meant you are certain … previous … misfortune …” He broke off uncomfortably.

Constance levered herself up off the floor with weary difficulty. More kindly she said, “I am sure. The others were all lost by now; within the first two months.”

Hesitantly Hugh took his wife into his arms, one hand resting over her still flat belly. “Remember our agreement. Be careful.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I know.”

They stood in peace for a short while. “I shall announce this to the public today,” said Hugh eventually. “Along with a gift of five hundred pounds to be given to the church if this is a boy, five hundred pounds every year of his life.”

“If it is a girl?”

“Three hundred, again for each year of her life.” Bleakly, “We need a son, a prince to follow after me.”

“We will get what we will get; in half a year you will know. Now, if you do not mind I have to be sick again.”

Hugh beat a prudent retreat as his wife began retching over the privy again.






Slow, but I have cut the tip my left index finger. I'm a two-fingered typist. I'm improvising; it's working but slow.

[frogbeastegg]

When Trempwick finally shooed her away Eleanor wandered back to her own room. She found Fulk lying fully dressed on her bed, one arm bent up under his head and the feather filled pillow. He’d dozed off. Delicately Eleanor tiptoed into the room and slammed the door behind herself.

Fulk rocketed awake, grabbing for a sword that was not there and trying to leap to his feet on a leg that was not interested in cooperating smoothly. As soon as he saw who was responsible for his rude awakening the urgency left him and he settled himself into a sitting position with his wounded leg stuck out in front of him on the bed. “Finally; you’ve found time in your busy schedule to torment me. I was beginning to feel abandoned.”

“Having a nice dream, were we?” asked Eleanor pointedly.

“Actually, yes. I was in a big tournament, and I was winning my latest joust; I’d already won several earlier and gained plenty in ransoms. The crowd was cheering, and the ladies were competing to offer me their favours to wear.”

Eleanor looked down her nose at him. “How sad.”

“I know; they all ended up disappointed. It was a shame; I’m so chivalrous I don’t like upsetting ladies.”

“You are making this up as you go along, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?” he admitted with a cheerful grin.

“If it had been real you would have ended up unhorsed and flat on your back in the mud on the first run.”

“Not likely – the lady whose favour I accepted would have complained vigorously at my disgracing her token.” His left hand rested nonchalantly on his dagger, his middle fingers curling over to rest against the hairpin secured in its hiding place. “I’d do anything to win for her; better for my health.”

“I should hope so too,” said Eleanor haughtily. “Handing out your token to a knight only to have him lose immediately is mortifying in the extreme.”

“I feel nothing but pity for whoever got your colours. Poor chap would get his arse kicked if he came anywhere but first.”

“No more than he would deserve for being clumsy enough to lose. Prudence would dictate my colours must obviously go only to the best knight present.”

“And I’d obviously accept some meek blonde’s colours so that when I lose she cries for my wounds instead of giving me a few extra ones.”

“So you would lose against my champion?” she enquired with a teasing glint.

“No doubt about it, oh victory obsessed one,” replied Fulk humbly. “You would drug my horse or weaken my lance so I had no chance against your hero.”

“I was hoping you would be loyal enough to lose on your own without my help.”

“Oh. Well, I guess being your devoted knight and all that I should do so if you asked, not that I would expect any gratitude from you. In fact I’d expect you to complain then too, because everyone would think you were only served by lack-skilled ninnys.”

“You know me too well,” sighed Eleanor exaggeratedly.

“It’s in the interests of self-preservation, oh royal one.”

“You are being rather depressing today.”

Fulk hitched his shoulders and said engagingly, “You know me, I’m an optimistic type of fellow who likes spending his time talking about death, doom and misery for a little light relief from my arduous job of spending time with a gooseberry.”

Eleanor stumbled on that; the easy humour faded and the back and forth flow lost its timing. She muttered, “Flat-nosed idiot,” in an effort to keep their repartee going.

“See? If I wasn’t braced for insults that could have hurt. And it’s crook-nosed, not flat-nosed.”

“Whatever,” declared Eleanor loftily. “I do not take much notice of what you look like; I would not even recognise you in a crowd.” She rather spoiled the illusion by winking at him.

“I’d recognise you anywhere, oh memorable one, and I’d soon spot you in the crowd. I’d just have to look for a mini-riot and there you would be, right in the centre being all short, dark haired and sour. There’s a little image of you seared into my memory, all I need do is close my eyes and there you are, glaring at me. It’s the same with all traumatic events.”

Reverting to seriousness Eleanor said, “Speaking of trauma, let’s have a look at your leg wound.”

“Oh it’s fine; I dressed it not long ago. I only dozed off while waiting for you to turn up and decide what I am going to do with my day.”

“What we are going to do,” she repeated desolately.

Utterly straight-faced Fulk said, “We can play a game of chess. Fun and respectable.”

“If by play chess you mean something entirely different then I agree it could be fun. However if by play chess you mean actually playing chess then no, I do not think fun belongs anywhere in the same bit of speech.”

“Do you know how to play merrels?”

“No; it is not a game Trempwick favours.”

“I’ll make a board and some counters then, and teach you to play. Know where I can get a suitable bit of wood? Something about the same size and shape as a chess board?” Eleanor shook her head. “Ah well, I’ll find something. For now, chess.”

Silently Eleanor fetched the chess board and set it up at the bedside, just as Fulk had done for her. They began to play. For once Eleanor considered her moves, taking a good long while before moving a piece. She played no better than usual, repeating the same old mistakes and falling into the same easy traps that a bit of thought would have helped her avoid. For all her thinking her mind clearly was not on the game.

“You seem very sad,” commented Fulk softly.

“Today is Friday.”

“Which means fish, and the cook is even worse with fish than meat. His eel pie is enough to depress anyone.”

“I wish it were Saturday; just one extra day … so precious. No one travels on a Sunday. My father may be here tomorrow.” She obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so Fulk let her be.

The end of the game played out in the same silence it had begun in, punctuated by the clicks of the pieces moving about the rosewood board. Fulk won.

Eleanor swallowed hard and stood up, gathering her resolve. “We are going to resume my sword fighting lessons; I will not end up so defenceless again.”

“But your Trempwick-”

Her jaw set stubbornly. “Let me worry about my Trempwick; you worry about following my orders.”






Eleanor walked briskly away from the manor building, setting a pace that Fulk struggled to keep, hampered as he was by his hurt knee. She slashed a few cuts at the sparse winter grass with her wooden sword as she went, a seemingly idle motion filled with pent up energy. Several paces ahead of Fulk she stopped and spun around. “Keep up,” she commanded.

“I’m doing the best I can,” returned Fulk tersely.

When he caught up to her she began walking again, matching her pace to his fastest speed. A quick scan of the horizon and she began to talk in a kinder, quieter voice. “We do not have long. Trust me, however things look. Do not interfere without my express order. Do exactly as you are told; promise me.” When he didn’t reply immediately she demanded again, “Promise me.”

Fulk’s frown was puzzled. “I promise,” he swore.

She skipped a step away, bringing her wooden sword up and around in a slashing cut. Fulk managed to get his own sword up to block and the lead weighted training blades clacked together. Swiftly she began to rain more cuts down at him, knowing he would defend against them effortlessly. The clattering of the swords rang out through the bare landscape, a distinctive sound that could not be mistaken for anything else.

Their blades crossed and tangled. Eleanor’s eyes flicked back towards the manor building in the middle distance. “I love you; never doubt that. Never.”

“I don’t.”

They fought on, Fulk holding back on the defensive. Eleanor’s eyes again went to the manor. A lone figure was just leaving the gate, marching towards them with purposeful haste. “I would not wish to be without you,” she said urgently, quietly, to Fulk.

“I should hope not! This is quite the cushy job, and I don’t think I could ever find another gooseberry.” Swapping from defensive to offensive Fulk easily began to drive her back, one small step at a time. She spared another glance at the advancing person. Distracted, her block was weak; Fulk’s sword drove through but he pulled the blow before it could land.

Trempwick cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Stop that at once!” Even though he was still a good distance away there was no pretending they had not heard. With a tiny, sad smile Eleanor disengaged her sword and stepped back, lowering her guard.

Trempwick came to a halt, tense, his body coiled as if to leap at someone’s throat. “Leave,” he growled to Fulk. If looks could kill the knight would have been lying in a pile of very small parts surrounded by his own blood.

Fulk stood his ground. “Eleanor?”

“Go. Wait in my room, and take this with you.” She extended her training sword hilt first, holding it mid blade.

Fulk took her sword’s hilt in his left hand and stepped back a pace, swinging his left sword experimentally while bringing his right up to guard. “I knew a chap who could fight with two swords; he taught me a fair bit. Not nearly as good as sword and shield, much too showy and impractical, but then what’s to be expected of a skill learned from a travelling player? Later, then.” Smothering his misgivings, and true to her instructions, he left, his step resolute and his eyes firmly nailed on the stone and timber buildings of the manor complex.

Trempwick offered her his arm. “Walk with me, darling Nell.” Polite words that invited refusal, phrased in a way usually reserved for ordering men’s heads removed.

Arm in arm they walked, Trempwick setting the pace and direction; an amble towards one of the many clumps of trees in the area. She could guess a little of what was coming; the spymaster was wearing the simple sword Fulk had retrieved from the dead agent Trempwick had sent after him as a test months ago. That small prediction didn’t much matter; she had thrown the dice and all that was left was the waiting to see what numbers they would turn up along with a little astute tinkering to encourage them to land as she wished.

“Swords.” The word was a question, a statement, a rebuke, a joke, more, all rolled into one. Pissed off; that crude peasant epithet she had found most fitting for the spymaster’s mood when she had brought Fulk home for the first time once again suited, despite appearances of something milder. He hadn’t been this angry in a long time.

“I will not be left defenceless again, master,” Eleanor said simply.

Trempwick yawned, covering his mouth with his spare hand. “Defenceless? Dear Nell, at which point in that bandit attack were you defenceless? The point where you had two knives, the part where you had one knife left, or the part where you engaged in hand to hand combat? Or are we speaking of something else entirely, something you have not told me about?”

“No, the bandits. I have knives, I know a very little unarmed combat, but I lack height, reach and strength – any extra advantage is not to be cast away. If nothing else a bit of sword fighting would build my strength and stamina-”

“I think not, dear Nell,” said Trempwick reasonably. “In fact I forbid it, as I have done every time this issue has arisen. I will not have you fighting; if you have to draw steel then something has gone badly wrong.”

“Yes! And at those times I need every advantage I can get.”

“You have your pet to do your fighting, and you can protect yourself well enough. Much better to put energy into finding ways to avoid such situations.” Trempwick went silent. He moved his right hand over to cover her right hand where it lay at the crook of his arm, and began to drum his fingers on the back of her hand as if it were a table top. Finally he sighed. “There is more to it, more that I have never thought needful, or appropriate, to say. You have to remain mostly ignorant; self-defence becomes ingrained into a person if they practise too well. It becomes an unconscious reaction, automatic, unthinking, effective. Tell me, with that in mind who would you most likely end up defending yourself from?”

“My father,” she admitted reluctantly.

“So it is safer for you to remain ignorant, dear Nell. Especially when faced with someone you hate. Our king and his rages are predictable and certain; unanticipated circumstances like bandits are most assuredly not.”

“So you would by far prefer me to die at the hand of some bandit than try to defend myself against my beloved regal ancestor and get beaten unconscious because of it?” asked Eleanor caustically.

“Dear Nell, you are taking this badly - stupidly, even. I see that you are adequately guarded when you are away from me, and you usually manage to defeat my agents when I send them after you as a test.” They had reached the edge of the tree line now.

“Then where were your guards when Fulk and I were being attacked?”

“Your pet is your guard, darling Nell.”

“So you let the two of us wander off on our own, entirely unwatched and unguarded and you insist you are protecting me?”

“Now you ask me about things I will not divulge.”

Eleanor stopped walking and pulled her hand free of Trempwick’s arm. “Either you had me followed by incompetents, or you left me very vulnerable; which is it?”

Trempwick aimed a maddeningly patient smile at her. “Beloved Nell, you are really beginning to annoy me. I advise you not to push me any further. The matter at hand here is that you have once again disobeyed me, disobeyed a long standing edict that has very good reason to exist, and exists solely for your own good. To add to that you did so in a way which proves you have learned nothing from the Gerbert incident -”

Eleanor cast her eyes heavenwards in frustration. “Not that again!”

“Exactly what I thought; you clearly have no idea how to behave-”

She countered instantaneously with, “It is acceptable for me to travel alone with Fulk for days on end, but not to do a bit of fencing with him in public view?”

“Availability – no one else could travel with you but you could have asked me to teach you to fight. Instead you favour your pet for all to see. Whether you intend it or not you set tongues wagging with this thoughtlessness. I will not wear a cuckold’s horns for you, beloved Nell, real or the product of others’ imagination.”

“So the spymaster is on the run from the gossip of his four lousy servants?”

“Nell,” said Trempwick warningly.

“You do not trust me, not at all.”

“I know what people will say; you are a few months shy of twenty and not married or devoted to God. It is common knowledge that women are the more lustful sex, and morally weaker-”

“Oh, I see – I am a brainless lump who will leap into bed with any man who I find even mildly attractive, and will have been doing so for years because I really cannot survive without a male presence of some sort! All those male scholars and their fancy ideas.” Eleanor dismissed them with a contemptuous wave of her hand. “Tell me this, master, which sex is famous for chasing whores, keeping mistresses and visiting brothels?”

“Nell,” he repeated again, his warning far stronger.

Eleanor’s temper was in full, wounded spate. “It reveals a lot. You wanted proof that your sick dream was not true, or perhaps you hoped it was so you could take advantage -” Trempwick’s clenched fist slammed into her solar plexus, dropping to her to the ground gasping for breath.

“You ignored my guidance before, so I advise you to listen well this time. Do not push me any further.” He began to prowl around her, talking almost contemplatively. “I am not a violent man, sweet Nell, never have been and never will be, but even I have my limits and I am not some soft pushover you can exploit. Here is the very important bit, so listen very closely. I always go for effect, not heedless fury or intimidating show. I work quickly and efficiently, and I can assure you that I can make your father look like a kind, gentle soul even though I do not break bones or anything similarly unsophisticated. My worst side; until now you have managed to avoid seeing it, although you have come close several times.”

He halted in front of her and extended a hand to help her up. “You are attracted to him; he is attracted to you, and yes I have known about that right from the start. I hoped to gently lead you in the correct direction with my insistence otherwise, letting you make up your own mind rather than pressing the issue. Left to your own devices that attraction could prove problematic. Sending him away will cause you to hate me; all I can do is watch and have faith, faith that is not shared by others. For what it is worth, dear Nell, I do not believe there is anything except attraction there, and if I did believe there was more I would be honour and duty bound to report it to your father. The problem is in what others can believe.”

Eleanor stayed put for his speech and only warily took his hand when he very pointedly did not let it drop. Once on her feet she did not pull her hand free of his light grip. “As long as Fulk is here you will worry, your servants will gossip, and this will happen again and again.” She bit her lip and nerved herself. “Send him away. But,” she added immediately and clearly, bringing her gaze up to meet his, “if you harm even a hair on his head I will never forgive you. He saved my life many times; he has served well and been a good friend. I did not lie yesterday when I said I was beginning to appreciate what we have, nor do I fake anything.” She smiled ruefully. “I would not know how to even if I wanted to. It is just an attraction, nothing more. What we have is more … solid.”

“I agree that in this area experience is required before anything can be convincingly faked. Disposing of your pet is going to be tricky; he knows far too much to be sent just anywhere.”

“Send him somewhere you can keep a close eye on him?” Eleanor’s heart was racing so fast she could feel it hammering against her ribs.

Trempwick considered for a long while. “He has found royal favour, aside from your own. I wonder if William might take him?” He murmured to himself, “Well watched, hard to give away secrets when his new master is privy to them also, out of the way, safe …”

“You could say it was a reward for saving me, a promotion of kinds, to keep the real reason secret.”

“Indeed.” Trempwick considered more, absent-mindedly dragging his thumbnail over the etched gold plate attaching his dagger to his belt. “I shall see what I can arrange.” He unbuckled his sword belt and offered the weapon to her. “The lover is inclined to forgive, but the spymaster is never so clement. Break it. Your opponent awaits.” He gestured mockingly at a sturdy oak tree. “Let’s see if you can defeat this fearsome foe, dear Nell.”

Eleanor drew the sword. It was iron, not steel, with a simple leather hand grip and the wide blade and tapered point of a slash and thrust sword. It was nothing like the work of art her brother’s sword had been, and the weaker blade should prove much less capable of handling stress. It would have been better if she had a target made of stone; the softness of wood negated any advantage gained from the plain craftsmanship.

Trempwick leaned his back against the trunk of another tree and folded his arms, settling comfortably to watch. “Come on, sweet Nell, surely you are not afraid of your foe? Don’t let his height intimidate you; he is more than likely slow on his feet.”

Eleanor threw the sheath and belt into the leaf litter and swung the sword with all her strength, smashing the flat of the blade against the broad oak. The impact jarred her arms but was not sufficient to snap the blade. Trempwick laughed. “Using the flat of your blade, cherished Nell? My, my, how incompetent – you use the edge. Anyone would think you were trying to overstress the blade.”

Eleanor set her face and posture into firm neutral; determined not give him so much as an ounce of satisfaction or the merest hint of what she was feeling. She swung at the tree again, using the edge instead of the flat as he demanded, scoring a white scar along the bark and dulling part of the sword’s razor sharp edge. The weapon was of better quality than first appearances would suggest. This was going to take an age and Trempwick’s commentary would only grow more mocking, and this was almost certainly only the beginning of what he had planned.






From the window of Eleanor’s room Fulk watched the tiny, distant figure hacking away at a tree with what looked like a sword. He’d got here just in time to see the taller figure hit the smaller one, by all accounts something the spymaster had never done before except that one time where it had been necessary for a disguise.

It looked as if once again Eleanor had had lost in her attempt to take control over her own life.

[Ludens]

You're a Fulk partisan and you want to see Eleanor get together with Trempwick, Ludens?
It seems my Trempwick joke misfired: I picked that one because I thought it was the most complex option plot-wise, not to mention that it would be interesting to see how the three characters involved would react to it. However, everyone seems to have taken it the wrong way. Well, back to what we were discussing:

You said Fulk has been jealous since page 69 (wherever that may be). However, I saw it differently. He had some jealous feelings, true, but was not acting like a jealous lover. In fact, I remember that at the banquet scene I actually admired the way you described Fulk having those feelings without making him seem jealous. I did not comment on that because I wanted to see if you were going to build those feelings up towards a later jealousy on his side. If my memory serves me right that is the last time Eleanor and Trempwick were seen together from the Fulk-perspective before the marriage announcement. And neither can I remember him being particularly jealous of Trempwick after the fight.


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.
I am not talking about the workings of their relationship; more about their love in general. Fulk sounds as if he expects Eleanor to submit to a day of torture for his sake, before she can agree to a marriage proposal of anyone but him.


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.
No, you’re right. It was a stupid remark on my part. What I think I was trying to say (I can’t exactly remember it) was that it need not have been an immediate explosion. It could just as well have been a slow poison. Like in the second fight-scene.


Thoughts and the necessity thereof: Tricky, from my POV all explanation is unnecessary as I know it all. (...) If you (or anyone) could give a few examples of what is unnecessary I'd be able to better judge in the future.
Well, you have been doing it quite well in the last few chapters so I have no recent examples. I think that you just need to bear in mind that we are now (or I think I am) thoroughly familiar with both Eleanor’s and Fulk’s character and motives, so these don’t need explanation anymore.


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 (...).
Judging by your reply, you may have misunderstood what I was trying to say. I was not objecting against switching the perspective from one person to another, but against switching the perspective type from third person semi-omniscient to third person omniscient. One of the unwritten rules of writing is ‘unity of style’, and that means not switching the type of perspective halfway. If you don’t do this the effect is not so much wrong as... odd. Off course, breaking the rules of writing can actually result in literature (that’s what experimental literature is all about), but I don’t think that was the idea here.

Secondly, you said this technique is praised. I wondered (and still do): what is praiseworthy about it?

Again: I am not objecting to the use of perspective switches, but against switching perspective type, and thus writing style, for a single scene.


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.
I see. I am a bit confused as to which of your sentences refers to which scene, but I understand what you mean (I can remember the scene at John’s vaguely, but have almost no recollection of the scene which started this discussion). Have you tried suggesting that Eleanor was imagining things? For example, putting something like “However, Fulk did not look condemning” in? If properly placed, it will carry the suggestion to the reader that there may be another interpretation. Just an idea, I have no idea what you actually tried.

Back to the present: last three parts you posted were marvellous. The interaction between Trempwick and Eleanor is excellent. I may dislike Trempwick, because he is an arrogant bastard who thinks the world is at his feet, but he’s got style and that makes up for a lot.

By the way, is it necessary for Eleanor and Fulk to have patched up things when they meet Trempwick? I am wondering what would happen if a disgruntled Fulk and an angry/dispirited Eleanor returned to Woburn to face the spymaster. Now that might result in a thrilling scene ~D .

[frogbeastegg]

Arms linked Trempwick and Eleanor walked sedately back to the manor, as if they had been on an idle noonday walk instead of quarrelling and making a mess out of an unfortunate tree and sword. Eleanor’s arms ached and the palms of her hands were throbbing with bruises caused by the repeated shock of the impacts of iron against wood. It wouldn’t enough to satisfy Trempwick, not nearly enough.

Merrily, as if it were all a great joke, Trempwick said, “Letting your sword get stuck in a tree trunk, dear Nell. How very inept.”

“Yes, master.”

“Good thing I was there to free it for you, but a pity about the chip taken from the blade.”

“Yes, master. Thank you, master.”

“If that had been a real battle I doubt your enemies would have had the same sense of courtesy.”

“No, master.”

Trempwick tutted. “And breaking the sword’s blade too. Nell, sweet Nell, I do think you have no skill whatsoever.”

“If you say so, master.”

“You did manage to put up a lengthy fight though, darling Nell. That at least is something to be proud of. We shall speak to your pet now, I think. You can keep me company the rest of the day.”

“As you wish, master.”

“Do you want to do the talking or shall I tell him?”

This time a dutiful answer would not suffice; she owed Fulk that much at the very least. “He is my knight, master.”

Trempwick wasn’t bothered in the least. “You tell him, then. I doubt he would take it from me anyway.”






Too angry to watch the distant princess and spymaster Fulk sat down to read his tattered copy of king Arthur. He knew the story by heart and every page was familiar to him, but the feel of the parchment, the smell of the inks, his ability to read the Latin texts, the incredible luxury of a man like him possessing a book - they were all things he loved. The book always gave him a sense of comfort and steadiness, and had done so ever since he had taken it as his portion of a knight’s random back in France. He had never regretted letting the other men divide up the coin themselves, and he had enjoyed the knight’s embarrassment at putting a book to make up for the lacks of his purse for a very different reason to the mockery of the others. He hoped it would help blank out thoughts of rushing to Eleanor’s rescue.

He was midway through the tale of Lancelot’s arrival at Camelot when Eleanor entered the room, closely followed by Trempwick, like a rain cloud tagging after the sun thought Fulk sourly. Fulk shut his book with a snap and placed it to one side, getting to his feet. “Is there something I can do?”

Eleanor’s blue eyes sought his. “We have decided to give you an opportunity, as a reward for your loyal service. You are going to transfer to the king’s household.”

The bottom dropped out of Fulk’s world, spilling the contents all over the floor and breaking a few of the more delicate items. Stupidly flailing around, trying to get some grip back on reality he asked, “What?” Then. “We?”

Trempwick protectively put an arm around Eleanor’s waist, answering the already evident ‘we’. Fulk found his stomach turning at the sight, all the more so when she leaned into the spymaster’s hold. “It will require a little effort on my part but you will be in the service of the king.”

Quickly Eleanor added, “It is a wonderful opportunity. You will be well paid; you will more than likely get a bit of land too, your own fief. You would be a direct tenant to the king, an enormous honour. You could marry into the lower nobility. You will have people to train with; you could hone your skills back to the level befitting a knight. You would have prospects.”

“I gave you my word,” said Fulk numbly.

Her reply was simple, and it ripped out what was left of his heart. “I release you from it.”

“You are sending me away to die.” Strangely he didn’t care abut the dying, only the leaving. “I know too much to simply leave.”

Trempwick said scornfully, “Talk and I shall hear about it. No one would believe you anyway; the idea of a princess working as an agent is absurd. You overestimate your import if you think I need to kill you.”

“It is the best I can do for you, in gratitude for … for everything,” she finished in the end. “It is the chance to pick up your life as it would have been if I had not interfered, but with a better lord.”

Somehow Fulk inclined his head in a concise bow. “Thank you.” With the spymaster here there was nothing else to say or do; he was too stunned and lost in the feeling of floating without anchorage or grounding to feel his way back to reality and a clear, sharp mind. ‘I would not wish to be without you,’ she had said. So timely. There was more to this than met the eye, and he would seek a chance to get her on her own and find out.






The room on the third floor of the tower was Trempwick’s study. A training room come storeroom above, the mews below, lifted out of the day to day activity of the manor, quiet. From Eleanor’s point of view it was the most unpleasant place to be in the manor; it was a room Trempwick only allowed her in if she was in deep trouble. Otherwise he ignored the world when he was in here, not to be disturbed except and unless the manor was burning down.

The room itself was inoffensive; of good size due to the tower’s larger than usual girth, square, plastered walls with whitewash, the usual carpet of rushes and fragrant herbs, a small fireplace, and a quartet of arrow loops, one in each wall. Currently only the eastern window had its shutter open; the others had theirs closed to keep out the cold. A large, strong table rested in the north/west corner, paired with a throne like chair set to face the wall. Along the blank walls were huge chests, locked tight and filled with the spymaster’s business related books, records, correspondence and other spymasterish junk.

Trempwick poked up the fire and added another log from the nearby wicker basket. “Shut the door, dear Nell. You are letting in a frightful draught.” She complied. Trempwick retrieved a set of papers from a chest, not bothering to refasten the lock after himself. He seated himself and began reading, ostentatiously totally oblivious to Eleanor’s presence, but she knew better.

Sure enough several minutes later he looked up with an innocuous smile. “How dreadful, I forget my manners. Please do be seated, dearest Nell.”

Mentally sighing Eleanor played his game. “There are no other chairs, master.”

He looked amazed, as if he had not already known that very obvious fact. “Oh dear, how embarrassing for me. A guest, a lady too, and nowhere for her to sit.”

Sod this. “I can go fetch a stool, master.” It was worth a try.

“Oh no, if we were to open the door that draught would return, and I confess I would miss you terribly in those moments you were gone, beloved Nell.” He pretended to think; Eleanor knew already what his answer would be. Trempwick indicated the floor at his side. “I am sure you won’t find kneeling there much of a hardship, sweet Nell. You used to do it very often as a child.”

Indeed she had. Stony faced she knelt on the hard floorboards at his side. Trempwick caught one of her hands and examined the red marks the sword’s hilt and caused. He tilted the palm of her hand so she could see it and said sternly, “Now this is why you really should not insist on sword fighting, beloved Nell. Look at that little mess. You had better keep your hands elevated to reduce the swelling.”

Swelling? What swelling? A nonsense to keep his pretty little game going. Eleanor had never understood why the spymaster loved to wrap her punishments up in such a glossily kind exterior. Heaving another mental sigh she linked her hands together at the back of her neck. Trempwick beamed affably. “Good idea, dearest Nell. Please don’t move; I have a lot of work to do and you will only distract me.”

From her position on the floor Eleanor could just read the lower halves of the parchments Trempwick was working with. Woburn manor’s accounts and reports. She was careful to remain staring ahead at the wall and not shift her posture to try and see more. Unless the spymaster stopped and looked down at her he wouldn’t see her reading.

The spymaster busily worked away, ignoring her. The minutes rolled by. Her already aching arms began to sag, placing weight on the back of her neck and slowly she began to slump forward. Her knees began complaining.

Trempwick spared her a glance from the corner of his eye. “Do sit up straight, precious Nell. You will make your back ache.” She dragged herself back to correct posture.

More time passed. She began to loll again, faster this time as her tiring and cramping muscles redoubled their protests. “Do sit up, Nell. I have told you before how important good posture is. Slouching is for the heedless lazy who do not wish to create a good impression.” Once again she corrected her posture.

Trempwick began to draw, a map marked with symbols depicting different crops and land uses from the little Eleanor could see. The steward, like so many, was mostly illiterate. Her knees had gone flat and she tried not to think of how pleasant it would be to sit back on her heels instead for a bit.

More time. Trempwick rang a hand bell he kept in one corner of his desk, the clanging deafening in this small space. He smiled down at Eleanor. “Nobles do not slouch, royalty most certainly not, not unless they are old, overweight and entirely useless.”

Casting some colourful mental curses at the spymaster Eleanor straightened her back yet again, or as close as she could get, not managing to get her tired muscles to cooperate sufficiently.

Edward, the steward, answered Trempwick’s summons quickly. Though her face was to the wall Eleanor could tell he was elated to see her stuck on her knees with her hands clasped behind her neck like an errant child. Within five minutes of his leaving the rest of the servants would know, and they would be celebrating her fall from grace, same as they always did. Stubbornly she managed to return to perfect posture; laugh they would but her pride wouldn’t allow them to see her as anything other than composed and dignified, bearing up better than most would.

Eleanor heard the rustle of parchment changing hands. The spymaster said, “My intended uses for the lands this year. What do you think?”

“Mostly right and proper, my lord. But I do question this here.” A finger tapped on the map. “I am not sure I understand the symbols right.”

“A garden with some … useful medicinal herbs.”

“That’s what I’m seeing, but it’s a rather large area, if you’ll beg my saying so, my lord.”

“I suspect I shall require large quantities of certain of these herbs, and others are best to have on hand in case of need. Travel will be pointless when my needs are met here.” That was said with one of those significant men-joking-together-on-manly-things overtones.

“I see, my lord.” An echo of that same tone was in the steward’s voice.

“You can also see to buying in a decent supply of certain of those plants now, in usable form. The sooner the better.” Yet more of that overtone. Eleanor did not want to know what they were talking about … well, outside of the part of her that was curious she didn’t want to know.

“I’ll send the boy to procure some right away. Trip into town’ll do him good, and if he leaves today he’ll be back afore Monday. Will that be all?”

“Tell the cook that there will be one less for dinner; her royal highness is not feeling hungry today.”

“I see. Will she be hungry tomorrow, my lord?”

“Oh I very much doubt it. The day after, more than likely starving. So contrary. That is all; you may go.”

Eleanor heard Edward leave. Trempwick swapped his current set of parchments for another and kept working.

Time passed and kept on passing, keeping to the same theme. Slowly, inevitably she began to sag forwards. Trempwick would politely request her to sit back up. Each time she slumped further forwards and managed to straighten up less. Her knees went numb, her lower legs cramped, her arms turned into dead weights, her neck ached ferociously, her spine began to groan.

In the end she drooped far enough forward that her head rested against the plastered wall, unable to will her exhausted muscles to keep on working. Trempwick looked up at the soft clonk of skull on plaster. “You really should not keep that pose to the point of exhaustion, dearest Nell. Now you have substituted one problem for another; your hands are less swollen but I doubt you can even stand. Good thing you have me to help.” He stooped and picked her up, one arm under her knees and the other about her shoulders. This was new, better too. Far better than being left to lie on the floor until some feeling returned and she could limp away.

“I do not know what you would do without me,” he chided her in a friendly manner as he carried her down the spiral staircase towards the second floor of the main building.

“That is not something I ever think about.”

“A real shame about dinner; I had ordered griddled mackerel with pease pottage.”

Griddled mackerel and pease pottage; Eleanor wouldn’t go so far as to call it a favourite but it was the only fish dish – perhaps the only dish full stop - the cook never messed up in any way. She didn’t bother to reply; his mind was made up and trying to change it would only reveal how little she liked the idea of an enforced fast.

Trempwick carried her into his bedchamber and set her down on the bed. “I have more work to do, so I shall have to leave you. I will eat up here tonight, to keep you company. Do not abscond from this room, dear Nell. You look tired; you should rest and relax for a bit.” The spymaster fished out a small bunch of keys from his belt pouch and unlocked the chest next to his clothes chest. He propped the lid open on the wall behind it. “I keep my more frivolous books in here; you may read if you wish.”

Before he left he pressed a kiss into her bruised palm. “Don’t blame the lover for all this; he’s doing his best. The spymaster is very obdurate.”

Alone Eleanor waited for the feeling to return properly to her limbs.

Finding nothing better to do, and loving the excuse to pry, Eleanor investigated the books, crossing the room on stiff legs and crouching with difficulty at the side of the chest. There were four books, an enormous investment. The first proved to be Tristan and Iseult, a tiresome romance Eleanor had never liked.

The Iliad, a boring Latin translation of a boring Greek poem about a war full of boring people doing boring things, and a certain famous Helen of Troy who, Eleanor had always felt, needed a hefty clout to the side of her head to start her brain working.

King Arthur, dreary, with the exception of a few tales. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was not bad, but only because it featured subterfuge and Things Going Wrong. Much of the book, however, hit too close to home, just like Tristan and Iseult. All those stupid love stories with their tragic endings and foolishly blind characters.

The forth book was one Eleanor had heard much about, most of it in church on Sunday. Ovid’s Arts of Love. Based on that recommendation her choice was clear. Besides, she had never seen the contents of this one, unlike the other volumes. If she had to idle her time away with the tedium of reading it only made sense to take the book which was new to her. It had nothing to do with curiosity about the famed ungodly information contained within the pages.

She settled down on the bed to read, angling the pages to get the best of the weak winter light. She skimmed quickly past the flowery opening.

She sighed and muttered her way through “All this nonsense about where to meet women. Anyone who needs to be told where to go to find women was born in a monastery and never stumbled beyond the gates!”

The chapter entitled ‘How to win her’ favoured no better; it flew past in a torrent of muttered complaints.

The section on bribing the maid had more staying power; Eleanor read it properly instead of skimming. “What a lot of elementary level drivel,” was her opinion on Ovid’s deception.

The section on birthdays she skipped entirely, proclaiming to the world at large, “Obvious.”

Ovid on making and keeping promises drew the scathing remark, “Twit.”

The moment she saw the heading ‘Be where she is’ she skipped over the chapter, saying only, “That generally helps; hard to romance someone if you never see them.” The chapters on looking presentable and dinner received similar short shrift.

Promise and deceive, now that sounded more fitting reading for an agent. Eleanor was sadly disappointed and the short chapter soon passed by with a frown.

‘Tears, kisses and take the lead’, a chapter heading so unfortunate sounding Eleanor nearly ignored it full stop. At first she skimmed, then slowly began to read more in-depth, her blush growing deeper by the page. She began holding an outraged conversation with the long dead author, mostly consisting of insults and outraged protests. Finally the book sailed across the bed to land with a thump in the pillows. “I do dearly hope that … that creep got brought to trial and executed. Rape pleasing to women indeed.” She snorted. “I am willing to be he had no love life outside of his imagination.”

Feeling guilty about how she had treated the spymaster’s expensive book, and not wanting anyone to know what she had been reading, Eleanor replaced it in the chest. She took the Iliad instead; it could sit open at a random page and look all innocent while she ignored it. Virtual prisoner she might be, but that did not mean she had to endure reading such drivel. Stories were so much more fun when the teller was a cute knight with a broken nose whom you could heckle and bother.

An indeterminable amount of time crept slowly past; she passed much of it in deep contemplation. When the door opened Eleanor expected it to be Trempwick but was surprised to see Fulk scuttle in. The knight shut the door softly behind himself. “Do you wish me to leave?” he asked urgently. The expression on his face was so pained, so trusting, so hopeful it tore Eleanor’s heart. He was taking a horrific risk in coming here.

With difficulty she joked, “Well, I doubt my betrothed invited you up here.”

“No games,” he requested quietly. “Is this what you wish?”

Eleanor closed her eyes. “No, it is what I want. If you cannot tell the difference you are living in a dream.” She regretted her harsh words the instant they left her mouth. They had grown from her anguish.

Fulk stood there, stricken. “You want me to leave?”

Very gently, afraid to even look at him, she said, “It is for the best, as I explained before you will have … a life, prospects, a future. I would not wish to be without you, but I know it is for the best, for both of us. No more living right next to what we cannot have, no more temptation to disaster.” Her eyes brimmed with tears as she begged for understanding. “I love you; that is why I am doing this. It is the best way to keep you safe; we cannot hide from a spymaster forever. If we force his hand he will act. At court you will be safe, you will have prospects, status, a life – it is all I can give you.”

Dully he accused, “You arranged this, when you took me out for that swordfight you had this in mind.”

“Yes. To do this any other way would have only made him more suspicious. It had to come from him, or from something he did. I had to get you away before he felt forced to act.”

For a moment she thought the unthinkable, that Fulk might cry; his jaw tightened and his eyes blinked rapidly as he looked away from her. In the end he just said, “I should go.” Shoulders slumped, head drooping, posture screaming abject defeat and loss, he walked in a daze back to the door, not even trying to fight her decision as she had expected he would. Had she wounded him that badly? Yes, she probably had, that badly and worse. She balled her hands into fists in the blankets, as if to hold herself back before she could give in to that desire to run to him, cling on to him and never, ever let go. He paused at the door, looked back over his shoulder at her. “Goodbye.” He left.

Eleanor buried her face in a pillow and wept, clutching the necklace he had given her in one tight fist.






Dead. He was dead. She had torn his heart out and thrown it away and called it for the best, without even asking him. He had to be dead; he felt so numb, so hopeless. He was not part of this world now; he felt detached, floating like an observing entity, knowing but not feeling. Nothing was real; it was all dreamlike. A dream … if only, if only. It was not. In his dreams they were always happy.

He had nothing left. He had lost everything, the one person who meant everything. She had given him all that he had ever dared dream of as a boy and egotistical youth, everything his imagination could conjure up and more. A place with the king, a chance at a good fief, status, wealth, security, an opening for fame and further fortune. He didn’t want it any more, any of it. It didn’t matter how much wealth or fame or glory or honour he had. He still would not have her. The one thing he did want.

She had set him up, neatly reordered his life for him and not even asked, not even given him a choice. He should be angry. He should be drowning in the pain he knew he had. But he felt nothing, just nothing. Too badly wounded to feel; maybe, just as with battlefield wounds, that would come later as awareness slowly sank in and the shock wore off.

Fulk pulled the hairpin from its place behind his dagger and began turning it in his hands, end over end over end, not realising what he was doing. His carelessness cost him; he stuck his thumb on the end. The pain aroused a certain curiosity in him, muted and dimmed. He looked down to see what caused the pain and saw a bead of crimson building on his thumb.

That drew his attention to the hairpin itself. She didn’t want him any more; the pin was not his now. It had no meaning, just bitter memory. Finally a part of that anger he knew he should have battered through the deadness surrounding the space where his heart had been. He had set him up, used him and discarded him! He took the pin in both hands and prepared to snap it in two. The instant he began to apply pressure he stopped, the anger swallowed back up in the numbness.

The pin meant nothing now. It was not his. He should give it back. She didn’t want him. She didn’t want to see him. He could leave it hidden here; she would find it eventually. Yes, that would be best. He would put it under her pillow. No, she would never find it there; she was Trempwick’s … his mind shied away from that, sheltering him from further agony even if he no longer cared to avoid it. He would put the pin under her pillow and one day she would find it.

Fulk slipped the hairpin under the feather filled pillow and willed his fingers to loose their grip. They were reluctant to cooperate but in the end he succeeded. There. Done. He sat in his daze for a moment, then his hand shot out and grabbed the pin back, clasping it tightly, as if his life depended on keeping hold. It was all he had left of her; he would die before he parted with it. He had lost everything, but he would keep this and remember, remember and wish things had been differently.

So numb. He wished that would change even as he acknowledged gratitude for it. The lack of feeling sheltered him, kept the flood of pain at bay. It kept him immobilised, like an ox struck by the butcher’s hammer before being slaughtered. He didn’t want that pain. He didn’t want to be detached like this.

She wanted him gone. She loved him. She wanted him gone.

He would go. Because she asked it. No other reason. For her, anything. An old motto bandied about by poets and romantic men. He had never much cared for it, finding it an idealised expression of what love was meant to be, nothing to do with reality. Now he did. He understood. It was possible to care so much for another you put them far above yourself.

She wanted him gone; he would go.







:wipes tiny tear from her eye: Bah! I hate their mush, but knowing both characters as well as I do this hurts a surprising amount. Even killing Margaret was not as hard as this.

Just for future reference I’m the writer of the week over in paradox's AAR general. I’m still blushing, even though I saw it a few days ago.

I’ll come back to the comments tomorrow; it’s nearly midnight here.

[frogbeastegg]

Anne was reading again, curled up on William’s lap and racing through the book with rapt focus. This evening she was devouring the lai of Chaitivel, a tale of four men in love with the same unobtainable woman. The ending brought tears to many men’s eyes – the poor winner ended up castrated, frustrated and generally ignored, far worse off than he was before.

When she reached the part where the poor unfortunate parted company with some valuable items William, reading over her shoulder as he often did, winced and protectively inched his legs closer together. He would have crossed his legs but then Anne would have fallen off onto the floor.

Marking her place in her book with a thumb Anne looked up and asked, “What is the matter? Are you getting cramp again?”

Being the big, brave man he was William’s best answer was obvious. “Er … yes.”

“I can move if you prefer.”

“No need.”

“Well, if you are sure.” She returned to her reading.

William tucked a stray strand of Anne’s dark red hair back behind her ear. Red hair; he smiled ironically to himself. So many things said about women with red hair, and all of them proving to be a nonsense with Anne. Impetuous, unruly, wild, fiery tempered – it sounded far more like his youngest daughter than his wife. Wonton; certainly not Anne and it had better not apply to the brat either.

Anne sighed dreamily and closed the book, hugging it to her chest. “How romantic.”

“What? Three of the four would be lovers die and the survivor does little better.”

“I know, but think of what he sacrificed for her.” She smiled distractedly.

“Exactly,” muttered William blackly.

Anne examined him closely. “You are in a strange mood tonight.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“Want to share?”

The grandmother was well and truly routing now; Anne was now eager to give her opinion in areas she had been taught were nothing to do with women. “I also have a message from my spymaster; one of John’s treasuries has been retrieved and is awaiting collection. I will not drop everything and go running to my spymaster’s beck and call. I have much to do. Preserving Woburn’s secrets is proving to be a tiring menace.”

“Send Hugh?”

Not a bad idea, and one William had been playing with himself. Hugh could be trusted to get the job done without problems, and it would save William a long day in the saddle travelling at punishing speeds so as to get there and back in one day. It also saved him from having to tell Anne she would be left behind this time, breaking both his promise and her heart in one go. As an added advantage Hugh would get to deal with his future spymaster and his sister’s unique position, becoming familiar with another aspect of his future kingship. Eleanor, now there was another advantage – if he stayed away he wouldn’t have to deal with the annoying brat.

“I shall send Hugh,” agreed William. “Where is the point in having sons if you do not send them to do all your unwanted work?”

She giggled at his joke, all unguarded mirth and delight. For a brief instant there she had looked damned appealing, not at all like the child he usually saw. That happened from time to time, a shift from girl to young woman, unappealing to desirable in a kitten cute kind of way. Reminding himself of just how young she was William resolutely shunted those thoughts from his mind, hoping, as he always did, that she had not picked up on them. Abruptly he wanted to be alone, alone and far away from her.

He made some excuse or other and left the solar, wandering slowly up the stairs to the floor above, the battlements of the tower keep. A couple of men were on sentry duty but they gathered on the far side when he indicated he wished to be left alone, giving him space.

William looked out across his realm. The great height of the keep afforded an excellent view; on a clear day you could see both the coast to the east and London to the west. Now, in the night, the land lay shrouded by the sky revealed itself as a sparkling array of stars interacting with passing clouds. Heaven and earth, his kingdom and God’s, one visible by day and the other by night. A more philosophical man might have derived some great significance from it all.

William placed both his hands flat, palm down on the waist high stone embrasure, framing himself in the gap between the two merlons. His kingdom; forged by his sword and will, anointed in his blood and sweat, and his father’s, and his grandfather’s, and one day his son’s. Blessing and burden. Provider and devourer.

Enough of business tonight; let the king take second place to the man for one rare, sweet moment. He was to be a grandfather! He already had grandchildren out in Spain and Germany but he had never set eyes on them and never would. This one he would see, and hold, and watch grow. His first real grandchild. Optimism faded to grim remembrance. His second grandchild for all those things; the first that would be alive as he held and saw and watched. They had named the first after him, little William. Dead before even his mother could see him. Christened in haste to save his soul and allow Christian burial. To say nothing of those lost before their souls could even merge with their tiny little bodies forty days after conception. No, say nothing of them; without souls they were not human. By the teachings of the church there had been nothing lost there except potential.

So why then did he feel so joyfully optimistic about this new one? Because it was hope, and to be otherwise was to write the baby off as dead while it still lived. Hugh had informed him in private before announcing it to the world this afternoon. All England would now begin to pray for both baby and mother.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled William’s hair and clothes; only his iron will held off a shiver. He had left his cloak inside and stood here dressed for indoors. He lifted his chilled hands from the icy stonework and folded his arms, warming his hands while showing a strong, dominant pose to the rest of the world.

Off in the future, a year, maybe two, lurked something else to worry an aging man. Off in the future and in himself. No! Trying to see into the future was something best left to old crones and wizards; he would not try his hand at it. Either he and Anne would have children in the future or they would not; he had kept his lines of succession neat and clear thus far and he could continue to do so. He could have had several bastards, an army of them even, if he had wished but he had not. They would have had no claims but still they could muddy the waters. He could have more legitimate children or he could not; he would concern himself over that when the time came. He would wonder about Hugh’s chances of continuing the bloodline then. If the line looked insecure he would do his best to reinforce it; if it looked strong then he would leave matters to his son.

Anne. How long did he have with her? William had altered his will to provide for her; she would not be forced back home, into poverty, or into another marriage. She would be under his family’s protection, able to take time to decide her own course. William smiled wistfully; in a year or two she would be a deal more woman than child and she promised to be quite striking. He wondered if he would live to see it. He noticed it again, the small reawakening need that had long lain dormant. The need for female company; company he could laugh and love with, company which provided much more than a way to scratch an itch. “Damn the girl,” he cursed fondly, so quietly it was not quite a whisper.

The need had died out because he had had no success in finding someone to fill it, not that he had much time to look. Those few he had found in his younger days were all gone now; dead, respectfully married, dedicated to God. Companions of the heart, not simple bed warmers, or so one had told him one very pleasant evening. Martha. See? He still remembered her name. Of course he did; he remembered all of them. There hadn’t been many, even after Joanna died. He’d been fond of them all.

Anne had the makings of a companion of the heart, for all her youth. He was stuck in a bind though; he’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her until she was considerably older, and he’d promised her he would not do anything which might lead to people suspecting he was an unfaithful husband. The first promise was very rational; the second was a hastily said, unconsidered offer to console her. Both were very easily dispensed with, even the second if he was careful be circumspect. But there was the bind – either promise would risk hurting her in some way if cast aside. He didn’t want that.

William chuckled to himself. The mighty king of England brought to heel by a thirteen year old girl!







Yes, I know it is several days past tomorrow :sigh: busy froggy, and it was my birthday a couple of days ago too. That throws things somewhat. Such a long comment definitely deserves a good, well thought out reply, not another hasty response crammed in to a few minutes. I'll get there ...

[frogbeastegg]

Anne was still waiting for him when he returned from the ramparts. She had allowed her maids to help her dress for bed but sat alone by the fire in the solar, draped in a bed robe. She had her legs curled up into the chair, keeping her bare feet warm. At first William thought she was asleep but her head perked up as he stepped into the room and she said, “I wanted to ask you something, if you do not mind. I do not mean to pry or anything, and I am very sorry if I am prying.” Her old timidness was back. William indicated that she should ask. Very, very nervously she did so. “I wanted to know how Eleanor ended up as … she did.”

William acquiesced with a dour face, not because he wanted to tell the story but because to refuse would send Anne back down the path towards being the painfully shy thing she had been when she first arrived. He stood next to the dying fire, absorbing what warmth he could. “I was there when she was born. That was rare; I missed the births of most of my other children. However much I wanted to be present there was always something demanding my attention. Eleanor I was there for, Rowena and Stephan too; all the others I missed. She was a small, dark haired little scrap who was not interested in me at all; she was too busy sleeping. Even when I picked her up she stayed asleep.”

The corners of William’s eyes crinkled as he remembered how he had felt. “I … liked that; she had a certain unflappable style. I chose her name, you know. I did not consult with my wife that time. We had planned to call her Emlin for some reason or other; I do not recall why. I had always liked the way Eleanor sounded and I thought it suited this tranquil little thing far better than Emlin ever could, so I named her that instead with no warning or consultation.” Joanna had not been happy with his sudden shift but she had been too tired, and too well bred, to bat an eyelid when he told the priest. Eleanor; a beautiful, peaceful sounding name. It had suited the baby but she had not grown into it; calling her Eleanor now felt like blasphemy.

In a wistful voice he admitted, “I liked her, you know. She was so quiet, you see. Unlike the other two I had seen at that age she was quite placid, and she … I felt she liked me too. I think perhaps she was my favourite out of the babies.” Aware of what a sentimental old sot he sounded William added, “She never threw up on me; that helped.” In the next breath he found himself admitting, “I loved her, right from that first sight.” As quickly again he was unpicking what he had sewn. “I loved some of the others instantly too, the ones I saw right on the day they were born. The others took more time before I felt any attachment; they were … old.”

“I managed to find time to visit her frequently for a few days, but soon enough I had to leave. I am not sure quite why I left; all these similar years roll into one and blur together. Travelling to show myself to my vassals, settling disputes, hearing the most important court cases, some fighting I think.” He shrugged. “The usual business of a king. When I saw her again she was walking and talking. I did not stay long; soon I was off again. It was always like that until recently. These last few months are a rarity; I have not been this sedentary since I was a lad myself. I had little time to see her, or any of my children. When I did see them they had grown and changed so much I barely knew them, and very often they did not recognise me.”

“Joanna did not like young children; she preferred them when they were old enough to think, reason and mind their manners. There was no malice in it, you understand,” he said firmly, not willing to let his new wife form a less than complimentary portrait of his old one, least of all through misunderstandings. “She did care about them when they were younger; she just did not feel she knew what to do with them, and she found herself easily bored by their simple minds. She thought it unkind to make them spend much time with someone who could not hide her disinterest in their childish things. She was busy too; while I was away she handled whatever business arose here, ruling as queen in my stead, that is, when she was not travelling with me on royal progress. You will have to learn to do all that; even delegating to Hugh where I can I still need support from my queen. You will also have to learn to travel so quickly; I demand military forced march pacing, not the idle wandering slowed by carts and clutter most other monarchs allow.”

Recalling his point William dropped his plans for the future and delved back into the past. “So neither of us really knew what our children were doing, except in a hazy kind of way. By the time I found out Eleanor had become her eldest brother’s shadow it was too late; she was already a hellion and a tomboy. It set a pattern; I was always too late or too absent to be of much use. All I ever heard about Eleanor was bad, or good tainted with bad. ‘She is very intelligent; if only she would try she could go far’. Almost every time I saw her she was sent to me because she was in trouble; almost every time I heard her name it was a request for me to do something to curb her disgraceful behaviour. I would only be there for a few days, so she found she could get away with almost anything unless I was around. That is the problem with girls; boys you can hand off to someone suitable when they are of age to become a page and that mentor will handle everything; you can forget the boy exists, knowing they will be well taken care of and turned into a man you can be proud of.”

“Girls, on the other hand, are different. You can hand them off to tutors but the rules are different. No one cares if a tutor beats a boy but the world would cry shame if he did the same to a girl. Only the father or guardian can do that, because it potentially harms her marriage prospects. Eleanor, like the tomboy brat she was, did not care about the odd slap or cuff. If you locked her up she tended to escape or amuse herself with whatever that room had to offer, even if it was just a floor to do handstands on. You could not forbid her from doing much because the things she enjoyed doing where the very things you did not want her to be tampering with.”

A jab of guilt compelled him to say, “Sometimes I think those I gave responsibility to were negligent.” A pause, then more guilty honesty. “No – I know they were. They did not care what she was doing; if she was with her brother playing knights and sieges then they did not have to keep an eye on her. It only mattered if she might come to some serious harm, for which they would be held responsible. Her lack of refinement and education could simply be blamed on her unwillingness to learn, not on their neglect. I should have replaced them, but somehow I never had the time. We found better people for my other children; I was in a hurry when I chose for her, and Joanna was not having a particularly easy time with this pregnancy so she could not help.” Angry guilt, snapped out like an accusation, “What do I know about wet nurses anyway? Nothing to do with me.”

Anne shrank back from his bad temper. William forced himself back to a cross growl, the closest to good humour he could currently manage. “She picked up a reputation and no one would take my tentative marriage offers seriously. She climbed things, played with toy weapons, sneaked about, followed after her brother like a lost dog, explored places she was not supposed to go, got in fights with her siblings, stole food from the kitchens – in some lesser noble family this might be acceptable but not in a princess in a royal palace. One ambassador saw her covered in mud with a ripped skirt from falling out of a tree! You know what she said about that? ‘I don’t usually fall’.” He grimaced at the memory. “That marriage proposal died before I even had chance to get the ambassador inside.”

“No one wanted a girl who was famous for being a disobedient hoyden marrying into their family. A convent was out of the question; she would have raised hell so badly I would need to remove her to prevent further harm being done to our family name. Sometime in her fifth year Stephan broke his leg in a fall from a foul tempered stallion he was not supposed to go near, let alone ride. It healed badly, and a short time later he drowned while swimming. I think the weak leg must have been responsible. It broke his mother’s heart, and mine.” William stared blankly at his boots. Joanna had never known it was anything other than an accident; she would have strangled him with her bare hands if she had known the truth.

“Without him she got even worse, and her poor reputation grew. Every tutor I gave her left quickly, swearing they wanted nothing more to do with her. It became very difficult to find anyone willing to give her a go, and Joanna and I did not have much time to search. We were doing the right thing far too late; some of them were good tutors and she would have done well. My spymaster met her somehow and decided she had the makings of a good agent; he asked for her. I agreed. I intended it to be a temporary arrangement; I thought she would soon tire and become more tractable. I thought it would shock her into behaving. It didn’t. My wife hated the arrangement; I was not fond of it myself, but I knew something had to be done. The things people were saying about her and about our family, well, they were unspeakable, revolting, dreadful. If anyone had uttered them in my hearing I would have been honour bound to kill them.” William thought it most prudent to leave it at that: the truth, but lacking the painful detail.

Anne digested this for a while. “Does she know you intended to bring her back?”

“No. The pattern continued in many ways; I saw her, I tried to put her back on the right path, I left, and my work was undone by lack of time and consistency. Trempwick has many good points but he is soft, despite my urging him to be otherwise. I will not give up; I will fix this mess or die trying. Now, if you do not mind that is all I care to say about the brat just now.”

With a small smile curving her lips Anne told him, “She is very much like you. She would never admit it, nor would she welcome me saying so, just as I think you do not really welcome it. None the less the resemblance is there.” William snorted, secretly peculiarly and irrationally pleased by her words. His hand just touched the latch to his bedroom door when she ventured, “You are very grumpy tonight.”

He said dismissively, “Talking about the brat always makes me grumpy, as does anything related to her. Love soured and turned to hate sits poorly in any man’s belly, especially when the fault is mostly your own.”
“No, you were in a funny mood before she was mentioned. That is why you left, I think.” He didn’t answer, but nor did he continue to leave. She begged quietly, “Please tell me; you always say your queen should help you, and I cannot help if you do not tell me things.”

William laid his forehead against the smoothed wood of the closed door. There was no kind way to dodge out of answering; a lie would be unworthy. “Those two promises I made you are weighing rather heavily tonight.”

“Oh.” The word dropped like a stone into a pond, leaving a few ripples of potential but no activity or sound. William waited for a bit; he knew without looking that her mind was working overtime. He was not sure what he hoped her answer would be; there wasn’t really any answer he would entirely like. “Are you calling on our marriage debt?” she enquired. She sounded very calm but a tiny quaver betrayed her anxiety.

“No, not at all. I promised; not until you are older.”

“I am older; time has passed and so I am older. You would not be breaking your promise as you did not specify how much older.”

Startled William spun around, turning her own question back on her, “Are you calling on our marriage debt?”

“No,” she admitted rather miserably. “But I do know my duty, and a part of that is to help you burrow your way out of promises you do not wish to keep.”

“If I did not wish to keep promises I break them very quickly. I just wish you were older.”

“A person’s age is not solely derived from the day they were born. Mental state and learning has much to do with it.” She met his eyes and said seriously, “I think I am much older now than I was a month ago.”

“True,” agreed William freely. His own mind was racing now. Too young to be a mother, but that had been taken care of last time and could be avoided again. Mentally a lot older and more appealing. The worst was over, so no need to rush again, plus they knew each other now so this time things could and would go better, and would improve with familiarity. Disgusted he put such thoughts from his mind. “But all this is moot; you are no more interested than last time.”

He floundered, suddenly rather embarrassed. She probably never would be, not until she knew something better than the very brief, painful experience that had been their wedding night. At some point, interest or no, she would end up back in his bed and he would try to give her enough good memories to banish the bad ones. So why not now? From one viewpoint it would even be a kindness – she would lose that dread sooner. Why not now? Because there was something repulsive about the idea of bedding a girl so young, that’s why. He demurred, picking his words with extraordinary care because last time he had expressed this sentiment he had wounded her deeply. “Our wedding night was purely duty and we both hated it. I see no reason to repeat that; neither of us enjoyed it and so it is pointless. It is best to leave things until there is more than duty on both sides.” By which point she would be older. Or until the point where he felt she was of age, at which point he would begin the chase himself.

“But my grandmother said-”

There – suddenly the newly won maturity peeled away and she reverted back to the thirteen year old girl she was. That was why. William cut across her, “A load of rubbish that does not apply here. We have had this conversation before; if something I say or do contradicts your grandmother you forget about her advice.” More kindly he said, “I do not want to hurt you again.” Then, on an unexpected flash of inspiration he added, “If you want to join me you can do so, but only if you want to. If you want to; not out of duty, or some misguided notion about kindness, or anything similar.” He saw her brow crinkle; she didn’t understand, just as he’d expected. For all her reading romances and knowledge of mechanics she was very innocent when it came to the feelings behind it all. “When you understand that, then you are old enough.” And since she had only found the bottom rung of the ladder, a liking for being held, it would be a while indeed before she scaled to those lofty heights, particularly since he was doing nothing to give her a helping hand towards even the second rung.





Eleanor jolted from the nightmare, gasping for air as if she’d been running. She had, running from a dead man with a knife in his ribs.

Trempwick was awake now, pulling her close and rocking her like a child. Like a child; now there was a spur to her ego. Only children were supposed to wake with nightmares. At least when she had been on her own no one else had witnessed the times when her composure slipped; now those contemptible emotions were exposed for Trempwick to see and utilise.

“There always has to be a catch,” he grumbled wearily. “I finally have you for company but now I get very little sleep.” He made it sound like her fault, something she was doing on purpose.

“It is hardly my preference either,” replied Eleanor waspishly. The nightmare eased its grip on her and slowly retreated to dim memory. She’d killed a man and how his vengeful ghost haunted her. She didn’t know a thing about him, not even his name. He could have had a family. How had he ended up a bandit? Was he driven to it or did he choose to become an outlaw? So many questions; she would never have answers. She tried to convince herself the man had been a criminal outlawed for a reason with no family or dependants to slowly starve without him. He was better off dead, and the world was better without him. As usual her attempt failed.

She wriggled closer to Trempwick, seeking enough comfort to chase away the dead man’s ghost. Trempwick was not nearly as good at this as Fulk, but the sensible work with what they have.






:Insert sign with 'reply to comment pending' in flashion neon letters here: The last part of the William/Anne scene took me absolutely forever to write and now I don't have time to do a reply before I have to start cooking. Soon ...

[frogbeastegg]

I hate to clutter up my own thread but something went wrong when I posted the last part; it appears in the topic but everywhere else (last post dates, post counts etc) it is as if it does not exist. This post is to correct that.

[frogbeastegg]

It seems my Trempwick joke misfired: I picked that one because I thought it was the most complex option plot-wise, not to mention that it would be interesting to see how the three characters involved would react to it. However, everyone seems to have taken it the wrong way.
That removes the nagging feeling I had missed something; I had. At least the cute little confused geisha smiley had a rare opportunity for use. :gring:


You said Fulk has been jealous since page 69 (wherever that may be).
I thought I gave a small excerpt to show where? Some description of where it was in the plot? I was in a big rush, so maybe I forgot. I’ll just retrieve and dump the bit here:

“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.”


However, I saw it differently. He had some jealous feelings, true, but was not acting like a jealous lover. In fact, I remember that at the banquet scene I actually admired the way you described Fulk having those feelings without making him seem jealous. I did not comment on that because I wanted to see if you were going to build those feelings up towards a later jealousy on his side. If my memory serves me right that is the last time Eleanor and Trempwick were seen together from the Fulk-perspective before the marriage announcement. And neither can I remember him being particularly jealous of Trempwick after the fight.
Back at that banquet he hadn’t made himself known so he had no way or right (however tenuous) to act on his feelings. He was also being rational. Fulk will … generally simmer away quietly like he did at that feast, telling himself to be sensible. However if he is already stressed and if the circumstances are set up correctly he will blow. On this jealous explosion everything was nicely set up; shock, disbelief, a lot of deal with both emotionally and mentally, deep denial of the truth, being forced to look at some facts about himself and reality he does not – and never will – like. Bang. He is deceptively placid.

Currently he is in a kind of catatonic emotional state. If circumstances had been kinder when he found out about her betrothal he’d have gone the same then. If circumstances when she told him to leave were more stressful then he would have exploded again.


I am not talking about the workings of their relationship; more about their love in general. Fulk sounds as if he expects Eleanor to submit to a day of torture for his sake, before she can agree to a marriage proposal of anyone but him.
No, not at all. Think of what Fulk has seen of Eleanor; he’s seen her beaten up twice. Both times she was a mess, once far more so than the other, but both times very visibly hurt. What does he see when he finds her after the betrothal?

“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.”

Sounds bad if you know what she has been through but compared to what he has seen in the past it is quite mild. Note he is also deciding it all comes from an unrelated event. Sure she tries to tell him what happened to her but he isn’t really listening by that point, already beginning to drown in his little explosion. Nell being Nell she also understates. So he thinks she didn’t resist at all, then when it begins to sink in that she has, well from this evidence she barely tried. She doesn’t have to fight for him, but he knows her and her usual attitudes. He knows she really does not want to get married, and he knows that she usually fights to the end to get her own way. He expects her to fight for herself. He does mention a thought that they had some kind of agreement not to marry anyone else, but he is again mostly thinking that she will fight to get and keep what she wants, i.e. she wants no one but Fulk so she will fight to have no one but Fulk, even if that really means fighting to remain single. To him it looks like she gave up without trying, maybe after a token resistance. Fulk is expecting to see something very similar to the time her rib got cracked, the results of a titanic struggle. That lack can only mean one thing – she did not even protest, ergo she wants to marry Trempy. He didn’t reckon on the king being somewhat subtle for once.


No, you’re right. It was a stupid remark on my part. What I think I was trying to say (I can’t exactly remember it) was that it need not have been an immediate explosion. It could just as well have been a slow poison. Like in the second fight-scene.
Nope, it needed. I’m on a very tight schedule and have been since shortly before they arrived at the palace. Even moving something by a day is growing next to impossible. Correction; it is impossible now, back then it was next to impossible. To move this fight moved other things too, and then everything ends up weeks off where it absolutely has to be. :pulls face: It’s a real pain in the rear to handle sometimes, and actually rather stressful. Not to mention there were reasons that fight happened just then, mostly down to the Fulk Explosion™ effect.


Well, you have been doing it quite well in the last few chapters so I have no recent examples. I think that you just need to bear in mind that we are now (or I think I am) thoroughly familiar with both Eleanor’s and Fulk’s character and motives, so these don’t need explanation anymore.
Someone who happened to agree with you came to your aid and sent me an email with a couple of scenes covered in red ink. That proved invaluable; it allowed me to see exactly what was too much. Even quoting a couple of lines and screaming, “No!!! Bad froggy!!” helps enormously. I was actually thinking of something slightly different to what you and your supporter meant. That’s why these recent scenes have been better. So thanks for bringing that up and starting the events that ended up with the junk being cut out; if you hadn’t said anything I would still be writing in the same tedious manner~:)

Actually if I’m honest almost every single bit that needed removing was a bit I didn’t like anyway. I had been feeling these junk heavy parts were wrong but I had reasons to wander that way, and generally it looked as if this approach was working better even if I didn’t like it. It’s a very long story, so suffice it to say the frog should listen to her gut instincts more.


Judging by your reply, you may have misunderstood what I was trying to say. I was not objecting against switching the perspective from one person to another, but against switching the perspective type from third person semi-omniscient to third person omniscient.
There’s the thing; I never think of the perspective. I didn’t know this was third person semi omniscient until you said so. I really, honestly give it no thought at all. I don’t think I even know all possible perspectives a person can write in, or what the fancy name is for them. I know first person and third person; that’s all. :sigh: Technicality, and I have no idea where to learn it.


One of the unwritten rules of writing is ‘unity of style’, and that means not switching the type of perspective halfway. If you don’t do this the effect is not so much wrong as... odd. Off course, breaking the rules of writing can actually result in literature (that’s what experimental literature is all about), but I don’t think that was the idea here.
I don’t know the unwritten rules either. :looks mock indigent: Now you are making me show off just how clueless I am! :tongueg: The only rules, written or unwritten, I know are ones like “Never start a sentence with and, if or but.” You may have noticed I break that one.


Secondly, you said this technique is praised. I wondered (and still do): what is praiseworthy about it?
Don’t ask me, ask the reviewers. I seldom agree with them or even take much notice of them these days. They seem to delight in stating something as if the whole world should understand but never coming down from their lofty perch to explain why. It’s probably supposed to be self evident why this technique is good; we are just too plebeian to see why. :rolleyes:


Again: I am not objecting to the use of perspective switches, but against switching perspective type, and thus writing style, for a single scene.
I know, and I was not happy with it either. For a third version I would find some way to improve it and make it fit far better, but a third version I would have weeks to think and work on this scene alone. Perhaps if I altered and added a lot to the previous scenes I might find a way to hint much of what was said in that scene, picking up content and placing it somewhere else. Hmmm …. I dunno. I guess I could, but it would probably take a lot of time and effort, playing with the manuscript, drafting and revising, tweaking and altering, plus I’d need outside views on how well it works … a proper book type undertaking, not a serialised web story type.


I see. I am a bit confused as to which of your sentences refers to which scene,
First block of text for the John scene, second block of text for the Nell/Fulk scene.


Have you tried suggesting that Eleanor was imagining things? For example, putting something like “However, Fulk did not look condemning” in? If properly placed, it will carry the suggestion to the reader that there may be another interpretation. Just an idea, I have no idea what you actually tried.
I tried everything I could think of, except suggesting in the text that Nell was wrong. I simply can’t and won’t do that. The characters get things wrong many times and I cannot point that out; Bad Things would happen, possibly involving the end of the universe as it collapses back in on itself. If it’s continuing Nell’s POV and she thinks Fulk looks condemning then he looks condemning. If Fulk doesn’t look condemning then the point would never have been raised.

:scowls: Just for once I’m going to speak out on one of the characters many mistakes – Fulk never did love Maud!! He only thinks he did because he is dumb! If he had loved her he would never have treated her so badly! His out of control thing is never going to happen with Nell because he cares far too much about her to ruin her life like that! That is one of many hundreds of things they get wrong, and the one which annoys me the most. I don’t want people thinking I think that is love. It’s his dumb idea, not mine. The best I can do is show how wrong much of it was and hope the reader picks it up. Humph, even if they do it still makes me look bad.


Back to the present: last three parts you posted were marvellous. The interaction between Trempwick and Eleanor is excellent. I may dislike Trempwick, because he is an arrogant bastard who thinks the world is at his feet, but he’s got style and that makes up for a lot.
He is not my favourite either, but his style and general arrogant bastardness do make him fun to write sometimes.

The last few parts have felt much better to me, and with the exception of the William/Anne talk about their love life bit they have been much easier to write too. Most of the junk I had to add in to the scene after I had written the ‘natural’ version. My fingers itch to go back and redo about 100 pages of work, cutting out all the junk.


By the way, is it necessary for Eleanor and Fulk to have patched up things when they meet Trempwick? I am wondering what would happen if a disgruntled Fulk and an angry/dispirited Eleanor returned to Woburn to face the spymaster. Now that might result in a thrilling scene ~D .
Yes, necessary. As you’ve seen by now Fulk is leaving, and you’ve seen how and why it was done. Such a scene would have been fun to write though.



Now I should go and face some more of my inboxes; an uphill task if ever there was one. :hide:

[frogbeastegg]

Actually forget the entire jealously thing; if Fulk doesn't read like a jealous man then he isn't one. The characters as I imagine them must differ somewhat to the ones you know because I can't write them exactly as I seen them, perhaps only 98% correct. When it comes to writing emotion I'm wrong footed because of my own lack of experience with emotion; I'm working mostly from learned knowledge gleaned from books with a bit of visual aid coming from films and watching other people. Jealousy is one of the most tentative emotions for me to handle; I really have very little idea about it aside from the loud guy beating up his ex's new boyfriend. Quietly jealous, as I tried to make Fulk, on reflection seems a bit more like quietly resentful occasionally spilling over into open upset if pushed too far. Or something. Perhaps you'll remember I did this more often in my older stories, especially the original Eleanor? Emotion that didn't quite seem right? I've mostly fixed that but in some areas it is still problematic.

These times when I'm made aware people view my characters slightly differently to the way I do are quite strange. Oh well, I'll just grin like an idiot because for a very short while I'll be writing Fulk's emotional state based on my own experience. Mmm, using experience not learned theory, I've never had the opportunity to do that.

So whatever Fulk reads like is what he is; forget my original intent.

[frogbeastegg]

“Hugh is coming in your father’s place,” announced Trempwick as he entered the solar early that morning. He set his food down on the table and seated himself opposite Eleanor. To her he gave only a cup of small ale.

Eleanor hungrily eyed the piece of cheese next to Trempwick’s morning bread and drink. “He is? Good; even if he does wish to dispose of me he is easier to deal with than my beloved regal ancestor.”

Trempwick broke his stale bread into two halves and sprinkled some salt on one part before taking a bite. He washed it down with some of his ale. “I knew if I brought cheese you would pay it more mind than me.”

“Sorry, master.”

Trempwick cut off a small wedge of cheese with his belt knife and examined it, before eating it with some more of yesterday’s bread. He savoured the flavour. “Good, very good. A pity I did not get more of this particular vintage.” Another bit vanished down his gullet. “A pity indeed. Would you believe I only brought a chunk half the size of my fist? I purchased it at the same time as your clothes.” He looked pointedly at her grey ensemble. “I do believe you would have preferred the cheese to the silk, beloved Nell.”

With reckless honesty she replied, “Not exactly, master. I would have preferred both.”

Trempwick’s eyebrows drew together. “You could have had both, but you expressed a certain disinterest in eating, dear Nell. Hardly my fault.”

“Of course not, master.”

Trempwick sliced off another bit of cheese and paused with it half way to his mouth. He pulled it off the tip of his knife and threw it to Eleanor. “Here, but do not tell the spymaster I am flouting his decision.”

She caught the precious cheese adroitly and ate it before he could change his mind. “Thanks,” she said belatedly.

Trempwick laughed under his breath. “I notice again your priorities run cheese first, with me along way second.”

“One has to concentrate on the important things in life.”

Trempwick grunted. “You can spend the day with me again; I will run through your land’s accounts with you and try to teach you some of the basics. If the decisions are made and noted in a timely manner they can be dispatched along with the instructions for my own estates.” He bit off another chunk of bread, chewed viciously and swallowed. He said severely, “I am so glad to hear you are going to concentrate on important matters, dear Nell.”

“Yes, master,” mumbled Eleanor.

“I expect you to make great progress and prove yourself apt, beloved Nell. Use that intellect of yours and you will learn quickly, as usual.”

“Yes, master.”

“I do not have time or patience to waste, sweet Nell.” Trempwick tossed off the last of his ale in one swift motion and banged the cup back down on the table. “You should have learned all this years ago. If I must play lord and spymaster then you must play lady and agent; years worth of teaching must be crammed into weeks!”

“It is not my fault, master.”

Trempwick recalled himself. “Yes, well, be that as it may, you need to learn and quickly. Pray to God we do not need to call upon my mother; odd as it may seem I do not have the education of a noble lady, only a noble man.”

Hesitantly Eleanor said, “Speaking of your mother, after the wedding Countess of Kent will be my title, not hers. She can retire to her dower lands when she parts company with it, or she can go to a convent. I think neither of us wants her to linger.” At his enquiring look she smiled very slightly, calculating and determined. “Oh yes; I am thinking of the two titles I shall collect by virtue of marriage to you.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Ambition, darling Nell?”

Eleanor toyed with her cup, running a finger around the earthenware rim. “Not as such, master,” she admitted uncomfortably. “Even a king will think twice before hurting the Duchess of Northumberland and Countess of Kent, especially when she is married to someone who might take exception to it.” She aimed a half pleading look at him, then looked back down at her cup. “Married, titled or no, I should be safe, but I do not really believe that. I do not believe he will keep to social niceties unless he sees the risk as too great.”

He leaned across the table and placed his hand over one of hers. “Dear Nell, I promised I would keep you safe, and I shall keep that promise to the best of my abilities.”

Eleanor curled her fingers around his, interlacing and holding tight. “I know.”






“I always win,” remarked Trempwick conversationally.

Fulk regarded the spymaster impassively. The numbness that had engulfed his heart had spread and settled overnight, turning his blood to ice. He said nothing.

Trempwick fastened the last buckle on Fulk’s coat of plates and stepped back to find the next bit of armour. “She will soon forget about you.”

Fulk ducked to allow the other man to aid him with his surcoat. Carefully examining how his facial muscles were working he decided he was presenting a blank face to the world. Without emotions to act as a catalyst he found he either had no outward reaction where he expected one, or occasionally one that worked his face but sparked nothing internally to inform him what he was doing and why. Fulk tied the thin cord belt about his waist to hold the surcoat in place and gestured for his sword, his new top quality sword.

Trempwick set blade and belt into Fulk’s waiting hands. “I suppose you will forget her just as quickly.”

Lacking any natural reaction Fulk forced an imitation of his old friendly smile, finding one set of muscles more willing to cooperate than the other so the end result felt lopsided. “Take care of her,” he requested politely.

“I will. She is mine, and I always take care of what is mine.”

Fulk folded his arms and looked at the annoying man, knowing once again his face and manner was perfectly calm. He didn’t want to ram a fist through the gloating fool’s face; he should but he didn’t. Trempwick was so much easier to deal with from this tranquil emptiness. “I doubt she considers herself anyone’s property.”

Trempwick shook his head and tutted. “You are the one who mentioned property; I only said she was mine. You twist my words, bodyguard … ex-bodyguard. After last night I really doubt she would quibble anyway, except perhaps for appearance’s sake.”

That insinuation also had no emotional effect, and Fulk was glad. Fully armed up now, except that his head was still bare, his legs were unarmoured because of his wound and he lacked his shield, Fulk cast his eyes around Eleanor’s old room once more. He saw only his bags, packed and ready to go, and her own personal touches and furniture. He had missed nothing; there was nothing left to do. He said tonelessly, “I suppose I shall wait here until my escort arrives.”

“Yes, that might be better. You will explain your shield was damaged during a live steel training exercise with one of my agents. You will not take your warhorse; there is no good way to explain why it is lame. You will use the chestnut instead. Above all you will stick to the cover story we arranged for you before we went to the palace. Those who need to know the truth already know it; those who do not must not. Do you understand?”

Fulk’s only answer was a curt nod.





Jocelyn collapsed onto his wife, gasping for breath with his heart racing. Awkwardly, her arm half trapped under his bulk, she pushed at his shoulder, trying to prise him off her. “You are crushing me,” she protested.

Jocelyn pulled himself free and rolled off her. The cool air hit his sweat soaked front and suddenly the castle’s bedroom felt a lot colder than it had moments ago. One hand flailed for the top of the blankets and pulled them up over himself, casting some over Richildis as a courtesy. Before the material even settled she was pushing the bedding away and sitting up. “Leaving so soon?” he asked sardonically. “But we are such a happy pair of lovers.”

Her lips tightened. “It is the middle of the day.”

“So what? Lie back a bit, rest, relax. Damn it, woman, you don’t need to run for it immediately.”

“We have inspired more than enough gossip.” She rose and began to dress.

Jocelyn admired the view. Three children had thickened her waist somewhat, and she had silvery stretch marks on her stomach but overall she was still in fine shape and attractive. Not breastfeeding had certainly helped; he’d done well to insist on her obeying noble tradition and getting a wet nurse. There was little worse in Jocelyn’s eyes than great sagging breasts, especially when you knew they had previously been delightfully pert. It was a very great pity Richildis the person was not nearly as pleasing as Richildis the body. “We’re married; if I decide I want you in the middle of the day then it is none of anyone else’s business.”

“It is demeaning,” she replied through clenched teeth, “and indecent. You marched into the main hall and asked if I had a headache before everyone, then all but dragged me off when I said I said no!”

Jocelyn sat up, grinning easily. “Proof of passion; you will be the envy of every woman in the castle.”

“Envy?” she asked scornfully.

Jocelyn clambered out of bed himself and posed naked, bending his arms up and making fists to show off his biceps. “A nice head of corn coloured hair, blue eyes, even features, fair skin, a fit body, hard muscles, good stature-”

“A prickly beard, the manners of a pig and the consideration of a lout,” Richildis finished waspishly. She briskly began rebraiding her hair, twining the dark gold mass back to strict order.

Jocelyn rubbed a hand over his lower face. True, his beard did need trimming back to follow his jaw line neatly again. He’d have that taken care of today. “The beard I’ll give you; the rest I won’t.” He began to dress himself, fighting the post-coital torpor filling his blood. “Very well, I’ll stop disgracing you with my passions now. We can pick this up again tonight.” He aimed a suggestive wink at her as he tied the cord holding his braies up at his waist.

Richildis’ nose wrinkled. “I’m sore enough already, thank you.”

“Oh, now what are you whinging about?” snapped Jocelyn testily.

She flushed a bright red and suddenly found the view from the open window very interesting. “Nothing.”

“No, go on – tell me what I’m doing wrong now. You can’t leave that slur half spoken; either finish it or retract it.”

“You are too rough.”

“Arlette doesn’t complain.” His scowl deepened as another thought occurred to him. “And anyway most women like it rough.”

“I’m your wife, not your whore.”

He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Funny thing is the whore’s a damned sight more compliant, for all her lack of wifely duty.”

“Then go bother her and leave me in peace. Just don’t bankrupt us or catch some disease.”

“Tildis, Tildis, please – when you aren’t complaining I do rather enjoy our conjugal duties. Just a pity you are so slow to conceive; you do love our children, as do I.” She did; all the tenderness and affection in her heart was reserved solely for their three children. At first he had been a little jealous, but now he saw the advantage; it made her a fierce protector of the little mites, very concerned with their welfare and upbringing.

Stonily she retorted, “Don’t blame me; you know that a woman has to enjoy sex before conception can take place. With your brutish efforts it’s a miracle we have any children at all, and then you send them away without even warning me!”

“Oh Christ Jesus! Not Thierry again!” roared Jocelyn. “He has a good position-”

Richildis screamed back, “I know! But you could have told me when you arranged it, not the night before he left!”

Jocelyn winced. He had been drunk, then busy, then he had been avoiding speaking to her because of an argument about something or other, then he’d had a cold, and before he had known it the boy was packing to leave. He held up his hands placating. “Alright, I admit it – I should have told you. I’m sorry. There; happy now?”

Richildis swallowed a few times, blinking rapidly. “He’s my son,” she said quietly, “my first born.”

Comfortingly he offered, “We will get him back soon, when Yves’ head rolls for his treason.”

“If your head does not roll as well,” she answered bleakly. “For all that we do not get on I have no wish to be a widow. If you fall you take us down with you.”

“Tildis, I told you, I have a plan to use this to our benefit. At the worst we will be no worse and no better off than we are now. Besides, I have to go, or would you have me known as a coward and an oath breaker?”

“This folly is doomed from the start.”

“I am counting on that. I can keep my word and still use this to my advantage.” Jocelyn rummaged about in the open neck of his tunic and shirt until his hand closed on his golden crucifix. “God favours me, poor sinner that I am. He has heard my prayers and given me the sign I begged for.”

“Then I do hope you were praying for something worthwhile.”

Jocelyn released the crucifix and studied his wife through lowered eyebrows. There was nothing there to suggest she was mocking him, but he would not put it past Richildis to make a joke of this. She returned his scrutiny openly. Finding nothing to take issue with Jocelyn snatched up his belt from the floor where it lay. “Tonight I’ll try that courtly love nonsense if it will make you happy; all gentle, charming, courteous and unmanly, though I’ve no idea how anyone can find such a milksop of a creature attractive. Damned well took you long enough to mention it.”

“I did; repeatedly.”

“But not clearly; believe me I’d have remembered such a slight on my abilities. Well, now you have I’ll show what a considerate man I am and try to please you. That will be a damned sight easier if you don’t sour my mood; I don’t like having to resort to trickery or force to get what is mine by rights.”

Richildis’ chin went up. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Jocelyn produced a grin that possessed a good portion of leer. “Then I’ll demonstrate it several times for you.” Fully dressed once again Jocelyn swapped to business. “Have you found the supplies I need for my troop?”

“Most; I was arranging the purchase of the new blankets when you dragged me up here.”

“The castle is already well stocked and you checked the inventories recently, so little should need your attention there.”

“I shall check again anyway, and inspect all the stores personally, barrel by barrel right down to the bottoms. I shall not be fooled by tainted supplies.”

Jocelyn nodded curtly; she might be a right pain in the rear half the time but she knew her business well. “Good. The armouries are well stocked in all aspects. Have you any preferences as to who I leave for the garrison?”

“I shall trust your judgement in that; I know the men are all capable and biddable.”

“Anything else you want?”

“More crossbows, and permission to train some of the servants in the rudiments of their use. If this castle comes under siege I want to present a warmer welcome than expected.”

“Done. I doubt we’ll come under siege here but negligence is inexcusable.”

“Exactly.” Richildis’ face set as hard as granite. “No one is going to capture this castle while there is something I can do to prevent it.”

“Don’t fight into folly though, Tildis.”

“Oh I won’t; I know what happens to those in a captured castle. I have my children to think of, and the women, and myself. This is my home, and my fortune, and my status, and my son’s inheritance. So you had better make sure we are on the right side at all times because if the English king, or one of his representatives in force, turns up at our gates I’m going to join him, regardless of where in hell you are and who you’re bending knee to. A change of allegiance, not a lost siege.”







A small note on something so outlandish sounding it seems like I made it up: “You know that a woman has to enjoy sex before conception can take place.” Out of all the strange and completely wrong medieval ideas I have encountered that one has to be one of the most … um … memorable ones, I guess. Widespread, popular, and I would guess quite, erm handy too, for women at least. That’s what happens when you take male physiology and apply it in reverse; orgasm is required for the release of female seed. The unpleasant side effect is that no rape case can ever be brought if the woman gets pregnant as a result; she obviously enjoyed it, ergo it wasn’t rape.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk stood by his horse, waiting as the last of his belongings and the treasury were loaded onto the packhorses. Only Hugh had come to the manor, stringing along a pair of sturdy ponies after his beautiful part Arab courser. Fulk had got the distinct impression the prince was not happy at being forced to play baggage handler even for a few miles.

The prince, Eleanor and Trempwick had gathered into a small knot off to one side, talking. Trempwick was holding Eleanor and she had a silly little smile on her face, obviously relaxed and enjoying the contact. Her attention focused entirely on her brother and Trempwick; Fulk may as well not existed.

The wind picked up and he just heard Eleanor say, “… tell the queen I am well.” She continued to speak for a bit, leaning closer to Trempwick as she did so. Hugh could not quite hide his disgust, though whether it was at seeing his sister with the spymaster or at her happiness Fulk could not decide.

They talked some more; Fulk could only hear snatches here and there, nothing that made sense. Finally they broke up, a short while after the servants loaded the last of the bags. Eleanor freed herself from Trempwick’s embrace and came over to Fulk. She pulled the purse that was hanging from her girdle free. “Your pay,” she said quietly, offering the money to him.

“I don’t want your money.” Even to Fulk’s own ears that sounded flat and cold.

“Perhaps, but you need it.” He was still reluctant, so she took his hand in hers and pressed the purse into it, closing the fingers firmly about the bulging leather. The usual thrill at the contact was missing; it was no more significant than meat touching meat. Fulk decided he should be disappointed, but that too was missing. Aware that some reaction was needed and no natural one forthcoming Fulk settled on a courtly bow. “Thank you, your highness.” As he straightened up he saw hurt in her eyes, and that too caused no response inside him. Finding that fact made him decide he should be sad for all he had lost. He was incapable of it.

Trempwick rejoined them. He offered a letter sealed with his coat of arms to Fulk. “Give this to the king; it explains everything.” The note joined the purse in one of Fulk’s bags.

Fulk placed one foot in the stirrup and began to mount up. Eleanor’s hand caught his arm. “Wait.” For an exquisite moment hope flared to life in his heart before being ruthlessly stamped out by her next words, pitching him back to the numbness and making the icy desolation seem all the worse by contrast. “At the palace it will be safe for you to send messages and tell people what you are doing. Find your mother; tell her you are still alive. She would want to know. Consider that my final order.”

“I will.” Fulk swung up into his saddle and settled into a comfortable seat. This was it; he was leaving. Just a few moments left, then he would probably never see her again. He looked down at Eleanor but once again her attention was on Trempwick. She was still close; if he reached out he could touch her. There was only the spymaster and the prince here. The treasury was loaded for transport, and there were two good riding horses available. He had his sword, and he was the only armoured man here. The last time he would see her. In his mind’s eye Fulk saw himself cutting down the spymaster and running away with Eleanor to freedom. It would be so easy; the stage had practically been set to give him this chance. So easy, assuming she would cooperate, assuming she wanted to be with him. That he no longer believed.

The moment passed and Fulk found himself riding out the gate behind Hugh, leading the train of pack ponies without even getting to say goodbye. He did not look back.





Standing alone in the courtyard, watching the retreating backs of the horsemen Eleanor asked Trempwick, “How will you tell the arse in the crown about the bandit attack? His saving me is a large part of Fulk’s recommendation; without it …”

The spymaster squeezed her shoulders comfortingly. “Don’t worry, beloved Nell. I included a short note about it in that letter I gave him. The king will know everything he needs to; your pet will have his new home. Now, let us return inside; we have much to cover before you even know the basics of land management.”

“Yes, master.” Eleanor trailed after her betrothed, outwardly composed but inwardly bleeding. Fulk was gone; this was her life now – again.





Hugh and Fulk rejoined the rest of the prince’s escort in the little village between the manor and Waltham, about nine miles out from Woburn. Fulk handed the chain of packhorses off to one of the squires accompanying the party and then took up a place at the rear of the short chain of household knights and men at arms. He said nothing to anyone, and no one spoke to him. The lack of conversation did not prevent the other men from casting sidelong, hurried glances at him and conducting hushed discussions well sprinkled with speculative looks at his mount, equipment, possessions, and the laden packhorses.

When the small group had put a few miles between themselves and the village Hugh sent word back that he wished to speak to Fulk. The knight spurred his horse and advanced up the side of the column to the head. He bowed his head respectfully as he reached Hugh’s side. “Your Highness?”

"Are they always like that? My sister and her betrothed? An honest answer, mind.”

“Pretty much, Your Highness, but only since the betrothal. The spymaster appears to be very fond of her, and she has slowly grown to return that affection.”

Hugh’s face twitched as he battled his emotions. “It is disgusting,” he said finally in a choked voice. “A complete shame to our family; my sister and some newly made duke from poor stock. Damn her!” he spat. He spurred his horse viciously and rode off at a canter.





I begin to feel I am limping along :(

[DemonArchangel]

Speaking of limping....

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor spent the afternoon much as she had spent the previous one; kneeling at Trempwick’s side in his study with her hands clasped at the back of her neck. This time he had been going over the rudiments of accounting, teaching her where the assorted figures for her two manor’s incomes came from and how they were derived. When she finally collapsed from exhaustion, something which took less time because her body was already worn out and stiff from yesterday, Trempwick sat her up against the wall until he decided she was fit to kneel again. This repeated several times over.

The lecturing never ceased. As soon as the incomes had been explained he moved on to expenses. To test what she had learned he had her break down the sources of income and expenditure for his own vast collection of lands.

He kept her working until dinnertime. She was secretly glad of the endless demands on her attention; it kept her from thinking about the great gaping hole Fulk’s leaving had left in both her heart and her life. Small attractions do not warrant mourning on any scale, and that appearance had to be kept up.

After dinner, a very one-sided affair as Trempwick stuck to his earlier dismissal of her as “Evidently not at all hungry, what a pity.” They sat together in the solar for a while playing chess.

“You told Hugh you were happy,” said Trempwick inscrutably.

Eleanor looked up from the board. “Yes?”

“I do wonder why exactly. I want you to be happy, and not just for the sake of my own health.”

Eleanor leaned back slightly and clasped her hands in her lap. She played with her betrothal ring as she talked, making the light catch and dance about inside the sapphire. “Truth be told I do not much like the spymaster, not even in part. The spymaster would never have cared to ask or consider my feelings; he takes what he wants and uses people like toys for his own amusement. The other side of you, the one you have only recently begun to display, I like quite a bit. He is quite good company, kind and comforting. That goes a long way, even if it seems a small thing. It was the spymaster I thought I would be marrying.”

“The spymaster is what his job requires him to be.”

Carefully Eleanor suggested, “Perhaps we should acknowledge a non-aggression pact? Fighting is futile, and it only ensures I see the less pleasant side of you. That does not mean I am a meek pushover though, and I never will be. Do not push me or expect too much and I will do likewise. You keep the spymaster out of things as much as possible and I keep … myself under control.”

“Ah, an admirable sentiment. Agreed. I do have some appreciation for your … spirited side, just not when it gets out of control. Bear that in mind.”

“Yes … Raoul.” The unfamiliar name felt strange on her lips. She waited tensely for his reaction, covering her nerves by making her move on the chess board.

The spymaster smiled. “I wondered how long it would take you to try that. If I have two different sides it only seems fair to give them two different modes of address, no? Just make sure you pick the right one for the right time, beloved Nell.”






After an afternoon of hard riding Fulk and the rest of Hugh’s party made it back to the palace. Dinner was long over and much of the castle was bedding down for the night. From the stables Hugh sent most of his escort off to take the treasury to the counting rooms. The stablehands discreetly removed the horses’ tack and began to brush them down. Another man he sent running off to rouse out his squires and have them fetch food and water to wash with. He held a hushed conversation with the final remaining knight, then bade the man to send someone called Simon over to them.

Finally, wearily, he turned to Fulk. “It is too late to decide on your future tonight. I shall arrange for you to speak to my father tomorrow as soon as is convenient for him; word shall be sent to you. One of the retained knights died recently; you can take his room and squire for the night. Although not officially a retainer yet you may feel free to request food, wash water or any other such comforts. Simon will see to your needs. I will ask that you remain in your room until given leave to do otherwise; the king is a busy man and I will not see his time wasted by you vanishing when he decides to deal with you. You may go to Sunday mass, however, but be careful to return immediately.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

Simon turned up several minutes latter, running and out of breath. He turned out to be a scrawny looking boy somewhere around twelve or thirteen with dark hair and wary hazel eyes. His pale face was hostilely neutral but something about him suggested fear. He was dressed well enough in good quality material but nothing much outstanding; a typical set of squire’s work day clothes. He halted before Hugh and bowed deeply.

Hugh said, “I hear Sir Godfrey has passed on.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Then you are in need of a new master. You will serve Sir Fulk. He will take over your master’s quarters. Show him the way now and see to his needs.”

Simon bowed to Hugh again and said politely to Fulk, “If you will follow me, my lord.”

Fulk collected his tattered shield and smallest bag of belongings. “Here, lad, help me with the rest of my things.”

Silently Simon lifted the bag containing the rest of Fulk’s armour. He staggered under the awkward weight, set his jaw and slung it on his back and then carefully crouched so he could pick up the second bag with the rest of Fulk’s clothes without overbalancing. With difficulty he straightened and began to walk. “This way, my lord.”

As they crossed the courtyard towards one of the towers built into the inner curtain wall Fulk asked, “What’s your name, lad?”

“Simon Peche, my lord.”

“From?”

“Preston, my lord.”

“Ah. Which son are you then?”

“Third, my lord.” The boy had a very soft, grave voice; Fulk had to strain to hear him.

“You’re lucky to have a place in the palace then.”

“I do not, my lord. I served Sir Godfrey; he had a place at the palace.”

“So unless you find a new master here you’ll be back off home?”

“Yes, my lord.”

They arrived at the door to the tower and Simon pushed it open, struggling with his heavy load. The boy struggled up the stairs to the first floor and staggered over to the entrance to the small room. He stood still, panting for breath for a few seconds, then his face set resolutely and he lifted the latch with his elbow and he tried to open the door, hampered badly by his load.

Fulk shoved the door open himself. “There we go,” he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. Simon carried his load in. He dropped the bags in one corner with a clatter which made Fulk wince and snap, “Watch out!”

The boy blanched and ducked his head. “Sorry, my lord.”

Competently, and in total silence, he helped Fulk disarm and set his equipment up for storage. It was too late to clean the armour tonight.

“Go see what food you can chase up, bring some for yourself if you want some. Get me a bowl of water to wash in; I’m not in my best state.” Fulk battered at his chest and a cloud of road dust rose from him. He managed to get one side of his mouth to quirk up into a smile. “See? I dare stay I stink of horses too?”

Simon didn’t answer. He bowed curtly and scurried off on his errands. Fulk dismissed the boy’s reticence with a shrug and seated himself on the stool at the small table.

The room was of very good size, taking up the entire second floor and following the D shape of the tower with a compact square space lost from one corner because of the staircase. Remarkably the room was very clean, and the floor rushes were fresh and lavender had been mixed in with the flea’s bane to give a pleasant scent. Somehow Fulk found it felt as if the room had recently been scoured from top to bottom, something which made him uneasy; he didn’t know what the previous occupant had died of. He made a note to find out as soon as he could.

There was a simple wooden framed bed in addition to the table and stool but no other furniture. The bed was large enough for two; that, along with the rooms size, made Fulk suspect the room was really intended for a married retainer and his family. Either someone was going to find him a wife or he was likely to get relocated as soon as was convenient. A tiny fireplace was set in one wall. The room had five windows, all long, narrow slits; three provided a view of the inner bailey while the other two overlooked the outer bailey, although currently the shutters were closed to keep the night air out. Lighting currently came from the fire and a pair of cheap candles stuck on wall prickets near the bed.

A simple armour stand made up of an upright post with a crossbar fasted in place near the top in imitation of a man’s shoulders stood in one corner next to a sizeable chest for storing the rest of his equipment. Another chest provided a place to store his clothes and personal items. There was no trace of anything that might belong to Simon’s former lord. The boy would obviously sleep elsewhere, presumably in one of the two big halls, but a small chest slightly separate from those for Fulk indicated he kept his possessions here.

At this late hour the room was quiet but in daylight hours that would be different as it was trapped between two of the busiest parts of the castle. The thick stone walls would cut out a lot of the din though. There was a room below and another above, presumably also given over to accommodation. Even if occupied the thick floorboards should provide ample insulation from their occupants’ noise. All in all it was quite satisfactory and he’d do whatever he could to hang on to it for the duration of his stay without picking up a wife.

When Simon returned he had brought a hunk of brown bread, some cold meat, a bit of hard cheese and a jug of wine. As soon as the food was placed down on the table he shot off again without so much as a word. Fulk drew his dagger and sliced the bread in two, filling it with the slices of meat. He sliced the cheese along its length to produce three slabs suitable for his sandwich. As he arranged the cheese on top of the meat he found a faint smile on his lips without knowing why. Something inside him trembled then gave way and he found tears pricking his eyes as that sense of loss and pain he’d been expecting to feel ever since Eleanor told him to leave crashed down on him. Now he knew why the smile was there: the cheese. She’d have snatched it out from under his nose with that impish grin of hers or come up with some silly scheme to wheedle it away from him.

He placed his dagger down on the table with a clatter and buried his face in his hands. He dug the tips of his fingers into is his scalp as if that could somehow help. Footsteps echoing on the spiral staircase alerted him to the return of his new squire; he whipped his hands away from his face and grappled to keep his hurt under control. Though he was no longer interested in food he began to eat, chewing mechanically and choking down the food without tasting it.

Simon placed a bowl of water on the clear part of the table and stood waiting for further instructions. Fulk managed to ask in a normal sounding voice, “How did your lord die?”

The boy’s face retained its fixed blankness but the hazel eyes showed contempt. “He got drunk and drowned in his own vomit overnight.”

Fulk waved the boy away to his bed for the night and continued to force down his food, knowing he needed to keep his strength up. The last few bites he couldn’t manage so he left them, along with much of the wine. He stripped down to his braes and washed, paying little heed to how cold the water had gone. He then tended his wounded leg and climbed into his new bed.

Sleep did not find him; his mind was awash with what he had lost, feverishly trying to find some way to deal with the agony. He’d tied his heart to her, and his sense of worth. His sense of honour too; he’d only truly found one after he met her. Now they had parted ways he was adrift, not even sure what he was any more. He had slowly managed to forge himself into something close to that man of honour he had always wanted to be, and he had done that because of, and for, Eleanor. Without her there was no motive to continue, no motive to even hold on to what work he had done. Without her whole parts of him were missing, torn away leaving ragged bleeding edges and overwhelming pain.

There was no motive for doing anything. Fighting and working for reward and advancement; she had told him to built a life based around these things once again but there was nothing he wanted that could be gained that way. Eleanor was the only thing he wanted and it didn’t matter how high he rose he would always be unworthy of her in her family’s eyes. He would be too late too; it would take years of extraordinary luck combined with the odd miracle for him to climb even as high as earl and he only really had days, weeks at the most. He had to save her before Trempwick could do too much damage. That was, as well he knew, impossible.

It all left one question: what in hell’s name was he going to do now?

The only answer he found was not much help. He had to someone present a normal face to the world; if he let even part of this pain show people would ask questions that would spark suspicion if word spread to the wrong ears. If the king or Hugh knew he was devastated by the loss of a love it would take them all of two seconds to figure out who that love was.

The numb shock had been safer, so much safer.





Speaking of limping, I do hate breaking in new shoes. My poor feet.

[frogbeastegg]

I forgot to tack this on the end of my previous post. What would Fulk say in a letter home?


Dear mum,
Well I guess this is a big surprise! It’s me, your little Fulkin. I’m not dead after all; I just didn’t have time to tell you that until now. You know how it is, battles, fighting, chicks, mingling with royalty – I’ve been on the go non-stop. Yeah, well, I guess that’s not entirely true. See I screwed up my life big time and kinda sorta got dad killed (long story, but I got wounded and he was protecting me when he got hacked up), utterly trashed my future, and there’s a set of men with nasty knives out looking for me so they can cut me bits off. It’s all a big, silly misunderstanding, honest, mummy. I was going to marry the girl, but then it all went pear shaped and all.

Oh, and that brewer guy – he’s lying. Totally. Just because he had this gorgeous wife, and just because she had a thing for my broken nose, and just because I rather liked her, and just because I was rather lonely, and just because he really wasn’t capable where it counts (wink wink), and just because he caught her sat on my lap looking all adoring he decided we were having it off. We weren’t, honest. She had something in her eye and I was helping her get it out.

Um … have you been contacted by a lady called Alliese? I mean, I say lady but what I mean is cute looking extortionist scheming harlot. Just ignore her and anything she might say.

Look, mum – I can hear you being all disapproving even from this distance. Relax, k? I was gone for eight years. I got lonely a few times. In unfortunate circumstances. While being a boneheaded dolt. I’m over that now; believe me, please? I found my one true love; she’s called Eleanor, as in ‘princess Eleanor, youngest daughter of king William of England’. You’d love her; she’s cute and rather grumpy. Got a nice wit too; we argue a lot. No, no not argue like that – I know you always taught me to be chivalrous and all, and I am, so calm it down, ok? We argue cutely, it’s more like banter really. Eleanor’s a real blast; I’m telling you you’d love her.

Yeah, anyway, speaking of Eleanor … by any chance could you have got my dad’s identify wrong? I’m not accusing you of being a whore or anything, far from it. I know it was love and all; you and my dad were married in all but name and stuff, plus you never even looked at anyone but him. It’s just I could really use some royal blood in my veins right about now. I wanna marry my little gooseberry (hehe, I call Eleanor that. Cute isn’t it?) but she’s a princess and I’m some bastard nothing with a knighthood … Yeah, so, got any ideas? At all? I’m desperate here. Very desperate. Totally desperate.

And before you ask, no I haven’t done anything to put my gooseberry an a difficult situation! Jesus, mum, you have a one track mind and a low opinion of me! Oh and shut up about Cicely, I just know you’re going to start nagging about her again and whinging about how you never approved. Can it. I was just taking your advice: don’t waste your money, Fulk, you said. Well Cicely was free, alternate arrangements weren’t. Also she was kinda hot. Yeah, and anyway where do you think I learned all this kind of thing from? That’s right – you and dad. Let the innocent cast the first stone and all that.

Moving on to other news, I’m a knight now. My beloved Eleanor knighted me because she knew I always wanted to be a knight. I have some really cool armour; it’s the kind of thing really rich knights wear, all up to date and everything. I’ve got some cash too, and I’m in royal service. I just got transferred to the king but I’m looking to get back with my little gooseberry ASAP. Look, just don’t ask about my transfer, k? It doesn’t involve scandal, and it doesn’t involve her getting sick of me, or anything else bad. I blame that Trempwick guy she’s being forced to marry. I’ve got to save her, and I haven’t got much time left. Damn it, I just can’t leave her to him! He’s all creepy, and kinda cruel, and nasty, and sarcastic, and he tramples all over her and treats her like dirt, and shows her no respect, and he killed her favourite brother, and I just know this is all going to go horribly wrong! I just can’t bear to see my little gooseberry’s spirit slowly die because of this bastard. She doesn’t want to marry him anyway; perhaps you’ve heard the rumours about how she resisted? I was locked up in a dungeon during that, bastards.

Look, I’m going to wrap it up here and go back to manically scheming to save my beloved from that odious Trempy. If you hear of a man abducting (yeah, that’s what it’s always called but she’d be cooperating with me so it’s more like rescuing, even though her family won’t believe it) princess Eleanor that’s me. If you hear of someone dying while trying to run off with her, that’s me too.

Love,
Fulk.

PS: If I ever have the enormous pleasure of introducing Eleanor to you (preferably as “This is my wife, Eleanor…”) please don’t call me Fulkin! I’m twenty-five now; diminutive names are for kids. She’d laugh herself sick and never let me hear the end of it.

PPS: If at any point in all this you feel the urge to remind me, yet again, that I was an unwanted accident and the cause of much pregnancy related discomfort, DON’T! I’m sick of it, really sick of it, completely and utterly sick of it! It was not my fault; blame dad and yourself and whatever it was you did which caused your usual … arrangements to fail. And anyway you always said you were glad I was born after I was born; you said it was one of those mother-son love at first sight things and it made up for all the general misery of the previous nine months. Yeah, so shut up about it. Thanks.



:sighs happily: I need my comedy.

[Ludens]

"Yesterday,
Love was such an easy game to play,
Now I need a place to hide away,
Oh, I believe in Yesterday."

This has been playing through my head for the entire day, but it seems appropriate for Fulk's state of mind. I am feeling sorry for him (though rather less after I read his "letter" :confused: ). Good work, Froggy.

I have worked out the main lines of my replies (both of them), but I am too tired to write them down and anyway I should be heading to bed about now. All I can say is: soon.

[frogbeastegg]

Soon sounds familar :tongueg:

The letter is just silliness with no more relation to the story than the scene I wrote where Fulk and Nell ran off together. Comedy versions of Eleanor use slightly warped versions of the characters.

Poor ickle Fulkin misses his gooseberry something chronic. Aaahhhh.

[Kommodus]

I liked the letter from Fulk; it was pretty funny, although it sounded a bit more like one side of a phone conversation than a written letter. I suppose we couldn't have that in the Middle Ages, though, could we?

I'm not quite sure what you mean when you say you feel like you're limping along. Perhaps you mean the story seems to be moving a little slowly? That would make sense to me. Your additions are coming at a more than quick enough rate, but the major plot developments that have been hinted at are rather slow in coming. It seems that everyone has a plan - Eleanor, Trempwick, Jocelyn, Fulk (well, maybe he's only trying to develop a plan) - but they're all taking their sweet time putting their plans into action. While there's not much in the way of major plot development, there doesn't seem to be a lot of character development either (with the possible exceptions of Hugh and Jocelyn). That is, we aren't really learning anything new about the major characters that we didn't know before - Eleanor continues in her diplomatic, deceptive ways, Trempwick is being his usual sadistic, scheming self, William continues to drum up sympathy for his position and circumstances, and Fulk is, well... still Fulk. There have recently been entire chapters that have simply left me wondering "so what?"

Of course, all the little hints and seemingly pointless paragraphs may eventually come to a point - in fact, I expect them to. I don't think that it's all there just to serve the purpose of filler; I'm sure that most of it will make sense in the end. If this were a paper-back novel in my hands, I would simply do a little speed-reading until the plot picked up again, and many of these low-key sections would seem shorter as a result. That doesn't change the fact that I keep wishing for more to happen.

By the way, I'm not trying to criticize here. The fact that I keep reading is evidence enough that the story is still interesting, and I'm looking forward to the rest. Some scenes have been very good indeed. The fight scene naturally comes to mind; the bit of action was welcome. I also enjoy seeing William and Anne interact - the glimpses into William's soul haven't been worn out yet. Most of the Eleanor/Trempwick scenes, on the other hand, sort of turn my stomach (I can't put my finger on it, but they somehow leave a bad taste in my mouth). Perhaps they're supposed to; after all, what is more sickening than feigned affection?

Overall, I'd echo those who have said "keep up the good work." Good day,

Kommodus

[frogbeastegg]

It was mid afternoon before a messenger summoned Fulk to the small throne room on the second floor of the keep. Fulk had dressed in his best and groomed himself immaculately ready for the audience. It never hurt to make a good impression. He took Trempwick’s letter along with him, tucked through the left side of his belt with the seal turned outwards for others to see. He didn’t want the spymaster’s insignia in contact with his clothes any more than he would have wanted rotting meat in contact with them.

He was ushered in to the throne room and left to kneel on the floor before the dais. The king’s clerk accepted the letter and passed it on to the king. As he waited on bent knee Fulk surreptitiously examined his surroundings. With his head bent reverently he had an excellent view of the polished wooden floorboards; they had been left bare of coverings and were damned hard. Quick glances at the walls revealed that running from the right side of the throne around the room to nearly reach the left side of the throne was a pictorial history of the dynasty, beginning with the battle which won them the throne and ending with William’s accepting the Welsh as his vassals and thus as part of England. Someone had done some very fast work there; the Welsh had only been absorbed around two months ago. The throne and dais were about what you’d expect from a throne and dais; a simple platform with a high backed, ornately carved wooden chair stuck on it.

The ceiling, what very little Fulk had noted before being required to make his obeisances, was unusual. It was patterned along 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. Suddenly Eleanor’s story of sitting up in the roof beams and listening in to affairs of state made a lot more sense.

The king rolled Trempwick’s letter back up. “Very well; I shall accept the recommendation. If Trempwick calls a person useful then it is always so.” He snapped his fingers at the clerk standing at the side of the throne’s dais. “Draw up a contract based on the usual terms and a wage of eight pence a day. The name is Sir Fulk …?”

“FitzWilliam,” supplied Fulk.

“Am I correct in thinking the horse you arrived on belongs to Trempwick?”

“Yes, sire.”

“A groom shall return it. The horse market is on Tuesdays; find yourself a war horse and a saddle horse. I do not expect you have the money to pay for quality horses?”

“No, sire.” A pang of guilt shot through him; he hadn’t even opened the purse Eleanor had given him yet. All the same it was a moot point; his back wages would not pay for two good horses.

“The treasury will loan you funds at a favourable rate of interest, so send the bills to my clerks.” William frowned and drummed his fingers on the ornately carved arm of his throne. “I expect my knights to pay their own way. I expect them to do me credit at all times.” Of his clerk he demanded, “Sir Godfrey’s estates, any heir?”

“Sire, a brother.”

William grunted and leaned back to rest his shoulders against the padded back of the throne. “Any other suitably sized fiefs?”

“Sire, there are …” the clerk did a rapid mental tally, “three in the hands of heiresses or widows, and one you could reassign with only minor bother. All others are not of suitable income.”

“Which is it to be, Fulk? Married safely into a fortune or taking land that you may have to fight to hold on to?”

“I shall remain single, sire.”

From the king’s disapproving expression it was clear he thought Fulk wanted to marry for further benefit at a later date, boosting his status still further. It was a mistake Fulk was more than happy to leave alive. William raised an enquiring eyebrow at the clerk. The man provided, “Thaxted, Essex; no heirs and reverting to the crown. The former holder’s brother in law contests this; he says the fief should pass to him through his wife, the dead man’s sister because of a verbal agreement to which there are no witnesses except the claimant’s son. The fief is currently valued at sixty pounds per annum.”

“That will do,” said William decisively. He extended his right hand with his signet ring. Fulk got to his feet, advanced a few steps onto the dais before kneeling again. He kissed the ring, paying homage for his new lands. When Fulk had retreated back to his old position the king enquired of his clerk, “Has a reliable steward been set in place yet?”

“Yes, sire. Edward of Salisbury sent word of his arrival eleven days ago.”

“Excellent.” To Fulk, “You may choose your own steward if you wish, but this Edward of Salisbury is one of my royal trained stewards. He will wring the best incomes possible from your land; it is in my own best interests to have him do so, yours as well. He will ensure you can pay what you owe me each year and still have enough left over to maintain the standards I expect from my knights plus a surplus. I shall rent him to you for ten shillings per year; you would lose more than that to a corrupt steward.”

A baron for all of a minute and already being given offers he couldn’t refuse aimed at draining him of money. Perhaps this was not all it was cracked up to be, or then again perhaps it was; it just depended on who you listened to. “Thank you, sire.”

“Someone else will have to explain the rest; speak to another of my knights.” The king waved his hand in dismissal. As Fulk left William said, “You are perhaps surprised we are conducting business on a Sunday?”

Fulk stopped walking and turned back. “I admit I am, sire.”

William’s mouth turned in a bitter smile. “God may have time to rest but I do not. I suspect that is because He is omnipotent and I am merely human.”






Fulk arrived back at his room to find a richly dressed, handsome young woman waiting for him. “The queen wishes to speak with you, if you have finished your business with the king?” She had a Scottish accent to add flavour to her English. In one corner Simon sat on the stool cleaning Fulk’s armour. With faint amusement Fulk noticed that the boy was watching the woman from under his eyelashes, hardly paying attention to his work at all.

“Just finished,” said Fulk.

She led him to the keep’s solar, getting him past several sets of armed guards with no more than a cheery smile and a wave. She signalled to Fulk to wait outside while she bobbed a curtsey. “Sir Fulk, your highness.”

“Send him in,” came Anne’s voice. Fulk was beckoned into the solar and immediately bowed to the queen, noting the presence of another two maids in addition to the one who had fetched him. The maids were all considerably older than their mistress; two were somewhere around sixteen and the other looked to be somewhere about thirty. The older maid was probably intended to provide a steadying, motherly influence on the young queen. All three women were seated and working away at panels for a larger embroidered hanging; the maid who had fetched Fulk seated herself with the group and resumed her own sewing.

As soon as she saw him Anne wailed, “It is true; I did not want to believe, but here you are.” Impatiently she instructed, “Oh, do stop that bowing and tell me why you are here.”

Fulk straightened and said neutrally, “It was decided my talents were wasted in my previous post, your highness.”

Anne’s brows drew together and she worked her needle safely into the fabric then laid her work to one side. “My maids are all trustworthy; you can speak the truth without fear. Did Eleanor send you away or Trempwick?”

“The order came from her, and when I queried it Eleanor stood by it and claimed it as her own. She may have been forced to it though; she had quarrelled with Trempwick, well as much as she ever can quarrel with a man who tramples her underfoot at the least provocation.”

“Why did Eleanor send you away? How could she? I do not understand.”

“She thought things would be better this way, no more living next to what we can’t have.”

“Is it true she is reconciled to her marriage?”

“Yes.”

“And that she is growing fond of that Trempwick?” Fulk’s face answered for him. Anne pounded a fist on her thigh. “No! But that can’t be! She loves you!”

The older maid chipped in, “The poor thing is probably only making the best of a bad job. Nothing as bad as being married to a man you hate and who hates you.” This maid also had a Scottish accent. She continued stitching away at the tree forming the centrepiece of her embroidered scene. “Love has little to do with marriage.”

“I know that. What I do not see is how Eleanor can be all … all … gooey with her betrothed if she loves Fulk.”

The older maid said knowingly, “Men can love several women, why can’t women love several men?”

“Because that is disgusting,” protested Anne matter-of-factly. “True love is supposed to be exclusive and all consuming.”

“Dear, there are all kinds of love. Why can’t your stepdaughter love her betrothed in a comforting kind of way and this handsome knight in a more … passionate way?”

“Because.” Anne split the word up into its base syllables, a one-two blow to any opposition.

The maid who had fetched Fulk offered comfortingly, “Maybe she is faking it? Acting. I have done that from time to time; it can look very convincing.”

Anne considered both maid’s suggestions at once, answering one and revisiting the other with the same question, “But why?”

“For a quieter life,” said the younger maid. “Or to promote jealousy amongst her suitors.”

“Because the heart is annoying like that,” explained the older one. “It delights in creating tangles of lives.”

“Because Trempwick accuses her of being cold if he’s dissatisfied and he presses himself on her regardless,” stated Fulk. “He hurls himself at her and blames her if she is not suitably … enthusiastic. He is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of.”

“Poor thing,” commiserated the second young maid. She had a true English accent, making her a sop to English pride and the token English maid in the Scottish queen’s intimate little group.

Anne was thinking rapidly. “So … she cannot love him at all because she truly loves you, so this must be a ruse or dreadful despair at work. Yes, and you are despairing too because you think you have lost her. But if a benevolent force helps bring you together-”

“No!” said Fulk adamantly. “This is not some bard’s tale – this is real. She’s going to marry Trempwick and she loves me. There’s no way out for either of us; we’re stuck with it no matter how much we wish otherwise. She’s not faking anything – she’s somehow found something to cling to, something to like in Trempwick, and whatever that is she’s hanging on to it for dear life as it’s the only thing that can maybe bring some hope out of this God damned mess! I’d wish her well but I know that scheming bastard’s going to ruin her and all I can do is sit here and worry.” Silence fell as Fulk’s tirade ended. Sinking realisation set in; he had gone a long way too far.

Anne said quietly to the world in general, “You see? A very ardent love, so deep it is a kind of pain.”

The older maid said, “All well and good but the knight has the truth of it; there is nothing to be done except be glad she has found something tolerable in this marriage while mourning how cruel fate can be.”

“I will not give up so easily. I am queen of England, Eleanor’s stepmother; there has to be something I can do.” Anne burned with determination.

“Like what?” asked Fulk. “Remember I am your long lost brother and get your family to agree? Murder Trempwick? Help me run away with Eleanor and shelter us for the rest of our lives from the wrath of your husband and his spymaster?”

Anne’s face set. “You are just being cruel.”

“Lady, you are offering false hope to a desperate man. That is cruellest of all.”

“Not false hope. I can at least get her to visit me often so you can see her.”

Fulk laughed harshly. “Conduct an affair in the middle of the palace, under her father’s roof? Mostly impossible and tantamount to suicide, and it still does not save her from Trempwick. It also brings her closer to her father, and if you’d seen what I have you’d know that’s a very bad idea indeed.”

“I do have some idea! There was blood all over the floor one night,” she flung a hand at a spot on the floor, “and everyone knows about her resistance to the betrothal.”

“Did you see her lying barely conscious in a pool of her own blood, her ribs cracked, covered in bruises from head to toe with her back a bleeding chaos of cuts? Did you actually see what he’d done to her to cause that spilt blood here? Or to cause those famous screams? You ever sat safely in a kitchen while she gets shredded to save your life? Have you tried to ease her pain and patch her injuries back together so they can heal? Have you held her and tried to offer some comfort only to find the best you can do is agree with her when she says she won’t die? Have you ever wanted to protect her but known all you will do is get yourself killed, leaving her completely alone and friendless?” Raggedly he finished, “You have no idea.”

Anne had gone very pale. “William is not a bad man-”

“Oh no, course not,” agreed Fulk brashly.

“It is wrong, all of this is wrong. I will do what I can to fix both parts of this; if I come up with something I will contact you. You do likewise; you may count on my help, Fulk.”

“I will keep that in mind, but I don’t see what we can do. Please, think carefully before you act, please. Her situation’s precarious.”

“Any of my maids can be trusted with a message; you should find it easy enough to speak with them.” Anne looked consideringly at the younger Scottish maid. “Yes … yes, I shall arrange for you to be dining partner to Godit each meal. I can pretend I want to play matchmaker.” Hastily she assured them, “You do not have to play along to that, just be friends.”

Godit smiled into her sewing. “There is no point in saving the princess if her knight’s been stolen by someone else,” she joked lightly.

“Have faith, Fulk,” implored Anne. “If you give up then there will never be any hope.”

“I shall continue to search for ways whether I wish to or not,” admitted Fulk. “And I do wish to; I want her back, or if that is too much, safe. It is impossible but I won’t give up on her.”







Extremely rushed answer because the forum keeps breaking and refusing to display for me today: Limping along in several senses. I lost some of my momentum, the parts got smaller and less frequent, and the story is currently in a slow patch. Nothing to do but keep on going; the momentum problem appears to be disappearing now, at least. Nell and Trempy is unpleasant if you prefer Nell and Fulk, however some like the Nell/Trempy pairing and therefore, presumably, have a more favourable view of their mush scenes.

:hits 'post', crosses fingers and hopes it works:

[scooter_the_shooter]

i will not post here EVER again (any forum for that matter) but i will read this still, so keep writting. (this is the only thing i will come back to see) keep writting froggy if this is ever done and u make a new story i will lurk here and read that but nothing else


c ya

[frogbeastegg]

“He has done what?” exclaimed Jocelyn in disbelief.

“Lord Yves has declared his independence to the world at large,” repeated Renaud.

Jocelyn kneaded his temples; he felt a headache coming on. “How can a man so stupid still be alive? Really – how? I fail to see it.”

Richildis said, “Please, Renaud, won’t you come inside and accept our hospitality?”

Jocelyn grudgingly admitted his wife had a point; the courtyard of their castle was not the place for business, or for receiving the man who had trained you up to knighthood. “Yes, come inside, we’ll get you something to wash the dust out of your throat.”

Renaud beamed. “Most kind, most kind. It has been a very long ride; I set off early.”

Jocelyn took the hint, not that it was unexpected. Ever since he’d lost his right hand in battle Renaud had taken up a lifestyle more suited to a lazy merchant than a knight, one revolving around food, wine, and other fleeting pleasures. He was usually an expensive guest. “And some food, of course.”

“My boy, you’re truly an excellent host.”

The three walked inside the main hall of the castle, Richildis and Renaud exchanging polite, tedious formalities while Jocelyn delved into the impact Yves’ latest folly would have on the situation. He was rudely awakened from his schemes by Renaud clouting him on the shoulder and boomed admiringly, “Still an impressive sight, my boy.”

Jocelyn pasted a smile on his face and hopped his attention back into the world. Richildis had disappeared off to the other side of the hall to organise the servants, leaving him alone with his old mentor. “What is?”

“Your delectable wife. If you ever get tired of her send her over to me!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

From the way Richildis’ shoulders stiffed Jocelyn knew she had heard. Hell, the whole damn castle had probably heard. He ushered the other man towards the nearest seating, the bench at one of the lower tables, and encouraged him to sit. “Tell me about Yves.”

“Ah, Yves.” Renaud looked hopefully about for his promised sustenance.

Choking on his swallowed impatience Jocelyn prompted again, “Yes, Yves.”

“Well, the man has announced that he is now the independent count of Tourraine, bowing knee to no one but God.”

“But what is he doing? Except sending messages and inviting his death? I’ve not been summoned to bring my men to muster yet.”

“Not many have. Not me … no, not me.” He smiled shakily, rubbing the unnatural ending of his right wrist. “No, never again me. But I still listen, even if I can’t fight. He has not summoned more than half his men, and some of those he has called upon have refused his call to arms. Damned fool’s more likely to fall to civil war with his own before the king of England gets here to have his revenge. He is pondering about hiring a few mercenaries, pondering – faffing, talking, posturing, in short doing nothing much there either.”

“Does he truly think he can stand alone? Here, on the border between England and France?”

“I’ve no idea, my boy. He’s not had much use for me since I lost my hand fighting to keep his miserable little arse on his father’s seat. Gratitude.” Richildis delivered a jug of wine and a pair of goblets. With a smile that made Jocelyn’s hackles rise Renaud accepted his cup and waited as she poured for him. “Why thank you, my dear.”

Jocelyn recalled his guest’s wandering attention, and eyes, yet again. “Yves. So any ideas when he will summon me to arms?” Richildis filled the second cup and gave it to her husband before demonstrating her good manners, or perhaps his dislike of their guest, and vanishing.

“When he remembers, and that’ll probably be in the night of the night so he’ll delay until tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll forget. Then when his enemies are at his gates he’ll throw up his hands and curse you for not being there, just as he’ll curse the rest he forgot to send for.” Renaud drained his cup in one go. “The man is a complete tosspot.”

Jocelyn choked out a brief burst of laughter. “Exactly right!”






Fulk’s aim was off; the tip of his lance caught the quintain off-centre and the sandbag whipped around and ploughed into his shield. He reeled and fought to keep his seat. Fortunately for the sake of his already tender pride he managed to do so, but the laughter coming from the few people watching him did nothing to soothe his severely ruffled feathers. As he turned his borrowed horse about for yet another go he saw Simon had returned from the errands he had been sent on. The boy looked devastated, watching with a kind of horror. He must think he had been stuck with a lack-skilled master; somehow Fulk found it hard to contest that based on today’s efforts. Well, so far he had only tilted at the quintain; he’d soon show a considerably more advantageous side when he took to foot combat.

Fulk reined in near the boy and pulled off his bucket like helm. “Did you order my new shield?”

“Yes, my lord. They are painting your arms on a prepared blank shield; it will be ready tomorrow.” As ever the boy was polite, softly spoken and faintly hostile in a defensive way. Fulk felt certain his last master had not been too kind to the boy. He hadn’t managed to find much out about the deceased Sir Godfrey, he’d had very little time to talk to his fellow men, but what kind of man got so drunk he drowned in his own vomit while passed out?

“And the badge maker?”

“Yes, my lord. The badges will be done by Thursday.”

Fulk had chosen a standing wolf as his own badge to go with a green and white livery. He hadn’t actually put much thought into choosing the scheme; it was the one he had decided on as a young boy and he had not had the motivation or reason to change it to something more suited to his current frame of mind and status. His men, when he actually had some, would wear his livery while he wore whatever he wanted with the king’s badge on it somewhere. His new status as baron protected him for being permanently stuck in livery, for which he was very glad. He had been so proud to wear Eleanor’s livery, but William’s? He needed to wear the lion badge and he had a fancy to wear his own badge next to it as was occasionally the fashion, proclaiming himself a lord as well as a king’s man. It also served as a way to separate himself out from a man whom he had absolutely no kind feelings for. At present the only other person needing a wolf badge was Simon; squires seldom wore their lord’s colours. Good news for Fulk’s purse.

“Good lad.” Fulk put his helmet back on again and spurred his horse back towards the quintain. He was so badly out of practise he found it hard to believe he had ever been good at tilting. Since he lost his own in the battle which killed his father he had had very little access to warhorses until recently, and at Woburn there had not been the facilities to practise with a lance. He had managed to get in the very occasional few hours of practise on a borrowed horse with lent equipment while in France but he had not been expected to fight in imitation of a knight and so Aidney had not allowed him to keep his skills in best condition, claiming it a waste of money and time. Only a knight or aspiring knight should fight as a knight, he had proclaimed loftily, and Fulk had been neither.

He lined up for another run and paused to prepare for his latest run. He played his tongue over his dry lips and stared through the narrow eye slits of the great helm, focusing on his target. He brought his shield back in close to his body and levelled his lance. A light touch of his spurs started his horse at a trot, then a canter. The target with its simple red ring of a bulls eye began to close rapidly. Fulk aimed carefully, his breathing seeming loud in the confines of his helmet. Yes, this was all as he remembered; the flowing speed, the smooth gait of the horse, the echoing private world so far away from the real one, the sense of rightness as he knew his aim was spot on.

The lance point gouged a scar into the red paint and the sandbag delivered another buffet to his aching left side. So close! At least this time he didn’t need to battle to keep his seat in the war saddle. The hooting and hilarity of the crowd came rushing to him and Fulk swore under his breath. “I used to be good at this!” he grumbled to himself. He turned back for another go.

He did even worse; he let his anger cloud his judgement and his aim was so badly off he only clipped the edge of the target. He could hear laughter, more laughter away from the audience of idlers. This laughter came from his imagination, a certain dark haired princess laughing herself silly at his clumsiness. Despite himself Fulk smiled.

Another run; another failure, but not nearly so severe this time. He might not be having any success but Fulk knew he was doing better now than in his first runs at the start of the morning. As long as he kept a calm, clear head and kept on trying he would meet success eventually, and from there he would steadily improve back to his old level. Another hour or so and he’d try some foot combat; it had been a while since he had faced competent training partners but he knew his skills there had not waned much at all.

His contract might demand four hours practise on five days each week but Fulk had no intention of dropping to that level until he was back in peak condition, and maybe not even then. The activity kept his mind busy, away from Eleanor and away from the queen and her dangerous meddling. Absently Fulk turned his horse back for another run. Yes, the queen and her determination to use Eleanor and himself as characters in some romantic story. She was a child reducing them to her toys, playing with them as younger girls might make two of their dolls fall in love. Except unlike those dolls it mattered a very great deal if things went wrong, and unlike dolls people had feelings and ideas of their own.

Anne was so eager to help she was dangerous, so naive she was deadly, just getting a real inkling of her powers but not yet able to use them to any reliable effect or even fully aware of how harmful they could be. Most hazardous of all she managed to bring that frantic element of Fulk to the fore, the side of him who would gladly ride off right now to Woburn, kill Trempwick and run away with Eleanor and the devil take the consequences.

The sandbag bashed into his borrowed shield again; another failed run. Fulk’s entire left torso and arm ached fiercely now, muscles working in ways they were no longer accustomed to and taking blow after blow for their pains. Fulk decided it was justice, in a way. No one could handily beat some sense into him so the quintain was doing it. When the queen demands you talk you talk, but never again would he allow himself to become so abjectly desperate that he would speak freely before an unsafe audience. He didn’t need to be happy out here, and he could not stop loving Eleanor, but there was one thing he could do in this painful exile. He could do everything in his power to protect Eleanor. That he was familiar with and it was a goal he could put his heart into. He was still her knight, in his heart, and he could still serve her in some small way.

Fulk made another run at the quintain. The crack of his lance on the wooden target was followed by a notable lack of a sandbag hitting him. The small knot of watchers was quiet, then a few called encouragement while others demanded he do it again to prove his success hadn’t been a fluke. Grimly Fulk turned for another run; he had his stride back now, and his confidence. A few more weeks of this and he’d been reliably good again. He only hoped the same could be said of his equally rusty mounted hand to hand combat skills.


Eleanor stood on her little hill looking down at the distant village. If she had possessed a dramatic streak she might have found some bittersweet pleasure in the way this must look. Instead she found only mild irritation. Here she was, a princess, standing alone with her neat clothes and long, loose hair being played with by the breeze, watching other people live their lives from a safe distance. She hadn’t done this for … years. It was pitiable that she was doing it now.

Trempwick had no time for her today and without Fulk she had no company at all. Exactly as it had been before she had brought Fulk here, exactly as it had been most of her life. She didn’t even have her horse anymore, thanks to Gerbert. She had only her feet, her own room in the manor, the ramparts on top of the tower, and several square miles of countryside minus the bits where there were people. She was not allowed to mingle with anyone not from the manor building itself; Trempwick had been very clear right from her very first day at Woburn he would kill any peasant he found in speaking distance to her. It was to preserve her secret and keep her safe, or so he said.

Fulk’s persistence in keeping her company had driven her half mad at first, as had his tendency to poke his nose in where it was not wanted. So strange how one got used to little irritations, then grew to like them, and love them, and missed them so badly when they finally stopped.

Trempwick had promised her a trip into Saint Albans sometime, shopping. Shopping. Not something Eleanor had ever really done; a few trips to tone her cover personalities so they could cope with market places, bargaining and the like, but nothing else. Trempwick always had other people do much of the buying or, if his or Eleanor’s presence was required, had a trusted trader brought over to Woburn.

Shopping; a nice little treat handed out to a child who looked set to cry. Commiseration; no time for her now but in the future this little trip will make up for his neglect. No time for her today, or tomorrow, or the day after, and probably not the day after, or after that, or after that, and then it would be another month and that too would be the same, and the month after, and so on until the year had fled, and then the years would pass and nothing would change. Nights, some evenings, and whenever else he felt like her company. No more. He would see her when it was convenient for him.

Nights and some evenings would have to be enough; it was all she had. Work with what you have. The set of Eleanor’s face eased at that but she did not manage even a minute smile. She would be mad to expect him to drop his life because he was marrying her; indeed he had promised her this. “Nothing would change,” he had vowed and he was keeping that pledge. It had been what she had wanted all that time ago.

Shopping; she almost managed a smile. It had damned well better be with Trempwick’s money because she had given every single coin she possessed to Fulk. Every single penny of the compensation Trempwick had wrung out of the man who had been fool enough to accost her on her father’s wedding night, every single penny she had stolen from mission funds and hidden over the years. Her entire fortune; all that was left was her small demesne of land, her two rings, her pair of knives and her necklace – the immovable or easily missable stuff. Her clothes didn’t belong to her, nor did anything else she had. Until she received some of the revenue from her lands she was once again completely reliant on Trempwick’s largesse. She had heard several times how much fun it was to spend your husband’s money and if she was honest the idea of dragging a spymaster around stall after stall, making him carry her purchases and hold out lengths of cloth and so on did have a certain … appeal.

Down in the village smoke from the cooking fires plumed up into the sky. A woman came out of her house to shout at some children. A few people walked about on errands. Life; simple, pure life. People talking, spending time with their loved ones, children playing, folk going about their everyday business.

Unwilling to watch any longer Eleanor slowly wandered back down the small hill. She had come out here for two reasons: to stretch out her very stiff, painful muscles and to think. She would do just that.





“Oh shut up your God damned whining!” bellowed Jocelyn.

“Whining?” Richildis planted her fists on her hips. “You are intent on destroying this family and you call my objection whining!?”

“I keep telling you, if you will pack up your screeching and listen, that I have a plan!”

“A plan based on a reality far better than the one we have, you cretinous oaf!”

“Blah, blah, blah!” Jocelyn flapped one hand about in the imitation of a mouth. “That’s all you ever do – blah, blah, blah. Talk endlessly about a load of crap and expect me to listen to it – shut up!”

“Oh yes, I like that! I put forth an intelligent objection and what do I get? Puppet shows!”

“Puppets shows are all you understand, woman!”

“Maybe if you spoke langue d’oil like the rest of us instead of gibberish you’d do better!”

“I’m your husband – you owe me respect!”

“Respect is earned, not shouted into existence. I thought you might have learned that from your odious mentor; he taught you how to be a mannerless pig sure enough!”

Jocelyn felt his blood boil over; he hurled himself across the room. He easily blocked her attempts to punch him, almost casually captured her wrists and bundled them together in one hand, and entirely effortlessly cuffed her across the ear. “I don’t think that’s shouting, do you?” Her answer was an oath so blistering it even shocked Jocelyn. She began to struggle, kicking at him and wrenching her hands in an effort to free them. He held on to her easily but collected a series of bruises for his pains. “Damn it, woman, stop it before I actually hurt you!”

Her struggles subsided very resentfully and she said scathingly, “Oh, so now you’re concerned with niceties? That’s a first in all these years I’ve been lumbered with you!”

With exaggerated patience he stated, “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m taking my soldiers. You’re minding the castle. I’m fighting for Yves. I have a plan. You will stop whining. That’s how things are going to be, so shut the hell up!” He let go of her, pushing her away and taking a long stride back to put space between them. Richildis staggered then headed for the door like a ship in full sail, her dishevelled dress billowing out behind her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m not staying here with you tonight; I’d sooner sleep in the hall like our lowest servant than stay here!”

“Oh no you don’t.” Jocelyn intercepted her and pushed her back towards the bed. “I’m leaving.”

“Oh, nice! Your ego at work again – I can’t be seen to leave you but it’s fine for the whole castle to see you leave me! Same as bloody usual!”

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Jocelyn snidely. He marched out the bedroom and slammed the door behind himself so hard it bounced back open and hit him on the rear. With a vicious oath he kicked it shut and stormed off, heedless of the frightened, embarrassed glances the maids in the solar sent at him.

He got halfway down the stairs towards the hall before he halted. “Christ on the bloody cross and a whole set of apostles shitting on chamber pots – I don’t have God damned time for this!” He turned and ascended the stairs with the same furious energy he had descended them with. Once again he blasted past the maids in the solar, setting them twittering like a bunch of starlings. He barged back into the bedchamber and roared at the maid helping Richildis. “Out!” With a frightened squeak the girl fled.

Jocelyn booted the door shut yet again, furiously noticing all this kicking doors had left his toes feeling broken. He grabbed his wife in a rough embrace and kissed her with a mix of pent up passion and aggression. “Well, I’m leaving tomorrow so we’d better hurry up on the making up,” he explained as calmly as he could manage.

“Lout.” She tried to jam her knee into his groin but he held her so close she couldn’t manage it.

“You’re not getting rid of me, Tildis, at least not until tomorrow.”

“Morning can’t come soon enough. And for some reason,” she glared at him and gingerly put a hand to her bruised ear, “I have a headache.”

Once again he pushed her away and took a good long step back. “Well, if that’s your attitude I’m leaving again. I’ll go say goodbye to someone more … cheerful.”

“One of my maids, you mean. Again.”

Jocelyn’s voice rose again. “Oh let me guess – more recriminations about Eremberga?”

“And why not? I liked her, damn you! I suppose you will be expecting to foist her and your bastard brat off on me while you go play soldiers?”

“Actually, yes. And I don’t play soldiers, woman!” He took a few steps closer to the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Go on then,” she challenged him.

“I will; I’m just giving you chance to change your mind.”

“Why would I? It’d mean putting up with you instead of sleeping soundly.”

“That makes you the only female in the whole castle - no the whole fief – who thinks that way!”

“Then go take your charging bull at a gate act to them!”

Jocelyn poised on the verge of flinging back another loud insult. “Actually,” he said fairly normally, “I’d rather not. You look rather stunning when you’re angry.”

She gaped at him. “Something suspiciously like a compliment? From you!?”

“Well, you did say chivalrous milksop. I’ll overlook the fact you laughed at my previous attempts so long as you promise not to do that again. It has a rather …”

“Deflating,” she supplied quickly with unrestrained glee.

He scowled, remembering how she had laughed at his predicament as well as his attempt at a change in attitude. “Effect on me,” he finished shortly.

Amazingly she smiled. “You are a strange man sometimes, Jocelyn. You come in here, scream blue murder at me, hit me, tell me you are leaving on some fool’s errand because you have a plan you will barely explain, foist your bastard and her slut of a mother on me, and then try to charm me.”

Jocelyn shrugged. “Well, they say variety is the spice of life.” Suddenly she was laughing and so was he. When he got his breath back he said almost sadly, “This is about the happiest we’ve been in each other’s company for … months.”

“I suppose seeing how I am not going to be rid of you tonight I may as well resign myself to your existence. I shall get to sleep sooner.”

Jocelyn pulled a face and said plaintively, “That is so welcoming.”

“If you don’t like it you can leave.”

“Oh, shut up!” groaned Jocelyn. “Don’t start that again.”







Goodbye, caesar, and thanks for reading. I hope the rest of this story lives up to your expectations.

[Ludens]

The letter is just silliness with no more relation to the story than the scene I wrote where Fulk and Nell ran off together. Comedy versions of Eleanor use slightly warped versions of the characters.
I wasn't quite that tired ~D . What I meant to say was that after a moving scene I am not in the mood for silliness.



You said Fulk has been jealous since page 69 (wherever that may be).
I thought I gave a small excerpt to show where? Some description of where it was in the plot? I was in a big rush, so maybe I forgot. I'll just retrieve and dump the bit here:
Thank you. The thing is: "page 69" is meaningless to me, since I don't have the original document. An excerpt helps, but I'd rather have the number of the post where it is in so I can check the context and location in the story as well.


Back at that banquet he hadn't made himself known so he had no way or right (however tenuous) to act on his feelings. He was also being rational. Fulk will . generally simmer away quietly like he did at that feast, telling himself to be sensible. However if he is already stressed and if the circumstances are set up correctly he will blow. (...) He is deceptively placid.
I see. I was under the misimpression that the scenes in the garden and the nursery had already taken place at this point. But I have been thinking about Fulk, and I now think that you are right: he is jealous, just not in the way you describe. To me he appears as someone who experiences occasional flashes of jealousy, but doesn't linger on them. The way you describe him, he should be brooding on the possibility that Eleanor betrays him, which he doesn't. Instead, he dismisses his jealous feelings. Jealous people tend to be constantly expecting to be betrayed and ill used, which Fulk isn't, and are very possessive about their lovers, which Fulk has no opportunity to be. The cliché of the loud guy beating up his ex's new friend is not a good example, because it suggests the jealousy appeared after he lost his ex. This is not the same as a jealous personality.

The only thing that does not make sense from my interpretation is Fulk's explosion: he goes from ardent lover to jealous lover in less than one paragraph. It should be a bit slower. But Eleanor's reaction probably would have made things worse and the scene could proceed as before.

Though it still seems a bit odd that Eleanor is so careless that she doesn't prepare him for what must be the worst news in his life. It appears like she didn't worry about what Fulk would think, and that is certainly the way Fulk interprets it.


I guess I could, but it would probably take a lot of time and effort, playing with the manuscript, drafting and revising, tweaking and altering, plus I'd need outside views on how well it works . a proper book type undertaking, not a serialised web story type.
You are probably right. These scenes need to be prepared in advance.


I tried everything I could think of, except suggesting in the text that Nell was wrong. I simply can't and won't do that.
Sorry, bad translation. I meant hinting that Eleanor was wrong by showing something that did not fit her interpretation of Fulk's behaviour and next having her reason it away. A bit like you have Fulk reasoning away the real explanation of Eleanor's behaviour.


I don't know the unwritten rules either. :looks mock indigent: Now you are making me show off just how clueless I am! :tongueg:
~D That was not my intention. I am making this up as I go along just as well.


Don't ask me, ask the reviewers. I seldom agree with them or even take much notice of them these days. They seem to delight in stating something as if the whole world should understand but never coming down from their lofty perch to explain why. It's probably supposed to be self evident why this technique is good; we are just too plebeian to see why. :rolleyes:
I couldn't agree more. Though if you think it is bad in England, it's worse over here. We haven't got any literary critics, we've got the literary police! :lipsrsealed2:

I agree with Kommodus that the story seems to be rather slow lately; I have thought the same for some time now. However, I am not sure it is a bad thing. You said that you are trying to write a story that could be published, and books have a slower pace than Internet series. You don't want a story to be over quickly when you read it from a book as opposed to from a monitor. Perhaps it would do the story good if there was more variety in the plotlines, but that is very hard to do. Anyway, since Fulk and Eleanor have split up that is not exactly needed right now.


Keep on posting, but don't worry if it slows down. The longer you can think about a story, the better it becomes.

As always, looking forward to the next instalment,

Ludens

[frogbeastegg]

“You had a good day, darling Nell?” asked Trempwick as he climbed into bed. He was late up; Eleanor had been waiting for him for so long she had gone to sleep.

“Yes.” She didn’t budge from the nice spot she had warmed in the middle of the feather mattress. Trempwick worked his way across the large bed and joined her in the middle; he caught her up and pulled her against his side, prompting an outraged squeak of, “Jesú! Your feet are freezing!”

“Sorry, adored Nell. I must say you are lovely and warm, toasty even.” He gave her an appreciative kiss. “So what did you do today?”

“Same as I always did when not training; walked, wandered, thought.”

“You were not entirely happy,” guessed the spymaster shrewdly.

After a pause she confessed, “No.”

“I had a lot of work to do; I am beginning to hear some fascinating whispers coming from France. No matter how much I might wish to spend my days with you it simply is not possible. It never has been, and I did warn you of this”

“I know.” A long pause. She spoke resentfully into his shoulder, “I did not even see you for dinner. I have not seen you since we got up.”

“These whispers from France are important; the slightest hint of potential treason.” He turned his head on the pillow but she kept her face angled downwards, towards his shoulder. Trempwick gently placed two fingers under her cheek and encouraged her to look at him. “Nell?”

“It rankles, coming clear second to my beloved regal ancestor.”

“Oh Nell! Not second, not in my heart. I have to do my job; it lends me power and trust and in turn that keeps you safe. The more useful I am to him the more likely the king is to listen to me.”

“So our trip to Saint Albans is cancelled?”

“Yes. I am sorry, dear Nell.” Eleanor dropped her head back onto his shoulder. Her mouth curved downwards in a miserable arc and she looked utterly dejected. Trempwick pulled her into a tighter, two armed embrace and said consolingly, “You can still have your new horse; you need one rather urgently. I will not have my princess riding about on a borrowed nag. I can get someone to bring up some suitable animals for you to look over; I could spare a half day to help you choose.”

“Thank you,” she said despondently.

“I shall send a message to my usual stud tomorrow; they can have a selection of their best mounts here for the end of the week.”

There was a long pause. Eleanor timidly placed her right hand on Trempwick’s stomach and began picking at the finely woven linen of his shirt with one fingernail. “We are going to have a big wedding, right?”

“I am afraid it is unavoidable, beloved Nell.”

“It is going to be Anne’s wedding all over again, except this time we will be the target.”

“Sadly true; I shall do all I can to avoid the worst nonsense and excesses.” Trempwick captured her hand and moved it over so she had her arm flung lazily over his chest, then his own hand returned to stroking her spine.

Eleanor shuffled her head a bit, moving so it rested more comfortably in the hollow below the shoulder joint, and so her mouth was clear and she was not mumbling into his ribs. “That was not entirely what I was thinking of. We will be set slightly apart from everyone else again, at our own wedding. We will be sober, alert, listening and watching, sensible - agents through and through. There will be no one else like us there. This time we will be at the centre instead of just next to it, and yet we will still be … lonely.”

“Before I trained you, sweet Nell, I was entirely alone. My agents only know what I wish them to, and that is only ever precisely what they need to know. The better quality ones share some traits with us, such as the remaining sober, but they never see the whole picture in the same way we do.”

“They do not look along the tables at the guests and quantify them as ‘idiot, manipulated by his steward, ambitious, reliable, ambitious, dangerous, adulterous wife, ambitious, ambitious …’”

“Yes; that is our preserve and ours alone. My agents will view but a handful of people in that way: their targets. It is the worst part of it all, really. No one is just a person; they are always quantified according to what threat they could be to us and to our king.” Trempwick ceased running his fingers along her spine and began to twine them in her hair instead. “I am told by Edward my attempt to style your hair self destructed after just a few hours. I shall keep trying; an old spymaster can learn new tricks and I am still quite young.”

“I wonder what they see when they look at my father? And my brother?” said Eleanor thoughtfully.

“That depends greatly on the person doing the looking, darling Nell.”

“Of course, but I doubt they will see ‘Explosive tempered cruel man with ambition. Is proud and stubborn, aging and slowing down but still strong and fit, easy to provoke into losing his temper if you apply the correct stimulus. A murderer many times over, a kin slayer who shows no mercy when it comes to removing anything and anyone he views as a threat. His attributes help him hold the realm together and make him a good king but by the same token a horrible man and father.’ Hugh certainly will not come up as ‘Outwardly an honourable and chivalrous man but inside a festering copy of his father; treacherous, murderous, cruel, will do anything to hold and expand his power. Smiles to your face and knifes you from behind, then blames someone else and pretends he never did a thing to harm you. Stolid and staid, lacking in imagination, and it is this which truly holds him back currently. Treat with extreme caution.’”

“No, they would not see much, if any, of that. Their opinions would be as mundane as their view of you.” He kissed the top of her head.

Eleanor sighed and asked forlornly, “How are we going to manage?”

“Nell?”

“At our wedding. Hugh will be publicly congratulatory, pretending he is delighted while we will know he sent a bunch of thugs after me. We shall have to smile and play along. I am not sure I can.”

“You managed when he was here a couple of days ago. I was proud of you then, beloved Nell.”

“I do not think I can do it again, not with both of them at once. They will be there, one pretending he never tried to prevent our wedding while the other smirks and tells me he was right to force me to this.”

“You will cope, I know you will. I will do my best to keep them away from you, and you know I do not plan on remaining at the feast for long.”

“Everyone will laugh,” said Eleanor desolately. “And I know my family will blame me for the breach in protocol.”

“Nell, if I pick you up and drag you off you can hardly be blamed.”

“I always get blamed whether it is my fault or not; I thought you knew that by now. But I do not care about that … much.” Trempwick gave her time to broach whatever was on her mind, and eventually she did so. “Which one of them killed John? Who placed his neck on the block? My father with his anger or my brother with his ambition? Why couldn’t you save him?”

“Nell …” sighed Trempwick.

Eleanor propped herself up on one elbow and starred earnestly at him. “Tell me. I want – need to know; I cannot have this uncertainty added to the feelings I must conceal. Tell me how my brother died, all of it. I know next to nothing.”

“And for good reason! Nell, it was terrible-”

“Yes – I heard he died a coward and somehow managed to fix things so I urgently needed publicly dumping on some suitable man or other, but no one would tell me how or why. Tell me; which one of them killed him, and how did he manage to twist my life like this.”

Hurt, he said, “I thought you were happy with our betrothal.”

“I am, but none the less I want to know why I am in this position. Tell me.”

Trempwick’s resistance collapsed reluctantly. “Your father knew what he felt he had to do but your brother pushed him to it with plenty of talk about upholding the law and applying justice equally. He effectively countered my insistence we could handle John being left alive. Every point I put forward he smashed with his talk of justice. If he had not been there I would have been able to talk your father around; I was very nearly successful.”

Eleanor said sadly, “I do not think Hugh ever liked John.”

“Perhaps when they were boys he did?”

“I think not. He has turned against his family, first John and now me …” She dropped back down and pulled the blankets back up to her chin, settling back into Trempwick’s arms.

“Power can warp people, it corrupts. Some withstand it but many do not. Hugh may be corrupt now but that does not mean he was always so.”

“What did John do to get me married? The arse in the crown has been content enough to leave me single all these years, well not exactly content … you know what I mean.”

“Nell …” sighed Trempwick again.

“Tell me,” she demanded evenly.

“I do not want you to get the wrong idea.”

“Tell me.”

“He reminded the nobles that you were single and being kept in a state very similar to imprisonment because your father dislikes you. He said any man wanting the throne only needed you to put in a valid claim to rival Hugh’s. Nell, that is not my motive.” He said the words distinctly. “It is not my motive. I have grown fond of you; for years I wished I could marry you but knew I could not, and then I was given that chance, ordered into it by the king in a way that nearly destroyed everything I hoped to gain. It is you I want, no one and nothing else. That is not something I will say often.”

“Why? Why me?”

Trempwick laughed. “Nell, it is late and you were asleep when I came in. You lie there interrogating me and plotting politics, and accuse me of being a liar! Who else would do any of that, especially just after waking up?” He scrutinised her. “Who would ever have thought you of all people wanted to hear a lot of sentimental stuff? I always thought you scorned it. Very well, the world may consider you plain at best, beloved Nell, but I find a much more favourable verdict. I do not want some cowering cretin of a wife; I want someone to sharpen my wits and give me the odd battle now and then – I like your wilfulness, so long as it is kept within appropriate limits. I know I can trust you to play the dual role of spymaster’s wife and duchess, and play it well. Money I care little for, and I have more than enough power. Look at what we were saying earlier, about how we are two of a kind and lonely. Now we have each other, and I at least am much less lonely now.” She lay back down at his side. He kissed her on the forehead and joked, “Dearest Nell, at this rate I might even believe you want to hear me say I love you.”

“Go on then.”

“I never thought you needed telling.” She let an expectant silence speak for itself. “Nell, I love you.”

“Very nice.” Eleanor snuggled down in the crook of his arm and closed her eyes. She had nearly dozed off when Trempwick spoke again.

“Hugh’s wife is pregnant; there is great hope, although I admit I am not entirely convinced this time will be different to any other. He will perhaps turn his attention from you now; I have made it subtly clear I am guarding you closely and he has a potential heir to secure his position.”

“And if it is not enough to turn his attention?”

“Then I will do everything in my power to protect you, you know that.”

“I only hope it is enough.”

“So do I, beloved Nell. So do I.”






The Tuesday horse fair was a sizeable gathering with several different traders from local studs bringing strings of horses to sell. All kinds of animals could be found, from exceptional destriers to sturdy little pack ponies. Despite the king’s saying the fair was held on Tuesdays, implying it was a weekly affair, it was actually a monthly market. The huge markets held on Saint’s fair days may offer far more variety and choice by dint of drawing traders from further afield but the monthly royal market was nothing to dismiss as unimpressive or limited.

The market was held a short walk outside the settlement, in one of the empty patches of clear land. Lines of horses had been picketed for buyers to walk along while the sellers extolled their wares’ virtues, charmed, haggled, and used every trick they knew to make sales. Clear space behind the pickets allowed prospective buyers to try out any horse which caught their eye, and those traders with warhorses had set up rough quintains to prove their mounts had the correct training to deliver a man and his lance point smoothly to his target. Simon trailed around after Fulk, carrying his new riding saddle; Fulk himself carried his equally brand new war saddle. It was a rare horse merchant who kept saddles for his customers to try his mounts with, and thanks to Trempwick Fulk had lost his old pair of saddles. More expense, and more discomfort too – saddles needed breaking in before they provided a truly comfortable seat and he’d only really got the last two nicely worn.

Fulk found himself a nice dun palfrey for a reasonable price without too much trouble, but finding a suitable warhorse was taking much longer. While a saddle horse only needed a nice temperament, a smooth gait, good form, sound health, and stamina a warhorse needed all that in addition to the correct training, the right kind of controlled aggression, strength and size. Any decent saddle horse would do for a good horseman; a warhorse needed to suit its rider to the point where the man trusted the animal with his life in battle.

Fulk had tried several likely looking animals only to find small faults. One had been too wilful for his tastes, another had possessed a hard mouth so it required a heavy hand, still another had just not felt right somehow. He hadn’t counted the horses he’d looked at and turned down without even taking them for a trial ride. Courser or destrier; he was not picky so long as it was a sound creature and reasonably priced. There was something uncomfortable on an unconscious level about buying a horse while considering how badly its death would hurt you financially but scrimping was equally disquieting. Scrimping weighed your own life up against your purse.

He wandered along the lines of the final trader. He gave several warhorses a cursory inspection but there was only the one which really drew his attention; a blood bay destrier. Scenting a potential sale the merchant hurried over to his side. “Sir, an excellent choice. This animal’s got some Arab blood; his grandsire was an Arab by the name of Asan, meaning ‘beautiful’ in the heathen tongue, and truly he was well named. You’ll see much of the Arab breeding showing in this grandson.”

“Spare me the sales pitch,” ordered Fulk, absorbed in his inspection of the horse. Intelligent eyes, good lines, healthy, temperament was pleasant; all in all quite promising.

“Blood red’s a good colour for a warhorse, shows class too. You’d be the envy of all on your own side and strike fear into your enemies’ hearts riding into battle on this beauty.”

“I don’t care about colour; it only inflates the price.” Fulk broke away from his inspection. “I’ll try him.”

The merchant waited for Fulk to put his new saddle on the horse, then unhitched the reins and led both knight and animal around to the space of empty ground reserved for customers trying his horses. There Fulk put the animal through its basic paces, riding about in a lazy loop at steadily increasing speeds until he was galloping. Next he tried the battle exercises, checking the animal knew all the prompts and their associated movements. Despite its earlier docile attitude the animal had no qualms at all when required to rear up and kick out, or bite. The stallion was agile too, able to twist and turn about at the lightest touch. So far so very promising.

Finally Fulk shouted to the merchant to get him the lance he kept for customers wanting to try tilting with their prospective purchases. All his practise the previous day had left him tired, stiff, and peppered with bruises but at least he did not need to fear making a complete fool out of himself today. As long as he didn’t show off. His run went smoothly; man and horse in tune and competent. A few repeats made sure of it; this was the horse for him.

A long session of hard haggling later and Fulk was the proud owner of one destrier for the princely sum of forty-one shillings. The palfrey had only cost twenty shillings. He mentally excused the extravagance by telling himself that the king demanded only the best of his knights and he could hardly use a second rate animal, and with his new lands both animals could easily be paid for within the year.

Together with Simon he collected his other horse and led the two animals back towards the palace stables. Fulk considered various names for his new horse. The palfrey he’d dubbed Tace, meaning ‘silent’ in Latin. Tace he could explain easily away; no one but him would know the horse was a four legged oat eating reminder of his vow not to gab away like an old woman at a fish market. “Sueta, I think.”

“Sueta?” asked Simon. “From the Latin for sweetheart?” So the boy did speak Latin, and he was quite disgusted.

Fulk flashed a grin. “Yes. Something brave and battle worthy might be traditional but I find this suits. He’s a damn fine horse, it’s a nice sounding word, and I like the irony. Sueta here will bite a man’s face off. Hell has no fury like my sweetheart.”





Eleanor crumpled Matilda’s letter and tossed it onto the solar floor. “Bitch.”

“Is something the matter, beloved Nell?” inquired Trempwick, looking up from his simple breakfast of yesterday’s bread and a bit of cold meat.

Eleanor’s mouth set into a thin line. “You know what is wrong - you read the letter before giving it to me, same as usual.”

“Nell, it is for -”

“I am quite familiar with your excuses, thank you.” She shoved away from the table and began to stomp up and down the room, scowling furiously. “Marrying below my station and disgracing the entire family indeed – as if I had any choice! This after years of her snidely suggesting I should grab the first person dumb enough to offer for me because I can do no better.”

“Calm down, dearest Nell. We both know the truth of our situation; what does your sister’s opinion matter?”

“It matters because -” Eleanor caught herself just in time; she had nearly let a very large piece of her inner self go. It mattered because she had been compared to Matilda and found lacking in all respects for as long as she could remember. She could never be as good as her eldest sister at anything and so she had decided early on to be completely different, to use her own traits and embrace them rather than trying to tamp them down and become another perfect noble lady. Matilda was the first person to really tell her exactly what she was instead of dressing it up and lying to insist she would one day be every bit as pretty and regal as her sisters. Matilda and her scathing verdict on her lamentable youngest sister; the original and the first in a very long line. An honest truth that had only strengthened her resolve to avoid a life she was clearly not suited to. Eleanor barely missed a beat, “Because she is a bitch and I refuse to lose in our little on-going spat. She would never let me forget it, never.”

Trempwick got up and put a stop to her restive pacing by capturing her in a loose hug. “I am willing to bet she will be much more upset if her letter received either no response or a cool one which leaves no space to continue the battle. She wants to beat you, darling Nell, and she can only do that if you continue to fight.”

Eleanor grinned up at him. “Or on the other hand I could send back a letter gushing about how madly in love we are, making it plain I am disgracing my family and having the time of my life too.” When Trempwick would have spoken she laid one finger across his lips and said softly, “I can include a part of your suggestion. I can make it plain that you are my family now, and I am done with the rest of them.”

“Nell-”

“It is true – a brother who wants me dead, a bitch of a sister, a deceased brother who plotted to use me as some kind of dog treat and then invited all and sundry to grab me when he was about to die, an imprisoned sister who does not even have the mettle to try and dig herself out of her own grave, a dead mother I barely knew, and a father who is nothing more than an inhuman monster. The only one I liked died years ago, and I am now not entirely sure he would have been any better if he had lived to adulthood. I am done with them; they have made it exceptionally clear they do not care about me and now I no longer care about them.”

“When will you write it?”

“After the wedding; I think obnoxious newlywed bliss will only make it all the better and it gives me more material to use. As soon as we are married I have no family but you.”






I'll reply to the comment when I have a good amount of time.

[frogbeastegg]

Her last order, and he had disobeyed it. Fulk sat on his stool alone in his room with his arms folded on the tabletop and his chin resting on top of them, staring at the fat leather purse Eleanor had given him. He had used the few loose coins he had and there was no prospect of him getting any more for a good long while; to pay for a messenger to his mother he would have to break into Eleanor’s purse. He had been too tired after his trip, then too disoriented, then too busy buying his horses and other new bits and pieces, then too busy training. Now it was eight days since she had issued that order and his conscience was most definitely pricking at him.

It was not as if he wanted to ignore his mother, not at all. He just did not know what to say. She believed he was dead; how could he explain why he had not contacted her before? Much of what he needed to say he did not wish to speak of; his father’s death, how he had ruined Maude’s life, his deluding himself like a craven because he refused to look at what he was and work towards becoming what he wished to be. Much of what he wanted to say he couldn’t; he could never tell his mother about the woman he loved and had lost.

Without lifting his head Fulk extended one hand and caressed the purse, running one thumb over the bulges of the coins inside. It seemed like sacrilege to open this purse, sealed by Eleanor’s own hand and filled with her own money. Untying those knots and emptying out the contents would destroy her work, and spending any of the contents would part him from something that had been touched by her. This, the hairpin, his removed and hidden gooseberry badge – it was all he had left except his memories. Sheer, black misery welled up inside him.

He could work all day, training until both he and his horse were exhausted. He could while away his evenings talking and wasting time with the other knights. He could not stop missing her. He could not stop sensing the parts of his make up he had left behind with her, sensing them like amputees sometimes claimed to feel missing limbs. He still dreamed of her, and each night they were together as they always had been, but now she was never there when he woke up. He was now viewing only might-have-beens; before good parts of it had been reality. What had once comforted now only mocked and twisted the knife thrust deep in his heart. He had stopped playing chess with the other knights in the evening after just one game; the memories of those many games played with Eleanor were all much too vivid.

Amid this mess of broken dreams, missing pieces, longing, desperation and need there still remained a spark of the solid, honourable reliance he had found for, and because of, Eleanor. She had ordered him to contact his mother and so he would. He had promised her he would, and he always kept his word. He picked up the purse and cradled it lovingly in one hand. Well, as far as she went he was a man of honour and bound by his oath. No one else was worth that; no one else could inspire it. A selective man of honour then, able to admit and find pride in it.

For a moment he savoured the feeling of contact to her the purse gave him then he slowly, with exquisite care, untied the draw strings. There, it was done. A sense of loss swept through him. “Love makes fools of us all,” he told himself at a whisper, not sure if he was pardoning his sentimental foolishness or encouraging it. He stiffened his resolve and upended the purse on the table, pouring out the contents onto the stained wood. Mixed in with the coins, somewhere from the middle of the pouch, was another, smaller purse.

Elation; complete euphoria – she had a plan! This was all a charade; she hadn’t really dumped him so she could concentrate on Trempwick! Feverishly Fulk snatched up the little purse and examined it. A bit of parchment cut from a larger sheet was tucked securely in the precise bow of the tied draw strings. A message, for him. No doubt it would go some way to explaining her plan. Perhaps the contents of the pouch would tell him more. He’d put himself through hell because he had disobeyed her; if he’d done as she asked he would have found this on his first night at the palace. He prayed it was not already too late. His hands shook with his eagerness as he gently pulled the note free and unfolded it.

His eyes reported the message and his mind decoded it, but surely there must be some mistake here? He read it again, then a third time. “A gift for Anne. See that she gets it.” Such a terse message, written in Eleanor’s neat, plain handwriting. Fulk read it again slowly, anger replacing euphoria. “See that she gets it.” An order, not even a please. She just assumed he would do as she wanted, even after all this. “A gift for Anne.” Why Anne? Why Anne?! Was Anne Eleanor’s supposed love sent away to moulder in exile so she could be happy with the spymaster? No!

No more dancing about this – Eleanor had claimed to love him, then broken his heart, ground the pieces underfoot, reordered his life without even consulting him and sent him packing with a cheery wave while she turned her attention, and affection, to Trempwick. She had manipulated him into guarding this purse, knowing he would need the money and so would open it instead of casting it aside or preserving it as a relic, and then she had the audacity, the sheer barefaced cheek to give him orders! Fulk screwed the tiny note up and hurled it into the small fire burning in his room’s hearth. Not even a please – that showed a lot; it showed how she really viewed him. He was nothing, some base born bastard she had amused herself with, someone she could order around without even the smallest thought he might refuse her. She was royal enough to expect it done and to take it as her due, not a favour.

Fulk ground the heels of his palms into his closed eyes until he saw flashes of colour springing up against the perfect darkness. He couldn’t believe it; this was not the Eleanor he knew. It was what she had done. He must be missing something; she was not like this, she was nice, and brave, loyal … spirited enough to hack her own path, and innocent, and … and so … Eleanorish. She was not a manipulative, cold hearted bitch to use others and discard them, and she did not know how to play with men’s hearts.

Fulk groaned and dropped his hands to the table. She didn’t know how to play with men’s hearts and she was too innocent to effectively fake affection; she needed plenty more experience or someone to teach her and she had neither. But she had been doing a convincing enough show of shy, growing affection with Trempwick. She was falling for the spymaster; why he could not say. The man was no good; he might have changed his tune a little recently but how could his petty little gifts and his cloying affection make up for years of coldness? The man had murdered her beloved Stephan for Christ’s sake!

Just one part of this riddle, one tiny part, summed it all up. Trempwick had hit Eleanor; not a significant thing in itself, just another inextricable part of the world they lived in, but two things put a spin on it he’d expect to make her loathe the spymaster completely. Firstly they were not even married yet, making it assault, not a husband’s right. Secondly Eleanor being Eleanor Fulk had always believed anyone but her father laying so much as a finger on her would wind up missing a few teeth as they faced the full force of an irate gooseberry. But no, she’d only fawned all over Trempwick all the more. For all her good sides Eleanor was rash enough, and in possession of that explosive temper, to belt Trempwick back if she objected, prudent or not. Fulk snorted in disgust; maybe she liked it. Or maybe, suggested his most reasonable side, she felt so threatened she could not object? He snorted again; if she was living in fear she wouldn’t be fawning on Trempwick. She’d be enduring grimly just as she had in the days after the betrothal. If she didn’t want to be close to someone it showed, no matter how she tried to hide it.

Go over what had happened: She had arranged a sword fight knowing it would upset Trempwick. She had carefully taken extracted an oath from him so he wouldn’t interfere and harm her plan. She’d provoked Trempwick so much he’d hit her, something they both insisted he’d never done before. From that he’d been sent away, and she had claimed that choice as hers both before the spymaster and in private. She’d been very careful to tell him she loved him and did not want him to go, just as she had been careful to explain this was what she wanted, contrasting ideal and reality. Fulk came to the same conclusion he had arrived at many times; she had set it all up, planned it before hand and executed it with precision and skill. She loved him and she believed they could build separate lives and be happy.

It was time to accept the truth instead of flinching away from it and trying to find another interpretation; she might love him but she was falling for Trempwick. However much she might love him it would do no good because he could never be worthy of her. She had no choice but to marry the spymaster now, now that she had thrown away her only chance at an escape and isolated herself from her sole ally, and she did not want to be living the rest of her life comparing what she had to what she could not and finding it lacking. She did not think he wanted to see her living as Trempwick’s wife, and she was right.

He picked up the tiny pouch she wanted taken to Anne. But why all this to send a gift to Anne? Surely she could have been more overt about it? Perhaps she had been; he had no way of knowing what she had said to the spymaster. Anne had ‘given’ Eleanor her necklace a return present was undoubtedly very polite and to be expected and Fulk was the first person to make the trip from Woburn to Waltham while Eleanor was at home. For that matter Eleanor had nothing to give unless she begged for aid from Trempwick. What possible reason could Eleanor have for sending anything covert, no matter what it was, to Anne? Fulk could see none. She had probably been unsure of his loyalty and thought this the best way to get him to cooperate.

This was pathetic. Truly. No more of this – no more trying to do the impossible, flinching away from the truth, or hoping for miracles. It was over. Time to move on.





Jocelyn rode along at the head of a column of Yves’s infantrymen, leading them into an attack on Hugues de Ardon’s lands and castle. His was one of three such groups, converging to surround the castle and block roads as they marched. Hugues had refused to answer his liege’s call to arms and was now paying the price. Advance parties of skirmishers had always gone ahead to scout and soon the sleepy castle town would be put to the sword to demoralise the castle’s defenders, many of whom had kin in the settlement. Then the army would settle down for a siege.

Jocelyn sourly spat on the ground. He’d argued against this loudly, frequently and publicly. “These people are our people,” he had proclaimed, “and their lord is the problem. Why harm our own? Why destroy a part of our own land? Where’s the point in smashing up our economy? The castle’s all we need, and the peasants will run like cowards if we give them chance. They’ll be grateful for our mercy and we’ll benefit from it later.” He’d been ignored by a gung ho Yves, of course, but it was well known he’d wanted a precise attack to remove the problem with as little damage as possible. That would come in very handy later; he was a loyal man but one who had tried to stem his lord’s excesses and preserve Tourraine for its rightful lord, the English king.

The sooner the English king turned up the better; Jocelyn had been sorely tempted to strangle Yves with his bare hands within seconds of his arrival. The bloody moron had whinged Jocelyn had been expected days ago and had accused him of being slow to answer the summons delivered by Renaud. Then, after all his blathering about the need for speed, he’d kept Jocelyn and the lion’s share of the other soldiers sat about on their arses doing nothing for days. Tosspot? Jocelyn was beginning to think of far nastier words to apply to his liege. He sighed and tried to let his frustration bleed out with his breath; once the king arrived this farce could end in days, if that.

The first screams of the peasants began to make their way to the approaching army on the wind; the army had been spotted. Jocelyn caught up his helm and donned it, hiding his triumphant smile behind the face plate. He had given up hope of the castle’s idle sentries spotting them and sounding the alarm in time for the peasants to flee. Collateral damage was so wasteful. Damned sentries must have the keen eyesight of a mole to have let the approaching force go unseen this far. More God damned incompetence – under Yves Tourraine had gone as rotten as a worm eaten apple.

He turned in his saddle and shouted, “Looks like the game’s starting early; pick your bloody feet up and get moving!” The foot soldiers began to jog. The commander of the group, a pasty faced streak of piss who just happened to be Yves nephew, glared and furiously snapped a rebuke at Jocelyn’s usurping his command. The youth’s voice didn’t carry far and Jocelyn ignored him, pretending his helmet had blocked his hearing. See, thing was he was a loyal man. Yves wanted this place burned and so it would be, with all the attendant violence and mess. It wasn’t his fault their approach was so clumsy it had been spotted and so idle it dawdled instead of swooping in. He was only picking up the pieces to turn Pasty’s disaster into something a bit better.

Jocelyn spurred his horse and advanced at an easy canter, followed by his squire, Alain, the only other man of his in this group. His eleven men at arms had been put in the scouting group, a deliberate insult. The screams and shouting grew louder, still faint but unquestionably more urgent, and now Jocelyn could see a line of refugees running with whatever they had managed to grab at such short notice towards the castle. Others more sensibly took to the fields. The other two groups of Yves’ men were not in view, not even as dust clouds on the horizon - they were late! Jocelyn spat an oath; a cock up in a helmet, this.

Sixty yards from the village outskirts he spurred his horse again; the animal burst into top attack speed, stretching its neck out and seemingly to fly without its hooves touching the ground. Jocelyn couched his lance and swung his shield tight in to his body. Despite the unworthy target of his charge elation and adrenaline surged through him and his lips peeled back in a frenzied grin; knights were born and trained for this, to thunder down on their enemies with lance and shield in a charge that every infantryman alive feared more than the devil himself. Filling his lungs he raised his battle cry at the top of his voice, “De Ardentes!”

A few village men were fool, or desperate, enough to stand and fight with whatever came to hand. Jocelyn skewered one man through the chest with his lance, releasing the weapon before it could pull him about in the saddle and drawing his sword in a smooth, practised movement. He slowed his horse, turned about and cut down a few more men as easily as if he were in the training yard and facing straw dummies. Seeing how speedily he cut through the first few the other men flung down their ‘weapons’ and took to their heels. Jocelyn dug his spurs in and chased after them, felling a couple more with slashing blows to the space between neck and shoulders before breaking off and letting the pitiful survivors go.

The infantry had entered the fray now. Jocelyn ignored them, not caring to watch men at arms scurrying about starting fires and killing; soon they would begin stealing whatever they could set hands on and raping. He’d seen it enough times before, and he had no intention of taking part. Stealing a farmer’s set of wooden spoons was not a knight’s work. He wiped the gore off his sword on his blood spattered surcoat and put the weapon away. He began to ride back the way he had come, wanting to be away from this pitiful, noisy waste of resources. Alain took up station at his side; his begrimed cream coloured gambeson now sporting crimson splash marks as proof of his fighting, but the youth was entirely unharmed.

“War’s so glorious, right lad?” said Jocelyn. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the dying settlement.

“No, my lord,” he replied.

Jocelyn had to turn his head right around to see his squire through the helm’s narrow eye slits. The youth looked a bit ill. Well, he was only fifteen and he’d never been one for killing. “Tell that to the chronicle keepers and song writers, damned morons the lot of them. I just led the charge and near single-handedly captured this dung pile; that’s glorious, or so they’d insist. A pox on it. Get a real battle and fight on the victor’s side, now that’s glorious. This is just pig sticking.”

“It’s a damned waste, my lord.”

“Watch your mouth! You’re a noble, not some gutter scraping.” Alain rolled his eyes at the poacher turning gamekeeper but neither of them said more.

Alan’s keen young eyesight, and his open faced helmet, allowed him to spot something Jocelyn had overlooked. He flung an arm our towards the tiny stone church. “Look!”

Jocelyn’s head snapped around and reflexively his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. He saw a group of soldiers dragging a nun out of the building, along with a girl in expensive clothing. The nun was putting up a tremendous fight but the girl seemed paralysed by fear; she looked to be only about fourteen or fifteen. One of the soldiers wrapped a fist in her hair and pulled her head back then kissed her, his other hand pawing at her breasts. The nun began making even more of a fuss. Someone slapped her hard enough to send her reeling even though she was held up with her arms pinioned.

Jocelyn ripped his sword out and spurred his horse over towards them. “Put them down!” he shouted, putting every ounce of authority he possessed into his voice. The men didn’t even look up. Behind him Jocelyn knew without even looking Alain was following him, ready to fight if need be. Jocelyn halted his horse close to the group and got the animal to rear up and lash out with its front legs. “Put them down, damn you!” This time they heard; the small struggle stopped and everyone turned top look at the new arrivals. Jocelyn angled his shield forward so his coat of arms was on full display. “I am Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes and you will put them down or I’ll chop your bloody heads off!”

“Fair game,” muttered one man, uneasy about taking on a knight but drawing confidence from his friends. “The place was given over to looting.”

Jocelyn nudged his horse forward a few paces and thrust his sword into the man’s belly before he knew what was happening. To the rest he said, “She’s a God damned nun! You want to court your soul’s damnation? I’ll take the girl too – she’s noble. Now piss off before I lose my temper.” The moment hung; no one moved. Jocelyn raised his sword ready to strike again. “I said piss off!” The men dumped the two captives and fled, seeking easier prey.

Jocelyn cleaned his sword yet again and slammed the weapon back in the sheath. He snapped to Alain, “Get the girl.” To the two he said, “Come on, unless you want to hang about for the next lot?” He thrust his hand out to the nun to help her up. She didn’t move. “Damn it! You think I have nothing better to do than keep killing my own side? You want her to see this place die?” Her nodded at the girl, his helmet masking the movement.

With a combination of disarming confidence and gentle words Alain had coaxed the girl up behind him and now she sat clinging on with her arms flung about his waist. The nun finally took Jocelyn’s hand and climbed awkwardly up to ride pillion behind him. She disdained a secure grip, placing both hands about Jocelyn’s sword belt and trying to have as little contact with the knight as possible. He sighed gustily, the sound echoing about inside his helmet. “For Christ’s sake! Hold on properly unless you want to topple off!” The nun cautiously began to wrap her arms around his waist; Jocelyn speeded things up by roughly grabbing one hand and dumping it in front of him, then the other and ramming them together to encourage her to interlace her fingers.

Passengers secured they made their way out of the village and away from the doomed castle. The girl buried her face in Alain’s back, trying to blot out the death of her home. The nun looked about, cataloguing and watching it all. “They don’t deserve this,” she commented stiffly.

“Way of the world, sister.”

“I know; I was out in it for more than thirty years. This is why I left it. Can’t you do something?”

“No,” replied Jocelyn curtly. He encouraged his horse to speed up; a woman’s insistent, high pitched endless screaming match by a child’s wailing came from one of the houses and it was getting to him.

“For pity’s sake-”

“I have children! I have a wife, and I love. I tried, but now fishing out the two of you is all I can do.” The child’s cries ended abruptly on a choking gurgle. Jocelyn swore and gouged his horse’s flanks until they were bloody and he was riding away with more haste than his heavily burdened destrier could stand for long. Well, he reasoned to himself, he had to get his two prisoners away safely before some fool who had no idea what he’d found tried to ruin their value.

A mile out from the dying settlement and the noise was limited to snatches blown over when the wind picked up. Both horses were labouring for breath, overburdened and already wearied by the day’s travel and fighting. Jocelyn reined in at the roadside. He pulled off his helm and looked back. A thick plume of inky black smoke poured up into the sky and some of the largest fires could just be made out. Mercifully that was all; the human aspect was hidden. This could so easily be his own castle and lands, his own family.

“Rest the horses,” he ordered Alain. “Everybody down.” The nun shot over to her charge as soon as her feet touched the ground. The girl numbly shook her off and stood watching the clouds of smoke pouring into the air. The squire led both horses to a patch of grass and tied their reins about their front legs, hobbling them. He then cautiously joined the two women, not saying anything but oozing caring sympathy in that way he’d always had. The boy had always been good at soothing the scared and at easing anguish; Jocelyn was happy to leave him to it.

Jocelyn untied his mail ventail and pushed his coif off his head, then tugged off his padded arming cap. Cool air on his sweat soaked hair felt blissful. He wiped the back of his left hand across his forehead. He unslung his shield from his back and placed it on the ground, leaning it up against a rock so the painted leather facing did not get damp.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the nun’s voice said from behind him, “I shall thank God you are not prey to the same lusts as the rest of your mob.”

Jocelyn laughed harshly and tossed his damp cap to the ground next to his shield. He combed his damp hair with his fingers to encourage it to dry. Her calm assumption that she had his measure based on a few brief comments in a dying village and his saving them really bugged him. Derisively he told her, “Sister, I’ve got several bastards, I fornicate, I commit adultery, I pay for whores, and I do it in unnatural positions and on holy days. I only keep my clothes on if I’m in a rush. I’ve used force to get what I want too, but mostly that was my wife so it doesn’t count. I enjoy it, profusely – it’s the whole damned point, and I take exception to anyone who doesn’t enjoy my efforts because it’s a matter of pride to me that I’m good at this. You know the main reason I hate my wife? Because she lies there like a damned corpse and is the only one I don’t have squealing with delight. The only church ruling I keep to is the one about doing it in the dark, but that’s only occasionally and if there’s no handy light source. There’s no damned difference between those men I saved you from and me, not really.”

“You saved us; there is the difference.”

Damned ironic – tell a woman that you’re as chaste as a lamb and she never believes it; tell the truth and again they refuse to believe. “As I said before, you’re a nun and she’s noble; by the rules of war you’re supposed to be safe. I like the rules of war being obeyed; they’re the same blessed rules that get me kept alive for ransom instead of stuck like a pig and left to die.” He aimed another shot to shatter her irritating calm. “Besides, it’s dammed hard to bed a woman when you’re wearing some fifty pounds of armour, even more so if she’s trying to claw your eyes out and escape. Willing women are generally more fun and less effort anyway.”

“And that matters how? So far you are only agreeing with me; you are the same but acting differently, and therefore different.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Not at all; I don’t doubt you’re telling me the honest truth but you’re running from my point.”

“I’m a warrior; I don’t mess about with philosophy.”

She tilted her head in what could be an acknowledgement of a point scored. “I came to thank you, and to see what you intend to do with us now.”

“She’s de Ardon’s daughter; she’d be worth a bit to Yves.” The nun drew breath to speak but Jocelyn didn’t give her chance. “But he’d only waste her somehow, trying to wheedle an early surrender from her family by … maltreating her, taking his revenge on her instead of her father, or similar. I don’t like waste. You, my dear sister, are noble too, I think. Not just any nun would end up as her keeper. You speak nicely too, educated, and you’ve got the bearing.” She regarded him impassively, giving nothing away. “Way I see things you’re both mine to do with as I see fit. I’m loyal but not insane; I won’t give Yves what he doesn’t ask for to curry favour.”

“And if he asks?”

Jocelyn examined his right hand; his mail hauberk ended at the wrist and left his hands bare. The skin was caked in drying blood, spidering in the cracks of his skin, clotting in tiny rivers down the sides of his finger nails, pooling darkly under the short nails. He took a flask of water down from his saddle and swilled some over his hand and began scrubbing to remove the worst of the filth. He spoke as he worked, lending an uncaring air to his words that pleased him. “We don’t always get what we ask for. I hate waste, but I’m a loyal man. Pity I can’t give what I haven’t got; I’ll give you over to my wife’s keeping. Damned woman’s a miserable, contrary bitch and it’ll be hard to pry you away from her if I don’t go and shout at her until she finally gets it into her thick skull that Yves wants you. Plus all that message sending takes time.”

He wandered away from the nun to check his horse over for injuries. The girl was the only daughter of a traitor, but a traitor to Yves who had remained loyal to the English king. That made her useful, and William would be glad to get her back safe and unharmed. A tame nun to tell tales of how he’d rescued them from rape and murder, well that was nearly as good. Truly God did smile upon him to give such bounty into his hands so easily. Jocelyn drew his sword and stabbed it into the ground to form a crude cross. He knelt before it and said a devote, private prayer of thanks. As he stood he saw the nun watching him. “For the dead,” he lied.

He went to check on his squire and the girl, Elianora de Ardon. The girl stood watching, silent and white as a sheet. After a long time she said bleakly, “Everyone is dead. Some still walk and breathe but they are dead too, living on borrowed time until the castle falls. Everyone I knew. My entire family. Everyone.”

Jocelyn cursed mentally; reassurance was not something he was good at and now he was trapped. “If they hold out for long enough help might arrive to lift the siege.”

“No one will come. I have no dowry and my family is dead; no one will marry me now. I have no life, so in a way I am dead too. My betrothed is in the castle. I don’t like him; he has bad breath.” She burst into tears. Jocelyn sighed. Females; crack-brained hysterical lunatics the lot of them, except his beloved Mahaut. His little daughter would never become an annoyingly typical female; she’d keep some common sense and grit.

Alain put a hand on her arm and began murmuring more comforting stuff Jocelyn couldn’t hear. It seemed to work; after a bit Elianora collapsed into the youth’s arms and allowed him to gently lead her away, still crying. Jocelyn watched them with a calculating eye. He didn’t really need to worry about Alain; he was a good lad. Problem was Jocelyn knew exactly how he’d thought when he’d been that age and that was bloody terrifying. No, Alain had a good grasp and respect for social rules and niceties; the girl was safe with him. Tomorrow he’d send the pair of prisoners back to his castle under the protection of Alain and five of his most trusted men. There they would be safely stored for when he needed them.



A bumper update: 8 ½ pages.

I can field a few parts of your last comment now, Ludens. The rest will have to follow later. Episodic replies on my episodic story

I don’t know the post numbers very well, so I have to rummage through the entire topic moving about based on the contents of the posts I find. This usually involves quite a bit of shuffling between pages and right now the org is Slow with a capital s, and it has been that way for me since we moved from Iconboard. This last week and a bit I have been waiting around 30 seconds to a minute for each page to load and I’m using a broadband connection. Even posting each part is an Odyssey sometimes. Today I’m actually typing up my reply to your comment while the org is down, after a day of the org breaking down on me every few minutes. So as nice as it would be to reference post numbers in this topic I can’t do so practically. I can’t even give a rough estimate based on the Paradox version of the thread; that is now 453 posts long.

Comedy either strikes or it doesn’t.

The org is currently down and I can’t remember any more to comment on. I deleted the subscription email in the mad belief I would be able to look at the org version complete with quotes so it made sense. Oh well, back to the rest another time.

:over half an hour later: Ah ha! :runs to post ASAP!:

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk looked over the letter he had written for his mother. It was only four lines long but the product of much hair pulling and agonising. He had simply noted he was alive, a baron and in royal service now. The rest he promised to explain in person if she wished to see him. Since she could not read she would have to take this to someone who could; if Fulk dreaded telling his mother about the past eight years then he certainly did not want anyone else knowing.

He carefully folded the bit of low grade parchment and blobbed some sealing wax onto it; he stamped the wax with his new seal ring, imprinting his coat of arms into the uneven lump of cooling wax. This was the first time he had used his ring, the first time he had been able to use his new status in this way. Fulk examined the sunken, backward coat of arms cut deeply into the broad front of the gold ring, checking to see no wax had stuck. None had; the ring was well crafted and he’d timed his stamp to perfection, allowing the wax to cool just enough but not too much.

Fulk sent his squire off with the letter to find a messenger, stressing to the boy it was vital to pick someone reliable who would make the trip in excellent time. He wanted a reply, and if Emma of Walton was no longer there then he wanted good word of what had happened to her. He impressed that the messenger had better get the right Emma if there was more than one; the Emma who had a son called Fulk FitzWilliam.

That was that; nothing to do now but wait nervously and see what reply he got.

He still had a few hours until dinner and his first opportunity to speak to Godit and request an audience with the queen.




Sweating heavily Fulk walked away from the training ground, back towards his rooms. He had dropped to the stipulated four hours training on five days each week now instead of working to exhaustion; the time the king demanded was more than enough to keep an elite group in peak condition. He had caught up on most of his skills, although he was no better than average at tilting and mounted combat, both individual and working in a conroi. It would take time before he got consistently excellent at those skills again, time in weeks not hours packed together.

A woman detached from the watching throng of idlers and headed towards him. “Good morning,” Godit greeted him. As she got closer she wrinkled her nose at the smell of sweat, horses and iron wafting from him. Gamely she fell into step at his side pretending he didn’t reek. “You are going to take me out; you promised at dinner last night and I’m holding you to it.”

He had done no such thing, but he had told her he needed to speak to the queen. “But-”

“I spoke to the queen and she gave her blessing; you know how she likes to play matchmaker. I shall wait out here while you transform into a nice courtly suitor.”

With Simon’s aid Fulk quickly stripped off his armour, washed in a bowl of lukewarm water, dressed in his better clothes and snatched up the purse Eleanor had told him to take to the queen. He emerged from the bottom of the tower with his hair still wet, pinning his cloak on as he went.

Godit raised her eyebrows in approval. “Much better. One should never risk one’s reputation in a way which will not make others green with envy, and you fit the bill admirably.” She caught hold of his arm and began to pull him towards the gatehouse leading to the other bailey. “The other two maids are already furious the queen did not try to pair them off with you.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “Yes! Even old Mariot! Well, she’s not that old; thirty-four is more middle age but really to young bloods like us she’s old.”

“Even old Mariot. Well, well.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. She does have more to her life than playing mother hen to our queen, you know. She had three children, but they all died as babes and then her husband followed them. So sad. They were well known as a pair of lovebirds. She never got over it; now she pours all that side of herself into our young queen. But,” she looked up at him from under her eyelashes and smiled in a way which made Fulk’s throat constrict, “you are tempting enough to bring her out of her shell, maybe?”

“Good God; I hope not!”

Godit indignantly rushed to her friend’s defence, “You needn’t be like that; she’s a nice person, you know. Quite handsome too, kept her figure and looks well despite the years.”

“No, no,” Fulk hurriedly assured her, “that was not what I meant. I don’t like the idea of being a bone fought over by several dogs.” They were passing through the gatehouse now, into the outer bailey. Godit lead him towards the second gatehouse, indicating they were leaving the castle.

Godit giggled. “Then you need to worry about Adela, the English maid. She has already hinted she might bat her eyelashes at you and try to steal you. Can’t blame her; I’d do the same if our positions were swapped.” She aimed another flirty look up at him. “I’m afraid you caused quite a stir in the solar; you’re one of the favourite topics of discussion. You don’t want Adela though; she’s quiet as a mouse and so serious. You’d think the world was about to end, really, from how cheerful she is.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not really taking much notice, are you?”

“I am,” protested Fulk.

“Poor thing,” cooed Godit, “still mourning your lost love?”

“Well …”

“Don’t tell the queen, but I think it’s hopeless. Give up, there’s nothing to be done. She won’t hear about it, of course. She’s still in that idealistic stage where true love conquers all. What you need to do is hit life running again – get out, meet people, do things, have fun, get another girl to look adoring, and as I’ve said there’s no shortage at all of those! I don’t just say this because I’m hoping to snag you myself, though I should warn you I’m a shameless flirt hoping to snare a husband and you’d do very nicely, but because you are so wasted sat about looking woeful. Mind you,” she said thoughtfully, “it does lend a certain brooding edge to your good looks and that’s quite delicious.”

Fulk went back to the most important part. “Er … husband?”

“Oh yes! That’s mostly the reason I’m here, well that and the queen liking me. I’m the third daughter of the count of Morey, all that’s left for me after my sister’s good marriages is a two hundred and fifty pound dowry and nothing else. I said I’d catch my own husband. I have to admit I’m loving the search; flirting, teasing, the odd bit of kissing …” She tugged on his arm to be sure he was paying close attention and said sternly, “Don’t think that makes me shameless or a slut; I’m not. When fishing with a small dowry and seeking someone you could love you have to kilt your skirts up a bit and go paddling in the water. That does not mean I jump in and start swimming.”

“Oh,” said Fulk weakly. They passed through the second gatehouse and out into the world at large. Godit now began to lead him in the direction of the royal garden.

“Yes. I can prove it too, but you have to marry me to get that proof. Cruel world.” Quick as a darting fish she changed the direction of the conversation. “But all this is mostly academic to you, right? Lost your heart, still in mourning, not ready to tangle with the oh so deadly female of the species again yet because you’re still recovering those love scattered faculties. She really did a number on you; I’m certain you were damned impressive in your heyday but now you’re kind of like a wilting flower. She’s a lucky woman; I do hope one day someone ends up so hopelessly in love with me.”

“I’m sure someone will.” He meant it too. From what he’d seen of her over his time at the palace he might have fallen for her himself once, not a spectacular grand passion but an agreeable little one.

“I just hope it’s the one I marry, or things could get a little tricky.” Her brow crinkled, then she shrugged and said, “You know, I never expected our dear little queen to fall for her husband, or even he for her but that’s what’s happening. Poor thing’s been so sad this past week while he’s been off on business, and she’s always saying how kind he is to her. Indulgent too, if I’m any judge. You should have seen the stir when he said he’d only take her back into his bed when she wanted to be there; she was asking questions left, right and centre because he’d phrased it carefully so she wouldn’t really understand until she was older and none of us wanted to answer! It took a lot of very careful stepping about certain topics to give her an answer without actually giving her an answer. In the end we had to plan it like a campaign! Thinking up good answers to all possible questions; it’s a good thing we’re a diverse group, let me tell you. Poor girl’s still victim of all those humiliating ideas of duty and the like rammed into her head by her nasty old grandmother, now she really was a harridan if ever there was one. But really, how many husbands would say a thing like that? Not many, and the way he came rushing back the day after their wedding to dry her tears and assure her he was very careful of her dignity when she thought he was not even the least bit interested in her, well it was really quite sweet. Love blooms in the strangest soils, and some such poetry stuff.”

“Really?”

“Ah, of course, you’re Eleanor’s ex-bodyguard.” She broke off awkwardly, her chatter dying away into something slower and more serious. “I saw the blood all over the floor, of course, I helped clean the mess up. I also heard the stories about her betrothal. I’ve also seen the king with Anne, and heard her speak of him. It’s like two different men, both in the same body. Twins, maybe, one nice and one brutal. No, that’s more some storyteller’s fancy, but truthfully the king does have two very different sides. He’s even nice to our little posy of maids; he’s polite when throwing us out so he can be alone with our queen instead of roaring away and sticking to monosyllables like some. I like that; self interest though, no one likes to feel like a dog caught chewing a pillow. I wouldn’t like to get on his wrong side though, not for love nor money!”

Fulk began to recognise the path they were taking, although the only other time he had taken it had been near Christmas. “We’re headed to the royal garden?”

She laughed, a pretty little sound. “Of course! The queen is waiting there playing gardening; we’re playing trysting lovers and we’ll loop around the back and climb over the wall, or rather you will. I don’t climb in these skirts, or at all for that matter. I’ll just stand waiting for you to get back, all forlorn and slowly getting cold. I do hope you’ll be chivalrous and get me some mulled wine to warm me up when we get back to the castle.”

“Yes, if you want.”

“See? I can be nice; I could have asked you to warm me up with a corner of your cloak and your arm. Actually that might not be so bad; in the interests of our cover story, you understand.” She winked, making it clear it was no such thing. “The other maids would positively die of envy.”

“I’m beginning to feel like a mouse being played with by a cat!”

“Oh, I do promise not to claw you,” she purred. “Anyway, why are you complaining? You are having fun; that wilting plant look is slowly receding.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Fulk assured her.

“Well there you are then, you just sit back and relax and I’ll keep pouring water on your roots until you perk up completely. Don’t let the queen ruin all my work though, or I’ll be most displeased. No more mooning after your impossible love; get on with your life, pick yourself up and get right back on the horse and all that.”

“I plan to.”

“Good!” she said heartily. “I think all heartbroken knights need a chatty, pushy somewhat improper lady’s maid to set them back to rights. Maybe I could make a business out of it?”

“I do hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to charge me for this little pep talk,” he said so seriously it was plain he was joking.

“My first customer? Never, but I might ask you to recommend people to me. Or then again I might quit on the first knight.”

“And deprive others of your services? There’s such a big need for people like you out there.”

She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Cruel! Now I feel all obliged to hunt down these poor knights and sort them out; my life has a new mission. I wonder how much I should charge? A case by case basis, I think, on top of a base fee of nine shillings. Perhaps a shilling per half hour? Yes, that does rather sound better.”

The rest of the trip out to the garden was filled with her rapid, near ceaseless chatter about this and that, mostly palace gossip; an endless flow of names, events, scandals, plans, secrets and information. It was chats like this that had helped Fulk find his feet and put names and lives to the many new faces he was encountering here at the palace. Godit was a most competent guide to the world of the palace retainer.

At the back wall of the royal garden Fulk climbed over. The action brought back a clear memory along with a pang of sorrow mixed with wistful joy; he had only done this once before, the day he had first kissed Eleanor. Anne waited with her other two maids; the trio was walking slowly about inspecting the grounds and passing comments on what needed doing this year to make the place beautiful. When they saw Fulk they made a beeline to him, the two maids still chattering to cover the whispered conversation between queen and knight. This was one well planned and coordinated operation; not a single chance was being taken with the queen’s good name.

Fulk bowed, pulled the purse out of his belt pouch and said quietly, “Eleanor wished you to have this; I only found it yesterday. Now I shall go, with your permission?”

Anne took the purse eagerly. “Yes, and thank you.”

Fulk easily scrambled back over the wall. Godit asked as he dropped lightly to the ground, “Done?”

“Yes.”

“Now I’ll claim that mulled wine you owe me.” She linked arms with him and they began to walk back via a different route so the guards at the garden gate did not see that they had come out all this way only to turn back after a minute or so. That would be to suspicious. The maid kept on chattering and Fulk nearly drowned in the flood of frivolous information.

About halfway back Godit abruptly stopped walking. “Call me curious,” she said, suddenly almost shy. She placed one hand on either side of his face, pulled his head down and kissed him. Too stunned to do anything at first Fulk didn’t resist. As the tip of her tongue ran over his lips several months of frustrated passion boiled over, along with a desperate need for human contact and he began to kiss her back, slipping one arm around her waist and putting a hand to the back of her head, pulling her closer. Awareness of the world began to slip away and all that mattered was bringing her closer still, as if he could somehow crush their bodies into becoming one and fill that empty space in his soul.

Eventually the kiss ended, and when it did Fulk took a pace back to put distance between them while he still could. Godit staggered slightly as he released her. “Good God!” she said breathlessly. She fanned herself with one hand and struggled to get her wind back. “Curiosity more than satisfied. If that was just a spill-over of what you feel for your Eleanor she’s lucky she never went up in smoke! I don’t suppose you want to try again?” Fulk looked incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. Godit sighed. “Let me guess; you prefer to do the chasing?” She snapped her fingers. “Darn.”

“Well, no, not exactly.” His voice sounded rather constricted even to his own ears, and he sincerely hoped she hadn’t noticed his hands were trembling.

“You’re just not interested in getting embroiled in another affair of the heart?”

“No, I’m not.” It was a white lie and far kinder than saying that he still wasn’t interested in anyone but a certain princess, except as a purely physical reaction mostly born from these past five months of celibacy. Even there she was far inferior; blind passion with no greater significance or depth.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her bruised lower lip with a kind of wonder. “Ah well, a tremendous pity, and I do hope you won’t mind if from now on I have this funny tendency to sigh and go all dreamy when I think about you.”

Fulk began walking again, not offering her his arm this time; more contact would only tempt him further. She fell into place at his side, for once very quiet.





It had to be near eleven o’clock at night; late, very late. William collapsed gratefully into bed; he had been riding hard to get back to the palace today instead of tomorrow morning and he was stiff with joints and muscles because of it. A week long trip around Middlesex, hearing a few vital court cases, accepting homage from his lords, collecting the monies owed to him that his sheriff had been holding in trust, and generally showing off that he was alive, well and working hard. His party had arrived back so late only the sentries were still awake. Even worse it was raining, great sheets of water pouring down from the sky, matched by a cruel wind that always contrived to blow water into his face no matter which direction he looked.

William sneezed, clamping a hand over his nose and trying to be quiet. Anne was asleep next door; he didn’t want to wake her. He sniffled then sneezed again. He pulled the blankets tightly about himself, and wished someone had thought to keep a small fire burning in his room’s hearth. Tomorrow he would speak to the necessary people; it was sheer negligence. In the few weeks he had been stationary here his usual rulings ensuring he came home to comfort had been forgotten; heads would proverbially roll and someone was going to be demoted to kitchen runabout. He sneezed once more and nearly blew his ear drums out as he tried to stifle it. This massive bed took forever to warm up alone; every time he moved he left his warm patch and the heat disappeared off into the vast depths very rapidly.

A few moments later the door between his room and Anne’s opened. “I thought I heard movement; the sneezing gave it away,” she said cheerfully. She stood there in her shift and robe holding her night candle. She must be feeling a lot warmer than William was to stand about wearing so little.

“I was trying-” he sneezed, “not to wake you. I did not even let my squires up the stairs; I did everything myself.”

Anne skirted the pile of soaked clothing lying haphazardly in the middle of the floor and made her way to his bedside. “I do hope you are not sickening for something.” She placed one little hand on his forehead, then held the candle close to his face so she could peer into his eyes. “You don’t look ill,” she said doubtfully.

“It is nothing, just sniffles and sneezing brought on by going from cold outside to warm inside. Always the same.”

Anne scolded him seriously, “You were silly pushing on so late and in such bad weather; you should have sheltered overnight and returned tomorrow.”

“I have always done this; it does me no harm and in fact keeps me as fit and hale as a man half my age.” Another sneeze rather ruined his grandiose statement.

“You are pathetic.”

“And you have very warm blood to stand there like that, and most unfairly you are making me feel even colder.” He shuffled over in the bed and peeled part of one blanket off himself. Patting the cleared space he said, “Sit yourself down and wrap this blanket around yourself.” Anne placed her candle down safely on the little corner table and then did as he said, sitting with her knees drawn up and the blanket bundled about herself. The blanket was made to the size of the bed, and was therefore so big most of the thickly woven wool still lay completely undisturbed.

“Did you get something to eat when you came in?”

“No.”

“Oh, William!”

“I ate in the saddle; bread stuffed with meat and vegetables. A proper meal, if a little soggy from the rain.”

Her mouth remained in its tight downward curve. “That is not a hot meal and so it does not count.”

William sneezed again. This was intolerable. “It is not my fault I returned to a cold room, no food, no chance of a bath or even a wash, and a distinct lack of dry clothes laid out for me. My standing orders were ignored, and you should be grateful I am not yet wondering why my wife let matters disintegrate this far when she has a duty and responsibility to keep my household in order.”

“You had your own arrangements; there is nothing for me to do,” said Anne quietly, uncertainly.

“You can find out about my arrangements and ensure they are adhered to. A few questions, a bit of carefully displayed interest in ensuring things go as they should, and there is your job done.”

Her head sank. “I did not think you wanted me to interfere.”

“You are my wife and queen; I keep telling you I expect you to work. You have done well, until now.”

“Are you going to hit me?” she asked miserably.

“Either do what you claim to be capable of doing or admit you can’t and get help.” There was a very difficult pause. William silently began praying she was not going to start crying.

Timidly she mumbled, “I have not been completely useless, I hope. I was thinking you said two months minimum before Eleanor and Trempwick could marry, and shortly after that deadline expires Lent begins. If you want them married before the end of Lent we shall have to begin preparations soon. I think it would be best to wait.”

“Why?”

“Because she does not want to marry him-”

Harshly he stated, “I do not care what she wants.”

“It would be kind-”

“She has not earned my kindness. They will marry before Lent; I promised my friend I would not drag my feet.”

“You care more for his feelings than your daughter’s?”

William’s brows snapped together into a passionate scowl. “The brat should count herself lucky I managed to find someone willing to put up with her; there is not another person barring Trempwick who knows her and would have her. Remember, the last we heard she seemed content enough with the arrangement.”

“At least bring her here for a time before the ceremony,” she begged. “It is not right her living with her future husband as she is, and if they arrive together people will talk. She will need new clothes if you wish her to do credit to the family, and it would be a sound idea to check she knows exactly what is expected of her. She helped me before my wedding; I would repeat that favour. She is very publicly marrying someone she does not want, and that is not easy.”

“I suppose you know about that,” said William bitterly, suddenly keenly aware of both his age and his ability to make her miserable.

Anne’s voice wobbled as she said very softly, “No. I married someone I did not know; that is hard in a different way.”

“So be it, I shall order the brat to come here if it will make you happy, and I agree you have a point about ensuring she will not disgrace the family any further.” She nodded and visibly tried to pull herself together. Awkwardly William offered, “I am sorry. I am cold, tired and generally grumpy.”

“But you were right; I should have done something. I am sorry too. I will not fail you again,” she vowed. Though she kept her head down William felt certain she was crying now. “I missed you. I missed our evenings together.”

Wryly he asked, “You missed using me as a book rest?”

“I did not mean it like that.” A tear dripped down onto the blanket, followed by another.

“I was joking,” he hastily assured her. Not knowing what else to do he sat himself up and pulled her over to him. He wiped her face with the edge of the blanket and soothed, “I missed you too.” A pause, then he said glumly, “I have to leave again the day after tomorrow; heading along towards Cornwall doing much the same thing I did in Middlesex. I will be gone for at least two weeks.” Through the blanket he could feel her small body shivering. “You must be cold; you can go back to your own bed if you prefer or … you … could climb in beside me?”

She very bashfully took the latter option. William held on to her and did his best to comfort her, battling his encroaching weariness as he watched her slowly cheer up, relax, and begin to sleep herself. In the end he dozed off with her still in his arms.









Anne’s maids really meet that funny mental image I’ve had ever since I first said “gang of maids” about 100 pages ago; a kind of Charlie’s Angels in pretty medieval dresses. If harmless little Anne can do operations like this with her trio imagine what Eleanor could do with a similarly good set of maids …


I’ve barely been able to get on this site for 30-4 days now, and when I can get I’m lucky if the site works for more than a few seconds. This should actually have been posted yesterday afternoon. I’ll post as I can but until this technical difficulty is resolved I advise those of you anxious to keep up with the story as I post to check the paradox version here (http://www.europa-universalis.com/forum/showthread.php?p=3786407#post3786407). That link goes right to the duplicate of this current chapter. I’ll post here as and when I can, and eventually this thread will be fully up to date again.

[frogbeastegg]

The weather was clear, cool but dry. Eleanor stood on the top of Woburn’s tower, leaning on the parapets and looking out over the land while slowly working over a few thoughts she had already examined many times. There was nothing much interesting to see from up here but she had to do something with her free time. Trempwick was, once again, busy with his work.

Behind her the trap door in the floor lifted open and Bertram clambered gracelessly off the ladder and onto the planked floor. The master said to fetch you.”

Eleanor turned around slowly and treated the man to the full force of her best royal condescending ‘oh dear I have stepped in something unpleasant’ stare. “Dogs are fetched, not princesses.”

The man sniffed and completely ignored her words. “I wonder what you’ve done now?” He suddenly grinned, displaying a few missing teeth. “No matter; everyone will soon find out.”

“I have not done anything.”

“Of course you have - why else would he want to see you?”

“It may have escaped your very short memory but Raoul and I are going to be married. If you cannot work the rest out from there then I truly pity you.”

Bertram flung back his head and roared with laughter. He showily stopped his laughter and said in a voice still shaking with mirth, “Oh, wait – you’re serious?!” He crunched away the last traces of his humour and sombrely pulled a face and shook his head. “Well, there’s no limits to the master’s bravery. Poor man. Still, gaining power always comes at a cost.”

It was a jibe along a very familiar line; it brought Eleanor back to reality with a very sharp bump, smashing that tentative idea that maybe she wasn’t entirely unattractive. “Maybe he can see beyond appearances.” The retort was weak, little more than a confirmation of what he had said, and they both knew it. Bertram smirked and began to lead the way down to Trempwick’s study without even feeling the need to complete his victory.

Trempwick turned around with a bright smile on his face as she entered the room. “Ah! Nell.” He squinted at her. “Is something wrong?”

Her reply was stony, “No.”

“Sure?” His second enquiry met with silence. Accepting defeat – for now, Eleanor was sure he would keep on winkling away until he knew what had bothered her - he held up a small note from one of the messenger birds. “Good news – our wedding is set for the eighteenth of February.”

“Oh.”

“You do not seen very happy,” he said neutrally. “I thought we were past all that.”

Eleanor brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and said simply, “You know how I feel about all this fuss; I shall be glad when it is all over. Besides, I believe it is traditional that the bride should be nervous.”

Trempwick’s eyes glinted. “Since when have you ever held with tradition, beloved Nell?”

“It appears to catch up with you sooner or later. I shall do my best to get over it; I do not like breaking the habit of a lifetime, especially not one I have invested such a lot in.” Significantly she touched the scar under her eye.

“There is more.” The tone of his voice made it clear he was not happy with this ‘more’. “You are summoned to the palace ahead of me to prepare. It seems Anne has requested she get chance to return the favour you did her.”

“You mean she wants to play ‘dress up the Eleanor’ while my beloved regal ancestor lurks in the background like a hungry wolf, waiting for opportunities to try and bring me over to his way of thinking. No,” said Eleanor firmly. Her chin jutted stubbornly upwards. “I will not go – I refuse to go.”

“Nell, it is not a request. You have to go.”

“Or what? They will send a small detachment here to arrest me and drag me over in chains?”

Trempwick snapped, “Don’t be foolish, Nell.”

“Foolish is assuming this visit will be different to any other. Is this the protection you promised me; sending me off alone to meet dear daddy so he can lose his temper at me over and over, just like our last visit?”

“It is a royal command,” gritted out Trempwick. “I cannot do anything. You should be fine so long as you keep out of the king’s way and do not antagonise him.”

“If I do not stand up for myself he will walk all over me and that is even worse. You promised to protect me.” She stressed that last part, making it clear she considered this another betrayal of her trust in him.

“I know – you think I like feeling useless? Until we are married my position is tenuous and delicate; once we are married you will be out of his reach, but until then there is precious little I can do. I shall most definitely send a message along with you saying that I will not appreciate having a bruised bride; I shall dress that up in … practicalities so it does not seem so compassionate. He is much more likely to listen to cold reasoning that emotion.” Trempwick thought for a few moments. “I can send you with an escort; it will be expected anyway. Yes … my mother and her little band, just as at Christmas. She can remain close by your side; as long as she is there your father will not harm you.”

“No, but he can send her away in all of two seconds and then start trying to beat me unconscious. She will offer no protection and you know we do not get along.”

“But you must have chaperones and a maid. No, it is settled. My mother, her maid and a small detachment of my men will escort you to the palace; I shall have my men dress in your livery making them ‘yours’.”

Slowly Eleanor said, “The queen is very protective of me …”

“Yes, she will help too. Do as you did during your last visit; keep out of his way and stick to the truce I shall arrange between you. This time there will be no John to destroy my careful arrangements.” Trempwick enfolded her in his arms and stroked her back. Reluctantly she relaxed against him, letting some, but not all, of the restful stiffness go from her body. “Take heart,” he murmured, “this is the last time you need to worry about this. In fourteen days you will be my wife and it will be exceptionally bad manners for him to even growl at you.”






“Your Highness.” The filthy, exhausted messenger collapsed to his muddy knees before Hugh. “Rebellion, in France. Sir Yves de Tourraine has declared his independence from all lords but God.”

Hugh dispassionately crushed the urge to leap to his feet and begin shouting orders; a king must not be seen to rush, panic or be perturbed by anything. He may not be king in fact yet but he was receiving this man in the king’s name while seated on the throne in the palace’s main hall. At his side the queen gasped and leaned forward. “Word must be sent to my husband at once.”

Hugh very nearly scowled; she had jumped in and stolen the dignity from his moment, making him look slow and indecisive. Quite intolerable, but then what could be expected of a mere child, and a girl at that? He stood and said in a clear, carrying voice, “Send a messenger to take this news to our king at once. Also send word through our French domains; they will provide support and add men to our levies or be counted as in rebellion and so earn our enmity. Marshal?” Roger de Powys strode forward and awaited his prince’s commands with calm poise that Hugh envied. Swiftly he banished that unworthy feeling; it was distinctly shameful. Calm came from within, as did poise, and if a man possessed these traits then they should be admired as virtues, not envied.

Hugh ordered, “Begin the muster; I want one thousand men including no less than four hundred knights under arms and ready to go as soon as possible. Draw only on the nearby sources; we do not have time to wait longer. I shall organise the necessary ships, supplies and details personally until my father returns.” He looked about the massive hall, trying to make his pose confident and assured, regal yet paternal. “We shall crush this folly, make no mistake of it. England is strong; a petty count with delusions of grandeur poses no more threat to us than a gnat, and like a gnat he will be swatted as an annoyance. As will any fool enough to join him.”





William’s worn out horse staggered through the outer gate of the palace; he showed the poor creature no mercy and once again jammed his spurs into its flanks, trying to coax just a little more from the animal’s fatigue trembling legs. He had ridden endlessly and relentlessly for a day and a night to get back from his progress and now he only had a short distance left. He thanked God most devoutly that he had been travelling slowly on his way out. He had gone through several horses aside from this current one, working them all to exhaustion with his haste. Some of the animals had been of remarkably poor quality, not the sort a king would usually ride, but their owners would be paid back handsomely for coming to their king’s aid in his moment of need.

The demands on his own body had been no easier; he had only rested when stopping at a settlement to change horses and then only for a few minutes. Sheer will kept his body in the saddle now. Most of his escort were long gone, left behind by his pace and then those who had kept up slowly fell away as insufficient horses could be swapped at each rest stop. Now only six of his best knights remained with him. By looking at them William got a good idea of how he must appear himself; so covered in road dust, sweat and spattered mud he looked more a beggar than a king, red-eyed with tiredness, posture slumped with fatigue but animated by a kind of fervour that made the red eyes glow like a madman’s.

His horse stumbled; the creature was done in. William swung down from the saddle, his legs nearly buckling when first requested to take his weight. He clung to the saddle until the feeling passed and then flung away, marching as fast as he could with his aching, stiff legs onwards towards the central keep. God help Anne and his new chamberlain if they had botched up his arrangements like last time. God help him too; he had driven himself to the edge of his limits and beyond.

A servant came running towards him, holding a goblet brimming with wine. William grinned, white teeth contrasting with the dirt brown of his face. Excellent, his little temper outburst had done its job; the instant the sentries had spotted his party the palace would have gone into a flurry of activity and he could simply wander in and enjoy the benefits. He snatched the proffered drink and gulped it down as he walked. The servant jogged along at his side waiting for the empty vessel; William tossed the goblet to the man without checking to see if he caught it. Up ahead he could see a running procession going from the kitchen outbuilding to the keep, followed by a bucket chain – his food and bath. Another bucket chain was streaming away from the keep back towards the kitchens, their water delivered. Oh yes indeed, things were definitely back to rights.

By the time he burst into the main hall Anne was waiting. She wasted no time, quickly dipping a curtsy and reporting, “Your bath and food await you in the solar. Your council has been summoned and is convening to wait on your convenience.”

“Well done.” His voice emerged as a croak, his throat still clogged by road dust and dry despite the wine. He didn’t pause; he kept on striding towards the stairs leading up to the solar.

Anne trotted along at his side, continuing her report. “The muster has begun; it is reckoned the full one thousand will be reached within another five days if we include a full three-quarters of the men stationed in the palace, longer if we rely on outside sources.”

“Word of anyone else joining Yves?”

“None so far.”

“The King of France?”

“Still idle.”

“Good,” he declared. “I do not expect him to get involved; he is but a boy and his realm is still recovering from the last defeat I gave them. I would rather keep the situation simple, even if I do expect to defeat France easily if it comes to war again. General attitude about court?”

“As would be expected; many find Yves to be a fool intent on suicide. They wonder what motivates him to a pointless endeavour which will lose him all. The most common joke about court at the moment is always a variation on the theme ‘How do you commit suicide without it being a mortal sin? Rebel against king William!’ I really do not find it very funny,” she said earnestly, as if that was a significant character flaw.

William asked finally what was perhaps the most important question she could provide an answer to, “And how are you?”

“Worried,” she said honestly. “I know I am not doing as much as I should; I just am not capable and much of my burden is falling on Hugh as well. I am trying to learn more, to do more but-”

“Never mind; do what you can and let others handle the rest. No one expects you to shoulder the workload of someone years older with more familiarity with what is required. We managed without a queen for years, so even taking a little of your responsibility eases things for others. You have done very well in arranging my household for my return.”

They arrived in the solar just as the servants emptied the last of the water into the bath. A selection of food was laid out on the table and new clothes were draped over a chair near the fire to warm. Jobs done the servants made a discreet exit. Anne said, “I made sure water was kept on heat all the time since the messenger set off after you, the same for food. When one lot of food spoiled another was ready, and the spoiled lot was given to the beggars in the town.” She clasped her hands in front of her skirts and bowed her head. “It was very wasteful; I am sorry if you do not approve.”

William began stripping off his clothes. “Dearest, you have done a marvellous job. Waste matters little if it is impressive and kingly; look at my careful importing of live fish and sea creatures in buckets. I have to show off my power and wealth somehow.” He stood in his braies, ill at ease. “Um … are you planning on remaining or would you prefer to leave? I can have one of my squires serve me instead.”

“I shall stay unless you want me gone; I am your wife and this is my duty.”

Fair enough; no need to spare her blushes. He stripped off the last of his clothes and sank into the steaming tub with a grateful sigh. Anne bravely collected up his abandoned clothes and held them at arm’s length as she carried them to the door. She dumped them outside at the top of the stairs for the servants to collect and closed the solar door before a draft could bother William.

William waved at the food. “Bring some of that over into my reach; I can eat and bathe at the same time. Two birds, one arrow.” Anne grabbed hold of a platter of roast chicken and a jug of small ale and placed them on the floor beside the bath. By the time she returned with a dish of pottage and some bread stuffed with meat and vegetables William was already draining the jug, drinking straight from the rim near the handle instead of waiting for a cup. He set the jug back down half empty and noticed she was staring at him. Beneath his coating of grime he felt himself redden. “Well, I don’t suppose usual manners apply when eating in a bath.”

Anne laughed quietly and pressed one of the stuffed rolls into his empty hand. She located the washcloth and some soap and began scrubbing his back. “Killing three birds with one shot now.”

William bolted down the roll followed by another, much of the pottage and a chicken leg while Anne kept scrubbing at him. She even rolled her sleeves up to get at his legs while he remained seated, but for all her stout hearted bravery William noticed she kept her eyes firmly averted from his groin. The hot water began to work its magic and his muscles began to relax and the stiffness slowly receded. The effect would only be temporary, as William well knew; tomorrow he would be as stiff as a board and feeling every single mile he had travelled with a vengeance.

Washed all over and hunger satiated William let her soap his hair and empty a jug of clean water of his head. The instant the jug was empty he rose, or tried to; his aching muscles had locked. “Give me a hand up.” She seized one arm and pulled. This time he succeeded in gaining his feet but sloshed a lot of dirty water all over the floor and Anne. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he grabbed the towel she held out and began drying himself, standing next to the fire so the heat would speed the task.

Still damp he began to dress. Anne played body squire and handed him each item of clothing. “You are going to lead the army, aren’t you?” she asked as he tied the points of his hose to his braes belt.

“Of course; I am king.”

“You could delegate to Hugh or your marshal.”

“I could but I never have unless I am fighting on more than one front and I will not begin now; it would announce I am growing old and weak.”

“I knew you would say that,” she admitted unhappily.

“Don’t worry; I am a seasoned warrior, still fit and in good condition. You know I train regularly. I have the best armour a man can buy, a warhorse that can all but read my mind, and my bodyguard of chosen men. No one will even scratch me.” William decided that soon, before he set out, he would have to tell her exactly what arrangements he had made for her in the event of his death. For all his calm assurance he was all too familiar with the unexpected, almost trivial accidents that could claim a man’s life.

Anne helped settle his tunic so its hem fell evenly. “We had a reply from Eleanor; she will arrive on the thirteenth. Will the wedding still be held as planned? You will be gone and the current atmosphere is not the best.”

“It will go ahead as planned; to delay now is to delay for over a month and lose face in the eyes of the world. Which reminds me, got to speak to the Archbishop of Canterbury. My army will be fighting during Lent; we need exemption from the fasting and his blessing.”

“I shall send someone to summon him here right away.”

Fully dressed William grabbed another stuffed bread roll and headed to the door. Poised in the doorway to leave he looked back. He couldn’t help but smile; Anne stood sopping wet in the middle of a large puddle, surrounded by chaotically abandoned half empty platters and dishes, a bath full of filthy water with a lonesome washcloth floating forlornly about in it, several scattered wet towels, a bowl of soap and some king sized wet foot prints. “I shall take care of the Archbishop, and I will send your maids up to help you out of those wet things. The servants can tidy up.”






As William strode into his council room all those waiting within came to their feet and bowed respectfully in his direction. William took his seat at the head of the table, working hard to disguise just how tired and unresponsive his body was. He looked about the table, checking each man. Hugh; calm and stolid as ever, reliable. Roger de Powys, the marshal, grimly determined. Geoffrey, the chancellor, calm and unflappable. Eustace, the steward, his thick browns locked tightly together and his face thunderous.

“Let us begin,” said William. “I hear you have begun the muster, aiming for one thousand men all told.”

Hugh serenely answered, “Yes, father. The number is excessive considering Yves will have no more than five hundred even assuming all his vassals turn out and he empties his treasury to hire mercenaries, but I thought you would wish to go in splendid force.”

A spark of fatherly pride burned to life in William’s heart; Hugh had seen exactly what was needed and acted without hesitation, demonstrating both sound thinking and sufficient confidence to be a leader of men. “Yes, a show of power. I can afford to waste pay on unnecessary soldiers and will show no mercy to those who rebel, and all the other usual ‘fear and power’ messages. I shall leave a third of my retained force here to guard the palace and act as reserve against any other crisis springing up. Roger,” he looked intently at his marshal, “you will chose those to remain and those to go. I want an even split; do not give me all the best men and do not keep the worst sheltered here.” When speaking of Williams’s own retainers even the worst were nothing to take lightly; he only accepted the best and he had an entire empire to draw upon to find that best.

Roger bowed his grizzled head. “Sire.”

Eustace de Leon rubbed his bearded chin pensively. “Can we be sure of the other French lords’ loyalty?” he asked. “If they are also suspect then a much larger force would be wise, despite the delay and increased costs.”

William raised a finger from the tabletop in recognition of a very good point. “My spymaster assures me all the other lords are safe in their loyalties. There are some few who would go against us if a larger power became involved and looked to win, for example if France attacked and won some few victories. Our power is well known and respected, also feared. They know Yves will be crushed and they know they will share his end if they join him. We need have no worries unless our situation takes a drastic turn for the worse.”

“Has Raoul been summoned to join us?” enquired Geoffrey.

“No.”

“What of his wedding? Will that go ahead as planned, and will he take a break from his duties then? We need him to act in his official capacity without distractions.”

“Yes and no; the date is fixed and will not be altered and he will lose but an afternoon and a night. He will not remain at the palace any longer than is necessary.”

“Sire, forgive me,” interjected Roger, “but he will also lose two days at the least travelling. We need him to act as centre to his network.”

“I know,” replied William heavily, “but think of how it would look if we delayed the wedding. It would look as if we feared this upstart count and needed to exert great effort to defeat him; we would appear weak.” Sombre silence greeted his words; the small gathering knew how fragile the illusion of power could be and how deadly the loss of that appearance could be.

Hugh said, “What of your queen, father? What place does she have in our plans? She cannot be expected to shoulder the usual burden but nor can we, or should we, leave her out of the issue entirely.”

“I have already spoken with Anne; she will do what she can and learn as much as possible. You are to include her as much as possible and educate her where she is lacking, but do not overburden her.”

Eustace said, “Sire, forgive me but is this the time to play nursemaid and tutor to a child?”

“You would prefer to wait until a bigger crisis to teach her how to take her place?” asked William bluntly. That silenced the opposition effectively. “Now, the main detail. I shall lead the army out to France. Hugh, you are in control of England until my return. Roger, you will accompany me and act as my second in command. Eustace, you are, as ever, in charge of finding me the funds for this and seeing to our supply. Geoffrey, you will support Hugh. I think that is all we need concern ourselves over at this very minute; you all know what to do so you can go and get on with it.”







:yawns: boring, seven pages of boring. Well, maybe the king’s bath has some oddball value to it but the rest is all so much standing about talking about planning. Gah!


………………………………………………………………………………………� ��.

“You said you wished to help Eleanor …”

Anne looked up from her book, tonight the familiar ‘Tristan and Iseult’. “Yes?”

“I will be away; management of her will fall to Hugh but …” William sucked his teeth; this was not coming out right. Firmly he said. “Don’t mistake this for some tender affection for the brat or anything, it is actually very good sense.” Damn! From her knowing smile she had now decided he was going all soft! He tried again, “She will marry my spymaster, no matter what it takes to get her to say her words. That part falls on Hugh in my absence. However it would be much more seemly if she did not need half killing this time; that part falls on you. I want you to do whatever you can to lure her into peaceful cooperation.”

“You are saying you want her to be happy in this match she does not want?”

“Not at all!” he protested swiftly. No, that was not quite right. “Well, that is I want her to be content with the arrangement …” And nor was that. “I just want her to stop being so mulish and accept what is best. We will both be happier then.”

“If she despises your spymaster she will never even be content. She will be miserable.”

“She does not despise him, and her happiness is not a requirement or the purpose of all this.”

Anne deliberately closed her book and said neutrally, “Have you ever considered that she may love someone else?”

“What?!” Anne resentfully put one hand over the ear nearest him, deafened by his shout. William sat bolt upright; Anne’s hand left her ear and grabbed the front of his tunic as she nearly toppled off his lap. William ranted, “She can’t - by God, she is a princess of the royal house, not some peasant slut to mate where she will!”

“Now you are being disgusting,” complained Anne sternly, “and letting your imagination run away with you. It was just a suggestion.”

William muttered darkly, “It would have to be someone deeply unsuitable – she never said anything, why would she say nothing if he was suitable?”

“It was just a suggestion,” she repeated, louder this time.

“Then what made you say it?”

“People fall in love; it is a common thing. She is, what? Nineteen? It really would not be surprising at all. People in stories often find true love by that age.”

Stories; William’s heart resumed beating in its usual pattern. Of course, she had got this notion from her reading. “Stories are not everyday life; the brat can’t have fallen for anyone and you should be glad – it makes this marriage easier for her. If her heart belonged elsewhere …” he trailed off, his mind wandering back to how hard she had fought to avoid the betrothal. That would be understandable if … No, as soon as the thought began to form his dismissed it. This was the brat; love really was not her thing. Anyway, she would have said something, she would have flung it in his face to annoy him – she delighted in doing that. There were many other, far more believable reasons for her resistance, including the fact she hoped to kill him with an apoplexy.

In the end he said, “Life is not a story. She will marry the spymaster and I do not care what her objections are; in fact if she is fond of anyone it is her betrothed, from all accounts. I am looking to you to keep up a steady stream of whatever it takes to keep her placid and cooperative; if she digs her heels in and becomes mulish yet again Hugh will have to force her into obedience and that will do the family name no good.”

“I shall try,” she promised meekly.






Trempwick was late to bed yet again; thanks to the situation in France it was now entirely usual for Eleanor to only seen him when he came to bed and when they were dressing in the morning. He even ate while working in his study. Trempwick slid into bed beside her and she turned over to receive the inevitable kiss. This time it was not the expected gentle kiss but something demanding and passionate, something she could not really return. No sooner had he let her go from the first kiss then he launched into a second in the same tone, and again she was unable to do anything other than weather the storm. He pulled her closer and murmured, “Good evening, darling Nell.”

“Um …” She had no time to expand that into something which did not sound entirely lack witted; he covered her mouth with his own again, more demanding still. She couldn’t match it, she just could not; it was just like the early days and soon he would begin complaining she was cold, and perhaps he would be right. She would hurt him terribly; from there everything would unravel.

Eleanor gathered up her desperation and the panicky fear and flung it at him as a desperate need for reassurance that she could actually handle this; at first she had clung to loneliness and a need for quiet comfort until she had grown accustomed to and better able to respond to his quieter attentions, so maybe the same would work again now. It had better do. She cast one arm over his ribs and drew the other up to tuck out of the way under her side, and used her desperation to add a bit more fire to her returned kisses. The rest she left to him.

It worked; he didn’t complain or even falter and steadily it grew easier for her to relax and go along with him as if this had not knocked her badly off balance. As long as she firmly blocked her mind from comparing his efforts to Fulk’s it was pleasant enough and, based on experience, it would grow better as she settled into this.

Abruptly he sat up and tugged at the sleeve of her shift. “Take that off.”

Eleanor felt herself turn beet red and the mood died a very fast death. “What!?”

“Humour me.”

“But-”

“Dear Nell, you have nothing I have not already seen, and I assure you I have not forgotten my promise to you.” She still lay there, miserably discomfited and once more completely lost. Trempwick ventured, “Perhaps you are embarrassed by your scars? I assure you there is no need to be, and sooner or later you will have to get used to me seeing them.” Still she did not move.

Trempwick pulled his shirt off over his head and knelt in the middle of the bed with his back was to her. In the dim, shifting candlelight she counted twenty-four long scars, most running from high right to low left but some few going the other way to cross over them. They were concentrated on the upper half of his back and had faded well, now only just visible as chalk white lines against the slightly darker white of his skin. He waited long enough for her to get a very good look and then turned back around. “So you see it really is nothing much to bother about.”

Eleanor took the opportunity to get her first look at his torso, quickly cataloguing what she saw. He had toned muscles and a flat stomach just like Fulk, but she had pretty much expected that since she had now seen him exercising and practising alone with his sword. A few scars peppered his chest and arms, most trivial but one long one snaking down from the outside of his body into the fuzz of hair emerging from the waist of his braies as if someone had tried to gut him. Proof he had done some fighting with live weapons and survived at least one vicious looking brawl; not at all what she had expected. A bare handful of fights she had just about allowed him, but to have collected this many scars when he was reasonably skilled he would have to have been very much more active then she had estimated.

Her entire examination was so rapid she managed to pick up the conversation with only a tiny pause, “This is different and you know it; boys are expected to arrive at manhood with some marks on their back – it is almost a badge of pride.” Twenty-four nearly invisible lines against the uncountable hundreds in various stages of fading all over her own back. Quietly she said, “I do not know what exactly my back looks like but it will be nothing nearly so tidy as that.”

“Beloved Nell, the point is … we are perhaps a little different to the norm here. My scars represent a lesson learned and taken to heart, shaped into the central principle of my life. Yours, I think represent you very well; tough, determined, unusual, not for most people. Knowing what I do I consider them in a favourable light rather than as proof you are unmanageable.”

“This lesson learned of yours,” she asked curiously, “what was it?”

Trempwick’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “A little bit of judicious violence will solve some things, but for the rest subtle is far better.”

“If all this is so unimportant why did you always keep your shirt on?”

“Because I did not wish you to start panicking about my intentions. Admit it, dearest Nell, you have misunderstood me enough times for me to expect you to misunderstand again. Well, I have kept my side of our bargain …”

She replied quickly, “We made no bargain.”

“Drat.” He gave up on talking and resumed where he had left off, holding her very close and exploring her body with his hands while endlessly kissing her. Bit by tiny bit he winkled her out of her shift, slowly working the hem up until it was obvious he intended to remove it for her eventually anyway. At that point she gave up and took it off herself, trying to salvage some dignity. Trempwick didn’t complain when she immediately buried herself under the blankets; he only pulled her close again and his hands continued to wander, the same things but feeling odd now against her bare skin. The blanket advantage was negated when he trailed a line of kisses from her neck down to her navel, then worked his way back up to ramble around the scenery at leisure. She was still struggling to match even a part of his passion, but fortunately he had grown used to the way it took her a very long interval to respond in kind when he tried something new. Feeling a bit daft the only thing she could think of to do was pat him on the head, and somehow that did not quite seem appropriate. Better to stick with doing nothing.

After a while he suddenly shifted his weight, rolling her over onto her back and propping himself on his elbows above her. His weight crushed down along the length of her body, pressing down on her ribs so it was hard to breathe. At either side his arms trapped her in place. Something very unwelcome was prodding uncomfortably into the top of her thigh. The moment hung in the air for a split second then she let out an outraged, “Get off me, damn it!”

“Relax, beloved Nell,” he urged with a smile. “See? I told you you always misunderstand.”

“You are crushing me,” she complained, trying to hide her dread at being ensnared.

“Not at all, you are just not used to it. Relax.” He began nuzzling her neck, ignoring her attempts to boost him off her by pushing at his shoulders. Eventually she gave up trying to get him off; he was not going to budge and it was hard work. This was every bit as bad as she had expected, worse even. In the end she just lay there slowly getting used to the feeling she was going to be as flat as a piece of parchment by morning; there was nothing else for her to do.

As she resigned herself to her pancaked fate and relaxed the situation got a little better; true enough to what he had said she was not crushed, more crowded. As long as she didn’t try to breathe deeper than was normal his weight on her chest actually made no difference. Now she had stopped trying to dump him off Trempwick began wandering his hands, lips and tongue over her body once again. Little by little she found this was about as enjoyable as the rest of Trempwick’s tricks, something else which would improve with time and familiarity. Even so she still felt crowded and that detracted from the experience significantly.

After a while he went very still and looked down at her. “Nell?” he asked softly. She was not entirely sure but Eleanor also thought she detected a hint of pleading in his voice; there was certainly something beseeching flickering in the depths of his brown eyes.

“No,” she answered equally softly but very firmly.

For a moment she thought he would ignore her; then he sighed and thrust one arm under the small of her back and the other under her shoulders and rolled to the side, pulling her with him. Finally freed of his weight Eleanor felt tension she had thought she had banished finally bleed away completely. “You are slowly killing me, beloved Nell,” complained Trempwick.

“Sorry, master.” Quickly she amended, “Raoul. Sorry; habit.”

He stiffened. “So whenever I grumble you automatically agree with ‘yes, master’?”

“No, more I have fourteen years of calling you that; I have barely used your name. My wits are rather scattered.” She kissed the tip of his nose and said dryly, “I blame you for that.”






The irony was not lost on Fulk, far from it. He had paid to get a kind of peace but instead he had ended up with a new variety of torment. He rolled over onto his back and flung an arm across his eyes. It had all sounded so simple and sensible before, so easy too.

He had followed a recommendation from several other knights; he had allowed their words to unpick his reservations, if he was honest with himself he had not made it too difficult for them to persuade him. The king only allowed licensed brothels in the town outside so he could flesh out his treasury on the fees; they were inspected by a possibly lucky official every month to ensure the workers were healthy. He was alone, had no commitments and did not want to get entangled with another woman. It was perfectly normal to have urges and to satisfy them in this way instead of limiting himself to self gratification; in fact it was actually a good deal less degrading to aim his passions at a woman instead, even if she was paid for the privilege. He had a nice empty few hours in his day. He had the money and status to go to a nice place instead of some fetid pit. Anyone who might be upset, for example a certain princess who was no longer interested in him anyway, would never find out.

The recommendation had been honest; the establishment, with its ridiculous name of The Garden of Flowers, had been clean and Ermesinde has been every bit as good as her collection of adoring devotees had said. Fulk dragged his arm away from his face and let it drop onto the covers. So simple, so easy; he had no reason to feel bad. Problem was he did - he felt terrible.

Men who went to brothels, in his mind, were pathetic creatures unable to get within three feet of any women without flashing a handful of money. They were probably mostly clueless as to what they were doing and entirely selfish lovers. They liked to think they were good though, which is why they paid someone to pretend they were. Blind fools that they were they reduced something very special down to a physical process about as exceptional as scratching a flea bite, removing any deeper meaning and losing half the fun in the process. They had more money than sense. They were essentially pathetic, pitiable, contemptible creatures. Now he’d sunk to their level.

Restlessly he shifted onto his side. A short while later he moved to his other side, then returned to lying on his back. He would go to confession, do his penance, and never make this mistake again. He moved again, still restless. It was worse than that, worse in a way he could never share with another soul, not even in the sanctity of confession. No one could absolve him of this second sin; few would even understand it, but it was the one which weighed heaviest on his mind.

For the first time in his life he had got the name wrong, and since there was absolutely no romance involved this time it would have been infinitely better to say nothing at all. He certainly hadn’t intended to; it had been an accident. Eleanor was a common name; many parents had named their daughters in honour of the youngest princess. Anyone who knew who he was would have no trouble guessing he referred to the original, not one of the many namesakes. This time it was unlikely to do any harm, but in the future? Was he going to spend the rest of his life worrying about gasping “Eleanor” at rather delicate moments? Probably; he still worried endlessly because of his one mistake with Maude.

Fulk rolled onto his front and dragged his pillow over his head, stopping his ears and trying to smother the nagging voice suggesting his crime was even worse that he had admitted. He’d dragged something pure into a brothel and defiled it.






Simon scrubbed his iron stained hands on the skirt of his tunic and answered the door. Fulk didn’t look up from sharpening his sword until he heard a woman’s voice say, “Hello.” Godit. Fulk put the weapon to one side, stood up and jerked a thumb at the door, indicating his squire should make himself scarce. Simon ran off, only just taking time to close the door behind himself. Godit filled the expectant silence, “The boy wanted to be a monk, you know? He begged and begged but his father was adamant; even though he is the third son he would bring more to the family as a knight than as a priest.”

“No, I didn’t know that. He doesn’t talk much.”

“Ah, well his old lord hated chatter from the lad; he was a bit ruthless too. I’d guess Simon learned to keep his mouth shut for his own sake, but he used to talk more and I’ve picked up what he said from others. Mind you, Sir Godfrey was so often drunk I doubt he knew what a morning without a hangover looked like, and when you feel that bad noisy boys are God’s own punishment for your sins. Before you ask, yes that does mean I have been drunk, and no it does not make me immoral despite it being something gently reared noblewomen like myself are supposed to avoid. And anyway, it was only mildly drunk, just enough to give me a pounding headache the next day, and it was on a feast day too and so practically good manners. Don’t allow me to give you the wrong image of our dead knight; he was ferocious in combat and skilled as any other in the king’s service. Probably because of his hangovers; passing on the pain or something.” She peered at Fulk and said, “You do look a little worn; are you sleeping badly? Or ill?”

“Restless night.”

“Really? I won’t ask why. Sometimes my generosity and kindness astonish even me.” She helped herself to a seat on his vacated stool in the middle of the orderly disruption caused by laying out every single piece of Fulk’s armour and weaponry for inspection, maintenance and cleaning. “Dear, dear, I do seem to have interrupted something. I do hope you are not doing all this solely because of the war in France?”

Not wishing to tower over her and set an intimidating atmosphere Fulk seated himself on his bed and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “I have been summoned to fight.”

She replied cheerily, “No you haven’t.”

“I have,” repeated Fulk.

“I’m afraid you haven’t, sorry. Change of plan.”

“What?” He’d not been looking forward to the channel crossings at all but the trip had promised a distraction from the turn his life had taken recently.

She crossed her legs at the knee and carefully rearranged her skirts so they fell to hide her ankles again. Then she looped her hands about her upraised knee, assuming a storyteller’s pose. “I shall take that as a polite invitation for me to tell you my wonderful story of self-sacrifice and stuff. The queen does not wish you to go; she wants you to stay here. She told me to arrange it. You have no idea how I had to do that, no idea at all and I do hope you are grateful, and the queen too.” She smiled sheepishly. “Well, I also hope you don’t mind the other aspect of what I did too or things may get a little awkward.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What are you talking about?” he demanded wearily.

“Well, you know how the queen is supposedly pushing us together and we are mildly playing along? But not too much? Only a little; polite friends, harmless stuff type playing along? Well, I had to tell the marshal I didn’t want you to leave for personal reasons. Worse; I had to mention a lot of stuff about not wanting to lose you to death or maiming and of being afraid you’d pick up a liking for some camp slut or other if away from me. If that does not make me look insecure nothing will. I even ended up including a bit about being terrified of your handsome face being ruined somehow! Can you imagine how shallow that made me sound? It also cost me eleven shillings as a bribe; good thing he didn’t try for something a bit more … intangible to turn his mind or I would have had no choice but to create on heck of a fuss and fail my queen. Most fortunately for my limited means the queen will give me the money back, thank heaven, but I’m afraid I now have to fling myself at you quite a bit. My poor, poor reputation!” she complained gleefully with a dimpled smile. “You’d better appreciate this – if I’m supposedly madly infatuated with you I can hardly keep playing with anybody else now, can I? Quite the setback to my husband hunting.”

“But-”

“The queen doesn’t want you to go because of the upcoming royal wedding; your Eleanor is going to get married at the church door here instead of elsewhere. So far as I can gather from the early plans the ceremony is going to be an echo of their betrothal, minus the bride being half dead, I do most fervently hope and pray. For some reason the queen seems to think you want to watch your dear love marrying someone else. I told her how cruel it was, we all did, but no, she would not listen no matter how we put it. She still thinks true love will conquer all. It won’t, of course. Doesn’t do you much good though, does it?” she enquired, a rhetorical question loaded with sympathy. “As for me, well I plan to keep on working on you until I either get bored and give up or get some success.” She winked at him. “Don’t worry; if I get some success I promise not to drop you unless you turn out to be rather different than you appear. It’s the one part of the queen’s plan I like. It can’t do either of us any harm; it might even do you some good. You’re under no obligation though, but if you want to join in I certainly will not complain, and as I said before I do have designs on snaring a very nice husband and you would be very suitable, I think.”

Fulk went back to the most important bits of the deluge of information she had just given him. “So I’m not going to France?”

“No.”

“Because of the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going to keep harrying me?”

“Of course! That one goes without saying.”

“And this is supposed to be good news?”

“I think so, but you can make up your own mind about the part involving me chasing you.” She toyed with one of the buttons shaping her sleeve tightly to her lower arm and studied it intensely as she added in a meek little voice, “I promise not to sulk if you say you are not interested again.” Her eyes flicked upwards to study him coyly from under her lashes.

Fulk muttered to himself, “Why does someone somewhere with control over my fate love kicking mud in my face?”

Godit had good hearing and was happy to prove it. “No idea, but am I included in the mud part or can I instead say I’m going to mop said mud off you tenderly?”

“You’re relentless!”

“I know, but really I can’t help it.”

“You barely even know me,” he said quietly.

Godit ticked off points on her fingers. “Handsome, a knight, landed, in royal service in the king’s elite unit, literate and well educated, excellent kisser, decent enough person and I like spending time with you – that sounds very good to me. Well, I shall keep on trying to mend your poor heart and being the shameless flirt I am I will continue to play with you in the hopes that one day you might find you have fallen for me instead. If not, well I do like to have a mission and I have already said I will sort you out.”

Fulk was very tempted to squeak “Help!” Instead he said seriously, “I told you before, I am not interested in starting another relationship now.”

“And I told you that was not entirely what I was trying to do. For such a cute man you are remarkably stupid sometimes.”

That sounded almost like something Eleanor would say; Fulk found himself smiling slightly. “I don’t want you to-”

Quick as anything she interrupted with, “Hope for something I’m not going to get, end up broken hearted and crying, or get taken advantage of because of my appalling naiveté? After all I am so stupid I think that kiss was for me, not stolen from someone else. Oh deary, deary me! Now I know the truth the world is going to end and I shall drown myself in a millpond because of the horrific disappointment! Quite insulting of you, really. But don’t worry; I forgive you. I’m so kind like that.” She stood up. “I need to get back to the queen; I shall see you at dinner.”






William lowered himself onto the stone bench in the royal garden; he had taken this brief opportunity to speak to his son alone of a small collection of delicate matters. “I am leaving you in charge while I am away.”

Hugh remained standing dutifully before his father, his posture stiff and his thumbs hooked through his belt in an attempt to look relaxed. It only served to make him look strained. He’d never got the hang of relaxation, always too concerned about maintaining a dignified royal appearance. “Yes, father. I shall do my utmost to prove myself worthy of your trust.”

“I do not just refer to the realm; I also mean your sister.”

“You anticipate further trouble?”

“When dealing with the brat it is wise to assume there will be plenty of trouble before you even begin. This way you are never surprised.” Generously, and to arm his son all the better, he added, “Well, except for those much too rare times where she actually does what you want her to.” His face creased and he drummed his fingers on the hilt of his dagger. “And the times where she manages to go in an entirely unexpected direction with her resistance; that too is surprising, but in a slightly different way.”

“So it is fair for me to say that you expect her to revolt at this marriage once again? Despite your spymaster stating she had grown reconciled to the idea, and my own witnessing her behaving in a most disgracefully intimate way with the man?”

“Yes, that is right. I will not be here to … ensure things flow smoothly; that burden falls on you too. I have spoken with Anne; she will do what she can in a peaceful direction. The rest is in your hands.”

“Father?”

“You will inherit control over her in the event of my death; I am lending you those rights early, just for the duration of my absence. Remember also she is a special case; I have had it written into the betrothal contract and into a separate contract, both of which Trempwick has put his seal to, that I do not and will not relinquish any of my rights to her. If she proves troublesome after the wedding and Trempwick will not deal with it then you must.”

“I will not let her disgrace our family, father,” swore Hugh gravely. “I do not approve of this match, the spymaster is far beneath her, but I swear I shall see them married as you wish.”

“I presume I do not need to tell you exactly what to do?”

The prince’s jaw clenched then relaxed as he consciously quashed his irritation. “I would be most ignorant if I had need of telling what to do.”

“Yes. None the less you would do well to remember what I have told you of your sister; she is not going to crumble into tearful surrender if you slap her, and she is very intelligent, despite how stupid she may seem on occasion.”

“I know, father,” said Hugh stiffly, “if you will forgive my rudeness in passing over your wisdom in this way. Your advice I have taken to heart previously, and I feel that there is no need for you to concern yourself in this taxing time over a detail that is already well in hand. I would request you put this transfer of power into writing and affix your seal to it; she may contest this and I think it most wise to counter this potential problem long before it can prove disquieting.”

“So be it. I am also leaving Anne in your care. I have made you familiar with my desires for her while I am away, and I have also shown you my will towards her in the event of my death. I am charging you to take care of her, as if she were your own daughter. Swear that to me.”

Hugh knelt on the ground and put his hands in William’s. “I swear on my honour and my immortal soul I shall care for your wife as if she were my own daughter. She will be treated with all honour, and her rights and interests will be protected in the event of your death, even against myself.”

“Thank you; that sets my mind at ease.” He released his son’s hands and let him stand once more. “One final thing, from a hopeful grandfather. How is your wife, and the baby?”

“Still well; both midwives and physicians agree on this.” Hugh frowned and hesitantly confessed, “Constance’s mood is still varying both suddenly and bafflingly; I confess I really do not understand her. One moment she is happy, the next sobbing her eyes out at some imagined grief. Then she is sick again. I do not know what to do.”

William grinned, lost in fond memories of Joanna’s pregnancies. “Perfectly normal, and it wears off about the point you think you will tear your hair out. Just be supporting, indulgent and caring.”

Hugh’s brow creased and for a instant William thought his son would ask for advice on how to do that too, but in the end he nodded thoughtfully. William released a mental sigh of relief; Hugh all too often confused emotional tranquillity with self control and denying his feelings with keeping a clear mind. He was not the best of people to provide emotional support.





:goes nauseated frog green: Blergh! I’m sure you are familiar enough with my grumbling to guess exactly what I am referring to, saving me the effort of constructing a “Gah! Mush!” rant :p






Two chapters, even the second is several days late.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor spun on her heel, aimed and threw both knives, her left hand working a split second behind her right for maximum effect. The instant her hands were empty she was reaching for her hairpins. She drew one and threw while still working the second free. As the second sailed through the air she was pulling out the third, and before that one hit the target she had the last pin free and the throwing motion begun. Her hair tumbled free, the two braids falling to land behind her back without obscuring her vision. It had taken her a long time to learn to do that, to let her hair down so rapidly without blinding herself.

She paused for a moment, letting things settle. On checking the target she had placed on top of a chest and leaned against the wall she found exactly what she had expected – the two knives with their points sunk deep into the centre of the wooden board surrounded by a halo of hairpins. Stationary targets were so easy as to be pointless; only moving targets presented an acceptable challenge. She worked the knives free first and returned them to the sheathes fastened to her forearms. The hairpins she gathered into a bundle and put to one side; she could not pin her own hair up in any satisfactory manner. Using that as an excuse she pulled her braids undone too, ruining Trempwick’s latest effort at taming her hair in much less time than it had taken to fasten it up.

Eleanor went through a few more practise throws with her knives before giving up, too bored with the exercise she had mastered over a decade ago. She flicked her right knife up and down a few times, throwing it up so it spun around and landed with the hilt in the palm of her hand again, another simple exercise while she thought. With a hitch of her left shoulder she made up her mind and began to juggle her knives while whistling a disgustingly cheerful song like a player at a fair. It was not long before she lost interest in this too and the two knives went flying to the target once again.

This time Eleanor did not retrieve them; she sat down heavily on her bed and looked about her room for something else to do to pass the time. Her bedchamber had never been a great source of activity and now it was even more pitiful than it had been before; many of her things had been moved up to Trempwick’s room. The items which remained were either furniture or somehow dangerous, such as her stash of poisons and drugs. The room felt empty now, not because her clothing chests were now empty and her comb had been moved to another room but because Fulk’s pallet and blankets was gone, along with his bags of belongings.

Eleanor lay back on the mattress and clasped her hands over her midriff, staring up at the ceiling and thinking. She could only pick over old thoughts yet again and listen to the rain pattering against the building but anything to pass the lonely hours was welcome.

The daylight was just beginning to dim indicating it was about four o’clock when someone rapped on the door. Whoever it was didn’t wait for a response; the door opened. Trempwick. Eleanor sat up quickly. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company? It is not yet midnight.”

“You know the French situation keeps me busy. Or rather it should have … I found my mind kept returning to last night.” Trempwick dithered for a second, then dropped to one knee before her, bringing his face level with hers. He bowed his head marginally. “Forgive me. I ignored your very clearly stated wishes and generally let my passions get the better of me. I was not very considerate and I did not give a very good account of myself, although perhaps that was for the better – you kept your senses when I did not. I promise this, any of it, will not happen again. I know you prefer something more tender than …”

“Being bowled over by a lust struck spymaster?” suggested Eleanor.

Trempwick’s head bobbed back down again, but not before Eleanor saw the beginnings of a very faint blush. “Yes.” Rather defensively he added, “I can do a lot better than that, as you know. It is hard to be patient when full of pent up ardour. Many would find someone more accommodating; I promised I would honour you. This one time I let my control slip, unintentionally.”

“Oh,” she said tonelessly. After a bit she added with a slight frown, “Interesting triple bind I am caught in; give in, watch as you go wandering, or keep on risking you going barmy again.” And a little later. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“But you are not,” said Trempwick perceptively. He clambered to his feet and sat next to her on the bed, claiming her hand to press a kiss into her palm.

“Well …” Eleanor’s face scrunched up. “It is so absurd!”

Trempwick laughed. “Dearest Nell, there are many women out in the world who dedicate considerable effort to gaining the kind of hold you have on me.”

“The absurdity is in me having the stranglehold on your unmentionables; it is not something I ever considered. Oh well, I shall not look a gift horse in the mouth - there is a lot to be said for devoted, love struck males; they do have their uses.”

Trempwick crossed himself. “Oh Jesú! Now she begins to understand what power she has!”

“Alas, at some point you either have to give in or watch your pet go feral; the game cannot be kept up indefinitely.” She sniffed and said seriously, “I suppose I forgive you, although next time I will not.” She brushed some invisible dust off her dress. “Now, how are you planning to make up for your neglect?”

“Ah.” His mood became more gloomy and he stooped playing with her fingers. “I thought to leave that until after the French situation calmed, pay off my entire debt in one go.”

“I shall charge interest.”

“Dearest Nell, good Christians are forbidden from such practises!”

“I am not lending money, merely slowly growing more wrathful as time goes by.”

“Forgive thine enemy?”

“Are you my enemy?” Eleanor looked at him sidelong from under her eyelashes.

Trempwick brushed her check with one hand, encouraging her to look at him. When she did he gathered up her other hand in his spare one and met her gaze openly. “Never.”

“I should hope not.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently. “I rather like having a pet spymaster.”

[frogbeastegg]

Mid morning, the tenth of February. Eleanor found herself resentfully waiting just inside the manor’s door for Trempwick to get back with his mother. Aveline had disdained travelling late into the evening to get to Woburn yesterday, causing quite a bit of muttering from Trempwick. Eleanor could not quite see why he had been so upset; Aveline was not young any more and she must have been travelling hard to get here even this soon. Perhaps the difference was that Eleanor was dreading the older woman’s arrival for the problems it would bring; Trempwick would have very little part in them.

The party rode into the courtyard over half an hour later than she had expected; Trempwick, his mother and her maid, Juliana. Reminding herself of several pertinent facts, including her private vow to become a dutiful wife, Eleanor pasted a polite smile on her face and launched out to meet them, dropping her usual stride for a more demure step. She stood quietly as they dismounted, waiting to greet them with her eyes downcast.

“Welcome back,” she said to Trempwick as he came to her side and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. In the bright daylight Eleanor noticed just how tired and worn he looked now; the late nights and long days were beginning to tell in the dark smudges under his eyes and the drooping eyelids.

“Impressive,” he breathed, lingering with what must look like undue affection to his audience. “Keep this up for half an hour without wavering and I shall buy you a new dress.”

Eleanor smiled minutely and said in a quiet voice meant to be overheard, “You are too kind, Raoul. But surely you should attend to your lady mother?” More secretively she added, “Silk; I shall have earned it.”

“You drive a hard bargain, beloved Nell. Done.” With one final kiss he left her with a show of reluctance to help the two women down from their horses.

No sooner had Aveline’s feet touched the ground than she strode over to inspect Eleanor. Eleanor held her decorous attitude with significantly less effort than she had expected, however she did flick her eyes back up to meet Trempwick’s mother’s. She knew exactly what the other would see; her neat clothes would pass muster but her loose hair would draw comment. Sure enough Aveline said archly, “Well, you have managed to improve matters, Raoul, although still much remains to be done.”

Trempwick immediately crossed back to Eleanor’s side, saying, “All I have done is what I wished to do from the start – take care of her. Propriety forbade it before but not now.”

Aveline sniffed. “Propriety – how can it be propriety with her hair like that? She looks like she just escaped from something carnal!”

“Mother!” grumbled Trempwick. He slipped an arm tenderly about Eleanor’s waist, looked down at her and then back to his mother with a faintly challenging air. “I do Nell’s hair myself; she has no maid and nor is there space for one in our lives. It might please your sense of propriety to find I have very little idea of how to pin up a woman’s hair; even braids fall to bits on me after a short time. I am learning. Today’s effort fell to bits just as I was leaving.”

“While we are here Juliana will take over,” decided Aveline. She cast a searching glare over princess and spymaster as if to observe every part of their reactions.

Eleanor kept her peace with some difficulty. Trempwick smiled easily and said, “She can teach me at the same time. I am a quick study, as I am sure you will remember, mother dear.”

“I thought you might like to explain why you have dragged me here again, Raoul. That would be a better use of your time than playing with hair.”

“Nell has been summoned to the palace before our wedding.”

Aveline squinted suspiciously at Eleanor. “She has not revived her foolish protests again, has she?”

Nettled into action Eleanor indignantly declared, “No I have not!”

“Oh, incensed now are we? Why? You surely made enough fuss before, and made it very clear my son was not good enough for you. Are you claiming to love him now?”

“I am growing to.”

Once again Trempwick came to Eleanor’s rescue. “Really mother I would have thought that was quite obvious from Nell’s welcome?”

Aveline just grunted, ungracious in defeat. “Well are we going to stand out here all day or do you have the manners to invite me in?” she demanded querulously.

Eleanor said civilly, “Forgive me. Please, step inside. The servants have mulled wine ready for you if you wish for some.”

Aveline grunted again. “I should hope so; basic manners is that.”

“Yes.” Basic but it had taken her many long minutes of fighting with the servants to arrange; in the end she had had to ask if they wanted to disgrace their master’s name and hospitality merely to carry on their grudge with her. Begging almost, and it really galled. Belatedly noticing no one had helped the maid down, just like at Christmas, Eleanor said, “What of your maid?”

Aveline turned around and fixed a vicious glare on the poor girl. “Well, get down! We do not have all day.”

“I could help,” suggested Trempwick, taking one step in the direction of the girl on the horse.

Aveline snapped, “I think not. Let the little fool manage on her own.”

Eleanor was astonished to see the spymaster obeyed his mother and let the maid dismount on her own. Juliana was obviously unused to riding, let alone dismounting from a side saddle without help; she landed very awkwardly and twisted her ankle. Half her skirt was still caught up on the saddle’s pommel. Trempwick averted his gaze and said drolly, “Well, now perhaps you are satisfied, mother dear? Quite the view.”

Aveline’s hand shot out and cuffed him on the ear. “Men!” she proclaimed with palpable disgust. Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek and battled the laughter threatening to escape. Aveline swung around on her. “Laugh while you can; it won’t keep.”

Trempwick bypassed his mother and put an arm around Eleanor again. “And now perhaps we can go inside? Unless my mother has more entertainment planned?” He began walking, pulling Eleanor along with him without waiting for Aveline’s response.

Trempwick took Eleanor and his mother to the solar where the mulled wine awaited. Aveline made a beeline for one of the two chairs and moved it closer to the fire. She seated herself with a few inches of empty air between her spine, which she kept as straight as a lance, and the back of the chair as if leaning back a little was a kind of unforgivable degeneracy. She fixed the princess and the spymaster with her formidable gaze and waited to see what they would make of the solitary remaining chair. Trempwick sat down, and Aveline glowed with approval. Her glow soon frosted over when her son gently pulled Eleanor over to sit on his knee. “For shame, Raoul,” she complained quietly.

Trempwick only pulled Eleanor closer. “Really mother I do not understand your difficulty; Nell and I are betrothed and we are chaperoned by your good self.” Because of her proximity Eleanor noticed Trempwick’s throat strain slightly as he smothered a yawn. He blinked rapidly a few times, water building up in the outer corners of his eyes because of the yawn. He look so vulnerable for once; Eleanor felt a spark of pity.

“You know very well what I meant,” she replied softly. There was a glint of steel in her words.

Trempwick’s grip on Eleanor tightened enough to be uncomfortable. “I know you are a cantankerous old crone and I will not tolerate it. Be civil or be silent.”

“My darling son,” stated Aveline bitterly. “I hope your children have a little more respect for their mother, Eleanor.”

Trempwick sat bolt upright; his face went white and his brows locked together. “I told you I am not going to risk her life like that; I told you!” He spat those last three words slowly and deliberately. “Work that fact into your thick skull – no grandchildren. Not even bastards. Not even the thought of brats in any form. Not even the desire to be a father. Stop pestering me on the matter. I am sick to the back teeth of it!”

The old woman simmered, taking a long time to think up her retort and ending up using a stock one. “Well at least then she will still be alive; there is no glory or use in a dead wife no matter what her bloodlines. Those hips are pitiful and she is so dainty I really doubt the baby could be born alive; it takes hours to die like that, you know, and the midwives can’t cut the mother open until she is dead. You would be burying the pair of them.”

Trempwick sat back, outwardly calm but Eleanor could feel his muscles still tense and hard beneath his clothes. “I spend hour upon hour slaving away to serve my king in this time of crisis, neglecting my love and my life, and now - the first few daylight hours I have not spent working in six days - I have to deal with this. Very well, mother dear. If you cannot conduct civil conversation we will advance to business; the whys and wherefores of this testing little visit.”

“And while we talk your princess can have her hair sorted out by Juliana. I will not share a room with such licentiousness and it is most unfitting for a princess, a dignified noblewoman, or indeed your bride. If it were her wedding day it would be another matter and entirely fitting and proper, but it is not and so it is shocking.”

Trempwick rolled his eyes and let his breath drain away in a long sigh. Eleanor could feel him gathering himself for another round of arguing. Quickly she interjected, “No, it is alright. I will go. It will not take long.”

He kissed her gratefully and murmured in her ear, “Don’t hurry back; take the chance to escape.”

Safely out of the room Eleanor paused at the closed door for a few seconds. She heard the hum of conversation pick up again, Trempwick talking with the occasional brief interjection from his mother. She could not even pick out individual words let alone content through the thick wood of the door so she soon lost interest and went to find the maid.

Juliana had come to rest in the main hall next to her mistress’s baggage. She was busy imploring Trempwick’s steward for help in carrying it all up to wherever Aveline was going to be sleeping. Edward was as useful as ever; not at all. He refused to even tell the poor girl which room Aveline would be in.

Eleanor joined in without breaking her stride, calling across the hall, “Is this how you treat your lord’s guests, Edward?”

“It’s how I treat those that barge in and start making demands with no right.”

Eleanor said to Juliana, “You will be staying in my old room.” Top Edward again, “Take the baggage up to the room or arrange for someone else to do it.”

“I don’t take orders from you, and no matter how much you bat your eyelashes at the master you won’t talk him into getting rid of me either.” He sneered and started to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “You want stuff moved? Move it yourself, Princess Idlebones.”

“You are going to let him get away with that?” gasped Juliana, horrified.

For a few seconds Eleanor allowed herself the luxury of thinking some very unregal words. Feeling a very little bit better she shunted those thoughts aside and admitted, “I really have no choice.” Eleanor picked up the two lightest looking bags. “Come on, you take whatever you can carry. You also need to do something with my hair before your mistress will deign to allow me back in her presence.”

Juliana grabbed another two bags and followed after Eleanor as she led the way up the stairs to her room. She did not really want the miserable old woman occupying what used to be her bed but unless she absconded from Trempwick’s bed and returned to her own there was no excuse to make Aveline sleep on a pallet on the floor this time. It would only be for two nights.

On reaching her room Eleanor dumped the bags none too gently in a corner. “Your mistress seems very angry with you,” she said to the maid.

Juliana wouldn’t meet Eleanor’s eyes and she flushed as she placed her own burden down in the corner. “Oh no, not with me, your highness.

“Then what? She takes it out on you.”

The maid become even more uncomfortable and her answer was very reluctant, “With her helplessness, your highness. Forgive me but I should say no more; I have already said more than I ought. I’m no gossip.”

“Perhaps you are right, she is certainly giving her son hell, so it is not specific to you.”

“Really?” asked Juliana quickly. She turned hurriedly away and began to look through one of the bags, hers presumably. “Oh dear; the trip out here has done her no good, I fear.” She stood up again. “I can’t find a comb; we shall have to use yours. Oh, and we need your hairpins too, your highness.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes at the scatterbrained stupidity of the girl; the need for Eleanor’s comb and pins was incredibly obvious. She fetched the necessary items from Trempwick’s room and sat down so the maid could go to work.

Juliana worked in silence for a time, then shyly asked, “Do you mind if I ask a question, your highness?”

“Go on.”

“Your bodyguard, is he still about?”

“No, he left when my brother visited.” In several more hours it would be sixteen days exactly since Fulk had ridden out the main gate. It felt much longer. He hadn’t even looked back.

“Thank you, your highness,” replied Juliana meekly.

“Raoul found him a position in the king’s household.”

“That was very good of him.”

Eleanor did not reply; she was not at all convinced she could keep her voice suitably careless sounding. After a while she noticed Juliana was still combing away at the same spot she had begun on even though it was now completely tangle free. Eleanor turned to see what the maid was doing and found her staring off into space with a faraway expression on her face and a slight tinge of colour in her cheeks.

Juliana woke from her daydream when the comb ran over Eleanor’s ear. “Oh! I’m so sorry, your highness!”

“Forget it,” Eleanor told her. She turned back around to let the maid continue her work. Eleanor had not really seen that particular expression before but she could put in a very good guess as to what prompted it; she was positive she had picked up a similar look the few times she had thought about a certain someone and really let her guard down. Juliana had a crush on someone, very possibly Fulk.






When Eleanor returned to the solar Trempwick and Aveline were talking civilly enough, although their conversation cut off the moment the door began to open. Trempwick extended a hand to her, indicating she should return to sitting with him. “Very nice,” he said of her new hairdo.

Aveline managed to sound disapproving as she agreed, “Yes, much more fitting.”

Eleanor sat back down on Trempwick’s knee and he wrapped his arms around her. “Sweet Nell, you remember my promise to teach you everything you should know about being a duchess?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor warily.

“And you know how currently I do not even have time to eat unless I am working?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my mother has agreed to step in and educate you. Truth be told she is far more knowledgeable than I in these areas, and there are some things I cannot teach you.” There was a very difficult silence as Eleanor fought the self preservation instinct which demanded she scream and run away as fast as she could. Encouragingly Trempwick said, “You will be spending a lot of time with each other anyway, and my mother’s offer is generous. The lessons also give you that excuse to avoid your family that you were desperate for. She can teach much that I cannot,” he repeated again, stressing that one point as if it made the whole thing tolerable.

Aveline rested one hand on the end of each arm of her chair, her bony fingers curling around the wood like talons. “Oh yes, I am sure I can soon whip her into shape.”

“Figuratively speaking, mother.” He smothered another yawn.

“Of course,” she replied impatiently. Her voice softened to that not unkind tone Eleanor remembered her using a few times with Anne, “There is much you need to know, things you should already have been told but clearly have not. Better you hear from a friendly source then find out to your cost later.”

Trempwick smiled brightly. “Well, there you are then. Settled.”

Eleanor finally found her voice. “Oh. Um … good?”

Trempwick shooed Eleanor off his lap and stood up. He gave her a quick kiss and then declared, “Well, now this is all settled I will return to my work.” He exited with just a hint of a swagger, a man who considered his job well done and the world set to rights by his actions.

Eleanor stared after him. A hint of what she was thinking must have shown through because Aveline said, “I can hardly say I am best pleased to be spending so much of my time with you either; I doubt you will pay much attention, and doubtless you will continue to go your own sweet way regardless of what is proper, seemly, fitting or dignified. You know better than us all, being so old and wise and all. After all your elders and betters never did a thing in their lives, and nor did their parents and their parents, and so on back. You are the first person to ever really live, and so you know best.”

“That is not what I think.”

“Ha! Could have fooled me. So what do you think then?”

“I want some say in my life, and I want to use my brain and do something more than play boring proper princess.”

“Oh yes? Happy, are you? As a murderer?” Eleanor’s silence was its own answer. “Happy with my son, are you?”

“Yes,” acceded Eleanor grudgingly.

“And was that your choice? Or did it perhaps come from those older and wiser than you?”

Eleanor countered, “You chose your second husband, and by all accounts you did far better with him than with your family’s choice.”

“Yes, because I knew how to choose by that point, thanks to my family’s efforts and my first husband. So bend that stiff neck of yours, shut up and actually listen for once in your life.”

“I am not going to sit around doing needlework and chattering about babies and how cute the new squire is with a pack of maids!”

“Whoever said you were? You can manage the agent part of what Raoul wants from you; I have to somehow equip you for the wife part.”

“I really do not think-”

“Believe me when I say that is quite apparent!” interrupted Aveline stridently. “This has got nothing to do with dancing or table manners and everything to do with taking that control over your life you so desperately crave. You want to be dependant on Raoul for money and on your stewards to run your estates? Perhaps you want to be like my maid; so useless she can’t even get off her horse without help?”

“Of course not.”

“Then shut up and learn for once in your life.”

In the folds of her skirts Eleanor balled her hands up into fists with frustration. “I already said I wanted to learn those things – Raoul has been teaching me. You are the one who diverted the topic from that! And you will not say I have not learned – I have. Plenty. Although much of it so unorthodox you have no inkling of its existence; your ignorance, not mine.”

“So you are proud of your ability to murder? I expected better of you, though I do not know why. I see you never did learn to control your temper much.”

Eleanor applied a little control, unclenched her fists, regained the calm she had foolishly allowed to slip under the old woman’s malice and said, “You are fortunately wrong about my temper.”

“Oh yes? So why are you all angry now? Spitting fire, or trying.”

“How about we speak of you and your temper?” she suggested evenly. “You are always angry and you always target that anger onto others in an effort to make them play your games. Perhaps it makes you feel important? Or perhaps it is the only way you can get any real feeling from people? Not managing love and so trying for hate instead; that is a deep feeling, after all.”

“Besides the point!” declared Aveline loudly. “Raoul wants you to learn and so learn you will, though neither of us are happy with it. I assume you have a basic knowledge of numbers?”

“Of course, also a more advanced knowledge. I can also read and write fluently in English, Latin, langue d’oil, langue d’oc, Welsh, and Raoul’s own preferred code. Will that be quite sufficient?”

“Then we shall begin with accounting. The more advanced subjects can wait until you are less stubborn and more inclined to listen, if such a day ever dawns.” Aveline smiled, a mix between gloating and pitying bitterness. “You will learn those parts eventually, though not necessarily kindly.”






“Convent,” mumbled Trempwick as he crawled into bed very late that night.

“Convent what?” Woken up in the middle of the night yet again Eleanor’s eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. It suddenly occurred to her that she probably looked a little the worse for wear too. She would have to see if she could find a mirror tomorrow; Aveline must have one, no one else in the manor did. She rolled over to face him and pulled the blankets up to her ears, fighting the temptation to ignore him and go back to sleep.

“My mother can retire to a convent and complain to God instead of us. Doubt she will take vows but as a guest she will still be out of our lives.”
“If she is complaining to God we had best start praying He ignores her or we will find ourselves struck down,” joked Eleanor. She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand.

“With luck He might flatten her with a lightning bolt to shut her up. I know I would if I had the power.”

Eleanor quoted sleepily, “Honour thy father and thy mother.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Why were you so late back this morning? Trouble?”

“They were not ready to go when I met them; still faffing about with how they looked. Then it took a time to make my mother see sense; she was determined to bring the rest of her party along instead of leaving them in the village. Then she wanted a drink. Then she wanted to use the privy. Then the weather was colder than expected so she needed her warmer mantle. Then the blue of her mantle clashed with the yellow of her dress and so she must change to the blue she arrived in. Darling Nell, please forgive me and know you are not included when I say women are enough to drive any sane man mad!”

“Speaking of clothes, did I earn my silk?”

“Yes,” sighed Trempwick, “you did. My poor, brave Nell, I am quite proud of you. One day down, eight to go, and that is assuming I send her packing at our wedding feast.”

Trempwick was so tired Eleanor felt guilty for pestering him on a rather trivial matter, and she did not like that she had to go crawling to him for help yet again, but there was no help for it. “Your servants … they still will not take orders from me. They are downright rude, even in front of guests. They know I am powerless and that you will not sack any more of them, and they exploit that. Short of stabbing the next servant to defy me there is nothing I can do to convince them to cooperate.”

“I will speak to Edward again,” promised Trempwick. He sounded more than half asleep now; Eleanor knew she wouldn’t get much more out of him before he fell into an exhausted slumber. “They see you as an outsider with no right to give orders; that will change the instant we are married. They are very loyal to me.”

“At least the cook has improved enough to produce decent food now, although your mother still complained all evening. She is going to take matters into her own hands tomorrow and knock him into shape too, she says.”

“Let me know if blood starts to flow, beloved Nell, otherwise leave her be. Actual literal blood, not proverbial.”





:thunder and lightning abounds. A silhouette of a medium height, slender woman in medieval clothes fills the open doorway. A little voice calls in a singsong way, “She’s back…”:

[frogbeastegg]

At the sound of his name William snapped awake, fully alert and already beginning to sit up, the reflexive action of a soldier and man used to disturbed nights. The source of the disturbance was easy to locate; Anne stood in the doorway between their rooms holding her night candle. It had burned down to just a waxy stub, promising only another half hour’s light at best. William said, “Tonight you cannot say my sneezing woke you, and it is not dawn yet.”

“No.” Her free hand toyed with the end of her very long plait; the motion caused the reddish gold highlights picked out by the light to shift and shiver restlessly. She gnawed at her bottom lip

“What can I do for you?”

After a little pause she said softly, “You leave tomorrow … today.”

“I know.” William blinked a few times to push back the sleepiness now catching back up with him.

“You will be gone for quite a long time.”

“No more than a month, I estimate.”

“And it is a war.”

“I keep telling you I will be perfectly safe.”

“It just seems … well, I have been curious about something for a while now but I never … you see I … well, I never quite manage…” She was beginning to blush, a pink stain slowly spreading from her cheekbones across much of her face. William found it quite adorable. “And tomorrow you are gone, and really it does have to be you and all, and if you are gone then I will just keep on wondering, and I never manage to pluck up the courage …” By now she was a fiery red to match her hair, and her voice was little more than a mumble that William had to strain to hear. “I was wondering … I want to know … that is … well, could you …” She took a very deep breath and said all in one indistinct rush, “I want to know what it is like to kiss someone. Properly.”

William’s mouth twitched into a smile; he quickly straightened his face so she would not think he was laughing at her. So that was why she had kept on looking at him with that assessing ‘do I, don’t I?’ expression for nearly a month!

Having managed to finally spit her request out Anne kept on gabbling, “I mean it always sounds so wonderful and everyone is always talking about how wonderful it is, and it looks rather like fun, sort of, and in stories it is always magical and really wonderful, and it is kind of sort of traditional and all since this is a war and you will be gone for a while and you say I am too young for more, and really I agree that it really would not be a very good idea, but I would like to say goodbye somehow.”

William had to work hard to keep another smile in check. “Well, you will have to come a bit closer; I can’t reach all the way over there.”






“What do you think?” inquired Godit, holding the length of pale orange silk up against her face and hair. “Will it do for a veil or is the colour all wrong for me? I think it must be; a pity as it’s really a pretty colour.”

Fulk managed no more than, “Erm …”

Godit pouted. “Typical male – can kill, ride, hunt, wrestle, look handsome, even read and sound intelligent, but can he give advice on clothes? No, course not. My mother was right, alas, it does appear. Men do have very limited uses, and when it comes to shopping those are just twofold – paying and carrying.”

The shop owner, a pinch-nosed old woman, sourly agreed, “Aye, my old man was the same, actually all three of them, and my sons too. Useless. Now me? I know my cloths and if I don’t know what suits and what doesn’t no one does, not in the whole of God’s pleasant earth. Do try this beautiful lawn …”

Lawn was, apparently, a kind of finely woven white linen. Fulk dolefully told himself that at least he’d learned new one thing, so the morning could not count as entirely wasted. The trick with Godit, he had steadily discovered, was to let her do all the talking; something which was not the least bit difficult as she was a one woman gossip ring. He just let her words flow over him in a pleasant hum, allowing and relying on his subconscious pick out bits and pieces that were noteworthy. That happened now; one fragment of that mostly ignored speech bubbled up in his consciousness. “Hold on – pay?”

Godit turned from her nattering with the merchant. “Oh don’t worry about that; stick with carrying. I’ve got money.”

Good, because Fulk had only brought a small handful of lesser value coins. Breathing a sigh of relief he once again let the discussion on various materials and colours pass right over him, along with the noise from the rest of the market.

One small eternity later Godit shoved a small roll of cloth into his hands. “Be a dear and carry this, please.”

Fulk looked at what she’d brought; the exactly same lawn she had been looking at in the beginning. He pulled a face; women, shopping and vanishing time, one of the great mysteries. He fell into step at her side, padding along with a resigned expression. “Where next?” She was leading him along the crooked street filled with cloth merchants, weavers and tailors towards the central square.

“Do you want to look for anything?” Godit’s brow creased. “What exactly do men buy anyway? Horses and weapons, usually. Very strange creatures, you men. I don’t see how you manage to ignore half the interesting stuff only to go for dumb animals and lumps of metal used to hit people. But no, I have seen, much to my great astonishment, great groups of men of all ages gathered about weapon sellers going on and on about the various merits of this sword or other, and how this pommel design is far superior to that one, and other such trivial nonsense. A sword’s a sword; you stab people with it and lop off limbs. One style works as well as another, and the things never look very pleasant, not at all, so discussions of the assorted beauties of blades are pointless, if you will pardon the pun.”

“One style of sword is very different to another, and it’s best to have a blade matched to your height, build and fighting style. There is plenty to talk about.”

Godit waved a hand in dismissal. “Boring! One stick shaped lump of metal is much the same as another.” She crinkled the tip of her nose and asked without trying to hide her complete disinterest, “So does that mean I have to stand about feeling like I’ve been abandoned while you go play with swords and gush about braided red leather binding on a hilt being the current fashion?” She looked at him hopefully, hazel eyes pleading for rescue from such a dread fate.

“No, there’s nothing I want in town.” As they walked along the street Fulk could hear shouting, and plenty of it. Nothing dangerous, but it did sound like something good was cracking off in the square.

Godit beamed with pleasure. “Excellent! I was so worried there for a moment. Well, we can go then; I only needed a new veil for posh occasions and I can tell you hate shopping.” She ignored Fulk’s polite, unconvincing claim that he didn’t mind shopping. “What shall we do next? I did promise to keep you occupied all day and it is probably no later than ten in the morning. Life! I promised life, laughter, fun, pleasant diversions, gentle relaxation, a chance to be more than a knight practising his fighting and looking woeful. I do wish I could tack love on that list somewhere but really I don’t want to be overly optimistic. I know; we can go for a nice walk away from both palace and town.” She glanced at the bundle he was carrying and suddenly grinned. “We’d best drop that back off in the palace first though; if somehow I do manage to coax another kiss from you I don’t want my material crushing or dropping on the ground. It would only get in the way anyway.”

“Er…”

They had reached the central square now, and the source of the uproar was clear. A fishmonger was currently enjoying the benefits of being stuck in the stocks with a pile of rancid fish burning next to him, warning everyone he had been convicted of selling rotten food. A group of apprentices were pelting him with rubbish while the prisoner cursed and threatened, futilely trying to dodge. The fishmonger’s woes were completed by a very loud woman with an exceedingly long and varied list of complaints; apparently the man’s wife. His life might be about to improve; her current spiel was on how she intended to take the children and go home to her parents right this afternoon and if she ever saw him again she would get creative with a frying pan. Every once in a while the man took a little time out from yelling at the apprentices to direct his torrent of abuse at the woman instead. Together they managed a blistering exchange of swear and curse words that Fulk found surprisingly educational. Godit’s ears began to burn a bright red, indicating the language lesson was even more enlightening for her.

At the other end of the stocks sat a beggar, hunched up with his chin propped on one hand, apparently an old hand at this business. Seeing Fulk’s eyes on him the beggar shrugged cheerfully, as if to say ‘that’s life, and better his life than mine!’ The fishmonger was doing an excellent job of drawing all the attention away from the beggar.

Godit only spoke up a little to make herself heard across the din; she didn’t pause at all, burning ears or no. “Actually that is a very good idea – a nice blanket and a basket of food. It’s very fortunate the weather is fine today, though it may get a little chilly. Never mind, just grab your warmest cloak and I’ll do likewise, and perhaps freezing has some potential advantages, such as a nice warming hug from a broken nosed knight.”

The crowed cheered and hooted as the wife dumped a bucket of decaying fish guts over her husband, spat at him and then began to flounce off. She wasn’t fast enough; the crowd jeered at her in her turn as the fishmonger hurled a handful of muck at her and hit her square in the back, and told her in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of her, her family and her virtue.

“You are beyond relentless!” They began to make their way back up the street they had just walked down. Behind them Fulk could hear that the wife had gone back for more, armed with a marching tirade about his family and lack of ability in certain delicate areas.

“Persistence is its own reward, and she who dares wins.”






Not even an hour later Fulk found himself sat on a thick blanket with Godit on a grassy hill about twenty minutes walk from the palace, a basket with a picnic resting untouched at his side and a view of rolling, empty grassland with the palace slap bang in the middle right before his eyes. The distance reduced the people hurrying to and fro on the main road and castle walls to ants, but the palace itself still effortlessly managed to be imposing.

“It was a very nice speech he did, short and to the point with the right bit of inspirational quality. You know I’ve never seen a king march off to war before? It was really something, well worth seeing, but I doubt I’d share that opinion if you were leaving. It’s easy to see the glamour when you’re losing nothing. I did love that bit in the speech about how he was discharging his sacred duty as anointed king, not delegating because he loved his country too much to hand over its defence into another’s hands, and how he will only stop fighting to defend what God has given into his care when he is called to Paradise. It’s true you know; he’s never, not once, sat at home when there’s fighting to be done, no matter how minor. It’s one of the reasons his lords like him, I think. Fear him too; you know who’s going to turn up at your castle gate with an army and a battering ram looking for vengeance if you break faith. And where William goes much of his own army goes too, and you know he only accepts the best. The sight of men in his livery – and that includes you, Sir Fulk FitzWilliam! - is enough to make even Scotsmen discover the meaning of fear.”

“Even?” asked Fulk flippantly.

“Englishman!” Fulk saw the slap coming and rolled with it; his cheek was left stinging but he doubted the mark would last more than a few minutes.

His face split with a broad grin. “And proud of it.”

“I just did a great honour to you and yours and you respond by insulting me! Ignorant English pig! You’re all the same.”

“Makes me wonder why you’re looking to marry an Englishman then,” Fulk teased. “Go home; find yourself a nice Scotsman with a matching funny accent, red hair, and a beard like a bush.”

“Now there is the sole advantage you English have – you’re mostly properly shaved. Scotsmen? More hair than a flock of sheep, thanks to our king’s fondness for facial hair. I hope his successor changes the fashion. And we’re not the ones with the funny accents.”

“No?”

“No – that’s the Welsh.”

“Yes. Funny bunch, the Welsh.”

Godit nodded. “Mmmm. Very funny.” Silence held for a moment while they both considered the hapless Welsh. “Well,” she said brightly, “you’re only English but I like you. You’re bright enough; I can soon finish teaching you good manners. Lesson number one: never cast doubt on Scottish bravery.”

“I didn’t mean to offend; it was a joke.”

“Lesson two: beware the prickly Scotch pride.”

“Prickly pride I’m well versed in.” Fulk idly rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger, curling his fingers round to touch the hairpin safely hidden there. Silence held sway for a bit.

“Today’s little arrangement was quite timely,” said Godit. “I found I just had to get away from the solar for a bit; the queen is going on and on about her first kiss and it really is quite enough to drive me insane. Actually poor old Mariot is going quite mad; she’s worrying about her dear little Anne just like a mother would, on the one hand happy for her and on the other anxious. I would have thought just telling us about the general event would have been enough but no, she will go on and on in very great detail over and over, telling us exactly what happened and how wonderful it was. She drags each second out to a minute of talk! What’s more they kissed several times, so as you can imagine there’s a lot of seconds there, and she’s under the illusion that old joke about ‘not sure we got it quite right; let’s try again’ is new and just for her. Please! Age old and rusty, although I admit I did fall for it myself way back when I was a deal younger. Amazingly in this case it was her, not him who said it; well, well, wonders never cease and all that.”

Fulk smiled wistfully, hearing an echo of Eleanor saying, “I am not quite sure … perhaps we could try again?” when he has asked what she had thought of their first kiss. Still smiling he said, “Sometimes the best ways to say a thing are long taken, and all we can do is repeat them over again.”

“Mayhap,” agreed Godit easily. “But really, anyone would think we trio of maids were entirely innocent and in need of enlightening to hear her talk, or even that she just invented the sport and is the only one in the whole of Christendom who knows what to do. She must be exaggerating though; not to cast doubt on our king’s abilities but they just don’t have that fire to them yet. Pleasant, no doubt, but wonderful? Ha! She’ll soon learn, I think. In a way it’s rather charming, watching her grow up like this and experience for the first time some things of us have come to take for granted. Not me, you understand; you did an admirable job of burning away that rather jaded familiarity I had built up. Well, I do understand how she feels; I just can’t sit still and smile nicely while she tells me about it for the seventieth time this morning! Christ! She has been married for two months now and they only just got around to kissing. It is quite sad really, and of course now he is off on his little war and by the time he gets back who knows? Absence makes the heart grow fonder or forget entirely, as I’m sure you know. Speaking of which, how are you doing? Forgetting or growing fonder?”

Fulk said nothing, his mind still wandering a past a couple of months old.

Godit made a show of peering into his face, searching for clues. She straightened up again and said confidently, “Let me guess, you are thinking a Thibaut?”

Fulk blinked back to the present having heard nothing, painfully aware she expected him to say something. “What?”

“Oh come on! You must have heard of Thibaut the Songwriter’s famous verse:

Could I forget her gentle grace,
Her glance, her beauty’s sum,
Her voice from memory efface,
I’d end my martyrdom.

Her image from my heart I cannot tear;
To hope is vain;
I would despair,
But such a strain
Gives strength the pain
Of servitude to bear.

Then how forget her gentle grace,
Her glance, her beauty’s sum,
Her voice from memory efface?
I’ll love my martyrdom.”

“I don’t want to be a martyr,” said Fulk softly. His throat choked up.

“Then I shall valiantly redouble my efforts,” declared Godit merrily, taking the wrong meaning. Fulk didn’t bother to correct her; longing for the impossible was a habit he dearly needed to break. Godit was speaking again; Fulk reined his wandering attention back in. “… her play games with you. She’ll be here to marry anyway, so I doubt she’ll even have a second to spare for you. Anyway, it wouldn’t be seemly. No, don’t make the mistake of allowing things to backslide; keep away from her while she’s here or you’ll only regret it later.”

“I don’t want to see her at all. The wedding and the feast; I can’t see a way to avoid them and I don’t want to be there. Dear Jesú, I do not want to be there. I couldn’t just watch. I wanted to be in France, anywhere but here to watch.”

Entirely serious for once Godit said, “I’ll see what I can think of, and if the worst comes to the worst I’ll stick firmly at your side and do my best to support you.”

“Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while. Godit leaned over and brushed her lips on Fulk’s cheek; his eyebrows shot up and he started out of his reverie. “Well,” she explained coyly, “I had to recall your attention somehow and I always found slapping people melodramatic.” She placed one hand lightly on his arm, the pressure barely altering the natural lie of his tunic sleeve. “Forget. Don’t linger on what was, not unless you’d spend the rest of your life looking backwards and never, ever forwards.”

“It sounds a good deal easier than it is.”

Godit snatched her hand back. “Only because you never try. How long has it been since you left her?”

“Sixteen days and around twenty hours.”

“See? You’ve kept count to the hour, you bloody great fool! How is that forgetting? Every time I’ve seen you you’re off wandering in your memories half the time.”

“I am not!”

“Look at today then. We went shopping; you stood about moping. We went back to the castle; you walked along daydreaming. We’re out here now and what are you doing? Off with your princess in your imagination!”

It was on his lips to complain that part of him had been left behind with Eleanor and nothing filled the gaps or even numbed the awareness of his loss, no matter how hard he tried. He swallowed the words, not wanting to share something so intimate. “I suppose this little rant has nothing to do with your relentless husband hunting failing on me?”

“It is a common, well known, universal truth that every single woman needs a husband; until I get to be a widow I need a man to hide behind, and to be a widow you need to have been married at some point. Being a daughter’s the worst lot in life; being a wife’s one step better. Being a widow leaves you free, with control over your own life.”

“Oh, so what you’re really looking for is some poor sod to marry and then die swiftly leaving you a tidy inheritance?”

“I wouldn’t be looking for young and tolerable then,” said Godit scornfully. “I’d be looking for some rich old fool. With the right person I’d be very happy as a wife, far happier than as a widow.” She looked down at her clasped hands and admitted, “I’m getting old; I’m sixteen, seventeen in May. If I keep this up much longer my name will be mud and no one respectable will have me. I’m running out of time, you see.”

“Which makes me your last ditch effort then.”

She snorted. “And that’s how my little bit of honesty is repaid. As I’ve told you repeatedly you’re a good match and I like you. I haven’t met anyone else I like even half as much. Imagine how I feel knowing you’re far too busy in your little dream world to even notice I’m alive.”

Fulk quickly said, “I’m not quite that bad.”

Godit seemed to have great difficulty expressing what she wanted to, speaking slowly while her brow was furrowed by a faint frown. “It just … seems … right. You came here with next to nothing and were soon granted lands and a place here which makes you a suitable match for me. I’m only here to find a husband without my family poking, prying and shunting men I don’t like at me. The queen decided to push us together, although not quite in this way. It seems like someone up there,” she flicked an index finger up to point at the sky, “has decided we belong together.”

“Funny; I remember thinking someone up there wanted me to fall for Eleanor. Look how that turned out.”

“Perhaps the purpose of that was to bring you here?”

“Then it was a damned cruel way to do it.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“You deserve someone to value for you, not someone who dreams of another.”

She laughed quietly. “Your concern means in some way you do value me for myself.”

Fulk made a noise midway between a sigh and a growl of frustration. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand this; if I don’t find someone soon my family will call me home and lumber me with someone of their choice the instant I walk through the main gate, whether I like him or not. Then they’ll send me back to serve my queen with my new husband in tow. They’ll use my position at court as an extra selling point, and I’m most likely to get stuck with some ambitious type who sees me as a stepping stone.”

Fulk tried once again to express his point without getting too blunt. “We are nothing more than friends; that’s not a good foundation.”

She only laughed again. “Your roots are showing; I’m noble, you are noble now. Start thinking like one.”

Fulk closed his eyes and said in a level voice, “Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a replacement? A very poor second best?” He looked at her, trying to impress some of his solemnity onto her.

Godit raised her chin and met his eyes with a small, confident little curl to her lips. “I doubt I would.”

“No, perhaps not. I value you as a friend and I suppose eventually I’ll mostly get over Eleanor, but how long will that take? Months? Years? Decades? A lifetime? I will never completely forget, and I’ll never feel anything close to the same for you. I might grow fond of you, but I doubt more than that. Until then you’d be nothing more than a convenient body and an obligation I don’t want. You think it wouldn’t matter, but it would. A very great deal. You wouldn’t be a friend any more, and there’s a good chance I’d grow to resent you, perhaps even hate you.”

“But-”

Fulk pounded his fist into his thigh with bruising force. “No! I don’t do substitutes, and I don’t care to repeat past mistakes. You’d make a very nice Maude the Second, and it seems you’re doing the best to become one. I’m not interested, either in marrying or in courting. I will not start thinking and acting like a noble when it comes to love and marriage; I know how that ends up. I’m a bastard – living proof of two people’s sin, a walking reminder to one poor woman that her husband didn’t love her, a reminder to one man of what he didn’t have at home, and a reminder to another woman that she was always going to be alone when it mattered. Common nothings get the better end of the stick in this one thing. I’ll marry for love or not at all; not for money, or alliances, or social gain, or any of that. I’d like children, before you try and fling that at me, yes I’d like sons and daughters of my own. But not at any cost, and not so badly I’ll do something I know is a mistake.”

There was a very difficult silence. Godit had blanched as soon as he had raised his voice, and was now staring fixedly off at the palace, ignoring him. Slowly her colour began to ebb back. “Who’s Maude?” she asked quietly.

“Someone to whom you should be very grateful. Your family won’t be able to drag you home to marry if the queen requires you to stay with her, and she can speak up on your behalf. Your family can’t go against her, even if she is little more than a child. You’ve got influence and power because of your position with her; use it. Don’t throw yourself away on someone like me.”

Godit considered that for a while and then very slowly nodded. After another long silence she said sadly, “You are going to die a very lonely man.”

Fulk choked out a laugh. “Yes, and live as one too. Good thing I don’t expect my life to be a long one.”

“Friends?”

“Of course.”





:cleans tumbleweed out of the topic:

All this mush, mush, mush, mush stuff is really getting a strain to write. Plot required and necessary, but such hard work.

That's actual medieval poetry, so don't blame the frog if you don't like it.

[frogbeastegg]

The atmosphere in the solar was thick and heavy, ripe with promised trouble. Seated beside Trempwick and opposite Aveline at the small table Eleanor kept her head down and pretended to find the platter of food before her fascinating.

Trempwick sliced another strip off the lump of cold bacon on a serving platter in the centre of the table, hacking more than carving with his dagger. With one final savage stab he severed the smaller bit of meat from the larger and speared it on the tip of his knife, holding it up ready to serve. “Mother?” He spoke deliberately, showing off the very tips of his fangs as he formed the word.

Aveline replied stiffly, “No. Thank you.”

Far more pleasantly he enquired, “Nell?”

Eleanor didn’t lift her eyes from the mound of picked at but uneaten food already present on her platter. “No, thanks.”

“Ha!” muttered Aveline beneath her breath.

Trempwick dumped the meat on his own platter and jerked his knife free. He glared at his mother before drawing the edge of his knife across the hapless bacon in one swift, hard stroke which scored deeply into the stale bread of the trencher.

Aveline set her own eating knife down on the table with a clunk. “Well you did ask.”

“Did I indeed?” he replied.

“Yes, and then you do nothing but complain and act the ingrate when I do as you requested.” In a much lower voice, her lips not even moving, she added, “And I can guess where that came from.”

Eleanor picked up her cup and forced down a few mouthfuls of the weak ale while she fought back the urge to respond in kind to her soon to be mother-in-law.

Trempwick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his knife’s hilt. “Asked for what?”

“Sort her out, you said. Make her a fitting bride, teach her what she does not know, turn her into something useful.”

“Yes, I asked for you to educate her. We were all in agreement about that.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, mother dear, exactly. Just that. I did not ask for you to sit across the table and ruin my first meal with company in nearly a week by muttering to yourself like a senile old crone!”

“Senile, is it? Ha! You are the one with the memory problems – you ask me to sort her out and then make such a fuss each time I try my efforts are entirely wasted. If I am reduced to muttering to broach a point it is because of you.”

Trempwick’s knife thudded down onto the tabletop and he grabbed hold of the edge of the table in both hands, finger nails straining against the wooden surface as if he could claw marks into the grain. “You are malicious, and I will not have you insulting or belittling my princess.”

“You want her to act like the lady she reportedly is-”

“Not reportedly,” snarled Trempwick. “IS!”

“Is, but does not act. Play about with words however you like, Raoul. We both know the truth.”

“Do we now? Go on, remind me of this truth we both know.”

“Born but does not act, therefore she is not. She is not a lady, nor even a noble, and certainly not royalty. She is a hellion.”

Eleanor bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

Trempwick’s nails drew a loud scraping sound from the woodwork as they attempted to bite into the solid planking but slid off harmlessly, too soft and blunt to harm the polished oak. Softly he said, “She is my princess.”

“She does not even have the good manners to look up and talk clearly, instead choosing to mumble into her lap.”

“I believe my dearly beloved Nell is fighting very hard to keep her temper under control. Is that not so, sweet Nell?”

Eleanor looked up and said clearly, “No, that is not right. It is my father who loses his temper so easily, not I. I am trying to keep from asking how one with so poor a set of manners feels qualified to judge others in that regard.”

Aveline’s eyes narrowed and she looked down her nose at the princess. “Snippy, very snippy. Rude too. You miss the point, hellion. I have licence to speak as I do; you do not.” She dismissed Eleanor from her attention and turned back to her son. “You want her manners fixing, and then look at all this fuss caused when I attempt to raise one very small point – attempt now on request, but did not bother when it was more pertinent because I knew this would be the outcome. Your princess is a wilful, stubborn, rude, arrogant, disrespectful, ignorant, selfish little brat. I am sure it is not your fault, Raoul. She must have come to you flawed; sometimes such … degeneracy is in the blood.”

Trempwick went very pale and then flushed red. He pushed away from the table so violently the objects on it shook and jostled. “You are leaving tomorrow, mother dear. I am glad.” He turned on his heel and marched from the room, leaving the door swinging freely to do as it pleased.

Aveline turned on Eleanor, her face contorted with anger. “I hope you are happy – this is your doing!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Eleanor got up to leave.

She did not get far; Aveline flung herself after the younger woman and her hand fastened about Eleanor’s upper arm, fingers gripping tight enough to leave bruises. “Oh yes, as innocent and cheery as a daisy, aren’t you? Daisies get plucked, or trodden on, or pulled to pieces by some idle person.”

Eleanor jerked to a halt, unable to keep moving with another person’s weight dragging her back. She half turned, aiming her best regal glare at Aveline. “Is that a threat?” It was at times like this a few extra inches of height would be wonderful.

Aveline’s face evened out and she said seriously, “I do not play games of threats, princess, and if you think my warning to be otherwise than it is then it is your own loss. Another warning; Raoul has changed because of you, though you deny it. My son was always calm and self composed; look at him now. If you cannot see the significance there then you do not deserve any of the praise he has lavished on your intellect.”

“He claims to love me; that is known to change people. Now unhand me.”

Aveline’s grip didn’t waver. “Be that as it may or may not it does indeed appear Raoul overestimated you.”

“I shall go and cry my eyes out immediately.”

The old woman’s fingers spasmed and her grip tightened; Eleanor could feel nails digging into sensitive flesh even through the layers of her clothes. “I promised to educate you and I will, though partly from charity than any real hope or liking for you. Think, and think well. He was self controlled but is not so now.”

“It means you manage to punch through his armour and wound him. Satisfied?”

Aveline closed her eyes for a moment and visibly collected herself. “More than that, much more than that and relevant to you.” She sighed in immense irritation. “Very well, if I must spell it out – he is losing control of himself, because of you. Now think on what that might mean for you; let us see if you can get this part right.”

“Why does it have to be me? The French situation-”

“Is something he has been dealing with for much of his adult life, that and similar. Think! I do not like wasting my time, even if the Lord does approve and look kindly on charity and acts of mercy. Firstly it makes him more volatile; you have a gift for angering people because of your stupidities and now Raoul is far more likely to react harshly. You might be behaving in a more fitting manner towards him now, but if you begin your foolishness again it is likely to have very unfortunate consequences. Secondly you are sharing a bed with my son before your marriage and allowing him all kinds of liberties.”

Eleanor tried to prise the talon like fingers free but the older woman’s grip was surprisingly strong. “I do not recall you complaining when your son barged his way into my bed uninvited very shortly after our betrothal, nor do I recall you grumbling on our trip home when he continued to do so. It is none of your business what Raoul and I do.”

Aveline sighed again and said testily, “Oh, do try to think! You are playing a very dangerous game, in effect waving a very juicy bone before a starving dog and hoping it does not leap to bite your fingers off. I see the way he looks at you – hungry. You keep fending him off, I trust? Despite these disgraceful arrangements of yours?”

Eleanor’s eyes blazed. “Of course, and I will thank you not to imply otherwise.”

“There you are, you see. You have worked yourself into a neat little trap; either you
continue fending him off and hope that Raoul’s patience lasts, knowing that if it does not he will go elsewhere or get forceful, or you can surrender with a bit of dignity.” Aveline studied Eleanor hawkishly, and with a glimmer of triumph said, “You look mildly sick. Now I wonder which upsets you; the thought of him going elsewhere or you surrendering?”

“Neither, I assure you. He promised to honour me, and we both know he will keep that promise.”

“So …” said Aveline thoughtfully, finally loosing her hold on Eleanor’s arm a little. “What I do not quite see … you claim to be learning to love him, the pair of you certainly act like lovers, and yet you refuse him, quite frequently, I think. I do wonder why.” When Eleanor would have spoken Aveline tightened her grip once more. “Spare me the lies about honour; if you were concerned about honour you would still be in your old room at the very least. Also spare me the lies about that very necessary bloodstain; even stupid peasant girls can manage to blob a bit of chicken’s blood on a sheet and fool the outside world, and they do not often have the complicity of their new husband. So you see I am very curious; if you are what you claim then one would expect …” She smiled wolfishly and hitched a shoulder.

“I pity you. If this is all you have to fill your life you are a sad creature indeed.”

“Just answer the question, indulge an old woman’s curiosity. The obvious answer is that you really don’t have an attraction to him, despite your nice little shows. That, my dear, means you are lying. I wonder about that too; why? What do you gain?”

“The attraction is there and real; I would not know how to fake it.”

“Then why?”

Eleanor gave up on the fingers and tried squeezing Aveline’s writ hard at the joint; she felt the one woman’s bones shift slightly, ready to pop out of joint with more pressure, but still she could not win free of Aveline’s grasp. “Not that it is any business of yours I am frightened; simple, honest, dignified nerves.”

“Very easily mended, and waiting only makes the worrying worse. I know; I have been there and worried on it in the past. No need to torture yourself any more; I would wager my life Raoul will tear himself away from his work for you. With this mutual attraction of yours the experience should prove quite agreeable. Happy memories are so much better than imagined horrors, don’t you think?”

Eleanor spoke through clenched teeth, “You are disgusting.”

“And you are lying once again. You know what I think? You know my best answer to this little riddle you pose? I don’t think you are quite so innocent as you claim.”

Eleanor’s hand began to travel towards Aveline’s face in an open handed slap; about half way there she regained control and diverted her aim to chop the side of her hand into the pit of Aveline’s elbow. She hit with sufficient force to partly numb Aveline’s lower arm, and twisted free of her grip. Eleanor forced herself to laugh, not caring the end result sounded strange even to her own ears. “Look at me; it has been years since I have seen my reflection but I am familiar with the comments so I know what you must see. Who on earth would ever want me? Aside from Raoul? He is something of a miracle.”

Aveline cradled her injured arm close to her body and mused, “That bodyguard of yours was quite handsome, and he is mysteriously gone thanks to a small bit of very cautious speculation.”

“I send my bodyguard away myself to put an end to those rumours.” Eleanor headed for the door.

Aveline hurried after her, talking rapidly. “So, not a lack of attraction, not honour, not really fear, not a case of trying to hide lost virginity for as long as possible to delay the inevitable storm, certainly not lack of opportunity, and undoubtedly the problem rests with you because he is very eager. Interesting little problem I have found.”

Eleanor halted so abruptly Aveline nearly crashed into her back. “I am nervous. I am not suited to this and it is not something I ever saw myself doing. For once in my life I would like something to be honest instead of a fraud, and I would rather not start my marriage off on one big lie. I really do not care for the assorted risks, especially when they are mostly negated by waiting just a few more days.” She began walking again.

“Risks: there are none, not for a spymaster and his agent; at least not any you will not face anyway. Nerves: easily fixed. Shock of an unexpected change of direction: should have worn off long ago, and again easily fixed. Honesty: considering you are lying yet again now I wonder that you dare try that excuse on me, and in a strange way it would be rather fitting for this marriage to start on a lie which requires a partnership between you and him to work.”

“Speculate away; I do not care. Raoul has more sense than to listen to your nonsense, and he is so busy now he should not be disturbed.” Eleanor rushed down the staircase as quickly as she could.

Aveline could not keep pace so she raised her voice and let it echo exultantly through the stairwell, “He is already wondering!”





Eleanor sat on the ground, knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. The chill of the ground and air was seeping into her bones now; she had not stopped to grab a cloak before leaving the manor building in considerable haste. She regretted that now; not only was it a cold day but she had come perilously, humiliatingly close to losing her temper completely. She had fled in a kind of mindless fear, proving her weakness and inviting more attacks in the future along a similar vein.

Her arm stung and throbbed on the imprints of Aveline’s fingers. For a second she focused on the pain, then with the ease of long practise she mentally shunted it to one side so it became no more than a background irritation.

The space between her shoulder blades itched; Eleanor glanced back over her shoulder, towards the manor. She could not tell if anyone was watching her through one of the windows; she would not be surprised to find Trempwick’s mother lurking at one like a sentry watching for a besieging army’s moves. Eleanor shivered; this exposed position right in full view of fully half the manor was not comfortable, not when she wanted to be alone without even the suspicion of other people. But she had to stay where Trempwick could find her easily; he had made it quite clear at the palace two months ago, and in the time since then, that he was no longer inclined to be tolerant of her vanishing.

She said quietly, “He is already wondering.”







Scary yet mildly cool fact: I recently picked up a new (to me, actually 5 books with a few more to come) series of books by someone called Diana Gabaldon. According to a post I saw by the author on her forum the last book in the series is 500,000 words, though whether that is rounded up or down I don't know. My paperback copy of that book weighs in at 1412 pages. Eleanor is currently 252, 525 words long, making it about 700 pages long if published in the same format, text size etc. I've written a normal sized novel and still have plenty left to add ...

[Kommodus]

Hi. It looks like it's been a while since anyone has left comments here, so I thought I'd weigh in. First of all, I can't believe this story has grown so long! Congradulations are due for sticking with it. I find it nearly as hard to believe that I've read so much; while I read a fair amount, I haven't consumed such a long novel in quite some time.

It seems things are starting to pick up a little since the last time I commented. The addition and development of new characters is certainly a help, since we already knew just about everything about the existing ones. The lack of Eleanor/Fulk interaction leaves a hole in the story - a hole which the introduction of characters such as Godit and Jocelyn attempts to fill, and does a fair job of it. I actually find Godit's character rather appealing, besides the areas in which you simply gloss over big chunks of her conversation by referring to them as meaningless chatter. At those times she seems banal and annoying, but anytime you zero in and actually give details of her interaction with Fulk, she seems interesting, worldly-wise, and even fun. Jocelyn, on the other hand, is much easier to despise, but I suppose this is mostly by design. The fact that he is far more nobel than the "lesser" men that surround him somehow doesn't arouse the sympathy that perhaps it should. It just seems too separate from his brutish, grating personality. Trempwick's mother, who has recently taken a bit more central role, seems to fulfull her role as one of the worst specimens of humanity ever - once again, clearly by design. The way in which her ambition rubs off on Trempwick is hard to miss, and is a nice touch.

Something occurred to me recently about this story. There is, in my opinion, a dearth of appealing characters. In most stories I've read, it's possible to find a number of characters that, though they certainly have human flaws, I mostly enjoy, and could imagine spending pleasant time with. This story has precious few such characters - though most have perhaps one or two redeeming qualities, they are mostly quite disagreeable. One might think you had a low opinion of humanity, or at least humanity during this time period. I wonder where that comes from.

I've noticed that a number of your chapters (throughout the story, but even more recently) have come with notes attached indicating that you didn't like it, or that it was tough to write but somehow necessary for plot development. The length of this piece, however, indicates to me that perhaps not all of it is necessary. Like many of the characters in this story, you seem to feel forced into a certain course of action which you would not otherwise choose to take. Might I suggest that you instead write the kind of story that you personally enjoy reading? If mush is really so terrible for you to write, don't include so much of it - the Eleanor/Trempwick interaction is absolutely dreadful, and as unpleasant to read as it was for you to write. It's not that it's poorly written; in fact, it's up to your usual high standards, but it's obvious you don't like writing it, and it simply doesn't ring true.

You stated early on that you don't really like most of the characters in the story, even Eleanor and Fulk. Why not rather have created some characters that appeal to you - you would have had more fun writing about them, and the result would have been more enjoyable to read. You often call a section boring but necessary for plot development. Why not rather have taken the plot in a different direction - you could have created a story in which every chapter had a unique appeal to it, and none felt difficult or painful to get through.

Two of my favorite modern authors are J.R.R. Tolkein and C.S. Lewis (I know, not exactly unique to me). However, one crucial factor they had in common was this - they wrote the stories they wanted to read. This is a common thread among the greatest artists: great songwriters write the songs they want to hear; great painters paint their idea of beauty; great game-makers create the games they want to play. You clearly have significant talent as a writer, but if you want to take it up a notch, you need to eliminate the "forced" feel of your writing, and write what you love.

Every character in this story is doing exactly what they feel they must do in order to survive, yet every single one of them is mistaken. You are not forced either; you could exercise your freedom as a writer. If the story comes alive for you, it will do so for others as well. I realize this story may be too far along to change much, but this advice is meant for future writings (if, of course, you choose to take it - after all, I'm not a writer and I don't really know you, so what do I know anyway?)

Congradulations again on having persevered on such a momentous project. It is a significant achievement, and one that I am sure you will learn much from.

Sincerely,

Ken

[frogbeastegg]

Kommodus’ comment reminds me I never did reply to the end of Luden’s last one, thanks to the new resolved problems with my firewall.

Fulk and jealousy: Hmm, what does a frog know? As I already said large chunks of emotional stuff are purely academic to me, and so occasionally it goes wrong. This is one of those times, and should probably now be filed under ‘froggy Gaff’ and forgotten about. That scene is earmarked for revision at some point in the future; there’s nothing much more than can be done with the current version of it.

Nell in that scene is drowning in the worst news of her life, and more than a little the worse for wear. She’s not taking the time to be extra careful about what she says because she’s really not fit for it at that point; despair, pain, quite a lot of blood loss, shock etc – it all adds up. In that kind of state she’s not really able to be eloquent or pick her words with care.

Back to that declaration of love scene: Hmmm … I’m not really sure I could have got Nell reasoning away odd Fulk behaviour there; it probably wouldn’t have fitted. I seem to remember trying it and finding it read so badly I cut the entire thing and started writing from scratch again.

I think that takes care of the half I missed. Now to Kommodus. Warning, this is more like rambling than a structured reply.

Yes it has been a long time; I was beginning to wonder if I had scared people off! :nervous grin: The paradox thread has now passed 10,000 views and has plenty of discussion, but this place is grave like.

It is quite funny that you say Nell and Fulk left a hole in the story; indeed they do, but for me in a very personal kind of way. I love writing their scenes, always. Ok, so I do grumble if they are being mushy, but even then they have that nice back and forth dialogue and so that’s my compensation for having to find a new way to write yet another kiss. I did actually cry when she sent him away; damn near broke my heart and I wasted countless hours looking for a way to avoid it without weakening the overall story.

Characters, now that is a very interesting point. It’s not obvious here, but on the other forum it is very clear I have created a cast where every character appeals to someone, and one person’s favourite is another’s bane. There’s actually a set of fan clubs over in the other thread, all recently started thanks to one person starting a Trempwick fan club and creating a trend. The membership tally currently runs:
Trempy: 2 members
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 4 members
Nell: 3 members
Godit: 5 members
Anti-Trempy: 2 members

Even characters not mentioned in that list have appreciators and/or haters; all of the major and minor characters are covered. So as the Fulk fans boo and mutter good-naturedly about Nell’s scenes with Trempy the Trempy fans cheer, and vice versa back when Fulk was still around. People hate William for what he does to Nell but understand why he feels it necessary and like him for other things; he inspires quite a bit of pity. And so on. Aveline and Godit are the only characters I can think of now who do not have this split of opinion, and that is my design. My characters are for the most part grey, and that is precisely what I want. They are almost all a mix of good and bad, though the quantities of both vary from character to character. I find it makes them far more human, and I really dislike black and white characters.

The problem with grey is that there is no clear cut hero. If a reader does not find any of the grey characters suitably engaging then they are left rather adrift. That’s actually not something I had thought about until now; thanks.

Do I have a low opinion of humanity? Probably; I’m a cynic and I have seen a lot of the bad sides of this species. But I do also see some good points, and I see quite a bit of that good in this story, some of it not written yet, some not visible yet, some open to opinion, some plain for all to see.

My own position on the characters is … complicated. Nell is my favourite character, both in this story and that I have ever created. Simply put I love the gooseberry. That does not mean I like everything she does, and there are a great many occasions where I would love to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattle! “Gah! Send Fulk away!? No! You need him, you silly gooseberry!!!!” Ahem. That is the reader and idealist speaking; I also have the writer side, and that side knows exactly why Fulk got sent away and knows how important that was.

Fulk I also love; he is my second favourite. I would love to smack him about a bit for what he did to Maude, and sometimes he can be a bit thick, but on the whole he’s a great guy.

Trempwick, well this is a love hate relationship. I do love writing him; he is great fun because he is so … Trempwickish. He does do a lot of good, protecting Nell and so on, but I dislike him because of the way he treated Fulk and other unpleasant things he has done, including the murder of a lame boy, aka Nell’s brother Stephan.

Aveline, I like her because she is pure fun to write. There is nothing quite so delightful as really letting lose and saying all kinds of nasty things. Aveline flows down onto the page beautifully; I just wind her up and let her go.

William, I have great pity for this man. What he does to Nell is disgusting, and he is a hard man, but deep down and in unexpected ways he is actually quite decent. He is perhaps my favourite minor character, not having enough pages to really count as major.

Anne I do like, but I dislike her when she is acting her age. So that is about a 30/70 dislike/like split based on her scenes now. I never have liked children.

Godit; fun character again. She chatters on and natters pretty pointlessly, quite playful. She was only supposed to be a way for Fulk to contact Anne; the rest she was done herself, a walk on part transformed into a minor character.

Jocelyn, well this man pretty much invented himself. He certainly developed the swearing on his own, and bizarrely it does suit him. My original plan was for a French character who didn’t get on with his wife; so far all the arranged marriages are happy and I didn’t want a skewed perspective. He also fills certain plot needs, and that is his real purpose. Everything past that very slender outline he has added on his own, including that droplet of not exactly consideration to Richildis and his real love for, and patience with, his children.

Hugh is the closest to a character I mislike; he is so staid he is dull both to read and to write. But in that too … well, I know why he is this way and for that I do rather pity him.

Have I missed anyone aside from tiny, hazy characters like Richildis or Constance? Don’t think so. So you see I can dislike a character but really like or even love writing them; Aveline is the best example of this.

All of this does rather beg the question, if I love Nell so much, and if I love her interaction with Fulk so much, then why do I treat Nell so badly and why did I split them up? Because it’s needful, a part of this greater story I really want to tell. There’s some quote I remember, fairly famous too, about how the best storytellers will hurt, torture of even kill their favourite characters if the plot requires it whereas the lesser ones will protect them, sometimes to the detriment of the work as a whole. I definitely don’t make any claims to greatness, but I will never, ever guard my favourites. Nell and co are all sacrifices on the altar of plot. If the story requires any of the characters to suffer or die then they will, including my beloved Nell. If I have to kill her I will cry my eyes out as I write, but write I will.

To the plot itself, and writing what I want to read. The mush is all very needful to this plot, and it is a story I want to tell. If it wasn’t I could never have started it; I find I can only write something I have an interest in. In this story I attempt, with varying degrees of success and competency, to do many things I want in books I read myself. Mush is a part of the whole, and if I want to write the ‘good’ stuff then I have to write the mush too. Would it surprise people if I said only two loves were planned by me, and that the rest all developed on their own? Eleanor and Fulk were always going to fall for each other, and Trempwick was always intended to be like this. All the rest has developed on its own, sparking out of characters I sketched as outlines and let them come to life. William and Anne are the best example of this; they were intended to become a mildly happy father/daughter kind of arrangement. Elements of that intent are still there, incorporated into their growing fondness for each other. They did that, not me. I could try and stop them, but firstly that is impossible because the characters are what they are and will not be changed by a mere frog, and secondly I rather like the way it is turning out. Gives me some nice possibilities in the future …

How many people here have read Clavell’s Shogun? How many could imagine it without the Blackthorn/Mariko romance? I view this story in the same light; the romance(s) are an integral part.

I don’t like writing mush, but I can’t shy away from it. I have to learn to write every potential facet of any story I might want to do, and love in its assorted forms is a rather common thing. Actually, for all my grumbling I rather like the way this is turning out. The mush works mostly very well; it counterpoints some of the less pleasant aspects, for example Nell gets beaten to a pulp but Fulk was always there for her.

Guilty confession: There are actually a few mush scenes I very much want to write. :embarassed:

I do need to eliminate the forced feeling, and pep up the variety of what mush is needed, and generally refine and get better at the whole thing. I don’t like it, but I need it. I’m now reading books with higher romance quotients than I usually do in an effort to learn how to handle it better.

Hmm, if I stick to writing what I like then I have real problems – nothing much would happen. I don’t like writing mush, or violence of the Nell being beaten kind, or the burning of villages kind, and I hate writing posh functions, legal stuff, religious stuff, … um, actually I mainly like doing witty dialogue and the occasional fight scene, and I like crafting characters and seeing how they turn out when they come to life.

Why not take the plot in a different direction? Because … I have a destination in mind, and along the way there are a great many landmarks I want to go past. There are also a great many streets I have to go down to get to that destination. If I change the route I end up somewhere else entirely. As I travel down my pre-planned route I see many, many things I did not expect to. While sometimes I get travelsick, and the food is not always to my tastes, the trip is damned fun.

Credibility; an important word for me. How credible would it have been for Nell to tell her father she loves Fulk and would only marry him, and then for William to grudgingly accept instead of hitching her to Trempy? It wouldn’t have been at all believable, and so I could not do it even if I wanted to. Or how credible for Fulk and Nell to run off to Ireland during that last mission and escape to live in perfect happiness for the rest of their lives? It wouldn’t have been; they would have been found. Whatever I do I have to get there in a believable manner, and if I can’t then it cannot happen. Perhaps the best answer would have been to make Fulk a suitable match right from the beginning? But then he would be an entirely different person, and almost certainly already married, and he would not have met Nell as he did, and so they could never fall for each other, and then …

Changing even small details has a knock on effect, and so a lot is changed and latered.

As far as length, necessity etc goes: well, I need an editor :tongueg: Writers write, and editors edit, and it is supposedly a general rule of thumb that writers insist on putting in far too much and want to keep scenes that may not be needed. But you do have to judge from a finished work, I think. I could go through this entire story and explain why each and every scene is here; to me each and every one has a point. I’m too close to the work to judge it now; it needs an editor.

Anyway, to put an end to that rather large dose of froggy musing, thanks. You got me thinking, and presented a bit of a contrast to the other views on the story I am getting. Contrast is always good; it presents new ideas for me to think about. I’m only a beginner; I have a long way to go. These forums are where I am learning, and the comments are a part of how.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor’s nose, feet, ears and hands had just gone comfortably numb with cold when she heard someone walking up behind her, quiet but making just enough noise for her to catch. She turned her head a little and said, “How kind of you not to ruin my peace with a lot of shouting and hollering, master.”

A pair of legs clad in dark green hose appeared in her view as Trempwick looped about to stand in front of her. “My mother was being most insistent I chase after you and drag you back home right now, so here I am. She is also insisting I beat you for nearly breaking her arm, and is making a lot of noise about your general behaviour, lies and lack of good manners. She came barging into my study presumably shortly after you left, and has been most adamant ever since.”

“Really? Well then I complain loudly and generally, supply the details yourself, about her manners, behaviour and insist you beat her for attacking and insulting me.”

Trempwick sighed and massaged his temples. “Quite frankly this is giving me a headache. Do get up, beloved Nell. I find speaking at the ground most undignified.” He took her hand to help her to her feet. “Nell, dearest, your hands are freezing!” He touched the back of one hand against her cheek, then checked her other hand. “Freezing indeed.” Quickly he pulled his cloak off and bundled her up snugly. “If you really must go gallivanting around in light clothes you could have done so yesterday when the weather was warm! Are you trying to make yourself ill?”

“I am perfectly alright.”

“Like a block of ice, almost as if you wanted to catch a chill. Come on.” With one arm wound about her back and holding onto her far elbow he began to escort her back towards the manor. “I shall stick you next to a fire and get you something warming to drink, and heaven help you if you move before you are suitably toasty.”

“Really, I am fine.”

“Until tomorrow when you have a nasty cough, you mean? Nell, you cannot afford to take chances with your health; journeys, weddings, your family, my mother – quite enough trouble when you are hale. I have great faith in you, sweetest Nell, but I will not lie and say your days at the palace before I arrive are going to be easy or safe. You will only have my mother for support, and unlike I she will not risk stepping in between you and your family. You must keep your head down, play your part to perfection, stay out of trouble, and above all be alert.”

“I am very resilient; you know that.” Eleanor leaned into Trempwick a little, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Yes, but that is no reason to tempt fate.”

“Tempting fate is stuffing me back in the same room as your mother. There is a reason I left, why I prefer to freeze out here. Much more of her and one of us is going to die, and I am the one with the agent’s training.”

“Sweet Nell, while I might actually be very grateful if you killed my delightful mother I would much prefer you not to. You would feel very guilty, and those nightmares would return; I do hate to see you suffer, and I like being able to sleep soundly too. You will apologise to her-“

Eleanor stiffed. “But-”

Trempwick raised his voice substantially to drown her out, “Don’t interrupt, darling Nell. There will be no more fighting; you will learn from her and tolerate her as necessary. She is a part of your cover act while you are at the palace, just as she was before. You will not damage that cover, or draw undue attention to yourself during your little trip to play with the queen.”

“She should be apologising to me. She said-”

“I know what she said. I have dealt with it; she will not meddle like that again. Really you should not have risen to her bait.”

Eleanor stopped walking and pulled free of him. “If I did not then many would claim it proved her right,” she said hotly.

“Equally, many could claim your reaction was a tad guilty. There is no single response which looks more innocent than others, so best choose dignity instead.” He raised his eyebrows to enquire if she had anything to add to that but Eleanor kept her jaw firmly clenched on the threatening explosion, fighting once again for control. “Speaking of dignity, and please note that this is just me covering all potential possibilities, if there is anything you need to tell me I will forgive you so long as you do not let me find out for myself, and be assured I would know, you could not hope to hide any .. well, that is … um, … prior experience.” He began to colour.

Eleanor flailed her arms free of the enshrouding woollen cloth of the cloak and planted her fists on her hips. “There really is no way I can win, is there? You know, this is why I liked being single and forgotten – much easier.”

“Nell-”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and everyone has their own ideas of what I should be doing with my life and they persist in telling me them over and over and then insult me if I do not match up with them!” She waved an arm in the air energetically; not held in place by the heavy brooch Trempwick’s cloak began to slip off. “No one will believe me when I say I am not some slut; really I am beginning to wonder what exactly it is about me which makes people say these things!”

“Nell-”

“Demands, endless demands! If I don’t meet them then people start wondering, and people have very unpleasant imaginations! I can’t possibly be worried or have a sense of honour or propriety, no, such things are entirely beyond me and I am a liar to even suggest I might posses such traits, and that only makes me all the more despicable!”

“Nell-”

The cloak slipped some more, and now the dangling weight of the clasp began to tug the rest of the material inexorably groundward. With a growl Eleanor tore it free of her body and began to cramp the heavy woollen folds together into a more wieldy bundle with the brooch in the centre, twisting and thumping the material as if she could somehow wring its neck. “All the expectations are even worse; I am supposed to have done all kinds of things, really most of them quite insulting! Everyone has decided what I should be doing and not a one cares what I might want. I am far too old for this, and not suited to all this mushiness at all, but I do the best I can and that is obviously not good enough for anybody!” By now she had screwed the cloak up into a tight, misshapen ball. Finding nothing better to do with it she hurled it at Trempwick.

Trempwick caught the speeding bundle of cloth adroitly and began to shake it back out ready for wear again. “Nell-”

“To add the final annoyance to it all I am always left worrying; what if, what if, what does this mean, where might this go, now what am I supposed to be doing?! And in the end no matter how you look at it I am failing somehow – I cannot win! And who will get the blame regardless of how this turns out? Me, that is who! I am a lack moraled, untrustworthy, weak, sinful whore if I do sleep with you now and any but the two of us know about it, and a cold, lying, whore with a great deal to hide if I do not. Have you any idea what my family would do in that first case? Disowned, cast out without a penny to my name, battered close to death, hated, reviled – that would just be the beginning, and I would only be lucky enough to escape being dumped in a remote, unpleasant, strict convent because we are contracted, and I presume you might complain about losing me and press your claim on me. In the second instance? You hate me, your mother insults me, and both of you are wondering away, tagging me with all kinds of foul labels and accusations, and doubtless so is everyone else who see us! And in all this no one cares that, honestly, I find the idea quite disgusting and terrifying. No, go on and get it over with now, they say, or stop being stupid, or whatever. Same logic as having all your teeth pulled because one might go rotten and you are afraid of having it pull-”

Trempwick put an end to her outburst by clamping hand over her mouth; her words emerged muffled into his palm for a while and she struggled unsuccessfully to pull his hand away before she gave up and fell into smouldering silence.

“Dear Nell, I think I get the idea; I think most of the shire gets the idea.” He removed his hand, placing it on her shoulder instead. “My mother’s poison is quite effective, I think. If I am honest, yes I do wonder, but who would not in like circumstances? I do not ask because I do not wish to be pushy, and I do not really believe you capable of any of the … erm, well … unpleasant options.” He took a slow, deep breath. “Frightened. Well, you had not really said, and, you never struck me as the kind to be bothered by something so mundane.” He cleared his throat noisily a few times. “I take it from a part of your little outburst that someone,” his tone left no doubt as to whom he believed to be the guilty party, “has told you that the best way to … erm, suggested that … experience and all that?”

Eleanor admitted miserably, “Yes. But really that does not help at all – I am still damned petrified, and will continue to be so. Same problem, just moved forward a bit in time.”

“True, but I suppose less pressure and no waiting guests might help?”

“I do not think so; it is generally the same er, events.” She felt her face burn as she went a nice scarlet.

“Um … well, I suppose I had also really better say …” The blood rushed to his face and he addressed his shoes in a mumble, “Stop thinking and worrying and leave it all to me. You see, it will … that is to say … physically speaking it … um, it will just … it will make things worse. For you. Um, mentally too …”

Eleanor’s eye ticked. “Er …?”

“It … well, it …” He coughed and cleared his throat a couple of times. “Just ask my mother to explain or something. Trust me, stop worrying, and above all relax.” He coughed a little more and swapped to staring up at the sky. “Erm … as much as I would like to set your mind at rest, well if I am equally honest, that is … look, I am no good at talking about these things, only doing, and um, well this really is not the place, not that I meant we should here, no, no far from it!” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times like an empty barrel in a turbulent river, and he went a deep crimson. “Ahem. Yes, well, all in all this little trip to the palace might be a good thing. More knowledgeable people, and stuff. Useful. I just … well, that is you are kind of a daughter to me, and, well, really this just is not the type of thing …”

Eleanor nodded in perfect understanding. “Yes, it feels like incest to me too.”

“Erm, that was not what I meant. Um … incest?”

“I always saw you as something of a second father. Our present situation does begin to get … um, weird, at certain points.”

“Oh. Damn. Now there is an unforeseen downside to raising your future wife. Incest, well, well. Damn. Er, I imagine that feeling will go away?”

“Hmmmm, no idea. You see me as a daughter, partly.”

“Well, yes … that is, no … well, not quite, certainly not in that way! No incest feeling anyway, just a nagging feeling I should really pass you off to your mother right about now and run for it.”

“Pity she is dead.”

“Quite,” agreed Trempwick quickly. “Inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

“Very.”

“She never had much time for me anyway.”

“No.”

“So that does not help at all, does it?”

“No, quite right.” Trempwick forced a silly looking bright smile. “Well, I imagine we will manage somehow. Incest – Nell, you really do know how to put a damper on things!”

“Sorry.”

“You know I shall forget any ideas of suggesting a nice traditional private farewell tonight; we can play chess instead. Er, well, that is unless you want …?”

“Not really.”

“Ah … um … yes. Look, I shall tell you what, sweet Nell. When we get inside I shall sit you down next to a nice fire and go see about some food for a private dinner, just the two of us. We can spend the rest of the day doing whatever we end up doing, whatever that might be. Whatever we do find to do will definitely lack my mother, and that is a very great advantage.”

“But what about your work?”

“France can spy on itself for the rest of the day.” He replaced his cloak about her shoulders, this time pinning it in place, and risked a very tentative kiss.

Eleanor declared faintly, “I think I need a drink.”

Trempwick nodded sagely. “Me too. Something strong. Very strong. And in a large cup.”






The next morning Eleanor’s, Aveline’s and Juliana’s horses were saddled and ready to go, along with a singular pack horse loaded with everything Aveline had brought to the manor and a bag with the few items and changes of clothes Eleanor was taking to the palace.

The servants rushed about, finishing their preparations and helping Aveline and her maid onto their mounts.

Trempwick had drawn Eleanor to one side, safely out of the chaos. He had decided not to accompany them to the village where the rest of Aveline’s escort waited to join them, claiming that dragging out a separation only ever made it worse.

“I thought you might like this,” he said, pulling a small square parcel of plum coloured silk from the scrip at his belt. “A parting gift. I have had it for a while; I have been holding onto it for a suitable occasion and now, especially in light of yesterday, seems like the right time.”

Eleanor carefully unwrapped the gift, revealing the glitter of a simple gold ring. She picked it up by one edge and examined it closely. It was a slender band with one face flattened and widened very slightly. A gooseberry exactly like the one in her badge had been engraved lightly there, rather like a seal ring; the design had not been reversed or cut deep enough for the ring to be used for that purpose. A leaves and stem design chased around the middle of the band, again not cut very deep into the metal.


Trempwick urged, “Look inside the band.”

She did so; tiny little letters chased about the inside of the ring. It was written in Trempwick’s code, and the sixth word had been engraved more strongly than the rest. She read it out, “Not a proper princess, and better for it.”

“Now you can carry the truth with you you have no excuse for forgetting it. I trained you; if I am not qualified to judge no one is.”

Eleanor teared up. “Thank you.” She flung her arms around him in a tight, which he returned. Trempwick winced as the hilt of one of her knives caught him on the collarbone and eased away from her a bit before further damage could be inflicted.

“Try it on; it should fit your right ring finger.”

It did, resting comfortably above the slender gold twist that had been her false wedding ring without hampering her finger’s flexibility or promising to harm her ability to grip her dagger firmly.

Trempwick held her hand lightly at the wrist and fingertips, turning it carefully so he could admire the fit and look of his gift. “Perfect; it fits very well, and only when you look right up close can you see that it is anything more than a simple, plain band. You have to be thinking of princess Eleanor to make the gooseberry connection; the writing will be hidden unless the ring is removed and only a very few can read my code, so it will be quite safe for you to wear all the time.”

From the middle of the courtyard Aveline said loudly, “When you have quite finished.”

Trempwick glanced over his shoulder and then back. “Well, I do believe we have our orders.” He kissed her fiercely, crushing her body against his, taking his time with this final goodbye. Eventually he broke the kiss; suddenly deprived of his support Eleanor tottered, breathless and rather giddy. Wordlessly he led her over to her waiting horse and helped her up into her saddle. “Six days,” he said softly.

“Six days,” she agreed. Impulsively she placed one hand on his shoulder for balance, leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

Trempwick grinned and placed one hand at the back of her head so he could kiss her on the mouth again. It was short lived; the angle was too awkward and her seat too precarious. He clasped her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm instead. “An eternity. Now get moving before my mother starts griping.”

Eleanor obediently touched her heel lightly to the flank of her new milk white mare. Trempwick walked along at the side of her horse, out the main gate and some distance along the road, still clasping her hand. He gradually began to slow his pace slightly as he went. His hand began to incrementally slip free of hers. Soon only their fingers remained in contact, and then not even that. Eleanor looked back and raised the same hand in a forlorn wave. Trempwick smiled and raised his own hand, then blew her a kiss.

Eleanor ducked her head, her eyes welling up with unexpected tears. A few moments later she had her control back and proudly raised her head to look straight ahead. She did not look back again.









:puts up a sign saying ‘Warning! Gooseberry explosion in progress!’: I think she is a trifle upset. :p

Please excuse me while I giggle at the embarrassed Trempwick :D I think that has to be one of my favourite Nell/Trempy scenes. He has often been embarrassed when talking about sex with Nell, but this is the first time he has really gone to pieces :D

[frogbeastegg]

“So much for not even wanting to see her,” said Godit, her voice rather distorted because she was sat slumped forward at Fulk’s table with her head resting on her crossed arms.

Fulk neither looked away from the narrow window overlooking the inner courtyard nor spoke; he continued to stand with his arms folded and his face impassive, eyes and attention riveted on the scene below. Though the courtyard fairly teemed with people to Fulk one stood out from the rest; a short, slender lady in red seated on a white palfrey. She was flanked by another expensive looking woman in blue, and a third, poorer woman hung back behind them, a maid of some sort, no doubt. There were no men at arms, and no sign of the spymaster. Sunlight caught and bounced off the narrow gold circlet Eleanor wore on her head, holding a simple white veil in place.

“She’s wearing her crown …” Fulk leaned forward slightly, bracing one arm against the stone wall.

The party came to a halt near the entrance to the great keep. Fulk’s lips curved in a faint smile as Eleanor dismounted on her own, dropping to the ground in a quietly showy dismount which left her looking every bit as composed and dignified as if she has been lifted down. She stood, hands clasped in front of her and her head bowed, apparently waiting. The woman in blue and the maid were both aided down, and the one in blue quickly made her way to Eleanor’s side. A quick conversation was held, one ending with Eleanor inclining her head deferentially to the other woman. She accepted without complaint the other woman attaching herself as closely as a guard with a particular untrustworthy prisoner. Eleanor made no move to do anything except continue to wait.

Grooms took the horses away, and servants hurried over to the royal nursery with bags and packs of belongings; someone had set up orders for her lodgings but no one had appeared to greet her. The third member of Eleanor’s party, the presumed maid, held a brief discussion with one of the servants and then departed off towards the rooms Eleanor had occupied during her last visit.

Footsteps crunched on the floor rushes behind him; Fulk did not turn. Godit evidently decided he would not be moved from his window so she could see; she took up station at one of the others giving a similar view. “So,” said Godit slowly, “the one in red; that is the famous Eleanor? The source of all your grief?”

Fulk’s reply was softly spoken, “No.”

“That is not the princess?”

“It is her.”

The woman in blue looked around the courtyard as if searching for something; as she turned to his tower Fulk caught a decent glimpse of her face. Even at a distance she was recognisable, and he pulled away from the window a bit. “Aveline.”

“Who?”

Furious with himself for flinching away Fulk stood so close to the arrow slit that the tips of his leather boots scuffed against the stonework of the wall.

Down in the courtyard Aveline said something to Eleanor; the princess nodded demurely and her head bowed a little lower.

Hugh and Anne finally put in an appearance to greet their guest a short while later. Fulk scowled as Aveline prompted Eleanor into going forward and delivering a curtsey as if she would never have thought of the idea on her own. The curtsey was far deeper than was required and she held it until her brother waved her up; he took longer than was needed in doing so, Fulk thought. Aveline was instantly back at her side, dropping her own, noticeably shallower, curtsey. Hers also ended sooner, following what was required to the letter but not going further.

“What have they done to you?” Fulk asked quietly.

“Nothing,” answered Godit cheerily, “I’m in quite excellent health.”

He ignored her, watching as Eleanor, Hugh, Anne and Aveline disappeared into the keep.






Hugh tamped down his impatience as he politely escorted his sister and her chaperone up to the royal solar, leaving much of the conversational work to Anne. Such banal trivialities suited the queen better than he, and he had other, more important matters to concern himself with. However it would be deeply unchivalrous to say so, or to interfere and bring and end to this too prematurely. Hugh reminded himself that women really could not be expected to understand the necessities of state business, and so how precious his time was at present.

In the solar the facileness continued; enquires about the two day trip – set out yesterday, arrived today; typical female dawdling - questions on health, compliments on appearances and clothes. Hugh smothered a sigh and rigidly set his face so his impatience would not show, settling down to endure the required, very polite boredom for a suitable length of time.

His patience was rewarded with one most interesting observation; Eleanor herself barely said a word, speaking only when spoken to. Perhaps the display outside was not purely acting, perhaps she was finally learning some good manners? This did not sit entirely comfortably; his sister was one of the higher ranking people here, far above the lady Aveline, who carried a good half of the conversation, and so one of those entitled to speak more freely. The potential possibility that Eleanor might not have any interest in the conversation and was therefore equally as bored as he was did cross Hugh’s mind, but was dismissed rather swiftly. Eleanor was female; pointless chatter about clothes and hair was something all women liked, even the remarkably sensible Constance, therefore it was quite inconceivable that she might find this tedious conversation not to her tastes. Nor could her reticence simply be dismissed as her natural character. No, Hugh decided, customary explanations did not suit whatever she was doing. She was being perversely contrary again, and that boded trouble. Trouble could not, and most certainly would not, be permitted.

“If I may speak with my sister alone for a moment?” he said politely, interrupting a while later at a suitable point where the conversation naturally paused to swap to a new topic.

The other two ladies filed out. Eleanor stayed seated; she clasped her hands in her lap and, miracle of miracles, continued to avert her gaze very properly at the floor instead of staring defiantly back at the world as she usually did. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I thought it best, and most honourable, to be entirely honest with you.” Hugh opened his scrip and removed the folded piece of parchment set with the royal seal that his father had given him prior to marching out. “You should read this; it concerns you.”

Eleanor accepted the letter from him, untied the thongs holding it closed and read in silence. “How delightful.” Hugh thought he detected a touch of dry sarcasm in her tone.

Hugh’s back stiffened. “Delightful is hardly a fitting term to describe a royal decree.”

“I find it most touching that our dear father is thinking of me and making arrangements for my … betterment.”

Hugh suspected that too was not the seemly reply it appeared to be on the surface, but he could find no one thing to take issue with. Not wanting to appear foolish and overly sensitive he did not deliver the firm rebuke he suspected he really should, telling himself it was not cowardice to give his sister the benefit of the doubt in light of her recent good conduct. “Indeed. It gladdens my heart considerably that you see it in that way. I shall take this to mean I do not need to dispense a long lecture on how I expect you to comport yourself while here; I am pleased.”

“So, he has transferred parental authority to you for as long as he is away.” She smiled and said warmly, “Congratulations; that is an unusual honour and a mark of his faith in you.”

Hugh found he had to pause again before he could answer, once again trying to discern any solid traces of mockery in her tone. “Thank you.” He took the letter back and replaced it in his belt pouch. “I was pleased to see you behaving in a dignified manner upon your arrival, in particular I am most pleased with the way you immediately and neatly removed any chance of public strife and contention between us by paying me such a deep homage. I do most sincerely hope your very public and fitting acknowledgement of me as your superior is not just an act; as my new responsibilities dictate I will not tolerate any of your … troublesome conduct.”

“I have no particular wish to marry as a mass of cuts and broken bones, so yes you may say that it is not an act.”

“The sentiment is fitting; the way it is expressed is not. I will overlook your implied mockery no longer.”

Eleanor’s eyes went wide and she looked up from the floor to meet his eyes. “Mockery? Dear brother, that is the truth; do remember how I got betrothed in the first place.”

Hugh dithered; at last he said sternly, “It is only fair, I believe, to warn you that you will probably find me far stricter than our father; I take my responsibilities very seriously at all times.”

“Are you implying our beloved father does not?”

“No, never,” he replied with alacrity. A wave of wretchedness swept through him, and he drowned in it. Caught so easily in behaviour which would be undignified and unacceptable in the lowest heathen beggar; this could never happen again. It would not, he privately swore, burning the terrible feeling of shame and his disastrous words into his memory so he would never, ever forget.

A moment of deliberation and the solution to his predicament concerning her potential mockery presented itself. He placed one hand on the hilt of his dagger and struck a pose he fancied to be imposing and masterful, fitting airs for this situation. “I also consider it most fair to warn you that from now on I shall no longer give you the benefit of the doubt; if I suspect there is room for mockery in your words I will assume it is so and act accordingly.”

Her face tiled back towards the floor, demure attitude restored. “Thank you for the warning.”

Stood as he was, with her seated and her face angled downwards Hugh abruptly realised she could be smiling – laughing at him! - and he would never see. “Look at me,” he commanded. Instantly she did so; blue eyes as clear as a summer sky, face open and easy to read, and mouth straight and serious. Still, something bothered Hugh.

Eleanor asked, “Is something wrong?”

Anger burned through Hugh; she could toy with him and make a fool of him in her own mind, leaving him with only these vague suspicions she was mocking him! His earlier solution now looked more harmful than it had first appeared; he could end up reacting to something no one but he thought was there, making a fool of himself again, or not reacting at all and still looking the fool. Hugh recognised and then banished the emotion; he would not walk that path. Peace, and calm clarity. “No. That is all for now; you may go.”





Eleanor sat in her room doing her best to keep her tenuous hold on her patience. Several hairs nearly departed her scalp as Juliana did something inept while braiding her hair; Eleanor did not bother to hide her wince.

Aveline, sat so she could scrutinise the princess, spotted it. “Watch what you are doing,” she snapped at her maid.

Juliana mumbled an appropriately contrite sounding apology and kept on braiding, no more careful now than she had been before.

Aveline was turning one of Eleanor’s hairpins about in her hands, seemingly fascinated by the way the steel core lent the pin the same springy flexibility that could be found in the best blades. “Why can’t you use proper hairpins?” she demanded.

“Because those are the only hairpins I have. They were a gift from Raoul, just like my knives.”

Aveline grunted. “We shall find you some proper ones.”

“They were a gift from Raoul,” Eleanor repeated. “I will not be parted from them.”

“They are weapons!”

“Yes.”

“So they are entirely unsuitable.”

“But only a very few people know this; to everyone else they look normal. Raoul gave me them; he told me to wear them whenever I had need of hairpins. This way I shall not be defenceless when I cannot take my knives. I believe you have been impressing upon me the importance of obedience to my future husband?”

Juliana finished tying off the end of Eleanor’s long plait with a ribbon and began pinning the braid up into a coil at the nape of her neck, a style much simpler than Aveline considered fitting but one of the few Eleanor would allow.

Aveline returned the pin she was looking at to the small pile on the table next to Eleanor. “I was delighted to see you heeding my advice when we arrived. I presume your brother was most pleased?”

“With Hugh one can seldom tell. He claimed to be pleased.”

“I told you as much; be dutiful and well mannered, let him know you accept that he is in charge and show this to all, then abide by it, and then there is no space for threats, bickering or violence. Know your place; all works better if you do.”

“My place? I really do not have one; agent-princesses do not feature in the lists of protocol.”

“Fool girl! Whatever else you may be you are royal first and foremost; blood is not discounted because of a dubious profession or attitude such as yours. You were born a princess, you will live, although you may claim otherwise, a princess and finally you will die a princess. You may play at being something else, and granted your life is not at all fitting to your rank, but in the end you are, and always will be, inescapably royal. It is who you are. The blood of three kings flows in your veins; you are sister to our next king, and even before your great grandfather donned the crown your family had ties to the throne.”

“I do know my family history, thank you.”

“Then start paying attention to it.”

Juliana finished working on Eleanor’s hair and offered her a polished bronze mirror; Eleanor waved it away without even glancing at her reflection. She felt over her hair, memorising where the blunt ends of her hairpins lay in case she needed to draw one swiftly.

Aveline said, “You are seated with a Welsh prince at dinner tonight; I do hope you mind your manners.”

“Almost prince,” corrected Eleanor. “His father would have become Prince of Wales, and his son royalty, if not for a slight diplomatic disappointment some years ago. Now he is merely the firstborn son of the Duke of Gwynedd, a hostage to his father’s good behaviour and our chosen pawn to inherit the dukedom, though we call him guest.”

Aveline waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I expect you to be on your best behaviour – polite, courteous, pleasant, but beware not to be too flirtatious. I will not see you damage your name and nor will your brother, mark my words. If you misbehave your will answer for it.”

Eleanor laughed quietly. “Oh, I do think it a little late for that. Llwellyn ap Marfyn ap Tewdwr is one of the many suitors I scorned before my sixth birthday; if I wished to flirt with him I would have done so years ago. I only knew a little Welsh back then; Raoul taught me to be fluent. I was instructed to greet Llwellyn in his own language, since we would spend the rest of the time speaking French and English. I did; I told him ‘Rwyt ti'n esgys fach pathetic am dyn’.”

Eleanor smiled faintly, remembering the scene as she told her suitor he was a pathetic little excuse for a man, then winced at the memory of how much trouble she had gotten in as a result. Insisting that she was not trying to be very crude and had only wanted to say Llwellyn was very short, which he had been – several years older than her but only a finger’s breadth taller, had not had quite the disarming affect on her father’s wrath that she had hoped for. Still, she had been very young and her plan had worked out well enough, unpleasant ending or no.





Fulk lay abed staring up towards the ceiling of his room, only able to see it thanks to the pair of still lit candles burning on wall prickets near his bed. He could not sleep; once again he could not sleep.

The door to his room opened silently and a figure in a long, hooded cloak slipped in. Fulk’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword and he was out of bed with the blade drawn before his unexpected guest told him quietly, “I would say I can come back when it is more convenient, but I cannot.” Eleanor pushed the hood of her cloak back; her face was pale in the dim lighting, pale and apprehensive. Fulk’s heart leapt and twisted, both pain and joy at seeing her again, and he wanted very much to catch her up in a tight embrace and soothe away that anxiety, to fill that empty hole in his soul.

Fulk returned his sword to its sheath and leaned it up against the wall by his bed once again. He took his time carefully arranging the weapon, keeping his back to her.

“How is your leg?” she asked softly as he worked. “Did it heal well?”

“Just another scar now.” He stood up and turned to face her but moved no closer.

“I do not have long. I drugged Aveline and Juliana’s evening drink; one small dose of poppy juice split between two, all I could smuggle into the palace. I doubt they will think to check my room this late but I cannot be sure. We must be careful to be quiet; if I am found here I am ruined, and you along with me.” She was playing with her betrothal ring, spinning it around on her ringer. Fulk saw the corner of her lip crinkle as she bit the inside of it.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Somehow I don’t think you’re risking so much just to ask about my leg.”

She took her time in answering. “Why is it everything seems so simple when you plan, but when the time comes it is hard to know where to begin?”

Fulk grabbed his tunic and pulled it on over his shirt. He reached for his hose; by the time he had one leg tied in place she still had not said anything else. “Start at the beginning,” he suggested briskly, pulling on the other leg.

“He knew, all along he knew but pretended otherwise.”

“‘He’ being your Trempwick, of course.”

“He is not my Trempwick; he never was and never will be. If he was I would not be here. If he knew I was here, and he has many spies in this place, he would be,” she grimaced, “extremely pissed off, as the peasants say.” She paused.

Fulk waited, giving her the time she needed to say what she wanted. His heart beat quicker; he was beginning to suspect he was about to be proved a complete idiot. He had seldom wanted something so much in his life.

“My feelings towards Trempwick have always been so mixed I could not unravel them no matter how hard I tried. Since our betrothal he has been kind, generous, forgiving, considerate, patient. He has bent himself to my wishes. He says he loves me.” She quietly admitted, “I hate him. He is a lying, manipulative bastard.” She stopped playing with her ring and took a deep breath. “I will not marry him; I am going to run away, although I prefer the term ‘escape’.”

Fulk finished buckling his belt on with trembling hands. “When do we leave?”

She smiled, her face lighting up and her nervousness disappearing. She came a half step closer, almost within his reach if he stretched out. “I had rather hoped you might say that. He knew, right from the start he knew – he was never fooled. He was trying to kill you, quietly, with the blame going elsewhere. I had to get you away to safety; I much prefer you alive to dead. I hoped to join you, just as I have done.”

“You could have told me,” said Fulk softly.

“I did my best – I said you should trust me no matter what.”

“Then you told me all my oaths were cancelled!”

In a shouted whisper Eleanor snapped, “Well I could hardly specify that you should keep the one which would have given it all away, you lackadaisical rust heap! And you are the one who brought up the whole question of oaths in front of Trempwick in the first place!”

Fulk found himself laughing. “I have missed you, oh joyously sweet tempered one, missed you more than I can say. Your plan was terrible though, no offence.”

“It worked. Anyway, I only had one rather disturbed night to plan things. Can we leave the complex, lengthy assigning blame and explaining until a more fitting date? I only have minutes. Tomorrow; be in the royal garden at ten o’clock in the morning. Do not tell anywhere where you are going; no one must know.”

“As you command, your royal shortness.”

Eleanor pulled the hood of her cloak back up, tugging it well forward to conceal her face. “I should go.”

Only a few short steps apart anyway they met without being sure of who made the first move. Fulk wrapped his arms lightly around her and pushed the hood back off her head; he ran a hand over her loose hair, smoothing it back down. He could smell very faint perfume, the lingering traces of some light, floral scent she had been wearing in the day. Fulk breathed deeply, slowly filling his lungs with the elusive, pleasant fragrance. Eleanor leaned against him, arms entwined around his chest and head pillowed on one shoulder, relaxed and peaceful. Tension, worry, concern, tiredness, everything flowed away from Fulk, leaving only serenity and a knowledge that this was perfectly right, and that for now, here, all was very well in the world.

Eleanor sighed happily. “I am promoting you to … husband, I should think. Unless you have any objection?”

“None at all.”

“A secret marriage, unfortunately, and I suspect it will have to remain unconsummated for quite a while, but I can at least provide us a witness no one would dare accuse of lying. Tomorrow.”

Fulk caught up her right hand in his, still cradling her close. “I, Fulk, plight thee, Eleanor, my troth, as God is my witness.”

“I, Eleanor, plight thee, Fulk, my troth, as God is my witness.”

They sealed the betrothal with one very lengthy kiss.

Eleanor’s hand touched the side of Fulk’s face lovingly. “Do not worry about a ring; I have one from you and I do not need another.”

“I can get you one if you want.”

Eleanor chuckled. “I all but heard your heart skip a few beats there! You cannot afford one, and I could not wear it in public anyway, so we shall do without.” When he would have protested she silenced him with a kiss. “Rings and expensive gifts did Trempwick no good. I will not be brought.”

Fulk gently traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “I never thought that.”

“I know.” Without moving she said, “I should go.”

“Will you be alright going back alone?” Reluctantly Fulk let her go.

She touched the heavy folds of her cloak with one hand. “This breaks up my outline and makes it easier for me to hide. Even if I am spotted no one will know it is me unless they get close enough to see my face. If that happens …” She pulled a waxed cord out of her left sleeve. “Strangulation is easy so long as it is unexpected, and I doubt anyone expects to be murdered by me.”

Fulk drew her back for one final, tender kiss. “Be careful.”

“I will.” As Fulk walked over to the door with her Eleanor suddenly grinned. “You half expected me tonight, I think.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your door; you left it unbolted.”

“I hoped.”







:gring:

A note for those who can’t remember little things said months ago: Nell’s betrothal to Trempy was (obviously) done under duress, and therefore according to medieval secular and church law it is not legally binding. That leaves her free to get betrothed or married to someone else. Obviously this creates all kinds of tangles, and general running around of characters yelling “Gah!”.

That would be one of very few mush scenes I actually want to write. I think it turned out … not exactly great. Well, whatever it is, it is substantially better than the plain horrible early drafts. For once I have a very, very clear mental picture of what they are doing for the entire scene; usually I can half hear the characters’ voices in my imagination. It has proven very hard to describe what I see, very hard. I just don’t know how to; I don’t have the words or knowledge.

It’s a rather beautiful scene in my mind; one of those major scenes which make me want to tell this story. A princess and her knight (or perhaps a knight and his gooseberry?), about to shove a lit rocket up the arse of their world :gring:

This is another ending but still not the ending. This marks the end of the slow part, aka ‘building but not quite there’.

Yes, this does leave a lot unexplained, and I know I also promise realism in what happens. As Nell says, “Tomorrow.” However it will not be tomorrow for you poor, addicted readers; I suspect the next part is going to take me quite a while to write.

[frogbeastegg]

No sooner had she dressed Eleanor found herself whipped off to the royal solar by Aveline and Juliana, stripped down to her shift and stood up on a stool in the middle of the room surrounded by breakfasting ladies with designs on outfitting her for her wedding. Anne took some mercy on her and handed her a cup of small ale and some of yesterday’s bread with strict instructions to eat without dropping crumbs.

Juliana had lugged up all of Eleanor’s clothing and, as the least important person present, held up each item one by one for inspection by the others as they ate. The jury passed verdict on each item, deciding if it should be placed on the accepted pile or the rejected pile.

By the time the food had vanished the sorting was complete; the accepted pile consisted of one pair of soft leather shoes with a decorative band running from ankle to toe tip. The reject pile held everything else.

The older Scottish woman, apparently one of Anne’s maids with the ridiculous name of Mariot, began clucking about the princess catching her death of cold while stood on her stool in nothing more than her shift. A fire was quickly laid out and lit in the hearth.

Ignored up on her stool Eleanor took a look about her. Constance sat in one of the high backed chairs, dozing with one hand draped protectively over her lower stomach. She had refused all offered food, claiming her digestion was still tender even if the morning sickness was slowly fading. Hugh’s wife looked surprisingly well; she smiled as she slept.

Aveline had taken the other seat near the fire in a cacophony of creaking joints; the journey to Woburn and then on to the palace had taken its toll on her aging bones, she had declared primly when everyone had collectively winced on her behalf. Juliana hovered near her mistress when she did not have reason to be away.

Anne had chosen one of the window seats; seated properly her feet hung an inch off the ground, and the tip of one shoe could be seen swinging carelessly beneath the dangling hem of her skirts. Anne’s three maids dispersed themselves about the room; Mariot sat with Anne. The other two, introduced as Godit and Adela, claimed the second window seat.

Surrounded, isolated, singled out and put on display – Eleanor felt like a murderess at her trial.

Aside from the two piles of her belongings a third enormous pile took up most of the solar table; bolts of different fabrics in all sorts of materials and colours. A few wicker sewing boxes littered the floor ready to break someone’s ankle.

Godit snatched up a knotted cord and advanced on Eleanor. “Right, to work.” She quickly whipped the cord around Eleanor at several critical points, calling out her measurements for someone else to note down. Done, she cast the measuring cord back where it came from and declared, “Good figure, except for those hips. Suggestions, ladies?”

Predictably Eleanor felt herself blush. She did her best to close her ears and not react to the following conversation; she had far better things to occupy her mind than another recitation of her lacks and the problems they caused. Suggestions ranged from dressing her in baggy clothing to hide her lack of hips to padding them out with extra material. Such simple, petty worries and with such simple, petty solutions, and yet the whole room acted as if this minor nothing of a crisis was deeply significant. Eleanor envied them such straightforward cares.

In the end Constance provided the answer; she didn’t even open her eyes as she suggested sleepily, “A girdle, clinch it tight at her waist and no one will take any notice of her hips. Her clothes will naturally flare out a bit too then, and the contrast between waist and rest will make her hips seem larger.”

Adela clutched one hand to her heart, scandalised. “Girdles aren’t in fashion; hardly anyone wears them with a cyclas!”

Anne countered, “Eleanor is a princess; she sets fashion, not follows it.”

“Indeed,” proclaimed Aveline somewhat ominously. “It is up to us to make best use of what is there, princess and clothing both. As long as we can make it look good then it is acceptable.”

Godit giggled. “I always wanted to be a fashion starter!”

Up on her stool Eleanor rolled her eyes.

More debate ensued on the choice of colour. The group swiftly split into two main parties and one stubborn outsider. Anne, Aveline and Adela favoured blue. Constance, Godit and Mariot went for a shade that was a mix between deep red and plum purple. Juliana stubbornly, and friendlessly, insisted on a similar red to the clothes Eleanor had arrived in yesterday.

Mariot grabbed a scrap of the reddish purple and held it up against Eleanor’s breastbone. “Look, see? It brings colour and warmth to her skin, goes with her hair, looks well enough and is undoubtedly expensive.”

Anne snatched up a few bits of the assorted shades of blue and held them up on the other side of Eleanor’s breastbone; she had to stand on tiptoe to reach. “Blue does all that and goes with her eyes.”

“She wears blue frequently; her wedding is supposed to be special.”

“She often wears blue at court because it suits her.”

“Only deeper blues are expensive enough for royalty; lighter hues even peasants can wear.”

“So? Everyone knows who she is – no one can mistake the bride at her own wedding.”

“Believe me they can.”

The bits of blue were pressed against Eleanor’s chest firmly. “Blue. This is a royal wedding, not some yokel affair where the bride is wearing only her Sunday best and her drunken groom is off making free with the bridesmaids!”

The plum equally increased in firm pressure. “Murray. As you say, this is a royal wedding.”

Aveline was not at all happy with the maid’s familiarity with her queen. She interrupted, “My son likes her in blue.”

Godit went to her friend’s aid immediately, saying, “But we are not dressing her for you son, are we?”

“Unless she is going to swap the groom with no warning or permission, yes we most certainly are!”

Anne heatedly retorted, “No – we are dressing her to do credit to herself and her family!”

Up on her stool Eleanor said, “I was thinking russet …” Then everybody would be happy – Fulk liked russet on her, she rather liked russet, Trempwick tolerated russet, no one had never complained specifically about russet.

She was completely ignored as the war between blue and purplish red went on.

The sun had moved around so it shone directly on Constance’s face, forcing her to move her chair over, by the time the group had reached a sullen consensus on blue, but only if a deep blue brocade featured prominently somewhere.

Eleanor was beginning to worry; it was already about half past nine and she looked likely to be trapped here for hours longer. She had given Anne some rushed, secretive orders yesterday evening, but she was not entirely sure she could rely on the young queen to remember and enact them in the midst of something which was clearly supposed to be exciting. Unnoticed by everyone else she smiled wryly; either she laughed about her allies or she would start weeping. A child, a baseborn bastard and herself; with this she had to stop a spymaster. Saints did easier tasks daily. Two allies, only one of whom was in this room. Eleanor quickly glanced about her again; there was at least one Judas here, possibly more, and Aveline did not count because she would betray Eleanor without the traditional forty pieces of silver. Involuntarily Eleanor shivered and the hairs at the back of her neck stood up; a combination of events usually attributed to someone walking over your future grave. Lonely panic welled up; frantically Eleanor battled to repress it.

“Cold, dear?” enquired a voice with a Scottish lilt at her elbow. Eleanor fairly jumped out of her skin. It was the older maid, Mariot. “I’ll put another log on the fire. You’re lucky there’s window glass here or you would truly catch your death.”

Eleanor managed a weak smile. “Thank you.” She began to take notice of the conversation again, taking more careful note of everyone, what they said and how they acted.

Anne said, “The shift has to be fine white linen, of course, but we can add a heavy border to the neck and hem in several shades of blue stitching.”

Godit was nodding enthusiastically. “Perhaps we can make use of her gooseberry badge for the motif?”

Adela suggested, “And we could work in her father’s lion too?”

Eleanor scowled and insisted loudly, “No. No gooseberries, and no lions or anything else designed to tell everyone who I am. If they do not know by the time I am stuck in bed with Raoul then they are fools beyond all aid.”

A rather awkward silence held until Mariot suggested, “I saw this very simple design used once before; a cross shaped emblem contained in the diamonds formed by a pair of crossing zigzag lines. The empty spaces are filled with half versions of the cross.” She sketched out a quick demonstration on the bit of cheap parchment with Eleanor’s measurements jotted down on it and passed it around the company. “Simple, but quite stunning to the eye; perhaps this will do?”

Juliana gave one of her rare contributions as she pulled out a bolt of very fine white linen from the mass on the table and set it to one side ready for use. “We could do the thinner borders like that, and use some kind of animal motif for the thicker borders? Roosting birds in branches?”

Aveline said, “Combine the two; we can use the bird pattern for the main, and the cross pattern for the edging, all done as small as may be. Three or more solid inches of good embroidery at hem and collar; it will look most impressive without introducing a clash of theme.”

Godit leaned forward to confide in a scandalous raised whisper, “Why do we need to use linen? Why not white silk?”

Aveline sniffed and glared reprovingly at the maid. “Because we do not want her to look like a harlot, that is why.”

Godit raised her eyebrows and muttered, “Well, my eldest sister would argue there; she wore silk and she is so virtuous she could bore a nun to tears.”

“What fits the lower nobility does not fit royalty,” declared Aveline firmly.

Eleanor ignored much of the following conversation about clothing, instead focusing on surreptitiously watching people, studying their mannerisms and responses, learning what little she could about everyone here. At least one of Anne’s maids would be in Trempwick’s employ; if not he was getting unforgivably lax. Eleanor found that all three made good choices, and all three seemed highly unlikely. Trempwick might choose to approach someone who seemed totally unsuitable, or then he might pick the most obvious one simply because it was never supposed to be the obvious one. If you wanted obvious then you immediately went for the sole English presence, followed by the gossipy, stupid seeming one. If you wanted unlikely then you had a tie between all three; ‘mother’, moron, and meek. Eleanor mentally tagged all three as Trempwick’s people for safety. She could only hope Anne had not let any of them find out too much of the already exceptionally limited information Eleanor had fed her. Looking at how the young queen interacted with her three maids Eleanor had the sinking feeling that the girl trusted them all implicitly. Eleanor also earmarked Juliana for future investigation.

Godit’s confident, “She will wear her hair unbound, of course, so no need to worry about styles.” Captured the edges of Eleanor’s attention and pulled her mind back from her musing. Clothing details had been finalised. Quickly piecing together the things she had overheard without paying attention Eleanor decided they were going to dress her in much the same thing as she had worn at court after Christmas. One unfortunate detail finally dawned on her; with those clothes, the limitations placed on a bride, and her hair loose she would be completely disarmed. This should not be a problem but still it sat uneasily.

Mariot said, “What about a veil? She could or could not; either would work.”

Eleanor raised her voice and said, “No, no veils.” Simple principle; if she was going to be disarmed she would not be hampered by headgear as well.

“What about a circlet of flowers?” suggested Adela. “What blooms in February anyway?”

Anne said, “She will be wearing her own crown.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh golly! We should have taken the gold into account when choosing our colours!” Anne dug Eleanor’s crown out of the chaos and handed it up to her.

Eleanor took the simple circlet, holding it carefully so her fingertips only contacted the narrow edges of the band where no one would see the marks they left, and inspected it. She wiped a thumbprint off the gleaming gold with the sleeve of her shift. Slowly, holding the crown in both hands, she lowered it onto her head with conscious dignity. Because she had insisted on a simple style with the bulk of her hair kept low down on her head the circlet fitted exactly as it had been made to do. She arched one eyebrow at Aveline, silently scoring a victory in her battle against Aveline’s insistence on fancy hairstyles.

Mariot nodded approvingly. “The gold goes so well with her hair. Say what you like in praise of corn coloured blonde; nothing goes so well with gold as proper black.”

An agreeable murmur ran about the room and a few offshoot conversations on hair colours started. Eleanor began to despair; it had to be ten o’clock now, probably later.

Anne clapped her hands. When she got the silence she wanted she said, “We have four days until the wedding; three days to work and one morning to tweak shortly before she goes to the church door. We had best get to work. You two,” she pointed at Juliana and Adela, “work on the shift. You two,” Mariot and Godit, “the cyclas. Aveline, you tackle the underdress; I shall find someone to help you if Constance does not feel up to sewing. I will also enlist competent people to take over our work when we require a break; if we make use of every daylight hour God sends, and burn a few candles, we will have our work done. I will make sure Eleanor knows everything she needs.”

Aveline said cautiously, “It may be best if I were to do that. I have been married twice; that lends me a certain … seniority.”

Constance yawned, stretched and sat up properly. “No need to put yourself out, lady Aveline. I shall assist Anne; family, and all. I think I am senior enough.”

A significant look passed between the two, removing any last lingering traces of hopeful doubt Eleanor had as to what kind of education they were talking about. Aveline inclined her head very slightly. “Then I shall set to work. Make sure she is word perfect on the vows in particular; it is bad luck to hesitate or stumble on the words.”

Anne and Constance quickly helped Eleanor back into the rest of her clothes and made their escape. Eleanor began to search for ways to get to the garden without it seeming remarkable. For a very brief moment Eleanor considered letting Constance tag along; she was highly unlikely to be in Trempwick’s employ and she could make a very valuable ally. Eleanor dismissed the idea rapidly; valuable Constance might be but there was very little chance Eleanor could win her over to her cause just yet. She would have to be dumped along the wayside somewhere; judging from the way the poor woman could barely stay awake they would have no difficulty persuading her to return to her rooms and rest.

They made their way down the staircase and through the main hall in silence. Hugh was holding court in the hall with some important looking men Eleanor didn’t recognise; from what she overheard while stealthily making her way to the exit it appeared to be a discussion of tavern licensing in the castle town, in which case the men would be guild representatives and town aldermen. Hugh occupied the throne stiffly; even kings enthroned on wax seals looked more comfortable and less formal than he did. Eleanor was astonished to see Hugh raise one hand in a salute to his wife as she skulked past, a wave Constance returned. Hugh blushed and his speech fragmented and slowed down as he forgot what he was saying in the distraction; it picked up soon enough, now with a new tone that sounded quite close to embarrassment to Eleanor.

The bailey was also busy; Eleanor managed to direct things in her favour by suggesting they retire to her guest room where they would be assured of peace and quiet. As they closed the front door Constance said to Anne, “You are getting very good at giving commands to those who are not servants.”

“Thank you. I do try my best.”

“Eleanor, your future mother-in-law is a dragon. If you cannot find Saint George to give her battle I suggest you hit her over the head with your crown.” Constance left a beat before adding innocently, “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Eleanor laughed. “Believe me I have considered it!”

“Rather than delay I shall get the embarrassing bit over and done with now; advice for your wedding night from someone a deal more experienced than our little queen, no offence intended, Anne.” Constance made a dramatic pause and fixed her audience with a stern, motherly gaze. She imparted extremely gravely, “Do your duty and do as your husband says; be guided by his superior knowledge.” She shrugged and reverted to her normal voice. “Well, I am sure that was far less painful than Aveline’s version of the same speech would have been. Now for the bits she would not have told you. Do not listen to other people’s horror stories or tales of wonder; what was theirs will not be yours. Remember who you are; he would be a fool to upset you. Remember who you know, and again he would be a fool to harm you. The spymaster may be a trickier proposition than most husbands but you are a princess, you are friends with the queen and myself, and your father and brother will not stand for any slights to you. Do not antagonise him, but do not let him crush you underfoot either. Now I shall leave you in peace and see about finding myself something to eat which I will not bring right back up again.”

Eleanor watched through the murky, distorting window glass as Constance headed off towards the kitchen building. Eleanor asked, “She is going to eat in the kitchens?”

“Yes, she does that most days now; evenings are the only time she eats like everyone else. It is because of the sickness; she is not able to eat when everyone else is, and she also craves odd foods. She is running the servants off their feet in the evenings, eating anything and everything except what you might expect. Half the time she has gone off whatever food she requested by the time it arrives, instead demanding another dish!” Anne giggled, then hurriedly straightened her face. “It is perfectly normal for a pregnant woman, you know.”

Eleanor made a thoughtful noise and continued to look off towards the kitchens for a moment. She shook herself. “Motherhood really does not sound like much fun. Right, to the garden. We should find sufficient peace to practise those longwinded vows there.”







:gring:

Well, instead of three parts (starting from the previous post) for this current part of the story to really make sense it has now gone up to four thanks to this scene and the one after growing much longer than I expected. But hey, you either get it in four parts with confusion or one 20+ page lump with eyestrain and a long wait. Yup, thought you might prefer the four parts :tongueg:

Oh, and if anyone is wondering why I keep grinning like a loon while posting the parts of this bit of the story, well that is because I am finally writing a bunch of scenes and lines I have been imagining and working towards for half a year. I doubt the grinning will last; this story is now officially The Hardest Thing I have Ever Written, Ever, In The History Of Everything Ever. The next part is perhaps going to be the single hardest to write scene in this entire story. :self pitying frog:

[zelda12]

Milady Frog, :bow: I must apologise. I have not been following the story since Christmass I think. Life, as usual, got in the way and I have been daunted by having missed so much.

This post is purely to gain sympathy as I will now be losing my eyesight from staring at a screen for the next 7 hours catching up. ~:) It will be worth it, but I'll have to get a custom smiley made showing me laying comatose at my desk. ~D

I am looking forward to catching up.

[frogbeastegg]

Anne sat tactfully on a different bench to the one Eleanor and Fulk occupied. The little queen had not been able to hide her delight at finding Fulk waiting for them in the garden; now she kept watching the elder pair as if waiting for something magical to happen. She was probably already disappointed, Eleanor thought, and if she was not then eventually she would be. True love, as Anne had determinedly labelled it, was supposed to be far more exciting than sitting cosily together on a bench, doing and saying nothing, although they did have a queen acting as accomplice and there would be excitement aplenty if this were ever discovered. But for now she treasured her time, relishing the sense of peace Fulk’s solid frame and quiet, assured calm brought her.

She and Anne had entered through the main gate, telling the gate guard that they were not to be bothered. The entire trip from castle to garden had been filled with wedding related chatter, and Eleanor had carefully timed things so she was repeating the main part of her vows under Anne’s patient tutelage when they approached the guard. As long as they kept their voices to a normal level once inside the sheltering walls they would be safe from spies. Fulk had been equally careful in his approach; he believed no one had seen him.

Eleanor’s happy peace of heart was soon being assaulted. Anne’s blissful enthusiasm slowly began to wear thin, then vanished, then she began to fidget and looked decidedly uneasy. When Anne began giving the impression she was seated on an ant’s nest Eleanor asked her, “What is wrong?”

“This is a terrible risk, if this is found out Fulk will die and we will be utterly ruined.”

Anne had said exactly what Eleanor had expected, although it had taken longer for the gloss to chip away than she had anticipated. The statement presented a very good starting place for what she had come here to say … but Eleanor cringed away from it, daunted and more than a little fearful. “My father created this garden for my mother, long before I was born. I have always heard he did it simply to make her happy.” Eleanor adjusted the arm she had resting around Fulk’s waist so it sat more comfortably; safely out of Anne’s line of sight she began to tickle his ribs with her thumb. “I wonder if they ever sat here like this?” She glanced up at the knight; he was managing to keep a straight face. Fulk glanced sidelong at her and winked.

Surprisingly Anne answered confidently, “They would have, but without the chaperone. The notches cut into the back wall were done at his order so he could climb over to meet her in secret, without half the court waiting outside with petitions. A rather transparent deception, but it worked.” At Eleanor’s reaction she asked, “Why are you amazed? They were a happy pairing.”

“Really?”

“William often speaks of her. Have you heard that old song, the one which starts, ‘Though I wander far, you are always in my heart’? He wrote that for her, anonymous, and had his minstrel play it. Back then everyone knew who had written it and who it was dedicated to, even if it was never openly said. It fell from favour when the queen died; now it is mostly forgotten, he had to tell me of it himself. He thought I would appreciate the tale, and I did … for several reasons.”

“My beloved regal ancestor played courtly lover? But he seems so …” Eleanor let it lie at that; Anne seemed quite attached to her husband.

“He was young once.”

“Songs and gardens.” She snorted. “As if that could make up for the rest.”

“What rest?” asked Anne curiously.

Eleanor found herself reluctant to speak, to explain a past and maybe predict a future too. Anne sat up and stopped swinging her feet, waiting. Fulk’s hold on Eleanor tightened and he answered for her, “A wife is much more convenient to vent your temper on?”

“Yes,” agreed Eleanor sadly. “She was an English noble; her family was powerful but very small in number, and many of her close relatives had died one way or another. That is why she was a better catch than a foreign bride; she was incredibly wealthy and she brought direct control over large parts of England. She had no real protection, even assuming her family would have cared anyway.”

Anne shook her head and declared vehemently, “You are both so wrong about each other. It is really sad.”

“Wrong?” Eleanor sat bolt upright, pulling away from Fulk. “Oh yes, he is really a saint. I saw his halo once. Flowers sprout under his feet as he walks, butterflies come out of his nose when he sneezes, and a choir of angels sing him to sleep each night after a day full of charitable acts of mercy.”

“I was terrified of him after what he did to you; he saw that and explained himself. He will only ever hit someone if they have given him cause, and he insists he never draws blood or does lasting harm. So he would not have hurt his first wife without cause, just as he would not harm me.”

Eleanor said scathingly, “If you believe that you are a fool and denying the evidence your own eyes have seen.”

“I asked about you, because that was obviously not true. You are the exception to his rule, but only the part about drawing blood. I asked why again. He said, ‘Because that is the only way to make her take notice; she ignores anything less.’ Then, after a pause so long I thought he had forgotten I was there, he added very quietly, ‘And because she makes me lose my temper.’ For the rest, he was not lying; if anything he is merciful. He had his cause once but did not use it; he let me go. So your mother would have been quite safe unless she really upset him, but that is the case in most marriages.”

“He broke my ribs and beat me unconscious because my brother betrayed him, my brother, not me. He claimed otherwise but I could tell my ‘failure’ to entrap John was just an excuse. He always loved John, but not me. Never me. So when John hurt him he took it out on me, just as he did that night here in the palace, just after John was dragged home, just as he has done many times in the past. Cause, excuse, whatever you want to call it, has nothing to do with it.”

“He did love you; he chose your name because-”

“I don’t want to hear!” shouted Eleanor. Fulk’s hand exerted a gentle, warning pressure on her wrist. Eleanor allowed Fulk to pull her back into sitting comfortably against him, grateful for his quiet efforts to calm her down before she let her temper get the better of her and did something very regrettable. She moderated her voice, “He is what he is, clearly different to you than to me. Leave it at that.”

“But-”

“You think I want to wonder why he can be so kind to you but never, ever to me? Why nothing about me pleases him and never has? Everything I am is wrong, or inferior to one of my siblings; he made that quite clear from the very beginning. It does not matter what I do now, and perhaps it never did; he will always hate me, and believe me that galls.”

Anne looked almost as if she were about to start crying. “You are both so wrong-”

“I don’t care. This is not why I arranged this meeting; it is a waste of time far better spent. If you must preach about Saint William do it later, and not to me.”

Anne opened her mouth to say something else; Eleanor glared at her, willing her to admit defeat before matters became even worse. Anne closed her mouth again so abruptly her teeth clicked. The queen stared intently down at her clasped hands, shoulders slumped. Eleanor felt a stab of guilt; involving Anne in all this was bad enough without snapping at the girl.

Fulk continued his soothing efforts, only to unintentionally spoil them with a single question. “You said you wanted to explain something?”

Left no way out, and seeing how her last diversion had turned out, Eleanor nodded. “Yes.” She got a firm grip on her emotions, searching for a place to start. Slowly she said, “It is hard to begin … it all links together, circling around and intertwining, one thing to another and another …” Now she was on the brink, after days of inching her way towards this point, taking little baby steps and focusing only on getting here. She could still stop, stand still and let everything continue as it had been and let others, and God, decide the outcome. Perhaps there was no need for her to do this. Perhaps there was. She took a last breath of this calm before the storm, gathered her courage and took the next, irrevocable step. “No matter how good you are it only takes one small mistake…”

“Then don’t make a mistake,” said Fulk simply. “Don’t do anything to put yourself at risk. You know what I wish, but as you told me wish and want are two different things, one possible, one not. I want you to be safe; I can’t protect you from a king and a spymaster. I’d die to save you, but it would only leave you to face them alone. But don’t misunderstand; if you leave then I follow, I’m your knight and always will be.”

“Remember I said you were all I had?” asked Eleanor. Fulk nodded. “I was wrong. I had a home, I had Trempwick to make all the hard decisions, he gave me some protection from my family and the world, I had a purpose and something to do with my life, even if it promised to be short and end with my death.” Eleanor hesitated. “The mistake I meant was not mine; it was Trempwick’s. Now I don’t know what to do; he was always the one to worry about things, the spymaster while I was only an agent.” Eleanor considered the many different ways she could say this. With a sigh she settled for the bluntest, “Trempwick is a traitor; he plans to put me on the throne as his puppet.” After a brief pause Eleanor added honestly, “I think. I do not have evidence, just a thousand little things which all add up this way when taken together. He was always the one to worry about proof and to interpret the gathered facts; he was the one I went to for help. What am I supposed to do without him?” In the shocked silence which followed her announcement Eleanor once again drew on the peace and clarity of mind Fulk’s presence often brought her. Refocused she said, “From Constance’s eating habits I think Hugh may be more willing to listen than I had thought; thank heaven for small aids.”

Anne picked on this easiest starting place. “Constance’s eating habits?”

“One of those interlinking titbits; if you assume Trempwick is a traitor and has been planning this for some time then it is logical to also assume he does not want Hugh to have heirs. Therefore all those miscarriages, including the few on other women, begin to look suspicious, rather than a simple fault with Hugh’s seed. Therefore someone must have been dosing Constance, and the others, with something like hyssop shortly after each pregnancy was discovered. A spymaster could easily set that up; even placing the guilt elsewhere and covering up his tracks would be relatively simple. Now she is making it very difficult for anyone to add something unexpected to her food and drink, therefore she, and probably Hugh, must be suspicious of foul play.”

Fulk said, “Let’s take this to the main point; could you be a queen?”

“While my father is alive, no. When he is dead and only Hugh is left? Quite possibly. My brother is not terribly popular; he is competent but not outstanding, and he does not have a gift for winning people over to his side. Hugh is rumoured to be a bastard; untrue but insidious, it provides an excuse for disloyalty, and some do honestly believe it. As everyone knows bastards cannot inherit anything under law, certainly not kingdoms. There are no other legitimate male heirs unless you go to underage grandsons, distant grandsons off in Spain, the product of a mother who is a famed adulteress. Poor Adele is another of these little tangents; assume everything is as publicly acknowledged for now. Both of my surviving elder sisters are married; they have better claims but are far away, and their husbands have their hands full with their own realms. That leaves me as the best example of royal blood available, though my niece, John’s daughter, would also have a claim, inferior to mine and she is less useful.”

“She’s just a baby; controlling minors is difficult when half the country wants to play with the baby,” said Fulk.

“Indeed. She is also with her mother, locked away safely because of John’s treason. She may or may not be barred from possessing or passing on any right to the throne; I do not know the details of the decisions made there. Assuming she is not barred I am still better by far. I could marry Trempwick, binding me to him, making it harder for others to take control over me unless widowed and remarried, and, importantly, I could support Trempwick actively. I could be loyal to him, exactly as he trained me to be. I am also old enough to make a reasonable figurehead, far better than some toddler barely able to talk. To the main question: a woman on the throne; tricky, but possible. There would be fighting at the start, to oust Hugh and scare off anyone else who might try their hand. I could be competent if I put my mind to it, and given enough time to prove myself most worries could be dealt with. Of course the husband is vital; if he was unpopular, incompetent, or a hindrance in some way people would try to remove him, and possibly me also.”

Eleanor drew a deep breath. “Trempwick is powerful, noble, although only midlevel nobility by birth he has recently risen dramatically, a friend of our current king, and as spymaster he has been able to set things up, I think, clearing the way of his most dangerous rivals and wooing allies covertly. Approaching people openly with his plans would be madness; he must have set up fronts, broken things up into small pockets of seemingly unrelated grievances. I am not sure about this part; I have no evidence, just guesswork. But with this in mind it is not hard to see the old Duke of Northumberland as a man lured into folly and removed - with the blame falling on my father, mark you - because he was somehow dangerous to Trempwick’s plans. That, typically, leads on to John also being led into foolishness and removed … but that is another tangent. Trempwick could remove people easily, placing the blame openly on the king, or working through agents of agents of agents to kill and put the blame on others. I think he must have been doing this for years.”

“As far as ruling goes, and loyalty, as long as Trempwick was competent and supported by much of the nobility, and as long as I did not annoy people, it could work. People will go where they see advantage; so long as the powerful felt they profited by my rule they would side with me until they saw a better opportunity. Some few would stick with me because my royal blood is undoubtedly pure; sentimental family loyalty, and royal blood counts for a lot. Once crowned and anointed I would gain a few more of the steadfastly loyal. The clergy may present a few problems, but I feel only a fanatical few would quote a woman’s inferiority and God defined place as subject to men as a reason to keep me off the throne – widows and heiresses already control their lands and all that goes with them until marriage. There might be a few people wondering how I could be properly subordinate to my husband while still being queen, but that could be handled somehow. A split between private life and public life, maybe. I do not know and nor do I really care. It would only be a small number of people worrying about that anyway; everyone else would have an eye to their gains, and I think many would admit that a queen sounds far easier to exploit than a king. The Pope’s official blessing could be secured via the usual methods; a large quantity of gold and some diplomatic bargaining. Where the Pope leads most others follow.”

Eleanor paused so they could digest the influx of information, also to rest her voice. She was not used to speaking so much, and her throat was becoming sore. “Back to Hugh, my father and weddings. It is possible to say that my father intends Trempwick to be his heir, knowing Hugh is a bastard. He publicly betrothed him to me and stated very clearly he intended us to marry; that says he trusts, likes and approves of Trempwick. I was reluctant to marry, but perhaps I changed my mind when it was explained this was a part of my beloved regal ancestor’s plan to make me his heir, or so the story could be spread. In the future my father could announce I am his heir. It will not happen, but it could easily be claimed he intended it to be so but never managed to make the change to his will … or a forged will could be produced, and then he never managed to make the announcement. Games, nothing but games, but important ones. The nobility might not honestly believe such a thing, but the peasants and townsfolk might; a story of a king foully betrayed by his wife and tragically dying before he could alter his succession because his illegitimate son hindered him so he could hold on to his power and status for as long as possible does grab the imagination, and if told correctly it can convince those ignorant of court affairs. Or you can put a somewhat different twist on this theme and say that I was intended to be the heir and Trempwick was considered the best person to support me.”

All in all only the beginning would be tough; once crowned, anointed and settled on the throne with resistance dead or put to flight the worst would be over and the largest problems defeated. As long as, and mark this as it is most important, my father is already dead in a way which does not link back to Trempwick or myself he stands a chance of pulling this scheme off. While my father is alive it is impossible; no one would support me over him. Trempwick is not ready to move yet; he need to be married to me publicly, and he needs me settled down and happy in that marriage. It would also be suspicious if the king died too soon after our wedding, only for Trempwick to begin his attempt on the throne.”

“So what was Trempwick’s mistake?” asked Fulk.

Eleanor lightly tapped his leg where he had been wounded. “Those bandits, or perhaps more accurately what came shortly after. He sent them with several ways to gain that I can see. He could kill you without turning me against him, depriving me of your influence and allowing him to comfort me and prove how caring he can be. He could possibly play hero and save me if I was captured. He scared and shocked me, giving him excellent reason to be kind and sympathetic. He blamed Hugh for the attack, turning me a little more away from my family. Was it Hugh? No. Trempwick trained me to think how he wants; this one time it came back and bit him. I obediently came to the desired conclusion, that it was Hugh who was responsible, and he agreed and continued to encourage me to think that way. The subject was then neatly dropped, except for the rare reminder that I was in danger, and they focused more on the future than on the supposed past. Most of those reminders were started by me to check his reactions and try to learn more. But, and here was his error, I had also been trained to think carefully, and so I did when I was safely out from under his scrutiny.

“Hugh gains nothing but risks plenty by trying to kill or kidnap me. He could not possibly hope to keep his involvement quiet; he would upset both my father and Trempwick, and also me, if I count at all. Unless you assume someone is slowly twisting things to give me a good chance at the throne I pose little threat to Hugh’s position. He could not marry me off to someone of his choice either; most consider my betrothal with Trempwick to be binding even though it was forced. Also the marriage would count as forced, and unless I stood by it it would be easy to dissolve, and having had my bodyguard murdered, been kidnapped, and then forced to marry someone who would more than likely rape me to consummate the marriage I would not be the least bit inclined to help them out. Any fool could see that. Also, Hugh could have found much better men than those bandits, and in larger quantities; if you are going to take a risk you make as certain of things as possible. But Trempwick only had a very short time to get his men hired and in place, if my theory as to why he suddenly sent us on that mission is true. He was not fooled by my excuses; he believed Gerbert. I think Gerbert may have been the horseman following us; if you remember he stole my horse, and the horseman appeared to be riding a grey.” Eleanor waved her free hand dismissively. “But Gerbert ties into the bit about servants; so forget it for now. My whereabouts are very carefully guarded; only a few know of them. Trempwick would have done better to assume one of his servants was in outside employ and a traitor; it would have been far more believable.”

Eleanor wearily let her head drop onto Fulk’s shoulder. “Once I realised it could not be Hugh I began to wonder why Trempwick wanted me to think it was, and from there I found suspecting him added a new twist to several other things, then I began to see a few other new things, which also added a new understanding, and after that I found many odd little things which count as nothing alone but add up with everything else to cast real doubt on Trempwick. We were stupid to think we had fooled him; he knew how we felt from the beginning, perhaps before we knew ourselves. He did not see or know everything though; he was furious when we met here, in this garden because it meant he could not find out what we were doing. He was also fooled with the necklace, and unless he hired someone who could see through walls there is no way he could have us watched when we were alone in a room together. We assumed he would act if he knew, but he needed me to like him, trust him and rely on him. He watched and he learned, then applied what he had learned when it was safe for him to court me. I only noticed the little things he stole from you because I was wary; he made your words and actions over into his own. It was only a small part of what he did; most of his courtship was his own.” Eleanor paused, and admitted truthfully, “There was some attraction there, and fondness, just not to the depth he claimed.”

Anne exclaimed, “But everyone thought you liked him! William, Hugh, even Fulk all told me how you liked Trempwick. I did not want to believe, but they were so instant, and they all told me separately.”

“Good; I may have fooled him then.”

“How?”

“I would rather not talk about that, but I suppose I must.” She pulled on the arm Fulk had resting about her waist, pulling it tighter. She took a firm hold on his other hand. “I am a fast learner when I want to be; I studied what he did and turned it back on him. I got him used to the idea it took me a while to do anything if he threw something new or unexpected at me. I used what emotion I did have as substitute for what I did not; fear, in particular, makes a good stand-in for passion.” That could be left precisely at that; they did not need to know that on a very few occasions, mostly when Trempwick was not pushing things very far and she was feeling very keenly the loneliness Fulk’s departure had left, it really had not been entirely unpleasant.

“I used all the cunning I had and it nearly was not enough, or perhaps it was not and he is just letting me hang myself. One night ...” Eleanor broke off, frowning as she thought. If she told them about Trempwick’s repeated seduction attempts Fulk would be very upset on her behalf and Anne would be equally unhappy, not to mention she’d nearly die of embarrassment relating it. No, she would not mention any of that unless she had to. “He got his mother, or she decided of her own accord because I did not fool her, to ask what he could not, to ask why, for all my supposed liking for him, I would not sleep with him. Some very nasty accusations were made, but I think I managed to allay his suspicions by losing my temper, shouting about a lot of the excuses I had been using in a very hurt manner, and then adding that it felt like incest.” And that too could be left at just that; they did not need to know there had been a lot of truth in her hurt anger and what she had said. She had told Fulk last night that her feelings towards Trempwick had always been so mixed up she could not hope to unravel them; sadly that was still all too true. “I really do not want to talk about it.”

Eleanor looked up at the sun, gauging how much time had passed. “There is plenty more, but I do not know how long we safely have here, and there can be no more meetings like this. Trempwick has spies everywhere.” Eleanor looked at Anne. “One of your maids will be a spy, possibly more than one.” And at Fulk. “You have a squire? He may be a spy also. Trust no one.” Back to Fulk. “It is going to be hard for me to see you again; I cannot risk meeting you secretly again. I trust no messengers. So I will ask that you wait and continue as normal; if I need you somehow I will find a way. Hugh may summon you and question you, if I manage to get him to listen to me he might. Be truthful, but be sure not to let slip anything which might lead him to suspect we love each other.”

“Of course; I like not being maimed and dead.”

Eleanor pulled away from Fulk, sitting back so she could study his face. “One more thing; when they were … persuading me to get betrothed to Trempwick you were locked up? At whose order?”

“The king’s.” Fulk’s answer was quick, positive, and the same as the one he had given two months ago. “He told me so himself; remember he gave me his ring in compensation. I still have it.” He indicated the leather pouch fastened onto his belt.

“If you had been free would you have tried to help me? Honestly?”

The look on Fulk’s face was nearly enough to break her heart. “Of course I would have,” he said softly.

Eleanor considered this, nodding slowly. “I need to talk to my beloved regal ancestor; typically he is not here and will not be back for a long time.” She sighed. “That man is just plain inconvenient.” She spent a few moments meditating on what promised to be a miserable meeting if it ever happened. “Anne? Do you know why he ordered Fulk locked up?”

“I know he has heard good reports on Fulk and his loyalty, but that is all.”

“So … he may have thought there was a tiny chance you would intervene because you are loyal … maybe. But if he does not know you love me then the only motive you are left with for your probable suicide is loyalty, and that is a rare commodity. A failed rescue attempt would have left me feeling even worse, so it would have been almost useful for him. If Trempwick had asked him to lock you away … now that would make sense because of what he knew … but then it would have been in Trempwick’s best interests to have you loose. If you had tried to rescue me you would more than likely die; the blame would be firmly at my father’s feet, and Trempwick could comfort me over your loss as well as all the rest.” Eleanor sighed again, fed up of thinking herself around in circles and running into dead ends. “Trempwick wants you free; my father does not have very good grounds to lock you safely away … it makes no sense!”

Anne considered, then suggested, “If William kept hearing of Fulk’s loyalty he may suspect there was a small chance he might interfere, and so locked him up to ensure that could not happen. Believe it or not, but William does not like unnecessary killing and he prizes traits like fidelity.”

“And so once again we end up back with the elusive Saint William!” growled Eleanor. “I need to talk to my father; I never thought I would say that, and I do not like it one bit, but it is sadly true. There are so many things only he can say; I need his account of that council the three of them held on the night of John’s return I have Trempwick’s version; I need Hugh’s and my father’s too.”

Fulk patted her on the back. “At least you can’t complain you’re bored now,” he said encouragingly. “I know how much you like to keep busy, and you do love a challenge.”

Eleanor smiled and said warmly, “I did miss you, you know.”

“I should damned well hope so! When I think of all I survived at your hands … I still have nightmares.” Fulk sniffled and rubbed at his eye. “Casual cruelty, insults, belittlement, torture, attempts on my life, out and out attacks-”

“And you enjoyed every minute of it, you lying wretch.”

“Certainly not!”

“Sorry, every second of it.”

“You are impossible!”

Eleanor beamed. “That is so sweet of you.”

“And here I am again, lured back into a vicious life of gooseberry inflicted torment,” lamented Fulk. “I should have run away to live with my mother while I had the chance.”

Eleanor kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Fulk smoothed her forehead with a thumb. “If I left you sitting about frowning and fretting all the time you’d soon end up with wrinkles, oh beloved mine. I’d rather you got laughter lines.”

“I shall remember that next time you make a prat out of yourself and will laugh heartily.” Reverting to seriousness Eleanor broached the reason she had called this pathetic little council of war. “I have three main choices from here; I can go to Hugh now and tell him what I know, but I have no evidence so it may look like the last ditch attempt of a troublemaker to avoid her unwanted marriage. I can delay a few more days, two at most, and try to find out more before making my decision. I can marry Trempwick anyway and do what I can to wring some gain from the situation.”

Eleanor paused to take stock once again. “The last is not tolerable; I can just about forgive him for killing Stephan when left no other choice by my father. But he is probably the reason John died, plans to remove Hugh, possibly set Adele up to remove her and her children from the competition, tried to kill Fulk, and planned to exploit me. I do not want to be queen, and I do not want people fighting and dying in my name, even less so when they are fighting to remove my brother from a throne I do not want. Since it appears Constance, and therefore surely also Hugh, is distrustful and suspicious of foul play my brother may be more willing to listen to me. I doubt he has any evidence himself, so he may be a little more appreciative of my own problems there. I do not love my family, but they suit my purposes far more than Trempwick does, and I think I hate them less. I know Trempwick will never allow me to have the one thing I want, so I gain nothing by helping him and lose everything. Problem; I cannot bring in any of my facts which relate to a certain rather unfortunate love affair involving a princess and a rust heap. It would cause entirely too much trouble, and possibly ruin everything. I can carefully twist most facts to remove anything … unseemly, but it does make my case even weaker.”

“So you’re not going to run?” asked Fulk. “And it’s a gooseberry and a noble, gentle knight.”

“No,” said Eleanor flatly. “I will not run; I will stand and fight. If I lose then at least he will have to be honest; no more honey coated poison and endless lies, and I shall wring whatever advantages I can from the situation. I am sorry for deceiving you, but it was a safe excuse. If we are discovered with this excuse he will be furious, but he cannot tell my father about us unless he wishes to lose me entirely. I would make it very clear, once again, that if he harmed you I would never forgive him, and he could not harm me too much or again he would turn me against him. That is not to say we would escape lightly, but I could shape the situation into something we could both survive well enough. In the end that is what it all comes back to; turning this mess to my best advantage, and doing what I can to look after those few I care for. Well, it may prevent a war as well, or then again it may cause one where they may not have been one; I cannot see the future. And perhaps …” Eleanor trailed off, afraid to put this last, fragile, deep wish into words, terrified of how hopeless it would sound when isolated. Her grip on Fulk’s hand tightened. “Perhaps if I do well enough, and if you distinguish yourself … perhaps somehow we might … if I save Hugh’s throne he will owe me … somehow we might come out of this married and safe. They will owe me, a lot. You too; without you I would never have seen any of this. It is a distant, forlorn, unlikely, probably impossible hope, but some hope is better than none.”

The prospect of a wedding had Anne swinging her feet happily again. “I shall do whatever I can to help that.” The feet slowly swung to a halt. “But as you say it is most likely impossible. What did you mean, you would not have seen this if not for Fulk?”

“He must have been planning this since shortly after he took me from the palace, perhaps before.” Eleanor let her head drop back onto the solid curve of Fulk’s shoulder and wound her arm back around him. “You he did not expect; you threw his plans slightly, loosened his hold over me. In you I have someone else to rely on and trust, someone else to be kind to me, someone else to fend off those who attack me in some way. I have something I want that does not come from him, something I would risk myself for. If not for you I would have accepted his suit, been grateful for it almost. Until you appeared he must have thought it inevitable I would accept him; who else was there? In my closed little world he would have been the only one showing me the least bit of kindness, and as soon as he could pursue me fairly he did so. Actually, looking back I suspect he had been dropping hints he might love me for a while but I did not see them; I simply did not think it possible. As things were he could do his best and it would not work; I only had eyes for you, and you were doing everything Trempwick was, only completely honestly, and aided by real, mutual attraction and love which, I freely admit, produces far more enjoyable results. Trying to remove you was his mistake.”

Eleanor paused, thinking of what she had just done. The feeling of being lost, overwhelmed and unsure swept back along with the burning anger mingled with sorrow that came from Trempwick’s betrayal. “Now you really are all I have; I have thrown the rest away.” Fulk just held her, stroking her back and not bothering with empty words. After a while the tide of emotions receded. “I shall have to talk to Hugh without it looking like I want to, alone. I suppose I shall have to see what I can get out of him before telling him what I can; I only hope he listens. I doubt he will, and he is so …” her nose wrinkled, “thick. Quite where that comes from I do not know; he was smart enough as a boy.”

Anne crossed her legs and paid very careful attention to rearranging the folds of her skirts, speaking in a measured voice as she worked, “Your brother is a very frightened man. I know; I recognise myself in him. He clings to duty because it is a comfort, a guide and a shelter to hide behind when you are lost and alone, trying to do something that you know you cannot, something you are not suited to. All you need to is let go, let yourself be buried and absorbed into duty and it tells you what to do, how, when. You do not need to think overly much, or to worry beyond getting your clearly defined duty right.” Anne looked at Eleanor with a kind of simmering envy. “We are not all strong like you.”

“Stubborn,” corrected Eleanor. “And probably stupid too.”

Anne’s brows locked together and she said with exaggerated, angry precision, “No, strong. You went to your unwanted betrothal a mess and said your unwanted vows before a sizable audience and you were still yourself – you hesitated right before everyone and you refused to look weak. I did mine to perfection, exactly as required because I drowned myself in my duty. My vows were not really what I wanted, though I admit they have turned out well. Your brother does exactly what is expected of a man, a knight, and the heir to the throne. Hugh-the-person is hidden safely behind it all, terrified. I did not want to marry a stranger decades older than me and become queen of an empire while the whole of Christendom watched but I had to; my fate was decided by older, wiser heads and I lacked the courage to even ask for some consideration of my age. Duty said I had to come to England and get married, duty said I should accept the absurdity and horror of being treated as if I was a few years older, duty told me when and how to accept gifts and well wishes, duty told me how to act throughout it all, so I clung to it, worked to the exact letter of it, and when I found myself stood at the church door with my hand linked to William’s and a huge crowd watching duty supplied the words and actions when all I wanted to do was cry and run away to hide. Hugh is the same; the man wants to run but he holds on to duty because it is all he can see which will get him through whatever he is afraid of.”

Eleanor mused, “Hugh was the second son for twelve years, made into the heir suddenly and unexpectedly. He was always very different to Stephan … he had none of our brother’s talent for making friends or love of attention. He was quiet and serious, shy in many ways.” She rubbed her chin, deep in thought. “So Hugh is struggling to fill his brother’s place and terrified he will fail, and so he buries himself in what he thinks people expect and want?”

Anne nodded. “Hugh-the-person is no use, so Hugh-the-prince takes over, just as Anne-the-person is no good when Anne-the-queen is needed. Present your brother with a situation where there is no instructions or guidance and he falters.” Anne nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “Duty did not help me with you though; our meeting was unexpected, and you were not what I expected. I imagine you have the same effect on poor Hugh; he does not know want to do with you.”

“Nice insight. I shall have to think of some way to make use of this,” Eleanor announced resolutely. “Fulk has his orders, now for yours … if you are willing to help further?”

“Of course!” replied Anne eagerly.

“Pick a fight with Aveline, announce you do not like her and then keep on getting rid of her as much as possible. Keep me away from her. Claim my time as much as you can; say you want to do something about the wedding, play games with your pet princess, or similar, I am sure you can think of the type of excuse I mean. Also try to get me away from maids and other company; Constance is … tolerable, she at least is not going to be spying for anyone and will let me think. If you manage to get a moment alone with Hugh tell him I wish to speak to him in private, but do not go out of your way to get such a meeting. I have a few ideas of my own to get my brother to summon me. Lastly, please get me away from Llwellyn at dinner! He holds more than a small grudge over my refusing to marry him and the effects that has had on his status. Dinner and death wishes might be very fitting for an agent but it grows very tiresome, especially when those snide comments are couched in flowery compliments. Above all I need your cooperation; I have to work this so it looks as if I do not want to talk to Hugh, spend time with you, or anything aside from get married with as little fuss as I can manage and go home as soon as possible.”

“I can do that.”

“Then there is only one small thing left.” Eleanor stood up and shook the creases out of the heavy skirts of her dress. Ruefully she hand a hand over the coiled braid at the nape of her neck; that would have to stay as it was, tradition or no. It would take too long to loose her hair and then put it back as it was. She said to Fulk, “I believe I somehow managed to inveigle you into marrying me. That is, if you still want to.” Quickly she warned him, “It will be nothing more than words known only to the three of us, probably never anything more.”

Fulk rose and took her right hand in his. He looked into her eyes and spoke his words clearly, eschewing the lengthy formal vows, but not quite dropping to the simplest ones, which were more a statement of ownership. “Eleanor, here I take you as my wife for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith.”

“Fulk, here I take you as my husband for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith”

One customary, but not very proper, kiss ended this ceremony also.

Fulk grinned. “So, you escaped promising to be meek and obedient for the rest of your days. I wondered how you’d deal with that in the fancy ceremony.”

Eleanor shrugged. “I was going to lie outrageously.”









:wavers … collapsed into an exhausted heap: Oh, that was hard! Very hard, and I still don’t think I have it right. Unlike every other bit of this story posted so far that scene did not come to me whole; it came as self contained little snippets, sometimes just a single line, sometimes a lot more. I had to piece them together into something which worked while trying to avoid the info-dump and ‘telling, not showing’ effects. Having such huge quantities of dialogue sloshing about is a pain; I had to break it up somehow, and indicating who was speaking was not nearly as easy as usual. I think really it is too much dialogue in one big block, and far too much of an info-dump. As for telling, not showing … well, much of this has been there all along, if you only know to look. There are so many things I had to put into that scene, so many it was frightening, but worse than that this scene is the turning point, the explanation of loads of little things, the big shock (which got given away ages ago thanks to crappy writing as so is about as shocking as a dead power socket), the beginning of something complicated, critical. If it gets stuffed up then everything will probably just implode. And then I have to be careful so a later scene does not end up too similar to this one …

The episodic nature and long delays in the last few parts have already done their harm; there is going to be no forced happy sappy ending involving Fulk and Nell running away because that was never the plan, not that I could tell anyone that. I get this horrible sneaky feeling I lost a lot of readers with people throwing up their hands in disgust … or maybe that is me being paranoid about view counts, and thinking of my own reaction. Hmm, no, I’d be furious but keep on reading just to see how big a mess the author made. But who wants to wait a little over two weeks for something 22 pages long before it is spaced out for easy reading?

So, if this were a house I think the structure has a few cracks, none of them really dangerous but some rather unsightly and inconvenient when putting up wallpaper. I’ll just have to cram them full of polyfiller and paper over them while praying for the best :tongueg:

A princess and her knight, shoving a rocket up the world’s backside. But the rocket was lit by Trempy; the duo only found it and moved it to somewhere it could be found.

Now this is written maybe I can get a bit of peace? I’ve been hearing a lot of those lines echoing in the back of the Eleanor-space in my mind for months now! “He is what he is, clearly different to you than to me. Leave it at that.” And “He always loved John, but not me. Never me.” Stand out as the worst offenders; been hearing them endlessly since right near the beginning. Actually, the most common line I hear is the duo exchanging their wedding vows. They kept on trying to get me to write that early and out of place. Gah! Unruly characters!


Welcome back, zelda. :looks up at post: Eight hours :tongueg:

[zelda12]

"what who said that?"

I'm almost caught up, but I decdied I needed sleep last night so I only got half way through. Everything I read so far has been up to standard, mialdy. ~D

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk nursed his mug of wine in one hand, turning over the sealed letter with his other. The parchment was obviously cheap, and faint ghosts of text indicated it had been used not once but twice before, then sanded clean for reuse. The sealing wax was nothing more than plain candle wax drizzled on over the join, meanly done so the letter threatened to unfurl on its own accord. There was a telling lack of a seal’s imprint in the wax. Fulk smiled slightly; a mark would have boded ill – it would mean his mother had not replied to his message and someone else had, and that would probably mean the worst. He would have questioned the messenger but Simon had been the one to accept the letter, and the boy had sent the man on his way without anything more than the rest of the money Fulk had set aside to pay him.

Fulk turned the letter once more, examining the back side. He squinted at the writing, managing to decipher the odd word here and there of the second, less faded usage. The parchment had previously been a list of foodstuff brought and sold; the quantities were too great for it to belong to a single family, more suited to a tavern. So the parchment had not come from the one who had sent this letter, not unless his mother had set up business as an innkeeper. Given how much she liked people making a mess out of her nice, clean floors that was unlikely.

Fulk sipped his vernage, set the cup to one side and drew his dagger. He prised the seal open with the tip of the knife and set the letter back down unopened, taking his time to carefully clean shavings of wax off the blade with the hem of his tunic. Deliberately he unfolded the letter and read.

Edmund Reeve to Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, this day the eighth of February in the Year of Our Lord Thirteen-thirty-eight, dictated and taken down by father Thomas, village priest of Walton.

It’s my sad duty to tell you of the passing of your mother, my stepmother, some two years hence. She died peaceably and at good age, surrounded by her family. She was much loved by all of us, my father especially.

You’ll want to know what happened, so I’ll set it out. After a goodly period of time had passed since the news of your father’s, and your own, death arrived here my father, also Edmund Reeve, resumed his suit, being tired of his widower’s state and both of them honourably free. A while more passed, but before the year was out your mother and my father married, as they’d intended to do before your father claimed her for his own. No children were born of this marriage. The years they had together were happy and contented.

Fulk drained his cup and tossed the letter back onto his table. “Pack of lies,” he muttered darkly. His father had claimed no one, even if it’d been his right. Emma had loved her lord, and she wouldn’t have done that if he’d bulled in, reminded her she was his property and then snatched her planned future away from her like this Edmund chap claimed. Thinking back he remembered nothing untoward or special between his father’s reeve and his mother, nothing at all. He did remember this younger Edmund Reeve as a boy though; a few years his junior, a snivelling coward, a tattletale, a self righteous little oik, or so he’d thought.

Fulk’s hand dropped to his dagger hilt; he’d have to go home and see what was what, and while he was there he’d remind this Edmund Reeve that aside from her long dead parents and siblings who’d died as children Emma had only had two people as her family – himself and his father. His plans for a trip were stillborn; he might be able to beg a few days grace from his royal duties but he couldn’t leave Eleanor behind. She needed him, and he wasn’t too inclined to wander without her anyway. Next time he saw her, whenever that’s be, he’d ask her if they could go to Walton at their earliest chance.







Er, busy. You know the usual by now, so I’ll spare the repeat.

I ended up doing an essay for the other forum in reply to a comment; you may as well have a copy:

The bandits … ah yes, the bandits. If you read the whole thing over again, even without this new information in mind, the bandit thing makes more sense. As things are though you are needing to think, remember and compare things which happened half a year ago for readers to things which are happening now, things which looked honest to things were are admitted to be tricky. You also have the handicap of the uneven writing quality and style. So I’ll recap briefly and do a tiny bit of explaining.

Right back at the beginning, when Fulk first arrives at Woburn and the adult Nell/Trempy relationship is shown for the very first time, Nell is obedient and compliant, almost completely. She does as he says, and even when she does try to speak up for herself she is not very forceful and quickly subsides. If Trempy says jump she jumps, or at worst asks how high. She is quite the loner, though she will accept Trempy’s company well enough. Trempy is very much in charge.

Slowly this changes, thanks to Fulk. Fulk stands up for her, and gives her opportunities to assert herself a little. He shows her Trempy can be argued with a little. He reminds her of who she is. Fulk slowly gains her trust, liking and confidence, going from very grudgingly accepted follower to friend. And then this happens:
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.”

She slowly begins to stand her ground. The more time passes the worse she gets, openly arguing, then defying Trempy. She begins to lie to him, keeping information back from him with the sole aim of controlling her own life. She begins to really fall for Fulk, and Fulk for her. Trempy knows, and he tries to carefully steer them apart. He fails, and can only watch as they keep on getting closer, and as Nell keeps on slipping out of his grasp. He does keep on trying to get things going his way, but it is not exactly working as well as he’d wish. As long as they are together they gravitate towards each other, and he cannot effectively put Nell back into her place without causing more trouble – Fulk would get upset and start complaining and/or stick up for her. Any effect Trempy has on her is temporary at best.

While Fulk is around it is hard for Trempy to make any headway in his attempt to win Nell’s heart. She loves someone else, and much of what Trempy is offering (kindness, companionship, someone to talk and joke with, care, concern, a boost to her self respect, reassurance, the assorted physical stuff) Fulk is also giving her (much of Trempy’s unique benefits come from the fact they are two of a kind, both agents and slightly apart from their world. He also does a more comprehensive line of protection than Fulk is able, and some assorted stuff based on the mentor/second father background they have). Even worse the more she does with Fulk the more she notices the unfortunate lack of natural chemistry between herself and Trempy; the whole “like comparing a simple rushlight to the noonday sun.” thingy Nell herself was mentally commenting on at one point. He knows she is not going to be happy with a simple rushlight when she could have the sun, and she will not give things a chance to grow into something brighter when she has an alternative.

Trempy also knows (thanks to his own poking about) Fulk has a history as a heartbreaker; Maude is especially worrying to our spymaster. Incidentally he knows what happened to Maude after her last meeting with Fulk (the one where he refused to marry her until he was a knight). Cicely (the girl from his home he used rather badly) is also a source of worry. He’s had other romances, but they were of a different sort with more experienced women. But Nell is far more a Cicely or Maude; innocent, rather naive, in love, not overly religious or prudish, and actually quite clueless as to what she is getting herself into. Based on past history Fulk is likely to take advantage if he can safely do so.

Then comes that day in the snow, the day Gerbert overheard some suspicious things and walked in on a Fulk who was still dressing after changing his clothes and a furiously blushing, dishevelled Nell. Knowing how they feel about each other, but not privy to the insider’s view of what they had been doing that the reader has, you have to admit it looks very bad indeed. Not only has his princess gotten out of hand but she is now dangerously close to flinging herself away one some idiot knight, if she has not already one so. Something which would place her in danger, make Trempy’s life more difficult later, take her further still out from under his control, and generally bugger things up something rotten.

Fulk has to go. Now. Trempy can’t act openly, nor can he confront Nell; to do either of those things would be to risk losing her. He has all of half a day to plan and set things in motion, a distracted half day which is mostly night time (with her right next to him, alert, tense and suspicious) anyway.

Was Trempy also distracted? Not saying :tongueg: Well, Nell’s presence was certainly distracting him a little :embarassed: Ahem, but away from that the frog is staying silent.

So the tiny, unforeseen happening that is Fulk swearing allegiance to Nell was the stone which caused a series of ripples in a calm pond. Fulk introduced many, many little factors scattered widely across both plot and characters, none of them really large or important alone, but taken as a whole …

This story really does benefit from re-reading once you know certain things. Go right back and you’ll see Trempy hinting he loves her with steadily increasing bluntness, assorted odd moods explained, comments with alternate meanings, little details suddenly picking up new significance, characters thinking things you know are wrong but previously believed (e.g. Nell thinking her mother must have suffered badly) and so on. All those pointless looking scenes have something in them or will have some use in the future, even if it’s just the one line.

“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.” – Raoul Trempwick to his king, 295 pages ago.

[frogbeastegg]

The tall stone tower keep of his home, encircled by a tall stone wall studded with towers, was the single most beautiful sight Jocelyn had seen in days, since he had left, in fact. The afternoon sun reflected off the armour and weaponry of the sentries patrolling the walls, and his own banner flew proudly at the very top of the keep, stretching out in the wind to declare his ownership to the world.

A ripple of chatter ran through the men following him on foot and horseback at the sight. Jocelyn listened with tolerant good humour as his men at arms set about the pressing business of planning what exactly they were going to do now the oft dreamed of moment of their homecoming had arrived. It was a simple business really, for all their overcomplification. If you had a family you visited them first, or else your wife and/or mother sat waiting for you with her second best iron skillet and a scowl fit to wither your manly courage into a small blob. If you didn’t have family you went to the kitchens or tavern and exploited the returning hero aura to get as much free food and drink as you could.

Up on the ramparts extra men were running into position. Jocelyn squinted and shaded his eyes with a hand. Most of the men had crossbows, and once in position they set to winching the strings back and loading. Men with hand to hand weapons dispersed at even distances along the wall. The drawbridge remained up. Jocelyn dropped his hand back to his saddlebow, impressed despite himself at the way his wife had maintained discipline in the castle.

When they had closed half the remaining distance a new figure appeared up on the gatehouse, this one dressed like a woman. “Ah, Richildis,” commented Jocelyn, aiming a cheery salute he didn’t exactly feel at the figure. Characteristically she ignored him. “Cold hearted bitch,” muttered Jocelyn.

Still the drawbridge did not lower. Surely those up on the walls could see his banners by now? For an uncomfortable moment Jocelyn had visions of himself sat here outside the walls, shouting futile threats while the bridge remained up and Richildis laughed. He turned in his saddle to check his pennant was flying properly; it was, along with his other flags.

He checked back at the walls; the defensive attitude continued with no signs of recognition. “What in the bloody blazes of hell does the damned woman think she’s doing!?” Right; plan. He was not going to act like he was afraid; it was his wife and his castle, God damn it! But nor would he obligingly trot on up only to be shot full of crossbow bolts if Richildis had taken up with the steward and was desirous of an end to their marriage. That would be a bloody embarrassing way to die.

Jocelyn beckoned to his squire. The youth rode up beside him. “Alain, your young eyes are sharper than mine, see anything wrong?”

“They’re not lowering the bridge, my lord.”

“God’s toenails! I know that, damn you! Anything else?”

“Looks like the lady Richildis up there on the gatehouse, my lord, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me that looks like Gauthier next to her, judging from his stance and all.”

“So they’re definitely our people?”

“I’d say so.”

“So why is the damned woman pissing about? We look like us, and we’re not waving burning brands about and shouting death threats, so we’re hardly mistaken for enemies.” They were almost in range of the crossbows now. Jocelyn signalled a halt. If he ended up looking daft he’d be sure to inform Richildis of his displeasure later. At length.

“Sir!” Alain pointed at the gatehouse. The drawbridge lowered and a lone horseman rode out, the bridge winching up behind him as soon as his horse’s hooves had cleared the wooden planks.

“Oh, Christ on the cross!” swore Jocelyn. “I’ll have her hide for this!”

The horseman rode up within hailing distance and reined in. He stood in his stirrups and shouted, “My lord! Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me! Who else would it be, you thrice damned fool!? Try opening your bloody eyes and take a look at my banners!” Jocelyn flung an arm to point at the assortment of flags behind him. “And check the livery too – mine!”

The horseman waved back at the castle in a prearranged signal; the drawbridge began to lower again and the men on the walls stood down.

Jocelyn spurred his horse over to the messenger. “What is this God damned game my wife is playing?”

“My lord, you and your men returned six days ago in the company of Raymond de Issoudun.”

“No I bloody well didn’t!”

The man pulled a face. “Aye, so we saw just in time. They had the banners and all, damned convincing, my lord.”

“Oh, brilliant!” declared Jocelyn to the sky. “Just bloody brilliant! I’m gone for a short time and someone tries to steal my bloody castle!” He signalled to his men to move out again.

He passed the rest of the short journey to his castle in a smouldering rage.

Safely in the bailey Jocelyn climbed down off his horse. He scarcely got two steps before he heard pounding feet and his exuberant daughter yelling, “Papa! Papa!” His black mood evaporated, and he knelt down on the muddy cobbles of his courtyard, bracing himself for impact. Even so Mahaut nearly bowled him over as she crashed into him. She squeezed him in a tight hug, her little face buried in the curve of his shoulder, making Jocelyn worry she might cut her face on his mail. “You’re not dead!” she said with such joyful exuberance Jocelyn found himself smiling broadly.

“No, I’m not dead.”

Mahaut looked up at the others who had returned home with Jocelyn. “Thierry’s back,” she commented, before sticking her thumb in her mouth.

She wasn’t the only one to notice his eldest son’s return; Richildis, emerging from the gatehouse, froze as she spotted the boy on his pony. She hitched up her skirts and sprinted the rest of the distance, ignoring her husband to get to her son.

Mahaut pulled her thumb out of her mouth with a popping noise. “She always tells me off for running. It’s not fair!”

Looking at his wife fussing over their son Jocelyn was inclined to agree; it wasn’t fair. He stood up, taking Mahaut’s hand in his, grimacing only slightly when he found her thumb was still covered in drool. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t suck your thumb any more? You’ll make your teeth go crooked.” She mumbled something contrite and scuffled at the floor with one foot. Jocelyn ruffled her hair. “Come on, let’s go join the others.”

Mahaut smoothed her hair back down and stood her ground. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she scolded. “Beautiful ladies don’t have messy hair.”

Jocelyn grinned roguishly. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure there.”

“Why?” she asked curiously.

“Er … well, I mean after you’ve been rescued from an evil knight by your one true love you’re bound to be a bit ruffled about the edges, right?”

“Oh. That. I guess.” Mahaut looked beseechingly up at him. “Papa, can I have a new comb, please? A really, really nice one with a pretty pattern on it? Please? I’ll be ever so good, I promise.”

“Well …”

“See, if I ever get rescued I want my hair all neat and nice and all.”

“I don’t think you’re going to need rescuing for some years yet; you’re much too young.”

“Oh.” Mahaut’s face fell. She sucked her teeth, mind visibility working at full capacity. “But,” she ventured carefully, “you never know, though, right? So it’s better to be prepared, just in case, right?”

Jocelyn made a few mental adjustments to the list of gifts he’d brought back, assigning Richildis’ comb to Mahaut instead. He sent up a small prayer of thanks for the heaven sent inspiration which had spurred him on to pick the comb instead of hair ribbons; more proof of God’s favour towards him. “We’ll see later, when I’ve taken my armour off.”

The girl beamed brightly, knowing she’d won. “Thank you, papa!”

They began to walk over to Richildis and Thierry. “I pity your husband,” teased Jocelyn.

“He’s going to love me, you know.”

“Of course he is.” As if he’d let anyone but the best and most worthy get his slimy hands within five feet of his little girl! Thank God he had another ten years before he needed to start looking; he knew entirely too well what men were like … women too, for that matter.

At their arrival Richildis reluctantly looked up from her careful examination of Thierry’s bruised hand; she inclined her head to Jocelyn. “I am pleased you are back, my lord.”

“And I’m pleased to be back.”

A small scuffle broke out between the children; Mahaut trying to look at her brother’s injured hand, proclaiming that as a kind and gentle noble lady she was supposed to bandage people and stuff, while Thierry gruffly insisted he was perfectly well and barely even noticed he was hurt at all, and anyway knights got hurt all the time.

Jocelyn said sternly, “Thierry, be nice to your sister. Mahaut, don’t pester your brother. Now run along.” To Richildis he said, “Thierry’s hand’s nothing to be worried about, just a bruise he got while learning the sword. He didn’t block properly, or so I’ve managed to wring out of him. Don’t fuss over the boy, Tildis; it embarrasses him and you’ll make him soft.”

“I suppose I should just be thankful he is back.”

“Exactly,” replied Jocelyn with a tight lipped smile.

Richildis digested that with down-turned brows. They were still in the public eye, and simple courtesy, and curiosity no doubt, demanded she ask, “All in one piece?”

“All in one piece,” he confirmed smugly. “Not even a scratch.”






Half an hour later, after giving thanks in the castle’s chapel for his safe return and removing his armour, Jocelyn settled in the solar with his wife, a cup of ale and a mutton pie.

Richildis left him no time to relax and gather his wits. “Why are you back? Why is Thierry back? You said not until the English king was here, and he’s not. Did something go wrong?”

“Ah.” Jocelyn sank his teeth into his pie. He chewed and swallowed hastily, scorching his tongue on the hot gravy. “Jesú! Damned thing felt cool enough.” A driblet of gravy boiled its way down his wrist; he wiped it away on his other sleeve before he could burn too badly. He was uncomfortably aware of Richildis’ disapproving gaze. Conscious of his wounded dignity Jocelyn growled, “I saved Yves’ nephew’s pasty arse when the little moron made a bunch of mistakes; course he whined to uncle about big bad me stealing his authority. I was already in poor favour thanks to my disagreeing with Yves’ fantastic plan to ruin Ardon entirely, which he’s done. The place is devastated; it’ll take years and a lot of money to rebuild, and people’ll need moving in from outside if there’s any hope of even trying. I got sent away, no longer required he said, but really too competent and so showing up his sodding nephew. A used chamberpot has more brains than Yves; the nephew takes after his uncle, but worse, if you can believe it. They weren’t happy that I was the one credited by the men with much of the success and glory, not that there is any when mowing down peasants like so much damned hay. I grabbed Thierry on the way out; snatched him out from his lessons, stuck him on his pony and got the hell out of there as fast as I could.”

That hadn’t been part of his plan, but Jocelyn had soon taken advantage of what the Good Lord had offered him, adjusting his plans for this latest divine gift. He’d fought bravely and competently for his lord, so well his jealous lord had turned on him. With all the hurry and sudden unexpectedness in his departure, and the fact he’d left behind much of Thierry’s belongings, he’d obviously been rescuing his son, Yves’ hostage for his good behaviour. That done he’d had no more part in the butchery he’d protested against from the start, duty discharged and family safe. He was at home, guarding what was his from Yves’ potential reprisal and waiting for his king to arrive so he could loyally trot out to his side and fight with him against the traitor with the exact same bravery and skill he’d recently demonstrated.

Remembering about the pie still clutched in his hand Jocelyn bit off another mouthful, this time mindful of the gravy. The food stuck in his throat and he had to work to force it down, his hunger abruptly gone. “Speaking of Ardon, I’d better ask how our guests are doing. The girl and the nun?”

“Elianora … well, she’ll talk if you speak to her and she’ll do things if you ask her to, but otherwise? She just sits there, staring off into empty space. I’ve heard of this before, but never seen it; the mind just can’t cope, so off it goes, sometimes to return, sometimes not. The nun spends much of her time with her, trying to coax her back to the world of the living.”

Unable to recover even a hint of his earlier appetite Jocelyn placed the partly eaten pie down on the broad arm of his chair. The filling began to ooze out, much to Richildis’ guarded distress, but Jocelyn didn’t even notice. He wiped at the gravy on his sleeve with his thumb. “Well, the good news is that when the king gets here and straightens things out she’s going to be sole owner of a badly damaged castle and ravaged fief peopled by the dead. That’s the best news, and it’s damned poor. And of course as an heiress…”

“She’ll be sold off to the highest bidder and forced to marry,” said Richildis, finishing his sentence for him with far more self composition than he was managing.

“Indeed, and she’s no family to protect her; Yves butchered the lot.” Her father’s, brothers’ and betrothed’s heads were all mounted on spikes and displayed on the castle walls, just above the splintered main gate. They’d been coated in tar so they’d last longer before they rotted. “So there’s nothing to be done, but from the sounds of it it’s best not to tell her just yet.”

The gravy stain was not budging, not that he’d expected it to without water. Spots and smears against the deep green of his sleeve, dark brownish, almost like dried blood. Jocelyn brushed one final time at the wool and then tore his eyes away; he was seeing blood everywhere these days. Fools fired up on legends of heroes might call it cowardly guilt, but it was common, far more common than those who’d never seen blood spilt might like to believe. Cowards killed at a distance and Jocelyn had always thought this was why; not the danger, but the fact three feet of cold steel left no impersonal space between you and your victim. Recalling his mind to the conversation Jocelyn said, “I’ll speak up on her behalf, do what I can. Simple Christian charity.”

He saw an unfamiliar expression spread across his wife’s face, unfamiliar when aimed at him but one the children often prompted. A kind of surprised pride. “They told me what you did; it was very brave and … decent.”

His reply was brusque, “It was nothing special.”

“You behaved nobly-”

“No.” He relived again the instant when his sword had come down on a skull, cleaving it through nearly to the jaw. It’d been in the brutal room to room fighting when the keep had finally fallen; the man had jumped out at him with a blade and he’d reacted on years of hard trained instinct. Except it hadn’t been a man, just a skinny boy in patched, worn clothes and a kitchen knife clutched in his hand. “No,” he repeated. And there it went; the soft expression he’d waited so long to cause flitted away, turning to confusion, then back to the usual politely guarded mask. “Tell me about this attempt to steal my castle.”

“A group of men with your banners and livery rode up with a group of Raymond de Issoudun’s men; we – I – thought it was you, so the gates were opened and the men stood down. We realised it was a trick just in time and pulled the bridge up; we shot a few as they broke off and rode away to safety, but only one of the men we recovered survived. He’s safely locked up; I thought it best to leave him to you.” Her head bowed and her voice dropped to no more than a whisper. “My stupidity almost cost us everything. So much for all my fine words. So easily fooled …”

Jocelyn didn’t bother to try and comfort her; he’d learned long ago he could do no right there. “I’ll take this to the king when he arrives, see what justice I can get.” It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Jocelyn to see how useful this could be; God truly did love him. He could spin this beautifully; he’d done his best by his liege out of loyalty and fear for his son, then when his duty had been judged, by his liege himself, finished he’d rescued his boy and returned home. This attack was obviously a reprisal; Yves’ revenge for his taking his son back.

“You were right; you did need to go. If you hadn’t Yves might have come here instead of Ardon.”

“He hasn’t, and he won’t.” It was only afterwards Jocelyn realised that he’d said that in the same way he usually comforted the children. Astonishingly it seemed to work; she didn’t recoil and get defensive or scornful. Spurred on by this unusual mood of theirs Jocelyn stood up and held out a hand to her. “Come to bed. I’m no good at fancy words like a knight’s supposed to be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think or feel.” Jocelyn frowned, labouring with a task he usually gave up on without even trying; wording his feelings. “I … just feel lonely. I don’t want to be alone. Please? I’ll try and be gentle since you like that. I don’t want to be alone … and nor do you.”

She sat there without moving so long Jocelyn’s hand slapped back down against his thigh. All the time she continued to look at him with a certain measuring air. Very slowly she pushed herself to her feet. “Since you’ll only keep asking …”






Eleanor nibbled a morsel of quail and wondered if this could count as her wedding feast, after all she had got married this morning. Stuck here at the high table between her brother and Llwellyn, unable to even see Fulk in his place in the low tables, eating what passed for a plain meal for the palace, dressed in her normal clothes instead of her court finery, and faced with an uninteresting evening and lonely night. Well, she’d always said she didn’t want much of a fuss.

Seeing her sardonic smile Llwellyn asked in his Welsh accented English, “Is something amusing, your highness?”

“Amusing, no. Painfully ironic, yes.”

“Pray pardon me if I ask to be included in the humour.”

On her other side Hugh stopped speaking; Eleanor could feel the sudden tension rolling off her brother. This was a perfect opportunity; Anne had not yet had much time to try more peaceable methods of securing a meeting with Hugh, but in the end this way would probably be the best. “If you wish,” she told Llwellyn, pitching her voice so Hugh could overhear. “I was thinking that I once swore I would only marry someone I considered a fitting match. Now I have found that person here I am, sat next to you, someone I passed over.” She heard Hugh’s sharp intake of breath with a kind of grim satisfaction. It was a minor lie; she had vowed never to marry full stop. Funny how things changed.

The Welshman’s dark eyes narrowed. “I am loath to think what a fitting match for you would be.”

Eleanor folded her arms, feeling the reassuring shapes of her wrist knives beneath her loose sleeves, her right hand resting just above her left elbow where the garrotte she carried was hidden. “Llwellyn, if you had a thousand years I am sure you would never guess, and that is why you would never be a good match for me. You simply do not have the wit, cunning or imagination.”

Hugh clamped one hand on the top of her arm; he leaned close and said in a tone which did not invite discussion, “Dear sister, I am horrified to hear you are not feeling well. You should retire to the solar. Now. I shall come up and see how you are feeling later.”

“How very diplomatic of you, Hugh.”

As Eleanor began to stand up Llwellyn told her, “A cheerful little fact to warm you through the long days ahead, princess. Welsh men do not beat their wives. Remember that, and me, when you upset your husband.”

With complete confidence Eleanor said, “He would never harm so much as a hair on my head. I stand by what I said before – you are a pathetic little man.”

“Such confidence; I would love to be there when you discover you are wrong.”

“You would have a very long wait, you see he likes my little quirks.”

Llwellyn sneered. “If it would get me a royal link and a tidy dowry even I would pretend I liked you for a short space. The more you gain, the more you pretend, and you will admit he is gaining a lot.”

[frogbeastegg]

Dinner was uneventful, falling into the same pattern as it had the many previous nights. The food was excellent, as was the drink, the setting sumptuous, the service courteous and prompt even down at the lower tables, and Godit still made agreeable company even if he was now considerably more wary of her motives. As wedding feasts went it was far better than Fulk had ever expected, although he had always believed he would be seated with his bride and at the centre of the traditional celebrations. He needed to lean far forward to see Eleanor, risking drawing attention to himself and smearing food on the front of his tunic, so he did not even have the pleasure of watching her from a distance.

Fulk had looked forward to being subjected to the attention, ritual and horseplay about as much as any man, but he did not dread it particularly. Eleanor he knew felt differently; she would hate being the centre of attention, loathe the fuss, despise the infamous bedding down revels, and by the time they were finally alone she would be one unhappy gooseberry, unhappy in addition to the inevitable nervousness. He’d then get to spend time trying to cheer her up a bit, only for some fool to hammer on the door and shout helpful suggestions, setting off another round of grumbling and plunging her right back into her bad mood before they really had chance to do anything exciting.

And yet despite all that he knew she would be sat up there wishing they were the centre of attention and about to be subjected to the revels - it would mean their marriage was public and accepted, and they could live normally.

Instead she was stuck with company he knew she wouldn’t be too happy with, continuing as if everything was as usual, and, very probably, fretting away about the future, Trempwick, family, plots, and Fulk himself. That was just as likely to produce a grumpy gooseberry. Fulk chuckled; poor Eleanor, however you worked things out she was going to be peevish.

The back of a hand slapped into his upper arm. “I really didn’t think it was that funny,” said Godit, who had been chattering away, mostly ignored, same as usual. “I mean, yes, there was a certain comedy value to it, but I don’t like being barefoot in mud! But I am glad you find some humour in my poor ruined shoes, my difficulty in retrieving them, and my squelchy walk home. Next time I go to the town I’m taking you with me; you can carry me over muddy patches like the gallant knight you are. Oh yes, I’ll definitely have to drag you along …” She sighed and leaned her chin on her hands, smiling stupidly. “I could be very happy being carried around by you …”

Her reluctant acceptance of Fulk’s lack of interest had lasted a scant few days before steadily eroding back into her usual flirtiness. Originally Fulk had taken it for granted her persistence was purely from her decision he was a good match; now he wondered if she had other reasons to get close, gain his trust and worm for information.

Fulk clasped his hands at his front, tucking both his thumbs in his belt either side of the buckle. “Until my arms tired and I dropped you, you mean.”

“Don’t be daft,” instructed Godit, her dreaminess abruptly disappearing as she claimed a small, round cake from a passing serving platter. “Your silliness is one of your least attractive features, and I’m determined to purge you of it. Anyway, you’re a lot better now, melancholy still, but not such a moping misery as you were when you first arrived. Now I really think that’s just brilliant; it means you’re recovering, and if you’re recovering I have a better chance of stealing your oh so handsome heart.”

“Really?” asked Fulk nonchalantly. “Recovering, that is?”

“Oh yes, and the heart stealing too.” Godit took a bite of her honey cake in a very provocative manner. A passing serving boy stumbled as his head twisted to keep her in sight. Noticing his attention Godit pouted. The boy almost dropped his tray.

“Looks like you’ve picked up yet another admirer,” teased Fulk.

“Yes, yet another boy. It’s not fair; I’m aiming for men.”

“Then eat properly and behave yourself. You’re pushing it so hard tonight you might strain something.”

“I’m a flirt; flirting is what I do, at least till I catch what I want.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Fulk’s breath caught in his throat; he worked hard not to react. Godit tossed the remnant of her cake down onto their shared platter in disgust. “Pity only useless boys notice. Men are as dumb as rocks, I’m thinking. If I’m overdoing things that’s why; I’ve got to get the message home somehow.”

“I’m not a rock,” insisted Fulk with mock gravity. “I’m a happy little boulder with a bit of moss on one side and a lovely sunny spot at the top of a hill.”

“There you go again – being stupid. Stop it.” Godit scowled, managing to look more a sulky child than anything else. “Anyway, nice change of subject. You won’t get off that easily. As I was saying, you’ve picked up this … well, almost a sense of peace, like a man who’s just had a rotten tooth pulled. Well, ok, so not just had it pulled, but a few days on when all the pain finally dims and a feeling of better health settles in. You’re more focused. It’s only slight, and I only notice it because you always grab my full, undivided - and unrequited too, damn it! - attention whenever you’re around, but it’s there alright. I wonder why? I mean, she comes back, you don’t have any contact at all, and then you go all serene.”

“I saw she was alright, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need to worry any more; I know she’ll be well enough. The way we parted I wasn’t completely sure she’d be looked after; her betrothed was being very … unpleasant to her. Beyond that, time heals. I just needed to be sure.”

“Ah, but did you want time to heal?”

Fulk shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you love her.”

“I’m unworthy of her, and never can be. She cares for someone else, and is spoken for. I have very little to offer her, only myself, and given who she is she wants, needs and expects far better.”

“But what of the rules of love? Every true knight needs an unobtainable lady to love truly and completely, lust after in a heartbreakingly pure way, and in whose name he is driven to do great deeds, though he can never declare who she is.”

“You bring out romantic stories, but think of how those men suffer, and they often get their lady in the end. I won’t.” Those words were very probably all he would ever get. Words were important. These words gave him purpose and clarity, they set his path out for him, bound him to her and her to him, and set out very neatly exactly what his place in the world was. ‘I am your knight’ had never quite been enough. ‘I am your husband’ encompassed it all. He would follow, serve, protect, love, now and always without thought of reward, unhampered by other, interfering loyalties because this one came before all of them. There was a very great honour in that, and a very great peace also. They were not trouble free words, or ones which promised to make his life easier, indeed they promised just the opposite, but the problems they augured somehow seemed much easier to tackle than the ones he would encounter alone.

Fulk raised their shared cup to catch the attention of a server with a flagon of mead. The strong honey drink was the closest thing available to Bride Ale; he should be sharing a cup of that special brew with Eleanor right about now. “Anyway, they are just stories. Real people are not so stupid as to endlessly hang about in the hopes of winning a smile from someone’s who’s plainly a lost cause, or at least I’m not. I told you before, I’ve no desire to be a martyr like that idiot in your song.”

“Alleluia! I knew I’d manage to change your mind and wean you away from a monkish future.” She clasped her hands in a prayer-like attitude and cast her gaze devoutly upwards. “Thank you, Lord, for answering my prayers!” Godit inched up on the bench so her body was just brushing his. “Give it another month or so and you’ll be swimming around my fishing line, eyeing the bait and wondering about a cautious nibble.”

And here was one of those problems: he was no longer free but he had to pretend he was, and not break any hearts in the process. “I’m recovering, not recovered, and as I told you before you deserve someone who values you for yourself.” Fulk raised the newly filled cup and drank deeply, toasting in the safety of his mind, “Long life and happiness to you, my love.”

“I know; that’s why I said another month, not now. Give me time to work …”

“Relentless is such an inadequate word when applied to you!”

Godit claimed the cup from him and drank, setting her lips to the exact same spot his had occupied. “Can I help it if I like you?”

Fulk began thinking nice calming thoughts about rainy days and cold water. He let Godit talk to herself for the rest of dinner, listening with one ear and returning the appropriate noises at the correct places.





When Eleanor arrived the solar was empty, a fire burning low in the hearth. Only two of the candles were still lit, those on prickets closest to the door. Eleanor collected a willowy twig from the basket near the fireplace and made a circuit of the room, lighting each of the fine wax candles in turn. What was to come was best played out in the light. That done she added another log to the fire; cherry wood to perfume the room with its fragrant scent.

She surveyed the room a while, taking in each small detail. This room had never been completely familiar to her, and changes had been made, most likely by Anne. The two chairs had been moved a little, one scooted a little closer to the fire, the other moved back out of the way as if infrequently used. A small table used for supporting game boards or books sat next to the less favoured chair. The main table had been pushed back against the wall, clearing a larger central space. Several books lay out on it, all closed and arrayed neatly side by side in a row. The window seat had new upholstery, the previous natural greyish hue of undyed wool replaced with a lively orange. The shutters had been removed from the windows, the holes for mounting them still clear in the stonework. They had been pointless anyway; the windows were all glazed and only those capable of flight could spy up here.

Unsure of how much time she would have Eleanor continued her preparations without further investigation; the cursory look gave her what she really needed anyway. She moved the favoured chair a little, turning it so its back was slantwise to the stair door. Then she stood by the door herself, checking the appearance. After making a minor adjustment she was satisfied, and seated herself, tall and proud as if this were a throne before a sizeable audience. Disdaining a suitably docile pose Eleanor rested her hands on the arms of the chair, fingers curling around the ends in a loose grip.

All this was so much empty posturing; she had never had patience for it but she had learned what Trempwick had taught and posturing, as did everything, had its time and place. The spymaster would have been sharp over her dismissal of this as empty; she’d have been in for another lecture on the need to choose and prepare your ground as carefully as any general set to give battle.

Eleanor took a deep, slow breath, filling her lungs to capacity. She began to order her mind, strengthen her control, seek acceptance of what was to come. She had chosen her path, bound herself to it so she could only move forwards, and now all that remained was to do what must be done, good or ill. Fear had no part in this, or cowardice, or doubt. She was going to get hurt, probably badly. Eleanor embraced this knowledge, accepting it so it became nothing more than the rising or setting of the sun: an immutable fact which provoked no sentiment. Controlled, disciplined she began the next part; drawing up and gathering in parts of her mind, placing them safely away.

Trempwick had taught her this; to endure with dignity, endure beyond what could be managed with simple will and pride. You sent your mind away, away to wander through happier memories with no more link to your present and your body than could be helped, separating the now and the you. The two had to come back together in the end, through the control required being taxed too far either by time or by torment. The shock of being fully aware again was terrible and sudden; the denied pain hitting you with all the force of a storm’s wave.

Trempwick had said even some of the best he knew of had failed there, at that precise point; they withstood a bout of torture but then crumpled at the last. He’d laughed then, quite gaily, and said that it was a good thing, for it saved his torturers’ time. He had assured her that she would never fail that like, after all she was naturally stubborn and too damned proud for her own good, trained by the best, young and malleable, and given excellent opportunity to hone her efforts by her father’s regular visits. He had been right; her recent failures had come from control strained much too far.

Eleanor banished the memory of her rib giving way, sending it back into the recesses of her mind, gone and out of the way but not forgotten. Forgotten was impossible. The memory of huddling in a corner, terrified, bleeding, waiting for her father to return once again with his demands for her to marry was also banished. Forgotten was impossible there too. She had almost managed to forget enough though; she still remembered too much of how the last two beatings had hurt, but now the agony was distant, halfway between being a remembered awareness that it had hurt terribly and recollection so raw she felt her stomach revolt with fear whenever she remembered. She had managed before and she would manage again, and both those previous times had been far worse than was typical. For a long time her store of good memories had been limited, and none of them so powerful as those she had now, and she had managed well enough.

This would be different; Hugh was not their father, he was an unknown quantity and she had little idea of what he would do. He would be calm, methodical, controlled. Eleanor was not sure if that would be better or worse. Hugh could not harm her overmuch; she needed to remain presentable. And this time there was much more at stake here; it was not simply a case of paying the price of the path she had chosen. There was no point in dwelling more upon it; what would happen would happen, she would find out then.

There was nothing left to do. Detached, disciplined, calm, Eleanor waited.

The waiting was always the worst part; she did not possess the patience required to wait well. With waiting came thinking, and with that always came doubt. Doubt could be poisonous. It would be all too easy to stop and leave everything to unfold of its own accord, to play the part she had been shaped for. That was, in the end, a large part of why she had married Fulk, pulling him still further into a danger she would rather keep him safely isolated from. She could not go back to Trempwick and allow herself to drown once more in obedience and follow his lead without second thought. She could not bow her head and wait for Trempwick to pick off the rest of her family and wreak whatever other havoc would be needed to place her on the throne he coveted. Fulk was the bit of timber she clung to as she floated adrift and lost; without him she could not do this.

Time dragged onwards. Eleanor had left the meal early on. That was probably just as well; for all her preparation her stomach was uneasy with nerves. Hugh would not do the same; he would be careful to do everything exactly as people would expect, without break in routine.

When the door to the solar finally opened Eleanor did not move, except to force a wry, mocking smile to curve her lips a little.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?” came Anne’s voice. The door shut and the queen hurried over to Eleanor’s side. She shoved a bundle into Eleanor’s lap. “Food, since you left early. You did not even give me time to talk to him!”

Eleanor let the smile go but otherwise did not relax. “I had an opportunity; I used it. I do not have time to waste; I only have a few days before as much as possible must be settled.”

“And now-”

“Yes, I know. Hugh is furious, gossip is spreading, and soon the whole castle will know that once again I am in trouble. Good.”

“Good!? You are insane!”

Trempwick would have understood her plan at once if he had been party to as much as Anne. If the scheme had not been so detrimental to his own goals Trempwick would have been adding to it, reinforcing the weak points, working subtly towards supporting her, and all the time teaching her how to go about this better. Anne continued to look in askance at Eleanor, understanding so little and unable to make the required leaps of thought to see it on her own. No one else here would think in the same way as Trempwick’s prized pupil; they had not been trained to it. Only Trempwick could.

Feeling Anne deserved some explanation as she was unavoidably a part of all this now, and hoping perhaps to reduce the feeling of isolation a little, Eleanor said, “No, it is merely better this way. Trempwick will hear of all this; my meeting with Hugh now looks very innocent. I will be able to grumble about this unfairness to Trempwick later if need be, and it proves my point when I said I would not be safe at the palace. Until things are … safe he must continue to think I am what I appeared to be.”

“You are going to get hurt.”

“All pain is fleeting,” said Eleanor calmly. She was disappointed to see how Anne homed in on the least important part, passing over a great many more areas on which questioning would have been welcome as it would have enabled Eleanor to teach a little. “Alas, not fleeting enough for my liking.” The feeble joke sank like a stone into water. Eleanor emphasised her next words, “It is the larger game which matters. This is a means to an end, a small portion of a whole, a little of the price, if you will, of going my own way instead of being a pawn.”

Anne continued to stare at her with open bafflement, not even asking questions. Eleanor gave up; the queen was intelligent, she had demonstrated a little talent for intrigue, but she clearly was not going to make a good apprentice. As queen Anne would unavoidably have to dabble with subterfuge, but she would do it as most others did, not as an agent with a good portion of spymaster’s skills. Anne would be a piece on the board, not one of the players sat slightly apart from the game.

At last Eleanor unwrapped the napkin, revealing several chewettes of undeterminable filling. Dutifully she began to eat one, recognising also the need to keep her strength up. She could only force down tiny bites; nerves and having a mind engaged elsewhere had never done her appetite any good. “I shall be twenty in August,” she said quietly. “Everyone tells me that is old; old to be marrying for the first time, old to be finally starting to recognise what I am, old to be taking up my inheritance, old to begin playing with the power I should have been using for years. But it is not; it is so young …”

Perplexed, Anne said, “I do not understand.”

“No,” agreed Eleanor regretfully. Slowly she finished off the first chewette. Eleanor dusted her hands off and rolled the napkin back up with the rest of the food untouched. “Lend me some of your hairpins, ones which will not be missed.”

“Why?”

Eleanor smiled tightly. “It is always good to appear far more dangerous than you are.”

Anne fetched a couple of pins from her bedchamber, along with a wooden gaming board and a bag of pieces. Eleanor carefully concealed them both in the folds of her skirt, working them securely through the dove grey material of her underdress near hem level.

As she worked the queen asked, “Did things have to go like this, even though you asked for my help? Was I always going to be useless?”

“I hoped you may have opportunity before I did; I hoped you could repeat your success in bringing me to the palace. You did not, and I had to take things into my own hands. What else was I supposed to do? Sit about praying for help as my best, and possibly only, opportunity passed by? I have tried that in the past; the results have always been less than useful.” Eleanor straightened up to find Anne was now gaping at her in horror. “Oh don’t look at me like that! I only mean it is entirely foolish to expect God to solve everything for me; I am sure He has far better things to do with his time, and there are a great many people far more worthy of His help then I.” People who are not already certain to fry in hell, she added privately. Even so she had politely pointed out in a private prayer this morning that to marry Trempwick, or anyone else, now would be bigamy, and that while she was doing everything she could to stay true to her husband a little divine help …

Anne dragged out the little table so it stood between the two chairs and placed the ornately carved board down on it. She seated herself, emptied a set of playing pieces out of the silk bag and began to set them up. “This was going to be your wedding present, so you may as well have it now. Have you ever played tafl? It is quite popular in Scotland, but not so here. I always preferred it to chess because the two sides play very differently.”

“No, I have not played it.”

“Then I shall give you your first lesson tonight.”

Eleanor was grateful for the offered distraction; it meant less time for doubt to set in. “Thank you.”

“I think you might find the game to your liking.” The white pieces she arranged on squares in the centre of the board marked with a wavy pattern carved into them, little ivory warriors forming a circle about the tall king who resided on the central square. The brownish-red warriors she set along the four edges of the board on the squares marked with a spiral pattern. Brown had no king piece. She explained as she worked. “The rules are very simple and every piece moves in the same way, but there is plenty of strategy involved. The object is for the defenders to save their king by getting him to one of these corner squares.” She tapped one of the four squares marked with a cross pattern. “The attackers must capture him by placing a warrior on each side of the king.”

Eleanor smiled. “I had best play the defence then, to get used to the unfamiliar concept of guarding a king.”






Fulk parted company with Godit after dinner, secretly glad to be away from the temptation she offered. He had no intention of ever betraying Eleanor, but that did not stop Godit from appealing on some base level and she would be very easy to seduce. Tonight of all nights he was not really in the mood to be lonesome. Making a few bland excuses he returned to the solitude of his room; Godit stayed behind to gossip.

Simon had not returned; the boy was probably playing with his friends before bedtime. Fulk settled before his fire with a cup of wine, intending to while away the remainder of the evening in thought.

He was not left in peace for long; someone knocked on his door. Fulk’s heart leapt, remembering how Eleanor had sneaked away to meet him here once before. Sense quickly reasserted itself; it would be far too dangerous for her to come here again, and the castle was still busy. Wishful thinking, in part prompted by what today was.

His visitor turned out to be Godit, flushed with excitement. She barged past him without waiting for him to invite her in. Fulk was highly tempted to tell her to go away, but before he could frame the words politely Godit exploded, “Your princess is in trouble!”

The muscles in Fulk’s legs tensed to propel him out the door at a run. He overrode the instinct just in time. “What?”

Godit sidled up close and began speaking in a rapid, hushed whisper, her breath warm against Fulk’s ear. “It’s the talk of the hall; she insulted that Llwellyn person she was sat with, insulted quite badly. She said he was a pathetic little man! Worse, she said he hadn’t got the wit or intelligence to be a good match for her, and that her choice was a far better man! Then the prince taunted her, reminding her of that charming Welsh law on wife beating and insinuating that her husband was going to spend the rest of their married life flaying her alive. She just replied very confidently that he’d never harm even a hair on her head, can you imagine that? Men who would never hit their wives even when given excellent reason and sorely provoked are incredibly rare!” She placed a hand on his arm, intimating that she thought him just such a man. Well there she would be wrong; given excellent reason and sorely provoked Fulk would indeed discipline his wife, just as he would a child or unruly animal. He would not like it but he had a certain duty to do so. But not with Eleanor; she had been hurt too much already, and she would get very inventive in her revenge. In the six months he’d known her she’d done very little which he would count as cause anyway.

Not noticing his unease with her unwarranted praise Godit continued, “Llwellyn didn’t give up so easily, and said that her betrothed was only being nice because of what he stood to gain. That would soon end, he said, and even he’d be nice to her if he thought it worth his while. Of course she was sat right next to prince Hugh, and he overheard it all. He was furious, they say, as furious as anyone’s ever seen him, not that you can ever really see it with him, so controlled. But they said it was quite plain from the way he ordered her from the hall and promised to see her later, even if he was really polite and concerned and pretended she was unwell. His eyes were gleaming, actually gleaming with anger, and he gripped her arm so tight it’s a wonder the bone didn’t snap. Those closest say that in that moment he really looked like the king, bastard’s looks or no. She’s going to be in for real hell; everyone’s talking about it. Hugh’s so angry he’s avoiding her for now, leaving her to stew while he regains that boring control of his. The queen went off up to the solar, I guess to commiserate and do one of those disappointed lectures she’s go good at. Our queen can fairly make you die of guilt just by looking woeful and saying a few words on how saddened she is.”

Stomach rolling with sickened disgust Fulk heard himself saying calmly, “She never was too diplomatic, and she lashes out if goaded too much. Sounds like that Llwellyn pushed her too far.”

“So you’re not going to mount a daring rescue?”

“I don’t like to disturb my horse’s sleep, and my armour’s neatly put away,” he joked, earning a black glare from Godit. “Why would I? I’m not her bodyguard, or her keeper. It’s nothing to do with me. Even when I was her bodyguard I didn’t interfere; she didn’t like it, and that suited me fine – kept me alive.”

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Godit. “How can you say that?”

“To interfere between her and her family is to die, and no one is worth dying for, no matter how much you care. I don’t like it, I never did and I doubt I ever will, but there is nothing I can do, nothing I should do, and nothing she would want me to do even if I had an obligation to her, which I don’t – she freed me of it herself. And if I’m blunt, love her or no, this is her own fault. She should learn to control herself better.”

Godit drew back a pace and said coldly, “I’d better go; my queen might need me.” Her distaste for him did not last; more kindly she offered, “I can find out what happens and let you know, if you like?”

“It’s really nothing to do with me.”

“But you will worry anyway. You’re a good person, Fulk, and you do still care for her.”

“And I’m trying to forget, remember?”

“It’ll be easier to forget if you’re not wondering.”

Fulk sighed. “Oh, very well.”

Alone again Fulk sat down before his fire, door safely shut and bolted. He rinsed the foul taste left by the lies he had just spouted away with some wine. So she had got her meeting with Hugh then, but at what price? If even half of what Godit had said was true Eleanor was going to need her official royal cut tender, not that he could even go and see her. Gossip inflated and exaggerated; he prayed it was true here. Eleanor would be a little safer then.

Fulk murmured into his drink, “Oh dear one, you do take winning hard.”





EDIT: forgot to add this:

Tafl is the usual abbreviation for hnefatafl, a Viking board game. The name means 'King's Table'. It gradually faded in popularity as chess took over, but it was still being played in England around 1700. The whole 'played in Scotland but not so much in England' thing is just froggy plot convenience, and based off some logical guesswork type stuff involving bits of research, cultures, invading Normans, and so on. There are several variants of the game; they are playing my favourite one (yes, I've got a board and play it quite often, unlike merrels which I have decided I shall have to get a board for and learn). You can find out a little about the game here (http://www.gamecabinet.com/history/Hnef.html). My variation is the left most board illustration out of the two Norse ones pictured.

So now you know Anne grew up in a slightly Norse influenced area :winkg:

[frogbeastegg]

There was not a single pastime which surpassed sitting quietly and thinking. The subject of the thoughts mattered little. It was the act of exercising logic and mind that mattered. Thought separated men from animals, and then separated men from men. Any idiot could wave a sword and kill people. It took real finesse to think beyond the simple facts which cluttered up most people’s minds.

Of course when he said ‘men’ what he really meant was ‘people’. Trempwick ran a hand over his jaw, skin rasping on the day’s newly grown stubble. People always expected things to be simple. People always wanted you to explain to save them from needing to puzzle out meaning and solution for themselves. People were tiresome. People were little more than human cattle. Men were what counted, men in the biblical sense, as in the family of man. Indeed, some very notable thinkers were female. Scheming noble ladies, a handful of ambitious mistresses, some of those who married above what was expected, some of his better agents.

Nell was not a good thinker, contrary to what people might believe. No, that was akin to comparing a wild rose to a carefully cultivated one. Nell did not think, she thought. Her keen little mind had been honed, focused, carefully set up to channel thoughts, like an irrigation channel taking water. Just like his. Except he had placed careful limits on her, blocking a select few of those channels. It was necessary that she would follow where he led; he did not need her as an equal. Did he want her to be his equal?

Trempwick reached for the goblet of ice wine on the floor beside his worn fireside chair. As a tiny sip of the liquid burned its way down his gullet and made the pit of his stomach glow warmly he considered this question once again. It would be very motivating to have a true equal, someone he needed everything he had to keep up with. It would be dangerous, and in such a contest the winner may live. The loser would not. But if she were not a rival but instead an ally …? That would still be dangerous. In every relationship of any sort there must always be a stronger and a weaker party. A master and a follower. The follower did not need to be blindly obedient, that would truly be detrimental to what could be achieved, but must be loyal, obey when it mattered, and recognise that following was in their best interests.

The goblet was set down again. Still, it would be so fascinating to see what Nell would be if unleashed, to see what he had forged, shaped and honed into being from the raw material. He suspected she had the potential to be very worthy. But he was not a follower. Any way the battle resolved would be a disappointment. If he lost then he lost, though he may be proud of his creation. If he was forced to destroy her then he also lost, and would be gravely saddened into the bargain. If he managed to subdue her and bring her back under his control once more after allowing her to stretch her wings then not only had his teaching failed, his judgement been flawed, his dear Nell lost, but she would not even be worthy of notice any more. Those who have freedom and throw it away could not be respected.

Nell would remain as she was; carefully fettered, so carefully she did not even know she was hampered. There were things it was not safe for her to see. Even so she managed to provide a rather … exhilarating challenge from time to time. He could never sit back and completely relax where she was concerned. This was one of the reasons he was fond of her.

Someone knocked on the door to his bedchamber. “Enter.” The command was softly spoken, cultured in tone. Shouting at doors and at servants was so uncivilised.

Edward, the ‘steward’, entered. He padded across the floor to the fireside chair where Trempwick sat. Standing to attention he offered a small rolled up note to Trempwick. “Master, your mother’s report just arrived.”

Trempwick accepted the message but did not move to open it. “I think it is time for young Walter to move on; there is little left for him to learn here. I wish him placed in the Earl of Warwick’s household. See to it.”

Edward bowed. “Master. And for a replacement …?”

“I shall consult my wife; it is her right to have a say in my household. As long as her decision is fitting I shall go along with it, and you will find me someone suitable. I shall also fill the gap left by Gerbert this way. Speaking of which, you will all now accept and obey orders from Nell once we return. You can be polite to her, but not overly so. You will not, however, follow any order that may compromise our situation. Do keep chipping away at her confidence when given good occasion, but do so more subtly and less to her face.”

“Yes, master. I shall inform the others at once.”

Trempwick cast his gaze towards his bed, and the windows behind it. “When I return with my bride I expect the alterations I requested to be completed.” A couple of new hangings for the walls with pleasant scenes on, glass in the windows, clean rushes on the floor mixed with dried lavender, his finest linens and bedding to accompany the new blanket being embroidered with his badge paired with Nell’s, the new bed curtains made to match the blanket. A room fit for a princess, and a promise kept. Several promises kept.

“It will be done,” assured Edward.

“My wedding gift should be completed by now; have someone collect it.”

“I shall go myself early in the morning.”

Trempwick waved a hand to dismiss his deputy. As Edward left as quietly as he had arrived Trempwick saw another way the battle could end. He could once again subdue Nell, but keeping her as his acknowledged second, his acknowledged follower, his acknowledged partner is his venture. Win her over to his cause. Give her a little more freedom. Work a little harder to win and keep her trust, liking and love. Have her work to his ends knowingly instead of unknowingly. Keep a closer eye on her, always. It would be proven that he was still the master. Surely there was sense in recognising after a long struggle that someone was superior to yourself, and had a vision from which you could benefit greatly? Surrendering then would be … worthy. Not as worthy as victory, but perhaps more so than a wasteful defeat. As long as the fight was a good one, fought with everything one had then becoming an ally-vassal of the victor before total defeat … yes, that could be respected.

Nell would be far better than Edward. The man was competent, cunning, able to think. He would make a decent spymaster, just as he made a decent deputy. He was devotedly loyal, never had and never would consider betrayal. But he lacked … flair. He did not have that final something that Trempwick had so far spotted only in Nell. If the two ever truly fought Trempwick knew Nell would win. She would beat each and every one of the agents in his house. So far she had not recognised then for what they were, not that he knew of. He had been most careful. They had been most careful. They were some of his best. Not the best, the best were out working for him. They had done their work well. Watching, protecting, subtly guiding and shaping the young princes to his needs. They chipped at her; he offered reassurance and comfort. They drove her towards him and blocked her from looking elsewhere, making her an easier target. That was … no longer needful. Nell would be so much better as his second than Edward.

None the less, he would not unleash her. He would be pained to have to harm her, and harm there would have to be to break her sufficiently to be safe for this new role. Nell was to be kept safe, protected, sparred with, tutored, guided, watched, honoured, cherished, controlled. He should add love, but Trempwick had never been fond of deceiving himself. Deception was a tool aimed outwards, never inwards. Alas, ‘to be very fond of, feel affection for, and find a worthy opponent in’ just did not have the same delightful ring as ‘love’, and it did not fit into his ordered thought neatly. He would have to find a fitting word.

Trempwick cracked his knuckles and began to work silently through his vocabulary. Endearment … tenderness … warmth …partiality …kindliness … admiration … fondness … none of them quite worked. All parts, not a one a whole. Trempwick scowled, exasperated. This was quite intolerable. If he could not find a word he would make one. It was all an intelligent man could do when confronted with inadequacy caused by others. No one had created the word he needed; he would make it himself. But not now.

Trempwick unrolled the tiny message his mother had sent by bird. It would be about a day out of date by now, perhaps only half a day if she had managed to get it dispatched soon after writing.

Arrived safe. Girl obedient. Child active, much fuss over girl. No trace of dog.

Trempwick’s lips curved. So, it was all as he had expected, for the most part. He had not expected Nell to be quite so tame, either to his mother or before the queen’s fussing. No sign of the dog; Fulk was routed, removed from the picture, no longer an issue. No. Not quite. Nell still had feeling for the knight, but that would pass in time. Nell was closely chaperoned at the palace; she could not meet her pet even if she wished. Not without him hearing of it. He had already made it very clear he would not be pleased with her meeting Fulk again.

Hearing was not always knowing. Hearing was sometimes a half word, not a whole. Half words and Nell went hand in hand when she was away. He could not have her followed everywhere. No one could read her as he did. Half words were … a challenge. He moved his piece, she moved hers, both players deceptive. Was her trap real or not? Did he overlook something? Did he perhaps suspect when there was nothing to uncover? Truth or bluff? Real or imagined? Harmless or deadly? Trempwick began to tear up the message. Her greatest puzzle so far was the knight. Evidence said she had been fool enough to sleep with him. Evidence said she would not. Half words.

He always won, in their little contests. He planned for all outcomes, and planned many moves ahead. Had or had not; what Nell may have done with Fulk mattered less at this point than what he would do. Had not was simple; he would do the obvious. Be kind, affectionate, try to please her. That was advantageous … also … appealing. Had; that was complex. Had presented several needs. A need to prove his displeasure. A need to show his hurt at her lack of trust in him. A need to prevent her straying again in future. A need to prove himself a far better lover than Fulk. A need to make her entirely his, curbing this new effort to edge away from him. A need to do all this without losing her. So many ways these needs could be met. Broad categories, each filled with many smaller potentials. Forgiving and kind. Rough and vengeful. Hurt and shocked. Disgusted and disappointed. A natural reaction, perhaps. Mostly natural. Anything partly planned and considered in advance could not be entirely natural. Natural would be … all of the above.

Trempwick leaned his head back to rest on the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on his thigh. So many options! To choose poorly would do untold harm. Abruptly he grinned. Nell was a challenge, even if she did not intend it, and surely she must intend. Trempwick considered his potential moves, staring up at the roof beams with uncaring eyes. He could spend hours on this one puzzle alone. He had spent hours on it. He would spend hours more on it. This was only one facet too. The others also needed examination, consideration, deliberation, planning, and finally enactment and outcome.

A long while later Trempwick let this particular puzzle drop. He was leaning towards blending several categories. Forgiving and kind, hurt and shocked, and a little of disappointed. That would be most honest, minus the less … pleasant parts. Trempwick’s lip curled in a sneer. A man should not indulge his less pleasant sides, no matter how much people thought it was manly, suitable, justified or understandable. This blend was most likely to cover all the needs successfully. It would also add an increased hold over her. “I forgave you the unforgivable” he murmured, trying the words out. They sounded well. One part of vengeful appealed brightly. It suited nicely. It was fitting. It spoke eloquently and at length. Someone would have to provide the bloodstain. Let it be her. Let her be the one to slash skin with knife. “Betray me and I will not bleed for you. The consequences of your acts are your own to bear. It is harder to go it alone, without my aid. I am extremely upset with you, more upset than I have ever been. I am merciful to let you do this, but not soft enough to harm myself on your faithless behalf. If you had been honest, though, I would have done this for you.” Yes, this would be used if needed. Now only deciding the smaller details of the other categories remained; a task for another time.

Nell was tame. Trempwick let the thought sit in his mind for a while. He was not sure he trusted this. But … she had misstepped badly, he had asserted his authority, made a very great fuss, allowed his betrayed hurt to show instead of hiding it as he usually did, then carefully been kind to her at the same time as reinforcing his message. “I am the master. I can be kind or not kind. Choose.” The irritant was gone, and he had done his best to turn her mind from Fulk. She believed her brother wished her harm. No doubt the stolid Hugh did. But more still would Hugh wish she would sink into the woollen-headed submission he and his father coveted so much. There was harm and harm. Hugh wanted the former, not the latter. She was on ground she hated and felt uncertain with. He had made her see that his mother offered her some protection. She wanted to come home. She had not wanted to leave. Perhaps, then, this was … acceptable.

Perhaps his mother had it wrong. He had only been able to give her a few short lessons in Nell. She could not read the princess as he could. She could not judge as he could. She could not think as he could. She did not value what he did. But she could chaperone. She could give some reports. Juliana would also see, also spy, also report. All too easy; a little time, a few promises with no intent to keep them, a very little pleasure, and the infatuated girl was his loyal creature. Juliana was very … people. But the risk of playing so dangerous a game, oh now that had been more like it. But if Nell ever found out Trempwick was confident he could turn the situation to his advantage. In a nutshell, “But my love, it is so hard to be patient when full of pent up passion, and I remember my promise to you. It was nothing, scratching an itch, very common, everyone does it. It will never happen again, it never need happen again, because now you are mine and I have no thought of wandering. I only bedded the maid because I could not have you.” It would be stormy for a while, but he would win out because it was true. Except for the omission of gaining a spy to watch over both Nell and his mother, and to ferret for information from Nell harmlessly. And the omission that he had also been putting his mother in her place, reminding her of how powerless she was when he put his mind to it. She could not even keep him away from her maid; all she could do was wait outside.

And then there were his other people. He would wait and see what the others said. But there was no undue cause for concern. As long as Nell was watched over nothing could go wrong before he arrived.

Only days, four days now. In four days he would be married to Nell. Trempwick leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. From there so very many appealing prospects beckoned …







I bet that was not what you expected to be reading today :tongueg:

Another part which changes a whole lot of what was, revealing more of what is. I kind of like Trempy’s POV; this is the first time I have ever used it but he’s been whispering in my ear throughout.

[master of the puppets]

man frogbeastegg do you have any life AT ALL!? no im just kidding, great stories, i just would not have the patience to do that much writing

... uh oh was i not supposed to write :wall: oops

[AntiochusIII]

You tried to kill me, geisha froggy? ~;p I've been trying to follow months of work in a few days. ~D

Great! Though I believe you must have some kind of publishing ambition in it (want it to be published - to make it simple.) If yes then good luck, if no then I'm just a useless John. ~;)

master of the puppets: your parents don't want you to write or just don't want you to spend time surfing the net? I've been wondering... ~D
1. if the first one then why... then again...my parents never knew I'm even on this site. They believe I've been playing "That Rome Game" all day again. Hehe ~D
2. They are reasonable since I'm near coma now for reading froggy's story all day for many days. Death from lack of sleep. Hey, good title for a new short story! ~;)

[frogbeastegg]

By the time Hugh finally put in his appearance Eleanor and Anne had played two swift games in which Eleanor had acquainted herself with all the rules and had just started a slower, more serious game. Eleanor was finding her detached, controlled state left her better able to concentrate on the game, and for once she was taking her time considering her moves. Unsurprisingly this meant she was doing better at tafl than she ever had at chess. She was still losing before Anne’s experience and skill though, steadily but inevitably.

Hugh had changed from the flowing, ankle length tunic he had worn at dinner to a shorter, tailored one more suited to action. His jewel studded belt had been exchanged for a plainer one, much to Eleanor’s relief, and his dagger had been left behind. He closed the door and stood by their game table, stiff backed and waiting. After a very lengthy pause he said to Eleanor, “You do not rise to acknowledge my presence?”

Playing tafl with Anne did not give off the same imperious air as the pose she had intended Hugh to find her in, but Eleanor thought she preferred the casual disdain being found playing a game provided. She moved her piece randomly even though it was not her turn, speaking in a preoccupied tone, “How keenly observant of you, Hugh. I do not, nor shall I.”

“Regrettable; it would demonstrate a little sense, self preservation, and repentance.” Hugh bowed minutely to Anne. “Pray forgive this ugliness, my lady. I am afraid I shall have to ask if I may interrupt your game; I wish to speak to my sister in private. I am most painfully aware that by rights this room is yours, not mine, and that I am asking you to leave where I have no prerogative.”

“Hugh, I do not like this. Eleanor only wants to-”

Eleanor interjected, “Hugh is right, you really should go. This is going to get unpleasant; you do not want to watch.”

“But-”

“Go.”

Anne reluctantly left the solar, retreating not to the stairs as Eleanor had expected but to her own bedchamber. She shut the door audibly, but Eleanor noticed it slowly and silently open a tiny crack so the young queen could watch. With his back to the door Hugh didn’t detect the queen’s subterfuge.

Eleanor suppressed her annoyance at having an audience and focused on the task in hand. “Well, there is no point in delaying, so let us get on with this. The first move is yours; play it.”

“This is not a game,” chided Hugh.

“Pity,” retorted Eleanor trimly, leaning back in her chair and resting each hand just above the opposing wrist. “Well, since you made your move I shall make mine. Tell me about John. Tell me why he died. He was my brother; I have a right to know, and people are reluctant to speak about him.”

“You are already aware of why; his treason caught up with him, and no man is above the law of the land.”

“But surely you spoke up for him? He was our brother.”

“I did indeed speak on his behalf. I spoke for clemency; a swift, merciful end.” He said it without the least trace of shame. “I knew he would not get better than that, and a traitor’s death is seldom so clean.”

“So you argued to kill him?”

“I argued for an honourable, clean death.”

“You encouraged our father to kill our brother.”

A flash of annoyance came and went on Hugh’s face. “Father wavered, but his mind was clearly made up from the start. He would follow the hardest path for the sake of the realm. To spare John would be to invite disaster and make a sham of the king’s law and king’s justice, without which the crown will become powerless. If men do not fear the king’s anger at their wrongdoing and trust implicitly in his righteousness then they will go their own ways, and from there can only come devastation, disharmony, destruction, impiety, fear, unlawfulness, injustice, and every abuse of power and might known to man. It is our duty, as entrusted to us by God, to ensure that never comes to pass.” Hugh’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “Though duty is a concept you seem to have great difficulty in comprehending. John should have died a traitor’s death – hung until nearly dead, disembowelled, mutilated, and put on display until the crows pecked his bones clean, just like his co-conspirator, Northumberland”

“But with Trempwick’s help-”

“The spymaster could not have chosen his words better if he had wanted John dead.”

The triumph Eleanor had expected to feel at this did not appear; instead she felt empty, empty and drained. “What do you mean?”

“As I said our father wavered; he did not want to kill his son. Trempwick offered him numerous ways to spare John, often saying that he could easily handle any unrest it may cause, in effect reminding father of why John must die.”

“So he was trying to ensure our brother died?”

“He was offering another path, one which could not be taken but father had visible interest in. He was doing his duty,” Hugh stressed that word, giving Eleanor another meaningful look, “finding a way to give his lord what he wanted. His efforts were misguided, and this was one of very few times I have seen the spymaster misread our father. I do not see the relevance of this to the matter in hand. You will stop stalling; I have little wish to waste all evening on you.”

“Hugh-”

“Stand up.”

Resigned, Eleanor changed tactics. “No.”

“What?” asked Hugh, incredulous.

“I said no. Are you going deaf, brother dear?”

“You are only making this worse for yourself.” Hugh reached out a hand to pull her up; Eleanor batted it to one side. She cocked an eyebrow. Hugh tried again, a more determined effort. Eleanor grabbed one of his wrists with both hands and devoted everything she had to keeping the hand away from her. When Hugh focused on winning the upper battle Eleanor kicked him, missing his groin but catching his thigh. Shocked, Hugh gave ground, pulling his arm free of her grip easily. “I see,” he said grimly. He dropped into a fighter’s crouch as Eleanor came to her feet and assumed a similar pose.

She waited, watching for any hint of his move. Hugh lunged, she twisted to one side skipped to her left. Hugh recovered quickly, sidestepping to follow her and pressing forwards. He grabbed, and as Eleanor dodged he drove forward and seized one of the long trailing ends of her girdle. Swiftly he yanked, hard, pulling her off balance. He relinquished his hold on her girdle to catch her right upper arm in an inflexible grip.

“Oh bugger!” cursed Eleanor. With her free hand she chopped at his wrist, trying to free herself. She tried to drive her knee into her brother’s groin, but he twisted so she only hit solid thigh muscle. With her free hand Eleanor shot a punch at Hugh’s throat; he caught that hand in his. “I’m too short for this!” she grumbled, as he wrestled to get a better grip on her hand while maintaining his hold on her arm. She stamped on Hugh’s foot, immediately trying to follow up with a second stomp. Hugh anticipated the attack and pulled his foot back. As he transferred his weight Eleanor flung herself to that side, dragging him off balance, and at the same time working frantically to free her arms. She managed to get one hand free. It did her no good, only freeing up Hugh’s right hand so he could slap her in the face hard enough to set her ears ringing. She attempted to rake his face with her nails, but he jerked his head back so she did little damage. Hugh delivered an expert blow to her upper stomach, winding her. As Eleanor fought to get her breath back he manhandled her over into a corner and dumped her down, blocking her escape while he began to unbuckle his belt.

Still working to get air back into her lungs Eleanor drew both her knives, and said, “I have an offer for you, brother dear. We sit down cordially, you listen to what I have to say, you think about it and give me fair hearing, and then I shall peacefully let you do whatever you want to my poor hide. The alternative; we keep on fighting and you never find out why I arranged all this.”

Hugh’s hands had ceased their movement the instant he had seen her weapons. Outraged he exclaimed, “You have knives?!”

“Knives and more; I came here dressed to kill, to defend myself, not to dispatch you. I don’t doubt that you would win in the end, but it will be a messy victory. So there is my offer; take it or leave it.”

Hugh tapped one finger against the solid gold buckle of his belt as he considered. “Put up your weapons – all of them – and I will listen.”

“Promise,” insisted Eleanor. “Promise no trickery and a fair hearing.”

“You have my word on it. I would likewise ask for your own solemn oath but I fear I could not trust it. It will not matter; as you say I can subdue you again easily.” He stepped out of the way, eyeing her guardedly. With a shallow, sardonic bow Eleanor made her way past him to freedom. Hugh said, “I shall add that to the list of grievances as well. You really do lack self preservation and sense.”

Eleanor flipped her knives so the blades hung below her hands and stabbed them both down into the surface of the table. “Brother dear, self preservation sometimes comes second.” She gave him a copy of his earlier meaningful looks. “Duty to family and realm, and all that.” Eleanor started to remove the pins holding up her now muddled hairstyle.

“I did not hit you hard enough to scramble your brains.” He gestured towards one side of her face, which was now beginning to show a red hand mark. “That will not even bruise; I was very careful. So I must conclude that this is more of your foolishness, and that this too must be added to my increasingly long list.”

Eleanor laid the collection of hairpins out in a neat row in front of the two standing daggers. She began to untie the two ribbons holding her braids together; strictly they were not weapons, but Hugh did not know that and she could easily improvise with them if she wanted. Every little bit helped the illusion of strength. “People always believe the worst of me. Hugh is it so hard to believe that for once I might be doing as I say? If I wanted you dead or harmed I could do it easily, just not in a fair fight. Do you think I actually like getting hurt? I provoked this so I could speak to you without certain eyes growing suspicious. You already know how much I hate being at court. If I did not see cause to be here I would still be at Woburn, peacefully trying to appease Trempwick so he does not stomp on me.”

“You would not - you were summoned here and your opinion on the matter was not requested.”

“Brother dear, I arranged that. All so easy; one very careful yet simple deception to get past Trempwick, a quick message to our queen, she drips a few careful words in our father’s ear, and here I am, and all without my visibly wanting to be here. In fact much the opposite – I protested loudly and refused to come until I let Trempwick persuade me.” Eleanor coiled the ribbons up neatly and placed them beside the hairpins. Next she rolled up her outer sleeve and began to unwind the garrotte from her arm. Hugh’s face had remained carefully blank, but now a flicker of surprise escaped. Seeing it Eleanor forced herself to grin. “I did say dressed to kill, brother dear. I left my poisons and drugs behind though, along with several other choice items like lockpicks.”

The length of waxed cord was also carefully coiled and set down next to the other items. Eleanor knelt and began to retrieve the borrowed hairpins she had worked into the skirt of her underdress. Once collected up she set them in an orderly row above her own pins. She dusted her hands off and made sure her clothing hung neatly once again, indicating she was done.

Hugh stared at the pile with ill-concealed distaste. “Now stand away from the table and start talking. My patience will not last forever.”

Eleanor crossed back to the chair she had been seated in previously. “I take it you know someone is trying to keep you heirless?” She sat down, hands folded in her lap and once more apparently at ease. The truth was her heart was hammering fit to burst, her cheek throbbing in time with her pulse, and the faint feeling of nausea was not solely caused by the blow to her stomach. She reached once more for her control, pushing awareness of these pains away until they were more background bother than a distraction.

“Constance is pregnant; the child will be born in five months.”

Eleanor applauded him, smiling broadly with delight at his skilled dodge and change of subject. “Oh very well done, brother dear! Perhaps we do have a little in common after all. Did you find out who was murdering your children?”

Hugh remained calm and unflappable. “My children were not murdered.”

“Hugh, I know, you know, there is no need to lie, not here and not know. Do not worry about Anne overhearing – she can be trusted, believe me. Your silence here will not protect your family, quite the opposite.”

Hugh wandered a slow circuit of the room, not speaking. Eleanor left him, knowing he was thinking and weighing risk against potential gain. “They were not murdered; a baby only receives a soul forty days after conception. Things without souls cannot be murdered.” He sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. “But it is impossible to tell exactly when those forty days have passed. It pains my heart, this not knowing quite what was lost.”

“Did you find out who?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“Who?” Hugh kept his peace, staring back at her impassively. “Let me venture a guess: Trempwick.”

Evenly he said, “Trempwick is our father’s most trusted friend and confidant, his spymaster also, and that is a position of great trust. He is my future brother-in-law. There is no reason to mistrust him.”

“And yet you do.” Eleanor sat up, intent, focused and no longer bothering to hide it.

“I have not said that.”

“No, you have been very careful not to. Why do you suspect him?”

“I will not indulge in idle speculation. Those with greater experience and better judgement than myself find him to be reliable, even admirable.”

“But you do not,” surmised Eleanor. “Why?”

Hugh answered mildly, “Your betrothed will have his place secure when I assume the throne; I have no reason to remove him, and I acknowledge his competence, experience and skill. I also acknowledge that he is well looked upon, favoured even, because of his abilities and achievements.”

Eleanor spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully and not quite managing to keep all trace of irritation from her voice, “But what do you think of him?”

“Let us instead speak of you,” countered Hugh smoothly. “What do you think of him?”

Eleanor frowned and sat back once again. “He is like a second father to me.”

“And you love him.”

“No.”

He made a gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand, acknowledging and also dismissing her denial. “Like him then, and are attracted to him.”

Eleanor’s frown deepened. “It is not as simple as that,” she said charily.

“It looks very simple to me; I have seen with my own eyes, I have heard the reports, I have read his messages.”

“What are you implying?”

“You know he had the audacity to come asking for your hand at Christmas, before John returned? A relative nothing compared to us, and he thought himself a fitting match for you. He thought this match would make you happy, and that you would accept it despite your wilful refusal to marry more suitable candidates.”

“I didn’t know …”

Hugh recognised her claim with another twitch of his first two fingers. “He swore you had not encouraged him.” He paused, then added with a flourish, “But why else would he ask?”

Eleanor bolted forward in her chair, planting her hands on the arms with twin thumps of bad tempered flesh on wood. “I did not encourage him! Remember how hard I fought to keep from marrying him? Would I do that if I wanted the match?”

“Perhaps you panicked. Perhaps you at last thought of your reputation and wished to settle this in such a way as to preserve your status; ‘forced’ to marry so far beneath you, not choice. But most likely of all perhaps you wished to protect yourself.”

“Oh Hugh! You cannot think-”

“You wished to cover up your little affair. To consent too quickly would be to invite father to wonder why after all this time you changed your mind, and for a man you have been living with unchaperoned for years. His anger would be terrible indeed.”

Eleanor felt the blood drain for her face, and the feeling of nausea returned with new force. “You do, you actually believe that,” she whispered. The shock soon wore off, and she raised her chin proudly. “Choose your respectable matrons and have them examine me; they will find my maidenhead is still intact.” Hugh continued to sit as he had been, face unreadable, posture unreadable, no reaction at all. Eleanor’s temper grew; she held up one hand and said brusquely, “I swear on my immortal soul that nothing improper happened between myself and Trempwick before we were betrothed, not even a brush of hands. If I lie may I be struck down his instant and damned to hell for all eternity.” She looked about the four corners of the ceiling exaggeratedly, as if searching for signs of God’s fury. Once she felt she had given sufficient time for lightening to rain down on her for lying Eleanor enquired self-righteously, “Satisfied? Even I would not dare lie under oath like that.”

Grudgingly Hugh nodded. “Very well; I believe you. Although now I am left wondering why he asked.”

“Ambition, what else? As you have so delightfully pointed out love does not require marriage, and all and sundry know my dowry is an insulting pittance given my rank; that leaves only the assorted benefits my blood and family can bring, and they are only of interest and use to an ambitious man. Asking for my hand would have been a big risk; if refused his position may have become perilous, so whatever he expected to gain must have been worth this risk.” She sat back again, rubbing thoughtfully at her tender cheek. “He must have been so certain …”

Hugh considered, his face still a blank mask. “That is … believable, but I do not see how he could hope to profit from your bloodlines.”

“Yes you do,” said Eleanor tiredly. “You see it now; you had parts of a suspicion before and now you have enough to make it a whole. You just do not want to say it. He wants to make me queen, with himself as king-consort. That is why he has been murdering your children. That is why his eloquence achieved the opposite of what he appeared to want. That is why he asked for me, and why he worked so carefully to win me over even though I wanted nothing to do with him.”

“There is no evidence, only vague suspicion and tenuous connections.”

“Why did you never tell our father you suspected Trempwick was behind these miscarriages?”

Hugh shrugged. “I had no evidence, Trempwick has no motive and nothing to gain, for a long time both Constance and I believed it to be the will of God with no aid from man, and unlike you I do not question the judgement of those older and wiser than myself. Father trusts Trempwick.”

“Because he does not know what we do! How can he possibly make a judgement if you keep information hidden from him?”

“Impossible!” snapped Hugh. He flushed at his brief bust of temper and composed himself with effort. He was not quite successful; the corners of his mouth remained downturned and his usual articulation was missing as he defended himself tersely. “So I was to go to him and report that my wife noticed this strange, bitter taste in all her food and drink shortly before she miscarried each time? The midwives said it was a sign, like feeling nauseous a brief while before you vomit. An effect, not a cause. Likewise those very things which could be side effects of abortants she had been given could equally be innocent – women tend to be very ill after miscarrying anyway. It does not mean she ended up with a little too much of whatever had been scattered throughout her food. Was I supposed to say that Constance has always believed that the one child born to us was healthy and strong, though she never got to see him before he died suddenly within minutes of his birth? I suppose my exhausted, grief stricken wife’s opinion on the health of a child she did not see is solid, credible evidence. Even if this were so babies die abruptly and without warning; it does not necessarily mean someone included poison in the honey and salt used to purify my son’s gums. My suspicion came from knowing Trempwick out of very, very few had the ability to do this, and any other would – should – need to get past his own guards and counterspies. I trust my wife, and to a lesser extent I trust those of my mistresses who also mentioned similarly strange yet innocent details. I trust because of who they are to me and what I know of them; that counts for nothing as evidence, and evidence is sorely needed here.” With quiet pride Hugh stated, “We do not condemn on hearsay, rumour and wild speculation in England.”

“But if he wishes to rule through me then he does have both motive and gain,” persevered Eleanor, sensing victory was both possible and coming steadily closer. “Your lack of heirs would make it easier to place me on the throne. He arranged for John to die, both ensuring he was executed and probably leading him into treason in the first place, working through the influence of an agent of an agent of an agent, or something equally convoluted. I wonder if he slandered Adela to remove her from the competition, after all her husband is a very old man, past seventy now, and he has been tacitly expected to die for years, leaving her a very eligible widow. He has disposed of all your children, not only limiting the competition but also weakening your own position because people look to you and fear for the future. Also remember those bastard rumours; who better than a spymaster to spread them?”

“My parentage is quite evident if you but look beyond the surface, or even if you think a little of the past. Our grandfather’s two younger brothers were fair in colour, though both died quite young. The darker coloured line is the more prominent and more recent, and so far clearer in people’s minds. I have my own people working subtly to rectify this.” Hugh smiled minutely at her surprise. “I am heir to the throne, it is only logical that I have resources of my own.” The smile twisted sourly. “Although they are never quite so effective as I might hope.”

“Trempwick would know, and he would move to block you.”

“That is perhaps so; the spymaster will surely know, and he is in position to hamper me if he so chooses. But that would be treasonable.”

“Once you find one dubious aspect it leads on to others, and they in turn lead onwards. After just under a month’s thought I could sit here all night listing tiny thing after tiny thing, all of them connecting in with other facets, most of them entirely harmless alone but far more worrying when combined with other facets. But we do not have all night; Trempwick has packed this court with spies, and if he knew I was speaking to you alone he may begin to get suspicious, hence my little diplomatic gaff to get you alone for a bit. What are we going to do?”

Hugh countered her question with one of his own. “Why should I believe you? You have no evidence, only your word and your interpretation of events.”

“Exactly the same as what you have to support your own misgivings, brother dear.”

Hugh scratched the back of one hand idly, thinking once more. “Why are you doing this?” he asked at last.

“Because I do not want to be queen,” said Eleanor vehemently. “I hate attention, ritual, fuss, expectations, ceremony, needing to dress up in fancy clothes and play royalty before a crowd. I could not stand the thought of everyone eagerly prying into my life, wanting to know every detail of every little thing I did, and then gossiping about it. Then there is the succession – I could not secure it. I have heard more than often enough how children do not feature in my future, not unless I care to die as the first is born. I would have to pass the throne to a relative outsider, a nephew or something, and that very seldom goes smoothly. I will not be a pawn; I have fought all my life against that. I have no wish to make major decisions, I am not a leader – even interfering this much terrifies me. What if I make a mistake? Or if I am wrong? Looking at how badly this could go makes me feel faint with terror, as does looking at what could happen if I do nothing.” Eleanor paused for breath. She decided on a piece of honesty she had not shared with Fulk and Anne. “I am not sure I could do it even if I wanted to; I am not certain I am up to the task. Given time and guidance maybe I could hope for competence, but every mistake I made while learning or later… think of the cost. I know I could not hold this empire together, maybe the English lands but not the French and Welsh.”

“I … understand, far better than you may believe.”

“The burden must fall to one of us, and I fear you are far better suited, Hugh.”

Hugh rose and began wandering circuits about the room again, a mobile thinker. “Four legitimate children and three bastards dead because of you; only one of all of them was born, a son, dead within minutes. And all so you can be placed on the throne in my stead. All because of your stubborn stupidity making this possible! You should have done as you were told!”

In a small voice Eleanor admitted, “It is worse than that; there is no telling what damage he has done to set this up. People killed, slandered, families disinherited, wars maybe both big and small, rifts in our family, and probably others, started and exaggerated, our king manipulated …”

“This is why women are supposed to be dutiful and obedient, and the younger open to the guidance of the elder, as laid out in the bible. Know your place, sister, and keep to it, and perhaps we may avoid further disasters!”

Eleanor found herself blinking back tears. “But what else could I do? Married or a convent – neither suits me and no one would listen.”

“Does your alternative suit you?”

“I should have taken vows and rotted my life away miserably, praying and playing with religious politics.” The scary thing was Eleanor found she actually meant it.

Hugh softened, once again reining in his temper. “Jesú! Our father tries for years to do what I have done in a night, and by accident at that. Nell, you are a more unnerving sight when cowed than when spiting fire. Not a thing happens in this world that is not God’s will, though we cannot always hope to understand His workings and often His methods seem strange and convoluted.”

“And if that reason is to destroy our family?”

“Then it is God’s will, and will happen regardless.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Eleanor again.

Hugh resumed his pacing and took his time before answering. “I do not see what we can do; we have no evidence, no witnesses, I am not king, and you are betrothed to Trempwick with the marriage imminent. Once father returns we could speak to him, without the spymaster’s knowledge, but still we have no evidence.”

“It will be too late by then!” cried Eleanor. “I would be married to him, from there he only needs to bide his time.”

“Who are we to question our father’s judgement? Or to meddle? Look where that has got you, sister!”

“Into a mess,” she admitted. “But also in a position to see and work to rectify that mess. We cannot do nothing, we cannot. Too much is at stake. Once tied to Trempwick I cannot be freed except by his death, and think of how much worse the scandal will be if my husband is discovered to be as traitor, not my betrothed. He would be in a better position to resist; I know he could potentially turn the situation to his advantage if he managed to rouse support or flee, dragging me along with him. Look at how he turned his rejected proposal around to his favour, and other setbacks I do not have time to detail. I will not marry him; I cannot marry him! Not with this doubt, not knowing what I do, not seeing where it could lead. If once informed father still wishes me to marry Trempwick then I shall, but not now. Hugh, you are the heir, one day you will be king. You must act like it, truly act like it. You lectured me on duty and doing the right thing even when it is hard, now I repeat it back to you.”

Hugh’s pacing speeded up; he hunkered his head down and clasped his hands behind his back. “The wedding cannot be halted, not without alerting him and letting others know something is wrong. That too will be harmful.”

“We can think of something. We still have a short time, although as I said his spies must not suspect why we are talking like this. Hugh, if necessary I will throw self preservation out of the window to talk to you again, but our time is limited. We cannot waste even a second of it.”

A few moments later Hugh stopped. “Do you have any requests as to how I go about this?”

Eleanor swallowed and tried not to betray how much this request mattered to her or why. “I want my bodyguard back; I know I can trust him completely, trust him with my life no matter the circumstances. He would die to save me, and already nearly has. He takes his oaths very seriously; once sworn to me he will never betray me. That is why Trempwick forced me to send him away; Fulk kept intervening between us, protecting me. I will need someone to rely on, someone to watch my back. Trempwick will not let me go easily. He could also play messenger as a last resort.”

Hugh wandered a little more, straight lines back and forth instead of circuits of the room. “It is true he was recommended to us as a man of honour, and father does seem to have some regard for him in this aspect.” A little more hard thinking, without any clue as to what was on his mind. Eleanor continued to watch in trepidation, the palms of her hands damp with sweat. Finally Hugh stopped again. “I will arrange it. Certain events will happen; do not do anything … freakish. Act as would be expected. You will come to no harm. This will also make the wedding quite impossible for some time, until father is home and we have spoke with him if I handle matters correctly. I will not, however, allow myself to play entirely into your hands if you have treachery in mind. You will sign a certain document, admitting you have knowledge of what I am going to arrange and stating that you gave your consent. I will keep it, safe and close to hand.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hugh’s face split with a grin of pure delight that Eleanor hadn’t seen since he was a young boy. “I am going to have you assassinated, Nell. Incompetently. Do not be concerned; you will be quite safe, although it will not appear so. But you will need a bodyguard, and I can hold up the wedding while I investigate.”

Eleanor started to smile herself, but gave up when it made her face ache. It seemed there would be a bruise of some sort after all. “How very apt; Trempwick has already accused you of trying to remove me once. But you will not fool him for long. I shall do what I can to keep things going our way.”

“It will be dealt with; I have my resources, and I shall cover my tracks very well.”

“One thing remains; my cover must be complete, and I did give you a promise. See, brother dear, I do keep my word.” Hugh raised his eyebrows in query. Eleanor stood up. “Just one request - no more scars.”

Hugh nodded briefly in assent. Eleanor crossed to the table and began to shift her collection of weapons out of the way. As she did so she cast a quick glance to the door where Anne was hiding and watching. She was still there, hidden behind the tiny gap. At least the girl had had the sense to keep back out of the way, not interfere, and not betray her presence. Eleanor looked away and checked Hugh. He stood waiting, his belt doubled over and hanging loosely from his right hand. Eleanor braced her hands on the table, each arm thrust out stiffly, forward and out to the side so she leaned forward to present a good target. Scars; what vanity. As if there was anything left to ruin. Her clothes would protect her; brute force made leather cut flesh and the cloth would both blunt the force and keep the edge of the slender leather strap away from her skin. It was the edge which did the most damage, the edge and any metalwork decoration. “Have done with it,” she ordered, at the same time slipping off into memory.

Hugh began to methodically work his way over her back, each blow falling next to where the previous one had landed, driving the breath from her body and leaving an inch wide, long burning line, the force knocking her forwards so she had to straighten up a little each time. Aside from this unavoidable, dimmed awareness Eleanor ignored it, once again sat with Fulk in her room, listening as he told of how he had broken his nose.

It grew harder to hold onto the more complicated memories; stories gave way to fragments of conversations. Hugh began to work the other way, landing blows from left to right instead of right to left. Her grip on those fragments faltered, and she slid back to sentences. Finally she was left with that smile, the touch of a hand, the sound of a laugh, the way his eyes shone with ardent passion when he looked at her unguardedly, the grim determination as he entered combat, the feel of a kiss, the endless patience, the gentleness of his hands …

It stopped. Hugh said, “I think that is enough; it will match what people will expect, and probably exceed it.”

Eleanor slowly, carefully released her grip and returned to reality. She promptly bit through her lip at the shock. Stiffly she straightened up and turned around, dabbing at her bleeding lip with the back of her hand. “For what it is worth I offer you whatever aid I can provide, both now and when you are king. I will not marry for you, and I will not enter a convent at your order, but otherwise I am at your command.” The significant, short speech was ruined by the slight clumsiness of speech her lip forced and the tight, stiff tone which came from pain.

Hugh nodded graciously as if neither of those impediments had been noticed. “And what of our father?”

“That is up to him when we next meet; if he is willing to accept those two caveats and stop exploding every time I breathe then my offer stands for him also.”

“Then I think we are concluded. If I wish to see you I shall send for you. You already know how to attract my attention if required.” He glanced over at the door to Anne’s bedchamber. “And now our queen can stop skulking and see to your hurts.”

The door opened sheepishly and Anne emerged. “Well, I was curious,” she mumbled, blushing at being caught. “And I already am part of this anyway. And I am queen here. And this is my room. And … er … sorry.” Recovering her poise Anne inspected Eleanor from a safe distance, then said to Hugh, “Send my maids up, now. I shall create a bit of a fuss; that will spread word nicely.”

Hugh bowed to his queen and left.

“I can manage,” slurred Eleanor.

Anne ignored her, producing a scrap of clean linen and handing it to Eleanor so she could dab at her lip with something a little more effective. “We will soon have you sorted out,” she assured Eleanor cheerfully. She set to work busily hiding all of Eleanor’s weapons except the hairpins and ribbons in the room’s locked book chest.

“I do not need sorting out.”

“A nice balm on those bruises … I have this really good one made with comfrey and hyssop. Another balm for the lip, though, one with honey in.”

“I am fine,” growled Eleanor. “I am going back to my guest rooms.”

“But-”

“I need Aveline to see this and hear my grumbling about how right I was.”

Anne planted her fists on her hips and struck a pose of regal sternness which may have been intimidating had she been older. “She can hear tonight; there is plenty of time for seeing and grumbling tomorrow. You can stay up here overnight; once we get you settled it would be best for you to stay still. You can have my room; I will move over into William’s.”

“Thank you, but no.”

“It is no bother.”

“That is not what I meant,” protested Eleanor helplessly. “I am leaving now; I can manage on my own, but thank you anyway.”

Followed by a protesting Anne she managed to make her escape through the door, only to find her path blocked by Anne’s trio of maids half way down the stairs. Anne ordered, “Help me get her back upstairs; she is determined to escape!”

Eleanor’s instance of, “I am fine!” went completely ignored, and she found herself shepherded back up to the solar. Immediately after the door closed Eleanor was shooed to stand in the best light while everyone looked at her, most with some variation on sympathetic purpose.

“Well,” started Mariot, “that’s going to bruise for a start.” She pointed at the side of Eleanor’s face. “But not badly, I’m thinking. We can cover it tomorrow with face power, then no one’ll be any the wiser.”

“That is not necessary,” declared Eleanor firmly.

Everyone else was nodding in agreement – with Mariot. Godit was the only one who gave hint she had heard Eleanor; she asked, “You want everyone to see the bruise? How odd.”

“I have nothing to hide,” claimed Eleanor icily. “Let everyone see what he has done.”

The gathering assortedly expressed polite, unbelieving disapproval.

Anne took command. “Godit, fetch the required balms, that one with comfrey and hyssop and something with honey for her lip. Adela, you go and inform those in Eleanor’s guest house that she will be staying here tonight; be sure to tell lady Aveline personally. Mariot, you go and get some nice broth and a bit of bread for her supper; she did not eat much before she left the hall.”

“I am perfectly alright,” wailed Eleanor, once again to unheeding ears.

The room emptied out. Anne told Eleanor, “Give me the sheaths for your knives so I can hide them, and anything else which no one else should see.” When Eleanor didn’t hurry to remove the sheaths Anne scurried over and started undoing the straps for her, assuming somehow she was incapable. “How did you do that?” she asked Eleanor, sotto voce as she worked.

“Do what?”

“Not even a whimper! It was really quite amazing.”

“Oh … er … thank you.”

“So, how did you do it?”

Eleanor couldn’t hold back the sardonic answer which sprang to mind. “I stood there and pretended to be a tree.”

“Really?” Anne blinked a few times. She started work on the second sheath. “I shall remember that, not that I think I will ever need it, but really it could be quite handy some day.”

“I wish Fulk were here,” groaned Eleanor, not actually meaning to say it out aloud. He at least had the sense to keep quiet and not chatter, and very occasionally he even followed orders too. Anne started to giggle, evidently thinking of different reasons for Eleanor to want her knight. Eleanor glowered at the wall, fighting the temptation to swat at her stepmother with the bloodied bit of linen.

By the time the three maids had reassembled Eleanor had been bullied into undressing and getting into bed. She had stubbornly refused to part with her shift, and that was the only part of her protests Anne had even given hint of hearing. Eleanor had to admit that the queen was very good at getting cooperation, even when the subject was determined to resist. This was a useful skill, one Eleanor could potentially use to the advantage of their newly forged cause. It was just a pain how she had discovered this unexpected talent. Trapped, she sat up in bed, arms folded and a dangerous gleam in her eyes; a sight which would have made Fulk take a bit of notice. Anne, however, blissfully ignored the fact her prisoner was becoming murderous.

The bread and broth were set in front of the fireplace to keep warm, the balms laid out on the unoccupied half of the bed, and the quartet of dogged healers assembled at Eleanor’s bedside looking faintly ominous.

Godit offered her a cup. Eleanor raised it partway to her lips without more than a cursory glance at the contents. “Dwale?” Eleanor couldn’t hide her disbelief as she caught scent of the contents. She set it down on the floor, wincing safely into the bedclothes as the movement upset her stiffening back. “What do you think you are doing here? Extracting arrows?”

“It will help with the pain,” explained Godit.

“It will also send me to sleep. I do not need it in any case – I am perfectly alright, as I have been saying all evening if anyone cared to listen!”

“You should drink it,” chivvied Anne, picking up the cup and holding it out to Eleanor again.

Eleanor refused it. “I shall endure, thank you very much. I am not so weak, and, as you may have heard me say a few times already, I am fine!”

“Drink it; I am queen and I get to order people around.”
“
No.”

Anne pouted and whirled away from Eleanor to be rid of the cup. “You are so stubborn!”

Mariot crossed her arms and took charge in light of the queen’s dereliction of duty. “Well someone get her out of her shift then.”

The two younger maids sprang to comply; Eleanor swatted them away. “None of this is at all necessary!” she insisted plaintively. The quartet stared resolutely back. Eleanor sighed; she was outnumbered four to one, disarmed, trapped, really not in the best of moods, and in quite a bit of pain, despite her frequent claims otherwise. It would be far faster to submit – within reasonable limits - than try to shoo these people away. It was clear she was not going to escape anyway. “Oh, all right! If it will get me some peace I will play along to your little game of healers.”

With another heavy sigh Eleanor shifted onto her knees facing the wall, pulled off her shift and quickly lay down, reaching blindly with one hand for the covers. Eleanor heard the predictable series of gasps as everyone caught sight of her back; she clonked her chin down on her folded arms and scowled at the headboard as if it had mortally offended her. An unknown hand helped arrange the blankets so she was covered from the waist down.

“So that is the king of England’s handiwork,” said Mariot inscrutably. “Look at that, sweeting, and remember to stay on his good side.”

“Oh, he would never hurt me like that, not unless I did something really stupid or horrible, like set fire to his bed.” Anne coloured, remembering her audience. “Sorry, Eleanor. I did not mean that you were stupid or horrible, honest.”

“It really isn’t that bad,” offered Godit kindly. “Just a load of lines really.”

“An awful lot of lines,” said Adela dubiously. “Scars, all of them, permanent. Hundreds, probably, and then all covered in these new bruises and welts.”

Eleanor head the impact of shoe on ankle. “But some almost faded, some pinkish and liable to fade, and the bruises’ll go in two weeks or so, so really it’s not that bad,” added Godit cheerily.

Adela leaned forwards to peer at Eleanor’s right shoulder. “There’s one complete outline of a buckle here.” Another kick, followed by a squeak from the English maid.

With great authority God declared, “Well, scars always fade anyway, so in a year or so there’ll be nothing here but a bunch of pale white lines that you’ll have to look closely at to see.”

“Unless more get added,” muttered Adela, moving out of range of Godit’s foot.

Mariot sternly said, “Do stop squabbling. Now, someone pass me that ointment.” Jar in hand Mariot began pasting pleasant smelling ointment all over Eleanor’s back, from the curve of her shoulders down to the small of her back.

“It is a neat lattice pattern,” commented Anne, “almost pretty in a way.”

Acidly Eleanor added, “Oh yes, my brother is a real artist.”

Everyone shut up, and Mariot kept working, rubbing the ointment in gently. She was better than Aveline, but that was not too hard, and obviously at home with what she was doing, but Fulk’s job as royal cut tender was in no danger. Cut tenders who had a thing for their subjects were so much more … caring, and they had a real interest in your health. They also never tried to pour dwale down your throat, or poppy juice, or any other sleep inducing drug, because they knew you well enough not to bother.

“I really should have brought a bigger jar of that balm; this one’s emptying out so quickly. You never really think of just how big your back is,” yattered Godit, quite inanely, Eleanor thought.

“I do,” chuntered Eleanor darkly, her voice muffled safely by her arms.

The rest of the treatment proceeded in silence, for which Eleanor was grateful.

Not to be left out entirely Adela advised solemnly, “You will have to sleep on your side, but not the side where your face’s bruised.”

“I think I had worked that one out, but thank you anyway,” replied Eleanor, saccharine sweet.

Anne said, “Well, we should get going and leave you to sleep. Sleep is the best healer. Unless you need help with the broth?”

“No!”

“If you want the dwale now-”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, I will leave it just in case. If there is anything else you want …?”

Yes, thought Eleanor, I’ll take one Fulk promoted to prince and brought up here for a spot of intelligent conversation, one Trempwick plot disarmed, one Trempwick safely removed into an exile from which he will never return because he has given up on ambition and so does not need executing, one nice set of manors to flesh out my demesne of land to a suitable level for my rank, one of those wretched public weddings involving me and the broken nosed idiot, followed by a life of peace and quiet on our joint lands, and finally something to do to prevent me from becoming bored once I have all of the above. Instead she said, “No, nothing, thank you.”

She rolled onto her side, twitched the blankets up to her nose, and ignored everyone until they went away. Once alone Eleanor hopped out of bed and settled down to eat her supper, but only after pointedly ejecting the cup of dwale from the room. The damned stuff, and the temporary senseless oblivion it offered, was getting too tempting.








No, I’m not dead! :grins: I’ve been very busy, mostly updating my RTW guide, and I was actually ill for a couple of days with one of those generic, mild spring colds. Nothing bad, but my eyes were a bit too tired for me to look at a monitor for more than a few minutes. Also this scene is very long; twice the usual size of an episode, so it took longer to write. Also it was strange to write; it kept changing as I worked. I would write a few pages from the start, then suddenly I would find myself deleting it all and starting over because the scene had shifted. Sometimes Anne left, sometimes she did not, and she did not always stay to watch in secret. Sometimes Nell picked a fight with Hugh, others they did not fight at all. The only constants were those which had to be included in the scene. Finally it all settled and I wrote all 13 pages in one sitting. The end result is … well, I don’t quite know. It’s a bit of everything, almost a summery of what exactly makes up this story. Character, dialogue, action, emotion, drama, mush, comedy, twists, scheming, and Nell being stubborn. I think I quite like it, certainly parts of this set me smiling for assorted, not always comedy related reasons. ‘Queen Anne hospital’ was entirely unplanned, but somehow it balances out the less airy 10 pages preceding it. “It is a neat lattice pattern.” leaves me laughing; it’s the mental picture I have of the characters and scene, and the way I hear Anne saying it.

Chuntered is possibly a bit of a very regional English word, so I’ll play dictionary just to be safe. Chunter: to grumble, mutter under your breath.

Master of puppets, there’s no reason not to post if you want to. It’s nice to see that people are actually reading this still. Alas, I do have a life. If I didn’t I would have more time to write.

:hands out the new standard eyedrops to AntiochusIII: A bit late with those, but better late than never, right? Anything to help the eyestrain.

I do indeed have publishing ambition, though that is mostly residing in a different story. This one however … it could make a very good backup if I am asked if I have anything other than my planned book, and it could also be easier to sell because it is a single story rather than a part of a series.

[frogbeastegg]

It was more than two hours after she left that Godit returned; Fulk had given up on her returning tonight, deciding she could not get away and so would have to give him her news tomorrow. But when someone knocked on his door that night he knew it would be Godit before he even pulled back the bolt.

She slipped past him into the room, brushing against him ever so slightly because she didn’t give him chance to get out of the way fully.

“You should stop doing that,” Fulk scolded, trying to be both light and serious at the same time.

Godit spun a neat pirouette, turning back to him with a coquettish smile. “Why? It’s such fun. I don’t do that with anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about. Anyway, don’t you want to know about your princess?”

“She’s not my princess.”

“Dear, dear, hardhearted, aren’t we?”

Fulk said decisively, “Yes.”

“Liar! I know you’re a big softie. If I’m ever hurt I’ll count on you to come rushing to my side with flowers, gifts and tender, tender concern. In fact I may well twist my ankle and end up bedridden tomorrow, or maybe I’ll just swoon in a few minutes when I’ve passed along my news. Yes, I like that one more – you’d have to catch me, and it’s a lot easier to do too.” Godit pressed the back of one hand to her forehead and pretended to stagger a bit. “Oh yes, swooning is much better than twisted ankles. But anyway, this princess of yours has certainly been in the wars, what a mess! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, well maybe a little similar once, years ago when one of my father’s squires was unfortunate enough to be caught romancing one of my mother’s maids. Alright, so that was more a resemblance to the bruising, not at all the scars and stuff, but I think between the two of them, maid and squire, they could just about match your princess stripe for stripe … but only if you added the two together, if you do it individually it doesn’t come close. Certainly casts a new light on prince Hugh; I thought he was a quiet type! Must take after his father a bit after all, but then as I’ve told you before the king’s got two sides, nice and nasty, and your princess is beginning to look like an expert at infuriating people, if you ask me. She’s alright, though it must hurt like hell. Not that she’ll admit that; I tried to give her some dwale and she acted like it was poison!”

“Dwale is poison,” pointed out Fulk. He wasn’t pleased to hear that a sleeping draught had been thought needful; it didn’t bode too well, even if Godit did claim only bruising.

“Yes, but only if you take too much or mix it up badly. I was careful, and I only measured out the right amount. Oh well, I tried and you can’t expect more than that.”

“She hates to look weak.”

“Well, if it were me I’d be wailing like a newborn and I’d drink the dwale faster than you could blink, appearances be damned.”

“Yes, but that’s you. She’s used to it, that and worse - you saw the scars.”

“Aren’t you going to ask for my opinion on your princess then? I’m sure you’re dying to hear.”

“She is not my princess.” Fulk was rapidly getting fed up of saying that; the “They are not my whatever” line belonged to Eleanor and he’d prefer it stayed that way. At least she wasn’t lying when she said the same of Trempwick.

Godit made a somewhat rude dismissive noise. “Anyway, my worshipful opinion on her royal highness, princess Eleanor of England, for the delight and edification of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam.” She cleared her throat. “She’s not bad, but not what I expected. I was expecting someone a bit more … well, a bit more like a princess is supposed to be, really. She’s got some guts, I’ll admit that, and endurance too, but maybe not sense. She’s grumpy, but then I suppose anyone’d be if their back was one big bruise and all. She’s stubborn, you know it took three maids and one queen to get her to sit down and behave even like a grudging, bad tempered patient?” She giggled. “We ran into her on the stairs being chased by the queen, with the queen yelling, ‘Stop her! She’s trying to escape!’.”

Fulk smiled fondly. “That’s Eleanor for you.”





Constance yawned. “Put out that candle and go to sleep. Stop fretting over the day and your sister.”

Mindful that it was ill-advised to subject pregnant women to any form of distress or irritation as it may harm the baby Hugh complied, snuffing out the solitary candle at his side of the bed and plunging the room into darkness. He pulled the curtain of the bed closed; a draft would not do his wife, or the baby, or even himself any good. He settled back into holding Constance, the two of them fitted together her back to his front, his hand resting protectively over her belly and the child therein, the faint camomile scent of the perfume on her hair lulling him. The day’s worth of tension finally began to leave his muscles.

Long minutes later she said, “What is troubling you?”

“I am uncertain it would be advisable to tell you.”

“Hugh, we share everything.” She set her hand above his, stroking his calloused knuckles with her thumb. “You say telling me things helps you to set them straight in your mind.”

“Indeed it does, dear one. But I do not wish to trouble you, and this … I do not believe anything could clarify this tangle in my mind. It is a Gordian knot, and there is no Alexander to cut through it.”

Constance rolled over. “I am troubled already,” she said softly.

In the dark he could see nothing of her face, but his mind’s eye supplied the detail. She was indeed concerned; her already serious face more so than usual, and her eyes fixed on him steadily with her clear, sure intelligence shining imperturbably in them. “I had an interesting evening; I learned much.”

“While fighting with your sister?”

“I would not consider fighting to be a fitting word; attempting to rein in would be a more suitable choice of phraseology. To answer your question, we are not alone in considering Trempwick’s loyalty to be potentially suspect.”

“Ah.”

“Quite. I find myself forced to act while still unprepared, to make a decision based on the insubstantial, knowing if I am wrong or if I make a mistake … civil war, perhaps, at worst. If she is playing me false the folly is hers; father will take my side and believe my word when I explain, likewise she cannot make me appear a fool in public without destroying herself also. I do not believe she is deceiving me, or perhaps best said I do not believe she is deceiving me on the larger matters, only the smaller and less significant ones. It is probably best to say little more for now. I do not trust her; I wish you to keep a close watch on Nell, but without her knowing. Her information does tally with ours and adds to it considerably, but I question her motives and sudden discovery of family loyalty.”

“Anything in particular I should look for?”

“Just watch her closely for anything which may betray her true motivation, if indeed it does differ from those she espoused. Also …while she claims innocence of any inappropriate behaviour with Trempwick before their betrothal I am perhaps not entirely convinced. It is for the most part unimportant, however certain complications may arise and it would be advisable to be alert for them.”

He felt Constance nod, her hair tickling his bare skin. “I shall watch,” she promised.

“She requested her bodyguard back; I am going to oblige. However … watch them closely also. I have nothing much to go on, but I cannot help but wonder … she requested him specifically, and from the way she described him, and from what has already been said by multiple sources of his loyalty to her … and perhaps also from his departure from her service at Trempwick’s command …”

“You think they are lovers?”

“In the physical sense of the word it is exceptionally unlikely, but even in the other sense of the word it would go a long way to explaining why she has confidence enough to say things such as ‘he would die for me’ with complete, staunch faith that it is true. That was one of very few times I could tell beyond all doubt that she was being entirely honest. It would answer why Trempwick felt the need to send the bodyguard away; I do not quite find it believable that the spymaster would do so because a simple knight kept trying to protect Nell, and again why would Fulk undertake such a substantial risk for Eleanor unless he cared for her? The spymaster does not brook insubordination, except perhaps in small amounts from my sister, and I strongly feel that forbearance comes from who she is.”

“This bodyguard would be the one you brought back to the palace nearly a month ago?” There was a pause as Constance searched her memory for his name. “Fulk?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the broken nose …”

Into the dark Hugh smiled, shyly, uncertainly joking, his rarest expression. “You remembered the face far easier than the name, and from the tone I wonder if I ought be vexed.”

Constance wound a strand of Hugh’s golden hair around her finger. “I prefer fair colouring; sadly he is brown in both hair and eyes. I shall not be going to watch him train, although I hear it is a sight well worth seeing.” She smoothed his hair back down, brushing stray strands back from his face. “You think this will be a problem?”

“I considered the matter at some length and found it best to wait and ascertain more; currently I have but the vaguest of understandings. If indeed they do have feelings for each other it is not necessarily a complete disaster; it could even prove to be an advantage. He is entirely unworthy of her, baron or not, and they cannot help but know it, so to act upon their feelings or give themselves away is to end the man’s life and ruin hers. I think neither will want to destroy the other. There are many who love another and follow them entirely loyally to the end of their days because of this, without crossing the line because they know that for whatever reason to act would be to lose that which they love. Every care will be taken with her reputation anyway, I shall ensure that, so nothing … unfortunate can happen. With a little more information I shall be in a better position to take the correct steps, whatever they should prove to be.”

In the ensuing silence Hugh’s confidence slowly began to fade away and again he found himself wondering if he was wrong. Nell could destroy herself and do her family great harm. She could get the bodyguard killed. Or perhaps she was entirely innocent and he was doing her – and the knight - a grave misjustice? What of his duty to protect her, her virtue, and her good name, safeguard the family, set an example, and uphold the trust placed in him by their father? He had promised he would see Nell married to Trempwick; he had given his sworn oath, and now he was breaking it. Was he doing the right thing? What would others do in his position? He had no guidance now, none, only himself and his own reserves, his own feeble, flawed, limited reserves. After hours of thinking he could not find one single example to follow, not one single case similar to this worrying position he now found himself in. No other prince or king he knew of had a sister who was an agent and possibly in love, and loved by, with a simple knight. Never before in his knowledge had a spymaster tried to seize the throne in such a way as this. He was alone, so alone, and on his shoulders everything rested. Himself, alone. Constance could only be limited help, hampered by pregnancy, a child to protect from a persistent and dangerous foe, barred from parts of his life by the fact she was female, and lacking in much of the knowledge and expertise he so desperately needed to consult.

Himself, alone. Hugh could feel the weight on his shoulders, pressing him down, threatening to crush him. He had no example. He had no advice. He could ask for no help. By the time his father returned it would be too late. Everything depended on now. Everything depended on him. The family name. The realm. His child. His wife. His sister. Justice. Truth. Honour. Duty. Peace. All for him to guard. Him. Alone.

Constance kissed him lightly on the lips. “You must try to stop doubting yourself; it undermines everything you do, everything you could achieve. You devote too much time to worrying about what if you make a mistake, and so it becomes more likely you will make one. If you devoted that time and energy to more confident thinking you could do much. Remember how pleased your father was with the muster you raised for his campaign, and with how you dealt with the news while he was away. You did well then, because you acted without doubt or fear.”

“I know, but I cannot help it, I am ashamed to say. I look at the task set before me and it is so big … I am not my brother; Stephan was born to be king. I was not.”

“No, you are not your brother. You are not your father either, or your grandfather, or any other king or prince. You are yourself.”

Hugh said nothing, holding his wife closer and letting her drift off to sleep believing she had reassured him, as she often managed to. He was himself; he already knew that. And that was where the problem lay. He was himself; blemished, ill suited to his task, a pale shadow of the father and the elder brother. And now it all depended upon him.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor was up bright and early the next day. After dressing herself, a talent which was nothing if not an advantage, one which most of the upper nobility lack to some extent or other, and hiding her weapons about her person so she could smuggle them back out Eleanor emerged into the solar before Anne.

Mariot was the only other occupant of the room; the other two maids were with Anne in the king’s room. The senior maid looked up from setting out a simple breakfast; she pulled a face. “The queen won’t be happy.”

Eleanor poured herself a cup of small ale, wanting to wash away the lingering, acrid taste of tooth powder. “The world does not stop because I am a little worse for wear.”

Mariot began to slice a loaf of yesterday’s bread into generous pieces. “Her concern annoys you. She’s a good girl; she means it only in the best possible way.”

Eleanor made a noncommittal noise and drained the rest of her cup. It didn’t do much to shift the sage and salt flavour; very little but time did.

“My little one likes to care for things, is all.”

As if awaiting her cue Anne emerged from her room, trailed by Godit and Adela. She stopped dead when she caught sight of Eleanor, folded her arms and scowled. “You should be in bed!”

“No, I should not.”

The queen waved an admonishing finger. “You are hurt; you should be resting or you will only make yourself worse.”

“Nonsense. I am as stiff as a board but it will wear off faster if I move.”

“But the more you move about the more pain you will be in; now go back to bed!”

“After spending all that effort getting up in the first place? No, thank you. I cannot laze about idle all day.”

“You did not even give us chance to put more of that balm on.” Anne disappeared into the queen’s bedchamber; her voice drifted back, “At least we can put some of that lipsalve on you …”

Someone knocked on the stair door. Godit commented wryly, “It’s all go this morning.” and went to see who it was. Eleanor collected a bit of bread from the table and pricked her ears up to listen in to the quiet conversation Godit was holding with the visitor, an armed man in royal livery. Godit thanked the man and closed the door again. “Prince Hugh requests the delight of his sister’s company as soon as is convenient.”

Eleanor swallowed hastily, careful to pretend she had not expected - or overheard, for that matter - this. “Which means now, if not sooner. Why do people never say what they mean?” She ran a hand through her loose hair, wondering if she could escape with it still unconfined.

“Diplomacy,” answered Adela. She too quickly began eating, cramming food away as if half starved while still somehow managing to look genteel.

Godit looked at her breakfasting colleagues and sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll do the princess’s hair then, since I’m the only one not eating. Do try to leave me at least something to eat. Oh, and the guard also said lady Aveline came trying to visit last night, but the man on duty turned her away like his job says because it was past the accepted time for visitors. She said she will return this morning, before mass.”

Anne emerged, pot of balm in hand and advanced purposefully on Eleanor. The princess generously stood still while Anne applied the salve to her lower lip. “If Aveline comes while I am gone tell her I will be returning to my guest rooms this morning and will see her then.” That said Eleanor decamped to her borrowed room and sat ready for Godit to begin. Since this was unavoidable she may as well use it to her advantage a little. “I have a specific style in mind …”





Eleanor arrived at her brother’s room quarter of an hour later with her hair split into two braids and twined around her head in a simple, slanted imitation of a crown, or perhaps a halo. She was shown in immediately.

Hugh was sat at a small table in the corner of the room, eating and looking over a document. Constance had already left, along with her maids and Hugh’s squire. Hugh stood up and gestured at his vacated seat. “This is the document we spoke of last night; you will sign now.”

Eleanor took his place and scanned the writing. The document stated in brief terms that Hugh had undertaken a false assassination attempt on his sister with her knowledge for the purpose of drawing out from cover traitors in the realm. “Good enough.” She signed her name at the bottom; neat letters and a follow-up she seldom bothered with: Eleanor filia regis.

Leaning over her shoulder Hugh scrutinised her signature. “Felia regis - princess. You do not usually sign as such.”

“No, I do not.” Hugh did not even try to hide his suspicion. “Brother dear, it is not an attempt to make it look as if you forged my signature, nor I am pointlessly showing off my Latin. It is what I am.”

Hugh studied her for a long spell, unblinking, his brow furrowed. “So you finally recognise that fact, and accept it,” he said gravely. “Good.”

Eleanor was not really interested in discussing the delicate and intricate subject of what exactly a princess Eleanor was and did, and explaining how the fragile and still forming composite of royal, agent, spymaster and gooseberry worked, especially not to a brother who would still disapprove. Hugh could find out as they went; at least that would spread out his complaining to a, hopefully, bearable span of time. “Is that all? I have work to do, with Aveline especially.”

“You will apologise to Llwellyn, humbly.” Hugh dropped his voice to a murmur. “I presume this ‘work’ of yours in part involves complaining about myself to allay the spymaster’s mother’s doubts?”

“Of course,” said Eleanor, equally quiet.

“Be certain that your words find the correct ears and only those; I will not have all of Christendom believing there is a rift between us. That has potential to be dangerous and problematic in both the near and distant futures. So far as the world is concerned you erred, have been punished, and now all is well with no hard feeling remaining on either side apart from the inevitable embarrassment on your part.”

Eleanor nearly shrugged her shoulders, but remembered just in time not to. “So be it. The fewer people I have to feed information to the easier it is for me anyway.”

“Good. You will remain in the company of your future mother-in-law and her maid today in your guest rooms, aside from joining morning mass and attending dinner tonight in the main hall. You will take lunch in your rooms, you will amuse yourself in your rooms, you will speak to anyone you wish to in your rooms – am I making myself quite clear?” He waited until she nodded. “Ostensibly you are in disgrace, or perhaps only in discomfort and too ashamed to show your face until gossip has had a time to die down. You may complain you are a prisoner in all but name if you judge it useful, but complain only to those who need to hear it, mark. Matters have been arranged; a jug of poisoned wine will be delivered to you along with your midday meal. I trust from there you can act as is needed without further instruction from me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You may go. Remember; act as befits you, no more of your unconventional behaviour unless you wish to capture my attention.”

Eleanor dropped a very precise, shallow curtsey. “As you say, brother dear.”






“You are a disgrace!”

Eleanor ducked her head so her smile would go unseen, and stepped into the first of her two guest rooms. “Good morning to you too, Aveline.”

“Don’t give me that! You are gone all night and you return in such a state – you should be ashamed!” Trempwick’s mother was waiting in the improvised solar near the door to the passage like a cat at a mouse hole. She had left the door open a bit so she could see anyone entering the building through the main door; she hadn’t even waited for Eleanor to shut the outer door before launching her attack.

“State?” Eleanor looked upwards as if trying to see if her hair was still tidy, then downwards at her clothes.

“You know very well what I mean, you brazen hellion!” Aveline pounced, taking Eleanor’s jaw in an ungentle grip and twisting her face to the light. “No swelling, and it is only a yellow bruise, so harder to see and faster to mend. With luck it should be gone before Raoul arrives.” She released Eleanor as abruptly as she’d grabbed hold of her.

“Gone or not; I do not see how it matters. Raoul will be hearing about this – I told him I would not be safe here!” Her lip was beginning to tickle; Eleanor dabbed at it with a finger, it came away with a thin line of blood imprinted on it. She must have reopened the cut a little when she had smiled.

“From what I hear this is your own fault again. You cannot blame my son if people take exception to your unruliness.”

“From what you hear,” repeated Eleanor scornfully. “Did you not think that Hugh is the one who decided what people hear? He would not tell the truth; it is not too good for his reputation. He sat there while that Welsh crony of his insulted me, ignoring it.”

“You should have kept your mouth shut.”

“I did, until he started insulting Raoul. Hugh jumped in right away, before I even said much, and what I did say was quite reasonable. I think they arranged it; Llwellyn goading me and Hugh waiting to jump in and attack me. Neither cares for me, so both benefited from their safe little game.”

“Still and all you should have bitten your tongue; it would have done you a damn sight more good than biting through your lip later on.”

“What would I be if I let my betrothed be slandered?” Eleanor dabbed at her lip again; it was still bleeding lazily. “I was duty and honour bound to speak up, and if I had not Hugh would have seized on my silence as an excuse instead. My brother does not wish me well; one way or another he would have had his entertainment.”

“As your brother he does not even have the right-”

“I know,” agreed Eleanor. “I am marrying in three days; rights regardless they should not be doing this to me. It will only reflect badly on all involved, and it is an affront to Raoul. My father signed over his parental rights to Hugh while he is away; he showed me the written agreement. The arse in the crown wants me married with as little mess as possible but still subordinate to the family I am leaving, Raoul wants me safe from my family, and Hugh seems intent on causing as much harm as possible without damning himself instead of me.”

“Raoul will be arriving the day before the wedding; that only leaves today and tomorrow before he can protect you. Your face should be healed by then, your lip will not be, and heaven alone knows what the rest of you is like.”

“Bruised, stiff, sore, and doubtless quite colourful.”

Aveline sank down into the window seat. “Oh, what are we to do? This is a disaster. Raoul will be furious.”

“Good question. I suppose there is nothing we can do; I cannot be healed overnight and delay is unfavourable. I shall keep to my rooms as far as I can; I am required at mass and at dinner, but with luck I may escape the latter. Staying out of Hugh’s path will make it harder for him to attack me again. Speaking of mass, we had best get ready. I shall remain close to you; that will give me a little protection.”






Jocelyn dunked his clerk’s head into the horse trough and held him under for a few seconds. He hauled the man out and submerged him again. Several more repetitions and the clerk’s struggles became a deal more lively. Jocelyn fished him back out, spun him around and examined his pockmarked face. A pair of watery blue eyes tried to stare back. In disgust Jocelyn dropped his clerk back into the horse trough and left him to find his own way out.

He kicked the man’s leg and roared, “Bloody useless! Drunk! God damned drunk! I have work for you and you can’t even sit on your damned stool without falling off, you addled-pated son of a whore! Jesú, but you’re useless! It’s not even ten o’clock yet! And it’s Sunday, for Christ’s sake! If I ever see you even mildly tipsy again I’ll throw you out on your scrawny arse! And if you think I’m paying you for today’s ‘work’ you can go to hell! I’m not paying you for the next week either!”

He delivered a final kick to the hapless man’s backside and stalked off, leaving the clerk to the tender mercies of the laughing crowd which had gathered.

Jocelyn’s feet carried him in the right direction even though he had made no conscious decision on what to do next. He needed a letter written, a good letter, one which looked impressive and used all the right words. He couldn’t do it himself, his clerk currently couldn’t even hold a quill, and that only left Richildis.

Jocelyn paused outside the solar door, working up his courage and trying not to turn tail and go in search of a drink or two himself to ease this ordeal along. Through the door he could hear his wife’s voice along with his son’s. Jocelyn opened the door and flung himself in before he could take that tempting prospect and try some of his new cask of malmsey.

Thierry stood by his mother’s side, book in his hand and reading out aloud in a clear, smooth voice. “The seneschal ought, on his coming to the manors, to inquire how the bailiff bears himself within and without, what care he takes, what imp … impro…”

“Improvement,” supplied Richildis. She leaned over and pointed at the word, “See, im-prove-ment.”

The lesson halted when he made his entrance. Jocelyn indicated that they should continue, and stood listening as his son read the rest of the section on the requirements and duties of a seneschal without any further problems. Seven years old, and already so far ahead of his father. Jocelyn comforted himself with a reminder that he had a seneschal, and had worked with the man for years without ever needing advice from some book.

“Well done, son,” said Jocelyn, wishing he could find a comment which sounded less generic. “Now run along and find Father Errard and tell him I sent you for a Latin lesson.”

Thierry returned the book to his mother and made a quick exit.

“What do you want?” inquired Richildis, her disapproving tone indicating she thought she knew already.

“Quite a lot actually.” Jocelyn produced the obligatory leer to annoy her. Richildis’ thaw had proven to be momentary; she had soon frosted back up, with several new icicles as a dubious bonus. A blend of pity, fear, relief, gratitude for a son returned, and a close brush with disaster – at least he’d finally found something that warmed her up a little where he was concerned. Shame it was too awkward to arrange on a permanent basis. “But what I had in mind needs you.”

“No.”

“Come on Tildis, where’s your spirit of charity?”

“No!”

“‘Let the husband render to his wife what is her due, and likewise the wife to her husband.’ – St Paul.”

“‘Not on Sundays’ – too many authorities to list.”

“But you like it.”

“I most certainly do not!”

Jocelyn stretched indolently, a few stiff tendons cracking. “Tildis, you like writing. You like reading. You like showing off. I’m offering you a chance to do all three. I can guess what you were thinking, but dearest I’m really not in the mood just now. Sorry, you know how I hate to disappoint.”

“Oh.” Jocelyn enjoyed the sight of his normally composed wife blushing wretchedly at her mistake. “Good.”

“I need a letter written.” Jocelyn paced a few steps, idly making his way closer while trying to make it seem accidental. “My clerk is drunk.”

Richildis continued to watch him suspiciously. “So that’s what all the noise was about.”

“You have a very nice hand – your due, dear wife; it’s called credit – and you have a way with words when you don’t aim them at me. So you’ll get to work on my behalf – that’s my due. King William’s about four days march away; I finally got word this morning. He’s sounding out the local lords as he goes, doubtless taking notes of exactly who’s doing and saying what, and not doing or saying, more than like. I need to send a message to him now; I’ll ride out myself when he’s one day away. I’m not going to give Raymond another chance to play sneaky buggers, not that I don’t have faith in your ability to slam the gates in his face if he comes calling a second time. Get whatever materials you need and get writing; I’ll leave the wording up to you but make sure you explain it all as I told you last night.”

“Explained, pah!” she grumbled as she fetched her writing equipment from the small decorative chest where it was stored and began to lay it out on the solar table. “I had to drag details out of you, and you kept trying to go to sleep so you wouldn’t have to say anything.”

Jocelyn rolled his eyes but said nothing. He stood behind his wife as she worked, a few steps away and out of her line of sight, arms folded and a small frown of concentration as he thought. If he could read her mind like a bit of parchment what would he find? Probably a few familiar lines deploring him as an uneducated barbarian, a few long passages on how much she loved the children, plenty of miscellaneous and tedious rubbish, some bits in some foreign language or other, and a frightening collection of large words he couldn’t quite decipher. It would all be on fine grade parchment, written in an elegant hand with illuminated letters and border illustrations.

Finally Richildis laid down her quill. “Do you wish to sign it?”

“Might as well.” Jocelyn strode over with a swaggering, easy confidence he didn’t feel.

“You should read it first, make sure you know what you’re putting your name to.”

“I was going to!” lied Jocelyn. “Give me chance, woman!” He checked the ink was completely dry and then began to read, running one finger along under the beautifully formed words, lips moving silently as he stumbled his way along the document. He skipped the biggest words, and several smaller ones he couldn’t make sense of.


“Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes to his king, this day the fifteenth of February, the year of Our Lord thirteen-thirty-eight, this letter as dictated to my wife.

Sire, I await your call to arms with eager heart, having discharged faithfully my duties to my liege lord and rescued my son, previously hostage to my good conduct. Know that I have not taken part in treason against you, only aided my lawful liege against those who broke allegiance with him, thereby breaking their sacred oaths as sworn before God and acting in disharmony with all laws recognised by good and honest men. When asked to aid Yves against you our paths split.

I have custody of de Ardon’s daughter, now his sole heir, and also her tutor, a nun, and have protected them as best I am able where others sought to do them great and grievous harm. I stand ready to transfer the them into your own custody, howsoever and whenever your majesty wishes.

I plan to join your army when it is one day from my position, unless your majesty desires otherwise. In the few days since I parted ways with Yves my castle has already been subject to one underhand attack; an effort at reprisal for my loyalty to my king, and a manifestation of Raymond de Issoudun’s ambition and foul treachery to both other men and to you, sire, his king. Because of this it is not prudent for me to come now in person; I would be unworthy of faith if I let this stronghold I guard for you to be taken by your enemies, thus allowing this treason to spread and infect Tourraine further.

“It’s fine,” declared Jocelyn, not really sure it was. He hadn’t spotted anything wrong or liable to arrange his head parting company with the rest of him. The main thing was it said what he wanted to say, but with the benefit of nice lettering and loads of really impressive words. He wasn’t going to ask what half of it meant; showing off his clumsy reading was embarrassment enough. He picked up the quill, dipped it indelicately into the ink and signed his name in his chaotic, splotchy script. Richildis’ wince as the quill screeched in protest at his ineptitude did not go unnoticed; it fed the burning humiliation already threatening to consume him. At least with all his fancy teaching from his mother and the castle priest Thierry would never have to endure this. “I’ll set my seal to it and get the messenger underway now.”






Sunday mass in the castle’s small private church was a simple, short affair, or as simple and short as anything involving royalty and religion ever was. Due to the building’s small size only the royal family and their closest followers attended here, with all others going to one of the churches in the castle town or simply not bothering.

Eleanor passed the time kneeling on a cushion at Aveline’s side, not really paying attention, going through the motions automatically. The sermon on the importance of caring for guests could have, and quite probably had, been chosen especially for her benefit, and she was uncomfortably aware of people glancing at her during it. Eleanor demurely kept her face down while letting her eyes rove and identify these people as best as she could without moving. There was nothing useful likely to be gleamed from this; it was simply trained habit.

The only mildly noteworthy part of the whole service was confession. Lacking a safe priest Eleanor had to leave out what Trempwick called the good bits; the assorted bits and pieces anyone in their line of work ended up weighing their soul with. The village priest at Woburn knew exactly what she and Trempwick were, and the poor man was balding rapidly in the knowledge the king’s spymaster was keeping a close eye on him in case he thought it advisable to break the sanctity of confession and pass the information along. Quite what the royal chaplain’s reaction to the disgraced princess confessing to several secret meetings with a knight whom she had now married without family permission while contracted, in the world’s opinion, to another man, whom she was now betraying to his probable death would be Eleanor didn’t know, but guessing was fun.

Together with Aveline Eleanor left the church, emerging into the pleasantly sunny morning air and the castle’s inner bailey. The servants all ended up in the back of the church, and so were the first out. Now they were hanging around in clusters, waiting for their assorted masters and gossiping. Pacing along tamely at Aveline’s side Eleanor navigated through the throng towards her guestrooms. As she passed people stared, most covertly but some dared to be overt. A ripple of quiet chatter ran along at her sides like water displaced by the prow of a ship; much she couldn’t catch but what she did was generally speculation on what exactly her brother had done to her. Sprinklings of sympathy floated in the sea of general hilarity and approval at her fate. Eleanor lifted her head up high, giving everyone a good view of her injured face as if she did not care in the least.

A few steps on Eleanor’s heart lurched as she noticed Fulk, unexpected because he was not one of those allowed into the royal church. The lurch was swiftly followed by a painful stumble; he was talking to Godit. He was standing there, left hand on his hip where his sword hilt would rest if he was wearing it, head inclined slightly towards her, posture easy and open while Godit kept on smiling at him, looking at him from under her eyelashes and mimicking his posture and gestures. Neither had noticed her.

Eleanor’s reflexive desire to go over and inform Godit that no one was going to steal her knight, and certainly not with such cheap and tacky tricks died as soon as it formed, although the part involving dragging Fulk off by his ear stubbornly refused to leave peaceably.

Fulk looked up and spotted her; shocked turned swiftly to concern, then equally quickly to careful neutrality. But his eyes remained on her, and they spoke powerfully.

Eleanor looked away before she could betray herself and kept on walking. The unexpected sight remained unnerving. Godit was pretty, far more available than Eleanor and, quite importantly, not likely to end up with one angry royal family trying to kill Fulk for his attention. Although perhaps one furious princess could be as bad as a set of miscellaneous royals in that aspect. Fulk was loyal; even though his very tricky position and choice of wife gave him better reason than most for turning elsewhere, an accepted thing for men even without good reason, if he chose to he probably wouldn’t. Or so Eleanor hoped; it might be beneath her to notice or care if he had an affair but theory and practise didn’t want to combine.

Far more importantly they obviously knew each other; Godit had wormed her way into Fulk’s trust enough for him to relax around the maid, enough for her to visit him as a friend and talk inoffensively on a great many subjects. Eleanor had no way of knowing what Anne had told her maids about herself and Fulk; she had had little option but to trust the queen to help get her to the palace and prevent Fulk from leaving in the meantime. As one of Anne’s maids Godit was one of the most likely people in the castle to know there was something between princess and knight, and she was one of three potential spies for Trempwick. Close to Fulk in addition to the queen Godit was very well positioned to spy. This was not even close to enough to identify Godit as a spy, but it was enough to arose Eleanor’s suspicion and make her the leading candidate. Godit would have to be investigated.







Felia Regis, literally king’s daughter. It’s the best term for princess I could find in my Latin dictionary.

[frogbeastegg]

Midday found Eleanor sat in the improvised solar of her guest rooms, sewing. She was not working on part of her trousseau, but mending a few rents and tears in her overdress caused by her scuffle with Hugh last night. She was not the only one stitching away; Aveline and Juliana were busy with their designated parts of Eleanor’s wedding clothes. They had been working ceaselessly since the party arrived back from church, several hours now. Eleanor herself hadn’t been working nearly that long, but she had run out of alternate things to do, and the dress did need repairing.

Adela had arrived early in the day with the part of Eleanor’s trousseau she was working on in cooperation with Juliana. She also brought a friend; a quiet noble girl politely introduced as Hawise. She was, Eleanor was assured, excellent with a needle, and the queen had agreed to her becoming one of the ever-growing collection of people helping out with the mass of work needing doing in preparation for the wedding. The two had also delivered Eleanor’s new tafl set, which she had put safely aside in the other room on her bed until she could find somewhere better to store it, or until she needed to go to sleep; whichever happened first.

Eleanor placed several stitches into the same spot at the end of a small rip to finish the seam off. Work secured she snipped the thread with some scissors and began working on the next hole. Trying for the almost automatic labour the others were demonstrating Eleanor didn’t pay complete attention to her work, studying the newcomer as closely as she could without giving herself away.

Hawise was another in the sizeable collection of young lesser noble girls playing lady’s maid to a social superior at court awaiting a suitable marriage. Reasonably tall with a good figure, warm brown eyes, fair skin and hair several shades closer to gold than brown she was certainly pretty, but probably not more than that. Her face was entirely too serious for that, and it made her hard to age. She could be anywhere between fifteen and twenty, but Eleanor was favouring the older end of the scale. Her manner was equally serious, again placing her closer to older than younger. If Adela was quiet then Hawise was practically mute. Even when she did speak her voice was so soft it was easily lost in background noise, soft but certainly well-spoken. She joined in with very little of the conversation, and her contributions were always brief. The tales of her needlework had not been exaggerated; she was very gifted, and a good worker too. All of which made Eleanor wonder why exactly Hawise was not already married, given that she appeared to be several years past the age when most parents began searching in earnest for a suitable match. A lacking dowry, picky parents, a dislike for the suitors put forth combined with parents who listened to her, some aspect of her not immediately obvious which put people off once known about – it could be any of them. A small dowry seemed the most likely, perhaps. Hawise was neatly turned out, but her clothes were not highly decorated or of costly cloth, and a plain gold chain necklace with a simple, small crucifix pendant was her only jewellery. She fitted the same ‘minor noble at home’ pattern that Eleanor herself occupied when at Woburn. However people always wore their best at court.

Not an accomplished seamstress at the best of times Eleanor’s lack of attention cost her; she pricked her finger. She muttered, “Damn!” and sucked at the bead of blood building on her fingertip. Whoever said sewing was good for ordering your mind and thinking had obviously never tried it. Eleanor worked the silver needle safely into the woollen fabric and set her dress aside. “Surely it is time for lunch?” Waiting was proving, as ever, insufferable. The sooner she was ‘poisoned’ the sooner events could continue to move onwards.

To support her the church bell conveniently tolled Sext. Perhaps someone up there was lending a helping hand after all.

“I’ll go get us a tray of something from the kitchens.” Juliana tidied her work up and left. Everyone else kept sewing, and Eleanor picked up her mending once again so as to not be the odd one out.

Some time later Juliana struggled back through the door with a large tray containing a big pitcher of wine, five goblets, a stack of bowls, one cooked chicken, some chewettes, a selection of pastries, and a big bowl of pottage filled with bacon and assorted vegetables. She set it down on the table with a grunt. “Whew! That was heavy.”

The five congregated around the table with varying degrees of anticipation. Eleanor’s main concern was to be the first – and only – one to touch the wine; she could identify it as poisoned before something unfortunate happened. But she had to maintain her cover. To that end she picked a chewette and nibbled at it with false enthusiasm. It, at least, tasted alright.

Adela poured out the wine while Juliana set out the bowls. Hawise set to jointing the chicken without a word, moving the serving dish over to benefit from better light and quietly getting on with it. Aveline did nothing, like a queen expecting to be waited upon.

Three people ended up grabbing drinks as soon as Adela set her jug down: Eleanor, Aveline and Adela herself. To Eleanor’s private horror she didn’t get chance to put her careful plan into action; Adela took a good gulp of her drink.

Aveline also took one swallow, then stared medatively into her cup. “This wine is off.”

“Is it?” asked Adela. “I drank mine so quickly I didn’t notice.”

“It has a bitter undertaste. Faint, but there.”

Eleanor took a tiny sip of her own drink, which she immediately spat back out. It was a clairet, mild flavoured wine with a decided bitterness underlying its more usual sweetness. Poisoned; there was no doubt if you knew to look for it. “I think it might be best if no one drinks any more of this. It is certainly tainted.” She didn’t want to provoke a panic, especially not since two people were now in need of treatment, but not in danger of more than unpleasant sickness if they did not receive it. Panic would help no one; slow and orderly could still win the day, minimalising the damage and maintaining her own cover. With grim humour Eleanor admitted that the two had certainly helped the fake assassination attempt look real, even if she had not wanted anyone but herself to touch the wine.

Aveline nodded, her suspicions confirmed.

“Tainted or not I’m thirsty,” said Adela. “It didn’t taste that bad anyway.” She raised her cup to her lips; Eleanor grabbed her arm, yanking it down at the same time Aveline wrenched the goblet from the maid’s grip, sloshing the remaining contents over the three of them. There was alarmingly little left.

“By tainted I meant possibly poisoned!” snapped Eleanor, giving up on subtly. She now had no idea how much Adela had now drunk, possibly enough to kill herself.

Adela wailed, “I’m going to die!” She clasped one hand to her mouth, eyes flooding with tears.

“I said possibly,” shouted Eleanor. This was why Trempwick often said if you wanted something done right you should remove everyone in a six mile radius of anything required by or linked to your plan before you began. Also why hastily put together plans made by someone of unknown skill with scarcely a minute’s discussion between those involved should never be used. Nice theory; pity circumstances hadn’t allowed for it to become practise. “It needs testing! Wait here, no one move, and for God’s sake no one touch any more of that food or wine!”

Eleanor marched outside. She pointed at a servant in royal livery. “You!” The man looked about himself to check she did indeed mean him. “Yes, you,” she said impatiently. “Find me a dog or cat no one cares about, and quickly.” The man sped off, puzzled but obviously deciding it best to indulge the mad princess in her strange whims. Eleanor picked another victim from the bailey full of people who had stopped to gawp. “You! Fetch the royal physician to my rooms, and hurry up about it. Tell him two cases of suspected poisoning.” It was only on her way back inside Eleanor realised she was still wandering about in her underdress, the light grey now soaked with splotches of pink wine.

Back in her room little had changed. Aveline was seated once again, pale but composed. Adela was moaning and hugging her stomach tightly with both arms, sick with fear rather than the wine, Eleanor thought. Juliana was doing her best to calm the other girl down; if she was having any effect it wasn’t too impressive.

Closing the door Eleanor announced, “The physician is on the way; it will be best to assume there was poison and act accordingly. I have also made arrangements to test the wine. All we can do is remain calm and wait; it will take a good while before the poison, if indeed there is any, begins to work, so you are quite safe.” A slight overstatement, but at this rate Adela was more likely to expire from terror than anything else.

Eleanor resumed her mending, finishing the rent she had been working on previously. As soon as she completed that little repair she gave up on the rest and donned the dress once again. Hawise assisted, unbidden, helping to settle the material in place and lacing up the sides to gather the fabric in to the correct figure hugging arrangement. Girdle fastened in place once again Eleanor settled down to wait in a corner, keeping everyone in view and watching everything.

Hawise picked up her sewing again. Seeing Eleanor’s questioning gaze on her the quietly explained, “No point in wasting time, and what else can I do?”

“Quite,” declared Aveline. She too returned to her work. She was working a little slower than before, each stitch a little more deliberate, but if her hand shook or she was agitated Eleanor couldn’t see it.

Juliana followed their example after a short delay. Adela didn’t break from her frantic praying, interspaced with requests for her funeral and last messages to give to various people.

The dog arrived first; a stubby-legged, patchwork mongrel caught near the kitchens. Eleanor had the man carrying the animal hold it steady with its jaws open while she emptied the jug down the poor creature’s gullet. A larger dose would begin to work sooner. The small size of the dog would also help; it would take less time for the poison to begin to take effect. Sure enough, shortly before the physician appeared the animal began frothing at the mouth and spasming, curling up into a miserable ball on the floor as it tried unsuccessfully to vomit. Adela’s wailing grew louder.

“Oh, be quiet, girl!” ordered Aveline, still industriously sewing, “Have you never heard of dignity?”

“I don’t want to die!”

“Nor do I.”

The physician arrived at a trot, tailed by an assistant with a selection of medicines and an unexpected guest: Hugh. “Your messenger had to pass me in the great hall; he told me of your request for the physician and why,” he explained.

The physician cast one glance to the poor dog and proclaimed solemnly, “Aconite. This substance is known to me, and I can treat it.” He gestured to his assistant, and the young man selected a small bottle and two earthenware cups from the large bag he had carried in. He began to pour out two draughts of a nasty looking dark coloured liquid. The physician continued to talk, “An emetic of mulberry bark boiled in vinegar to induce vomiting, followed by fresh milk once the stomach is emptied, then another dose of the emetic, followed this time by cream mixed with butter, a final dose of the emetic, and more milk, this time to be kept in the stomach. By this process the substance will be purged from the body entirely.”

Adela’s moans increased in volume at the unpleasant remedy. Aveline set aside her sewing and calmly rose to collect her dose from the assistant. “I do so hate doing this,” she groused, before steeling herself and downing the mess in one go. She could not quite suppress a shudder as she finished. “But I always find it infinitely preferable to the alternative.” She returned the cup to the assistant, collected a large, empty bowl and resumed her seat.

Adela had considerably more trouble; she took one small sip, wrinkled her face up and tearfully proclaimed, “I can’t drink this!”

“Then you will die,” stated the physician blandly. “You must hurry; the longer the toxin is left in the body the more danger. Already much time has been lost.”

“It won’t even work!” None the less Adela continued to clutch the cup as if it were a lifeline.

“Nonsense,” said Aveline. “If it did not work I would not have been alive to get poisoned today.”

Hawise somehow managed to get her friend to drink her dose, and settled her down next to Aveline with a bowl in her hands, waiting for it to work. Hawise then retired to a safe distance.

The initial bout of activity over Hugh at last stepped forward from the spot near the door where he had been keeping out of the way. “Only the two are affected? No one else took anything suspect?”

Eleanor said, “I tested a sip of the wine but spat it back out. The food is untouched.”

“Who fetched the tray?”

Juliana raised a nervous hand. “I did, your highness.”

“Where did the food come from?”

“The kitchens.”

“Nothing from an outside source?”

“No, your highness.”

“Did you say it was for the princess?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Did you see anyone tamper with the tray?”

“No, your highness.”

“Did you see anyone do anything suspicious with the wine while measuring it out for you?”

“No, your highness. But I could not really see.”

“So you watched the contents at all time?” When Juliana did not reply immediately Hugh sternly enjoined, “Answer me!”

“Well, yes, mostly. While I was waiting for the chicken to be taken off the spit a man started talking to me. He was trying to flirt with me, but I wasn’t interested and told him to go away; after a bit he did. We were right next to the tray.”

“But you did not see him add anything to the wine?”

“No, your highness.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well …” Juliana hesitated. “forgettable, really. Mid height, blondish hair, average build, no noticeable scars, dressed in royal livery like any other kitchen servant.”

Hugh said to the man who had fetched the dog, “Escort her to the cells in the inner gatehouse and see she is kept there for questioning. She is not to be harmed; treat her with dignity.”

“I didn’t do this!” squealed Juliana, looking to her mistress for aid. Aveline had gone very pasty, and was concentrating closely on her bowl.

“Perhaps not, but I will not give you chance to abscond before the matter can be investigated.” The dog convulsed again, making a piteous noise. “Someone put that creature out of its misery and remove the body. Have the wine and food destroyed.”

The servant drew his dagger and thrust it point first into the dog’s heart. He wiped the blade clean on the animal’s scrappy fur and replaced it in its sheath. He indicated Juliana should proceed him from the room; she stood rooted to the spot.

Aveline said, “Oh, just go with him.” She quickly refocused on the bowl as the emetic began to work. Sight and sound soon combined with smell, and Eleanor felt her gorge rise at the back of her throat. She swallowed hastily several times and looked away, noticing others in the room doing likewise. Adela also began to vomit.

Hugh’s face crinkled with distaste and a fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His throat worked a few times before he felt sufficiently sure of himself to speak. “Sister, let us leave. Arrangements must be made for your safety, and we will only be in the way here.” He asked Hawise, “Who are you?”

She dipped a curtsey. “Hawise FitaClement, your highness.”

“You will attend my sister; the patients will be well cared for by the physician and his man, or I will know why.” He swept from the room, plainly expected Eleanor and Hawise to follow.

Eleanor cast a distressed look at the mess the dog had left on her floor, then another at the two vomiting patients. She hurried after her brother. “Can you arrange to have the room cleaned and aired?” she asked pitifully. Back in fresh air Eleanor felt much better.

Hugh nodded, but kept on walking towards the keep. “Indeed I was planning upon it, Nell. Even a peasant would baulk at a house filled with vomit, blood and the by-products of an expired mongrel.”

The main hall had already been set for business. The throne had been moved in front of the high table on the dais, along with the queen’s chair, which Anne was occupying with a earnestness which sat at odds with the fact her feet swung a good half inch above the ground. A throng of important people waited before the dais, with more arriving in dribs and drabs. The usual collection of people passing time with games or fine work had been moved down to the far end of the hall; at Hugh’s entrance many of them had stopped what they were doing and begun to watch what was unfolding. The servants were still clearing the far ends of the two low tables after dinner, and they worked in larger teams than usual to get the job done sooner. There was a distinct air of excited anticipation; people swapped suggestions as to what the big fuss could be, some already repeating the story of a half dressed princess pleading piteously for help and the castle physician as her two friends had been poisoned.

Hugh headed straight for the dais. He mounted it and stood before the throne. “Where is Richard de Clare? I summoned him before I left.” He looked about the hall; no one moved. “I presume he is still being located then.” Hugh sat down on the throne and beckoned Eleanor and Hawise closer; Eleanor took up station at her brother’s side while Hawise waited nervously in front of the gathering of royals. Hugh dropped his voice from the public pitch, but those at the front of the audience could still easily overhear. “Hawise FitaClement, you said.”

Hawise curtseyed once again. “Yes, your highness,” she said softly.

“I have heard a little of you, and all of it agreeable. You are seeking position as a lady’s maid, are you not?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“My sister is in dire need of a suitable maid.”

Eleanor leaned down and hissed, “Hugh! No!”

Hugh murmured, “You find her disagreeable or dislikeable?”

“No,” admitted Eleanor reluctantly.

“You have … other reasons not to take her? I am quite certain that she is indeed just what she appears to be, no more.”

“No.”

“Then I fail to see your objection.”

“I do not need a maid!” Eleanor looked to Anne in appeal, but the little queen only shrugged apologetically and continued to keep her own council.

Hugh raised his voice sufficiently to carry to those nearest. “You do; you should have several. It is entirely unbecoming that you do not, and reprehensibly negligent on the part of those who have had custody and care of you. I am determined to amend this.” Panicked guilt flitted across Hugh’s face as he realised how that could be taken. “I mean no disparagement or condemnation to our father; I know well the burdens he has been labouring under. Rather I fear your tutor has shamefully mislead our father, misrepresenting precisely what he has provided you with, for it is only too clear that despite his insisting otherwise you have not been supplied with all fitting and necessary to your rank. I aim to make good this lapse.”

Eleanor dropped her voice back down low. “If you think to plant a spy on me-”

“Dear sister, you are quite unreasonable. My own choice of spies is always far more subtle than such obvious candidates, by necessity of that limitation which we discussed previously. You suspect her from the start, thus she could glean very little of worth and is easily countered by other … influences equally wary. I meant what I said; there is a lapse and I will amend it.” Hugh ended their private conversation without giving Eleanor time to object further. “Hawise, you will serve princess Eleanor from this moment forth. You will receive two shillings a day, two new outfits in winter and two in summer, one outfit in royal colours with my sister’s badge each year, and the sustenance and shelter as would be expected under any such contract.

“Hugh,” whispered Eleanor urgently, “I cannot afford a maid! I do not have even two shillings!”

Hugh ignored her. “I require you to take an oath of fealty to my sister, sworn upon your immortal soul. Is this acceptable?”

“Yes, your highness.”

A richly dressed man Eleanor recognised as Richard de Clare, chief of those parts of palace security not under the spymaster’s jurisdiction, pushed to the front of the gathering before the dais and waited on bent knee to be acknowledged.

“Hugh!” protested Eleanor. She was uncomfortably aware that Hawise was looking at her with a kind of quiet, resigned hurt.

“Then there can be little space for doubt, sweet sister,” said Hugh simply, for all to hear.

Eleanor saw little choice but to accept. Hawise knelt before the princess, placed her hands in Eleanor’s and said, “I swear upon my immortal soul to serve you loyally in all things, now and forever.”

“Good,” said Hugh. “Now take up your place with your mistress; you will be provided with opportunity to assemble your belongings and move them to the princess’s lodgings, and inform your family of this news later.”

Hawise curtseyed and moved to stand behind Eleanor.

Hugh finally turned his attention to the kneeling man. “Ah, Richard, at last.” Hugh indicated the thick candle clock burning on its special table in the corner of the high end of the hall. “I fear I must wonder what exactly you were about which delayed your response to my summons so greatly that you were the last to arrive, despite being the first summoned.”

“Your highness, I came as soon as your messenger found me. Blame him if I am tardy.”

“I may, or then perhaps I may not. It will become clear in future, I think. If you are sluggish again it will be obvious the fault lies with you, if speedy then with the messenger selected for today’s charge.”

De Clare bowed his head. “Yes, your highness.” Eleanor thought she detected a hint of resentfulness in the man.

“Someone tried to poison my sister; two of her companions are undergoing treatment for the aconite they ingested even as we sit here wasting precious time.” A murmuring broke out in the throng of listeners at this. “You are in charge of security here - investigate; find who was responsible. The maid who fetched the food is confined in the cells; she is to be treated fairly and not harmed unless evidence is discovered to justify such handling. She made mention of a man who talked to her while the food was prepared; get the description from her once more to be sure it is consistent. Her account to me was of a man of average height and build, no distinguishing marks or scars, blondish hair, dressed like a kitchen servant.”

“Highness.”

“One more matter. I require a bodyguard for my sister, someone competent and experienced, known to be loyal.”

For the sake of appearances Eleanor objected, “That is not necessary! Raoul made arrangements; he will be insulted by this.”

Anne said, “Whoever organised this may try again; you need security and those arrangements have already failed spectacularly once. A second time may be fatal.”

“Precisely,” agreed Hugh.

“It is quite shameful that you were parted from your bodyguard in the first place; he was proven capable several times over.”

Eleanor had already prepared and practised her excuse; she deployed it slickly. “I thought him unnecessary, and knew he could be put to better use here as a knight.”

“With you it will always be necessary, Nell. You upset too many people.” Hugh pointed at one of the messenger boys clad in royal red and white waiting at the side of the dais. “You! My sister’s previous bodyguard is currently in palace employ; Sir Fulk FitzWilliam. Fetch him.” The boy shot off at a run, skipping and weaving through the people towards the exit.

“Hugh-”

Hugh cut her off sharply, and with sufficient volume to carry to the back of the hall. “Be silent; my decision is made!” Eleanor’s cheeks burned as some in the hall laughed.

Fulk appeared before ten minutes had passed. Unlike the boy he didn’t run, but he didn’t amble as de Clare had done. As he walked briskly down the hall he looked neither left nor right, and demonstrated none of the nervousness that might be expected from a minor baron summoned by the heir to the throne. Well groomed, dressed simply in fawn brown, light blue and white with his plain old sword belted at his waist he visibly claimed no ambition or rivalry with his superiors, but at the same time looked fit for a baron in the king’s personal service. The sizeable audience in the hall watched the latest player in this unanticipated drama mostly with ambivalence. Before the dais Fulk dropped smoothly to one knee and waited with bowed head.

“You are required to resume your service as bodyguard to my sister. Her life is your life, what happens to her happens to you tenfold if you do not prevent it; if she is even scratched and you yet live I will wish to know why, and you will pay dearly for your ineptitude. Your wage will now be four shillings per day; otherwise your existing contract still stands. Take your oath now, upon your soul.”

Fulk drew his sword slowly, so none could take it as a threat, and offered it hilt first to Eleanor. She held the weapon out before her with the flat of the blade resting on her palms. Fulk knelt at her feet and put his right hand on the sword in the middle of the space defined by Eleanor’s hands; he looked into her eyes with a solemnity which made Eleanor’s heart ache and at the same time made her want to laugh. “Your life is my life, your path is my path, my sword to guard you, my shield to shelter you, now and always, come what may, this I do swear upon my soul, so help me God.” It was a very powerful oath, also a very old one, perhaps even pagan in origin and adapted to Christian usage.

A wave of chatter flowed around the hall; Eleanor could catch not a word of it, but the tone was generally a favourable one. Amongst all but the highest nobility a bit of drama and some pretty words well spoken often met a good reception, in many parts of the higher nobility too. This was the embellishment which turned some remarkable events into a good story in the eyes of the general public. A knight swearing poetical allegiance and protection to a princess who had narrowly escaped death thanks to two of her faithful companions was splendidly close to a troubadour’s tale; the dream of life instead of the reality. Tales to this day’s work would spread throughout the kingdom, becoming more and more embellished with each telling. Eleanor could not have hoped for much better. From this day on people would expect to see Fulk following her at all times, and Trempwick would have numerous matching accounts of how she had been ‘forced’ by her brother’s concern for her life to take back her bodyguard.

Fulk stood up and took his sword back. He slid the weapon into its sheath at his hip, then bowed and kissed the ring he had given her months ago, a customary pledge of fealty with their own private meaning. Ceremony complete he joined Hawise in standing behind Eleanor. Eleanor glanced sidelong at her brother; his face was inscrutable.

“Good,” said Hugh. “Retire to the solar, dear sister. You must be wearied and disheartened; I shall send word to you the very instant something happens. I shall arrange for a safe meal to be sent up to you, and arrange for your rooms to be cleaned as soon as may be.”

“Thank you, Hugh.”

Her brand new retinue following a few paces behind Eleanor left the dais and began to climb the long staircase leading to the private rooms at the top of the keep.







Well, we’ve had a few songs (gah! Bad ones!) mentioned that suited the characters so far, mostly Fulk. Now I’ve found another one, again by accident (No, I don’t look for these things on purpose! After the horrors ‘Sometimes’ I’m still hiding from new music as far as possible!), this time thanks to a John Denver CD someone gave me insisting that it was really great. Yes, well poor froggy was forced to listen to one track (forced as in trapped with no escape and subjected to one entire song despite my numerous, uncreative excuses not to) and it … well, it was decent background music type stuff for writing quiet scenes (‘Two different directions’, if anyone cares). After some 458 pages of Eleanor alone I’m getting a wee bit sick of most of the music I usually write to. :sigh: Silly me; I made the mistake of trying the other tracks when left alone by my benefactor. Most of the tracks were not compatible with frogs, but then I hit upon this:


Follow Me

It’s by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done
To be so in love with you and so alone

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way and all around
Take my hand and say you’ll follow me

It’s long been on my mind
You know it’s been a long, long time
I’ve tried to find the way that I can make you understand
The way I feel about you and just how much I need you
To be there where I can talk to you
When there’s no one else around

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way and all around
Take my hand and say you’ll follow me

You see I’d like to share my life with you
And show you things I’ve seen
Places that I’m going to places where I’ve been
To have you there beside me and never be alone
And all the time that you’re with me
We will be at home

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way
Take my hand and I will follow you

That’s Nell, at virtually any point in the story. If you need to know who the ‘you’ is then go stand in the corner :tongueg:

Mmm, I need new medieval, medievalesque and renaissance music, yesyes. Nice music, good music, pleasant music, good for writing music. :sticks ‘There is no rose of such virtue’ in media player for the eight-thousandth time:

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor collapsed down into one of the fireside chairs in the solar. “Well that was fun,” she declared petulantly. She crossed her arms and leaned back, caught her breath as her back came into contact with the solid wood, and swiftly sat upright once again.

Fulk came to rest in the space between the two bedroom doors, propped up against the wall, one thumb tucked jauntily in his sword belt. He watched Hawise with mild fascination. The maid sank back into the corner nearest the door, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed, seemingly trying to melt into the floor.

Eleanor asked Fulk, “Have you got a mace yet?”

“A mace? No, just a pair of swords, same as before, and a lance.”

“Pity; I was hoping to borrow it so I could knock some sense into my delightful brother.”

“In that case it’s probably a good thing I’ve not got one!”

Eleanor scowled at her unwanted maid. “Oh, do stop skulking like that.”

Hawise inched out of her corner towards the edge of the middle of the room, apparently deciding to be redundant there instead. “Sorry, your highness.”

“And do not call me that. If I have to be anything Eleanor will do.”

The maid mumbled another apology and, shuffling forward finished, resuming standing wretchedly.

Fulk shifted to studying the robust toes of his ankle boots, unable to tell Eleanor to play nicely with her new friend. Kindliness to an unwanted follower who had been foisted on her as a chaperone or spy was probably a bit much to expect of a gooseberry, and she’d been much the same with him at first.

“I didn’t ask for this,” said Hawise suddenly. She was anxiously working at the knuckle of her right index finger, squeezing the joint and chafing at the skin with such force Fulk feared she may dislocate the finger. “I’m sorry.”

Eleanor regarded her maid curiously. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t want me; I understand. I’d go if I could, but I can’t.”

“You’re in good company,” said Fulk kindly, “she wasn’t over keen to have me back either. Isn’t that right, your highness?”

Eleanor frowned elegantly at her husband. “Oh, just marvellous. I get rid of you for a whole month and you come back with amnesia, also deaf, I think. ‘Your highness’ makes me feel as if I should wear my crown and be all gracious, and start playing patron to writers. I shall fine you a shilling each time you call me that.”

Fulk whistled in awe at the exorbitant sum. “A whole shilling! Still experiencing money troubles then?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor succinctly. “I cannot afford either of you. I have all of fifty-two pounds, nine shillings and tuppence a year, according to the stewards’ reports on my two measly little manors. I do not see a clipped penny of it; the quarterly rents and so on had already been collected before I was given the lands, and by the time they are due again they will belong to my husband, not me. So as you can imagine I am simply delighted to have two servants with generous wages forced upon me by my dear brother.”

“But surely your husband will also give you funds?” suggested Hawise timidly.

Eleanor’s smile did nothing to calm Fulk’s sudden nerves. “Now there is an idea; if he wants my pitiful lands he can have my bills also.”

“The way you said that I think the poor chap needs to put a new lock on his strongbox!” joked Fulk.

“Oh, I should not think quite that bad.” Eleanor’s impish smile grew fractionally, as did Fulk’s anxiety. The smile receded, and Eleanor gingerly explored the cut on her lip with a tip of a finger. Fulk averted his eyes; if he couldn’t see then he was less likely to betray the churning mix of feelings that little action created to their undesired spectator. “Raoul paid for you before, and he has assured me that he will pay for whatever I need or want, within reason. But I will not ask him to pay for anything more until we are married. It would be … unfair.”

There lay the crux of the problem; she wasn’t going to marry the spymaster, and from what Fulk had gathered Trempwick controlled her lands already. Unless her family did something on her behalf Eleanor was as impoverished with no hope of gaining either income or money reserves. With his manor generating an average of sixty pounds a year surplus and his wages from the crown, if he ever received them, Fulk was considerably richer than Eleanor, even assuming she had control of her lands herself. If he counted everything he should receive by right of marriage Eleanor was a good prospect – for a minor baron. Her blood was the only thing to make her special, from a businesslike point of view. He would be able to hand Eleanor the occasional small handful of coins, but any more would risk arousing suspicion, as she’d be getting money from nowhere and he’d be poorer than expected.

“Perhaps your family will help until then?” he suggested, knowing she would get his true meaning.

“My family. They decided what lands I should have. They are the reason I am in this position. My dowry is three thousand pounds flat; it should be at least four thousand, with another thousand paid yearly for the duration of the match – if that is not proof of their tight-fisted nature towards me then I do not know what is. Even for the sake of appearances while very publicly disposing of me they will not give me what should be mine.” She sighed. “I suppose I have little choice; I shall have to humble myself and beg for their aid, which I shall receive in some small quantity if I finally bow to their demands. I will not marry with a debt, and I will not be reliant upon Raoul. Damn Hugh! He must have known I would be forced to this when he contracted you both.” She muttered something Fulk thought to be, “More cunning than our father, for all his apparent stupidity; he is too calm for my own good.” A little more distinctly she said, “Well, we shall see how this works out. I am not a tame lamb to the slaughter.”

Fulk said, “I already have my old livery and so on, so you don’t need to get me anything now. Things may be better come the time when you’re supposed to outfit your servants again, so if you’re really determined to honour the contract your brother made without your agreement you can do so then.”

“Good enough.” Hawise she told, “Arrange for your livery and so on to be made as soon as possible. You do know what you need as livery?”

“One red dress, one white underdress, one gooseberry badge, one girdle in white, the other items are as normal.”

“Yes.” As an afterthought Eleanor added, “Have your clothes cut in the same way as mine; old style. No badges; I do not follow the fashion for marking my people even in normal clothes.”

Hawise smiled shyly. “I’m afraid red ill suits me.”

“Then it is to both our benefits that you do not wear it. Livery is reserved for when I wish to show off my status a little; I never did like my family’s mania for dressing as many people as possible in livery all the time.” Eleanor chuckled grimly. “Status, ha! With just two servants it is more pathetic than impressive.” Hawise continued to stand uselessly, but a little less like a frightened rabbit given over to the gentle care of a ravenous carnivore. Eleanor stood up and began to unfasten her girdle. “Well, since you are here you may as well finish mending my dress, and while you work you can tell me about yourself.”

Hawise began unlacing the sides of Eleanor’s outer dress. “There is little of interest to tell.”

“You can start by giving me your full name; Hawise FitaClement, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Clement who?” Eleanor dragged the overdress off and handed it to her maid.

Hawise carefully draped it over her arm, running a finger over the fabric and looking closely at the colour. “Sir Clement Nostell.” She deposited the dress in the window seat with the best lighting and began to rummage about in the sewing kit someone had left lying about in the solar.

“One of the northern lords?”

“Yes. An old family, but they adopted the name of their favourite castle in England a few generations ago.”

“Then why not Hawise Nostell?” The answer dawned on Eleanor as soon as the words left her mouth. “Oh.” Hawise was a bastard. Fulk had already guessed when she had given her father’s name differently to her own.

“My mother died when I was born, so he took me into his household. The lady Eleanora wouldn’t allow me to be called ‘of Nostell’, saying it was too close to the legitimate name. She insisted if I had to be named anything connected to my father it would have to be ‘FitaClement’ or nothing. She hated me at first and didn’t want me in her household, but I don’t remember that. I only know her as kindly.” She seemed to retreat into herself, and mumbled into the assortment of threads she was looking through, “So I’m not worthy to serve you. I thought you knew. I’m sorry.”

Eleanor said wryly, “I am noticing a definite theme amongst my servants here. Really I do not care what you are, so long as you are useful, intelligent and completely loyal.”

“I can be the last; I’ll try to be the others.” She selected one bit of silk thread as a good match for the colour of the dress, took a needle suited to the fine woollen material and went to her work.

“How old are you?” asked Eleanor eventually.

“Seventeen, your High- … Eleanor.”

“Seventeen?” exclaimed Fulk and Eleanor together. Fulk had been thinking at least twenty, more likely twenty-one or twenty-two.

Hawise gave them a knowing, rather sad smile. “Someone once told me bastards have to grow up faster than everyone else.” After a pause to see if further questions were forthcoming Hawise bent her head to her sewing.

Eleanor asked the maid, “Future plans?”

She looked up, intently serious. “I’ll serve you until you no longer want me. I know what you mean, though; my employer has a right to know my history. I have no family aside from my father, no children, have never been married, am not contracted to anyone, and am not seeing anyone. I’ll ask for permission before doing anything that could affect my service to you, or your own reputation. My previous service has all been with the lady Eleanora; if you wish to ask her about me I’m sure she’ll be happy to give indication of my character. I can do anything that can be reasonably requested of a lady’s maid. I’ve never been before a court of law, never been accused of a crime, and don’t have a dubious reputation in any way.” With that Hawise resumed her edgy silence and her mending.

Fulk said to Eleanor, “Game of chess to pass the time?”

Eleanor pulled a face, and said very unenthusiastically, “I suppose there is little else I can be doing; I cannot send either of you to see how Aveline and Adela are faring, and I cannot leave this room myself.”

They pulled out the little table from the wall and set it between the two chairs, then swiftly set out the exquisite chess set on its ebony and ivory inlaid board. Shortly after play commenced it became obvious that Eleanor had changed her approach to the game; she now took her time a little more with her moves, and she did a little better for it. Fulk would have asked why, but he did not think it safe while others were around.

Still it was not enough of a change. As Fulk smashed the centre of one of her pawn chains he said, “You’re doing better, but you always did play too fast; slow down even more, think several moves ahead all the time. There’s no penalty if you take more than a few minutes per move. I’ve heard some of the best players sometimes take hours to decide their moves, and games can last for days.”

“How profoundly tedious,” replied Eleanor dryly. She shunted her leftmost rook forward several squares without considering the move at all.

Fulk heard a funny choking noise behind him; he glanced to the window seat to find Hawise stitching conscientiously, but now crimson at her failure to completely stifle her outburst of mirth and once again looking abject. He turned back to Eleanor and raised his eyebrows. She shrugged, unwilling to do anything more with her new maid. Fulk turned his attention back to their game, and removed Eleanor’s newly vulnerable white bishop from the board with a cheery smirk.





Around an hour later Fulk and Eleanor were nearing the end of their second game, another promising victory for Fulk. Hawise had finished her mending, and Eleanor was once again properly dressed. Now the maid sat bashfully watching their game, but from the safe distance of her window seat. In the entire time she had not made any effort to initiate any conversation, except to tell Eleanor her dress was finished. She did answer when spoken to, but otherwise her presence was regrettably easy to forget.

When the door to the solar opened Fulk thought it must be the food Hugh had promised, arrived at long last. It wasn’t; it was Anne, followed by her two remaining maids. On seeing Fulk Godit covertly nudged Mariot in the ribs; neither the gesture nor the meaningful glance both women exchanged was missed by Fulk. Judging from the way Eleanor’s blue eyes picked up a decided icy coldness she’d seen it too, but other than that slight detail, which only someone familiar with her would pick up on, the princess didn’t give a thing away. The two maids filed away to join Hawise in her window seat without any more silliness.

The queen came over and appraised their game, the large collection of pieces Fulk had captured, the small collection of hostages Eleanor had taken, and said, “I will not ask who is winning then.”

“The broken-nosed annoyance, that is who,” grumbled Eleanor. “If he were chivalrous he would let me win.”

“I’m very chivalrous!” protested Fulk. “It’s the height of chivalry not to patronise a lady by letting her win.”

Anne applauded daintily. “Very neat escape, Sir Fulk.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” Fulk bowed awkwardly in his seat.

Eleanor cleared her throat noisily. “If I may interrupt this small gathering of learned folks discussing the finer points of chivalry? Hawise, you may go and order your clothes now. Gather your things and move them over to my guesthouse, and tell your former mistress what has happened. Take as long as you want.” The maid bobbed a curtsey and disappeared out the door. To Anne Eleanor said, “Can we send someone to discover how Aveline and Adela are faring? I cannot go myself; Hugh was rather … resolute on my staying here until told I may leave.”

“Mariot? Would you mind …?”

“Not at all; I’ll go at once,” the oldest maid assured her charge. “Poor Adela; I was so shocked to hear, the poor dear. It really is quite terrible, the whole thing. Simply dreadful; I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

Eleanor told Mariot, “Adela was in some considerable distress; she will feel far better for a friendly face. If you can make sure she is alright I would feel much better.”

“Don’t blame yourself, dear. It’s not as if this is your doing now, is it?”

“Still and all, the poison was intended for me. I cannot help but feel responsible. Aveline is not exactly young, and for all her composure … well, I would feel far better if you made certain they were both safe, recovering, and as happy as is possible.”

“Yes,” chimed in Anne, “stay with them for a bit if you think it a good idea; I can spare you for the rest of the day, I still have Godit. Poor Adela; tell her I am … well, you know. I will visit her when I can, and if there is anything she needs or wants she should let me know.”

Mariot exited, leaving Godit as the only one outside their little conspiracy.

“I am so glad that is all over, for today anyway.” Anne picked up the little ebony queen, a woman in fancy robes and crown perched on her decoratively carved throne looking bored to tears. She ran a finger over the fine carving, manicured nail catching on the queen’s prominent nose. “Now I know why the poor queen so often looks fed up; I used to think it quite silly, because she is the best piece. I feel so useless, sat there in the queen’s chair with nothing really to contribute. Hugh does consult me where it is appropriate, and I am learning a lot, but I feel more like a decoration than a real queen. I just cannot offer good advice, even though he gives me plenty of opportunity to do so. I am so glad I managed to escape today’s more private council; if I feel useless in the great hall I feel utterly inept in the council chamber.”

“You do very well,” Godit assured her. “No one expects miracles, and general gossip has a high opinion of you because you try, and because you’re learning quickly.”

“Maybe … but where is Bodmin?”

Fulk supplied, “Cornwell.”

“Oh,” said Anne blandly. She nodded vacantly, and the perplexed expression eased a very little. “We are sending an inquiry there. Something about confusion on how many knights some landholders there owe; scutage, and so forth. I suggested it … I think.”

Fulk caught the corner of his mouth in his teeth, fighting not to grin at the thought of a load of nobles having their doings investigated by the crown because of a child who wasn’t even entirely certain as to what she had done.

Anne snapped out of her daze and enquired, “Did you get the food Hugh promised?”

“No,” answered Eleanor. “Not so much as a crumb.”

“Oh dear! You must be famished, and it is my hospitality at fault … well, in a way, anyway. Godit, would you mind? Actually, I am rather hungry myself after that long audience, so get something for me too. Oh – just bring enough for everyone; simplest, that way.”

“And bring cheese,” ordered Eleanor imperiously. “Hard cheese, and plenty of it.”

Godit dipped a curtsey and left, somehow managing to toss a wink at Fulk on her way out. That set Eleanor fuming again, as subtly as before.

Once they were safely alone Anne bounced down onto the plump cushions in the window seat nearest Fulk and Eleanor, glowing with pride. “It was really rather difficult, but I made sure Hugh never got around to giving any specific orders about your food. I thought it might be useful.”

Eleanor sat bolt upright again, suddenly all alert. “Yes; thank you. Right, we do not have long and there is a lot to cover. Hawise is not to be trusted; she must know nothing, unless I choose to inform her myself. Fulk, I do not need to tell you the obvious, so consider yourself reminded but without us wasting time on it.” She turned to Anne. “Your maids; any suspicions as to who is the spy? Surely you must have some idea, and the sooner we identify …”

“I do not like to think any of them are,” confessed Anne miserably. “I do not think any could betray me. But … if one has to be … I suppose Adela. Godit and Mariot have been with me for years, Mariot nearly all my life. Adela is English, she only joined me when I arrived at court for my wedding. She was chosen for me by William, actually. I trust his judgement; she must be trustworthy or he would not have selected her.”

“My father has been fooled before, most notably by his spymaster.”

“She is one of the De La Hayes, the second daughter of the current earl of Leister. She is going to marry William FitzGilbert; it has been arranged for years, they are only waiting on William and his father returning from their pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Now there is a story behind that, alright.”

Eleanor inquired quickly, “Is it relevant?”

“Not really. You see when William was three he was really ill; they thought he would die, so his father promised that if his son lived-”

“What about Mariot?” interrupted Eleanor.

“Her children all died young, and her husband died shortly after the last babe. She will not talk about that; she says the pain is too much to think on. They were very close, you see. The rest of her family was already gone, aside from a few aunts here and there, a doddering uncle who had never quite recovered from a head wound, a sister who was an abbess, and another who had married a lord out on the Orkney Isles. She was actually quite young then, only twenty-two, but she refused to marry again so soon. Her mother had been lady’s maid to my own mother, so my mother asked her to look after me, and later be my maid when I was old enough to need one. I was perhaps two at the time. She taught me my letters, sewing, dancing, manners, etiquette, almost everything except Latin and English. Those my grandmother taught me, as my own mother died when I was three. I know Mariot looks on me as a kind of daughter, and she is my oldest and most trusted servant. I will not believe she could deceive me.”

“Tell me about Godit.”

“She comes from a good family, although a little poor and not the usual choice for a royal companion. I chose her myself, nearly six years ago. We met one summer when I followed my father on his progress and we stopped at her family’s castle. I really liked her, so I insisted on her coming with me. Her family’s trying to make her marry, but I will not let her unless it is a match she wants. She owes much to me, and she is a good person. She would never betray me.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow in Fulk’s direction.

“She never stops talking,” he answered at last.

“Oh. Good. Thank you; that was just what I needed to know.”

“You’re very acidic today, oh sour one.”

“That too is very useful; now I know everything I need to defeat Trempwick single-handedly. Oh happy day. Tell me about Godit – how do you know her, how long have you known her, what have you told her, what does she want from you. Tell me useful things.”

“Anne introduced us on my first day here, she’s been tagging after me ever since, I haven’t told her anything much that she didn’t already know, and she wants to marry me.”

Predictably enough that last produced one of Eleanor’s murderous glares, a particularly fine specimen. “Detail; I need detail. And what are you smiling at, you aggravating object?”

“That glare; I find it quite endearing.” Fulk winked at Eleanor as the glare transformed into miffed surprise, accompanied by a pleased blush. “Godit was there when I arrived; the queen asked me some questions and I had to answer them.” Fulk glanced guiltily at Anne; he hated to drop her in harm’s way but Eleanor needed to know. “I’m afraid a good deal was given away before I even opened my mouth, though I admit I didn’t help matters much myself. Because of that she – and the other two maids – know of our attraction and think that I was sent away because you had chosen Trempwick over me in an effort to make the unavoidable marriage work. Making the best of a bad job, Mariot called it.”

Eleanor’s eyes flicked from knight to queen and back again. “You told people?” she gritted out.

“I had to have their help,” explained Anne unhappily, “and I could not see Fulk without them around. I had been hearing all kinds of things; I was worried for you. I tried to see you but you were gone from the manor, and that only made me worry all the more. Really, if you had heard how your family and the spymaster were talking about you then you would have been worried too; it was all so very cold, much of it around forcing you to cooperate. I trust my maids, and I cannot do much without them.”

“One of them must be a spy, or Trempwick is getting very lax.”

Fulk could see an eruption of royal temper was brewing, with some good reason. He began to pull the focus onto himself so Anne could escape mostly unscathed. If he couldn’t prevent the outburst he’d have to keep it short and reasonably quiet, to limit the chances of someone stumbling in midway through the tirade. “I’ve been working to keep up appearances of a dumped, heartbroken knight who knows his lady love’s fallen for another man.”

“Oh yes?”

“Godit knows I still love you, but she thinks I’m out to recover and move on. She’s determined to help pull me out of my gloom.”

Eleanor nodded pleasantly and made an agreeing noise. Fulk could guess what she was thinking; that was another private argument pending, and the sooner the better.

“I’ve been carefully feeding her bits and pieces that will work to our advantage; if she’s spying then she’s not getting anything harmful to us and is leading Trempwick up the wrong path.”

“Oh, good, good.”

“She’s been acting as my link to the queen; without her I’d never have been able to deliver your gift, or message, or whatever it was, and without her I’d have no good idea of what had happened to you. To hear gossip I’d expect you to be hurt far worse than you are, but she went out of her way to tell me how you really were.”

“Well, that is very good then.”

“I’m glad you think so,” replied Fulk in the same falsely cheery tone of voice, teeth bared in a matching fake smile. He looked pointedly at Anne, who was following the back and forth with increasing apprehension. When she didn’t get the message he jerked his head towards the doors to the other private rooms.

The queen hopped to her feet. “Oh dear! Silly me! I do appear to have … forgotten something. In my room. I should get it, now.” She scurried away, closing the door to her bedchamber noisily behind herself. Fulk wasn’t fooled; she’d left the door open a crack.

Nor was Eleanor; her eyes flicked to the door and then back to Fulk, her face a picture of amusement. “She rather reminds me of myself – when I was five,” she murmured. “Leave her; at least she will know to return if someone comes back.”

“Alone at last, even if we need to watch for the stair door.” Fulk leaned across the chess board and patted Eleanor on the head, just like a favoured hound. “I’d kiss you, but I doubt you’d enjoy it much with that lip. Equally I doubt you’d appreciate a nice, tight hug.”

Eleanor glowered at him from under her eyebrows. “You are angry.”

“And you’re feeling guilty, and angry.”

“I am not.”

“I know you too well to fall for that, and we don’t have time to waste.” Eleanor reclined in her chair, face set rigidly against pain and expression, silent. Fulk decided to start unpicking the tangle in the easiest part and slowly work his way around to the central point. Somehow simply exclaiming “I didn’t sleep with Godit!” lacked style, and it called to mind trying to douse a fire by pouring oil on it. “Let me guess why you’re uneasy. Defacement of my property, dear gooseberry.” Fulk’s mouth twitched as he said that, but he didn’t need to try very hard to reset his features into seriousness. “Insult to my honour too; by rights I should be setting out to avenge you by clobbering your brother, which of course I can’t do, so the insult’s permanent. We won’t mention the complete lack of consultation with me; I suppose it’d be a bit much to expect my wife to warn me before she tries to kill herself, even though she was planning it when I last had chance to talk with her. We’ll also ignore the fact - although it’s one which would drive most into a righteous fury - you’re such a mess I don’t see how you’re supposed to pay your half of the marriage debt, assuming we get chance. However we won’t ignore the fact it’s a husband’s duty to protect his wife from everyone and everything, but you deliberately went and made me helpless.” With difficulty Fulk repressed his exasperation again; if he let it show she’d only start running.

“I did what I needed to.”

“And you realised there was a bit of a problem when exactly?”

“As I sat in the solar waiting for Hugh to arrive,” she admitted ruefully.

“Took as long as that?” Fulk tutted, attempting to convert his pique into humour. “Bad princess.” She kicked him under the table, missing her aim so her foot glanced harmlessly off his ankle. “Very bad princess,” scolded Fulk, waggling a finger at her. Eleanor scooped up one of the exquisitely carved ivory chessmen and threw it at Fulk, giving him just enough warning to snatch the piece out of the air before it hit him. “Exceedingly bad princess!” Fulk set the stumpy little knight with his cross eyed, fat bellied horse back in its correct position on the board. “Behave, you horror!”

“Yes, oh lord and master.”

Oh dear, thought Fulk. That was going to smart later.

“You are angry,” she said again. “Underneath all the silliness.”

“I never denied it, oh abuser of little ivory people. Why wouldn’t I be? You’ve no idea how worried I was. If it hadn’t been for Godit I’d have only known the gossip, and believe me it’s fit to give nightmares. Even so hearing is not the same as seeing for yourself, and then seeing is pretty damn bad too. You’re tearing me in two, telling me to do one thing and then making it impossible, expecting me to sit and do nothing. I’m supposed to be happy you went and got that?” One expansive gesture took in face, lip and back. “I hate seeing you hurt, and I hate being useless, and that you did this on purpose only makes it worse.”

“I am sorry, but what else was I to do?”

“Give others a chance to do what you’d asked of them, wait a little longer, think a little harder of another way. Even if this was the only way I doubt you needed to get slapped in the face, or to end up fighting your brother so you’re peppered in bruises which aren’t proof of anything but the fact you struggled pointlessly.”

“It was necessary-”

“There are many things people talk to their brothers about, many of them innocent, quite a few of them requiring privacy.”

“But none which provide such proof of what happened, or fit my plan so well. Hugh forced things; I had to fight or I would have had less chance of getting him to listen to me.”

Fulk could tell she wasn’t going to listen; she had decided she was right and that was that, and lacking good knowledge of what had happened it was hard for him to object in any way she couldn’t counter easily. “Forget it; it’s in the past and we don’t have time to waste on it. But in the future don’t be so quick to play martyr.”

“Well I hardly enjoy playing martyr, as you call it,” rejoined Eleanor tersely. Fulk held her gaze squarely, saying nothing. Eventually her guilt won out and she looked away. “I am sorry … I forgot my actions are not solely my own any more.”

Fulk glanced to the door, acutely conscious of the fact three people were likely to be returning here at some unknown point in the near future with very little warning. He picked up Eleanor’s hand and pressed a kiss into the palm. “You will be the lady of my heart, without question, completely, until death consumes me.”

“It is a good thing you do not have to pay the writers each time you steal one of their lines, you thieving poetical would-be.”

Fulk wasn’t sure if he was delighted or disappointed she hadn’t taken the opening and started to complain about Godit with typical Eleanorish vigour. “You are wondering about Godit. I just told you the answer. I’ve given you my word, implicitly, not overtly, but still given it, and really the actual promise doesn’t matter because it’s there even without the words. You, and no other.” He thought it best to confine things to the present; she’d only get upset and find new reason to doubt if he told her what he’d done in their time apart, and as much as he was curious he didn’t want to hear what she’d done with Trempwick in that not quite a month. He could guess.

“Your father swore the same to his wife,” said Eleanor pointedly, “so did my father, and both of my brothers who lived to marry; none of them kept it. Both of my servants are noble’s bastards. The court is awash with gossip about affairs and adultery, always has been and always will be. Plenty of stories are written about adultery, songs too – it is a popular theme. Men are unfaithful; it is a simple fact of life, and to be expected, and is beneath my dignity to notice or care unless you go out of your way to embarrass me.”

Given more time and better circumstances Fulk would have reminded her that a great many of those stories, songs and scandals involved erring wives. “I’m not interested in anyone else.”

“We may never get chance-”

“Well, I didn’t say it would be easy, did I? But I can think of more difficult things, such as wrestling with my own conscience afterwards, or persuading you not to carve me into tiny bits with a blunt spoon and feed me to a pack of rabid wolves.”

“Unlikely; it is entirely beneath me to even care.”

“But, oh stricken one, you do care. Playing good noble lady doesn’t suit you in this.”

The carefully constructed dispassionate act lasted a bit longer before breaking down into something a good deal more believable. “I would not chop you up with a blunt spoon; that is entirely too much effort, and rather cruel. Considering I love you I would show you mercy; I would toss you to the wolves while still alive and intact … mostly intact.”

Fulk grinned. “That’s better.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I should never have involved you in this. I have placed you in danger, trapped you in a miserable dead end, and-”

Fulk leaned across the table and placed one finger over her lips. “Because I let you.”

Eleanor clasped his hand in her own. “You do not understand; I did not marry you for love.”

“No, I didn’t think it was just that. If it was you’d have married me a while ago, before I left – our situation’s no better now than before. More likely you wouldn’t have married me at all if that was your only motive; it’s not really needed.”

Eleanor looked towards the stair door and regretfully let his hand drop. In a rush she began, “I am using you to keep myself true to my purpose-”

“To be a comfort, to provide support, to protect you as best I may, to be there when you need someone, to be trusted completely, to follow you wherever you end up going, to help however I can. You bound me to you so I’d be less likely to leave you or betray you. I know. If I minded I’d never have agreed; I didn’t even hesitate, if you remember.” He smiled. “Dear heart, you’re remarkably blind sometimes.”

After a pause she said seriously, “I suppose I needed to hear you say it, to be sure. You must think me terrible.”

“No, not unless you think me terrible. I married you because I need you, to keep me … whole, to force me to be someone worth the cost of my father’s life. I’ve tied up my sense of honour with you, my bravery, my decency, all that’s good in me, and without you I go back to being nothing because I’ve no real reason to be better.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“No,” said Fulk adamantly, thinking back on what he’d done in the not quite month he’d been away from her. His stupidity alone in not watching his words would have had his father flinging up his hands in disgust and declaring that Fulk must have been dropped on his head at birth. Frankly Fulk admitted to himself that his father would have been quite right. “I don’t want to spoil Godit’s future; I will not betray you – see the difference? It’s all like that. I needed money so I kept on working for Aidney though I hated the man and what he was doing, using honour and a given oath as an excuse; with you it’s the oath that matters. I don’t care about money, except as something to use to help us. I wanted to be a knight for pride’s sake; so long as I’ve got you I don’t care what I am. I know you need help, so here I am, regardless of danger. There’s not another person or cause I care about enough to do that for. But underneath our more practical reasons there’s love; that’s why those reasons are there.” Fulk bowed his head. “That’s partly why this hurt me so much; you forced me to break my word when I’m relying on you to make me keep it. If you view my vow as disposable then why shouldn’t I? It’s our wedding vow, and if that’s meaningless then so is everything else.”

“Mea culpa,” she whispered contritely, this time entirely sincere.

“I forgive you.”

They sat a moment in silence. “Why is it,” said Eleanor thoughtfully, pausing for effect, “that since I met you my life has been considerably more … drastic than usual? It appears I have my very own bad luck charm, complete with a broken nose.”

Fulk chuckled. “Why is it I’ve finally got a very nice room complete with a lovely big, soft bed and now I’m back to sleeping on the floor outside your door?” He checked the stair door again. “Everything that was yours before, lands and chattels, I return to you, if you want them, even though with a bit of cunning I could control them without anyone being any the wiser. I’m keeping-” He caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs just in time, and abruptly changed topic just as Anne came hurtling out of her room, a book tucked under her arm. “I found out what happened to my mother-” The stair door opened, revealing Godit and a palace servant helping her carry up the lunch Eleanor had been promised. “She died,” finished Fulk curtly.

“My condolences,” said Eleanor gently, at the same time as Anne’s, “Oh, how terrible!” Godit already knew; he’d told her shortly after he had received the news himself. Still, she gave him a consolatory look as she passed him on her way to set her full tray down on the large table. The other servant dropped his own heavily laden tray off and left.

“The message was a bit odd though, didn’t quite sit with what I know. I was going to go back and investigate, but I can’t now.” He forced his manner to be cool, praying Eleanor would understand what he was doing in seeming resentful of her interrupting his plans. “I can’t leave your side.”

“When Raoul arrives he will sort this mess out; you will be free then. The moment that happens you can go, on my authority, if anyone tries to stop you.”

Fulk nodded jerkily. “Thank you.”





11 pages; nearly double the usual size. Hence the delay.

4,475

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick blocked a scything chop at his shoulder with the rim of his shield. He flung his opponent’s blade wide and stepped in with a quick lunge. The man snapped his own shield over and down to guard in time. “Nice,” he grunted.

Trempwick didn’t waste his breath replying. He returned to the ready stance and slowly edged to his right, seeking his opponent’s less guarded side. The other man matched his move, and for a while they prowled in circles around each other. Trempwick fainted right and stepped sharply to his left, bringing his sword back in and around to hack at his opponent’s flank. The man was fast; the point of his shield caught and deflected much of the blow. As his blade skittered off the painted leather facing Trempwick twisted his wrist and just managed to give his foe a light rap just above the knee.

“Close,” the man said derisively. “Sloppy.”

“You or me?”

His opponent’s reply was to begin attacking in a controlled frenzy, forcing Trempwick onto the defensive. Blocking as much as possible with his shield, dodging and parrying what he could not, Trempwick slowly gave ground. His breath rasped harshly in the confines of his helmet. Sweat poured down his face into his eyes, making them sting. More sweat was running down his torso beneath mail and gambeson, soaking through his shirt and making the linen stick to his body. Still he gave ground, mindful of his surroundings, working to keep from being trapped and aiming to tire his enemy.

In exasperation his foe told him, “Men fight; girls run away.”

Trempwick grinned behind his face plate. “Not my Nell.”

“So she’s more of a man than you; great. Pity I trained you, not her.”

“Mauger!” protested Trempwick, still grinning. He guarded against yet another cut at his leg and hopped back out of range again.

Mauger changed tactics, now taking a defensive attitude to conserve his energy. Again the two circled warily.

Protected by distance Trempwick began to hammer the pommel of his sword against the inside of his shield. In time to the blows he began to chant, “Ut! Ut! Ut!”

Mauger dived to attack, thinking to take advantage of Trempwick’s distraction. Trempwick broke from his taunting and parried the vicious downswing. In almost the same movement he rammed his shield into his enemy’s side, putting his bodyweight behind it. Mauger staggered, found his feet swiftly and began to heave back. Trempwick used the hilt of his sword like a club, hammering away at his foe, keeping him busy and landing several respectable hits on his right shoulder and upper back. The few return attacks were blunted by awkwardness or by Trempwick hunching away from them.

Mauger dropped his sword and grabbed Trempwick’s sword arm. The hail of blows halted, and slowly Trempwick began to lose the contest of strength, his sword arm prised backwards and away from Mauger.

Trempwick head-butted his enemy, the collision setting both men’s helmets ringing. Quickly Trempwick flung his weight at the other man again. Mauger wavered again before finding his balance, and Trempwick used this space to wrench his sword arm free. He smashed the pommel of his sword into the side of his foe’s helm near the top, knocking the faceguard partially out of alignment. As Mauger cursed Trempwick clubbed the other man hard on the right shoulder and retreated several quick steps to stand between the man and his discarded sword.

As Mauger sorted his helmet out Trempwick rattled his sword hilt on the inside of his shield again. “Ut! Ut! Ut! Ut! Ut!”

Vision restored Mauger drew his dagger, crouching behind his shield. “Will you shut the fuck up?!” he shouted. “What’ve I told you, year after year? Waste of God damned breath!”

The advantage well and truly his, as evidenced by Mauger’s deteriorating language, Trempwick gave his foe time to surrender. When he didn’t Trempwick closed the gap and began showering attacks on the other man, always taking advantage of the superior range offered him by his sword. Finally his edge of his sword contacted with Mauger’s wrist, and the dagger dropped from nerveless fingers.

Trempwick levelled the point of his sword at his opponent. “Yield.”

“Oh, alright!” grumbled Mauger, massaging his right hand to regain some feeling.

Trempwick transferred his training blade into his left hand and removed his helmet; after the stuffy, hot confines of the helmet the cool air felt wonderful on his bare face. He moved over to the trestle table and bench that had been dragged into the courtyard from Woburn’s main hall and set his helm down, noting with displeasure a small set of scuff marks on the round iron skull just above the face guard. He swapped the sword back to his right hand so he could set it down, and then began to work his left hand and arm free from the shield’s loops.

“Not bad.” Mauger joined him at the table, divesting himself of his own helmet, shield and recovered sword. Once his breathing had settled a bit the older man offered, “But not great. Took you a while to settle to it.”

“That was my first fight in a month, as well you know.” Trempwick slipped his hands out of the slits in the leather palms of his hauberk’s mail mittens and unlaced his mail aventail, then pushed his coif back from his head. His arming cap followed swiftly. He snatched up the trailing hem of his long surcoat and mopped his face and neck.

“You’re slower than before, just a hair, but it’s a problem.”

“I will go far towards gaining much of my speed and footwork back today; that is why you are here, after all. To correct the small faults I have gained in my solitary training, to point out where I need to alter my patterns, and to give me chance to knock someone else’s’ brains about. You bring it to my attention, I work on it relentlessly until I see you again.”

“If you’re planning on fighting seriously you need more practise against live opponents. You’ll have trouble against anyone who’s training dedicated like. Not that I’m saying you’d lose, but you’d not win easy neither, get me drift? It’s winning easy that sensible men want; anything else risks life and limb a wee bit much, in my mind.”

“The day I plan upon fighting is the day I grow wings, Mauger. I am a spymaster; I fight as such, when I have need. Brains over brawn, although competence with brawn seldom harms. Besides, a face like mine gains no handsome character from a broken nose or scars, so you will forgive me if I keep it from harm’s way.” The words could apply very well to Mauger’s own battered face, if you ignored ‘handsome’. Trempwick was thinking of another man.

“You always were a cocky little wretch,” said the master at arms affectionately. “Right from the very beginning when you’d no clue as to which end of a damned sword to hold.”

“I prefer to think of it as being confident in my own abilities.”

“Aye – cocky.”

“An aura of confidence in oneself achieves much with very little expenditure. It makes one less of a target, plants a little fear and mistrust in other’s minds, makes others more inclined to follow you. It makes you look stronger. I consider that to be very useful; I always make a point of seeming confident, regardless of how I truly feel.” The master at arms snorted derisively but did not argue, and Trempwick knew he had won the point. Trempwick sat down on the bench and reached for the jug of small ale. He poured himself a cup and one for his trainer. Thirsty, Trempwick emptied the whole cup without pausing for breath.

Mauger drained his own drink and smacked his lips in appreciation. “Nice stuff, this. Touch lighter in flavour than my usual, but far from tasteless. Prefer it, I think; it’s refreshing.”

“If Elgiva hears you said that you may count your remaining days on one hand! She is very proud of her own ale.”

“Aye, but Elgiva’s still fifteen miles away at Salcey. What she don’t know won’t hurt, and her brew’s still good.” Mauger gulped down more ale with relish. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and set his cup back down with a thump. “Oh aye, speaking of Elgiva; she asks after the princess, and sends you her compliments.”

“Tell her that her advice with regards to wooing Nell was good, and that I maintain the difficulty was caused by the manner in which we became betrothed.” It was a gallant half-truth; he did not consider it wise or appropriate to discuss the other reasons. Trempwick regretted going to Elgiva that last time. He had been motivated by uncharacteristic panic and frustration at his first spectacular failure with a female. The only one he had to win, and had seemed set to lose. The solution had been obvious, if he had just detached a little and thought clearly. Which he was doing now, and had been ever since that visit. Nell was Nell; remember that and always treat her as Nell. More usual methods did not work on her … yet. He rather hoped they never would. Nell was Nell, and should remain Nell.

“You know …” said Mauger slowly. “You could visit after the wedding, bring your princess along. Elgiva’s dying of curiosity to see what she’s been advising you on and hearing about all these years. Says she feels a bit like an aunt to the girl, if that’s not too presumptuous. A visit quiet like; Elgiva’s just the housekeeper and I’m only the steward, and all’s peace and boring normality.”

Trempwick considered the proposition with his usual rapidity. His hunting lodge at Salcey was one of his favourite properties. He had passed nearly a full half of his spymaster’s holidays there. Keeping his fighting skills in acceptable shape with his old master at arms. Drinking and talking with him too, though not to the point of drunkenness or too much given away. Relaxing and ignoring his spymaster’s duties and cares. Really relaxing. Elgiva: a few years younger than himself, pretty not beautiful, not gently born. Delightfully experienced, supremely undemanding in all the best ways yet challenging where it counted, a wellspring of knowledge and advice on women and girls. Not exactly a mistress, and not quite a love. An exceptional cook. The lodge itself; a compact, light and airy building with all modern comforts. It offered privacy, real privacy. Quiet also. Actual, honest peace and quiet. No messages, no work, nothing connected to his spymaster’s life. Only himself, his dreams, and the little space he had carved out to suit his wants to perfection. Nell would almost certainly love it. Just two servants, both unknown to her and apt to be gracious. Beautiful surroundings. Plenty to do: hunting, riding, walking, fishing, hawking if they took birds. The usual indoor pursuits. Freedom from the … pressing, necessary issues of Woburn and all. Chance for her to settle into her new role as wife a little easier, if they went soon enough.

The deliberations took but a moment, and left only one issue unresolved. “I have confidence in Elgiva’s abilities, but it may not be particularly easy for her to see me with my wife. Nell will be … occupying the space Elgiva has had for years,” finished Trempwick tactfully.

“I’ll clean your ears out for you later when I batter your helm into a shapeless lump. I told you – it’s her idea. She wants to see you both, and not with an eye to gazing at what she’s freshly lost. She expects nothing of you, aye, and will betray nothing either. She’s just the cook and housekeeper, so she says. Always has been. Never been your mistress, never advised you on your princess, not spent the best years of her life waiting for you whenever you have a care or need to visit her either for that matter. She bid me say that if she’d got something more passionate in mind she wouldn’t ask you to bring your wife, and that if you’ve ever a mind to resume things it’ll be plainly obvious the moment you walk through the door, again alone.” The old warrior scrubbed the back of his neck with one blunt fingered hand, plainly embarrassed. “Well, you know what women’re like, lad. Anyhow, she promises to be boringly domestic, like a good housekeeper. She also promises a bowl of her mutton stew and dumplings the evening you arrive, if you but give her warning to cook it.”

Trempwick needed to consider little more. Formally he said, “You may tell her that my wife and I will be passing a few days at my hunting lodge in Salcey shortly after the wedding. I shall send word in my usual manner, and I expect all to be ready and suitable.”

“Right enough.” Mauger tried to be casual, but Trempwick knew the man was positively glowing with delight at his success. He also knew Mauger would soon change the subject to a more ‘manly’ one. Sure enough the other man ran a hand through his iron-grey hair and said gruffly, “I see you’ve kept your affection for that old Saxon warcry.”

Trempwick hitched a shoulder. “I never felt right yelling ‘A Trempwick!’ or any of the other, more usual ones. You will admit the Saxon one has a certain style to it.”

“Only you’d find some silly attraction in the monotonous chant of a defeated people. ‘Out! Out! Out!’ – it’s a mite daft if you think on it. Sounds like a bloody dog barking too.”

“It is less ludicrous then yelling one’s own name, especially when that name is Trempwick.”

“Could always go with ‘A Raoul!’ lad, as I’ve frequently told you.”

“I have never decided if Raoul is less detestable to my ears than Trempwick. I fear they are about equal.”

“Daft bugger’s got two good names and he hates ‘um both!” proclaimed Mauger in mock disgust.

Trempwick observed lightly, “Mauger is equally unpleasant.”

“Too bloody right! Raoul’s a damned sight better; you’ve no idea how fortunate you are, whelp.”

Seeing a distant trio of men on horseback approaching through the open manor gate Trempwick sat up, his cup of ale abandoned. It took a few seconds before he recognised the men sufficiently to tell which of the particular parties he was expecting this was. “Edward, Bertram and Gerbert, back from the town with my wedding gifts.”

Trempwick settled back to a more comfortable pose, mind busy. He would have to decide on where to place Gerbert before he left tomorrow afternoon. Gerbert was supposed to be thrown out in disgrace; small reward for one who had been so loyal, but necessary for Nell’s sake. Quickly Trempwick decided Gerbert could go to one of the French duke’s households. The duke of Brittany, perhaps. He already had people in place there, but more would not harm. Least of all a skilled, trusted extra man. The orders would be given by daybreak. Trempwick pondered giving Nell her old horse back, now Gerbert no longer required it. He liked the idea; Nell had been fond of the sweet tempered creature. It would also serve as proof of his devotion to her, tracking the animal down and regaining it. For her. Just for her. To make her happy. To have returned it earlier would perhaps have been suspicious. But now it was a wedding present to his treasured princess, for which he had scoured the surrounding countryside.

Situation analysed and decisions made in the space of a heartbeat Trempwick resumed conversation with his master at arms. Generously he offered, “Be a part of my wedding escort. I am allowed five men; be one of them. You will be able to take back a firsthand account to Elgiva. My people can continue to protect her for a few more days while you are gone.” Mauger, along with Trempwick’s armour and warhorse, had been summoned out here so he could spend a half day in a pale shadow of a spymaster’s holiday. That was all he could do at present as he lacked both time and Nell; two necessary resources for a, as yet untried, new style spymaster’s holiday. This new idea was an unexpected bonus, one he much liked. A way of paying a small part of the debt he had to these two old friends. A way, perhaps, to link cautiously the two favoured parts of his life; Nell’s Trempwick and plain Trempwick.

“Aye, I’d like that, lad. But what of the armour and so on? You’ll not be wanting that still here when your bride returns, that’s for sure. You’ll not be keen on having it out at the lodge either.”

It would only be a minor bother if Nell discovered his arms training now. It may work to his advantage a little; like most young women Nell seemed to appreciate a warrior. That was why he had let her find his sword. Why he had told her about his private practise here at Woburn. Not having to avoid her made his life simpler also. But … for now there was perhaps too much here. He would not tell her. It simply would not do to get ahead of himself. “I can order a few men to deal with it in ample time; pay it little mind. She will be none the wiser.”

“Aye, if you say so. I’ll be glad to join your escort then, lad.”

Trempwick stood up again, working his hands back into the mail mittens dangling from the wrists of his hauberk. “Caught your breath yet, old man? If not I’ve five of my household knights set to arrive in an hour or two; I can go a few bouts with them.”

Mauger shot to his feet and snatched up his wooden sword. “I’ll make you eat those words, insolent whelp! I might not have your stamina but I’ve more experience in my left little finger than a thousand green whelps who think themselves warriors! Oh aye - you’ll be fighting those knights of yours too, if I’ve got any damned say. I’m going to work you till you drop! See if they’re any match for your young energy and silliness, and I’ll sit on my aged arse on this here bench and shout at you all until you show traces of being real knights!”

“Do try not to spoil my hide; I doubt Nell would thank you if her groom arrives with a limp and an arm in a sling.”

“Aye, and more to the point you’ll be angry if you have to get explaining to her why you’ve been fighting.” Mauger grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. “Well then lad, you’ll have to stay sharp, won’t you? It’s not training if everyone’s being nice and careful with you.”






To refer to this strip of water as a river was truly a misnomer; it was in truth a stream. There were no rivers near Waltham. A simple stream, albeit one of respectable depth and breadth, gently snaking back and forth across the land in imitation of its more noble kin. Still, river the locals insisted on calling it. The sound of the water was comforting; a continuous, ceaseless sound, part restrained roar and strength, part murmur and inviting. Woven into that background were smaller, less constant sounds; water bubbling past large stones in the shallows, the distant chatter of the washerwomen just outside the town, the noise of their work carrying the half mile through the air. There had been children near this spot, swimming, shouting, fighting in the water, but they had fled when he arrived. His bodyguard would have sent them on in any case, and Hugh would have agreed. It was not dignified for a prince to intermingle with town brats. Although there had been one king who had fraternised with the lowest of the low …

Hugh took another step closer to the grassy overhanging edge of the bank. He heard the rattle of armour as one of his bodyguard also took a step forward. Did they fear he was going to jump? Hugh took another step, his toes now resting on the very edge of the riverbank. To jump. Here, upstream of the town and palace, the water was still clean and clear, inviting even, though he knew that in February it would still be bitterly cold. The surface was tranquil, the sound pleasing, the promise of a peaceful … ceasing to be was undeniably present. To jump, step off over the bank and fall the few feet down into the water.

Hugh smiled sardonically down at the clump of weeds just visible under the glassy surface at his feet. If he stepped off here he would splashily end up knee deep in water, ruin his long silk tunic, scare a few fish, and set five armoured men hastening to jump in after him, consequentially causing their iron mail to rust at an increased rate to usual and their gambesons to be unwearable for a few weeks while they dried. The loss of dignity would be substantial. What, in any case, did five men coated from head to toe in armour think to do if he did indeed end up in the water, drowning? They wore so much metal they could never hope even to float. A bizarre vision effervesced into Hugh’s mind; a series of knights in full armour walking along the bottom of the river bed, holding their breaths, and carrying him to safety above their heads.

Hugh rubbed his temples; such fanciful folly, most inappropriate, and doubtless brought on by a lack of sleep and an excess of worry. He must endeavour to rest better tonight. A steady hand matched with a sound head was what duty required of him. Given this place, and their prince’s anomalous frame of mind, it was perhaps comprehensible that his guard were over-sensitive.

Hugh examined his surroundings keenly. This was not the correct location. Close, but not quite it. He began to walk, not dawdling, but not hurrying either. He knew his bodyguard would follow, leading their horses, his horse too. Spurred by the same demon which had set him travelling out here in the first place Hugh spun around and shouted, “Stay here! I order it!” The men were not happy, but they would obey. It was their duty to him, and his bodyguard always did their duty, always would, even to the cost of their own lives. Hugh knew that fact, trusted it, just like the rising and setting of the sun. Now he abused that duty, using their obedience to prevent them from obeying to perfection their mandate.

Hugh felt shame, immense shame. Such abuse was what might be expected from the lowest blackguard, not from a prince who would one day be king. But even a king requires seclusion on occasion; that his father had taught him, so surely it was not so dreadful to leave his bodyguard just a slight distance further away than usual? But his life was not his own, Hugh reminded himself sombrely. His life belonged to the realm. Live for it, work for it, one day die for it, always strive to be worthy of it. It needed him, and so long as that need was present he had a duty not to place himself in jeopardy except when strictly obligatory. That too his father had taught him. Someone had to steer the ship of state, and if no clear leader stood ready at all times then men would fight amongst themselves to seize the supreme honour. Civil war. Anarchy. Everything that was abhorrent to God and to civilized mankind. That was always the way.

This was the location, just here. The bank had now dipped to meet the water, no longer a small scale cliff but instead a miniature shore. Hugh stepped closer to the water, so close the tips of his short boots were lapped by the water. His reflection sprawled out in front of him, the legs below the mid-thigh missing as the water nearest the land was too shallow to provide a good mirror, but the rest all there as it should be. He saw a tall, study man in his prime, a warrior, no doubt there, a leader also, for there was an assured, dominant aspect to his bearing. He was golden, even in this slate grey water. Gold hair falling in gentle waves to a little past the nape of his neck, a yellowish-orange tunic and other clothes to compliment his fair colouring, gold trim and decoration worked into his garments, gold on his belt, sword belt, dagger and sword, and gold on both weapons’ sheathes. The detail, including his face, was lost in the shivering surface of the water, but he knew himself well enough that he could supply that detail from imagination. Hazel eyes, clean-shaven, not ill-favoured but not handsome either, regal. It was not the sin of vanity to say that of himself, Hugh consoled himself, but the truth. Candour was very fitting in every possible way. False modesty was a sin also, and most tiresome to those subjected to it.

Hugh the Golden; that was what Stephan had dubbed him. His brother had always had a pet name for everyone; he had possessed a knack for finding an appellation that suited the possessor and also delighted them. Hugh the Golden; it took his appearance and made it into something flaunted, something which had a hint of potential about it, something grand sounding and glorious. Not Hugh the Odd-One-Out. Not Hugh the Bastard.

It had been Stephan who first called Eleanor Nell. Of course it had been – Stephan had always thought of everything first, done everything first. Hugh let the fragile thread of anger go; he forced his habitual calm back upon himself. Such resentment for his elder brother was sordid, as was his envy. Stephan had been a boy of huge promise. That promise had ended here.

Hugh’s focus subtly changed from reflection to water without outward motion. Here his brother’s limp corpse had come to rest, face down in the gravel, naked, twisted leg clear for all to see. There had been no dignity then, no charm, no smiles, no quick wits, no promise. Just a dead boy with a twisted leg without even a stitch of clothing to mark him out as other than a common boy. He had been found by a party of searching knights, riding the countryside adjacent to the palace, searching frenetically for the absent prince.

“You selfish bastard!” whispered Hugh vehemently. His eyes filled with tears, and he blinked them back. It was unfitting for a prince to cry, or a man, except in a time of terrible loss and tragedy. Talking to oneself was a sign of lunacy, and entirely indecorous.

Instead he spoke the words in the shelter of his mind; that was dignified, that was not madness, that was fitting. It was as if a dam had broken; he could no longer hold the words back. He had to vent them somehow. You knew you could not swim properly with that leg, but still you ran away, still you abandoned responsibility, still you discarded wisdom, still you neglected all that we had been taught of our duty and came alone because it suited your caprice. You could not admit you were no longer able-bodied; you would not acknowledge that what you once were you could never be again, by your own miscalculation. You died; your own fault. Your fault. And you left me this. I was to be your right hand, not your replacement. How did you shatter your leg anyway? Your own foolhardiness and conceit again! Your own fool’s insistence on trying to ride a ferocious, ill-tempered brute of a stallion no one with an iota of sagacity would consider mounting! Because you always had to show off.

Hugh knew it was an appalling thing to think ill of the dead, but he could not find even a shred of remorse inside himself. If Stephan had lived – if he had not been so selfish – so much would be different. Hugh became aware that he had clenched his jaw so hard the lower half of his face ached; once again he asserted his self-mastery and felt himself quieten.

Stephan had been magnificent, intelligent, skilled, amiable, affable, talented - egocentric, conceited, intractable, a daredevil with very little consideration or care for what consequence his deeds may have on others. The inventory of condemnations came suddenly and wholly unbidden, adding themselves to the list every bit as easily as the ingenuous tribute for the good. Did anyone but he ever care to recall that side of his brother, or had even perceived it? Hugh doubted it; Stephan was the perfect prince, a flower tragically cut before its time. Once more Hugh sought within himself some trace, some tiny little hint, of compunction at this most grievous, disgusting rot now bursting forth from where it had lain hidden for so long. He found only a fierce joy, the evil joy a man got when his temper finally snapped and he let loose with everything he had on the ill-fated font of his predicament.

“I hate you.” It was true, Hugh realised as the words escaped his lips without intent on his behalf. “I hate you, Stephan!” Saying it again felt even better. It was true, so true! So long denied, so long buried, so long unrealised, but God help him it was true. How long had he hated his elder brother? From the very start, always, always and forever. Everyone had adored Stephan; no one had seen what Hugh had. Hugh was always second best, inferior, a shadow, unnoticed, obscured by his brother’s bright light, left alone to pick up his brother’s leavings, left alone to see the danger and flaws in the perfect prince. Perfect prince; Hugh snorted. Everyone called Stephan that, when he was alive but more so now he was dead. If he had been perfect he would not have broken his leg, would not have pushed himself too far, would not have died, would not have set in motion this disaster. A disaster Hugh must now disarm, ill-equipped as he was. More knowledge burned like bile in the pit of his stomach: few would thank him for his efforts, or say he had done right or well even if that were correct. Some would vastly prefer to see his sister and her spymaster on the throne instead of him. That abominable catastrophe would never come to pass while he was yet living, Hugh swore.

Everyone wanted the perfect prince, not the golden one. Hugh was aware some wished he had died instead of Stephan. Why him, he thought angrily? Why not John? Why not bloody useless John, the brainless, ambitious, senseless extravagance of a waste of space? John had never done a day’s useful work in his life, he had no sense of duty, no care or concern for realm or family, no real talent except his charm. Money had flowed through his fingers like water. He had achieved nothing, except a pathetic rebellion which lost him his head. He had not even managed to die like a man, instead exiting this life like a craven child, still expecting someone to save him from his own doing and not even recognising the great mercy he had been granted.

Hugh seized a pebble from the ground next to him and dashed it into his reflection, showering water everywhere. Immediately the contrition he had found lacking hit him, dousing his mounting temper before it had time to develop further. Remorse, but for conduct which did not befit him, not at what he had finally allowed to crawl out of its dark hiding place. He would not give in to his rage, and he would not shame himself. He had slipped far enough; no more. Hugh burned this fact into his mind, searing it in place so he could not forget again.

Why did people want him dead, love him least out of the three brothers? Because they wondered if he was a bastard. Because he did not have the gift of making friends easily. Because he was not Stephan and never would be, but had been pressed into his brother’s place. That was why. He could rule justly, fairly and wisely, secure the succession, enrich the treasury, act as a pious man and endow the church, be faithful and loyal, honourable, brave, a paragon of every virtue known to man, and still he would not be recognised as having done well. Whatever he did would never be good enough, and his every slip and lack would be seen as great, compared to the wonders of the perfect prince. Hugh the Golden - yes it could be taken well, but so to could it be a vicious, cruel jibe at Hugh’s inability to fit with his family on the most basic of levels. He had never decided exactly which his brother had intended.

And then there was Nell, and the multitude of problems attendant.

What would you have done with her? Your adoring little sister who worshiped the ground you walked upon? What would you have done? You would have declaimed some marvellous speeches, made her joyful and had her eager to please, as she always was with you. Then you would have used her to your own ends without even a second’s deliberation for her own happiness or security. I know it. You selfish bastard! Hugh ended his dialogue with his dead brother, spinning on a mental heel and stalking away in disgust.

Stephan had ruined Eleanor. None but Hugh saw it; all dropped the blame on other sources, mostly upon Eleanor’s own slender shoulders. Stephan had led her astray. He had used her because it amused him; turning her into a hellion, planting foolish notions in her head, getting her into trouble time and again. Stephan had always been cautious to appear safely innocent himself, and he had delighted in playing big brother by doling out comfort to those who gave him occasion. He had accepted Nell’s worship because it suited his pride. The influence had been early, pervasive, complete, and her compliance had been willing. The damage was lasting because of this, and could never be completely repaired.

What would Stephan have done if he had suspected his little sister loved a lowly knight, who perhaps loved her in turn? The answer was so readily discernable it made Hugh ill. Stephan would have found it fantastically ludicrous. He would have carefully pushed them together, provided opportunity and encouraged them to act upon those feelings, played staunch ally to ‘true love’. Then when the sport ceased to be exhilarating he would drop them without further deliberation, abandoning them to whatever fortune had ready.

What would their father do? That too was simple, and the answer again not favourable to Hugh. Their father would fly into one of his lamentable rages. The knight would expire in a most acrimonious manner. Nell would be … chastised, and the remainder of her life would prove to be unequivocally harrowing. The mess would be covered up as efficiently as possible, but the very fact the king would fly into a rage while still in the palace would ensure all Christendom knew of Eleanor’s ignominy in short order. He would not wait for verification of misconduct before moving; the mere notion that there might be something would be sufficient. He would act now, would have acted last night.

Was his own approach any better, Hugh wondered. He had taken a middle path between the two; leaving space for disaster, leaving space for hope. He would not move without evidence, and if he did indeed act then it would be calm, controlled, decisive. The knight would die quietly in an ostensible accident in distant parts; Nell would be dispatched into isolated exile so that when, as was inevitable, their father vented his displeasure none but a carefully chosen few would know of it. From there her unhappy future could begin without a murmur. He could have created another calamity. He may have given her the opportunity to destroy herself, taking the knight down with her, damaging the family name, and thus shaking the realm to its very core. Hugh recalled his proud words from what felt like weeks ago, though in truth it had only been the previous evening: we do not condemn on hearsay, rumour and wild speculation in England. The words were a benediction, and as he recalled them his turmoil receded. He had no evidence, and so he had not condemned. It had been the right decision, it must be. How could it not be, when the singular alternative went against a core principle? Eleanor was vigilantly guarded now, and he would manage her most cautiously. Nothing adverse could happen.

One matter troubled his conscience unduly; he had mislead Nell, deliberately. That was vile, unchivalrous, unbrotherly. Married or a convent - if the spymaster was removed it would inevitably have to be one or the other, and if Trempwick remained then it would inexorably be the former. Neither he nor their father would allow Eleanor to dictate terms to them. Regardless of the veracity of her claims she would be bent to their will. Married to the spymaster or no. Their faithful ally or no. He had promised their father, and so he had begun work. She would finally be broken into being useful. He earnestly prayed very little would prove necessary. At this moment only that hope, and the fact he had her best interests at heart, saved him from being wholly despicable.

Knowing how close he was at this moment to complete surrender to his darkness Hugh shivered. He would do his duty, first and foremost. He would be a good and Christian man, abide by all rules of impeccable conduct, strive always to be the best he could even though he knew that best to be inadequate, endeavour never to fail those who relied upon him, keep himself to the highest of standards. He would not fall. He would go to an extra Mass today, and pray for both forgiveness and guidance.

Hugh crossed himself and gazed heavenwards.





It was only on his way back to the palace that Hugh found the final aspect of this putrefaction within him. It appeared with as little warning as the rest, and revolted him far more than anything thus far. Stephan would have made a terrible king; perhaps his loss was not quite so unfortunate as it appeared.








10 pages. I’m noticing a definite theme here; chapters are getting longer. It’s also taking what seems like ages to cover even a single day; Sunday is currently 35 pages and still going. That’s what happens when you have a lot of events going on across a set of characters and a variety of locations :D

4,511

[frogbeastegg]

After Godit’s return the other people slowly reconvened. Mariot reported that both Adela and Aveline were safe, though weak and drained from their thorough purging. The physician had stated that both must now rest until their strength returned sufficiently for them to be moved. Aveline had insisted upon returning to her own room in the empty building where Eleanor was staying, and Adela had taken Juliana’s pallet in the same room. Around two o’clock they were joined unexpectedly by Constance and her favoured maid, though the maid was soon sent away to prevent the solar from becoming too crowded.

Eleanor continued to play chess with Fulk, taking as little part in the unexciting general chatter as possible. That the tedious conversation came with a group of people who prevented her from taking up more interesting matters with Fulk only ground salt into the wound. She wanted to know how his interrupted declaration about his gains by marriage should have ended; by her reckoning the only thing left for him to keep after he had returned her lands and chattels was her. That idea was plainly ludicrous; Fulk had far more sense than to try and claim her as property, regardless of what the law said. She was equally confident he would never try handing out orders, or any of those other husbandly prerogatives she would take exception to. Because of this the ending to his little speech was deeply intriguing, and Eleanor devoted much of her idle time between moves to trying to find a way to resolve that mystery.

Time dragged by; hour after mind-numbingly wasted hour. Eleanor once tried to leave the solar, only to find a guard tucked unnoticed behind the door. He had swiftly blocked her path and refused to let her by; her brother’s orders and for her own safety, he had explained. The man had been scrupulously deferential and yet the encounter had still left Eleanor burning with rage and humiliation.

She was not allowed to leave, she had nothing to do, and she could not very well stay here forever. Eleanor took some comfort from that last; eventually Hugh would come, or he would send word of his intent towards her. That would have to happen before dinner, unless he cared to let her starve. She just had to wait.

Hugh’s appearance came in the middle of the tenth game of chess, and it finally stilled the discussion on the new betrothal between the Earl of Shrewsbury and the eldest daughter of the Earl of Gwent. The first thing her brother did, aside from closing the solar door behind himself, was to take in her hair with an air of pained disapproval. She had loosed during the third game, combed it back into smooth neatness, and evaded Hawise’s quiet offer to style it again with an ambiguous “Later.”

Stiffly Hugh announced, “The search for the poisoner has made little headway thus far. We have reason to believe the maid’s account of a suspicious man is less than accurate, wilfully vague, even. She thinks to save herself by casting such a broad net; it will avail her not at all.”

“So what now?” asked Eleanor.

“She will be questioned more closely.”

“Tortured?” asked Anne, her tone leaving no doubt whatsoever as to what she thought of that idea.

“Torture is best reserved as a last resort; its results can be unreliable at best, and it seldom produces a person motivated to aid one’s cause once the thumbscrews are removed. However it makes an admirable threat; let her think on what will happen if she does not lend us her full assistance this time. It will loosen her tongue, almost certainly. Other kitchen staff are being interrogated; I fear they have little of real use to offer. Poison is such an insidious weapon, so complicated to trace to its source if the poisoner is cunning.” Hugh crossed to Eleanor’s side and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Dear sister, it grieves me, but I fear I must postpone your wedding. I require your betrothed’s services, require unfortunately to the detriment of all else. He is very occupied with France, and now matters necessitate he must also become occupied with discovering who tried to murder you. You deserve considerably better than a hasty and preoccupied feast, one curtailed night and then an absent, distracted husband for weeks to come. Perhaps more significantly I know the man would be most sorely distracted, and his heart would not be in his labour. It would be with you, and I am sure your heart would reside within his own breast, precisely as it should be with newly wed affection.”

“But Lent …” said Eleanor, with a hint of unfeigned panic, though the cause was not what most of the listeners would expect. This was another small yet significant step away from the familiar comfort of home, out onto unknown and treacherous ground. Another unretractable step towards loneliness.

“I am very much aware of the delay I force upon you, sweet sister, and I am sincerely repentant for it. There is no help; a delay there must be. We have time yet a while, and if time does indeed run out it may be possible to gain special dispensation for a marriage during Lent. I swear to you that if events have it that the marriage can go ahead once the fast has begun I will do all in my power to secure just such a dispensation from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.”

Eleanor felt sure that last comfort was more a threat; if her marriage was still approved she would find herself bundled together with Trempwick as soon as was possible, even if it required the effort of tackling the church, a prospect either tolerably easy or ruinously difficult. Feeling almost hollow Eleanor inquired, “And in the meantime?” She knew the answer.

“You will remain here, our honoured guest.”

“I could retire to one of my manors-”

Hugh cut her off sharply, “No. I regret that is not possible; it simply would not be safe.” The hand on her shoulder patted her distractedly in what must be an effort to be reassuring. “Just think; by remaining here you may marry as soon as your betrothed is sufficiently free of his duties. If you left you would have to waste several days travelling back, and several more for the message to reach you.”

“Hugh, there is a guard at the door. He refused to let me out, even to go to the roof.”

“I will not let you place yourself in jeopardy, Nell, unwitting though it surely must be. Someone wants you dead; there is no telling when, where or how they may strike again.”

“Am I your prisoner, Hugh?”

“Dearest sister!” exclaimed Hugh, with a passable effort at indulgent humour. “You exaggerate wildly, and I must express my clear displeasure at it. I will allow it to pass unchecked this once, knowing it is prompted by your sorrow at my delaying your wedding.”

Eleanor said wearily, “If you say so, Hugh.” Prisoner in all but name and barred window then. Not that she blamed her brother; in his place she would be just as cautious.

Constance moved up to make space for Hugh next to her in the window seat. “I am sure Hugh does not mean you must keep to your rooms all of the time, do you, Hugh?”

“I certainly do not mean to create the impression you are a captive, Nell. I cannot in good conscience allow you to do anything which may place you at risk. I insist I am consulted before you leave the inner bailey, no matter what your company, intent and destination. I also insist on your taking suitable escort. If you satisfy those conditions I can see little problem with your leaving the palace for an hour or so at a time.”

“Yes, Hugh. I shall bear that in mind.” Eleanor could picture it now; a quiet country ride, herself, Fulk, a basket of food, and thirty fully armoured knights.

“There you are; not quite so bad, after all. If you need some assistance in escaping your guardian dragon do let me know; I would be happy to help.” Constance leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “Her future mother-in-law. Dragon indeed, but alas, we cannot slay her out of hand,” she explained for his benefit, interrupted by a yawn.

“Are you alright, dearest?” inquired Hugh.

“Perfectly, just wishing the tiredness would wear off and this famously boundless mother-to-be energy would start.”

“Boundless is an understatement – while pregnant with me my mother had the living areas of three of her favourite castles redecorated entirely, right down to the furniture, and she oversaw much of the work herself. My father always said all that was more costly then my dowry, although I think he exaggerated. It was the same with my brother, but she was always really tired with my elder sister, who died very young …” Anne’s chatter lapsed into a very heavy silence, filled with three people’s raw pain.

If the queen’s blunder upset Constance then she managed to hide it well, her face already turned away from everyone and half hidden in Hugh’s chest. Hugh was not quite so successful; his calm façade became strained, and the arm resting about her waist tightened, inching his hand closer to her belly. Anne snatched up her book and buried herself in it.

Although it was not the best time for her request Eleanor asked anyway, knowing it would put an end to the mood. “It appears that I have little choice but to request your aid. I need money, Hugh.”

“Your finances are not a subject fit for general ears; if you have imprudently worked your way into difficulty you had best explain to me, in private.” He made no move to extricate himself from Constance.

“I have not worked my way into difficulty! Rather I have been worked into difficulty by your forcing extra servants upon me, and then I am only unable to meet the expense because I scrape by on a pittance.”

Constance sat up so Hugh could rise. Reluctantly he did so. “You have been adequately provided for by our father; do not think to gain sympathy for your cause by exaggeration. Know also that my tolerance is now expired; I shall excuse no more wild claims attempting to cast dishonour upon myself or our father.” Hugh bowed to Anne. “Your majesty will not mind if my sister and I adjourn to the king’s bedchamber to discuss this matter? The room is also in part yours, but it is less objectionable than our invading your personal chamber in your own presence.”

“I do not mind.” Anne looked as if she was going to say something else, but thought better of it and returned to her reading.

Hugh bowed, one hand extended in the direction of the bedchamber door. “After you, sweet sister.”

They moved through to the king’s bedchamber, a room Eleanor hadn’t been inside before. She glanced about with some interest, which perhaps the room didn’t merit. It looked much as any other bedchamber, except the furnishings were more expensive. The only really unusual feature was the door leading through into the queen’s bedchamber. There were few personal touches, and they came from details like the polished metal mirror left lying next to the royal barber’s tools on the little table. Disappointed Eleanor swiftly lost interest.

“I will not grant you more lands,” stated Hugh flatly. “I have been given authority to strip your existing lands from you, not to add to them.”

“How cheerful. Land would not help much at present anyway; I need coin.”

“For what?”

“To pay and outfit my two servants. You fixed wages I cannot meet.”

“You lie, and I warned you that my tolerance is expired. That will cost you.”

“So long as you do not hope to extract a fine from me, brother dear.”

“Again I am left with the persistent suspicion your use of ‘brother dear’ is mocking, though it is not overtly so; I also warned you about that.”

“If it is mocking then so is your ‘sweet sister’,” countered Eleanor hotly.

Hugh blinked slowly once, and coloured just perceptibly. “I mean it most seriously; if perhaps it does not sound so then it is more than likely because you suffer from some measure of guilt over your manner, which can, on occasion, be decidedly sour.”

“Then perhaps you mistake my ‘brother dear’ because you fear you are not a particularly dear brother?”

Hugh raised his chin a little and stared down his nose at her. “Your bill grows, sister. I demand fitting conduct from you; lies and mockery are not fitting to any but petty villains. If you cannot determine for yourself what fitting conduct is then you should look to Anne, or Constance, since you known them considerably better than any other I may point you at. In the hopes of limiting the unfortunate unpleasantness you have now forced upon us I shall give you this advice: state your case clearly, concisely, and without exaggeration, slander or any other such nonsense.”

Eleanor answered immediately, making it clear she had prepared her case in such terms and so was not doing so simply to suit him, “I have not even sixty pounds a year; the wages you set for the new servants will consume over half that. Moreover my lands are in Trempwick’s control anyway. Even if returned to my own control I cannot expect my rents and so on until Hocktide, nearly two months from now.”

“The servants will consume half; so you freely admit you have sufficient funds to pay them. I would not have fixed an amount you could not meet. However, for the sake of fairness, now you are comporting yourself well, I shall hear you out. What sum do you require?”

“I will not ask for what I am worth; I am not greedy and I know it will not be granted in any case as I am too far from our father’s favour. I will ask for just two hundred pounds a year total, so an increase of a little over one hundred and forty pounds. I want that in coin, and sufficient now to pay my servants and equip them as contracted. The rest can come in instalments on the usual payment days.”

“It seems most unnecessary to me; you will either marry Trempwick and thus there is no problem, or he will fall and thus you will have your lands returned to your direct control. In the first case there is clearly no issue; in the second you still have adequate income to meet the expenditure with surplus.”

“In the meantime I will be in debt to my servants, and we have no idea how long this situation will take to resolve,” countered Eleanor calmly. “I cannot make do. I will have to pawn my crown to pay them.”

Hugh’s eyes gleamed with a fury that was familiar, despite them being hazel instead of the usual deep blue. He spun around and stalked away from her. A moment later he turned back, still holding his distance and once more self-possessed, though his body was taut with repressed emotion. “That crown is your birthright. It was made especially for you, and it will be buried with you when you die. No one else will ever wear it. It embodies who you are, what you are, your duties, your responsibilities, your privileges. To even propose debasing it in such a manner is disgusting! This too you will pay for, at length.”

“I cannot pay my servants, I cannot outfit them, the whole court will see I cannot and everyone will soon hear of my financial woes. I will be a laughing stock, and the family along with me, and before you accuse me of not caring about that last let me remind you why I came to Waltham in the first place.”

“What do you mean, you cannot outfit them? You have some money. More lies, I fear.”

“I do not – try listening to what I say!” snapped Eleanor, her patience now severely frayed. “I do not even have a single penny! If I want money I shall have to sell or pawn something, and my crown is the closest thing I have to a suitable item. I do not have piles of jewellery or gold plate! I have nothing but a rather small wardrobe for my rank, three rings, none of which I can part with, an assortment of tools I cannot part with, and two paltry manors which I have never seen or had benefit from. ”

Hugh simply shrugged his shoulders. “This is no one’s fault but your own; your own behaviour has severely curtailed the resources settled on you. But a little more relevant to this discussion, you have squandered the fourth quarter’s income from your lands.”

“I never received it! The lands were granted to me just after the final of last year’s rents and dues had been collected. The first I will see from them is this Hocktide, and that will be too late.”

“This I was not informed of.”

“So you think I am lying.” Eleanor dropped to her knees before her brother, doing her best not to think of the degrading spectacle she was making of herself. Her earlier suspicions were now confirmed; Hugh had set this up so she would be forced into giving him one extra hold over her. Like it or not she really had no choice but to play along. “I need your help. Please. If not enough for me to live on then just enough to cover those wages you so generously promised. If my begging is not proof enough I can never hope to convince you of how desperate my situation is.”

Hugh placed a hand on the top of her head in a motion of benevolence that had Eleanor longing to spit on his help and storm out while she still had some pride left. The thought of being a virtual prisoner for an unknown amount of time in a palace full of people laughing at her, constantly attended by one servant who may resent her mistress’s lack of wealth was enough to hold her in place. “Very well,” he pronounced, “perhaps something can be arranged. I cannot authorise treasury funds for this, but I shall pay your servants’ wages and outfitting costs from my own purse until father returns home and some decision regarding you has been made. I do this out of my own goodwill; displease me too greatly and that goodwill will evaporate.”

“Thank you.”

Hugh lifted her to her feet. “Then there remains but the matter of your own debt to me.”

“You can consider that paid with my self-sacrificing good deed last night.” Eleanor turned to leave.

She didn’t even get close to the door before Hugh caught hold of her upper arm and pulled her back. “I think not.”

“Hugh, you need me. You need my support, skills and knowledge.”

“You would betray me over something so inconsequential as discovering you cannot have everything your own way? Dear sister, I had thought far better of you than that. I give you the choice; submit with dignity and we shall call the debt paid at twenty strokes. Resist and I shall whip you until you scream.”

“Dear brother, how magnanimous of you.”

“Twenty-two.”

Eleanor forced a falsely bright smile. “Well, when you plead your case so eloquently I find myself quite unable to argue.”

Hugh gestured at the little table. “If you would be so kind as to stand there as you did last night …”

Feeling decidedly ill Eleanor reluctantly did so, mentally hunkering down to endure as she went. She did not have time to completely separate mind from already aching body.

“And move your hair out of the way,” instructed Hugh as he undid his belt, a decorated affair with gold stitching and a few gemstones. As Eleanor pulled the mass of dark hair over her shoulder Hugh continued, “You will no longer wear it in such a manner; it is unseemly. If you must keep your hair loose then turn it into a proper style, not simple negligence.”

She did not count the blows, all her resources spent on keeping silent. She re-opened the cut in her lip early on, and to her exasperation she couldn’t manage to hold back her tears this time.

When it was over Hugh said, “I fear your maid will have to mend your dress again.” He sounded very embarrassed about it.

Eleanor replied through clenched teeth, “An easier task than removing the bloodstains.” She wiped her face on her sleeve and battled to stop crying, too drained to care that her hands were trembling.

“Blood?”

“You cut me. Even though my clothes. The decoration.”

“I am sorry. Truly. It was not my intent to draw blood.”

Eleanor didn’t reply, still trying to master herself. Finally she turned around. “Now if that is all I shall slink away to run the gauntlet back to my rooms, dodging sympathy, contempt, curiosity and stares as I go.”

Hugh produced a small drawstring purse from the scrip he had just finished threading back onto his belt. “There is enough in here to cover this week’s wages; I shall give you sufficient to cover each week’s wages on every Friday. Inform me when you know the final total for the livery and clothing and I shall pay you that then.”

Entertaining dark visions of cramming the purse down Hugh’s throat Eleanor accepted it, somehow managing to force a polite thank you. Steeling herself, she opened the door into the solar and walked out. She headed straight for the stair door, ignoring everyone, still clutching the purse tightly in one hand.

“Are you alright?” enquired Anne, moving to intercept.

Eleanor evaded her and kept walking. “Perfectly.”

“Only we heard … and you look terrible … all ashen and upset, and your lip is bleeding again.”

Eleanor paused at the stair door and turned back to favour the queen with a smile. “Thank you.” She pulled the door open and stepped out; Fulk and Godit fell into place behind her.

The hall was being prepared for dinner, liveried servants laying out tableware joined the usual timewasters to form a sizeable audience. Passing the dais Eleanor missed her footing slightly and stumbled. Those who had been looking in her direction started to exchange speculative comments; the snatches Eleanor overheard were mostly based around her being overcome by distress at her close brush with death and the poisoning of her two friends. Sensing an opportunity Eleanor threw the ragged leftovers of her pride to the wind, wobbled, then let her knees go weak. Before she could complete her fall Fulk was there, supporting her. He scooped her up and began to carry her back towards the guest house. “Not so fast,” Eleanor instructed, adding false weakness to her voice, “you are jarring me something chronic, you clumsy great ox.”

Fulk slowed his pace to a crawl. “Better, your highness?”

“Much.” Eleanor settled back to enjoy the ride.






There are times when I really don’t know what to make of dear Nell. This is one of them.


4,589

[frogbeastegg]

“You seem more confident,” observed Constance, as she passed through the door into their own room on the third level of the great keep.

“Do I?”

“Yes, with your sister.”

Hugh closed the door he had been holding open for her, sealing them in alone together. “I am gratified that it appears so; if she scents weakness she exploits it, and presently that will do untold harm to our cause.”

“But …?”

Hugh cringed inwardly; his reservation was so readily apparent then? No, no – only to his lady wife; she knew him far better than most others and so it was only logical that she might notice it. It was an indication that they were close, and as such it should be welcomed, even if on occasion it required he share some of his more untoward thoughts. “But I am not truly convinced that it is quite reasonable to think of one’s youngest sister in terms of a problematical, semi-broken horse, and thus use the same approach one might with such an animal.” Constance laughed briefly. Hugh defended his reasoning once again, both from his wife and to himself, “It is hardly a typical precedent, but it is thus far most successful, more so than any other approach ever has been.”

She plumped up the feather filled cushions in her favourite chair. “Carrot and stick, but from what I overheard in the solar less carrot and more stick.” Smothering a yawn Constance sat down and told him, “You will not win her over with pain, Hugh. Quite the opposite.”

“I know, dearest, and I assure you that is not my intent. I am doing what I can to curb her more unpredictable or damaging aspects, and establishing this relationship correctly from the very start, or so I very earnestly hope and pray. As I stated previously if she senses weakness she will take advantage of it, and at present it is absolutely vital she recognises that of the two of us I am the master. I cannot have her taking certain issues into her own hands, nor can I afford to worry that she may not do as I need. I lead; she must follow, close at my side and working in harmony with me to precisely the same ends. I cannot and will not follow her, and we must stand united in this venture or all will come to naught, or worse than naught – destruction.”

“And …?”

Hugh tapped his fingers restlessly on the hilt of his dagger. “I do not need, or even want, her completely submissive,” he admitted in the end. “Nell reduced to a sheep would be equally as ineffectual as Nell acting as a wild horse.”

“But ..?”

Hugh delayed even longer, his answer even more reluctant. “I fear that is not what our father wants; he desires her completely broken as his sights are fixed firmly on this long war between them. He wants complete victory, but I think pays little real heed to what such victory would produce, or what cost it would be achieved at.”

“Better to marry a shrew than a sheep.”

Hugh nodded. “Yes; though the question is not marriage the old proverb suits well. I would say the end result I seek is someone very much like yourself, dearest. Someone who works for the same ends as myself, whom I can trust and rely upon, but who has a keen mind and independence sufficient to take matters into her own hands in a way which compliments my own works whenever such action is needful.”

“Well matched plough oxen,” suggested Constance, with a slight sparkle to prove she knew how silly the suggestion sounded.

“It is hardly a glamorous analogy, but I find it does suit admirably.”

Someone knocked on the door. Frowning at being interrupted Hugh opened it, coming face to face with a liveried servant. The man bowed. “Your highness, your sister was taken ill in the hall just a few moments ago. She nearly swooned; she’s been carried back to her own rooms now, highness, and she’s being well looked after by her servants.”

To his enormous shame Hugh found that he had lost his tongue; he could neither find a word to say nor produce a sound. He had done this; it was his fault. His alone. He had been too harsh, much too harsh. He had gone beyond what was reasonable without even knowing or caring, all the while congratulating himself. Without even noticing he’d unleashed that inner darkness a little more. It was the fault of that rot he had discovered inside himself just hours ago, that sickening hatred for his dead brothers, that unworthy criticism of his father who he had again criticised but minutes ago. Honour thy father and thy mother; he had failed dramatically in one of the foremost of all God’s commandments. Today he had proven time and again that he was such a wretch he did not deserve to live; he should have died in Stephan’s place.

The servant waited uneasily for a few moments, then confided, “It’s probably nothing to worry about, beggin’ your pardon, highness. It’s simply the stresses getting to her, that’s all, or so everyone’s saying. I mean she was nearly murdered and two of her companions nearly died too, and they’re sick right now because they got the poison meant for her. Then there’s the wedding delay and all, highness, I mean that’d hit any maid hard, if she cared for her groom and all, all the more so with it coming from such tragic circumstances.”

Constance appeared at Hugh’s elbow and snapped to the servant, “Do you always gossip about your betters to your betters?”

The man tugged his forelock. “Beggin’ your pardons, of course, but I meant only to reassure.”

“There is a fine line between reassurance and gossip; do not cross it again. You may go.” She imperiously closed the door in the servant’s face. Placing a hand on each of Hugh’s shoulders she turned him around and propelled him towards their bed. “Sit,” she commanded. He obeyed mechanically.

“It is my fault,” Hugh finally managed to say. “Mine. Oh, sweet Jesú, what have I done? And all this time I have been stood here gloating and congratulating myself - I am a monster!”

“Oh, do talk sense!”

“I let myself be blinded by an illusion, and consequentially let go of much I should have retained.” Hugh scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, hiding his consternation and causing himself some small measure of deserved pain. Then he realised hiding thus was a coward’s way; he snatched his hands away. “Nell is so small, so delicate - I could snap her bones or kill her with my bare hands and scant effort. What is more she is my sister, under my own protection, and a lady, and by all codes of good conduct I should protect her, not even harm a hair on her head-”

Constance interrupted loudly, “Carrot and stick. For all that I like your sister I found your earlier words far wiser than those now. Sometimes harming a hair or two is the only way; more so when much is at stake.”

Hugh knotted his hands up in the skirt of his tunic, torturing the fine material to match his conscience. “Yes, yes, but there is reasonable and then there is excess, and … and …” He sighed and bowed his head, letting his hands fall slack. “I forgot that her toughness is an illusion, founded upon pride and stubbornness. I acted as though it was a reality, twice. Twenty-two strokes today, on top of God alone knows how many from last night, and I did not hold my hand. That is penalty sufficient for a hardened man guilty of some serious crime, but far too much for a lady. Either set was far too much. I thought to put an end to the issue sooner by making my message stronger, but I went much too far.”

“Nonsense!” declared Constance. “You forget who Nell is – add to pride and stubbornness unusual endurance and plenty of practise at using it. She is no wailing milksop or feeble weakling; that is one of the reasons why I like her. Right now that fine mind of hers will be busily working, and she will be deriving much of what you wished her to from this. That is another reason I like her; she has brains and chooses to use them. I rather doubt you will need to repeat this again, and that actually spares her far more in the long term - she is stubborn in a bad way also, and seemingly bent on self-destruction sometimes out of some stupid belief that it is the only way to get what she thinks she wants. Think on this: what would your father have done?” Hugh was unable to repress a shudder. “Exactly,” said Constance quietly. “And he would never have listened to her in the first place, about anything, no matter how trivial or important. She could try and tell him his clothes were on fire and he would not listen.”

“But then why did she faint?”

“Faint? The man said nearly swooned; you are making things a deal worse than they actually are, Hugh. I would say she is simply in pain, stiff, sore, perhaps a little dizzy and very slightly in shock – precisely what you would expect.”

“I did not mean-”

“To hurt her? To put her in any discomfort? Surely that was much of the point? If it was not you would never have laid a finger on her.”

“You are right,” admitted Hugh.

Constance seated herself beside him on the bed and gently turned his face so he was looking her in the eye. “I know why you do this, Hugh. You must stop it, and stop fearing yourself. You need confidence, now more than ever. What you are being called on to do is unusual, vitally important, something you have not been prepared for and must tackle with everything you have without holding back. You cannot do that if you doubt. You are not anyone but yourself. If you cannot be your dead brother than nor can you turn into your own father.”

“He would be a worthy man to emulate,” replied Hugh dutifully, but his heart was not in it.

“As a king, perhaps, in some ways but not all. As a man? Forgive me, but I can find little good to say there. You will not become like him because you are inherently a good man.”

“I know I could be … I have his temper, like a blight within me.”

“But you control it so well I hardly even know it is there.”

Pained, he insisted, “But it is there.”

“And you control it,” she repeated, emphasising the words. “Therein lies the main difference. He does not; he revels in his lapses like a spoiled child. Even when angry you still control yourself, even when goaded, even when justified. You are nothing like him, and I am glad of it.” Hugh searched her face, and saw her conviction clearly. She believed everything she had said, believed it completely. She saw him searching and smiled slightly. “You trust my judgment in everything else; why not here?”

“Because … because you cannot see inside me the way I can.” If she could she would turn from him in horror. He looked away.

“I see more than you think, my love.” Once again she insistently tilted his face back to meet her eye. “I am not blinded my proximity either, or crippled by expectations; I am not searching frantically for traces of something which is not there and so finding proof where there is none. Either you trust me completely or you trust me not at all. Which is it?”

Hugh placed his hand over hers, holding it in place at his cheek. “I trust you.”

“Then believe me.”

“I will try.”

“No, not try, do. Try is an excuse for you to do nothing of the sort and continue as usual.”

Hugh assessed whether what she requested was even possible. “I am not sure I can, not completely. You do not know me as I know myself; you do not see how I struggle against my baser aspects-”

“I do – I know you do. All men have less pleasant sides, bad traits, weaknesses. It is what makes us human. You fight your bad more than most do, and with more success than most. But there is one flaw you not only give into but feed and encourage: a lack of confidence.” She laughed quietly, face lighting up as the seriousness melted away. “Would you believe I am fighting my own baser aspects right now? I am sorely tempted to pummel you until you start seeing sense, and then to skip dinner in favour of a quiet evening for two. So you are hardly alone in being tragically human.”

Hugh’s lips quirked into a shy smile. “And you always appear such an angel too.”

“I should hope so! So you will try?”

“I suppose I must.”

“That is rather pathetic, Hugh. No - both brave and pathetic in one. Complete the bravery; promise me. I know you will do all you can to keep your word.”

“I promise, then.”

She kissed him tenderly. “Alas, now I must confess my halo has slipped some more and a public dinner is even less appealing than it was before. But to revert to a more possible plan for the remainder of the day, I shall visit Eleanor in a while, see how she is.”

“Please, I would be greatly eased to have a reliable report of her health. Did you perchance observe the bodyguard’s reaction?”

“Yes.” Constance hesitated, taking in inordinate amount of time. “Think of a hound when it hears something unexpected and disliked; head coming up swiftly, ears pricked, tensed and ready to move. Then think again when the same dog decides the sound is not so bad but not yet to be trusted; relaxing superficially but still tensed and alert. He was unhappy and uneasy, but so were we all. Although … I do not wish to make this sound different to what it was, not knowing what is at stake if I exaggerate or underplay matters. We were all unhappy, but he and Anne were the most unsettled of all. There was nothing there to indicate anything more than liking for our princess, honest liking, as between friends, or perhaps simply distress at being caught in a quandary. You did order him to protect Nell from everything and anything, if my second maid reported it correctly to me.”

“Indeed that was so; it would have placed him in a most uncomfortable situation, one with no correct course of action. We shall continue to watch, then.”






“What happened?” asked Fulk, his voice hushed so the others in the large bailey would not overhear.

“Oh … we managed to thrash out an understanding.” In his arms Eleanor winced at the word thrash. “Aggressive negotiations.”

Fulk sighed. “We’ll need bandages then.” His attempt at levity went badly awry, mostly because he was too worried to strike the right tone. For all his care he knew the way he was holding her was hurting. She might be joking in a very cautious manner but she wouldn’t have shown weakness before a large audience if she could help it. Then there was what he’d overheard while waiting in the solar; the crack of leather on flesh had seemed to go on forever. He hadn’t counted; he’d been too busy trying to appear indifferent.

She brandished the purse she clutched tightly like a trophy. “Successful negotiations.”

Fulk ignored her, addressing Hawise instead. “We’ll need the usual medical stuff – balm, something to wash cuts with, scraps of clean linen, some bandages for safe measure. Unless you can carry her royal batteredness you’ll have to go, not me.”

Hawise silently peeled off from the tiny group, returning to the keep they had only just left.

At the door into the guesthouse Fulk ran into trouble, unable to lift the latch with his hands full. One of the many curious onlookers got daring enough to risk a closer look under the guise of helping him; Eleanor played dead as the woman worked the latch. Fulk thanked the woman, then kicked the door shut in her face as soon as he was through.

Eleanor effected a miraculous recovery as he carried her slowly down the passage. “It really was not my fault; Hugh started it. I tried to smooth matters over but he was not interested.”

“I feel like a beleaguered father,” groused Fulk good naturedly. “‘It wasn’t me; it was all his fault!’ If you start pulling your brother’s hair I’ll send you to bed without supper.”

“So long as you join me.”

“I’m scandalised, simply scandalised.” Fulk struggled to work the latch on the door into the outer of Eleanor’s two rooms. “Such a nice young gooseberry saying such things, quite shocking.” A bit more fiddling and the door crept open. Fulk booted it the rest of the way, then again to close it.

“I really have no idea what is so shocking; I only wanted you to tell me a story to pass the time.”

“Don’t think you’re getting off the hook so easily, oh affectionate apple. No change of subject’s going to make me forget that I’m carrying you because you’re once again a bit the worse for wear.”

“Apple? We have a case of mistaken identify; I am insulted. Anyway, if we are speaking of hooks and extricating ourselves from them, you really owe me the rest of your little speech about property before I owe you anything at all.”

“Not now,” replied Fulk curtly, still working at the door into her bedchamber. “Suddenly I understand why they only make the poor groom carry his bride over the threshold! It’s too damned tricky with all these doors.”

“Yes, now, and if you are hinting I should walk I refuse; I abandoned what was left of my pride right before everyone just to get a ride from a knight.”

“So you faked the faintness?” inquired Fulk sceptically.

“Of course.”

The very buoyancy of her assertion made Fulk more suspicious. “Yes,” he agreed, not bothering to hide his scepticism. His latest attempt at the latch failed. He altered his stance and aimed Eleanor at the solid wooden planking. “Right, you want a ride, you work for it a bit. Open the door, your laziness.”

Eleanor reached out and unlatched the door easily. “What was so difficult about that?”

“You’re not carrying a princess.” Once through into the bedchamber Fulk booted the troublesome door shut with hearty satisfaction, satisfaction which lasted until the temporary numbness wore off and his toes started throbbing.

“Now you have vanquished the fearsome door finish the speech, oh brave and fearsome broken-nosed buffoon.”

“No. It’s not a speech to finish in a short time, and it’s not one I want you to misunderstand. You’ll have to remain curious, your royal shortness.”

“You,” Eleanor informed him tetchily, “are annoying.”

Fulk placed her down in a sitting position on the edge of the bed; he beamed brightly at her. “I try.” Fulk glanced over at the door; coast clear he kissed the corner of her mouth.

Before he could pull away she looped an arm about his neck and kissed him rather more passionately. Abruptly she pulled back. “Ouch,” she grumbled.

“I warned you.”

Rather shamefacedly she pointed out, “You have blood on your mouth.”

“I’m not surprised.” Fulk scrubbed the back of his hand over his lips a few times. “Gone?”

“Yes.” Eleanor unfastened the leather drawstrings holding the purse closed and spilled the contents into her lap. She counted the collection of coins rapidly. “That is the exact money, and he was carrying it about ready for whenever I asked. He did plan it. If it did not hurt so much I would say I am proud of him.”

Not for the first time Fulk was thankful he came from a more boring family than Eleanor’s.

The quiet bang of the front door heralded the return of Hawise. The maid was bearing the collection of items Fulk had requested, precisely those items and not a thing more or less, and all of them in sensible quantities. She said nothing at all, spreading the items on the opposite side of the bed to that which Eleanor sat on. “Wine,” she explained softly, seeing both Fulk and Eleanor watching her as she placed a stoppered canteen down.

“You know what you’re doing?” Fulk asked her. It wouldn’t be too prudent for him to stay or to treat Eleanor himself.

“I have some basic skills but little practise with them.”

“I’ll leave you to it then. Give me a shout if you want anything; I’ll be stood outside the door like an ideal bodyguard.”

“This really is not at all necessary,” began Eleanor hopefully. “I am quite fit, and really there is nothing much to do with bruises.”

Hawise said, “But your back is cut too; blood’s soaking through your clothes a bit.”

“Really, I am fine-”

Fulk shut the door on her protests, grinning to himself. He felt rather sorry for poor Hawise; dealing with a wounded gooseberry on your first day, talk about initiation by fire.






Freshly scrubbed after his afternoon’s heavy training Trempwick settled back in his favourite chair before his bedchamber’s fire and slipped into his thoughts with the same keenness of a swimmer dipping into the water on a hot day. The latest messages from the palace were … not troubling. Certainly not. More unexpected. Yes, unexpected. Yet somehow also expected. Lagging a day behind events, as usual. Nell had let her tongue run away with her once again; unsurprising. Hugh had reacted intolerantly; again unsurprising. The whole palace was talking about it; inevitable.

Nothing from his mother. Nothing from Juliana. Expected; one had just communicated and could not do so easily or safely again for a while. The other was a mere peon, a nothing, disposable, expendable, not worth involving in anything beyond the rudimentary. He would collect her report in person. This would also allow him to strengthen the chains binding the maid to him.

Nell had let her tongue run away from her. Rashness. One of her less likeable traits. All his careful teaching had failed to remove it, only reduce it to a generally manageable degree. It was perhaps her greatest flaw. It was … truly a pity. Nell without those reckless impulses would be … Trempwick closed his eyes and smiled, slowly, savouring the idea. She was worthy now, in possession of something special, a thinker. Temper her, purge that fault. That would leave her cool, calm, truly able to manipulate and navigate any situation. As he did. Head over heart; mind over impulse and flesh. His apprentice, perfected.

But for now this was besides the point. Nell had acted impulsively. This was not unusual. But. There was always a but. She must have known what would happen. So why insult the Welsh prince? He had no report from close by; he did not know what had been said. Rumour insisted she had insulted the Welshman for little reason. This was not true. Nell would not do that. What would she gain? Wounds. Pain. Humiliation. Time with Hugh. Gain or loss, that? The prince did not like his sister. Nell knew that. Many knew that; Trempwick had seen to it. She also believed he had tried to abduct her. She knew he would hurt her. What possible reason could she have for wanting to see Hugh?

Trempwick sat still, thinking. His right leg began to cramp; he shifted his pose a little. The pins and needles feeling of returning circulation came and went. Still he thought, mind working with rapid, fluid efficiency.

He could not see why. Nell hated Hugh, feared him also. She no more wanted to see him than to see her father; years of their training her to hate and fear bearing fruit. All without his intervention too. William’s own folly. Blessing and disappointment. Useful, undoubtedly, and a free gift Trempwick could use in many ways. His friend’s failing; painful to witness. A shrewd man, brought low by simple anger. Still, she had not wanted to go to the palace. Waltham was not where Nell wanted to be, now or ever. It was everything she disliked, filled with what she feared, holding nothing good for her. Woburn, and he, were her home. Had she not said as much? Indeed, she had. She had meant it, too. That he had clearly seen. Seen many times over, even when she did not say the words. Nell would rather be here than at the palace. This could prove problematic in the future.

But. Ah, once again that little word. But, at the palace was her knight. As much as she might protest otherwise she was not over Fulk. She still loved him. She did not fool him; she never had. She cared for the knight still. That was actually … gratifying. Once won Nell was loyal. He would have to make that loyalty solely his. And … as unfortunate as this whole Fulk mess had been … it was … Trempwick paused, carefully selecting a word which suited this occasion. The feeling was extraordinary, unanticipated. If he had to put a word to it he would choose … delightful. A change of pace for both of them. A little challenge for him. Educational; he had learned a little more, a little new about his princess and how to handle her. Nell’s first love. It had been fascinating to watch, and good to see her happy. Just such a pity he had not been the target, as he should have been. All would have been well then; no pain of loss for her, his own position stronger also.

She did not love him. Cared, yes. Was defrosting towards, yes. Was slowly being won over by, yes. Would eventually love, yes. But now? No. Nell did not love her betrothed. She had never claimed to do so. Not once. Never. She had claimed numerous times to be growing to love him. Truth or bluff? Truth; she cared and would in time love if he continued his careful pursuit without outside interference. She was wise not to claim love – it would be entirely unbelievable. He knew her heart was taken - for now - and she could not bring herself to offer him that final bit of proof. A feeling of incest, and a great many other excuses. Some believable, some not. Indeed, she was very wise not to claim love. He could never have believed her, and so it would inevitably complicate matters. As it was matters were clear and simple. She was behaving much as he would expect of a person about to marry someone she did not love. Tentative, testing, wary, learning. She … exaggerated a little. She did not enjoy his attention as much as she said. Her response was not always natural. But it was simple – she loved another. She was very probably still quite innocent. A mere beginner. Nervous. Slowly, so slowly, he was winning her over. Rather like dealing with a skittish horse.

Trempwick refocused from this tangent. Going to the palace to see her knight again? He had her closely watched and guarded. He had the knight watched. Hugh would be watching her. The palace was packed with people. A princess could find scant excuse to even talk to a minor baron. Unchaperoned it would be … next to impossible. There were simply too many people. While he respected Nell’s abilities he could not see how she could speak to the knight without people knowing. To sneak away at night offered the most likely chance. Which was why he had ordered his mother and Juliana to be sure she could not.

Anyway, what could Nell possibly hope to gain? Seeing what could not be hers? And with such risk. She knew he would be watching her; he had promised as much. Protection, you see. She knew what his reaction was likely to be. He would have no choice but to be very harsh. Nell was not so stupid as to provoke that for such minor gain. Besides, he would have to have the knight killed. Matter of form. Nell wouldn’t risk that. As of last night she still had not seen the knight or been presented opportunity to do so; this was reported well. Although … she had been in that confounded garden, where he was as blind as a beggar. But accompanied by the queen. The queen Nell seemed slightly contemptuous of. The queen Nell had been demonstrating scant patience for before she left Woburn. The queen Nell had sent a gift to, with his knowledge and permission, in return for that necklace. The queen who loved romantic stories. The queen who was demonstrating a level head, for one so young. The queen would be a powerfully ally. A dubious one, also. Dangerous, childish, foreign, subject to torn loyalties too, mayhap. Proving to be politically sound. Not liable to harm her new family, not liable to aid anything which may harm her new family’s name. The queen he had carefully watched, as would be obvious to Nell. To trust Anne would be … nothing short of a sheer, desperate gamble with no certain outcome or use. Much at stake, much at risk, little to gain, no true indication of how the venture would go. The only gain would be a very short time together in dismal, cold surroundings watched by an audience. Maybe enough for a lovesick fool. But Nell was no fool. Anyway, her being in that garden had not been arranged. So the knight could not have been there. Unless … but then how could Nell have got a message to the knight?

Ah, you see. It all ran about in confusion. Nell was doing things which, for some reason, made him uneasy. But he could not find why. No motive. No gain. No opportunity. Such risk. Such stupidity. Against everything he had taught her. Against what he knew of her. This he put down to the imperfect understanding he had of her recent movements. Also his mistrust, still strong after the Fulk mess. If he were there himself this would be solved, simply. It would make sense.

He needed more information. For now it must be assumed that this Llwellyn had upset Nell somehow, provoking one of her characteristic examples of imprudence. This Hugh overheard, and he acted. It fitted well enough. It worked. But he would feel better if the foundations were stronger. Sloppiness had been the end of many. It would not be the end of him. The wedding was on Wednesday, afternoon. He would leave early, arriving Tuesday afternoon instead of early Wednesday morning as planned. Even with the extra time he would still make the trip at punishing speed; not to waste a second. He would investigate Nell himself. He could check she was well. He could attempt to protect her if this was indeed Hugh’s doing. He would insist on returning to Woburn with her early on the Thursday. A day and a half absence, total. Not enough to harm his duty to his king.

His message from the other spy had been quite … amusing. Godit continued her pursuit of Fulk. She had got some results. Persistence, and so the knight would topple. The knight was now diverted, soon to be removed entirely from the game. Trempwick loved the simple brilliance of it all. No need to kill when one could simply lead an enemy by the least intelligent part of his anatomy.

Dual advantage: if Nell ever found out she would be so terribly hurt. And angry. In need of comfort. Worse, if she also found out about the knight’s trip to a brothel. So disappointing; the knight who had caused so many little troubles had put himself from the race with less than an hour’s dismal enjoyment. Little more than a beast indeed. Allowing his baser motivations rule him with no care for the greater game. Sad. But for the better. Undoubtedly so. And more useful this way.

Nell would be so terribly hurt. This weapon needed careful usage. A last resort. He would not hurt his princess unless left no other suitable course. Wasn’t that always the way?






William groaned as a thumb dug sharply into the cluster of knotted muscles in his right shoulder.

“Better, sire?” asked the masseuse.

His reply was emphatic, “Oh yes! Much.” William tried to return his attention to his plans as the girl, his host’s bastard daughter, began to work on the long muscles running from neck to shoulder joint. He’d been travelling through his French lands at a pace he would describe as almost idle, though it was not truly such. He had been covering nearly twenty miles per day most days; an astonishing amount for an army containing infantry and laden with baggage animals carrying some of his treasury and his pertinent records.

He was getting close to his main target now; Yves’s stronghold at Saint Maur was only four days conventional march away, three and a bit at his rapid clip. Soon it would be time to put a little more spring in his step and remind everyone just what he was capable of. Once he had proven himself and tidied up Yves he would return home, paying visits to different lords than those he had stopped with on his way out. He would also be delivering a good, sharp, crown wearing shock those of suspect loyalty; those who had not sent their respects to him as he travelled, and those whose respects had felt wrong.

As the massage moved to his back William let his mind turn homewards, towards Anne and Hugh, and sadly towards the brat too. She spoiled the happy picture; she always did. William reminded himself he had little cause for gloom; she was finally being tamed, and Hugh would keep her firmly in hand. In just three days time from this exact moment she would be married and that marriage recently consummated, or in the process of being consummated. William’s face crinkled with distaste at the thought; he really did not want to think about that particular aspect of the marriage at all, especially if the brat revived her useless protests. In a way he was very glad to be absent and only to return once the dust had settled, even if it did mean he endlessly worried about what might have gone wrong.

His squeamishness disregarded, three days and the brat would be a reduced problem. Once married she presented less opportunity to would be rebels and would be easier to control. Once consummated she was trapped in that marriage; she could never claim consanguinity with Trempwick. Therefore in three days time the brat would be firmly pegged into place; she would have lost and would know it, completely. From there his work would be relatively minor, compared to the battle he had been fighting for years now. That was something to welcome. She might even be happy, in the end.

How about Hugh? How would the boy be coping? William knew his son was competent, also knew he knew his business from years of helping to run the kingdom. But the boy did suffer from a certain lack of imagination, and that limited his flair for doing the right but unexpected thing, a talent a good king needed. He also suffered from a lack of confidence, and that could prove crippling. Hugh would probably be doing perfectly fine, carrying out his father’s wishes towards his sister and stepmother, holding everything together with his calm competency, and so he’d have no reason to doubt and no need for flair. As he saw with his own eyes that he could rule successfully without his father at his side Hugh’s confidence would grow. This trip of his would do the boy good. Until now he’d always been in the same country as Hugh, taking the boy along when he went to France instead of leaving him behind, and consequentially always in easy reach if council was needed. Boy? William chortled; man, and had been for years now. It would probably do Hugh just as much good if his own father finally fully recognised the fact he’d grown up and was a man in his own right now.

What of his little grandchild to be, and his daughter-in-law? Surely both must be fine and hale, surely they must be. He had prayed for them three times each day; morning, noon and night. All England was praying for them. Yes, William decided firmly, both would be in the peak of health, and nothing would be wrong. He would not allow himself to think of them otherwise; pessimism might jinx them.

And Anne? Last perhaps, but never least. William found himself smiling at the thought of his little wife. She would be alright too. Right this moment she would be asleep, after spending part of the evening reading. During the day she would have applied herself to learning and to shouldering as much of the burden as she could, just as she would have every day since he left. Hugh would not let her overextend herself, or drive herself to exhaustion. Would she miss him at all? Still smiling William found that he believed she would, at least a little. He certainly missed her, usually in the evening hours he had become accustomed to spending with her. He wondered what particular book she would be reading now, and how many stories she would have devoured by now.

The girl’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “How is that, sire?”

William sat up from his prone position on his borrowed bed and flexed his muscles experimentally. “I feel years younger.” Years younger, and as if he’d not spent day after day in the saddle from shortly after sunrise to a few hours before sunset. “Thank you.”

“Will there be anything else, sire?” she asked very bashfully, stammering slightly.

Abruptly homesick and lonely, body reinvigorated and tingling from a good massage William considered. She knew what she was asking, doubtless had been told to ask it by a father who hoped to get some gain from a daughter in the king’s bed. She was young, probably only around fifteen, and very pretty, freshly washed and perfumed before being sent up in her best clothes. From her age and the timid awkwardness she was probably a virgin; conscience would demand he gave her something to bulk up her dowry to compensate if that was the case, but that would be a very minor expense for him. Very importantly she had been dropped in here after much of the rest of the castle had gone to bed for the night, so word was not likely to spread, so long as he sent her packing good and early tomorrow. Anne would not find herself humiliated.

“If you do not mind; that is not a rhetorical question. If you do not want to stay you can go.”

She blushed a very pretty pink. “I don’t mind.”








11 pages, and every single POV character strutting their stuff except Nell and Jocelyn. I think that is a record, at least since the early days when only Fulk and Nell were revealed as POVs.

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[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor turned the page in the neatly scribed copy of Herodotus’ ‘The Histories’ and continued to skim the work. A few pages later she lowered the book. “What kind of person,” she asked, “thinks of slitting open a hare, hiding a message inside the gut cavity, then sending it off with a messenger disguised as a huntsman? Because it is not such a bad idea, if one does not mind the message arriving covered in gore.”

Fulk looked up from putting a new edge of his dagger. “It provides dinner too; hare makes a nice stew.”

“With the message as seasoning,” added Hawise timidly. Finding both of her companion’s eyes on her the maid blushed. “If they forgot to remove the message, or if the wrong person got the hare …” Her voice grew softer and softer as she went, until eventually Eleanor was straining to hear. Trailing off, the maid’s blush deepened, and she returned to her sewing. She was once again mending Eleanor’s russet gown, now yesterday’s small bloodstains had been washed away and the material dried. She had not been asked to do this; she had simply set about the task on her own initiative. Hawise had proven remarkably adept at blending into Eleanor’s life as if she had always been there, quietly smoothing her princess’ path without fuss or noise, and more often than not managing to do so in a way Eleanor appreciated rather than was infuriated by. In just a single day she had learned far more than many of the others Eleanor had been encumbered with at various points in her life. Eleanor was not certain if this was good, or if it was new cause to be suspicious.

Eleanor clapped her borrowed book shut. “One day I shall have to try sending a message concealed in food. It would make a change from the usual waterproof packets fastened inside barrels of wine. Well, well, a useful idea from a book; wonders never cease.”

“Books have lots of good ideas!” protested Fulk.

“Mmm, examples of ways to kidnap the damsel of your choice, the collected musings of long dead people who never really did more than sit and think up nice little phrases to write down, advice on how to remove a stubborn dragon, the lives of important people who never really did anything interesting – yes, I can see the attraction.”

Fulk tested the edge on his blade with his thumb; unsatisfied he returned to applying the whetstone. “You’ve obviously never read the life of Caesar; you couldn’t say he never did anything interesting.”

“Yes, I could,” claimed Eleanor tartly. “He marched about conquering people, went home and killed people, then got killed. Quite a tedious man.”

“Alexander the Great?”

“Again, he marched about conquering people and getting drunk, then died rather pathetically.”

“Queen Emma?”

“If being married to two different kings one after the other, having a pack of children, and fleeing your country for refuge abroad at least once is your definition of an interesting life then I most profoundly hope mine is entirely boring.”

Fulk shook his head in bewilderment. “I really don’t understand how you can’t like reading and history! You have the mind for it.”

“It is quite effortless, I assure you.”

“At least you appreciate stories and the like; you’re not a complete philistine.” Eleanor was quite convinced he was saying it for his own benefit, reassuring himself. Fulk tested the dagger again, and this time moved on to sharpening the other side of the blade.

“So long as I do not have to read it generally I do not mind it; one cannot ask questions of a book, or tell it to skip ahead to the good part.” Eleanor opened the book again to a random page and began reading. A few seconds later she shut the book again and dumped it to one side; she had landed right in the middle of Herodotus’ version of the Trojan war. “Although if I have to suffer through one more love story I swear I shall scream! They are so predictable; the couple meet, fall instantly in love, then after many trials either end up together or die unpleasantly, and not a single part of it is interesting, except perhaps the bit where the tedious pair expire. They seem to exist solely to make people feel quite inadequate, unless they are one of the rare few who do indeed have one of those burning loves. They remind people of what they do not have, and are never likely to, and that is cruel.” They were also entirely too close to home for comfort, and that was now the chief complaint. “Honestly I do not see the attraction; even normally intelligent people like Anne like -” Eleanor broke off as the door to her room opened. It was Hugh, and he had not bothered to knock. She favoured her brother with a polite yet mildly reproving look as she waited expectantly for him to explain.

Hugh saw his copy of Herodotus lying carelessly on the window seat; his hand twitched as though he would reclaim the book. He clasped his hands behind his back, and turned his eyes to his sister instead. “I do hope that this morning finds your health much improved from yesterday’s sad trials, dear sister?”

“I am rather ragged about the edges, but quite functional.”

“Excellent; I am most relieved to hear it. I thought you may wish to be informed that the sentries have spotted a small party in what appears to be Trempwick’s colours approaching the palace from the direction of Woburn. They are at present perhaps a mile away, and making good time. I found it best to bring this fortuitous news to you myself, as part compensation for delivering more unpleasant news regarding your wedding yesterday.”

“He will be with them,” said Eleanor confidently. It was a confidence which extended no further than that statement. Trempwick was a day early. She was not ready for this, not at all. Unconsciously her hand went to the teardrop of her necklace, her resolve faltering before this proof of both Trempwick’s concern and reach. She had to carry on as best she could; if she could not keep thinking and acting correctly now then what hope did she have later? “He must have heard of the attempt on my life, and come rushing out to my side, concerned for my safety.”

“Just as I thought; he is very dedicated to you, dear sister. You are most fortunate in having such a man.”

Eleanor put her book aside and stood up. “Well then, I had best look my best.” At this Hawise put up her sewing and also rose, ready to aid. “Thank you for the warning, brother dear. He will, of course, resume the same room he occupied in this building on our previous visit.”

Hugh paused. “Indeed. It will require preparation; my thanks for your timely reminder. It would not do for our hospitality to be lacking.”

“He will also replace Llwellyn as my partner at dinner, praise be.”

“As you say. At least this alteration of the seating order will dispel the aura of tension that Llwellyn and yourself manage to create even when being scrupulously polite to one another. You will inform your betrothed I desire to speak with him as soon as he arrives.” Hugh turned to leave. He paused, one hand on the latch. “Perhaps you have finished with my book? Although I am in no particular hurry to reclaim it, and I would not snatch it away from under your very nose as you still read. But, as I am present, and if you have indeed finished with it …”

Fulk’s face had fallen very slightly when Hugh had first announced his intent to reclaim the volume; he had quickly recovered, but not quickly enough for it to escape Eleanor’s notice. “I am still reading, thank you. I am taking a small break to rest my eyes.”

“Oh.” Hugh gave her a stiff approximation of a friendly smile. “Good. I shall depart, then. Please do inform me if there is anything I might do for you, Nell.”

Once Hugh had left Eleanor handed Herodotus to Fulk. “Here; read it quickly.”

He accepted the book with both hands, reverently running one palm over the decorated cover and quickly inspecting it front, back, edges of the pages and then a few random excerpts. Fulk’s lips curved in a faint, wondering smile as he saw the beautiful handwriting, the gold leaf, the bright and artistically done illustrations, the immaculate condition. He looked back up, eyes sparkling. “Thank you, oh benefactor mine.”

“Just give me a good summery of the important parts so I do not have to suffer through any more of it. Do not let anyone else see you with it; Hugh would probably kill me if he knew his precious book was in your common little hands. He is nervous enough about it being in mine.”

He was not paying attention, already zealously devouring the first page.

Eleanor heaved a martyr’s sigh. “Well, I do hope I am not murdered, or something else which might distract you.”

“You said read quickly,” he told her, turning to the next page and not pausing, “and I’m never likely to get another opportunity like this.”

Eleanor gave up and moved through to her bedchamber, where Hawise was waiting.






With five men in full armour and his colours behind him, his banner flying proudly, Trempwick rode in through Waltham’s outer gate. He slowed his horse from a canter to a walk, guiding the animal in the direction of the stables.

He knew he made a very impressive sight; the bridegroom here in full splendour for his princess. Every last detail had been meticulously considered. His men wore matching armour, identical in every single respect. The solid metal polished, cleaned, oiled to a blinding shine. The mail free of rust. Their livery new and clean, the colours freshly and deeply dyed. The badges so well done the fox’s eyes seemed to watch everything before them. Everyone mounted on the best horseflesh. Tack and saddles well cared for, decorated in a restrained, functional manner. The sheathed swords splendid weapons, but also plainly well used and not mere toys. The men themselves immaculate, barbered, healthy, of good age; prime examples of knighthood and civilised nobility. Except Mauger; a prime example of a battled veteran. He had the honour of bearing his lord’s banner. He brought up the front of the small escort.

And then there was himself. Not armoured, but every inch a duke. Not ostentatious, nor showy, nor eye-hurting in his splendour. Instead restrained, his every garment fitting and suiting him to perfection. The decoration always used to best effect, never seeking to impress with quantity over quality. The fashions current, but only so far as suited him. Not blind apery. He wore his sword for once, its diagonal waist belt studded with little gilded fox masks. Freshly shaved. His hair newly trimmed. Bearing confident, seat in the saddle easy, restrained of manner but not coldly distant. In many aspects he was as usual, but more so.

No one would tell he had been roused from his bed in the middle of the night, told a story which set him scrambling to get here with all haste as soon as dawn broke. None could tell he was afraid, deep down and behind his emotional armour. Afraid. Anxious. Worried for his Nell. Sharply alert also; something unexpected had happened, and nearly cost him so much …

He had been wrong. He had thought Nell would be safe here. Complacent. An unknown factor had entered play here, announcing itself in spectacular style. His security had held, but only just. His eyes and ears had worked for him, but not told him enough. Here he needed to know, see, understand everything.

From his procession none would know of the frantic scramble to finish the last of the preparations. Or of the missing parts. None would know he had intended to pass the final mile at a more stately pace, not arriving on tired horses and flecked with horse sweat. None would know the two packhorses were missing a few bundles amongst the gifts for his bride, his own effects, the assorted items he had thought useful for these few days.

None would know of his sense of disappointment at not quite being the best he could. Of not managing to be fabulously worthy of Nell. He had intended every single tiny detail to be used to do her honour, to remove some of that inevitable stain that she married beneath herself. For her benefit … and for his. Their interests in this so closely intertwined separation was impossible. If she were mocked people laughed at him also; if at him she would be hurt. If he were nothing she was disgraced; if he were admired then she was to be envied.

Angry. Furious. Someone had had the audacity to try and harm his Nell! Trempwick’s horse pranced, sensing his temper. Swiftly he brought himself, and the animal, back under control. That someone would bleed for this. Bleed to a slow, agonising end.

Tired of this, of waiting, of not knowing, of playing a lesser aspect of a more minor game. Trempwick reined his horse in and swung down from the saddle. “I am going to find Nell,” he told Mauger as he handed the animal over, “take care of the detail.”

He swung away and marched relentlessly on, boots pounding on the cobbles, hair and clothes flowing out behind him in the wind of his passing. If he must pose then let it be the concerned lover, not the suitable bridegroom. Some element of truth. No; both had truth. Just one truer to this moment, the other truer to another. More than an element of truth; vulnerable, almost complete, honesty. Suitor, lover, tutor, guardian, mentor, noble, lord, spymaster, king’s friend, Raoul, Trempwick – for once all combined and for once all agreed. His pace picked up, just short of a jog now.

He stormed through the inner gatehouse, acknowledging the guards’ respects as he swept past. Nell was lodged in the same rooms as previously; he knew thanks to his people. He would begin there.

No one stopped him at the outer door of the guest house. Not a soul was present as he passed down the small entrance corridor. He entered the outer of Nell’s two rooms.

Instantly he saw, a figure in loose-sleeved cerulean, paired with an underdress in the palest of blues. Relief. Shattering relief. A familiar man sat in the window, a book newly discarded at his side, placed so as to distance himself from it. Relief now tempered by suspicion and irritation. An unfamiliar girl, sewing in the other window seat, working on a dress Trempwick knew to belong to Nell. Curiosity, more misgivings.

She was hesitant, not quite shy, but also pleased. A tentative smile, but no more, no words, no movements. This was that rarest of sights – Nell at a complete loss. Trempwick quickly diverted his focus to Fulk. The man simply stared back, impassive, but still that loathing hidden well behind his eyes. The handsome face he had hoped never to see again. Fulk met his gaze and held it as an equal, not deferring as he should to a superior.

“Out,” ordered Trempwick, his tone cultured and civil in sharp contrast to the gaze.

The knight turned to Nell. “Eleanor?” Predictable. Foolish. Hopeless.

From Nell, exasperation, threaded with pain at being forced to deal thus with one she loved. “Oh, just go away!”

The knight’s tail stopped wagging and drooped between his legs; a kicked dog in every way … to those who very few who could read people as a spymaster could. What else had the fool expected? Once may have been different, but this was now.

The two unwanted bodies filed from the room. Right away – at last! - Trempwick caught Nell up in a tight embrace. Flesh and blood; warm and real, and safe. Sweet relief.

Almost instantaneously relief died. She had stiffened as soon as he embraced her, almost tried to pull away. The hurt deflected off his armour. Trempwick loosed his hold and stepped back, withdrawing until he only clasped each of her hands in his. Then, as he saw her face, he understood. Little relief. More fury. The faded bruise had escaped notice from afar; the split lip sealed neatly and no longer swollen. The end to the story of that dinner? “What happened?”

Simply she said, “Hugh.”

More anger; condensing, freezing over. An icy lump burning under his heart. “He has no right.”

“He does; he has a letter from the arse in the crown, sealed and proper in all aspects.” Trempwick heard bitterness there, saw it reflected on her face too. Also shame. Pain, crushed back with now wearying pride. Reluctance … to discuss the matter, or to think on it? A certain uneasiness, unbalanced somehow, distant from him in some intangible way. Slight traces, tiny little notes written all over her for the literate to find and decipher. Lost on those with less knowledge.

“Tell me, what happened?”

A measuring look. A decision made; she would be reckless. “Hugh wants to see you immediately, someone tried to kill me, your mother is sick and feverish thanks to her consuming poison meant for me, the wedding is delayed, Fulk has been forced back into my service, I have been lumbered with a maid, Juliana is still locked up and being questioned, I have been insulted by some piddling Welshman, Hugh has made a habit of flaying my poor hide whenever he can find excuse and so far has managed that twice in as many days, and I have been humiliated both before court and in private more times than I care to count.” That challenging, rather angry ‘Well, what a mess this is!’ smile of hers. “It has been a busy few days.”

The flow of information was digested rapidly. Calculations made. A great many calculations. “I will handle this; do not worry, sweetest Nell. I am here, and no one will harm you again. I will set things to rights, only give me time and a little more information.

What he called her harsh scepticism, flowing very quickly and near completely into frightened vulnerability. “I am not sure you can, not everything. I am not sure it would be wise, either. We must be cautious; to upset Hugh …” Her grip on his hands tightened, her uncertainty grew. “He is dangerous. Very. You must be careful-”

“I know; I always am. I will not be fool enough to seek total victory; I shall choose my battles – and words – with care, win what I can. I will do nothing to place you in any danger, you must believe that.”

“He wants to see you now.”

“Your brother can wait a while.” He stopped her outburst with one gentle finger set across her lips. “I will not charge blindly into battle; I will know what I fight, and for what, and I would see that you are alright before doing anything.”

“I have survived worse.” Shame, again.

Trempwick ignored her words; they could be trusted so little when it came to matters of her well-being. An important matter. He tilted her face to the light pouring in through the window, studying bruise and cut. The split looked more as if she had bitten through her lip, rather than had it done by a blow. Evidence added to previous. Trempwick released her, and stepped around behind her. When she moved he ordered, “Stay still, since you will not tell me.” He turned her so the light would hit her back best, then carefully pulled away and down the neck of her clothes. He peered down. His view might be badly hampered by light and the broad linen stripe of her breastband, but he could tell enough. Many bruises, some cuts, welts crossing over each other, all placed with a certain dedication.

Once again he released her. Quickly she turned around, avoiding his eye, mortification writ large all over her. He drew her into a very light hug, reassuring. This time she relaxed a bit, holding on to him in turn. “Oh, my poor, dear Nell. He will not being doing this again, I assure you.” He heard anger in his own voice, heard it and loved it for being true, no matter how imprudent it may be. “He will be hearing about this, at length.”

“It is not worth it.”

“And I say it is.” He drew her over to the window seat, settled her down, himself at her side but at a slight angle so he could watch her face, her hands caught in his. “Now, tell me of this poison.”

“It was in some wine collected for my midday meal. Juliana collected the food herself from the kitchens; she is now imprisoned and being questioned. Your mother and Adela drank the wine first; your mother noted the slightly off flavour and subtly warned me. I tasted a small sample and agreed with her, but by then Adela had drunk a significant quantity of the wine. Hugh insists he is investigating, and he also insists he needs your help to such an extent we cannot marry now. Fulk was forced back into my service, publicly, along with the maid. I protested, but Hugh would hear nothing of it; he humiliated me in front of the entire hall.”

“Do you have any suspicions as to who did this?” Rhetorical; of course she did.

Hesitation. Uncertainty. A look he remembered well from when she was a child – an eagerness, a need to please and impress with her insight. And yet … once again – no, still – that distantness, that very faint feeling something was not quite right with her. “I do, but … none good. Every single one has its flaws, significant enough to cast real doubt on each. After the bandit attack, Hugh seems likely, but he would have to be reckless in the extreme to try this. Besides, for now he seems content to crush me underfoot unless I dance to his tune, and I suspect in the end that is more useful for him than my corpse.”

“If he stops the wedding he can try to dispose of you elsewhere to his advantage. William would never allow his plans to be thwarted so.”

“But if Hugh could propose better candidates, all suitable, willing, and my compliance battered into place beforehand the arse in the crown might change his mind. He would expect his friend – who is marrying me out of duty, nothing more, or so you said he believes – to genially bow before this change in needs. He would see it as you serving his ends, released from one burden you did not perhaps want. Publicly you would be compensated handsomely, so loss of face could be transformed into demonstration of largess, perhaps.”

“In that case Hugh is playing for time.” Rapid calculation. “Playing a game of faces; making me look the incompetent fool, unable to protect even my own bride; himself playing the dutiful, concerned brother.” Another thought. “And I the neglectful, uncaring man who does not show due respect and reverence for the astounding gift he has been given.” Possibilities, all of them. Them and a great many more, not yet for sharing. Consideration, on this limited selection spoken. “William might be twisted into doing as Hugh wishes, if matters were set up and played out in the right way. This does not take into account my own fight to block Hugh, but he will do whatever he can to hamper and weaken my case. In the end perhaps it might be enough … probably not, but the perhaps is such that a desperate man might take the gamble.”

Was Hugh such a man? Before he would not have hesitated; the answer would be no. But now? Hugh was not the kind of man to make such a mess of his sister without just cause. But for that mess? From a reasonable man, a fair and chivalrous man? Cause would have to be incredible. To have such cause twice? To go against his father’s wishes, blatantly, with what seems like little cause? He had misjudged, or something more was at work here.

More errors?

This could not be tolerated. Complacent is dead – his creed. He could recover, handle this. He would. Investigate. Learn. Understand. See anew. Begin to mend. Rectify. Pull events back on course.

And first one must begin with the priorities.

He pulled Nell to him, wrapping her in his arms, careful not to hurt. He breathed out, letting the emotions and turmoil bleed away. Simple peace now. “I was so worried, beloved Nell, you cannot know how worried.”

“I have hardly been much happier myself,” she replied dryly. He heard much truth in that.

“You look quite pretty, sweet Nell.”

“Oh yes, the bruise on my face brings out the colour of my eyes and highlights my cheekbones.”

“I mean it.” He did, strangely. He saw people more in an academic way. Beauty, or lack thereof, or gradients in-between, was immaterial and almost always overlooked. Except when it suited his ends. Or caught him unawares, as now.

“Yes, master.”

The legacy of his painstaking work, this? More than likely. Those who believed they were ugly seldom accepted opinions to the contrary. Such a pity. “You do not believe me. That mark is honestly hardly noticeable, unless you search for it. It is the clothes, the colours, the way your hair has been done – it suits you – and …” He considered. To describe, but in a good way. A touch of almost sadness, a dose of wistfulness, a shade of vulnerability, the loss of the more brazen defiance … and one last part, perhaps the one which made the difference. “You have this air of … calm, quiet, collected; one you do not usually have.” And it tugged at his heart somehow.

“I would not have thought so; quite the opposite, really.” And again that ever so small feeling that something was not quite right between them. Was this new air of hers a part of that? A consequence of it? Unrelated?

“No, it is there, definitely.”

“If you say so, master. Perhaps I am simply burned out; too much all at once, leaving me somewhat immune.” Trempwick read the subtle language. Embarrassment, but in a very different way to before. Now more someone receiving a compliment she might like, if only she could believe it. And yet … and yet at the same time some discomfort, a little panic, almost as if she did not want to hear anything like this. Those born out by her use of ‘master’ again. Her hand ran over the start of the single, thick braid hanging freely down her back, fingers lingering on the ribbon, blue to match her eyes and threaded with fine gold strands. “You can blame my hair on my new maid. She did not consult me at all, but actually I do not mind it. The ribbon she intertwined with the braid helps to keep it all together, and it is not uncomfortable, unlike some damnable styles which tug at my poor roots. The only problem is the complete lack of hairpins; I am reduced to helplessness.”

“Somehow, my dear Nell, I very much doubt that.” Time, running by. Refocus. “Shall I attempt to shed you of this maid, as much as we appreciate her work? And your pet?”

“Hugh will not allow it; I tried, twice, once overtly and once more deviously.”

“But is it your wish that I try? Or would you prefer to keep them?”

A miniscule pause. He could all but hear her mind working. “Try, but keep it as a very low priority. He will not agree, and there are many more important matters.”

Trempwick nodded. “I should go to your brother now; to delay longer adds unnecessary, if minor, risk, and gives him some very slight advantage. I shall see you again when I can.”

“At dinner; we are paired together again.”

“Hopefully before then. My men will be bringing my baggage over to my rooms in this building; if you feel the need to ransack my saddlebags then do indulge yourself, just not the large satchel with the fastening in the shape of my badge. That one has a few surprises in it.”

“Surprise as in ‘oh dear’, or something less spymasterish?”

He laughed. “How I missed your strange humour, darling Nell! No, nothing dubious, just a few gifts for a certain lady of my acquaintance.”





This time the cause for the delay’s a bit different to the usual. :everyone gasps, shocked: I’ve been very absorbed in R. Scott Bakker’s very good ‘The Darkness That Comes Before’. “Very good” being high praise from this picky frog.

“He marched about conquering people, went home and killed people, then got killed. Quite a tedious man.” – I’ve never looked at Caesar that way until I found myself writing that line. When everything is boiled down Nell’s quite right, though somehow I think Caesar would have preferred the more glamorous versions. :tongueg:

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[frogbeastegg]

A distant pair of shepherds gawped at the royal army as it marched past their pastures, jostling and nudging each other, pointing to men, horses and banners and presumably arguing what was the greater sight. From his place in the column, just behind the vanguard, William watched them in their turn.

Another bout of nudging and pointing ended with the two men dropping to their knees and bowing their heads; they had spotted him. When he saw one of the heads curiously return upright William raised a hand in a blessing. The shepherd began nudging his companion again, and this time William could guess exactly what they were saying: “The king blessed us! Us!” Some lords disdained even such simple gestures, but William knew well that the love of the people could be turned to his advantage. A beloved lord appealing to his subjects for aid got more in the way of funds and bodies than a hated one, as Yves was now discovering, according to William’s scouts.

A few miles further down the road one of the messengers from the vanguard rode down to William. “Sire, one of our scouts encountered a messenger from Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes. You wish to see him?”

De Ardentes; at last! One of the more troublesome entries on his list of men. “Send him down.”

The messenger galloped back to the head of the column, and William’s closest two bodyguards spurred their mounts to ride close at his side instead of behind. One could never be too careful.

Jocelyn’s messenger appeared after some delay, a filthy man on a nearly done in horse. He fell into loose place some distance from the right hand guard, and bowed in his saddle. “Sire.”

“Speak, if that is what you are here for.”

“My lord send this.” He offered a sealed letter to the intervening knight. “He bid me to say it comes with all haste, and apologises for the delay in its sending. He prays for your understanding and mercy.”

“Does he indeed.” William received the letter from his guard and examined the seal for signs it had been tampered with. There were none. “You will join the main body of my army; if I require you again I will send word. Otherwise rest your horse overnight and return to your lord tomorrow.”

The messenger bowed again and dropped back.

William broke the leather cords holding the parchment rolled up and began to read, having to hold the letter out to one side at arm’s length to bring the words into focus.

He read the letter twice before lowering it, rolling it back up and fastening it with the broken thong. “Does he indeed,” he repeated, this time to himself. Thoughtfully he examined the little knight on his charging horse, sword brandished above his head and coat of arms proudly displayed, stamped onto the wax disc of the seal. This would not quite do as planned, but was close enough.

William thrust the hand with the letter up into the air, summoning one of his own curriers. “Ride to FitzOsborn; tell him I require his presence, at once.”






“I am most pleased you have arrived.” Hugh seated himself in his accustomed place at the council chamber’s large table, to the right of the high chair. He gestured at Trempwick’s designated place. “Please, do take your ease. I see little reason to stand on ceremony where there is but the two of us.”

“Thank you.” Trempwick’s place was at what would be the king’s left, directly opposite Hugh. He watched, waited, for the other man to begin. Let him show his hand first. This contained little princeling, hard to read, so intent on binding up all personal feeling. Always wearing a mask. What lay under it? A terrified little boy, caught playing with his elder brother’s toys. A man petrified of failure. Bound by expectation. Hampered by tradition. A need to be thought of kindly. Lacking creativity. Straightforward. Not his sister’s match, in anything. Potential, surely. But squandered. He would not embrace it; turned from it, and so became less than he might have been if he were indeed talentless. A man who would try his best, but always hold a part of himself back, then mourn because he was not better.

Or so Trempwick had always thought. Now he was not so sure.

The contrast of siblings seldom failed to amuse him. As with every child each had things purely their own, distinct from relatives. Those were less interesting in the comparison. In many respects Nell was her father’s daughter. Temper, those eyes, the stubbornness, many other little unconscious echoes which called William to mind when witnessed. She had a trace of her mother. Little things. The curve of her eyebrows, the way she hid her unhappiness. Parts that were a blend of both parents. Her mind, chiefly, but then taken to a higher degree. She had been shaped by Trempwick; perhaps the most telling influence, perhaps a little behind William’s legacy.

Hugh was rather more his mother’s son. She had been an undemonstrative woman. Quite controlled. Not happy with noise, mess, fuss, crowds. But he had taken it to a fine art. His father’s son? Not much. Enguerrand had been a personable man, quick to amusement, subject to his emotions. It was impossible to imagine Hugh burning with a love as his father had done. Or risking his life for it. Or retiring to die fighting in Spain when the end inevitably came. Foolish melodrama, that man had been, feeling everything too deeply. Such resemblance as there was came mostly from physical attributes. But not enough to clearly mark him as another man’s son. Joanna had been so fortunate there. Fortunate also that her husband had been blind as well as inattentive. Fortunate her wit had been sufficient to keep the affair almost entirely secret. Fortunate another young man at court had loved her with all his boyish heart, had not betrayed her when he should have.

That did not mean he would wish her forgiveness for what he was doing now. Puppy love, and for the unobtainable. For a dream that he had believed she fitted. Wondrous at a distance. Less so close up.

The bastard finally got around to beginning. “Let us also dispense with fancy words and speak plainly. I presume from your early presence you have received word of the attempt on my sister’s life? My message was sent to you this morning.”

Bland little smile. “Yes. I came with all haste and a troubled mind, and I fear I have only become more troubled since my arrival.” He’d left before it had even arrived. Not that he would betray it. Not that the fact was important. One should never give clues for free.

“Forgive me; much has happened of late, much affecting your good self. I scarcely know where to begin.”

“You can begin by telling me why you have delayed my wedding.”

Nothing; as much effect as aiming his words to stone. “Nell has informed you of that so swiftly? I suppose I should have expected as much.”

“Why would she not? You will agree it is important to both of us.”

Hugh paused, marshalling his thoughts. Telling; he had not already prepared this speech. “You are already occupied with your usual work, burdened even more heavily by matters in France. In addition to that you must now undertake the investigation of the attempt on my sister’s life. The first takes up much of your time, but no more than any occupation. The second has you working late into the night and up early each morn, eating as you labour and seldom resting. I know; Nell told me when I enquired as to your health. This neglect, I am afraid to say, saddened her considerably.” The bastard held up his hands, placating. “I know it was not your choice, and I am strongly aware that you must have been little happier with the situation yourself. Now I must add a third burden, and at this point you will have no time at all for her. I will not have my sister a neglected new wife; at the start of a marriage the couple should spend much time together if they hope to adjust to one another and settle happily.”

“Nell and I already know one another.”

“As master and apprentice, not as husband and wife. If you cannot see the difference then my heart bleeds for her.”

Trempwick held his eyes closed for longer than a blink needed, mouth set into a line. “You need not resort to petty slights, your highness.”

Minor distress on the bastard’s part as the dart went home. Followed by guilt. Discomfort. A mental scourge was being applied to that princely back. “I apologise; it was unworthy of me.” The bastard knocked off-balance a little. Trempwick re-established as a man requiring respect in return. Excellent.

He accepted this with a slight nod, continued his speech, “You miss my point; Nell and I are not strangers, we have little adjusting to do, little to learn about each other’s basic personalities, and great understanding for the situation we are in. We do not need time to establish a basic friendship, like most couples.”

“And you miss my point.” Hugh interlocked his fingers and placed his joined hands on the polished tabletop. Leaned forward slightly. Face intent, yet in the same controlled way as ever. “You care for her, yes? And she for you? It is no longer a question of duty and forced compliance?”

“You have seen it is not.”

“Indeed; matters have altered in the two months since the arrangement was made. That is why I chose to delay; if you were both indifferent it would not matter. Come morning the two of you will be closer than ever, wanting every moment you can get and lamenting every lost second. You cannot afford to be distracted.”

“I would not be,” replied Trempwick flatly.

Now the bastard leaned back, hands still bound together. “Then you plan to neglect my sister, and thus the delay can mean nothing to you.”

Calculation. Countermove: indignation. “Highness, I most strongly protest! I would never neglect Nell.”

“And so you see? You would be distracted.” Under the mask an effort to be reasonable. To be understood. Liked for this. The hands at last unlinked; one extended towards Trempwick minutely. “If you can compartmentalise your heart then you do not care for her, as you assert – and demonstrate – you do. Consider her also; neglect hurts when it comes from a friend, but from a lover it tears your heart. When you did meet you would be exhausted and she fraught, and no good could come of that. As each day passed the hurt would begin to purge the good. Ultimately you would grow apart; her heart sealed off to prevent further anguish, and her put from your mind except when she is in your presence.” The proffered hand stretched a little closer. An offer of a lifeline? Or a speech-giver’s gesture for understanding? The latter, Trempwick decided. “I will not do that to my sister. Though you may not believe me when I say it, I find she has suffered more than enough; I would see her happy now, happy and settled.” Lies. A point to be tackled later.

This would go nowhere. Circular arguments. Some truth. A part of his own thoughts reflected back at him: once bedded Nell would grow attached to him in a way he could not achieve otherwise. Closer. Linked. Always the case, to some degree, unless there was loathing there. Even if a disaster physically a bond was created, albeit a weak one. From small seeds did great trees grow. Why else had he carefully combined truth and lie, revealing a hint of his vulnerable core, humiliating himself a little, working to that end? Carefully planned forays; win if she was persuaded, slightly lesser win if she was not. An end to his wondering about the pet also; dividend. Reluctantly Trempwick also owned he would grow a little more attached too; personal honesty even where sore. He cared enough for her that it was inevitable, if not likely to be spectacular. Not a distraction for him, no. But there.

Besides the point. Truth regardless, what did the bastard care? Nell had been right. His initial and lasting suspicion had been right. For whatever reason the bastard had called a halt to the wedding; he would not be moved. To press further would be risky. Retreat with good grace. Appear a sheep. Remain a wolf. “I see your meaning, and I am rather pleased you see us in such a light, especially given the inauspicious start.”

Pleased. An offering of a rewarding smile; insulting, actually, considering it all. “I shall confide an extra motive to you, one which is to go no further than this room. I say extra because that is the truth; I have already told you my primary concern. My father once told me that a king should find wider advantage even in the most personal of things. If someone can strike at my sister in this very palace, strike and nearly succeed, mark you, then confidence in our security is damaged. Royal hospitality needs to be trusted by all.” The bastard ran a hand through his long hair, brushing it back from his face. More a gesture of tiredness than of bother due to stray strands. “That confidence must be restored, or people will fear to come here, and our reputation will suffer in all places. It will become a matter for common jest that we cannot protect our guests. It matters less that security is a problem at present than that people know it to be so. I need not tell you the import of such fragile illusions in maintaining the power of the crown. The delay will make a statement.”

A more honest motive than the first? No. More half truths. “That we are afraid.”

The bastard once again leaned forward, one forearm planted on the table for support. Again, that need to be understood. Recognised. Praised. “That we are alerted, on guard and devoting ourselves to plugging the gap; raising our shield from rest to guard. When the wedding is held it will also serve as an announcement that we have dealt with the problem. An initial, small loss of face perhaps, but for greater dividends later.”

“That can be so, but you must be aware that both opinions will be prevalent.”

“Of course. It is up to us to ensure the view we desire is the more common one.”

Up to Trempwick, he meant. “Your faith honours me.”

“I am aware we have little liking for one another on a personal level, but I am very respectful of your skills and loyalties.”

“I would not say I had little liking for you, your highness.” No; he detested the bastard.

“My own dislike is foundered in what you are, by necessity of your station. I value honour as the foremost virtue a man should have. You lie, deceive, consort with spies.”

Trempwick greeted that with a sardonic smile. “Lead an interesting life, you mean?”

“Rest assured that you will always have your place upon my council, just as under my father. A man should not be counselled alone by those who like him; knowledge and a will to council, not mouth what is believed to be wanted. I know you capable of that.” The bastard was more enthusiastic now; mask slipping. The point he had wanted to make for a while, obviously. How pleasant. How very in need of further analysis.

“Correct,” he agreed pleasantly. “Speaking of William, he will not be pleased when he returns to find Nell unmarried still.”

“I am aware of that, and willing to answer for my actions and face whatever consequences may arise.”

Casually threaten, “Rather you than me; William in high dudgeon is difficult to deal with.”

Hugh flushed. Jaw muscles tightened, eyes narrowed. “Your king will have your respect, spymaster!”

Be as stone. Unmoved. “My friend demands honesty from me, at all times, even when it favours his character not at all. If you cannot explain yourself to his satisfaction you will be in very hot water.”

“I am aware of that, and am willing to answer for my actions and face whatever consequences may arise.” Repeated; more conviction … born of emotion. So, there was an element of fear there. Fear his father would not approve. That shed little light on his motive. But it would help to narrow possibilities down. He could immediately rule out a covert order from William. Bastard’s calm reasserted, slipped mask straightened. “I believe we are done, now. You will begin your investigation at once, and report to me any significant advances. You will find the maid who collected the poison in the calls in the inner gatehouse; I suggest you begin there.”

Not done. Trempwick did not move even a muscle. “Who had led the investigation until now?”

“Richard de Clare; it falls within his jurisdiction.”

Richard de Clare. Trempwick delicately dug his thumbnail into the side of his index finger, hard. A former coroner. An idle, lazy one who had delegated everything he could. Like many he had taken the post for corrupt profit and more honest prestige. Yes, he could make sure walls were patrolled, gates guarded, watches kept, men trained, measures put in place. He was good at that; very good. It was why he had this position. But de Clare was not one to do well at the fine, subtle art of investigation. Not unusual; few were. Few even cared.

Trempwick relaxed his hand, feeling the mark his nail had left on his skin tingle. “There is one remaining matter, your highness.”

“Yes?”

“Forgive me if I phrase this one very bluntly. Nell is mine; my pupil, my betrothed, contracted to me. You will not touch her again. If you have a complaint, bring it to me and I will deal with it.”

The bastard’s brow creased angrily. “You are too soft, spymaster. If you were not then this problem would not exist.”

“Soft?” Trempwick steepled his hands, resting his chin on the tips of his longest fingers. “Then how is it she only exhibits her worse traits to you and her father? I shall tell you why; it is because she knows I am anything but soft, and she dislikes my methods far more than yours.” He sat back, folding his hands in his lap. “In some ways you play into her hands. Given a choice Nell would prefer a beating; over and done with sooner, less humiliating, and I am sure we all know there is a certain … honour to be wrung out of suffering with fortitude. I understand her, how she works. Leave her to me. Better for all concerned, and far more efficient.”

“We shall see how matters fall if the need arises again,” said the bastard coolly.

Yes, we shall see, Trempwick silently vowed. As he had very much expected a more direct approach on even a few of the matters he wished to raise had failed. No matter. He would revert to more subtle means.






Trempwick appropriated a spacious room in the top of one of the inner wall’s towers, the one just behind Nell’s guest house. Unwanted furniture was carried out, required items moved in, and within the hour the room was just as he wanted it.

While servants worked at that he had sought out Richard de Clare, finding the man inspecting a new batch of crossbows. One brief discussion - involving a bit of friendly camaraderie to ensure the man maintained his friendly opinion of him - had revealed the investigation had gone as they so often did. Badly. Nothing much found. Evidence disposed of as “No longer needed.” The entire palace and town alerted to the search. An effort to control those who left, to be relented next Monday. The town watch called in to assist with inquiries outside of the palace itself, and to lend muscle; a bunch of fools blundering about in his path. Guilt all but fixed on the first, easiest suspect: Juliana. Plans already forming to torture her to find who she worked for. It was a typical investigation. He had seen hundreds, thousands, like it.

They could not have done a much better job of obstructing his own search if they had tried.

Sending away the last of the servants Trempwick sat at the table. He laid out a sheet of parchment, smoothed it flat with his hands. He picked up a quill, lowered the nib into in the ink. Delicately he pressed the side of the tip to the rim of the pot, draining excess ink. He began to write. Write nothing much, just a copy of a song. As he wrote he waited. And thought.

The initial work had been bungled. The waters muddied. But there were many avenues he could take. Many people he could speak to again. He had Nell’s own testimony to collect. His mother’s also. He should visit her soon; he had not done so yet.

He completed one verse and began the second. Still waiting. So much preying on his mind at present. This poisoning felt very wrong; who would gain by it? Almost always the potential source was apparent, even if that source was the wrong one. But to strike at Nell? When no one really gains? Or gains in a way he could not yet see. Both equally troubling. The bastard princeling himself; another puzzle. The delayed wedding; a puzzle. Beating Nell so badly; a puzzle. Fulk and Hawise being dumped on Nell; a puzzle. Nell herself; a puzzle. So many puzzles; some but minor itches, some so much more significant.

A wry chuckle, safe in the privacy of his own mind. Well, he had wanted something to stretch him a little. Now he had it, and he wished he did not.

He began the third verse. The words themselves were not important. It was only something to occupy his body while his mind roved. Few people were understanding of a man who stared blankly ahead, or thought too deeply or in excess. As if such a thing were possible. The bastard had sense. He had not believed the easy answer; that Juliana was responsible. That said many things. It spoke highly of the bastard’s interest in justice. His desire to find the true culprit, not a scapegoat. Matched the view Trempwick had of him, to perfection. But only made certain recent events more puzzling. Perhaps Nell lied, understating her misdeeds? Possible; she had done so many times previously. So … if she had done something to deserve those beatings … where then did that leave his view of the bastard?

The door opened. A man at arms dragged Juliana in, hit her when she didn’t curtsey fast enough, then bowed to Trempwick himself. “The prisoner, my lord.”

Trempwick set down his quill, a study of dispassionate calm. “Thank you. In future you will knock before barging in here; any who does not will be shovelling shit in the stables, if they are fortunate. Tell your comrades. You will explain why you did not knock this time.”

“My hands were full with the prisoner, lordship.”

A significant glance at the weeping maid. Raise eyebrows, say with a hint of mockery, “Yes, I can see how she could be a problem for a big, strapping man like yourself.” The guard’s ears went bright red. “You may go.”

“Lordship.” The man marched stiffly from the room.

Trempwick stood up and stepped out from behind his table. Juliana flung herself at his feet, clutching the hem of his tunic. “I knew you would save me!”

Unseen Trempwick rolled his eyes. Pathetic. He dropped to his knees beside her. “Yes, I shall save you, never fear. But you must help me; you must answer my questions truthfully.”

“I wouldn’t lie, not to you.” More noisy tears. “They were going to torture me!” she wailed. “They wouldn’t believe a word I said; one even accused me of being an accomplice! They said I was going to hang! I’m innocent, I swear it! On my soul!” A shaking hand drew a frantic cross over her chest. “I had nothing to do with any of it, I wouldn’t!”

He kissed her just to shut her up; he had gathered the general idea long ago. At the same time he amended his opinion; not so pathetic. She had some cause. “You will not hang,” he promised.

“Don’t send me back to the cells, I beg you! Please! The guards …” The snivelling dropped in pitch to a murmur, “I had to bring up your name to protect myself.” Added panic. She clutched at him, painfully tight. “You won’t send me back there, will you? Oh, you can’t, please, no!”

“Peace! Peace! No, you will not go back to the cells either.” His knees were uncomfortable on the hard floor. He stood, pulling her up with him. “Tell me about this man, the one who talked to you while you waited for the food to be assembled.”

“I don’t know him, and I’ve only seen him that once.”

“What did he look like?”

“I didn’t take much notice. He was in the royal livery, average height and build, blondish hair. He had a slight beard. I don’t think he was one of the better servants, just some kitchen hand or other menial type.” The often present disgust of one servant for another, lesser one. He had always found that intriguing. Already his work on her was paying off; she had said a few new things.

“That is all you remember?”

“I wasn’t looking closely. Why would I?”

He shook his head, all disappointed and lost hope. “I hoped you might have more for me; I was so sure your sharp wits and eyes could provide what I need.”

He saw consternation. Her need to help him, to be approved, to reward his love. “There’s more,” she blurted. “It’s so uncertain, that’s why I’ve not said it before. A name. Aldwin, I think someone called him Aldwin.”

“Excellent!” He kissed her deeply. “Now, wipe your face and I will return you to my mother.” A second’s thought. “If I take you to the cells can you show me which guards … bothered you?” A small, sharp reminder of the king’s wishes towards his prisoners would not go astray. His wishes also; maltreated prisoners were often harder to deal with. Besides, she was his mother’s maid; in some vague way under his protection.





“There is ever such a commotion out there,” said Anne, pressing her face to the cloudy window glass.

“Is there?” Eleanor looked up briefly, then turned back to the game of tafl she was playing with Fulk.

“Yes; come see.”

“Do I have to? For once I am not losing; I do not want to lose my concentration.”

“Go on,” encouraged Fulk, “if you lose later then you’ll have a good excuse. That’ll be a first.”

Eleanor sighed. “Oh, all right. Once I make my move.” They were roughly in the middle of the game, and were still tied. Playing the defence she had lost three warriors; Fulk four of his attackers. She might not have a clear route to victory, but she was not penned in or under too much threat either.

Just as she began to settle back into her game plan Anne’s voice jolted her back out again. “Oh, how terrible!” There was definite consternation in her tone.

Eleanor hurried over to the window, Fulk not far behind. Even Hawise dropped her mending and went to the other window. Out on the sward, perhaps two-hundred paces from her guest house, a man was tied by his wrists to the sideboards of a wagon which had been rolled up especially. He wore royal livery, but was stripped to the waist. Two other men similarly attired waited behind him, guarded at weapon point by men at arms. The final liveried man was wielding a whip, with quite some effect. Blood poured down the first man’s back.

Fulk was the first to leave the window, apparently unaffected. “Wonder what they did?”

Eleanor recognised two figures stood to witness the flogging. “Hugh is there, and Trempwick.”

“Juliana too,” said Hawise softly, at the same moment Eleanor spotted the maid huddling in Trempwick’s protective shadow. “Maybe this means she is free now?”

Eleanor didn’t answer. She watched as the first man was cut down, to stumble away to help, and the next pushed forward to take his place. Her own back throbbed in sympathy. “It looks a deal worse from the outside.”

“What do you mean?” Anne glanced from window to Eleanor and back again. She shuddered and turned to sit properly again, picking up her book with a resolute hand.

“One can never see one’s own back.”






4,838

[Monk]

froggy, each time i read this I am never disappointed. Either I get sucked in and can't stop reading it or I get so busy that I don't read it for two weeks; then when i get back I read the early morning away. Either way I go at it, I find a very satisfying story with interesting and well shaped characters.

Well done once more lady frog! ~D ~:cheers:

[frogbeastegg]

Anne sucked in a deep breath. “I want your help replying to a letter.” She said it so quickly it sounded like one big word, instead of a series of distinct ones.

Judging from the fact it had taken several hours for Anne to even manage that much Eleanor guessed that she wouldn’t really want anything to do with this letter. “Yes?” Nothing; Anne just continued to stare studiously at her book. “You will have to at least tell me what you are replying to if you want my help.”

“Oh. Well … it is from my grandmother and it … well, it is …” A nice beetroot red she gave up trying to explain and pulled a letter out of the back of her book. She held it very slightly out, as if the contents could be understood by anyone seeing even a glimpse of the blank outside.

Eleanor reluctantly abandoned her current game of tafl with Fulk; she was winning, and she doubted that she’d be able to continue her good streak with this interruption. When she was finally allowed to return she would not remember all the traps she had set and seen, and parts of her plans would be forgotten. Fulk, who had not been dragged around and forced to think about other things, would still remember. Just like had happened with the previous game.

She accepted the letter – with some difficulty, as Anne’s fingers didn’t seem to want to let go – and settled down beside the queen to read it.

Before she even got past the lengthy introduction Anne started speaking again, words pouring out in a torrent. “I mean, I did know to expect this kind of thing, and really I understand why it is a matter of semi public knowledge and everything, and she is my grandmother and practically raised me and all, well, she left the messy or boring parts to Mariot and stuck to the neat bits like lessons, especially the bits about being royalty and so on, but well, it is only, well, I would much rather tell her to mind her own business, but this is her own business in a way, and she is family and that makes it all the more her business-”

“Breathe,” ordered Eleanor. “I would hate to explain how you talked yourself into suffocation.”

Still at her mending in the other window seat Hawise laughed, a soft sound very quickly suppressed.

Anne sucked in a new breath. “I left my maids behind because I just could not manage to say any of this if I had an even larger audience, and again I know it is partly their business and all, and they would be happy to help if I asked, and I am sure they could help, but not as much as you. You are really good at this sort of thing, being firm and standing up for yourself a bit, I mean, whereas I am really quite hopeless because I am too nice, or so Godit says, but Mariot says it is because I am well mannered and decently brought up, and I suppose really she should know, not to say you are not those things yourself, you understand, and I am sure you can strike just the right tone, the right balance between polite and ‘mind your own business!’, and you will find all the right words-”

“Breathe!”

The queen obeyed, but her headlong explanation barely even faltered. “You have plenty of practise at this sort of thing, and success, and I probably really only have one go at getting this right, and if I do not get the right tone then either she will go berserk or she will write again, and then I will be stuck in purgatory or forced to try and answer another letter like this. Now I know it really is partly her business and all, but I really do not want to ever have to do this again. I could just not bother answering, but then she would write again, and this time rather more sternly, and then it will be even harder to reply, and I would have to explain why I ignored the first letter, and the longer it takes for me to reply the harder it will get-”

“I think I begin to get the idea.”

“Oh. Good.” Anne subsided, breathing heavily.

Peace restored, Eleanor tried the letter again. She skipped past the lines detailing who was sending to whom, when and where it was written, and that it was in the grandmother’s own hand. The contents were an eye-opening, very educational experience. She had been right earlier – she didn’t want anything to do with this. At all.

“Well,” began Eleanor bravely. She stalled, then tried again. “Well …”

From over at the table Fulk piped up, “Well? I do know you’ve gone a delightful pink, oh royal one.”

“You keep your crooked nose out of other people’s business, you collop-witted dowdlepad.”

Fulk sketched an elaborate bow. “I hear and obey, your royal shortness.” He snatched up the copy of Herodotus again, quickly losing himself in whatever foolishness the author was recounting.

More quiet, short-lived laughter from Hawise, this time joined by a smile from Anne.

“Well,” tried Eleanor again, “I presume you want to tell your grandmother to stop worrying her sweet head over such … matters?”

Going red again Anne nodded.

Eleanor contemplated sending Anne over to Constance instead. Alas, it simply was not possible, not without upsetting Anne, and poor Constance had done nothing to deserve a mortified queen with an embarrassing letter anyway. For that matter, Eleanor decided, neither had she. With a bit of furious thinking she found the next best thing. “We cannot discuss potential replies without everyone in this room finding out what we are replying to, and I am not allowed to send Hawise and Fulk away.”

“But I need your help!” wailed Anne. “No one else is quite suitable! I would die of embarrassment showing that to Constance, and my maids are used to deferring to my grandmother and being polite and everything, and there is no one else I even like a little bit here, and William is away, and although he told me to take any troubles to Hugh I definitely cannot show that to him without melting into a small puddle of embarrassment, and he would be all earnest about it as well, and that would kill me again, and he would not even get the right kind of answer anyway because he is always so serious and everything, and I know I cannot find the right kind of answer on my own, and I never, ever want a letter like that ever again, so I suppose in comparison to what could be having Fulk and Hawise here is really not so bad, at least when you compare it to most of the things my grandmother says -”

“Alright, alright!” interrupted Eleanor. “I shall help.”

“Thank you.”

And so Eleanor found herself committed to trying to think up a suitable reply to a letter from a woman she had never met, a letter enquiring in some very great detail about royal conjugal relations, and, in-between short lectures on duty and family expectations, giving helpful advice and dire orders to help things along so an heir was produced immediately, if not sooner.

“Eleanor …” began Anne hesitantly. Eleanor nearly winced, sensing more awkwardness speeding her way. “You know … well, I am not sure how best to put this, and I do not want to pry or be bothersome or anything. I suppose … you know I am here if you need me, for whatever reason.”

From a lack of anything else to say Eleanor ventured, “Thank you.”

Gathering confidence, and away from her own troubles, Anne perked up a bit. “So if something is bothering you, you can at least talk to me, whatever it is.”

Eleanor imagined telling Anne about the pervasive temptation to fling herself at Trempwick’s feet and tell him everything, renouncing the loneliness, returning once again to a life of following him and obeying his orders, not needing to deal with the … spymastering herself. The mere thought of it was ridiculous, and this was but one tree in a whole forest. “Thank you; I will do that,” she lied. Carrying most of your own problems, fears, doubts alone came with the territory she was slowly inching into, and was itself another tree.






Trempwick sat at his mother’s bedside, mulling over what she had told him. He gave her hand a reflexive squeeze. “You did well. You have given me much to think on.” She had. Adding to the much he already had. So many little, little things …

“Let me retire to Saint Mary’s.”

Her common request. Always he refused it, but they both knew one day he would not. He did not refuse instantly, as he had the last few times. She looked old to his eyes; the first time ever. Her loose hair – how long since he’d last seen her like that? Not since he was a little boy – was filled with silver; it showed far more than when pinned up. Her face made haggard by recent trials. Clothed only in her shift it was obvious how thin she was. Bones draped in skin. All more from the rigours of purging poison than anything other. He hoped. “A little longer, just a little longer. I need you to watch Nell, but only until we are married. Leaving her to run about the palace unwatched is not good; she might get into mischief, or worse.”

This time she did not accept as easily. “You promised before I died-”

“You are in no danger of dying, not for a good while yet,” interrupted Trempwick. He was right. Barring strange acts of God she would not expire. Her health was robust. She had a purpose in life. Both would keep her soul firmly rooted here. Although the fire had dimmed. Worrying. “I have little doubt you will see your Biblical three score and ten years, if not more. You are doing far better than that maid who also drank the poison, and she is decades younger.” That maid had been moved out of here on his orders. All the better to let his mother recover. And to allow them to talk.

“She drank more, and made a terrible fuss.”

“But still you are doing far better; she reminds me of a nearly drowned kitten. Tomorrow you will be up and about.” Stern frown, unload the necessary truth to help, “You would be today if you put your mind to it. Instead you lie here pitying yourself, imagining your own death, and making requests you know I cannot allow. It is entirely pathetic.”

Success. She opened her eyes fully. Moved her head sharply to glare at him. “You dare-”

“I dare plenty, mother. If I did not then I would not be where I am. You are being a foolish old woman. I really thought better of you; you may imagine my disappointment.”

She made an effort to sit up. Trempwick caught her arm and assisted. Once upright she backhanded his ear and ordered, “Show a little respect! Honesty is all very well, but you are supposed to be bit more diplomatic about it, Raoul!”

Relief; her fire was burning properly again. He rubbed his ear ruefully. “That is considerably more like it, mother dear.”

She sniffed. “I hear you got my maid out of prison.” When he didn’t immediately comprehend her meaning and run for the door she snapped, “Well go and fetch the stupid girl, then! I can hardly be expected to dress myself.” She held up a knobbly, warning finger. “But do not expect much of me; up and about I might be, but I am in no condition to battle your bride, or anything else strenuous.”

“I shall be a model son, then. Under the circumstances I do not think we need to argue for Nell’s sake at present, but if you can put in the occasional comment …?”





“What if you say a bit about how you like your husband?” suggested Hawise.

Anne chewed her lower lip. “That could be suitable …”

Eleanor began to scribble words to that effect down on the latest bit of parchment. “Alright, I have ‘As to your enquires about my relationship with my new husband-”

“No,” said Fulk, very firmly. “Unless you answer in the same kind of explicit detail she wrote her questions in she’ll think you a complete barnpot. She doesn’t care about a mutual liking for reading, only activities that are likely to result in screaming new entries on the family tree to fill up the nursery so it’s not used as a guest house by a certain waspish princess.”

“He is right,” agreed Anne.

“Make up your mind!” grumbled Eleanor, as she drew a series of thick lines through the words. It was the ninth such abandoned beginning on this particular sheet. “Why not simply tell the truth?” She chucked the quill down onto the table in disgust; an ink splat appeared, and began to sink into the polished oak surface. Hoping no one else had noticed Eleanor decided to leave it; she had nothing to clean it up with anyway, except her sleeve, and she was not going to ruin yet another dress.

Anne resumed her resemblance to a strawberry. “Remember paragraph fifteen?”

Not off-hand, no, Eleanor did not remember which particular example of dreadfulness paragraph fifteen was.

Fulk very helpfully supplied, “The one with advice for luring reluctant kings.”

Eleanor scratched her head with the feathered end of her quill. “But he is not reluctant, only considerate of her age.”

“Same thing,” he assured her. “He isn’t there, so he needs getting there.”

“And anyway she would only repeat paragraph two at me.” Anne found the ceiling simply fascinating as she added in a mumble, “That would be the part where she reminds me duty has nothing to do with personal feelings or wants …”

“Alright.” Eleanor’s quill worked industriously. “How about this?” She held up her finished work for all to see. In larger than usual letters the parchment declared, “None of your business!” As Anne laughed Eleanor tossed the page on the floor with all the other rejects. She reached for another sheet. “We need to make some progress; we have used up nearly an entire flock of sheep in wasted parchment, and all we have so far is,” she looked to the page with the beginnings of what would be the final message, “‘Anne, Queen of England, by the Grace of God, to her most beloved grandmother, this in her own hand, from the palace at Waltham, this day the sixteenth of February.’ New line, then, ‘Greetings, I hope this missive finds you in excellent health.’” Eleanor set her quill down in the inkpot and pursed her lips. “I do not care if I wrote most of that lot,” she flicked a finger at the pile of waste letters, “but I am not going to be the one scraping the parchment clean to be re-used!”

The room went quiet as people wracked their brains.

Fulk clicked his fingers and leaned forward eagerly. “Why not, ‘I obey and am dutiful to my lord husband in all things in this regard’? Nice and vague, very dutiful and proper, it answers most of that lot in one go, and dumps the blame elsewhere for anything which might be wrong. It doesn’t invite much in the way of reply or conversation-”

Anne interrupted, “But she would think that something perverse or amoral is going on because I avoided answering properly, and that will get me a much longer version of paragraph twenty-nine delivered by courier with all possible speed.”

“Right then,” returned Fulk, “in that case you want to say, ‘Dear Granny, where and how did you learn such things!? Frankly I am horrified! I always thought you such a respectable type!’”

Anne began to giggle again. She pulled her feet up onto the seat and flung her arms around her up-drawn knees. “Sadly everything she said is very suitable and respectable, as she says several times. She would only send back that she knows stealing is wrong without ever having tried it herself, or knowing exactly how one goes about doing such things.”

Eleanor drew a little picture of her gooseberry and crown badge in the corner of the sheet, and let her mind wander from the not at all engaging problem she was supposed to be working on to other, more useful ones. Chiefly, Hawise. If she asked for Trempwick’s verdict on her could she trust it? Would he try to subvert her? If the maid spied for someone other than Trempwick then he would probably tell her honestly … unless he decided to claim Hawise was a spy for someone else simply to prevent Eleanor from trusting, liking or wanting to keep her. It went without saying that if Hawise was one of Trempwick’s people then he would not tell her, but it could at least narrow the field.

“How about ‘Thank you for the advice and recommendations, but it is really rather too early to wonder if I am barren; it has only been a little over two months, and anyway once is not …’” Anne petered out; her blush was once again renewed. “No. She would be very displeased with the truth.” It was the eleventh time in less than half an hour Anne had reached that conclusion.

Hawise’s quiet voice declaimed very seriously, “‘Dear grandmother, I am happy to report that everything is just fine, in all possible ways. Your concern and advice is touching, but not needed. I am having such a wonderful time here in England you really would not believe it! All the men are very handsome, and very friendly to me, and I am never left wanting for company, even while William is away.’” The maid winked at her stunned audience, then began sewing again.

The delayed effect set in, and everyone except Anne started laughing. The queen exclaimed, “But she would kill me! She would get on her fastest horse, charge down here, and then strangle me with her bare hands while repeating paragraphs nine and ten at me!”

Someone knocked on the door. Trempwick let himself in, after waiting a couple of seconds. As soon as she saw who it was Eleanor’s heart sank.

“I do hope I am not interrupting?” he asked.

Eleanor found a smile from somewhere and gestured at the mound of parchment on the floor. “We were just helping Anne write a letter.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “I will not ask how it is going, then. I have some questions I must ask, beloved Nell. Might we move to your room? It will not take long.”

She set aside her writing implements and got up. To the others she said, “If you can replace me as scribe you can continue working while I am gone.”

Anne also stood up, putting on her most regal front. “One moment. Spymaster, I require an explanation of that flogging earlier.”

Trempwick made a meticulously correct bow to her. “Nothing to worry yourself over, your majesty. Three men had been harassing the king’s prisoners, against his standing orders, and against the prince’s also. The matter is concluded now, and the problem at an end.”

“Prisoners?” Eleanor felt sure she already knew.

“Juliana, and probably others.”

Just as she’d thought, and her spirits managed to sink even lower. In a way it was her fault, like so many things. She followed Trempwick though into the other room, and once the door was shut asked, “What exactly happened to her?” She owed the maid that much; specific guilt to bear, not vague.

Trempwick sat down on the bed and patted the space at his side. “Nothing too bad; she brought up my name to protect herself. Do not worry yourself, sweet Nell.” When she sat he placed his arm around her; obediently she leaned against him and let her muscles go slack. “I do have questions I must ask, but they can wait a minute or two. I spoke to Hugh; he refused me.” He halted, and Eleanor got the impression he was calculating something. That only lasted a few seconds. He kissed the top of her head, but something in his voice was harder as he continued, “But that was only a preliminary skirmish; the true war is not yet begun, and its battles are still there for the winning. Win them I shall, on my terms. I cannot outrank him, but that only matters if I choose to fight in a lack-wittedly straightforward manner.”

“What will you do, master?”

He looked down at her, and asked, “‘Master’?”

Eleanor covered her slip with smoothness born of long practise, “You are scheming, and that makes you the spymaster.”

His eyes continued to search her, as if he could see into her soul and heart. As a child she had believed he could, until she had discovered it was a kind of trickery, and then had learned a little of that trickery herself. She tried to remain transparently open, but still opaque enough to hide what she wanted. Finally he looked away, satisfied. “I have the beginnings of one victory with your brother, though. Also the foundations of a few plans, and a few other, more complete plans.”

“Anything interesting?”

“You know I do not like to brag, so pardon me if I say nothing.”

“As you wish; it only means I do not need to admire your cunning.” He laughed at that. “But you can at least tell me what you plan for Fulk and Hawise.”

“That depends rather on what you wish me to do with them, beloved Nell.”

“I made my decision on Fulk long ago, and you know it.” She waited, seeing if he would reply to that. He didn’t. “Hawise … I am not sure what she is. As a maid she is tolerable, and perhaps even useful enough to take home with me, but if she is a spy then obviously we do not want her.”

“She is not a name known to me, but by no means I do personally know the names and identities of all the opposing pawns here at the palace. I have already started making inquiries amongst my usual sources; I shall let you know what I discover.”

“You still have not exactly answered my question; what if we do not want them?”

He pulled her plait forward across her shoulder and made a great show of inspecting the way the single interwoven ribbon held it all together. “If I told you then you would have to admire my cunning. No harm will come to them, I shall say that much. I promised you that for your pet before, and how could I possibly harm a maid capable of taming your hair?” He transferred his grip to the bottom of the braid, and started toying with the stub of loose hair left below the binding ribbon. “Very good work, though honestly I prefer your hair loose.”

Eleanor snatched her plait back from him and tossed it back over her shoulder. “You are the one who insisted I wear it up all the time now!”

“Of course; I also like you to wear clothes in public, sweetest Nell. Same principle. Now, my questions. Was it arranged in advance that you would send Juliana for a tray of food?”

“No.”

“Did you request anything specific, or leave her and the kitchen staff to choose?”

Eleanor took a moment to remember. “No.”

“And the same for drinks? You did not-” he broke off as the door to the room opened without warning.

Eleanor greeted her brother with a frosty smile. “This is getting to be a real bad habit of yours, Hugh.”

Hugh shut the door and stood before it, one hand resting on his belt, just next to his dagger. “I knocked.”

“Then you must have done so very quietly, because we did not hear it.”

“I shall endeavour to make a deal more noise next time.”

“See that you do.”

“Be cautious of what you say, dear sister. One might get the impression my interruption was very unwelcome.” His eyes deliberately raked over her, then the spymaster, then their choice of seat.

Before Eleanor could muster a fitting response Trempwick was there. “You did not, and I fail to see why you would think so.”

“I doubt that, spymaster.”

“The only reason I can see is one I put from my mind immediately, knowing it to be something you are above. You would not distrust your sister’s honour so, and with so very little reason.”

Hugh bridled. “I trust my sister’s honour completely, without question.”

Eleanor very graciously didn’t mention the fact he had cast very significant doubts on said honour several times recently.

Trempwick gave off the impression he was smirking, even though his face – his entire body – was carefully moulded into polite engagement. “Then it would be my honour you doubt. I find that unsurprising, but sad none the less.”

Hugh shook his head so suddenly it was more a jerk than a planned movement. “I have not said that, and I express regret that you took that impression.”

“Good, good, because that would imply that either I am going to rape my dearest Nell, or that she is so foolish she would fall for my advances despite being above reproach. I would be very disappointed to find you thought that.”

“I certainly do not,” said Hugh, very quickly. He shifted his feet, and lowered his gaze to meet the floor several paces ahead of himself rather than continue to look at the accused pair. “It distresses me no end that the possibility occurred to you, and I am most happy that I may tell you it is false, and so put an end to any unfortunate dissonance the erroneous belief may have caused between us.”

“Then,” said Trempwick softly, “I do indeed fail to see why someone might believe Nell and I were caught at a less than convenient moment.”

Silence. Eleanor felt Trempwick’s muscles relax beneath his clothes; she hadn’t realised they had tensed until that tension was gone. She watched her brother with something approaching sympathy, despite the fact it was obvious he had been insinuating the very things he had just denied. Being caught out by Trempwick was seldom a comfortable experience, but she did think Hugh a fool for creating the opening in the first place. She could see why he had tried, she could see what he had planed to do, and she even approved – a gambit which reduced still further the amount of time she spent with Trempwick would ease her life considerably, even if it arose out of something decidedly insulting. But all the same, he was a fool for letting the weapon slip out of his hands and be turned back against him.

When Hugh finally scraped an answer only a few heartbeats had gone by, but it was already too late. “Pray forgive me for my most unfortunate wording. Perhaps it would have been better if instead I had said I felt as though I had interrupted a very intimate conversation, which is honestly how I do feel.”

Eleanor shrugged before she could remember not to; she worked not to let the sudden pain show. “We were only talking of the attempt on my life.”

Hugh seemed rather relived. “Good; I should feel most discomforted if I had indeed interrupted something of greater worth.”

Trempwick’s muscles tensed very slightly again, like a fighter readying himself for action. “Nell’s information has been of great worth indeed; it gives me some new ideas to consider.”

Hugh’s face flamed. If Eleanor had been a safe spectator, out of the eyes and ears of both men, she would have groaned. Hugh was going to pieces; that one small mistake had cost him more than a few uncomfortable moments, it had damaged his confidence. “The investigation is of great worth, as is my sister’s life-”

Trempwick appeared very puzzled, but Eleanor knew it to be one of his acts. “But whoever said otherwise, your highness?”

“No one, of course.” He swallowed hard, then took a slightly deeper breath than usual. “I was only attempting to voice my gratitude for your work, and delight that you feel you are making progress. Previously, when I first mentioned ‘great worth’, I believed you might have been soothing my sister’s distress over the very sad events these past few days. I know she has been very sorely beset by cares, and feels some guilt for what has happened, though clearly and certainly she has no reason to.” Hugh frowned, then looked Trempwick in the eye, all trace of his nervousness gone. “What I am making a complete pig’s ear of expressing is my acknowledgement of the bond you and my sister share, and the fact that you, and only you, can truly comfort her. She needs it. She is long past the time when a brother is sufficient. Forgive me for making such a mess of expressing it; it is a sentiment not easy to place into words.” He transferred his gaze to Eleanor. “Especially when one almost does not wish to admit it as fully true to oneself.” It was a good recovery, and it closed up the vulnerability.

Trempwick said, “A very fine sentiment, your highness, and it does you credit.”

Hugh nodded curtly. “Thank you. I came here in part to pass the latest news of our king to Anne, but also to impart the same news to my dear sister, as I am certain she will have an interest in it. He continues his trip through France; travel is easy and the weather good for the time of year. He is making rapid progress, but is moving at a slower pace than he might so as to take full advantage of the journey to sound out the local lords. Most flock to his side, and those who do not come in person send messages, and so he surmises that thus far all is well enough in his domains. There are, as almost always, a few lords trying their luck, and he plans a few demonstrations to prove age has not dulled his edge. He is having little trouble in extracting sets of four men from each lord to bolster his army without exposing himself to the potential for treachery that larger numbers from each lord might bring. At the time of writing he was due to reach Saint Maur in another ten days.”

There was not a single thing in there that required Hugh to come dashing over here to tell her, or so she believed. Eleanor smiled dutifully. “How wonderful.”

“Good news indeed,” said Trempwick.

Hugh turned back to the door. “Now I shall depart, and allow you to resume your work.” He turned back, and bowed to Eleanor. “Forgive me, I neglect my manners in a most egregious way. How are you today, sister? Everything is well, I trust?”

That was his real reason for coming, Eleanor knew at once. “Yes, thank you, Hugh.”

“Good, good.” And on that note Hugh left.

Trempwick continued to gaze at the spot where Hugh had been, mind miles away. After a while he blinked and returned to the present. “I shall have to go; I have certain pressing matters which must be seen to, and I can delay them no longer. We will have to continue this over dinner, beloved Nell. I am sorry.”

“I understand. At dinner, then. It will help pass the time between dishes.”

He kissed her very delicately, perhaps an effort to make up for his momentary and forthcoming desertion. Despite his care it was far from comfortable, but she endured without complaint. “That cut lip of yours is a real menace, Nell dear.”

The door was part way open when Eleanor asked, “Raoul?”

“Yes?” His irritation at being held back was so evident she wished she had not spoken.

“I wanted to ask something.”

He shut the door again. “Then ask, instead of wasting my time. Away for a couple of days and years of my training are immediately forgotten.” His face eased. “My apologies; I am … distracted.”

Eleanor acted as if she had not heard the last part; she clasped her hands in front of her, raised her chin and spoke clearly, as he had taught her to do, “I have been hearing stories, from Anne, but originally from my father, which differ from reality as I have always known it. I want to know how much truth they contain.”

She said nothing, and waited. Trempwick invited, “Tell me these stories, dearest Nell.” She could tell it was a reluctant offer; he wanted to be gone, and his mind was partly engaged elsewhere.

“He claims to have loved my mother. He supposedly wrote a song for her, the one beginning ‘Though I wander far, you are always in my heart’. The notches on the back of the garden wall were supposedly cut for him, so he could see her without people bothering them.”

Now she had his full attention. “And?” he asked, demanding her analysis.

“And the last cannot be true; to be free of people all he needs to do is order them away, and he has been doing this much of his life. No one would dare bother him in his bedchamber anyway, or in hers, so the garden is redundant. The second story part is possibly true, but as an empty and expected gesture, I believe. The song remains mildly popular today, and is generally considered to be good; I doubt it is entirely his own work, if he did have any part in it at all besides claiming credit. The first, that is not how I remember things, but I saw little and was very young. Until now I have encountered nothing to make me doubt my own view of them, but I admit I have not looked very hard because I never wished to know.”

Trempwick let his hand drop from the door latch and wandered a few steps away, both from the door and from her. “Nell, beloved Nell, dear little Nell, you have always had such a gift for asking difficult questions.”

“Sorry, master.” Again she waited patiently.

He turned back to her. “Nell, you ask me an impossible question. I can only give you my thoughts, and they could be wrong. They are more than I could tell you easily, and very lengthy.” Still she waited, expectant. She knew he would say more, so long as she did not disrupt the process. His gaze turned inwards, and again she knew he was only partly here, but despite his understatedly grand show of thinking she knew it was more a test of her patience; a tutor’s affectation of his. “He is getting to be an old man; old men often look back on their past with kindly eyes. Does he think he loved her? Yes. Did he? Probably not, at least not until after she died and he realised the gap she left behind.”

Relief coursed through her; Anne had been deceived. She had been right. “Then it is all lies.”

“Nell, I did not say that.” The words contained sufficient disapproval to make her cringe inwardly. “I warned you my answer was difficult and lengthy; this is what comes of condensing it.”

“So what is the rest of that answer?”

“As I said it is lengthy and complex, dearest Nell. You ask for their life story.” He brushed a spec of dust off the skirt of his tunic. “To sum up very, very briefly, and quite unsatisfactorily, they were much as you might expect from any couple pushed together by expediency and in their position. He was not cruel to her, although neglect is a kind of cruelty and I suppose in the early years he was somewhat guilty of that. They grew closer after a few years had passed, and spent more time together after that. I would say they became fond of each other. The song he wrote in their first year; quite what his motivations I could not say, as I was but a boy myself at the time. I suspect it was partly because it was expected, and partly because the young king hoped to impress his new wife and win her over. Will that do for now?” he inquired, his tone stating that it would have to. “I really must go. I can tell you more later, if you want.”

“I suppose so. Thank you.”

It was only after he had gone Eleanor realised he had avoided answering her question about the wall.





4,939.

A person! One of the 100ish readers has commented! :faints clean away from the shock:

Thanks, Monk. It's very reassuring to hear that people here still like the way this story is going; I know the twist and the things it introduced will not be to everyone's taste. Viewcounts don't help much in that respect.

[zelda12]

I'm still here playing catchup! ~D
:book:
I'm currently trying to read a post a day. I'll jump it up once my exams are over but you know how it is. What I've read so far is as amazing as ever! ~:cheers:

[AntiochusIII]

Oh, lady Frog, do not despair if somebody doesn't comment. Somebody, like me, really, really likes your story... but... got nothing good to say. ~D

You see, I am too inexperienced to actually make a constructive literary criticism. (Now, a person who did not speak English as his mother language and only speaks it primarily for a year could not be expected to do so... ~:) ) However, I come here to say that your story is simply amazing!

The main reason is that I, and most likely many others, wouldn't like to clutter your thread with every joyful glee everytime you post (kinda like EB's weekly preview...) ~D

So enjoy your writing, it is well appreciated. :bow:

[Aetius the Last Roman]

Brilliant Story,
will look forward to the further entries.
don't have time to comment on much as I have exams and obsessive reading really does not help my revision schedule.

The characters, wow!
I hardly read anything which possesses such real characters anymore, everyone seems contented with the inane scribblings of Dan Brown and other trash.

[Lothair]

It seems like ... Monk's comment was the one comment which started the comment ... rush?

Heh. I like the recent twist the story has taken, life at court, intrigues and things, for me it make the story both better, more beliveable (the one point which annoys me most thus far in the story are were Fulky and Nell kills the thugs sent by Trempy. Not overly believeable. (is "believeable" a word at all? :inquisitive: )) and everything. And Anne. Loved the scene in your last post when she asked Nell for help with the letter.

But, uh, the one thing which made me post this, was that when I listened to N.E.R.D.'s "Maybe" now, the lyrics, well, described the recent relationship between Trempy and Nell (You wouldn't think that they were spymaster and princess by their pet names, surely. ~D ) frightfullingly well:

"(...)
Well they say,
If something's yours,
And you let it go,
If it comes back to you,
It was yours all along.
Well I let you go,
Along with those lies from you.
I wonder what else lies in you,
Or did the lies just eat it gone?

I know you thought your life was gonna be easy,
When you didn't call.
You found that you were wrong, haha.
See I know you thought your life was gonna be easy.
You thought you had it all,
But you found that you were wrong.
(...)"

I can see for me a godlike being (frog, maybe?) saying that to poor old Trempy (now I make him sound like a donkey..).

[frogbeastegg]

Nell trailed after him. Subdued. guarded. Apprehensive. But so carefully hidden only he was likely to pick up on it. He was displeased, and she knew it. Given … everything it was good to see he could still inspire that. Not that he had ever doubted.

They entered the guest house first; the miscellany of servants and his mother further behind. Trempwick wrenched open the door to Nell’s borrowed bedchamber. “Wait,” he ordered. He closed the door behind her – quietly, but so quickly it still gave the impression of being slammed – and went to his own room to fetch something from his bags. Then he went back, and joined her, hiding his item behind his back under the harmless guise of clasping his hands at the small of his back.

Quite fascinating; she had chosen to sit at the window, though the shutters were closed against the evening’s encroaching gloom. The point furthest from the door.

For a heartbeat or so he stood just in front of the closed door, eyebrows raised in a mild, undefined question. She didn’t do anything. So predictable. She always left the first move to him. To prevent herself from betraying anything extra to him. So … cute. Learned the hard way, after once starting to defend herself from an offence different to the one he intended to raise. That had been most amusing.

Trempwick crooked a finger at her. She came, grudgingly. “Hand.” She extended her left hand. Revealing. Mistrustful enough that she took no risk with her favoured hand. He dumped his prize in her outstretched hand; a fine girdle of small silver plates linked together, set with pearls and finely engraved with a spiralling pattern. Part of the girdle spilled over the edge of her palm, and the rest began to pour after it. She captured the gift between both hands with a speed he found admirable. “How much do you think that is worth, beloved Nell?”

Guarded. “I could not say.” She hadn’t even looked at it, much. Too busy watching him.

“Guess.”

She examined the girdle properly. Checking workmanship, the items gone into its construction, the amount of metal used. “A lot.”

“So you will see on my accounts ‘Item: one silver girdle set with pearls. Cost: A lot, to be paid in two instalments.’?”

“No, master.”

Again, master. “Let me illuminate for you, sweet Nell. That exquisite little trinket cost me fifty-six pounds, eight shillings. Made at my request, by a master craftsman. It took him, he says, and I do not doubt, twelve days from start to finish. Twelve days where he did no other work at all.” He made it clear he expected some comment.

Hesitation, not entirely hidden. A brief calculation of what response was most likely to keep him happy. “It is very pretty, master.” She did mean it; the way she continued to gaze at the girdle, the slight tinge of gratitude in her voice, a certain limited mitigation of her visible nerves.

“Yes,” he agreed. Be breezy now, light, cheerful. “Put it on; I had it made to be worn, not carried.” He waited while she swapped her existing girdle for the new one. Contemplated helping her arrange the two loops. Decided, before the question even fully formed, not to. Distance. Keep her guessing. Suspense. A hint of forgiveness, but not overdone. That was best.

Once the exchange was complete he requested, “Do a turn.” She did. He assessed his gift. Length was good; the two ends hung correctly to just below her knees. He had the slenderness of the oblong plates correct also; just suited to her dainty frame. The pearls and etchings were understated, but sufficiently decorative. Silver would go well with any of the colours she usually wore. It was rich enough to suit her status, and to compare favourably with most others at court. But still not ostentatious, gaudy, or wastefully extravagant. In a sea of peacocks Nell would have quiet style. Taste too. He knew she would like that as much as he.

He let his ill-temper be forgotten. Looked openly admiring, but not to the point of excess. True sentiment. “Walk to the far side of the room and back again; I want to see how it looks from a distance.”

She did so. She was not fooled by his sudden change in mood. She was not meant to be. She did like the gift though. Just doubted its meaning, and him.

Honesty. “Very handsome,” he assured her. He gathered her into his arms. Let it stand for a moment as simple affection and appreciation. Trempwick leaned down, and asked quietly, just next to her ear, “So why, when I can fling away money on baubles like this, why did you go grovelling to your brother for a few paltry shillings instead of coming to me?”

Her reply; smooth, prepared, “You were not here, and not supposed to be here until tomorrow. I could not wait; the need was very pressing, and this was the lesser of two evils. I could not allow myself to be shown as penniless; I would be a laughingstock.”

He drew back, away from her. Resumed the measuring teacher’s appearance. “Explain to me, sweet Nell, why precisely I am so exasperated with this arrangement.”

“I did not warn you of it. I am in his debt now, very slightly. He has a new hold over me, though a minor one.”

“Neither is something to be allowed lightly, dearest Nell, and I always appreciate being warned of anything which might affect either of us.”

“No, master. I am aware of that.”

“And he humiliated you when you asked, and will do so again and again whenever he can using this arrangement until it is severed. That gives him still more power, and weakens your own position still further.”

“I know, master.” A touch of annoyance. She didn’t like being reminded of the obvious in this way. “It matters little in the end – let him think he has some small mastery of me. It is not the case, and the belief keeps me that little bit safer from him.”

Be inscrutable. “Is that all?” Now expectant, testing. Has she learned well, or will she fail to win his approval. Such an old game, but always exhilarating to play.

“No, master, it is not. If any of this becomes public it will be quite obvious my brother is treating me poorly. He must pick his moments, and his acts, with care, and that gives me some … potential leeway.”

“Elaborate,” he commanded. A formality only; he knew her likely answer.

“If I can but keep out of his reach in private then I am mostly safe. You saw he had to make his ‘gift’ of money tonight quietly and courteously, instead of taking the opportunity to pick at me again. Even if not I can turn things to my own advantage a little, give him a rough ride. He is currently suffering from an uneasy conscience, thanks to my pretending to faint before the hall. The belief is that my weakness was real, and that it was caused by distress at recent events, but he knows otherwise. But if they knew what he had done …”

“Nothing else? No more to add, no other reasons?”

“No, master.”

Assess. Take a moment to weigh her words with fitting consideration. Pronounce judgement, “You are overconfident, dear little Nell. Your brother will do what he will do, and if he is resolute then you will not stop him with such small tricks.”

“But he will have no reason to do anything I might wish to stop.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

She nodded. Seeming confident. Sure of herself, and her notions. “Yes, master. He needs excuse, to keep his own appearance blemish free, otherwise he will only appear cruel or vindictive.”

“That is true, but he has had little difficulty in finding cause, has he?”

“That was before this arrangement was set in place.”

Consider. Calculate. Be seen to do so. “Very well; it all becomes rather futile now I am here, anyway. As I find myself saying with alarming frequency, I shall protect you. The deal will be broken off; I will provide you with sufficient funds. You will not see Hugh unless I, or others, are present, with the preference being firmly on myself. You will keep out of his way. You categorically will not give him even a fraction more control over you, illusionary or otherwise, without my express permission.” No hint of negotiability. Instead an outline for what would be.

“Yes, master.”

“And Nell? Dearest Nell?”

“Yes, master?”

“You can stop calling me that now.” Let it go; extend forgiveness. Give her absolution. Retribution would have to be postponed to a more fitting time, irksome as that may be. Return to a more friendly footing. Allowing indulgent humour to enter his voice Trempwick said, “No more surprises, sweet Nell. My old heart cannot take them so well as it used to.”

A hint of a smile from her. “You are not old … not that old.”

Trempwick clutched one hand to his heart. “One clean shot; oh, the agony!”

Her mouth twitched in a tentative smile. “I shall check you over for grey hairs later; that will settle the question well enough.”

“If you find any, beloved Nell, I shall blame you for each and every one.”

“Credit where it is due.”

He laughed. “A game of chess seems just the thing to while away the remainder of the evening, beloved Nell. I hear you have been practising your game a little. I think I shall request some wine along with a chess set; have you any preference?”

“Clairet would be pleasant.”

Trempwick exited to the outer room. The knight was playing knucklebones near the fire, and talking to the maid. They both stopped what they were doing; the knight catching his knucklebones one last time to make it clear he did not hurry to the spymaster’s beck and call. So pathetic. Trempwick ordered, “We require some clairet and a chess set; someone fetch them.” The knight looked up. Again, that well hidden hatred, now intensified. Trempwick met the man’s eye, then casually dismissed him in a deliberate move intended to annoy – he went back to Nell’s room with a spring in his step. He now knew who would deliver the items to them. The knight. All eager to see that his worst fears were not real. Wanting the reassurance of seeing them only acting as friends. Fearing to see someone doing as he himself wanted to do, to see again how he had lost. Ah, revenge. Not something to be indulged often, or to any extent beyond minor. But irrefutably sweet. Returning the favour; he’d spent long enough worrying about the knight and Nell.

He halted in the doorway as he heard quiet footsteps behind him. The maid, bearing a wooden box. She extended her offering to him with a small curtsey. “There was a chess set in the outer room, lordship.”

“Thank you.” He let her go, and closed the door. The knight would be fetching the wine now, to bring that himself.

Trempwick shuffled the furniture a bit, setting the room’s table between bed and the lone chair, moved over from near the fire. Together he and Nell began to set out the game.

“Your brother,” he said, “seems under the impression I should never take a break, and should never want to see you in those breaks. Quite inane, considering he then tells me – so frequently it begins to tire me – that he knows how fond I am of you.”

She placed her second to last pawn on its square. “I do pity his poor wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I like her. The mere thought of being married to a slow, stolid, mostly stupid, lump with no flare, little wit, scant sense, and a sense of duty that forgets people are just that, well, I admit it is enough to make a religious life appealing.”

“I must admit I see your point, and share it.” He shivered exaggeratedly. “You should have met some of the heiresses my mother pushed at me. Dear Nell, honestly they would give you nightmares! They certainly did me – if I drink too much ice wine before retiring to sleep I see hordes of them, blank eyed and polite, descending on me.”

“At which point you wake up screaming.”

“No,” he corrected. “At which point I continue to dream that I can never find anything in my study again, because it has all been tidied.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

An idea; a good one. Trempwick moved to sit at her side on the bed, and began to unfasten the bow at the end of her braid.

“I do wish you would make your mind up,” she complained. “First my hair is alright loose, then looks better up, then is preferred loose, then up, and now loose again. I shall shear it off level with my shoulders; that will put an end to the problem.”

“And look like a runaway nun, beloved Nell?” His hands deftly undid the braiding, disentangling the long ribbon from equally long locks. “Think of how inconvenient it would be; you would be arrested frequently.”

“Nuns, urgh!” She glanced over her should briefly, grinning. “The haircutting is one excellent reason alone to avoid taking vows. Short hair looks quite hideous.”

“Long hair is very ladylike,” he agreed. “It is entirely superior to short hair in every possible way.” He began to comb out the few tangles with his fingers.

So fortuitous; it was at this point the knight knocked on the door and came in. The concealed hate flared; the knight thinking murder. The jug and goblets were set to one side, and the knight departed. Nell had all but ignored him.

He ran his hand over her hair a few more times, enjoying the privilege which was his alone. No other man should see her with her hair loose. No one else should play with it. One small aspect of their relationship, restored to rights. One of her eccentricities tamed into something reputable. “There; that looks much better.” Trempwick poured two cups of clairet, handed one to Nell, and sat back down opposite her. He sipped his drink, regarded her over the cup’s rim as he did so. She was settled now. Still marginally wary, but that could not be helped. “You want to play black or white?”

“I do not mind,” she replied.

He put his drink down, and turned the chess board through a half circle. “Play white, dear Nell. Take the first move, for once.”

They played. She was the same as ever. Overhasty. Lacking long-term plans, or indeed any plan beyond the next move. He always found it a saddening sight. She could be good at this, or any game of strategy. If only she tried.

A few more moves passed; his own flowing quickly as he needed to do so little to counter her. Boring, tedious, lacking challenge or real need for skill.

Then, very softly he asked, “How much longer do you think you can deceive me, beloved Nell?” He did not move, kept his face turned to the chess board, but rolled up his eyes to watch.

She blanched. That one you could never truly control, just like a blush. “I do not know what you mean.”

Potential moves, flitting across his mind. Appearing, considered, dismissed. An occasion where a touch of violence was constructive and excusable? Yes. He dashed the goblet from her hand with one carefully aimed, feline-swift swipe. “Enough of this! You will stop lying and evading, or I shall get very fed up.”

She almost cringed. Better. The devastating silence was only broken by the goblet rolling to a halt on the floor. He saw her reach for her control. Once grasped, she replied, “Really, I do not know what you mean.”

He sipped his own drink, then emptied the cup in one go. He set the goblet down on the table with precision. Noticing a small driblet of her wine on his hand he wiped it away with his finger. All the time appearing blank to her; not giving even a hint of what he might be thinking or feeling. “All day, so many tiny little things, dear Nell, tiny little things which bother me. Little lies, little half-truths, little bits of information kept back, so very many little things which do not quite fit. So, my beloved Nell, you will explain. Now.”

“You will have to be more specific-”

“I think not, sweet Nell.” Now, a smile that had not a trace of friendliness. Sit back a little, pin her with a baleful glare. “You know precisely what I mean.” See what she brought up, whether it matched his own thoughts. He might find something new this way. Doubtful, but one should never dismiss such possibilities.

Simply, she answered, “Then I have nothing to explain. You are being paranoid.”

Despite being a perfectly rational man there were times when he really wanted to drive his fist through a solid object. This was one of them. Breaking one’s own hand had so few advantages, and the urge was deplorable. But so understandable. “When could you ever fool me, Nell?” He bit each word off, showing his fangs a little as he framed the syllables. He unfurled himself, and began pacing about the room like a caged wolf. “Let me tell you when, dearest Nell. Never. Not once. You might think you have, but only when it suited me to let you believe so. Sometimes it really is easier that way; sometimes it saves me so much fuss and bother. And, believe it or not, oh beloved Nell, sometimes it seems kindest that way!” A very small lie. He did not think himself so perfect, and her so brainless, that she could never keep a secret from him. If that were the case she had no place as his apprentice. But even so there was considerable truth in his pronouncement. If there was not he had no place being the master.

He turned back to study her. She had gone an interesting grey. She looked sick. She was scared. She was thinking quickly; excuses, reasons. It was all very subtle, of course. If it hadn’t have been he would have been so deeply disappointed. The sight was placating, in a very minor way. He was having the desired effect. His hunch was correct. There was something major here.

“I doubt you will believe me, but it is true,” he announced, moderating his tone to purely conversational. Wisely she said nothing. He didn’t much want wisdom. He prompted, “Nothing to say? Not even to express curiosity?”

“If I were to believe you then I find many things now make little sense. If I accuse you of lying I shall find myself spit roasted over an open fire. So no, I do not think I have anything to say.”

“Delightful, dear Nell. Delightful.” He ceased his prowling, assumed his favourite lecturing pose. “I am not fond of ructions, fuss, sulking, arguing, fighting, unsightly noise, pleading, hopeless bids to thwart my purpose, expanding effort over a less than useful cause, or a lot of ultimately pointless bother. You know that. I always act to keep you safe, to teach what I can, to keep you as content as possible considering the many confounding details. You know that also. Think on that, and then you will find everything makes sense.” Very casually, watch her closely as you say it, “It really it is quite depressing to be hated by someone you care deeply for.”

“Think on that.” She came smoothly to her feet, flung herself several steps closer to him, radiating righteous fury. Or a good impression of it. “I have done little else! Since I came here I have nearly been killed, I have been battered, mocked, humiliated, hopping from one disaster to the next with scant time to even catch my breath - just like I said would happen! But you sent me anyway.”

“So you shunt the blame for these things to me. But no, let us disregard that, and return to the question in hand. Why is that, dearest Nell? Why have you been treated so poorly?”

She crossed her arms. Reined in that anger. Said flatly, “Ask Hugh.”

“No, I think not. I prefer to ask you, and ask you I did.”

“Because Hugh hates me.”

“So he acted time and again without excuse or cause, before witnesses? And yet he is still considered well, and you are hardly believed to be an angel.” No reply. Nothing given away, by either side. “Trapped, lying.”

“He created reason.”

Fained surprise. “Did he indeed? How, pray?” He leaned forward minutely, lending added intensity to his words. “Because speaking to servants who overheard your little Llwellyn gaff put the blame firmly on you. Common gossip repeats back the fact you argued in an overly blunt way with your brother when trying to refuse his chosen servants, instead of placing your case a little more tactfully. A little more work, a little more time, and I wonder how much else I will find leading straight back to you?”

Fresh unease. “I was rather desperate to avoid the servants, for reasons you already know. Perhaps I was a little … overzealous, but anything subtler bounces off my brother’s thick skull. He overreacted in any case. Llwellyn had been niggling at me all evening, politely. He was still at it last night.” A furious scowl. “Hoped I was not in any discomfort indeed! He was prying where he was not wanted and had no business.”

“So?” he demanded.

She didn’t want to say it. Her reluctance was plain. But she was well trained. She gritted her teeth. “It was my fault.” Very quickly added, “Partly.”

A big, happy smile, just for her. “And so we begin to make progress! Congratulations, sweet Nell, on finally managing a pinch of honesty. You will admit this alters things considerably.”

“If you say so, master.”

“I do, dear Nell, I do.” Plunge back into unremitting harshness. “Why are you protecting him?”

“Him who?” Asked so innocently. So believably. What a liar she was! He was proud. Even if it was a confounded nuisance at present.

“Hugh, who else. For all your careful scorn and blame you protect him.”

“Master, I-”

“Why?” he shouted. Point made he lowered his voice. “I search, I investigate, I think until my head aches, and it all makes no God damned sense. Unless it was him.” It had been a realisation which had made his blood run cold. Fiction had become truth. Hugh was trying to remove his sister. A gut feeling, of a kind he had long since learned to pay heed to. It made sense if … the bastard had learned of what he was. Or he had known for a time, and had recently accepted it. No right to inherit; clean up the best opposition. Use resources to smother the truth. To buy support. Nell dead, out of his way. Or handed to another, to buy loyalty. Both … semi-amateurish aims, given his position. As likely to ruin him as aid him. The latter required William’s approval. Which could be gained, perhaps. Unless William saw better use in this present arrangement. Or unless Trempwick extended himself, with no guarantee of success. “And you carefully try turn me away from that. Why?”

She set her jaw; defiant to the last. “Because vague suspicion with no proof is not much use. Because it suited my ends, as keeping me ignorant has suited yours often enough.”

“You sound once more like a complete idiot,” he snarled. He advanced one big pace in a lunge, putting her within his reach. “Twisting circumstances to fit a vision that does not work really is doing you no credit. Vague suspicion is the beginning of investigation, and he is the most likely source, both for the act and for the resulting mess.”

“He is my brother. He used to be good-”

“Used to be!” He bellowed the words, as if volume could hammer his point home better. He advanced again, began to circle around her, close enough he was nearly treading on her. “When someone becomes your enemy they are your enemy; sitting around remembering old times fondly only weakens you. People change, motives change, and when they do you had best be living in the present, not the past. It matters little what Hugh was, it matters just as little what you used to be. It is what you both are now which matters, and only that.”

She became rather crumpled. Lost. Hopeless. “We cannot afford to lose him as well. He must be king. There is no one else. He used to be good; we must steer him back to it.”

Except he was a bastard, with no right to inherit even a worn out shoe from William. Informing her of that at present would be of dubious value. No, dangerous. Ignorance served his ends better. For now. Pity ignorance came shackled to folly such as that which she had demonstrated. His circling stopped. “Ah, poor Nell. The problem is, he will continue to strike at you.”

She whirled to face him. “Only so long as he believes me a threat.” She inched a little closer; very close now. Calm again. Intent. Trying to make him understand. But under it all … distress. And hurting. “We discussed this before; once we are married it all becomes easier. Tied to someone who is not in a position to pursue the crown, and who is staunchly loyal, I am put from the contest. What could you do, anyway? Even if we were certain it was him?”

“Nothing.” Plenty; covertly. “As you say, there is no one else.” Until she wanted to step forward. And she would, in time. “William would not believe anyway, and what could he do if he did?” Nothing. Same as if he knew the truth of the bastard. “And who would believe us, if we spoke against the crown prince?” Those with a mind to listen. Or a cause to. Or a need to. “But you lie to me, and that wastes my time. It places you in more danger, because I cannot counter effectively. It gives me reason to distrust you, and that will be ruinous … for you, more than for me. I need your obedience, beloved Nell, and I will have it.”

“You already do, master,” she assured him hastily.

“That is not how it looks to me.” And he would take steps to correct that. Careful steps, spread over the near future.

“I am true to my purpose – the purpose you gave me. Whatever else are we, if not guardians of king, heir, and realm? Everything we do, everything we are, is to that end. No matter personal feelings. No matter the personal cost. Save him or destroy him; I had to choose, and quickly. I dislike Hugh; I despise the arse in the crown completely. It is a sign of how well you taught me that I even try this. I believed that purpose best served by what I did; there can be no hint of the truth, no reprisals, no visible extra security against Hugh, nothing. You must look suitably innocent, or he will try and destroy you as well. I knew you would come to this conclusion yourself eventually, but I bought us time, and time is precious.”

Indeed, the first part was as he had trained her to think. But he’d never thought himself so successful. Interesting. For further thought, later. “You should have told me. I need to throw the investigation, to find a suitable party to blame and ensure that blame rests tightly. You did not buy time – you wasted it. I can always provide a suitable appearance, no matter the occasion. You know that.” Consequences for that, again delayed until a more fitting time.

There was certain element of … heartache mixed with the blue of her eyes. “I do not want you to die, master.” A small pause that seemed mildly at odds with the two declarations being parts of one whole. “As I said, he would try to kill you. It seemed safer this way.”

“What a strange thing to say, dearest Nell!” His face hardened. “I thought you did not care. Something has changed between us – you have gone distant, but try to hide it.”

Her face fell. Softened. Much more quietly she said, “Of course I care. I cannot imagine a life without you.”

Careful; give no reaction. None. She was saying unexpected things. Honest unexpected things. Wait, wait and see what else is revealed.

“If I am not your agent, then whose? No one else would have me, and I would be returned to what I was before – a very undesirable princess, to be sold off to someone chosen by a man who would see me broken. He would not choose someone as reasonable as you next time.” Such despair in those words. Such bleak recognition of the truth. “If you are gone I have no one to protect me from my family; only my own feeble resources. I would have no home, no place to go except this court where I do not fit, no real safety. There is no one who could replace you as a mentor, or give advice and help as you do. Your loss would tear a very big hole in my life.”

“Most interesting that you choose to put it all in practical terms, without even a hint of emotion.”

“Perhaps … because I cannot. I could lie, and say I loved you, or hated you. But I do not. It is both, and more, very muddled and mixed up. More good than bad, far more, but not at all simple.” A tear escaped, and rolled down her bruised cheek. Very telling; she had never been able to cry at will. Much to his exasperation - it was a handy skill for females. She could only create a pretence of tears, one which failed as soon as you saw her face. “You left me so alone, you cannot know how alone. For that I hate you. For that, and only for that.” More truth; truth she didn’t like to share. Plausible too, understandable.

The first time he’d ever heard her describe what he was to her in detail. So many years, so much had happened, and this was what he was. It was … good. Good, as in feeling. “Oh, Nell,” he chided drolly, pulling her close. You do have a gift for trouble. I let you out of my sight for four days – four days! – and look what happens! I should never have let you go.”

“No, you should not have.” Her voice was choked by tears. The same tears which were creating a damp patch on his front. “I am not supposed to be left to make these kinds of decisions; I am supposed to be able to ask you. I counted on you for that. I am not supposed to decide the course of kingdoms alone!” A rather hiccoughy sob escaped.

He kept his embrace as simply comforting. “It took me a long time before I felt comfortable with directing a kingdom from the shadows. Confidence helps tremendously. When you see a success or two the self-doubt eases, and it becomes easier to believe you can do the right thing, and get it right. It is something you will one day be doing more of, inevitably, because of who you are. My student, and one day my replacement.” A small lie, but close enough to the truth.

“Replacement? You never said-”

“No, and for obvious reasons.” Offer truth, from a certain point of view, “I hoped to build you up to it very slowly, since we have the time for it.” These events highlighted a gap in his teaching. No, gap implied it was a mistake or unintentional. A need come early; better expressed. He would take steps to correct the lack. He could combine several lessons into one; more … uncouth than perhaps me might like, but needful. “I had intended to be on hand to give advice as needed the first few times, and I had thought of much more manageable beginnings than this rather unfortunate mess, but you did not do so badly. I admit that this one is going to take even me some work. I thought we would have longer before you needed to start influencing.”

He let her cry herself out. It was so rare she did this. It was supposedly good for the soul and health, so long as not indulged in to excess. You could never accuse Nell of excessive tears. Thank God. Years passed, sometimes, between breakdowns. Or between the ones he saw. Until recently, but recently there had been far more cause. He had always been grateful; if she cried he had to do something to stop it. He was not so good at that. Others might have left her to it, William included, but Trempwick had never approved of that.

The flow nearly stopped, she lifted her face from his chest. She began to laugh, the last remnants of her tears still flowing at the same time. “Oh dear.” She looked pointedly at his tunic front. Trempwick glanced down, to see a messy patch on the wool. “It does rather spoil your elegant look.”

“I shall wait for it to dry before I leave.” He brushed at the soggy material with a thumb. “It should look well enough then. Do not worry about it.” He kissed her, mindful of her hurt lip. And, after a brief hesitation, she kissed him back. But the second time there was no hesitation. Or the third. As he touched and held so did she. For the first time he found matching passion in her; none of the usual holding back, or nervousness, or reluctance. He let his emotional armour slip a little; it was the first time he’d had reason to with her. The spell didn’t break; it intensified.

“Nell …” But to finish that would make himself too vulnerable, lacking other motives, as he was, this time.

Things grew more intense. He let his armour slip a some more. Practicality ebbed. Plans and benefits began to be forgotten. The spymaster part of him left, taking the other parts, until only Raoul was left. None of it was intentional on his part.

“Nell …” He didn’t need to ask; only keep doing, and he would probably get. But it would take a calculated spymaster’s move for him not to, or the lack of a need for words that came with an established partner. So he bared his vulnerable centre. “Nell, I want you.” And he watched the spell die, in a look he was growing increasingly familiar with. Understated dismay, some horror, some alarm.

Pain of rejection knifed in through the chink in his armour, even as he was closing the vulnerability. He let go of her briskly, regained his distance, said coolly, “I shall go then.”

And so he did, before she could manage more than the beginnings of an apology.






Eleanor was still as Trempwick had left her when Hawise tapped on the door and entered. The maid smiled nervously. “Is there anything …?”

“Leave me alone.” Eleanor woke from her daze, and saw her goblet still lying on the floor where it had landed, the nearby rushes a light pinkish colour from the wine. She went to pick it up, and saw Hawise still lingering. Irrationally angry, Eleanor lifted her skirt a little and gave the goblet a good, hefty kick over to the doorway. “And get rid of that.” This time Hawise got the message and retreated, twice dented goblet in hand.

Eleanor filled the remaining cup to the brim, and emptied it quickly. She managed to drain half of a second cup, before she found herself having immense difficulty in forcing even a tiny swallow more down. Such long habit; even by design it appeared getting even slightly drunk was not going to be easy.

She sat on the bed, her head feeling a little light. “What a bloody mess!” She let her head drop to rest in her hands. Ha! Understatement. Oh, everything had been predictable enough, and had gone well enough, but the end … What the hell had come over her? She choked down a little more clairet, and nearly brought it back up. Giving up on drunken oblivion as a bad idea she dumped the cup to one side; ending up with a splitting headache and the loss of whatever self respect she had left was not going to help.

She flopped back onto the bed, ignoring the complaints from her sore back. Point: Trempwick was never supposed, intended, wanted, whatever, to get better than mildly enjoyable, and he was not even supposed to be that. Point: He just had. Enough to make her forget she was married.

Eleanor strongly suspected it was more to do with her current state of mind rather than real attraction. So much of what she had said had been true; things she could not let anyone else know of. If Hugh knew of her conflicted state he would begin to doubt her dedication to their cause; if Fulk knew he would be hurt. For once she had not had the feeling Trempwick had been calculating every move, every detail, to his best advantage. He had not reminded her of a poorer copy of Fulk. He had been different, honest … himself. Fulk was still better, but that was unsurprising, given the depth of feeling involved. But all the same, it had been pleasurable …

Bowing at last to the insistent discomfort, Eleanor rolled onto her side. Married; it didn’t feel like it, not in any way. She would have to keep a tighter hold on that fact from now on, before she did something completely idiotic, something which did more harm than leave her feeling very guilty. She had made her choice, long ago, and she would keep to it. Trempwick wanted to make her queen. She didn’t want to be queen, at all. Less still did she want to be his puppet queen, pushed to power so he could rule. Joining with her family against him was the only way to block that. The price of either option was heavy, but this cost should be a little more bearable than Trempwick’s alternative.





Fulk pulled his blankets up tight to his chin and tucked them in about his body until he resembled a sausage, vainly trying to guard against the fierce draught racing about the floor. From soft, warm bed to a straw stuffed pallet on the floor again; what a drop.

He worked his right hand free, and let it rest against the base of the door. If it wasn’t for Hawise he could slip through to join Eleanor, and no one would be any the wiser. The door leading from this outer room to the passage was bolted for security reasons anyway. If it wasn’t for Hawise, sleeping on her equally miserable pallet at the foot of Eleanor’s bed …

Other ladies had maids – all ladies had maids. Most of those maids worked for their mistress; accomplices in crime, reliable and useful. If Hawise were such a maid then she would simply come out here to take Fulk’s place until just before dawn, and keep the secret. Hawise might be such a maid, but they couldn’t take the risk of sounding her out, no matter how cautiously.

Outside the wind picked up, and a new draught came to keep Fulk company. He whipped his hand back inside his cocoon, and wiggled down until the tops of his blankets came to his nose. A nice feather bed, a gooseberry, most of a night; the possibilities were numerous and very pleasant.

As was so often the case now his own thoughts of Eleanor called up other ones, considerably less happy ones. That prediction he had made - “He will ruin you.” - now being enacted before his eyes. He’d missed the beginning, but he saw the continuation, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. Thanks to the need to keep Trempwick in the dark Eleanor was left playing princess-falling-in-love, and she had to play it convincingly. Which meant she had little choice if that smug, self important, arrogant, nasty bastard wanted to …

To stave off those thoughts, and for some kind of comfort, Fulk reached for warming ideas of vengeance. First … he would geld Trempwick. With a bit of care that could be dragged out to three steps; one testicle, then the other, then finally the rest. The whole lot could be arranged on a skewer and roasted for the spymaster’s last meal. Putting his eyes out; early on, or later? To allow him to watch in horror as he was mutilated beyond recognition, or to let him wonder and imagine in blind terror? He’d compromise, Fulk decided; he’d blind the spymaster about halfway through. Lopping off the ears would be another good bit to do early. Slitting the nostrils was reportedly hideously agonising, so he’d do that too. Being disembowelled was one of the worst ways to die, so that would make very nicely for the beginning of the end. A lot of general kicking and so on definitely needed to be scattered throughout. Breaking all Trempwick’s fingers and toes should go in there somewhere …

It was all mute, he knew. He didn’t have it in him to do anything other than a clean kill. Trempwick would escape with a cut throat if he ever fell into Fulk’s hands and the need to hold back was gone. Fulk was positive he couldn’t say the same for his end if the spymaster got hold of him.

No; Fulk was sure he could at least manage to boot Trempwick in the balls very hard before he killed him. That would not be barbaric; it would be justice.





:fainting: People!

That old net saying about a joke not being funny until someone posts “rolf!” or similar applies reasonably to stories too. Unless the occasional person says something it is impossible to gauge how the audience is reacting. After a few hundred pages of the story passing in almost total silence the frog gets very curious; who is reading, what do they think, do they like the way things are going, and so on.

So thank you all for coming forward and giving me some answers to those questions. ~:)

Good luck with your exams, Zelda and Aetius.

Sometimes, AntiochusIII, that is enough ~:)

Lothair: Yup, believable is a word.
See I know you thought your life was gonna be easy. You thought you had it all – Indeed, something a frog could say to a spymaster. Wonder what he would reply … :sums up Trempwick to find out: ~:eek: Well, I'm not posting that!

[Aetius the Last Roman]

thanks for the update,
I love the glimpse of doubt in both characters,
We finally see Trempy as someone who can be human and finally get proof that he trains himself for moments, even if it is subconsciously half the time.

A quick question how long do you plan the book to be (not that I want it to end or anything, just curious how much of my life this will take up in the future)?

Another thing, where's Jocelyn and the other minor characters.

[zelda12]

Thanks you Milady.

As you can tell I am studying very hard. :zzz:

Only 4 more pages to go! ~D

[frogbeastegg]

“Do sit up properly, beloved Nell,” scolded Trempwick. “You are supposed to be learning more about handling an investigation such as this, or so I told your brother. Somehow I feel you are not paying attention when you loll like that.”

Eleanor dragged her complaining body back to perfect upright, and used the excuse to relocate her clasped hands a little lower down on her neck so more of the weight fell on her shoulders. Quite what she was meant be to learning here was a mystery – Trempwick had said little, aside from directing her to her knees and apologising for the lapse in his creativity, cheerfully explaining their being at the palace was responsible, not old age or exhaustion of his mental faculties. That had been ages ago; not quite half an hour, she reckoned.

Trempwick’s appropriated study was a bare, bland room, and held little with which she could distract herself. To pass the time she began to count the number of rushes touching the first floorboard to her front right that she had a whole view of. He continued to work in silence; reading, writing, thinking, planning.

Some time later she was instructed, “Stop slumping, sweet Nell.”

A short time after that Trempwick abandoned his desk and came to stand in front of her. “So,” he began, “we must place blame for your attempted demise elsewhere. Tell me what constitutes a suitable party, dearest Nell. And do sit up.”

Eleanor willed her protesting muscles into cooperation, and diverted her eyes so she was looking slightly upward, not much caring to gaze directly at the spymaster’s belt buckle. “Any person, or group of people, with considerable resources and contacts. The party must have some believable benefit from my death. Because of the difficulties the accusation will bring, any party we wish to maintain excellent relations with should not be chosen. The party must be believable as the source; not someone, or a faction, with a reputation which will put significant doubt in other’s minds if the accusation is made public. We do not wish to appear incompetent, nor do we wish to be thought to be starting an unjust grudge.”

“Good. Define suitable targets.”

“Anyone we want to have good cause to be angry at. Any of our vassals we wish to knock down a few pegs, or remove entirely. A smaller, separate faction we wish to put pressure on, or go to war with for gain without losing face. France, as reason to start another season of war. The same would apply for Scotland, if not for the new alliance, or Wales, if they had not finally bowed.”

“It could also act as reason to break that alliance honourably, if so desired. But it is not.” He tucked his thumbs through his belt at either side of the golden buckle and curled his fingers around the band of leather, all except his right index finger, which remained free to tap its nail against the metal. “I said you would be directing kingdoms from the shadows, and so you shall. Since you have made a start, without my approval, you may continue, but with the benefit of my guidance. Who do we blame?”

“It is a very weighty decision, master …” It was also one she didn’t want.

Trempwick continued to act in a suitably bland manner, giving her nothing to latch onto for guidance. “And I am interested to see what you will come up with, beloved Nell.”

“France,” she said at last. It was the option which would do the least damage; border fighting between the English possessions and the French was as much a part of spring and summer as growing crops, though it was more frequently labelled as private inter-vassal warfare than two kings taking to the field against one another.

He gave her no clue of what he thought of her choice; still standing there, nail taping meditatively against buckle.

Committed now, Eleanor explained her reasoning, “More specifically the king’s regents; the boy’s mother and paternal uncle. They are generally unpopular, and considered capable of any deed to further their own ends in some way. Common belief is that they are lovers, and murdered the old king to get him out of their way. Nonsense, most likely, but it is widely believed. People dislike the control they have over the king, especially now he is nearly a man. Make it so my death is a continuation of the grudge between our families, or something similar, and it will be believed by many.”

“Good choice.” He returned to his desk. Absently he said, “And do sit up, darling Nell.”

Time dripped past, entirely uneventful aside from Trempwick once complaining about her slumping again.

Someone knocked on the door. Trempwick indicated Eleanor should get up and look regal as he moved to answer it. She scrambled to her feet and half hurried half hobbled on her deadened legs to the blind spot behind the opening door to gain a few seconds more to brush the clinging rushes from her skirts.

She heard a boy’s voice state, “A message for her Highness, Princess Eleanor, my lord. From the queen.”

The messenger was admitted, a pockmarked boy in royal red and white. He made a bow to Eleanor. “Your Highness, the queen requests the pleasure of your company for the remainder of the morning, if you are free and find this agreeable. She plans on taking a ride about the country.”

Eleanor looked across the boy’s head to Trempwick. He inclined his head slightly, giving permission. Even a short time in the saddle was not an appealing prospect, bruised and aching as she was, but it would get her away from Trempwick. “You may tell the queen I accept. I shall meet her in the solar presently.”

The boy performed another elaborate bow and rushed away to deliver the return message.

Trempwick chuckled and shook his head. “The queen wants to know if you can come out and play, adored Nell.” He bent to kiss her goodbye. “Do try not to fall in a puddle, get dirty, or damage your clothes. If you are not home and scrubbed for dinner I shall be out searching, and woe betide you if I find you with anything less than two broken legs in that case.”

“It has been years since you last said any of that,” she said, struck by a pang of nostalgia.

“Yes, it has. Do enjoy yourself, sweetest Nell.”

“I shall try, though somehow I feel it is not likely to be a thrilling morning. One child-queen, an assortment of twittery maids, and a collection of guards does not a fun excursion make.”

He kissed her one final time, and told her reassuringly, “I am sure it will be better than that.” She was nearly at the door when he added, “And Nell?”

“Yes?”

“If you get stuck in a tree I am not going to scour the countryside looking for a ladder to get you back down again!”

Eleanor stood on her royal dignity, and protested, “That only happened once!”






“And love you to be clean and well apparelled, for from our cradles let us abhor uncleanliness, which neither nature or reason can endure,” lectured Jocelyn, quoting from memory one of the many books of etiquette and correct living any noble encountered and consumed during their lifetime. He might have difficulty reading the text, but memorising it was child’s play.

His son’s head remained bowed, and he said contritely, “Yes, father.”

“Do you think you fit that passage now?”

“No, father.”

“Bloody right, boy! I’m having to hold my breath to even get this close. You stink like a peasant. Look at me!” The forlorn head titled up, revealing a face that looked little happier. “You stink of dung, like a peasant. You’re supposed to be my son, so unless you’re a changeling you’ve got two sets of noble blood in you from your parents, four from your grandparents, eight from your great-grandparents, and …” Jocelyn’s maths faltered and he was unable to continue his pattern without needing to pause for a bit; for the sake of appearances he didn’t bother, “and a hell of a lot more noble blood back beyond that!”

The straw and dung speckled head bowed again. “Yes, father.”

“God alone knows what your mother’s going to say.” Thierry winced, and frankly Jocelyn agreed with him. “You’re such a God damned mess I’m stuck yelling at you in the middle of the damned stable yard because I don’t want filth traipsed through my keep all the way up to the solar! Think I’m happy about that?”

“No, father.”

Jocelyn turned to the chief groom waiting patiently at his side; the man was doing his best to emulate Jocelyn’s censorious scowl. “Wash him; get him in some fit state to see his mother without her dying of pure horror and shame then send him up to the solar.”

The groom ushered Thierry off to the main well. Jocelyn waited long enough to see the first bucket of freezing cold water emptied over his son’s grimy head before going back inside. As soon as he was safely out of Thierry’s hearing he let loose the laughter that had been threatening to ruin his stern parent act.






“What was all that fuss about?” asked Richildis, before he even had time to close the solar door.

Jocelyn jerked his head at the door and said to his wife’s maid, “Shoo!” Once they were alone he answered the question, “Thierry was playing castles and sieges on the stable roof; he slipped on the thatch and came down with a bump.” Richildis blanched, dropped her needlework and shot to her feet. “He’s not hurt; he fell into a load of filthy straw and dung that’d been cleaned from the stalls and not yet removed to the fields.”

“He’s not hurt?” she repeated.

“No, a few bruises, damaged clothes, a ripe smell and wounded pride, that’s all.” His temper prodded by his wife’s upset Jocelyn exploded, “Bloody lucky! Cavorting on the stable roof - he could have broken his idiotic little neck!” He was rather proud of his son’s fearlessness and head for heights, and could see the humour in the situation. But there was fearlessness and then there was fearlessness - the difference between courage and risking life and limb unnecessarily. The boy had to learn the difference, preferably before he permanently damaged himself or got someone else killed. Then there was the mild courtesy of not giving your elders a seizure through worry.

“Or arm, or leg, or back, or head, or hip, or shoulder, or ribs,” listed Richildis. Her colour was slowly returning to normal; now the fright was wearing off anger was firmly settling in.

“He’s alright, honestly, Tildis.” He slipped what was supposed to be a comforting arm around her waist and leaned down to kiss her; immediately she stiffened and turned her head so he missed her mouth and caught her cheek instead. Jocelyn was tempted to press his attention a little as revenge; instead he pushed her away and aimed a smile that was anything but friendly at her. “Cold as ever; you’ll have to watch out in summer or you’ll damned well melt into a puddle of ice water. That’d be such a pity. Which reminds me, Tildis dear, you want first dibs on our son’s hide or shall I take the honour?”

She didn’t answer. She gathered up her embroidery, settled in the window seat furthest away from him and resumed her sewing.

“Such a stunning conversationalist, Tildis! I don’t know how I ever get a word in edgeways. We’ll see how things go then; make it up as we go along.” Jocelyn sank back into his favourite chair and picked up his sword. Before he had been fetched to see to his son he had been stripping the sweat-stained old binding from the hilt, intending to replace it with new leather to improve his grip.

About quarter of an hour latter someone hammered on the door. Jocelyn didn’t look up from carefully wrapping the new strip of red-dyed leather about the grip of his sword. “If that Thierry he’s remarkably eager. Answer the door, Tildis – I’ve got my hands full.”

She calmly put down her work and glided over to the door without giving even the slightest sign she’d heard him, giving the impression she’d intended to do this of her own accord.

A voice Jocelyn recognised as one of his guards gabbled, “Oh! Sorry to have bothered you, my lady. I thought my lord was here.”

“I am,” called Jocelyn. “Let the man in, Tildis.”

A man in his yellow and white livery over an aketon strode in, his simple kettle helm clutched in his hands. “Lord, you’d best come see, urgent like.”

“See what?”

“Lord, please. I beg you; see for yourself.”

“Oh, God’s toenails!” Jocelyn set his sword down, watching sourly as his half finished work unravelled itself and the new strip of leather fell away from the wooden grip. He stood up and followed the guard from the solar, down the stairs, through the main hall, out across the bailey, into the gate house, up the gatehouse stairs, all the time cursing fluently under his breath about stupid soldiers who wouldn’t even make a simple report when asked.

Then he reached the ramparts on top of the gatehouse. He stopped dead, struck dumb by the sight. He was not aware of moving, but suddenly he was stood pressed against the front wall, leaning forward in one of the open embrasures for a better view.

He found his tongue again. “Oh shit!”





His namesake - the great William the Bastard, or Conqueror, depending on who you spoke to – had ridden about a hostile England with just twenty-five knights for protection before the battle of Hastings. With sixty of his own men for protection here in his own lands William felt he could be accused of overdoing things. But that was the point; he was the King of England, and he could overdo things effortlessly, and in a way few could match.

William assessed Ardentes castle with a practised eye. One outer wall studded with towers, one square keep, both built in stone. No moat, no second walls, no especially tricky features. If he brought up the remainder of his army, along with the siege engines they ported, he could have this castle within two weeks if he cared to lose a hundred or so men, or he could leave a siege force for a few months and starve the garrison out. This was one of the better castles in the county, falling into shared second place behind the capital of Saint Maur.

Alternatively he could sit here just out of range with his party and wait. Wait with an air of mild, polite expectation. He was the King of England, lord of these lands, and supremely confident in that fact. Even if limited only to his continental holdings he could raise forces far larger than either Jocelyn, or Yves, or any other lordling here. With sixty of his best men – all trained and equipped in the best – and a part of his travelling household he had just travelled three days march in a little under two. It was what he was famous for: being where he should not, sooner than he possibly could be. And now, with those sixty mounted warriors and a few trailing civilians, he would take this castle without a single loss.

His infantry, the other half of his cavalry, the pair of trebuchets, and most of his household and baggage were still working their way to Saint Maur under the command of Geoffrey FitzOsborn. Once they arrived they would settle down for a siege. However William planned to finish his business here and rejoin them on the same day they would arrive – tomorrow, late in the day.

He shifted his seat in the saddle; the resulting creak of leather could just as easily have come from his bones. Well, old he might be, and his body might not take this treatment so kindly, but he had just proved once again that he had lost nothing.

On the ramparts over the gatehouse a man stumbled jerkily forward. He braced himself on the raised parts of the battlements and sagged forward, staring out at William and his force. The pose held in perfect stillness. Then shattered; the men on the gatehouse exploded into action. The flurry rippled outwards, and the sentries on the walls ceased their own staring and set about their new tasks. The sound of shouting, mixed with pounding feet and commotion, travelled on the wind out to William, very faint but so recognisable. The gates began to swing open, ponderously at first but gaining momentum.

William smiled in immense satisfaction, and signalled to his men to move out. He was the King of England, and this was why.






Jocelyn continued to gape at the army waiting outside his gates. His quick estimate was seventy armed men, all mounted, all well equipped, some in livery and others with their own coats of arms. A horde of knights, household knights, and rich men at arms who were knights in all but spurs, pay and title. One set of livery predominated, making up over half of the total display. This dominant livery was worn on flowing surcoats and painted on shields in the same manner as a knight’s coat of arms instead of the more usual coloured tunics or brief, sleeveless jacket worn over whatever armour the man could supply. Red and white. At this distance he couldn’t see the badge, but he didn’t need to; the owner was confirmed by the large banner flying above an armoured man who could simply be summed up as expensive.

Three golden lions on a scarlet background. Real golden lions – worked in gold thread they sparkled and gleamed in the sun as the banner rippled gently in the breeze. The occasional quick blue gleam proved that the animal’s eyes were made from sapphires.

“Oh shit!” repeated Jocelyn again, this time more in awe than anything else. “Great, heaping piles of it complete with flies and a stench to knock a man dead at a thousand paces! Christ on the cross! By the twenty-four balls of the Twelve Apostles, I don’t bloody well believe it! The king of God damned England at my gates! God’s blood!”

The man who’d fetched him coughed. “Orders, my lord?”

“Er … best let him in. Quickly.” Jocelyn pushed away from the wall and began to rush back to the solar. About halfway down the gate house staircase he yelled, “And be courteous!”

In the middle of the bailey he remembered to add, “Get him food, a drink, a woman, Yves’ head on a platter - whatever he wants!” Too far away from the original man for the order to be of use he shouted it for all and sundry to hear. More quietly he whimpered, “Oh God, oh God, Oh God! The king! And a horde of bloody cavalry! Where am I going to put them all!? Oh sweet Jesú! Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He thrust his head down and picked up his knees, breaking into full sprint.

As he flew through the main hall he bellowed, “Clear this damned mess up! I want this place looking pristine in less than a minute, damn your lazy arses!” The hall was actually very neat - it almost always was thanks to Richildis’ sensibilities - but he felt the need to give orders and pass the panic along.

He skidded into the solar to find his son waiting, wearing clean clothes with wet hair and skin that glowed from being scrubbed very hard. He was also sporting a reddened ear where his mother had clouted him. The smell of stables still hung on him, diminished but still all too noticeable.

“Oh shit!” announced Jocelyn. Richildis looked at him with clear distaste, Thierry with the wide-eyed awe reserved for elders behaving badly. Jocelyn forced himself to calm down. “Tildis, best put on your finery, me too, yes – we’d all better don our best. Oh Jesú, what a God damned mess! Play hostess, sort out a large dinner, we’ve got guests and God alone knows how we’re going to feed them and house them, oh damn it all to hell!”

Richildis coolly enquired, “What are you babbling about?”

Jocelyn took a deep breath. “The King of England. At our gates. Now.” New horror hit Jocelyn; he slapped a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Oh damn! The stable muck! It’s going to be the first thing he sees! He’s going to ride through the gates and be greeted by a stinking cart full of dung and old straw! Oh, God damn it all to hell and kick it up the arse – this is a disaster already!”

“The king,” repeated Richildis sceptically.

“Yes – the damned king, God bless his soul.” Jocelyn crossed himself and tore off into their bedchamber, tugging off his belt as he went. He dropped it onto the floor and began to haul off his tunic. “God’s knees, why do these things always happen on the worst possible days?” he moaned, ignoring the fact this was the first time this precise sort of thing had ever happened to him.

His wife joined him, lifting down his long courtly tunic from the pole where it hung. She helped him struggle into the ankle length garment. As his head emerged from the decorated neck hole Jocelyn looked her in the eye and pronounced with great dignity, “Thierry still stinks like a peasant, even if he’s clean.”

“And he’s going to meet the king,” she finished for him.

Jocelyn sobbed, “Oh Jesú!” He spun away, tripped over the trailing hem of his gown and began to hunt through his clothing chest for his best belt. “Do something, Tildis,” he implored. “Get yourself dressed, then do something. I’ll be playing host, so you’ll have a bit of time, not much but hopefully enough to do something about that damned stink.”

Richildis ran to the solar door, screamed for her maid, then hurried back and began gathering her best clothes and jewellery. “Oh Lord - Mahaut! Where’s Mahaut?”

Jocelyn didn’t know either, but odds were his daughter would be doing something suitably childish, complete with scraped knees and torn dress. With awful certainty he said, “Right now she’ll be talking to the man in the expensive armour, telling him how her daddy said the God damned king was here, and that he then said a lot of bad words that mummy would be really cross about. I’m dead, so very dead, devil take all this - I’m doomed!”

Richildis began to tug Jocelyn’s robe into hanging correctly, arranging the material so it fell in pleasing folds about his muscular figure. “Given what we’ve heard of that youngest daughter of his I think he’d be very understanding if that was the case.”

“Pity we didn’t name her Éléonore in honour of that particular princess; that’d go down nicely, maybe. Is it too late to rename her? How about we call Thierry Guillaume? That’d be good too.”

“Too late.” Richildis stood back and examined her work. She snatched up her comb from the little table where it lay and began tugging it through his long hair with scant gentleness.

“There’s always the baby; we can say we picked Jean in favour of prince John instead of your father. That’d only be a small lie, really. Yes – that’s a great idea! But … oh damn, he’ll wonder why we used the French version, not the English. Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn! No – worse; can you imagine ‘We named our adorable little baby after the son you recently executed’.” He shuddered. “Dancing saints - no!”

Richildis yanked at a tangle in his hair with her comb and commanded, “Stop swearing, damn it!”

“Don’t give me orders, woman! And watch what you’re doing – if you make me bald with that blasted comb I’ll not be best pleased!” Jocelyn forced himself to calm down again. This was simply more proof of God’s favour; an opportunity far better than just turning up at another’s castle to have an audience with his king. No, playing host to the king gave him many more options and far more chance to prove his worth.

Now his frenetic activity had ceased Jocelyn noticed his young son was watching them through the open door, his little eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Jocelyn smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “This, son, is what’s known as a catastrophe.”






5, 236

Hehe! I just love the way that slowly builds. It contains some great lines too; I’m particularly fond of “Damn it all to hell and kick it up the arse!”

Length is a difficult question to answer; I've never managed to get a prediction anything close to right. I thought this would definitely be completed in less than 500 pages (with that being the very generous "No way it will actually get that big!" estimate) and now it's at 538 pages. Plot wise we are a good distance past halfway, but the last part is proving to need many more words to cover than the first part. That's the downside to the story finally growing to its full complexity and cast.

With the exception of Jocelyn and William all minor characters are 'invisible' until a POV character happens to see them. Godit could be skydiving with the RAF, and unless someone sees her doing it or she later talks about it you readers won't know about it. In addition to that minor characters also need to be doing something the particular POV character finds worth noting if they are to be described beyond a dismissive "Godit was sewing." They also need to catch the attention of the right POV character; if Fulk is discussing fine literature with Anne it does her no good if another character has more important things to relay than Fulk. Sometimes it takes a long time before a minor character fills these criteria, and they don't appear for many pages. As POV providing minor characters Jocelyn and William have slightly more ... stringent requirements for getting a scene, compared to the other characters. They only appear if something important is happening; we don't often swap to them simply to see their opinion on something, or to see something of lesser importance.

[zelda12]

583! ~:eek:

Wow! When you get round to sending this off to the publisher they will probaly ask you to seperate it into two books. Which is a good thing as it doubles profits if the first one is successful. ~D


Everything is lookig good so far, except I had to restart from the beggining to remind myslef with the story. Enjoying it immensely! ~:)

[frogbeastegg]

William bent his head to listen with careful graveness to the pretty young lady perched on his lap.

“And I’m going to be a beautiful lady with a big castle, and dresses, and servants, and a husband who loves me ever so much, and I’ll watch tournaments and stuff, and everyone will write poetry in my honour.”

“Really?” he replied, still suitably serious.

The little girl – who had introduced herself as Mahaut, practically lady of this castle and the only one not panicking like a silly chicken – nodded and stuffed her thumb in her mouth. She removed it a little later with a popping sound. “And I won’t have silly people who panic every time the king comes to visit, because that’s just silly.”

He lowered his head, and said just for her hearing, “I rather like it when people panic. It means I am doing my job correctly.”

She giggled with delight. “My silly old papa is panicking worse than everyone else! He was running about giving orders, and now I think my mother has him trapped in the solar. She’s probably making him put on nice clothes and stuff, so he doesn’t look all scruffy. She’ll be saying,” She pulled herself up straight-backed and planted her little fists on her hips, and affected a scolding tone, “You should cut off that dreadful beard. It’s all hairy and nasty.” And then he’ll be saying, “No, stop pestering me, damn your eyes!” She returned to sitting peacefully on his lap, feet swinging. “When they’ve finished all that then he’ll be here.”

William filed this rather bizarre information away in case of future need, though he couldn’t imagine what possible use it could be. “Do you know why he is panicking?”

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed, as if he was asking something unbelievably dense. “It’s because you want to cut his head off.” She clutched at his mailed arm, eyes filling with pleading tears. “Please don’t do that! He might be silly, but I like him. He’s the best papa I ever had!” Her brows knotted in concentration. “And the only one I ever had too, but he’s really good, honest!”

William ruffled her hair, something his own children had usually liked. Mahaut obviously didn’t; she immediately set about smoothing her hair back with a scowl. “I am not going to execute him; why does he think I am?”

“Because he swears too much, I think. And because of that nasty Yves. My brother was at his castle for a while, and he says Yves was really silly. You should cut his head off, not my papa’s. Yves’ head, I mean. Thierry is annoying and all, but I suppose I like him. He’s only a boy, so I suppose he can’t help it.”

“Oh,” said William, rather weakly.

“Yes; boys don’t get to wear nice dresses, so they’re always a bit sulky and mean out of jealousy.”






Jocelyn entered his main hall to be treated to a rear view of the king sat on the dais, in the chair that was usually his. Many of the knights, men at arms, and assorted household members who had arrived with the king lined the sides of the hall, and members of Jocelyn’s own household mingled with the newcomers.

Jocelyn worked his way around the dais to wait to one side until he caught the king’s eye. The first thing he noticed, aside from the fact the king was still in his armour but with bare head, was the presence of a certain familiar little girl sat on the king’s knee, talking enthusiastically. Jocelyn groaned, and shuffled a little closer to the king’s eyeline in the hopes of being noticed sooner.

One of the men stood close to the king coughed politely, then leaned down to mutter something in the royal ear. The king turned to Jocelyn’s part of the gathering, eyes seeking something. They fixed on him; in all his splendid raiment he was easy to single out. “Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes,” said the king loudly, “I am pleased to see you have finally joined us.”

Recognised, Jocelyn advanced to the space before the dais, and sank to one knee. “Sire.”

The king indicated he should stand. Jocelyn did so, and took the opportunity to pass scrutiny over his king. The famous William of England was short, some three fingerbreadths shorter than most men, Jocelyn estimated. His lifeless sandy hair was both greying and thinning. The face was on the whole unremarkable, aside from a pair of piercing blue eyes which called to mind the sapphires used for his lions’ eyes on his banner. Unremarkable features did not, however, leave the king looking bland; his features had been moulded long ago into a haughty confidence and superiority, a display which had settled into bone, indelible. His armour concealed the body beneath, but he wore it well and proudly, like a man still fit and hale. He didn’t really fit the image of kingship as spouted by minstrels, but then minstrels were bloody clueless anyway. He at least passed well enough as a warrior and a noble.

Mahaut, Jocelyn was extremely relieved to see, still looked as presentable as she had several hours ago, at the start of the morning. Seeing his little girl perched contentedly on the knee of a man who had killed his own son made Jocelyn’s blood run cold. He wanted her as far out of the king’s reach as possible; same for the rest of his family.

The king gave him a second or so to judge, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a trace of sardonic amusement which said he knew exactly what Jocelyn thought, and had seen the same many times over. He smoothed a hand over Mahaut’s hair in a paternal gesture which would have ended with Jocelyn’s fist bursting through the teeth of any lesser man who tried it. “Your daughter has been kind enough to amuse me in my waiting; she has the makings of a fine hostess.”

On the king’s lap Mahaut pouted, no doubt thinking she already was a fine hostess.

“Sire,” repeated Jocelyn, unable to think of anything else to say.

“But I think we should let her go now; no need to bore her with the stuffy business of men, is there?”

Mahaut wiggled free of the king, and dropped to the floor. “Yes, I suppose I should go and look after Thierry. He’s nearly two times older than me, and he’s just really hopeless.” She did an imitation of her nurse’s oft used ‘well, what can you do’ gesture. “He thinks he’s a knight, but really he’s just a little boy, and he fell off the stables roof today into a pile of muck, and now he stinks. I don’t know what he’d do if I wasn’t there to sort his life out for him and stuff.” She scampered off, disappearing into the crowd filling the hall.

Jocelyn tracked her through the crowd until she was barred from his sight; she had been headed towards the solar, so hopefully Richildis would find her and keep her securely tied to her skirts and out of trouble. “I do hope she wasn’t bothering you, Sire.” Or saying anything unfortunate …

“No, no, not at all. Your daughter is very vivacious.”

“Yes, she is.” And she was bloody well going to stay that way, if he had anything to say about it!

“But, remarkable as her knowledge of dresses and psychology is, it is the father I am more interested in. You answered the call of a man who broke his oath to me, and fought for him.”

He had been expecting this, but the pronouncement still made Jocelyn’s hands go slick with sweat, his mouth dry, his heart race. Bloody hell; this was it. “But not against you, Sire. Only against others who had sworn oaths to Yves and not kept them.”

The king placed one hand on each arm of the chair, and leaned forward. “Men who refused to rise against their king.”

“Men who broke their word, making them as honourless as Yves himself.” Movement in the crowd near the staircase leading down from the solar alerted Jocelyn to Richildis’ arrival. She had both Thierry and Mahaut firmly in tow. She worked her way forward to watch, but kept her presence unobtrusive. They were a very pertinent reminder of why he had to get this right. Jocelyn drew a steadying breath, reminding himself God was on his side.

“Men who refused to aid a rebellion against me,” repeated the king. He sat back, head held high, as though supporting the weight of the crown he did not wear.

“No, Sire. Men who didn’t want to risk their necks for their word.”

“And you have no objections to risking your neck for your word. More than your neck – your family, your holdings. Going against your king is treason.”

“I am not a traitor. I admit I did not like Yves’ ends, and if I’d been left free choice I’d have stayed at home, but I always keep my word.”

“So why are you here now? Why not with him, in Saint Maur, waiting to defend him from me?”

“Because that would be treason, Sire. I am no traitor.” Jocelyn’s uneasiness disappeared, leaving quiet assurance behind. He took this as indication of the Lord’s continued favour, the divine hand reaching down and calming his heart. More boldly he said, “Nowhere is it said a man must become a traitor because he paid homage to a fool, but also nowhere is it said homage to a fool can be ignored as soon as it becomes inconvenient.”

“It seems you have a very interesting set of scruples, de Ardentes. Scruples which allow you to hop from side to side as desired, to your best gain and to keep the wolf from your own door.” The king’s tone indicated he knew a good many men were precisely that practical, but without the fancy trappings for their excuses.

“No, Sire. I follow my lord as is fitting, in all things, until he goes against my king or my God. At that point he is my lord no more, and I renounce my homage. I gave my word; I kept it, as always.” The minor lie flowed from his tongue with sufficient grace he nearly believed it himself. It didn’t seem prudent to bring in the Thierry as a hostage part of his tale; it seemed best to emphasise his loyalty and the value of his word.

“And if your word had called for you to follow Yves against me?”

“It would not,” stated Jocelyn bluntly. “I would never make such an oath. Never. I will not raise my sword against my king.”

The king received this with raised eyebrows. He looked around his closest men, saying nothing but making his scepticism quite plain. The men responded as required, returning their own doubtful looks. “I hear interesting stories, Sir Jocelyn. Very interesting ones. It seems you protested laying waste to Ardon, and yet surely that is precisely what your scruples would demand – harsh retribution for oath breakers.”

“Sire, I objected to pointless waste, not the removal of the oath breaker. Where’s the point in taking back land granted, only to turn it to a smouldering ruin that’ll cost yet more money to mend after costing to be broken? Ardon used to be good land; it won’t be that for years now. It’s little good to grant to a new man, more a curse than a reward.”

“Oh?” The king’s eyebrows raised. “So an honourable, pious man like yourself has no issue with killing innocents? I had felt certain that was the cause of your qualms there.”

Jocelyn knew he was being mocked for his previous high-handed speeches. “Sire, you know the principles of war as well as I.”

“And yet it also seems you were a veritable angle of mercy!” exclaimed the king loudly, leaning forward on his left arm and letting his other hand fall slack across his knees. “You rescued Elianora de Ardon and her tutor from rape and murder, and refused to hand them over to Yves.”

“Yes, Sire,” he replied simply.

“She is, of course, now her father’s sole heir, since I am reversing Yves’ damnation of her family. More so; I will wring compensation from him.” The right hand clenched into a fist. “So you have possession of the heiress to a good piece of land, though I grant it is in need of much time and work, a girl of suitably marriageable age who will soon also be in possession of a tidy sum of money.”

“No, Sire, I do not. She is a ward of the crown. I only shelter her, until you wish otherwise. I’d not dream of using her to my own ends.”

The king accepted this amicably enough. He returned to sitting regally, and said, “It has been much on my mind that I need a new Count of Tourraine.”

Jocelyn held his breath; a trickle of sweat ran down his back. He began to pray; God could not desert him now, not after all this, not so close!

“Your name is one I had considered, and certainly you are one of the logical men to use, being one of the more important local lords. But now I do wonder about your loyalty to me, and perhaps it seems to me that I would do better with Raymond de Issoudun, who is equally well placed.”

“Sire, my loyalty is absolute, without question.”

The king’s eyes gleamed. “Then you will have no objections to my taking your eldest son home with me to England, as a guarantee.”

“No!” screamed Richildis. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but the damage was already more than done. Jocelyn groaned. He was not the least bit happy, but he had more sense! They were only outlining the initial positions, no more. There was space to negotiate.

William turned to Richildis, and favoured her with a gracious smile that – Jocelyn thought – held a good portion of wolfish menace. “The boy will be quite safe, as his father is so devoted to me. He will receive a fine education, you may be assured of that, my lady. There are many such boys at court; he will have plenty of companionship.”

Jocelyn interjected, “De Issoudun is a honourless bastard - he tried to seize this castle by underhand means while I was fighting for the lord he’d betrayed. If that’s not proof enough of his nature then you only need to look back a little while, and you’ll find more. If you put him in as count he’ll betray you as soon as he thinks it’s convenient. He’ll go to the King of France.”

The king examined his fingernails. “And yet it I find myself wondering if he might indeed be better than you; he is at least open and honest in his changing sides. He does not claim it to be honourable, only practical. Practicality is so much easier to predict and harness.”

“Sire,” said Jocelyn smoothly, falling back to that well known, well trusted necessity of dealing with kings – bribery. “I’ll gladly give two-hundred pounds as recompense for the worry I’ve caused you.” He’d need to arrange to pay in instalments, that or take a loan from the Jews, and it would put a pinch on his coffers for a bit but it was manageable.

“Thank you, your generosity is most welcome.”

“I would also like to purchase the wardship of Elianora de Ardon. I can’t help but feel I’ve some duty to the girl, after all this.” One girl half mad with grief and already of an age to marry; one set of ruined lands that needed a lot of work - it added up to one wardship which was very likely to result in a loss of money, not a gain. But that wasn’t why he’d made the offer; it was a second bribe for royal favour, since it appeared the first wasn’t quite enough.

“Very well; this suits me. The wardship is valued at sixty pounds, a lowered sum in recognition of the damage done by Yves.”

A lowered sum, but still ludicrous. Jocelyn bowed his head again. “You do me honour, Sire. Thank you.”

“Having been reassured of your loyalty it is in my mind you will make a suitable Count of Tourraine. Saint Maur, the miscellaneous holdings, and the title are yours, along with the privileges which go with it. There remains only, then, the question of the relief …”

More extortion. Jocelyn’s joy was drowned out by the imaginary sound of silver pennies flowing away to the royal coffers.

“I think five hundred pounds a suitable amount. You will pay a sum now, and then two instalments each year until the full amount is discharged.”

The debt gave the king one extra threat; a legal and acceptable reason - with a little twisting of truth to make Jocelyn seem a bad debtor - to confiscate everything Jocelyn had if he ever had doubts. Combined with having Jocelyn’s son and heir as a hostage it gave the king a very solid position. He didn’t have any choice but to accept. “Yes, Sire. Thank you for the honour you do me.”

The king waved to one of his household clerks. “Draw up the appropriate documents.” The king held out his hands to Jocelyn. “You will do homage now, and you will, of course, accompany me in force tomorrow when I go to reclaim Saint Maur.”

Jocelyn mounted the dais, knelt at the king’s feet and clasped his hands. “I promise on my faith that I will in the future be faithful to you, and will observe my homage to you completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.” He kissed the king’s ring, rose, and retreated to his former position. The enormity of it all finally sank in, and Jocelyn felt giddy. He was Count of Tourraine! God had favoured him, a poor and miserable sinner! He would have to do something suitably grand in recognition of his divine debt. The answer there was quite apparent - he would give his bastard son, young Jocelyn, to the church. The lad was five now; old enough to make a start on his education. But first he must see about his firstborn son. Hesitantly Jocelyn suggested, “Sire, it may be beneficial for Thierry to remain here and learn his business firsthand, make himself known and get to know the men he’ll be dealing with one day.”

The king smiled politely. “I think not.”






Hugh knelt at his midday prayers, one of several such sets he said during each day, pleading with the Almighty for the safe birth of a son. He completed his usual litany, but remained as he was. He had more to pray for, this day. His conscience was worse than uneasy; it was flagellating his soul.

He began to beg pardon for his pride and vanity in coming between his sister and her chosen husband. Was it not said, “Those who the Lord hath joined together, let no man split asunder.”? Married they might not be, but betrothed in such a way to be as good as. His intrusion was worse because it came from such worldly reasons: power, and the pursuit thereof. Correspondingly he craved exculpation for going against his father’s wishes, instead of obeying them like a good and dutiful son, and for daring to presume he knew better.

But … he found it so exigent to believe he was not doing right. Such a small thing, to thwart a very great iniquity.

If he was correct. He might not be – others with greater judgement, greater wisdom trusted the spymaster. He was only young, a youth, barely tried, never before granted such fearful responsibility. He could be wrong, indeed to assume he was not was to place himself above those he must be deferential to.

But … but he was right … he believed … felt quite sure.

He admitted his sin in very briefly, for the shortest of instants, wishing another man dead, simply for going against him and bringing up a matter he did not wish to be revisited. When Trempwick had, before the court, mentioned the matter of his marriage again it had almost been too much. He had foiled the spymaster’s attempt, but the cost – the cost! His soul felt lacerated. Once again going against God, once again going against father, his own judgement called into question, made to look something of a fool before the court as the spymaster once again deliberately misinterpreted his words and forced him to stumble from one position to another in his need to be the devoted and reverent son he knew he should be, lying, deceiving, using power to gain and keep power, using his rank to crush the man’s reasonable request, acting in ways no good man ever should!

And then … and then he had looked at the spymaster’s carefully respectful face and wished him struck down in great agony. Hugh’s head sunk lower, and his prayers became more frantic. Requests for absolution, for strength to fight this inner evil.

Many would understand his hatred. His children, murdered, so much wrong, so much injustice, the perversion of the natural order and the ruination of a great many lives to suit the will of one man …

But Hugh knew he should be above such base emotions. Worse; Trempwick distorted all for his whims, but was Hugh not now doing the same?

Was it enough to say, “I do this for good, and with just cause.”? Could it ever be? It was his reason, his belief to the core of his soul, his explanation. He did this because he thought it right and just, for the best of those placed into his trust. But perhaps Hugh did not have the right of it? Acting on suspicion, no proof, no real evidence …

He had cursed his sister, cursed her for bringing him to this, for placing him in this situation, for dropping this burden on him. But he should not, should not. Instead he should thank her, for forcing him to confront the weakness in his spirit which had enabled him to shy away time and again from acting on what he suspected. But he had been dutiful, obeying his father, meekly and fittingly bowing to his wisdom and superior judgement – exactly as he should. That had been appropriate, dignified, pious … wrong? But to call it wrong was to place himself above others, to say that honoured and aged ideas did not apply to him. He was trapped, in a quandary. Whichever way he turned he could do little right. Every path seemed to lead to the very things he strove to be above. He must be a good man, a good prince, one day a good king. But that seemed always to require actions he knew to be wrong in some way.

The worst sin, the one which had toppled him over the edge and reduced him to this. He wrung his rosary between tormented hands. His last sin was the greatest, the one which drove him to the very depths of despair, and then beyond.

He had harmed innocents.

First two women imbibing poison by accident, but with no great harm done. Then a maid arrested – by his order! His, though he knew it to be unjust – and imprisoned, questioned, then terrified, and finally harassed by his own guards. Now potentially war with France, and the slander of innocent people with perfidious deeds he was himself responsible for. War. His mind filled with images of dead men, dead civilians, homes burned, goods looted, families broken and destroyed, children left orphan, women abused, people maimed, livelihoods lost, crops ruined and starvation following. The many evils of war, wreaked on those undeserving of such, and all because of him.

He should have been better, braver, stronger, smarter – something. If he had been then he would have found a better way.

Hugh forced calm upon himself, and recalled the words his father had taught him, shouting them in his mind to drown out all else. Sometimes a few must die to spare the many. Better a few suffer than all. Louder, he shouted to himself the reminder that while the maid had suffered in some small measure it had enabled him to cauterise a wound, and bring wrongdoers to justice, preventing future abuse. From small evil came greater good!

More words came forward, ones he had shunned, believing – knowing – them to be dangerous. A king must make his own rules. What applies to normal men does not necessarily apply to a king. Good men and good kings were … different. Hugh remembered most specifically his father’s pause there; the way he had looked distant during the pause, then snapped back to focus intently on his son as he said the last word with quiet conviction, reverence almost, in his voice. God knew of how kings stood slightly apart, had different responsibilities, different needs, different dilemmas, and so he understood. A normal man should never assume himself wiser than others; a king, by his very nature, had to. And so on through a great inventory of deeds and potentials, William had explained, taking much of the day to be sure his son understood.

“But I am not a king,” whispered Hugh. “I am not a king …”

His father’s words had been eloquent, alluring, attractive … and so very wrong, for they opened up a path he knew would lead him to places he did not wish to go.

And now … he could see no other way to stay sane and do what he believed he must. He must embrace those words, or step back, or go mad.

Looking along that path Hugh screwed his eyes shut against visions of himself as he knew he could be, ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets when the visions persisted. Even that did not dislodge them. He fell back to sit on the floor, and hugged his arms around his body, his rosary still clutched forgotten in one hand. Sacrificed on the altar of power, he could be … The image defied words, description, any form but the pictures seared across his mind’s eye. Too wonderful, too terrible, too seductive, too repellent, to be anything other than what they were. Better to be dead than that. He was already dead, compared to what could be …

In the lament of a lost little boy Hugh begged his absent father, “Come home …”






Eleanor watched as the last of the tableware was cleared from the space she shared with Trempwick. The spymaster had been distracted throughout the evening meal, but still an exemplary partner. She had been happy enough to let him lead the conversation, and he had kept them to safe, boring subjects. He had just asked how her morning with the queen had been.

“Well enough,” she answered. “It was pleasant to be out and away from the palace.” They had been accompanied by four armed guards drawn from Anne’s contingent and placed under Fulk’s command, plus Hawise and Godit. Hugh had been given them strict instructions to remain in the sight of the palace’s sentries. She had felt like a prisoner being let out for exercise.

Well enough, thought Eleanor sourly. Godit had flirted with Fulk endlessly, always remaining inside the bounds of decency so no one could complain. Not that Eleanor could complain even if the maid had been completely shameless. Fulk had played along, careful to walk the line between brushing the maid off and responding with too much interest; an uncommitted man who wanted to remain that way. The rest hadn’t been much better; stilted conversation, typical gloomy February weather, and always the awareness that there were at least two potential spies in their midst.

She noticed Trempwick was gazing past the servants clearing the tables, to the collection of people gathering in the large empty space in the middle of the hall. He turned to her with a smile, the first all evening which did not have an air of distraction to it. “We will join the dancing tonight, sweetest Nell.”

“Do we have to?”

For an answer he stood, and extended his hand to her. “Come.”

Reluctantly she allowed him to tow her down to join the rest, already with some good idea of what he intended.

Her suspicions were born out. Together they were at the centre of attention, seen by many eyes. Dance after dance, performed with matched grace. After the first few caroles people ceased seeking them as partners, recognising that they would pair with each other or not at all. At his whispered command she laughed, smiled, and played her part as best she could, though it ran counter to both heart and interests. What choice did she have?

And he was the very essence of courtly love. Attentive, always gazing at her, missing no opportunity to touch, even if it was only the brush of fingertips, often whispering sweet words to her, finding any chance and excuse to kiss her, hold her. He showered her in nonsense until she blushed. Again she saw flashes of things stolen from Fulk in him; things cheapened by the theft and carefully warped to fit the new owner. Again she let him believe he had fooled her with them, as he once would have if she had not mistrusted him so much, if she had not become so attuned to everything about her beloved.

Together they breathed life into the myth of two in the beginnings of love, two well matched and content in that match, despite the beginning. Two who had been joined together by a king who had been right after all. Two who should marry on the morrow, but would not thanks to Prince Hugh. They put meaning to the abstract of the betrothal; where before people had known of it in dry terms written to a legal and binding pact, they came to know it in the form of two real people.

A contract is often easy to have forgotten, to brush away from the minds of those not personally involved.

Two people such as they were pretending to be tonight were not.

With each step she damned herself a little more.





“When Saint Maur’s in my hands and all’s safe I’ll send for you,” Jocelyn told his wife.

She stared stonily at him. “Yes.”

Jocelyn sighed. Evidently he still wasn’t forgiven for yesterday’s loud, vicious argument. But that was just damned fine – he hadn’t forgiven her either. Thierry was going with the king when he turned back for England, and that was that. Yes, he’d be a hostage, but it was a perfectly normal arrangement, and Jocelyn had no intention of being fool enough to bring the wrath of his new liege down upon himself. It was advantageous, even – Thierry would be growing up alongside those who he’d need as friends and allies when the boys become men and stepped into their fathers’ shoes. He’d have a good education and be well cared for. He’d miss the boy, but it was unavoidable, necessary, and for the best. Shame Richildis couldn’t quite bring her little mind to understand that. Still, he didn’t much like leaving like this, less still when he was off to battle. With effort he managed to remove some of the edge from his voice, “I’ll send enough men to escort you and the household safely.”

“Fine.”

“That includes Thierry; a deal’s been made and it will be kept. Oh – and Tildis?”

“What?” she snarled.

“I expect Joss to be brought up too.”

“No. He is staying in his nicely distant home along with the slut who bore him.”

Jocelyn rolled his eyes and didn’t quite manage to transmute his growl of frustration into another sigh. “Tildis, you know I’m giving him to the church-”

“No!” she snapped. “I’m not going to fetch any of your bastards. I’m not going to see, speak to, or have anything to do with any of the harlots. I’m not sending someone to fetch any of them. I’m not going to tolerate any of them in any number being anywhere near my home. Their existence is bad enough without rubbing the insult in my face.”

“Fine; I’ll sort it out myself later, and send the poor lad off without even chance to catch his breath after being told. I do hope that makes you happy.” He picked up his cloak and draped it around his shoulders over his armour. That was it; ready to leave.

He tried to kiss her goodbye, mostly because he knew it would infuriate her, but also in the admittedly pathetic and forlorn hope it might do some good. When she turned her face away he lost patience, caught hold of her jaw in an unkind grip and forced her head back. He dragged the wretched kiss on for long enough to pass on some measure of his frustration. He pulled his mouth away, but kept his grip on her. “We did well enough when I came home, even you admitted it wasn’t too bad. It was nice.” Jesú! How bloody pathetic that sounded! The words had no effect on her, and Jocelyn had more than enough of trying for peace. “Until next morning, when you went back to being an icy bitch again with no warning, no reason.”

She looked him dead in the eye, and said clearly, “Pity seldom lasts long.”

“Thing is, Tildis, you’re incapable of pity.” Jocelyn let her go with a jerk. “You’ve no bloody heart.” He snatched up his helmet and stalked away.







5,312

You know, I rather like little Mahaut. Four years old, and so ... something :dizzy2:

From what (little) I know selling big books is a lot more difficult, just like selling series. Longer books cost more to print, and more books require a larger publisher investment, and so are a larger risk. I've seen advice to keep the length of a long story secret until the publisher or agent is hooked and actively asking for plenty more.

Manuscript pages are deceptive; depending on format, typeface, text size etc used in the final printed book it rarely works out at a 1=1 page ratio. I think Eleanor, once completed and edited to my satisfaction, would be at least 1,000 pages in paperback form. Based on some of the books on my shelves this could be done as a single volume, either in hardback or in paperback. It seems to be past 1,100 pages where publishers sometimes start splitting paperbacks into two parts.

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh waited in the throne room, standing on the rim of the pool of midmorning light which bathed the great chair. Carved in the triangular space at the very top of the throne’s back was a scene of an ancient king on his own throne, tidal water lapping at his feet, and it was this Hugh gazed at with eyes that barely saw. King Canute, trying to turn back the tides. Kingly arrogance and folly, described with exquisite skill on the part of the craftsman.

The throne had been made to replace the old throne during the second year of his father’s rule, after an assassination attempt had spoilt the generations old throne beyond neat repair. King Canute had been his specific request, or so one of Hugh’s tutors had said when the young prince had enquired. He had never found the courage to ask his father why Canute. Over the years he had found his own reasons, and discovered those reasons changed as he grew and learned. A pretty picture from a story, changed to an invocation of an otherwise great king whom William wished to emulate and outdo, changed to a salutary admonition of how susceptible a king was if he overestimated himself, changed to a reminder of the dangers of power, changed to … something that had been lost across the years, burned from the older man by time.

At last his expected company arrived, exasperatingly accompanied by the last person he wished to see. His sister; her spymaster. Thwarted in his purpose before he had even begun. Hugh knew despair. Defeat after defeat, following defeat, and all seeming so fluently dealt out.

That was why he had summoned Nell here, in part. Too many defeats, too great a need to know if she fared better, too much harm being done to them and their cause by this man their father trusted. It gathered momentum too; this morning the spymaster had carefully reminded people he should be getting married today, but would not be because Hugh had turned his father’s plans upside down. It had all been done so well; subtly, in such a way as to make the spymaster seem a self-sacrificing, loyal man while listeners were left with threads of reservation on Hugh’s motives, uncertainties formed from the spymaster’s words instead of placed in minds openly. There had been no counterattack to any of it; Hugh had not been present at the time. He had learned of it from one of his squires, and gathered more by sending trusted ears to speak to the right people. This must end; very soon, before it was too late.

Trempwick said, “An interesting choice of location, your Highness.”

“It is quiet here,” Hugh replied.

“Indeed, but the seating is so limited.”

“We shall stand together.”

“Please, as you said to me in our previous meeting, no need to stand on ceremony. Sit down, if you prefer.”

“I do not want this seat.”

The spymaster’s head quirked to one side. “Really? A worrying state of affairs – an heir who does not wish to be king.”

Hugh’s desolation rose and threatened to devour him whole; the familiar pattern was beginning over again. “That is not what I meant, be assured. I prefer to stand on this occasion. In any case, the throne is not mine, yet, and so I have no right to sit in it.”

The spymaster laughed politely, but in his current mood of self-flagellation Hugh could very easily imagine utter contempt running loudly through it. “Peace! I jest; ask your sister if you do not believe me.”

Hugh felt his face grow hot. If this were a tournament he would be lying on his back in the dirt, unhorsed. Again.

Eleanor enquired, everything about her expressing stiff ennui, “Why did you summon me, brother dear? Not for this, I hope.”

Before Hugh could speak Trempwick dealt another small defeat, by blocking Hugh from taking advantage of what she had offered unless he wished to look entirely unreasonable. “That was hardly polite, dear Nell. I taught you manners; I would be very happy if you would prove it.”

“Sorry, master.”

Seeing his sister reduced to being so meek and contrite made Hugh’s resolution blaze – he would have an ending, here and now, and pull them both out from the spymaster’s poisonous sway. It had to be him; no other could do this. Collected again thanks to her distraction Hugh hurled himself into his attack before he had time to talk himself out of it. “Quite right; that is not why you are here. Your display last night was reprehensible, repulsive, even. It will not happen again.”

Trempwick said, “I do not see why you are so upset; we were only dancing. Quite harmless.”

“It was quite apparent there was considerable mutual attachment there-”

“I should hope so! We were supposed to be married today.”

“You know how people will construe it, what they will say-”

The spymaster waved a dismissive hand, and interrupted, “Fools always talk nonsense; it is why they are fools.”

“And so you can see how it was detrimental to my sister’s repute-”

“No, I cannot,” interrupted Trempwick again. “Not unless I had no approved attachment to Nell beyond that of tutor.”

“I will not let you turn my sister into a whore.” Hugh got the words out in a low voice, after an infinitesimal delay. Uttered, the words tasted like ash, matching the sentiment in his heart. Slander …

Eleanor gasped, but quickly brought her reaction under control. Hugh saw in her the same affronted hurt he had seen the last time he had made comparable accusations, only this time she seemed almost guilty. While she acted for the spymaster’s benefit he had some faith there was little acting needed. All well and good; he would never wish there to be even a grain of truth in his accusation.

Something changed in the spymaster, some tiny thing. The easiness was gone, replaced by an iron coldness. “I am afraid I do not follow,” he said deliberately.

“You follow.”

“Oh, I can see some reasoning, but I thought you far above it. I thought your mind far more capable, more flexible, more sensible than that. I never took you for one who would see things in such limited, restricting terms. You see two people who are close, and assume that they must be lovers.”

Hugh almost quailed, nearly took the well worn path towards defeat again. But he drove himself on; he could not conceive of a good man doing otherwise. Nor could he envisage a good man stooping to such evil methods. “No,” he replied, faintly amazed by how steady his voice was, “I do not think that. But half the court does.”

“So you worry yourself about a collection of fools-”

“She will remain entirely above reproach, above even passing suspicion in the eyes of the meanest peasant. Thanks to your antics half the court is looking at you both sideways and questioning her virtue!” Hugh advanced a step on the spymaster, using his marginally superior height and bulk to try and browbeat the man. “Why was there a two month gap between betrothal and wedding? To limit scandal. Why was I granted control over my sister during the king’s absence? To limit scandal. Why do so few know of how closely connected you have both been over the years? To limit scandal. What is our king’s greatest wish here? To limit scandal!”

“I did not think you the kind to make such a mistake. People will find scandal wherever they wish to see it-”

“And far more so when you give them such easy and ready material to work with!” cried Hugh.

“Easy and ready material is the fact the match exists at all, that you well know.” Trempwick conceded Hugh a hollow victory in the battle of presences, and retired to stand behind Eleanor. He placed his hands on her shoulders; restraining, comforting, claiming. “If you look for sources of disaster then look to your own work – if we were being proclaimed husband and wife right this moment – as we should be! – then there would be nothing for silly minds to work with here.”

Hugh felt a burst of sweet euphoria; now chance for him to turn the spymaster’s usual trick back on him. “And so it is my fault neither of you can conduct yourself with fitting decorum? I had thought you both very capable of that; I did not think you so prey to your baser instincts.”

“Hugh!” exclaimed Eleanor.

Her outrage punched through his glee and started to bring back realisation of what he was doing. He steeled himself, and managed to lash at her with, “I speak as I find.” Feeling himself slipping Hugh knew he must force an ending, before he lost what ground he had won. “You will leave the palace, spymaster. Now. At once. Gather your things and go. You will do your work better at Woburn in any case, now the localised details have been attended to.”

If the spymaster was taken aback then Hugh could not tell. Unflappable, he pointed out, “Then you play into the gossipers’ hands – it will seem as if you believe something untoward has taken place.”

“So I should marry you off hastily? An action which would scream urgent and pressing reason, such as, for example, a pre-empting of the ceremony? Is that what you would have me do, spymaster? You are singularly intent on that one goal.”

“Is it so surprising, so distasteful? You would prefer I was entirely indifferent towards her, or the honour being done me?”

“It seems that care and gratitude does not extend nearly far enough to guard my sister’s good name, or bring obedience our king’s wish for a decent and reputable match without any taint of shame to it.”

Trempwick dropped his hands from Eleanor’s shoulders and stepped back around to confront Hugh close up. “I find it very fine that you speak of filling William’s wishes, your Highness, when you yourself have undermined and ignored them repeatedly in this. You asked for my council whenever I had something to give; I give it now. You are making a very grave mistake, and when William hears of it he will be furious. You disobey him; worse you go directly against him. That is treason, my prince.”

“He will hear when he returns; I shall explain myself, and he will judge whether I did rightly or not. No more could I ask for, or desire.”

Eleanor moved as if to place herself between the two men. “Hugh-”

“Stand as you are, and keep your mouth shut! I grow more than weary of trying to save you from yourself.” Even to his own ears Hugh sounded unbearably haughty. To his relief she obeyed.

“Your Highness, I say it again – think of what you do. Think of the harm you will do your credibility and ability to command! All will know of your mistake and what it brought you!”

Hugh’s heart was pounding, literally pounding, so he could feel his body vibrate with each beat. “I gave you a command; obey it, or I will have you thrown from the palace by force.”

The two men locked eyes and wills. Hugh’s certainty began to escape, so he recalled instead all his dead children, the one slain shortly after birth and the others who had not even made it so far. He remembered too why he so desperately needed to end this, what was at stake and why it was worth libel, false accusations, lies, drawing on his power and using it to bludgeon into submission opposition which had the right of it and spoke fairly. Small evils; greater good, and he would atone for this. He held.

The spymaster ended it, dipping a bow which was nothing if not sarcastic. “Very well; it is your mistake.” He extended a hand to Eleanor. “Come, dear Nell. We can say goodbye while I pack.”

Hugh said, “I think not. Given the circumstances I find it by far best to take a less lax approach now, having found neither of you to be so trustworthy as I had believed. We shall adopt the principles which would have been in place from the very start, if not for your … unique history.”

Trempwick spoke quietly, and it lent his words a certain menace, “I see. So be it. For whatever it is worth I do not hold a grudge for this; it would be indescribably petty when I know all men make mistakes, and it is better make those mistakes when the cost is still relatively cheap. Learn from this, and it may be that one day I am proud to serve you.” He bowed over Eleanor’s hand, kissed it, and said softly, “If you have need of me, send word, and I will come.” He straightened. “Goodbye, my beloved Nell.”

“Goodbye,” she answered. Hugh thought he could see unshed tears shining in her eyes.

Trempwick left the room. Incongruously Hugh noticed that even when in a poor temper the spymaster padded on near silent feet.

It was over, and he had won. Hugh walked on trembling legs to the wall, where he leaned back and left much of the business of remaining on his feet to the stonework, not trusting his drained body to stand on its own. He had won. There had been no decency or righteousness in what he had done, none except his acting to safeguard the kingdom, rather than to promote his own position. “Forgive me,” he said, in a low voice.

A delay, then she asked, “Are people really doubting my honour?”

“Not to the extent that I claimed, but people are wondering.” Apologetically he explained, “It is partly due to your age; you are rather …”

“Old,” she filled.

“Yes, rather too old to be single, and more so considering who you are. They think to themselves, surely you must have loved, having been out in the world so long …” He looked up to see what she would make of this.

He found nothing but an opaque expression he could not read. “This could be problematic in the future.”

“I am most uncomfortably aware of that,” he sighed. “Equally, I am only too aware of what I have done now. If he was not my enemy before he is now, and aside from him there is still great opportunity for this to return and ruin me, or do me grievous harm. I have perhaps destroyed myself. We had better be right.”

“We are,” she replied, sounding so sad.

“You will not see him again until this is resolved.”

“I had thought I had said my final goodbyes, then he came here unexpectedly. Now … I do not expect to see him again. He will be condemned to death. How could I visit him before that, knowing I betrayed him to it?”

“It matters to you?” His words contained surprise he had not known to be there. It appeared he had been entertaining the ill-fitting belief that she could not and did not care, even about the man who had raised her. His despicable folly revealed Hugh branded it into his mind, alongside many other such reminders of his various mistakes and shameful actions.

She did not answer at once, and began to play with a gold band on her right hand, worn above another, cheap looking gold twist ring. “He is my second father, and has been my place in life for fourteen years. So never question my loyalty to you, or what I will do to keep you where you belong.”

His body feeling less shaky, Hugh pushed away from the wall, turned from her to regard once again the throne. “You will not marry him.”

“We have not convinced our father yet.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “We will; I am confident of it.”

“You know he will not listen to me, at all. He would not even if I told him the sky was blue.” It was a simple statement of fact, uncoloured by emotion. Previously he would have understood that as a lack of caring, but in light of his so recent error, he wondered …

“But he will hear me,” he assured her, without a shadow of a doubt. His father would listen, then consider his words with care; he always did. That was why he was a good king, and a good parent, to those who did not earn his ire to the extent his sister had. When considered their father could surely only come to the same conclusion his children had, painful for him though it may be. On a separate matter, an inspiration had come to him. To offer or not? He would not be promising anything beyond his powers, or daring to presume too much. It could be potentially useful; the finding of a match to replace this current one, one which she would not fight, and so bring disrepute down on their heads once more. She would be happy; they all would be happy. “I make no promise, only offer to bring the named person to our father’s ears and expound his merits as I see them, mark you, but have you found someone suitable you would like to marry?”

Her reaction was to step back as though afraid of attack, her eyes blazing with outrage while her face set into stubborn, determined outrage. “Hugh! You promised me-”

“I did, and I remember it still. I ask only if there is someone suitable you would like.”

“There is not, no.”

“Perhaps men you would be most unhappy with, then?”

“Hugh,” she said softly, “I will accept only someone I can respect and trust. No one else. I decided that long ago, and not a single suitable person has come close to being that. I made the mistake of straying from that decision once, and you know what a blunder that has proven to be. Now I will hear no more on the subject.”

“As you wish, but our father will require you marry another.”

“That is a battle for another time.”

Hugh decided it was best to allow her to think the matter closed for now, and then open it again in a different manner in the near future. She would marry; that much was certain, no matter what she thought. Hugh would not interfere beyond what was respectable, and he would not take her side against their father. But he would do all he could to bring a peaceful conclusion to the matter, and that was a Christian, dutiful thing to do.

She spoke again, now restored to her normal tone and inflection, “I have nothing to do, and weeks of it. There must be something for me, Hugh. I cannot spend the next month or more only sewing, reading and playing games, with the occasional brief excursion to break the monotony. I already feel my mind atrophying. Too much more tedium and I shall begin baying at the moon.”

Hugh began to pace, testing his previously wobbly legs and thinking. In a while here too he saw a way to meet several ends in one motion. “Am I correct in thinking that Trempwick only taught you nothing of … shall we say the arts of war?”

“Barely a thing.”

“I think it would be quite suitable for you to learn something of tactics, logistics, weaponry, leadership, how to defend a castle from assault and siege, and so on.”

“Including how to shoot a crossbow?” she asked cheekily.

“Such foolishness makes me wonder if perhaps I have made an error, and should send you back to your sewing.”

She snorted. “Hardly – I could do more damage with a needle and thread than with several crossbows.”

“Such subjects are very seldom taught formally to women, instead the expectation being that they will learn what little is needful from experience and the advice of their husbands and the commander of their garrison. But your … unusual upbringing, and coming so late to marriage has severely hampered some select parts of your education. Addressing this ignorance seems to me a worthy usage of your time.” It was also something she was apt to enjoy, and he owed her that much. Miles could be trusted not to allow her to stray too far beyond what was fitting for a lady. There was the hope, also, that this may help to ground her, and so implant an acceptance of what she was and should be. Carrot and stick, Constance had said of his plans for the reform of his sister. This would be a part of the carrot. A carrot which would keep her handily in place and easy to locate, out of meddling reach, and under trusted supervision in the event of something else unexpected happening.

He said, “One of my old tutors remains in my household as a chosen advisor; I shall send him to your rooms presently.”





Eleanor returned to her guest rooms when Hugh dismissed her. By that time Trempwick, his escort and baggage had left. Hawise and Fulk awaited her in the outer of her two rooms, and the very unwanted presence of Aveline lurked malevolently near the fire.

The old woman stood as soon as she saw Eleanor. “Come; I have a message for you, to be delivered in private.” With that she disappeared back into Eleanor’s bedchamber.

Alone and with the door closed Aveline latched on to Eleanor, and imparted in a hushed voice, “My son sends these words for you. You may trust your maid; she is no more than she appears to be. Fear not; your brother has made his damning mistake. Raoul sent word yesterday to the king about the delay and the attempt on you – careful word, he says I must tell you, so do not concern yourself with any potential danger arising from it – and so he will return as soon as this Yves is removed, with haste, instead of taking the time to tour more of his French lands. You need only endure the time between now and then; once the king returns all will be set to rights, and your brother will find his wings clipped and mind broadened. He says also you must do whatever you find necessary to keep yourself safe, and to work towards beneficial goals. If you need him he will come, the instant he receives your message. But he bids you to keep out of harm’s way as far as is possible. The queen will protect you, if you use her correctly. Finally he apologises, and says it tears his heart to leave you behind, but you know he cannot battle a prince on equal footing where rank is concerned. If he does not go he risks arrest, or being thrown out by force. That would help neither of you. He will continue to do what he can from Woburn.”

“I see,” said Eleanor, after a pause. “Thank you.”





The weather was foul; unrelenting, steady rain. He had been thrown out of the palace. He still was not married. He had been forced to leave his Nell behind. But it was a good day. Trempwick lifted his face heavenwards and let the rain patter on his closed eyelids.

The princeling bastard had just made a critical error.

A little time, a little work, and this would become another great advantage to him. His life had become easier with this unlooked for boon …





Jocelyn settled his grip on the shaft of his lance, looked up to be sure that the white banner was flying properly, and spurred his horse towards the main gatehouse of Saint Maur’s castle.

As the safe distance retreated before him Jocelyn muttered, “Your chief holding, now go win it, huh! Damned kings!”

Travelling at an idle canter it didn’t take long before he crossed the imaginary threshold between safety and the inaccurate maximum range of the defender’s crossbows. He checked the white pennant was clearly visible again. It’d be bloody embarrassing to ride up as emissary and get shot to death, or – worse – survive so Richildis could laugh at him. Damned woman; even when he was away from her miserable presence she plagued him! Without his mail chausses, or helm or even his coif to protect his head and neck he felt so naked, but at least he still had his body armour to protect the rest of him. That was due more to formality and image than anything, or he’d have been told to leave them behind as well. As he rode Jocelyn cursed fluently with the word ‘kings!’ appearing several times.

Trouble wasn’t expected – Yves would have to be even more of a complete idiot than he normally was to attack the king’s messenger when there was a very sizeable army camped just outside his castle. The town of Chateauroux had already surrendered without ado, leaving the castle even more vulnerable, as the king now focused his full strength on it. Around a thousand men, give or take, a pair of trebuchets and the requisite engineers, control of the countryside, many allies, complete mastery of the situation, excellent supply lines: the king had everything in his favour. Yves had a very good castle, whatever stores he had laid by, a hundred to a hundred and fifty men, and that was that.

Jocelyn slowed his horse as he approached shouting distance. He become increasingly, uncomfortably, aware of soldiers lining the ramparts above him. There a crossbow, another crossbow, a spearman, a crossbow, a pair of crossbow men swapping jokes, one with a billhook, yet more God cursed crossbows! If he hadn’t been worrying about ending resembling a hedgehog he’d have spat to remove the sour taste of fear from his mouth.

He halted his horse a few steps later. “I come from William, King of England, to parley.”

One of several men on the gatehouse came forward, bracing his hands on the stonework as he shouted, “We’ve sent for his lordship.”

Yves appeared with some considerable haste, collected and eloquent as ever. “You!” he accused, puffing for air from what must have been a very fast sprint.

Again, if it wouldn’t have invited death Jocelyn would have spat, this time from sheer contempt. “I’m here to speak for the king. Throw down your arms, open your gates, and surrender your person to his justice. Do that and your men and family will have his mercy.”

“But what about me?!” whined Yves plaintively.

“That’s for him to say.”

“No! No! I won’t! I’ll hold this castle until he grants me honourable terms – honourable.”

“Oh aye?” Jocelyn grinned up at his former liege. “And I suppose you’ll want to keep your titles and lands without penalty?”

“I’ll pay for them,” Yves wheedled, “tell him that. I’ll pay well, very well, I swear it!”

“He won’t allow that. For some strange reason our king’s not too keen on letting rebellious vassals escape with only a small fine.”

“Talk to him – I demand it! You’re my vassal; obey!”

“Open your gates and surrender, Yves. You’ll save your men and your family, and might do better for yourself that way. It’s the best you can do; if you refuse he’ll starve you out, or storm you out, and you know what happens then. No mercy, for anyone.”

“Never!” Yves bellowed. “This castle is mine by birthright, and my son’s after me!”

“Your son’s going to have nothing to inherit unless you start being reasonable-”

Yves laughed; the damned tosspot actually laughed! “The King of France is coming! I sent for him, and he’ll come! I know it! So I’ll hold, thank you, and wait for his aid. Tell your new master to go slink back across the Narrow Sea while he’s still got time!” There was madness in Yves’ voice, the desperate madness of a failed gambler who knows he’s lost it all but refuses to believe he’s run out of tricks. The King of France was but a boy, and more interested in books than battles.

“Yves, think man, damn it! Your wife’s in there, your son! Think on all the others – how many are there? Not all fighting men either-” Jocelyn saw Yves lunge to one side and wrestle a crossbow free of a guard’s hands. He sawed on his horse’s reins and dug his spurs in, desperately trying to get away.

Something slammed into his side, nearly knocking him from the saddle before he could catch his balance and recover. His horse danced about in confusion, head flung back and whites of its eyes showing, keeping him in range instead of carrying him away to safety. This was his palfrey, not his destrier, and in the midst of everything Jocelyn still found the time to curse that fact.

He heard a man shout, “Get him!”

Jocelyn wrenched his horse about and racked his spurs along the beast’s flanks over and over until it took the hint and started to gallop away. Over the drumming hooves he could still heard shouts, but strangely also the sounds of fighting. He didn’t stop until he reached the safety of the king’s camp.

He turned his horse so he could look back towards the castle as he pulled it to a halt. He was just in time to see a figure bundled struggling off the impressive gatehouse, and impact, screaming and kicking in a desperate attempt at flight, on the hard ground beneath.

“Christ,” he managed.

Someone took hold of his mount’s bridle and held the animal.

Alain appeared at his side, from nowhere. “You’re hurt, lord,” he said.

Not believing Jocelyn followed his squire’s eyes and looked down. The white feathers of a crossbow quarrel protruded from his side, just above the hip, and red was slowly beginning to stain his surcoat. Awareness of the wound summoned up the pain; his side became a white hot flare of agony.

Alain whistled. “Gone right through your shield, that.”

And coat of plates, and mail, and padding, and clothing, and skin, and God be merciful nothing else! “Oh …” Jocelyn’s mouth worked soundlessly for a bit before he finished lamely, “Damn.”

Hands helped him down from his horse, and a pair of shoulders supported him as he lurched over to his tent.





William looked sat the corpse with distaste, his stomach performing unwelcome acrobatics despite a lifetime of gory sights. Yves had … spread out on hitting the ground. “Bury it,” he ordered curtly. This was one head he wouldn’t be putting on a spike; it was too squishy.

One of his men bowed. “Sire.”

William turned to the castle’s new spokesman, previously commander of the garrison, and the man responsible for Yves’ flying lesson. “Why?”

“He wouldn’t surrender,” the man replied, with drained honesty. “Then he shot your emissary. He’d have doomed us all.” He dropped to his knees and extended his hands, begging. “Sire, mercy, please. We none of us wanted this, but we’d little choice. Where he led he dragged us after, or tossed us out to starve, or worse.”

William reserved judgement for a beat, to build tension and make his verdict all the more profound. “I promised clemency if the castle surrendered; it did. None will be harmed, in any way.”

He would take Yves’ family into his custody. The wife could keep her dower lands, and the son could inherit them from her. They would have nothing of Yves’. He would have to sort out the boy’s wardship; it would be good to throw the widow in to make one single lot. Unless she bought her way out of marriage, and then purchased her own son. But it would probably not be wise to allow that; better to reward a trusted man, and set up watch over them in the same motion. People got so many daft notions about vengeance; it really was most exasperating.

His ruminations were interrupted by a low mumbling coming from his new count. “Yves, you’re the God damned stupidest, lack-witted, simple-brained, complete and utter tosspot I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet! A turd has more sense, and more charm! Sweet Jesú and His blessed torments – you’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you that, you rancid streak of piss!”

“A good eulogy,” said William dryly.

De Ardentes started, and turned from the body. He hunched to his left a little, arm instinctively drawn up protectively over his wound. William was amused to notice again how much the man fitted the poetical ideal of knighthood - until he opened his mouth. “Well, he was. How he died says it all, really.”

“Yes. It is so unfortunate when the heir is less than capable; worse yet if there is some insanity or weak-mindedness there. There is nothing to be done, except wait for the inevitable trouble.” William beckoned his count into place beside him as he rode into the castle. “And how does the wound? I admit that was very unexpected.”

“For all his other losses Yves was a damned good shot, worse luck.” Jocelyn wiped his forehead with his tunic sleeve, then his upper lip. “There’s a hole I can stick my finger in, right up to the first knuckle. Miraculously he didn’t hit anything useful, so as long as fever or rot doesn’t hit I’m sound enough.”

William considered the pasty, sweat soaked man swaying in his saddle, mouth clamped into a tight line. “Do not kill yourself; having just replaced one Count of Tourraine I do not wish to find a third quite so soon. Rest and heal; consider that a royal command.” He leaned down to pat his horse’s neck. “Well, good work, I would say. We took this place just in time for dinner.”






The feasting had continued for much of the evening, and now it was late. His wound was hurting abdominally, and Jocelyn recognised a few small signs of fever in himself: dry and aching eyes, clammy skin, a high temperate to the touch combined with a feeling that he was very cold. It didn’t worry him too much; it was inevitable. It’d be time to worry if his mind started to go and he slid into delirium, but by that point someone else’d have to worry on his behalf.

The climb to the top of his new keep had been slow, and he probably shouldn’t have insisted on it, but he still had his feet and so nothing would stop him. He limped over to the parapet, exchanging a few pleasantries with the sentries as he passed. Yves’ men were his now; sworn in and setting about making copies of his badge to wear on their clothes until proper livery could be arranged.

At last, at long last, he surveyed his new domain.

He had never taken in the view from up here; he hadn’t wanted to. It’d been some daft delusion of his, some little thing to promise himself. When he became count he’d look, but not otherwise. It was dark, but the moon was good, as was his night vision.

Spread below him lay the castle, enfolded in two concentric stone walls, both of impressive height. Inner and outer bailey housed all the buildings this place could need, and provided housing space for more men, and their families, than Yves had had. He’d see about filling them all. Most of his original men would remain at Ardentes, and he only intended on keeping the good soldiers leftover from Yves. He’d not be at all surprised if the deceased prat had hired slovenly cowards, or fools who didn’t known one end of a spear from another. Jocelyn knew he’d also need to set in place capable proxies, to rule each part of his new demesne in his absence. He’d have to refine his household a bit too; he needed to fit the part of count, but now he also had need to travel about from home to home.

On the other side of the river, to the east and about a mile away, lay Chateauroux. A proper town, with its own stone walls, garrison, guilds, charter, and everything. The little settlement at Ardentes was feeble in comparison, but then it’d only been built to serve the castle. Chateauroux was a town in the truest sense. He’d have to win the townspeople over so he could take advantage of the pair of strong, defensive sites the construction offered. To threaten one was to risk being struck by the other, so a dual siege would be required – as long as the two sites cooperated.

He moved to the south-eastern part of the keep, and gazed homewards. Before he’d even ridden through the gates he’d sent a man riding like the furies back to tell Richildis of his success. “Bloody ironic,” he muttered to himself. At long last he was away from her again, and what did he do? Send for her with all haste. She’d probably be here tomorrow, late afternoon. A count needed his countess; sad fact of life. Well, she’d soon set about making this place fit for inhabitation – Yves had had bloody awful taste! All fancy, bright, cluttered, and oppressively expensive. The advantage was that he could sell most of the rubbish for a good sum.

The wind picked up, blowing back in his face the strong odour of garlic. It reminded him the damned poultice would need changing before he could go to bed for the night. Thinking sourly that it wasn’t bloody fair, Jocelyn started to limp back down to his new bedchamber. How in God’s name was he supposed to take celebrate his new status and success with a hole punched in his side!? The feasting had been a trial, and he’d barely been able to force a bite down thanks to pain related nausea. He wouldn’t be fit to join the king in his hunting tomorrow morning, and that was both a big opportunity lost and some good entertainment missed. Worst of all he’d seen this very nice girl, and was in no fit condition to do anything about it!

“Damn Yves, damn crossbows, and damn it all!”






The morning had dawned clear and cool, ideal for the hunt. William led a party of local nobles and favourites from his own men. He had brought his huntsman, hounds and weapons over with him from England, and had already indulged in a couple of short hunts on his idle way up here. It was a good way to prove he still had his prowess and health, and it enabled to him get to know men as men, not fawning figures in a hall. It had been a great pity Jocelyn had been wounded; William would have liked to see what the man made of a good chase and kill.

The dogs had found their first prey quickly; a stag. It had been flushed from cover, and now the dogs chased it towards William, as he rode out to intercept, his party lagging a little behind as the honour of the first kill was his.

William bent low over the neck of his mount, spear held close in to his side, loving the feeling of speed he got as the ground was eaten up before him, and his hair and clothes flew out behind like wings. Sometimes he no longer felt old; at this very moment he could be twenty again.

Closer, he was able to count the tines on the stag’s antlers. Twelve, precisely. Very good quarry indeed!

William rode in parallel with the stag, balancing his heavy hunting spear in his hand. He stood in his stirrups and thrust down, the leaf-shaped blade entering the stag’s neck, piercing right through and quickly withdrawn. A good, fast kill.

Then he was going down to the sound of an equine scream of enraged pain. Reflexively he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped from his falling horse. He landed, heard his bones break above the ringing of his ears as his vision exploded into falling, rushing blackness studded with red and white sparks. He clawed after consciousness, embracing the agony and trying to clear his vision to find the cause. Then his ribs imploded. William tumbled into the dark.






After the emotional filth of the previous few days Hugh had felt the need to spend this new day in something clean and active; he had elected to go hunting. Responsibility could not be neglected for the entire day, but the morning he could easily claim for this most noble of pastimes. So with a party of companion nobles, his huntsmen and dogs he had ridden out to the royal forest several miles from Waltham to see what could be stirred up.

They had taken some small game, and a wolf. After the obligatory first kill Hugh had left much of it to his companions, watching to see how they handled themselves, their horses and their weapons, to see if they killed well, or bungled, or disliked the sight of blood, to see if they showed courage, indifference, or bravery. He shared in the camaraderie, did his best to be liked, and to appear as a prince should. He felt he was having some good success in it. For a time his life washed back to how it had been before his sister had arrived again at court and laid a horrifying burden at his feet.

A spate of barking and howling indicated new prey found, and soon an animal burst from cover, running out across the clear ground with the pack at its heels. A horn rang out, reporting the status of the hunt.

Hearing what the prey was Hugh brandished his spear. “This one is mine,” he shouted, and clapped his spurs to his horse. He crouched low for extra speed, and in a practised, showy move flipped his spear so he clasped it point down ready to stab. In the heat of the moment he forgot to feel remorse for his pride in himself, and his conceit in showing off.

The hounds drove his quarry to him, and it was not long before he was able to bring his horse alongside it to ride in a death-locked escort. At the first good opportunity Hugh stabbed down with his spear, taking the stag right through the neck. He turned his horse away as he did so. Sometimes, rarely, the stricken animal could tangle in the horse’s hooves, or spend its last strength in a final attack against its killer. Boars were always far worse for that, but a stag was a noble animal also, and as such could seldom accept its death tamely. Most often the fight against the end took place as a refusal to drop and die, but infrequently the animal would stand and wait, watching its killer as its lifeblood flowed. Equally rare would be that last attempt to take another with it into the dark.

Though he moved away Hugh turned so he could watch the end he had caused; it was a matter of respect between hunter and prey. His stag stared back with baleful eyes, and kept running with blood fountaining from its ruined throat. A few steps, then it collapsed, twitched once, and went still.

He slowed his horse to a walk and circled back around to inspect his kill. The stag’s antlers were twelve-tined: a king stag. Hugh saluted the carcass with his bloodied spear. “Bravely done,” he murmured.

The rest of Hugh’s party surrounded him, offering compliments on his kill. He dismounted, drew his long hunting knife, and began the field dressing of his kill; skinning and jointing with the looked-for skill, so not even a drop of blood stained his clothes, though he had not recoursed to rolling up his sleeves. As was traditional he cut out the stag’s heart and gave it to the dogs as their remuneration, along with some chopped intestines and bread saturated in the blood.






5, 353

[frogbeastegg]

William stepped into the sunlit garden, flooded with a sense of peace and fulfilment. It was the same garden he had always known, blooming and bursting with life. He had built it for his wife, and so it only seemed right that the lone woman sat on the stone bench under the apple trees would be Joanna, even though she had her back to him.

He walked along the plant lined path towards her. Sounds, colours, the air itself – everything seemed richer than before, more real. His eyesight had been restored to its original perfection; for that alone he could have wept with gratitude. But more; his hearing was sharp, his body young and relieved from a multitude of pains, aches and stiffnesses. His hair, he felt sure without consulting his reflection or reaching up to feel, would be full and thick, the colour of desert sand brought back from the Holy Land by pilgrims.

William stopped just behind the woman on her bench. “I have come back,” he said.

She turned to check over her shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. Joanna; once more the willowy girl with the sparkling eyes he had married. “You always do, eventually. Then you leave again.”

William held out his hand to her. “Not this time.”

Merry amusement played on Joanna’s face - how he had missed seeing that! She said nothing, and that surprised him. Her amusement ran its course swiftly; she stood and stepped around the bench to take his hands in hers. “It is lonely being left behind.”

She sounded so poignant and forlorn William found he could weep all too easily. “Never again.” He looked her straight in the eyes as he said it, and let her see his tears and sincerity. It was not difficult; Joanna was nearly of a height to him.

“You never did take my advice and adopt that as your motto,” she teased.

“I missed you-”

She reached out and pinched his lips shut between thumb and forefinger. “You still have not learned that sometimes words are quite insufficient, have you? Some things are best said in other ways.”

He had just set about proving how much he had missed her when he heard the din of children playing behind him. Startled, he turned to look. Six children, all so familiar to him. Three boys, three girls, playing tag on the grass. “They are here?” he asked.

“Where else would they be?”

“But where is-”

“Your favourite?” Joanna was suddenly holding a baby, set free from its swaddling clothes and wrapped loosely in a fine blue blanket, with only a head feathered in dark hair emerging from the wrapping. She presented the little bundle to him. “Here she is; where else would she be?”

William cradled his daughter in the crook of his arm; she accepted the transfer without fuss. Beautiful blue eyes gazed steadily back up at him; a tentative baby smile was offered up. William’s throat felt thick and congested, the emotion of all this overwhelming him. “I told you Emlin would not suit her.”

Joanna was sitting back down on her bench, watching her children and their play. She retorted good-naturedly, “I remember being too tired to argue.”

William brushed Eleanor’s cheek with the tip of a finger; she smiled again. “Such a pity that …” But he could not remember what precisely was a pity.

Joanna tugged on the skirt of his tunic until he came and sat by her. “Tell me,” she commanded. “Tell me how it all will be. What happens from this point?”

He looked towards the playing group, briefly considering each child and bathing in the glory of seeing them all again. As ever he gave the time honoured reply, “Well, the boys will all become superb princes; skilled knights, well educated, wise, noble, honourable and outstanding. They will stand together always, and their enemies will tremble before them, because so long as they stand united very little can harm them. Stephan will be king, and Hugh and John will not resent him for it. They will support him. In turn he will remember them, and reward them well and treat them kindly. The three girls will all become incredibly pretty, and sensible, and wise, and gentle, and be everything a princess ever should. They will marry well, and steal the hearts of Christendom’s kings, and guide their new realms towards peace with England. Together they will all bring about a golden age.”

“You missed one out,” said Joanna.

William smiled; the one who had snatched away his heart at the first sight always came separately in this list. “My little Eleanor will be …” Something bothered him there, jabbed at his mind like the first warning pang of a headache. But looking down at his little baby William’s heart filled with love and the nagging vanished. He resumed his traditional foretelling, “She will be special. She will be everything her sisters will, and much more. She will make her father so proud.”

Little Eleanor yawned.









5,402

A short part, but I’ve been having computer troubles. Hopefully all sorted out now.

That scene … :sigh: the frog is just ever so slightly crying yet again. Humph; I’m beginning to resemble some kind of amphibian fountain! I could write a prequel about those two; William and his first wife. I could do one about Fulk’s parents too, but that would be rather more the love story.

[Monk]

It may be short, lady froggy, but tis a nice part nonetheless. I always find reading your story a nice counter-balance to mine, that with the solid characters and all. Seeing as mine is full of gore and bloodshed and all i ever seem to be writing is battle scenes. Though i guess there's no way around it in my current theme.


I Hope the computer troubles are all but solved by now. *covers up the fact I had to double check the spelling of computer* As always, I eagerly await the next part.

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick swallowed his mouthful of bread, and asked, “Well?”

Edward bowed. “Done, master.”

“Excellent.” Trempwick dismissed his second and returned his attention to his breakfast.

Yesterday he had been sent away from the palace; today it would be the choice topic of gossip for anywhere within a day’s travel of Waltham. From there it would spread. Distant towns and villages no doubt celebrated his marriage yesterday, not knowing better. He sipped his ale. In the eyes of most of the country he was married to Her Royal Highness, Princess Eleanor of England.

But as his gossip spread that opinion would recede. Sad. But inevitable. Necessary, very much so. People needed to know the truth. They needed to hear of how he had been wronged. How the prince had maltreated his sister. Disobeyed the king. How he feared Eleanor, hated her, wished to destroy or control her to extreme levels. Because he was a bastard, and knew he waited for a throne that was not his.

Hugh’s wife was still breeding; not surprising. He hadn’t intervened this time. It had been too late for convenience when he’d found out. But it was of so little import. Babies died so frequently. So did women in labour, for that matter. He might not even need to do anything this time. All God’s judgement. Judgement on a bastard who claimed falsely what was not his. Proof of his unfitness. He had no divine approval; crowned he would bring the wrath of God on his realm. But then … if Constance died the bastard would marry again. Forge a new alliance. Gain new, extra resources. Trempwick frowned. That would not be useful. Well, such was the risk he had to take.

It was all most merciful that William had scruples. The same methods used on Constance could not be applied to Anne without drawing suspicion. Not that he didn’t have plans to deal with any unfortunate conceptions - William simply could not be allowed more children at this late phase. It was kinder for the girl too, this way. Trempwick put aside the heel of bread he’d been eating, appetite killed. Thirteen-year-old brides were distasteful in all regards. More so when handed to an ordeal such as this little queen’s. But on the other hand, an older bride could have caused him more difficulty.

He sipped more of his ale. It was now time to strengthen the guard on John’s widow and brat. They were safely imprisoned – by royal command, no less – in one of his northern castles. No threat to him. But fools may get ideas of rescue, to use the bratling to their own gain. It had royal blood to weakly counter Nell’s …

Trempwick pushed away from the table and began to make his way slowly towards his study to begin the day’s work. On his arrival he found the documents he had intended to go over did not appeal to him; nor did sitting down, even to think.
He stood at the window, looking out over the dawn-lit country. Something else bothered him. Something elusive. Something … intangible. Something with no solid basis. No evidence. No grounds to begin work. No reason. But something none the less. A familiar something.

Nell.

There was something about her … Something so very elusive.

One step at a time, he reminded himself. First marry her. Then bring her home. Then regain whatever had been lost, while bringing into play new advantages and controls. And in all this continue to weaken the bastard stealthily. The bastard was the threat here. Nell had been wayward before; he had compensated, disarmed and then rectified the situation every time. This would be no different. Needs must he wait, as he had on occasion before. But he was patient.





When the last of the hanging was unrolled - with Fulk supporting one end and Hawise the other - and she saw what her brother had given her Eleanor took a sharp intake of breath.

Hugh asked, “Something wrong?”

“No,” she replied. “Only I did not expect … this.”

Fulk leaned forward to look awkwardly at the picture, and Eleanor could all but hear him thinking, “Interesting choice for a man to send his sister …”

The hanging showed a scene that was really nothing extraordinary; one found illuminating many manuscripts, and hanging in various forms on walls throughout the realm. A handsome youth teasingly pulled his ladylove towards a forest, letters near his head making him proclaim “For our love …” The lady was proving stubborn, and was saying “I dare not.”

“It was my mother’s,” Eleanor explained to her two curious aides, “from her bedchamber. I remember it better than her, I think.” A preoccupied woman who hadn’t really cared for her daughter’s company; that much Eleanor remembered far better than face or voice. The hanging perhaps remained memorable because it centred in a visit that had been different to the normal awkward questions and stiff silences. For reasons she didn’t remember she had asked about the hanging, and had received an answer she hadn’t really understood. “She said it showed damnation, whichever way things went.” Then she had been sent away back to her nurse, visit curtailed with none of the usual warning and half the enquiries into her education omitted.

Hugh clasped his hands at the small of his back, and explained, “Until recently it still hung as it did in her lifetime, but our new queen did not find it to her taste, and replaced it with an embroidery of Tristan and Iseult. I thought you might appreciate it; to the best of my knowledge you have nothing of hers.”

“No, you are right. Thank you, Hugh.” Behind her properly grateful facade Eleanor was busy wondering what other motives her brother could have. The most glaring was not at all welcome – that Hugh was foisting a reminder of correct behaviour on her. As if she needed it! Thanks to Hawise, and the various visits by Anne and her maids, Constance and her maids, Hugh, Hugh’s old tutor, and Aveline’s now thankfully limited manifestations Eleanor was in no danger of ever managing to even wave at a man from the opposite side of the inner bailey without it becoming known. ‘I dare not’ didn’t suit her anyway; ‘I cannot’, ‘I will not’, and ‘Let go before I skewer you!’ all felt more appropriate, depending on whether it was Fulk, Trempwick, or some fool with delusions.

Hugh indicated another, far smaller furled hanging on the table where his squire had set it before being dismissed. “There is the other you asked me for. You are quite fortunate; we only have one with this particular theme in our inventory here. It is not a theme which finds much favour in our family, understandably. Still, I did promise whatever reasonable aid and goods you required in furnishing your new home.”

“Thank you, Hugh,” repeated Eleanor. Again, his apparent kindness was twofaced. She had been given the right wing of the nursery come guest house; the two ground floor rooms she had occupied previously and the two above that Aveline had formerly occupied, plus control over the staircase and building’s outer door. She had taken up residence at the palace, as simple as that, and whether she liked it or not. She did not like. At least Aveline and Juliana had been moved over to a tower room in the outer bailey; that was some small bonus.

The room which had originally been the main nursery room, and had acted as her improvised solar, was now being converted to her own very pale imitation of a main hall. As it lacked any hall like properties it had been dubbed the main room instead; a decidedly under whelming label that fitted the atmosphere of the room well. A sizeable trestle table and two benches had been moved in to fill the centre of the room. Given the lack of a high table she had been given a chair to place at the head of the common trestle. This did not mean she had escaped the nightly chore of dining with ceremony over in the main hall, and she was expected to take her lunch there most days too. Hugh had taken advantage of the occasion, and now placed her with a different dining partner each meal. His choices worried Eleanor without exception – they were all suitable, eligible men.

Her original bedchamber was now her solar. The bed had been dismantled and moved to her new bedchamber. A second chair had been sent to join the existing one, and a pair of small tables now displayed her tafl set and the chess set Constance had gifted her. A couple of stools provided extra seating. In truth she had been glad to leave this room; it held too many unpleasant memories. Only partially obscured by the rushes were several clumps of dark stains on the floorboards; her blood, soaked in and indelible, a testament to what she had suffered to try and escape being given to Trempwick.

The two upstairs rooms were very simple. The smaller outer room, leading off from the passageway at the top of the stairs, was currently empty aside from a narrow bed for Fulk. Fulk’s squire was supposed to be moving all of his armour and belongings over to this new room sometime today. Once the move was complete Fulk would lose his original room at the palace, though he hadn’t used it since being transferred to her household.

The second upstairs room was her new bedchamber, and it was currently rather bare. She had the usual large curtained bed, and a pallet rested in one corner near the door for Hawise. There were a few chests for clothes and the like, but they were mostly empty thanks to Eleanor’s small wardrobe. A small table and low-backed chair were pushed into the corner next to the lone window with its dismal view of the inner curtain wall.

In all four rooms Eleanor had been busy ordering items she did not like removed. That included the all too common hangings of hunting scenes. Hugh had promised her whatever she wanted, within reason, and that had been no small source of grim amusement for her. It was not many who were given such licence to decorate their prisons.

She had also been given a pair of guards to stand just inside the door to watch the stairs and admit visitors, and to provide protection in Fulk’s absence, giving him chance to resume his weapons practice on two mornings each week. They came ready equipped with arms and livery; and been given a gooseberry badge to wear. At Hugh’s request they had sworn allegiance to her, and been officially transferred to her. Eleanor had briskly placed them under Fulk’s command, and left him to sort out details like who was supposed to be on guard when. Fulk’s squire would move over also; he would sleep down in the main hall along with the off duty door guard. Fortunately the boy would only be present when Fulk needed him, or at night time, and the guards would be elsewhere when off duty during the day. The last thing Eleanor wanted was extra pairs of suspect eyes.

Before he had left Trempwick had cancelled the agreement between Eleanor and her brother regarding pay for her servants, and now she had two extra men to pay. Hugh had, without prompting, offered her new terms. Until their father returned he would grant her an allowance of four pounds monthly, to be paid in weekly instalments from his own purse, again subject to her doing as he wished. It was a very generous offer, so long as Eleanor did not allow herself to remember how much she should be worth. He had given her this week’s funds right away, and the locked ironbound chest was stashed safely under her bed. Eleanor was almost alarmed to find that now she had a tangible income at long last she did not know what to do with it, aside from paying owed wages.

Eleanor dispatched Fulk and Hawise to hang the embroidery in her bedchamber. To Hugh she said, “I was thinking of going for a ride this afternoon.”

“I regret that is quite impossible,” he replied, without hesitation.

“Why? The weather is reasonable, and I have little else to do.”

“It is not possible this afternoon. Another day, perhaps.”

“Hugh, you owe me a little honesty, given what we do.” He kept a very stony silence. “Then let me be honest for you. You do not trust me. You want to keep me safely by, with much less chance to do anything undesired.”

Hugh’s nose wrinkled; he reached up and scratched it, more to cover his reaction than out of any real itch, Eleanor believed. “You are my sister, my flesh and blood. It is perfectly good and fitting that I trust you.”

“Then you are quite the fool – in your shoes I would not trust me either.”

Hugh ducked his head, but not before she saw him biting at his lower lip. Almost immediately he looked back up again. “Is it always going to be so?” he demanded, sounding more overwrought than truly angry. “Can I never find the right path? Ever since you arrived I cannot; every possibility leads to that which I strive to avoid.”

“It is the same for me.” Eleanor perched on the bench before the trestle table, and was alarmed to feel it bend a little under her slight weight. “Here I am, resuming the life I struggled so hard to avoid, having betrayed my mentor. A prisoner in a gilded cage, shut away in this overly busy palace with nothing useful to do, playing proper princess, and waiting for others to decide the bulk of my fate. And the alternative was worse.” She noticed her skirt was hooked on a splinter; she freed it, and plucked the sliver of wood free of the bench, placing it on the table for disposal later. “Incidentally, this bench is rotten and needs attention.”

Hugh sat himself down next to her so heavily Eleanor feared the planking would split and dump them both on the floor. Hugh sank his head into his hands, all his customary imperiousness gone. “No, I do not trust you, which makes me an undutiful brother and makes adverse assertions about the condition of our family, and so that does indeed mean I lied previously, which in turn makes me less than commendable. Either I lie and do my utmost to be as I should, or I am honest and do harm that way instead. I am contemptible. I should be above this, far better than this. All the more so because of who and what I am.”

Eleanor placed a hand on her brother’s hunched shoulder. “There is nothing for me to say that you do not already know, I think.”

“You are right; there is not.” He raised his head again and let his hands drop noisily to his lap. “It only seems to me that a king needs far more to be a good man than any other. I struggle even to be a good prince. It appears the two are mutually exclusive. But if you change how you measure then …” He faltered, then after a time continued, “Good is good. You cannot measure it in other ways, and to make allowances and pass petty evils as acceptable is to defeat yourself just as surely as when you try to reconcile the two.”

Hawise and Fulk returned before Eleanor could find a suitable reply.

Hugh rose as soon as they appeared. “I must go; I have much which requires my attention. Please do notify me if you require anything more.”

“I shall,” said Eleanor, also getting to her feet. “Thank you, brother dear.”

A short while after Hugh left Hawise excused herself quietly and slipped off to the privy.

The opportunity was not to be missed; it was the first such in a couple of days. Eleanor instructed Fulk, “Come and use your height to put that other embroidery up. I pay you; I do not see why I should not wring every bit of practical use out of you.”

Fulk collected the rolled up hanging and followed her through to the solar.

Eleanor wandered slowly about the room, working her way around to the blind spot behind the door. She pointed at the wall just to the right of the fireplace where there was already a set of hooks in place from an old tapestry she had removed. “Hang it there.”

Fulk stood on tiptoe and worked the embroidery’s loops over the hooks. As the hanging unrolled he found himself nose to nose with a man holding an axe. He finished struggling to hang the picture, then stepped back to get a better look, joining her in the blind spot. He gave a low whistle. “Saint Jude; patron of lost and impossible causes, and desperate situations.” Far quieter he added, “Sounds like he was sainted just for you, dear gooseberry.”

Eleanor grinned. “Oh, I doubt I am quite that important. But I did think it very fitting, and if it invokes a little assistance …”

Fulk swiftly pulled something out of his scrip; he pressed a little square of folded parchment into her hand. Eleanor smoothly tucked it into the tight fitting sleeve of her underdress. The entire exchange took only seconds.

Eleanor was trying to decide how exactly to proceed with phase 2 of her plan when Fulk helpfully solved the problem for her. “Very nice, Sir Lancelot,” she murmured when the kiss ended, before leading the second foray herself.

“Does that make you Guinevere?”

She laughed quietly. “Why not? I am wearing a suitable dress.”

An all together too short time later Eleanor broke away. “We had best go back, before someone comes.” She ran a hand over her hair, checking his light touch hadn’t disrupted the braid. “What do you think of Hawise,” she asked abruptly.

“Seems decent enough; I’ve not seen anything that makes me doubtful. But that probably means little.”

Eleanor returned to the main room, hoping she looked suitably serene. Hawise re-emerged a minute or so afterwards, by which time Eleanor had made her choice. “Come with me,” she requested of them both, going out the door the maid had just come in by, and heading up to her new bedchamber.

Once they had all arrived Eleanor said, “Shut the door.” Hawise did so. Fulk sat himself down on the only chair and leaned back with his elbows resting on the small table. Eleanor settled on her bed, leaving only Hawise standing. The maid clasped her hands in front of herself and waited quietly.

“Trempwick says I should trust you; what do you make of that?” Eleanor watched Hawise closely to glean every drip of information from this she could. If Trempwick said Hawise was trustworthy than she could not be working for anyone but him, if she spied at all.

The maid cocked her head to one side. “What should I?”

“That is what I am interested in.”

“I should be pleased,” replied Hawise eventually.

“But you are not?”

Another pause. “No.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Your future husband; the Earl of Northumberland.”

“And the king’s spymaster.”

Even surprised Hawise was quiet and inconspicuous. “That does explain a bit …”

“But it does not alter the value you place on his judgement of you?” enquired Eleanor mildly.

“No.” The maid’s downcast eyes rose to meet Eleanor’s. “Forgive me, but I don’t like him.”

“Really?” Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“I don’t like the way he looked at me when you weren’t watching; it made me feel like he was weighing me up to see if I was what he wanted. I have no intention of being anyone’s mistress.” Hawise shrugged. “But from what you say I must have misunderstood his reasons.”

Eleanor could already guess at several different answers to that Trempwick might come up with; all plausible, and probably even honest. Trempwick would never be so daft as to cast longing looks at other women while she was present. He would have been assessing the maid, bolstering reported opinion with his own. So the importance – and dilemma - lay in Hawise telling her this. It could be a ploy to win trust, or to distance Hawise from Trempwick, if she was indeed in his employ. Or it could be simple honesty, and Eleanor found she was leaning towards believing that. “He is gone now, but if this happens again, tell me.”

Hawise inclined her head.

The second part of her choice made, Eleanor hopped off the bed and rummaged around in the bottom of one of her clothing chests. She produced her two wrist knives from their hiding place, and held them up so the maid could see them. “Noticed these before?”

Hawise’s earlier surprised returned, bringing shock and a kind of ill horror with it. “No.”

Eleanor passed one blade to the maid, who gingerly accepted it when the princess continued to hold it out insistently. “That particular blade gutted a bandit,” she said cheerfully.

Hawise nearly dropped the knife but fortunately didn’t, displaying again the self-possession and presence of mind Eleanor was beginning to hold a healthy appreciation for. She held onto it loosely, with as little of her in contact with the hilt as possible, as if it were still sticky with blood. This provoked a grin from Fulk, who continued to watch the scene with inconspicuous interest.

“The other one did not do much in that particular fight,” continued Eleanor. “I threw it and the target inconsiderately dodged.”

“But ... but how!?” exclaimed Hawise, managing to be softly spoken even in that. “How any of this? Why? Another attempt on your life, like the poison?”

“Not exactly; it was a mission, and things got unexpectedly exciting.” Eleanor sat back down on her bed, enjoying her maid’s reaction to all this. It was the first time Hawise had been anything other than gravely composed. “Trempwick is the king’s spymaster; I am his student. That requires some field experience.”

Hawise’s eyes fairly popped out. “But you’re a princess!”

“It is quite a long story, but suffice it to say my family are not best pleased about it, and it is the main reason I am so poverty stricken, and so on. I annoyed my beloved regal ancestor entirely too much, and this is the result. Trempwick saw talent, he asked for me, and in a fit of pique the crowned one agreed to hand me over. It is also the reason I am marrying Trempwick instead of someone more suitable. Well, a part of the reason, the rest mostly being to do with my rather …worn condition, and very famous refusal to accept the more suitable candidates pushed at me.”

Hawise blinked a few times. “Beloved regal … who?”

“Beloved regal ancestor: my father.” Eleanor waved a hand airily. “Also known as the arse in the crown, or that damned man, or whatever else I find fitting.” Her mood became a good deal more serious. “Having you in my company so often blocks me from doing much of anything, unless you are complicit. I cannot be rid of you, so my choice is rather limited. Complicit you will have to be.”

Hawise processed all this, and proved Eleanor’s increasing confidence well founded when she did not waste time asking silly questions or protesting disbelief. She instead drew a conclusion with admirable speed and logic, and acted upon it. “Then Fulk’s period as your bodyguard …?”

Fulk sat up and rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword. “It was a busy half year.”

Eleanor smiled at her maid. “By the way, this means you know something others never should, so if you look suspect I am afraid you will end up more than a little dead. I do hope you took that oath seriously.”

Hawise nodded dumbly.

“Well, it seems best it we get right to the core of the matter.” Eleanor took hold of Hawise’s wrist and adjusted her grip on the knife’s hilt. “Hold it like that, unless you want it knocked from your hand before you can do anything.” She took the knife back and returned it to its twin. “First thing is first; we shall have to get you a blade or two and teach you to use them.”

“Me? Weapons!? But-”

“Better to have and not need than to need and not have,” said Eleanor sternly. She turned to Fulk. “You will find something suitable. I think we shall have to forego the wrist sheathes; they are too unusual, and having them made here will attract notice.”

Fulk ran an appraising eye over Hawise. “An ordinary ballock should do nicely, one with a very slender blade and hilt. They usually come with a belt loop that’d be easy to use to fasten the dagger to a limb, so long as a second strap was added to the bottom of the case to stop it flapping about. Or something smaller, which could go in a pocket sewn into her skirts?”

“Whichever you think best. You will also teach her to use it, and I shall resume my unarmed combat. We never did get beyond the basics.”

“As you like.”

“Secondly,” Eleanor began to fasten her right knife in place, “I can finally arm myself again. You see? Already my situation improves because I no longer need to work around you.” A bit of fiddling with small buckles later and she folded her outer sleeve down to hide the weapon. “There; now you know why I have a penchant for this old fashion.”

“You told me to get most of my new clothes in the same style,” said Hawise, “but I doubt this was why.”

“Yes; I grow rather weary of being the only one dressed like this. Hopefully they will be done soon; you did place heavy emphasis on who was paying for them, as I instructed?”

“Yes. The first set may be done for tomorrow. They promised all possible speed.”

“Good.” Eleanor rubbed her hands together and cracked her knuckles. “I doubt this is what Trempwick had in mind, but I quite like the idea of having a henchmaid.”

And if Hawise had already been trained then it should show in some slight, hard to hide ways. If she only spied then perhaps this could be the key to proving it.





Later, safely alone in her bedchamber thanks to an imaginary headache, Eleanor read Fulk’s note.


Never thought I’d be writing in the middle of the night to my own wife when she’s in the next room …

Don’t erupt into one of your charming spurts of temper. Do read this properly. Please don’t kill me.

Knowing you, you will always be more careful with what’s mine than what’s yours, simply because it’s mine. I’m sure that by now your admirably sharp mind has a good idea of what I am about to say. Your lands, money, and so on – keep them. I don’t care about them. You I’m keeping, and I expect you to look after my property. If this is the only way to get my point home, so be it. I don’t like dented gooseberries, and you risk yourself far too easily.

So consider it an order: take good care of my property. I’m not in the habit of giving orders often – I’m entirely too sensible - but when I do I expect to be obeyed.

Eleanor read it several more times until she had it memorised, then consigned it to the fire. She sat watching it burn. “And to think I accused him of being sensible,” she grumbled.

The note reduced down to ash and a small scrap of a blackened corner. Eleanor used the poker to destroy even that remnant and disperse the ashes.

Several minutes of hard internal battle later, and she fetched writing equipment from the small set intended for use in contacting Trempwick in secret if needed. Quickly she inked her message.


Yes, my lord. Take the lands too, if we ever get chance.

A moment’s thought, and she added a second line.


And stop gaping in surprise! It makes you look like a moonstruck calf!

Marriage had been her idea, and she had known very well what it meant. She had trusted Fulk not to abuse his powers, and trust him she still did. She had never expected, or wanted, him to give up everything which should be his, and she would not baulk at the first instance of his using what she had given him.

Now she only had to find chance to pass the message along.






Jocelyn lay back on his new back, arms crossed behind his head, watching as his wife pasted honey over his flank. He opened his mouth to pass comment on how he’d normally enjoy this, but she pre-empted him. “Don’t even think about it! Keep your foul thoughts to yourself.”

“Tildis, dear, I’ve got a hole shot in my side. I’ve a slight fever. My poor mind aches with all that’s happened and what it means. Really, I’ve no resources left to think up comments just to annoy you!”

She splattered more honey onto his wound with a bad-tempered flick of her spoon. “Idiot!”

“Thank you, Tildis. At this point be thankful I can’t reach to hit you without sitting up and hurting myself.”

“It’s true – if you’d got yourself killed then were would your family be? The children would end up as wards, and you know-”

“Oh, do shut up!” said Jocelyn vociferously. His side twinged at the effort required, then settled back to its usually steadily burning ache. “I was an envoy – I wasn’t supposed to be shot at. I wasn’t even fighting.”

“Supposed is all very well, but there’s a dirty great hole in your side!” Richildis slapped a linen pad over the honey covered wound, drawing an involuntary groan from her husband.

“Saint Valentine on a swaybacked donkey! She moans about my being hurt, then tries to finish me off! It wasn’t my fault - I was nice and polite, and trying to get our new castle handed over without damage, but then the pisspot shot me without warning or reason.”

She picked up the roll of clean bandage. “Sit up,” she ordered briskly. Jocelyn held the pad in place with one hand and struggled into sitting position. Richildis began to swath his midsection in linen.

“Tildis, if I die then you’ll find there’s a bit in my will you’ll like. I’ve set aside enough for you to buy wardship of our children and the right to marry – or not – as you please. So please, stop your damned complaining.”

She froze, but didn’t look up at him. “You never said anything …”

“Of course not.” Jocelyn wheezed out something that was meant to be a laugh. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve no intention of being murdered so my wife can replace me with some damned effeminate troubadour.”

“You know, sometimes you actually manage to be likeable. Almost.” Richildis fastened off the bandaging with a precise knot. “There. It’ll need changing in three hours.”

He started to struggle into his shirt. “Then I’ll expect you to come running, all eager and filled with new found charity to do so.” His voice was muffled by the linen shrouding his face. After watching dispassionately for a short time Richildis gave the material a good yank so he finally got his head through the neck hole. He beamed at her. “Very nice; well done! Now try for two in a row and give me a hand with my tunic.”

She picked up his discarded tunic and stood holding it by the shoulders. “The words you are looking for are, ‘Can you help me, please?’”

“Didn’t I just say that?” he growled. Richildis dangled the tunic just out of his reach, and didn’t make a move to help him. He sighed, and grated out in a very flat tone, “Fine. Can you help me. Please.”

“Now I’m almost impressed.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he warned, as she dumped the woollen garment over his head and upraised arms. He stood up to settle the tunic in place, and reached for his belt.

Richildis immediately objected, “You’re not wearing that.”

“I’m not wandering about like some ninny without a belt!”

“It’ll chafe the wound.”

“Not if you’ve dressed it properly.” He buckled the belt into place and tried not to wince at the first touch of pressure on his side.

Richildis flung up her hands. “Fine - kill yourself. I don’t suppose it matters.”

“You should be happy I’ve such faith in your bandaging skills.”

“You should be happy I’m trying to keep you all in one piece.” They glared at each other. Jocelyn started towards the door. “Where you do think you’re going?” she demanded.

“To see the king, see if anything’s changed.”

She scuttled around in front of him and flung herself against the door to block his path. “He’s as good as dead; forget him. Rest, heal, and concentrate on solidifying our position.”

“Tildis-”

“I only arrived not even half an hour ago, and the first I heard was that the king was dying. The second was that you were wounded. Soon as I heard that I came running to your side, like a fool.” The last part was so bitterly said Jocelyn shivered. “I’ve little idea what’s happened, Jocelyn.”

Jocelyn stepped away from the door and sat back down on his bed. With a scowl he undid his belt and tossed it to one side; damned thing was too uncomfortable. “Don’t even think about crowing about how you were right,” he warned her.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Makes a change.” He lay down, and gave a small sigh of relief as the pain lessened somewhat. “I went to play envoy to Yves at the king’s command; he shot me out of hand. His men didn’t like that; they loved their lives too much to want to die for him, sensible people that they were. So they picked him up and dropped him over the ramparts; the fall killed him, obviously – it’d take a miracle not to.” Jocelyn rubbed his forehead, eyes closed against the memory of Yves’ ruined body. “So that’s how all that bit happened, in a nutshell.” Jocelyn squinted up at his wife, and patted the bed next to his uninjured side. “Come and join me-”

“I’ve got a headache,” she claimed, quick as lightening.

He grimaced. “So have I, and mine’s actually real. But I suppose I should be flattered you think me capable, despite the neat little hole and feverishness and all. Since I’m not going anywhere I’m going to get some sleep, and I sleep better if I’m not alone.”

“Yes; I’d noticed that,” she said witheringly.

Jocelyn raised himself up on his elbows. “Does it bother you?” he demanded. “Because it seems I can’t bloody win! God’s third toe on his left foot! Half the time you even tell me to go bother someone else, and you’ve never given me reason not to.”

“All these years and you finally ask. Yes, it bothers me. It bothers me that the entire county is busy laughing at me for being so useless you’d rather be in any bed but mine, despite my looks-”

“Who says that?” asked Jocelyn indignantly. “I’ll enlighten them as to my views on damaging a lady’s name, and then break their legs.”

Richildis folded her arms. “How is it you manage to be lamentably crude and almost likeable at the same time?”

“Natural talent.” He flopped back down to lie comfortably on his back; he buried a yawn in the back of his hand. “Never say I’m not a generous and reasonable man, Tildis, and I’m more than sick of this constant fighting. Besides, circumstances require a working partnership, if we’re to stand much of a chance of holding what’s ours. How about this: so long as you give me reason I’ll not stray unless I’m away for a week or more, but only if I’m given reason. I’m not fond of frostbite, especially not in such sensitive and delicate regions.”

“So in order to save my name I’ve got to find some way to welcome you forcing yourself on me without any consideration whenever you feel like it? Well, I’m not quite sure how one resigns oneself to something unpleasant, messy and discomforting-”

“Yes, thank you – I’ve heard more than enough complaining on my tried, true and very popular abilities as a lover, thank you very much! But you have to do more than just lie there – it takes two, you know.”

“If we’re bargaining, then you will stop swearing and blaspheming all the time. And stop trying to drag me into perverted practises – I’m not a dog, and if I wanted to ride something I’d get my horse! If I have to confess it in church then I’m not interested.”

Jocelyn felt the blood rush to his face. “Then you can stop acting like a leper every time I get within arm’s reach of you! And no more sneering over my reading and writing, and all that, and no more sighing over some crap poem or other in a broad hint that you want someone to write similar nonsense about you! And don’t keep blaming me for everything that goes wrong or you don’t like!”

“You can stop yelling at me every time something irritates you-”

“Likewise,” interjected Jocelyn.

They glared at each other again.

Jocelyn let his head roll back and closed his eyes, and remarked sourly, “Bloody – er, jolly good start this is.” He was too damned weary for yet more bickering, and perhaps it showed, because the expected retort never came.

“We have a deal; let us abide by it.” Richildis finally bowed to his earlier request, and joined him on the bed. “So, the king?”

Jocelyn slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. As usual she resisted, but before he could remind her of their bargain she acquiesced. “He went hunting yesterday. I wasn’t there, but I heard about it from others. They found a king stag, so naturally he took it. He speared the animal, a good kill by all accounts. But the stag barged sideways; he couldn’t really have avoided it. The horse got gored along its belly, and the stag tangled in its hooves. It went down. The king jumped clear, but landed badly; he broke his collar bone and hit his head. He’s got a gashed scalp and a lump the size of an egg right here,” Jocelyn tapped the side of his head, just above his ear.

He wet his parched lips with the tip of his tongue. “He was unconscious for a few hours, then he woke up, but he was so groggy and disoriented I don’t think he even knew he was awake, if you follow that. He was only awake for a few moments; he went to sleep. Somehow he was kicked in the ribs; there’s a cut a hand span long, right like this,” Jocelyn traced a line running across his ribs from low down on his right flank up to the middle of his front, getting close to his breastbone. “It was so deep you could see bone. He’s broken several ribs under it, but none were driven into his lungs. Now he’s in a raging fever, completely delirious, and that’s what will most likely kill him. Could have happened to anyone, and he wouldn’t be the only king to die this way. Hunting’s a dangerous sport.”

More resigned than relieved Richildis said, “So it looks like Thierry won’t be going to England, after all.”

“No, and somehow I’ve got to hold Tourraine together when I’m wounded myself, and have only been a day in power.” He yawned. “This while the king’s in my new castle, possibly dying.”

“What will happen now?”

“Pretty much as you’d expect.” Jocelyn let his head loll to one side to rest his cheek on the top of her head. He felt very tired now, and his eyes were so hot and aching they felt unbearable unless he closed them. “People are praying for his return to health endlessly, whatever good that might do. If it’s God’s will he dies he’ll die, if not he will live, and no amount of pleading on our part will alter that. We’re doing what we can to keep word quiet to delay the inevitable trouble, and we’ve sent a trusted messenger to England. Castle stocks are being replenished - I need you to take control over that, also to start winning over the town so they’ll stand with me. Yves’ men are being trained until they drop; they weren’t in too good condition, thanks to his usual negligence. I’ve got riders out summoning my new vassals to come and pay homage,” he was interrupted by another yawn, “and I’ve already received some oaths of loyalty. I want you to play countess at them …” Finishing that seemed too much effort for someone as tired as he was, so Jocelyn went to sleep instead.





5, 475

12 pages, and some Happenings.

I found a few computer kinks left to work out with my Big Hammer(TM), but I think I saw off the last of them a couple of days ago. :smash:

You always write battle scenes very well, Monk. It works for the tale you are telling too, and that's perhaps harder to do than it sounds. Many stories with a lot of action seem to either lose focus or get repetitive, IMO, but as far as I've read (not completely up to date, but hoping to go on another reading binge soon ...) you have avoided that. :bow:

[zelda12]

Aye, battles are always hard to do, you tread a fine line between plain statement and sensory over load. Point in fact.

All around me were falling, tossed aside like leaves in the wind by the enemy fire.

Or.

All around men were being blown to bloody ribbons, their bodies being destroyed as if wet paper, their sickly red blood flying through the air like a macarbe rainbow.

Obviously the first one is a little boring, and after the first 5 fight scenes people would be losing interest. Whilst the second is a little too gory and should be saved for climactic scenes so the audience doesn't just get used to it.

Hehe, sorry about the hijack froggy, pray continue the story... ~:cheers:

[frogbeastegg]

“What are you doing?” enquired a familiar voice from behind and above Fulk.

He lifted his head from the floorboards and glanced back to find the sight he’d guessed at confirmed by his eyes. Eleanor stood, head cocked slightly to on side, one eyebrow raised in a graceful arc, a perfect picture of polite enquiry. She was also alone. “I’m worshipping the ground you walk on, oh silent footed one,” he replied.

“As well you should. Do not let me interrupt you; I am only here to collect something.” As she passed by him a small bit of parchment dropped to the floor in front of his nose.

Fulk palmed it, and tucked it safely away. “One of these floorboards squeaks badly, so I thought I’d take a look and see if there’s anything I can do with it.” He looked up again to find she was digging through his armour chest.

“Ah ha!” Eleanor whipped his surcoat out of storage and held it up for examination. “Do keep talking.”

Fulk sat back on his heels. “What are you doing?”

“I noticed you have a rip in your surcoat; as I am a charitable soul with nothing better to do I am going to mend it for you.”

“There is? I’d not noticed.”

Eleanor took hold of the surcoat by the lower hem and drew a knife. She quickly sliced a several inch long cut in the silk. “Yes, there is. See?”

“Oh dear,” said Fulk in a suitable deadpan, “I’ve no idea how I missed seeing that. It must have happened during the move.” Knowing she could lip-read, he mouthed at her, “Vandal!” Quite what her reply was he couldn’t tell; he’d never been much good at lip-reading himself.

Fulk set the point of his own dagger into the larger than usual gap at one end of the floorboard in question and prised. It popped up easily, since it hadn’t been nailed down. He grunted in satisfaction, and returned his knife to his belt. A bit of groping in the hole turned up a cloth wrapped bundle the size of his fist, and nothing else. “Well, well, a secret stash.”

“Typical; the man goes and finds something interesting when I have all of a minute to return to company before people begin conjuring up sordid ideas.” Eleanor came and peered over his shoulder, and when he didn’t immediately spring into action she grumbled, “Which means you should hurry up, you dawdling dollop!”

Fulk set about unwrapping the bundle. “I hear and obey, oh rising of a thousand suns.”

The contents he revealed were much as he’d expected from the feel and weight of the package. Coins, and lots of them.

“The question is,” said Eleanor softly, “which of the previous occupants placed this here?”

“Juliana and Aveline didn’t have time to pack when they were evicted; all their things were sent on to them by palace servants …” Since her hand was in reach Fulk stretched up and clasped it.

“Most likely.” Eleanor squeezed his fingers. “I have to go. Count that lot up and put it somewhere safe; we will keep it. Putting it back will only leave it to moulder; the previous owners will not be able to come back for it now. It will be good to have some resources no one else expects.” She squeezed his fingers again, the slid her hand from his grasp.

Left alone in a room which now seemed much colder without Eleanor’s presence, Fulk quickly counted up the horde. It came to seven shillings, seven pence and a lonesome farthing. He added this money to his own, rather gratified to see that it plumped out his strongbox so there was actually some point in having one.

Next he replaced the floorboard and kicked the rushes around so it didn’t look like they had been disturbed. He also picked off the ones clinging to his clothes, and dropped them back down to join their fellows.

Lastly he did what he’d wanted to do first, and read Eleanor’s very brief message. Aware of what it meant he found himself embarrassingly close to tears. She could have refused, made excuses, argued, or ignored him, or even tried to batter him down with her rank. But she hadn’t. More than that – more than he had asked or expected. At the first opportunity he had granted her as much independence as he could give, knowing that it was important, even though their circumstances would probably never allow it to be more than a gesture. Now she had given it back. That was why he was in danger of weeping like a maid.

If she had been here, and he had been able, he would have enfolded her in his arms, clasped her to the heart she had claimed and … and on that note it really seemed an excellent idea to focus very carefully on something off-putting, like rotting offal, and hope that physicians weren’t right when they said too much pent up desire led to fatal congestions.







The fevered man began to thrash about. The royal physician rushed to his lord’s side, and clasped his wrists to prevent him from damaging his wounds. His lone efforts weren’t enough. “Help me, man!” he shouted.

Jocelyn added his weight to the effort, pinning the king’s good shoulder down to the bed, his other hand on the sound side of his chest to try and immobilise the king’s torso.

The king moaned something, a name Jocelyn didn’t quite catch. He repeated it, then again a second time. “Joanna.” He struggled to sit up, fighting the two men holding him in place with shocking strength. “Forgive me!” he screamed. He uttered the words again, this time in a sob. Then he fell back, slack and once more insensible.

The physician, a man by the name of Lionel, waited to be sure the fit was over and then released his lord. He brushed the king’s sweat-drenched hair back from his face, almost lovingly. “Always the same; his first wife’s name, and pleas for forgiveness.”

“But for what?”

“Fevered men rant and make no sense; pay it all no heed.” The man’s brows drew together thoughtfully. “No, I lie. Not always his wife; there have been a few other names, but rarely. Stephan, John …”

“So he’s talking to the dead?” asked Jocelyn, fascinated despite himself.

“Not always, not unless his youngest has died of late.” Lionel measured out a cup of some herbal infusion or other. He raised the king up, and placed the cup to his parched, cracked lips. Most of whatever it was poured straight back out of the king’s mouth, but some of it went down. The physician set the cup back down still mostly full, and gently laid his patient back. With a cloth he mopped up the spilled drink, and dried his lord’s brow. “Willow bark, and a few other things to bring the fever down. I manage to get a few mouthfuls down him frequently enough that it might help.”

“Will he live?” Jocelyn wondered why he bothered asking the damned question yet again. His liege was reduced to an increasingly gaunt man, so soaked in his own sweat he looked as if he’d been dipped in a river. His head was bandaged so he looked like a God damned heathen Muslim, and between the bandaging on his chest and the sling to support his broken shoulder the man was as good as half dressed, despite being stark naked. He’d been lost in this accursed fever for more than a day, and it showed no signs of breaking; even if it did it was no assurance the man would live, or would have his wits intact.

“He has perhaps two days, if the fever does not break. The wounds are corrupt, but not so far that they spell certain death. I would judge it to be closer to laudable pus than decay, though that can change swiftly. They could heal …” Lionel shrugged. “But then they could not. As one of my colleagues had a passion for saying, it balances on the edge of a knife. And how does your own wound?”

“Well enough. Actually, I’d best get back so my wife can change the dressing again.” It was a pretext; he’d slept three hours straight, only to be wakened by Richildis prodding him and telling him that the honey would have absorbed as many evil humours as it could hold by now, and a fresh lot needed applying. He’d come up here as soon as that was done. Now he wanted a rest before dinner, but pride wouldn’t let him admit it. It would make him sound like a doddering old man.

Because of that he was about as happy as Richildis looked when he returned to his solar, to find Renaud de Valençay sat near the fire, talking loudly and drinking some of what was unfortunately very likely to be Jocelyn’s best wine. Before Jocelyn even had time to close the door Renaud was on his feet. “Jocelyn!” He tossed off the last of his wine, dumped the goblet into Richildis’ hands and shambled over to clap his former squire on the shoulder. “Well done, lad! Well bloody done! Count of Tourraine, and better yet you’ve done it over Yves’ dead poxed body!” Beaming, he pulled Jocelyn into the room and stood with a hand on his shoulder before Richildis. “Bet you’re proud of him, eh? Glad you married him now, I’d say – always told you he’d go far.”

Richildis’ stilted smile could have cut glass. “Yes.” Jocelyn decided she really meant “No! Wrong, you boorish lout, and kindly don’t bother trying to read my mind again, as you’re even worse at it than the idiot I married!”

Renaud rattled Jocelyn’s shoulder again. “Always knew you’d go far, didn’t I always tell everyone that?”

He had, incessantly. “Yes,” agreed Jocelyn, wondering how he could rescue his shoulder before he ended up unwillingly following fashion to the extreme, and breaking it to match the king.

“Anyway, I’m sure I’ve no damned need to tell you that I’m your most faithful vassal, and I’ll happily pay homage to you just before dinner. That’s how things should be, right, lad? Men taking care of a man’s stout business, then food!” He cast a longing look at his empty goblet. “And more of that wine, I hope …” Both Jocelyn and his wife ignored the broad hint, and the hopeful gap ended with Renaud saying, “Well, your hospitality’s always been more than generous in the past, and I can’t see why that’d change.” Jocelyn’s shoulder found itself shaken like a leaf in a storm. “Hey, and what’s all this I hear about you getting shot by Yves? It’s a wonder the arse didn’t hold the bow the wrong way round and shoot himself between the eyes!”

“Yves was always a good shot, you know that.” Jocelyn’s words were mostly lost in his former mentor’s raucous laughter.

“So it’s true? Saints above!” Renaud hauled Jocelyn around so he could examine him carefully from the front, poking and prodding as if he didn’t believe his eyes and expected a limb or two to be missing. “So where’d he get you? No where useful, I hope? Knew a man once who got a crossbow quarrel stuck right through his-”

Loudly, Jocelyn said, “In my side, just above my hip.”

“Then your wife’s no doubt a very relieved woman.” Renaud dug Jocelyn in the ribs several times with an elbow. “Doubt the relief extends to all those husbands you’ve cuckolded though.” More elbow digging, followed by a wink at Richildis. “You’ll have to go easy on him until he heals though, no working him to death!” This was punctuated by even more nudging and winking, and concluded by loud laugher.

Jocelyn said a quick prayer of thanks that his wife was well bred and a stickler for manners, and so would never strangle a guest, no matter the provocation. Given the circumstances pride died a fast death in the face of expediency. “As you might imagine, I’m a bit weary, so I’d like to get some rest-”

“Understandable, lad, understandable. Why I remember back when I lost my hand, I was like a wrung out sheet-”

“So I was hoping to get a bit of sleep before dinner-”

“Only I’ve got this bit of business that’s not for airing in public,” continued Renaud, happily oblivious to the attempts to get rid of him.

Jocelyn sighed. “What do you want?”

“It’s a man’s business.” Belatedly aware that this didn’t go down too well with Richildis, Renaud smiled at her, and added, “Alliances, politics, and all that. You’d find it boring, my dear.”

For an answer Richildis sat down and waited expectantly.

Renaud turned his back on her, acting as if she was no longer present. “Jocelyn, lad, I don’t want to interfere, and you know I’m very fond of your wife, but really she needs a reminder of manners.”

“No, she doesn’t,” returned Jocelyn, not quite but very nearly so blunt it was rude. Complaining about Richildis was his privilege, and others could keep their damned noses out! “I expect her to play a wife’s part, and that means acting as my second in most things. If she doesn’t know she can’t do. She’s staying.”

“Alright, have it your way,” called Renaud blithely. “On your head be it, and all that. Gives us both something to look at anyway.”

“The point?” interjected Jocelyn. His head was beginning to ache again.

“Elianora de Ardon: you’ve got her; I’ve a use for her. One you’ll like.”

“Oh?” Jocelyn joined his wife in the window seat, anything to get him safely out of range of any more shaking, poking, and bruising.

“There’s the Count of Vendome, you see. Poor bastard’s got four surviving sons – four! It’s a problem, as you might see. The eldest’s settled; he’s married, and going to get the patrimony after the count’s death. The second’s also set up, married and set to inherit all his mother brought with her to the marriage. The third’s gone to the church; he’s the current favourite - and like to replace too, mind – of the Bishop of Le Mans. The fourth’s got a problem; there’s nothing left for him. So I think it’d go well if you matched the boy to this Elianora – it’d forge a decent enough alliance between you and Vendome, the boy’d get some suitable lands and future, she’d get a new future and something to pull her out of this bloody gloom I’m always hearing about, and Ardon’d get some deserved attention again. A neighbouring count as your ally, along with three sons fit to fight and a third who can bring the church down on your enemies, and all of it in addition to the usual armies and so on …”

“And this would be welcomed, would it?”

“Oh, come on, lad! Bring your brains back from your groin to your head!” Renaud held up his hand and stump in a placating gesture when he was that had gone down very sourly. “You know the man well enough in a semi-distant way, and I know him better. It’d be welcome, or I’d not mention it. In fact he’d mused out aloud about the girl over a flagon of wine we shared, once he’d heard about your rescue, just on the off chance that she’d fall into your control and events’d play out as they have. Good chap, is Aymar. He’d be a staunch ally, so long as you likewise kept faith with him.”

Richildis said, “But Ardon is a smoking ruin; hardly the likely foundation for such an alliance. It wouldn’t be a blood tie between our families either.”

“But close enough, for now. Ardon can be mended, and the girl’s been given enough money to see good to most of it. It’d take a few years, a bit more money, and there you go, good as new, if not better for being tailored more to the new lord’s tastes.”

Jocelyn needed all the allies he could get, and the Count of Vendome and his family would be powerful allies indeed. It would cost him little too; the price of Elianora’s wardship had been part and parcel of gaining his own county. “Fine; I’ll send someone over to negotiate.” Someone who was not Renaud! “If you go down to the hall I think you’ll find they’re beginning to really think about setting out the things for dinner. Tell my steward I want you to sample my new Rhenish wine.”

Renaud stood up. “Right, then I’ll be off and do that, leaving you to your bed. Sleep though, lad, sleep. It’s a possible use for a bed, no matter what you might think.”

When they were alone Jocelyn rubbed his aching eyes. “Well, Tildis, here’s good news for you. I’m getting refined tastes – I don’t find him funny any more. In fact I wonder how I ever did.”

“So that’s what it’s like,” commented Richildis softly, and mostly to herself.

“What what’s like?”

“Being one of the ones to arrange a marriage, not one of the victims left to carry it out. I had wondered.” She looked at him, very serious. “We are not doing this with our children – we’re putting a lot more thought and care into their matches.”

“Of course we’re going to! Damn it – er, confound it!” He scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on his close-trimmed beard. “Actually, we’re not handling this one so badly as it might seem. I’m going to insist the potential couple meet and see if they can get on with each other, at the least. There’s a need for this match, and a need for it to be settled quickly, but the girl’s under my protection. I’d appreciate your help to ease things along a bit.” Jocelyn unfastened his belt and dropped it to the floor; he’d fastened it very lightly, but still it sat uncomfortably on tender flesh. Richildis gave him an ‘I told you so!’ look, which he ignored. He patted her hand with the same reserved wariness that people had for metal that had recently come off heat. She endured the contact without batting an eyelid, and he supposed this was some slight improvement. “See if you can’t bring her back into this world from wherever her mind’s gone, fill her up with the potential joys of married life, remind her that this would be a chance to regain everything she’d lost and thought she would never have again, and so on.”








The man wore burnt orange and forest green livery, but Hugh knew him to be a harbinger of misfortune just as surely as if he had been a scythe bearing desiccated corpse in a black cowl. He knelt before the dais, the third to do so in this morning’s audience.

“Your Highness,” he said, respectful, pitching his voice to carry throughout the palace’s main hall. “I come with a message from my lord, Raoul Trempwick, Earl of Northumberland. He instructs me to beg permission to speak.”

Unfortunately permission could not be denied. Realising his latest perfidy Hugh dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand as hard as possible, punishing himself, in addition, for his hopeless lack of wit and ability in being able to find no way out from this trap. “Speak.”

“My lord wonders if matters permit his marriage to your sister, the princess Eleanor, to take place yet. He is well aware of the reasons for the delay, and craves your pardon for bothering you with his pleas, like a child demanding that which he was promised over and over until it is given. His conscience is uneasy, and his heart empty, knowing he has been party in disobeying his king, and he would see an end to that. He is also eager to be a husband, and prove himself worthy of the trust both the king your father, and your sister, with her agreement to the match, have placed in him. This is the dawning of the third day since his departure, and so he fervently hopes that circumstances have now changed.”

Hugh had listened to the flowery message with increasing, impotent anger; anger which had not yet managed to drown out the hopeless knowledge of disaster and sure defeat. He could not do this. He had done his best, and still the spymaster had reserves to run about him in rings, so he turned from one assault to the next without occasion even anticipate the blows and lean into them to mitigate their force. He was not equal to the task laid before him.

He became aware that the hall was filled in an expectant hush, waiting for his answer. He had drifted in his own despair too long. Miserable, petulant anger overwhelmed all else. “No, matters have not changed sufficiently, and rest assured that I will inform him when they do. Furthermore I do not welcome his airing certain matters before all! I expected far better from a man of his position and knowledge, and find myself grievously disappointed. All can accept that some matters of state must remain private, from the certainty that if they did not then our enemies would know overmuch! You may tell him that.”

The messenger bowed, rose, and walked away with dignity.

The next supplicant took a while to step forward, and Hugh could not but notice that the hall was filled with whispers, exchanged looks, and blatant curiosity over Trempwick’s petition and his own answer to it. Trempwick’s man could return to his master and report his success. If only he could have told them all the truth, and declared Trempwick for the villain he was!

Hugh’s mood became blacker. None of this was his fault! None of it! He had possessed no part in the making of it, only the smaller parts of rectifying it, and in that he was badly hampered. If he were king -

He stopped himself before he could plunge too far into his iniquity, his anger fizzling out like a candle put under a waterfall. Hugh realised his nails still dug into his palm, though the sensation of pain had settled into numb disassociation. The joints had seized closed, so long and with so much force had he held the pose, and he had some trouble opening his hand again.

The next petitioner waited to be recognised; Hugh did so with a wave of his hand. His listened to the request to marry one of the crown’s many wards with but one ear, the other attentive to an inner voice which accused, “Fiend!” over and over in time with his pulse.





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[frogbeastegg]

“So much for never again,” murmured Trempwick.

Even without seeing Elgiva’s face he knew she smiled at that. “Even the best plans go awry. I’m not complaining.”

The words had the same effect as a bucket of cold water. Trempwick’s contented lassitude evaporated. His hand stopped stroking her arm; he all but froze. Even the best plans go awry …

“What? What did I say?” After so many years she could read him well. Perhaps too well. But then he was demonstrating his mood blatantly. Careless … but harmless, with her. She had been devoted for many years.

He did not answer. He disentangled himself from her embrace and climbed out of the bed. He sat for a while, letting the cool air dry his sweat-dampened flesh, further dispelling his languor. Even the best plans go awry … The spymaster took over full force, banishing the last traces of Raoul.

Could it possibly be?

Unable to go to Salcey he had had Elgiva fetched down to Woburn. He had thought nothing more than an idle day; a spymaster’s holiday. But she had perhaps unwittingly put her finger on it. In doing so she had shattered his holiday.

Could it possibly be? But how? So many years of planning. So much caution. Not one other person in possession of even half his plans. A plan set up so it all but executed itself with very little from him. So many critical elements playing into his hands, perfectly. Years of success. Not one true failure. Never more than slight, rectifiable setbacks, which should be expected in any plan. Checks and guards set in place and proven to work.

Could he have given himself away?

Long, hard thought revealed he could not have. Only three avenues for such disaster existed: Nell, William, the bastard. He could see nothing at all which he might have done to give himself away to any of them. Little things to make them wonder a very little, perhaps. But wonder about a fraction of the whole, and always things easily explained in rational ways. Minds always went for what they considered logical and acceptable. The unexpected remained such because if it could be anticipated then it would be expected.

His plan was not unexpected. It was unexpected. The very refinement of the concept. Unthinkable. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible. Oh, certainly parts were normal enough. But execution? Scope? Scale? Detail? Means? Method? Tools? Encompassing vision? Now they were special.

To be safe, assume the worst: they know. What next?

Trempwick did not pause to consider his king. He was alive to ponder such questions, and that was more than answer enough.

The bastard was indeed moving to block. But so ineptly, in a way which furthered his own downfall. Only a complete fool would identify an enemy so great, and then do next to nothing. Strike hard and fast, gain victory as a priority – that was a sane man’s path. To dither? Dithering here only weakened the bastard further and further. It also risked his child’s life, his wife’s health. The bastard was not his sister’s equal. But he was no complete fool. And he did care for his family. He could not know.

Nell? What possible motive could she have for betraying him? Even if she did know everything. Which she never could, unless he explained it. But assume her knowledge matched his, to work from the extreme. To go to her family was to destroy herself. She hated them, feared them, mistrusted them extensively. All with good reason. She hated the life she would be forced to. He had shaped her so she was unlikely to go against him in anything important. He had always reined her in if she got tiresomely difficult. Had done that so often she barely even considered going against him in small things now. She would lose so much, and gain nothing. Lose her mentor. Her home. Her unusual life. Her refuge. Her very necessary protector. Her one and only chance to use what she had learned from him. Lose someone she was beginning to love, right after losing one she did? At present she might not like the destiny he had in mind for her, if she knew. But she could not hate it so much – a littlethought and she would begin to see … Trempwick smiled; that smile encapsulated what she would see. To put it to words took much too long, and was still inadequate. And if she began to see she would begin to want. Nell was too much a thinker not to stop and think.

Above all Nell would not countenance such a slow, idiotic plan! He had taught her far better. She would press for his immediate capture at the least. She knew well how dangerous he could be.

After all he had put into this how could he fail?

Trempwick returned to his lover’s arms, and let her prise his defences back down again.







“I have it,” announced Eleanor. She advanced the pawn on the third file from the left forward one square. It was entirely bland; a move with no immediate gain, and which set up nothing special. But she was convinced it was the best move, and so the solution to the puzzle.

Sir Miles opened his eyes to slits, and took in the new layout of the chess board. “Such a boring move, but correct, your Highness. Sometimes a little dull groundwork is required before battle can commence with security.” He sat forward and altered the set up, removing some pieces and adding others, setting the two armies in new formations. Done, he slumped back in his chair and shut his eyes again.

Hugh’s old tutor was one of those rare knights who had devoted himself entirely to peaceful arts; teaching, learning, debating, philosophising, and doing the occasional bit of writing. He had not wielded a weapon since being dubbed at nineteen, or so he insisted. Nor did he admit to any wish to, owning instead that the sight of blood made him feel very ill. Now comfortably into his fifties he was getting past his fighting days anyway, and he was sufficiently tubby that Eleanor rather pitied his horse. His mostly grey hair had balded into a natural monk’s tonsure, combining with his affable features - and the cup of ale frequently clasped in his hand - to make him fit very well the commonly imagined image of a cheery if rather ill-behaved monk. All he needed was a cassock, and perhaps a nun.

Having exhausted the original subject of castles and sieges Sir Miles had decided to improve her chess skills. He had been horrified when he had discovered she was such an indifferent player, claiming that the game was of vital importance to all civilised and intelligent minds. That might have some small grain of truth, but Eleanor still found it extremely tedious, even if she was showing some marginal improvement.

Eyes still closed, Sir Miles said, “You asked me if you had overlooked or forgotten any part of your family tree.”

“I did.”

Fulk pricked up his ears, watching the renewed exchange with unconcealed interest. Unlike most of Eleanor’s pre-Trempwick tutors Sir Miles didn’t mind having an audience aside from his designated royal; he seemed to welcome Fulk’s fascination and occasional contributions. Hawise, on the other hand, was bored, and had been so consistently.

“To answer your question, your Highness: you are surely aware that your family has never been particularly abundant, with the exception of the first William and the current one.” He reached out with one hand and fumbled for the drink resting on the floor at his side. He took a generous sip before continuing, “It is most fortunate that most of you seem to possess an iron constitution, and survive very well! Although some kings did have numerous children on the wrong side of the blanket – the first Henry had some twenty-three bastards.”

Both eyes opened fully and Miles sat up, for the first time since yesterday giving the impression he was completely awake. “To advance to your unspoken questions. Remember the third William, Henry’s son. After being the only person to survive the White Ship disaster he reformed from a spoiled wastrel into an extremely pious man, and only replaced the wife he had lost to the sunken ship nearly a year after his coronation, when the Pope himself stepped in to add his voice to those begging him to marry. For a time it was believed he could never be convinced into breaking his self-imposed celibacy. William managed a solitary son with his new wife. His line, and so the Conqueror’s, continues unbroken, father to son, and occasionally brother to brother and then to son, to the present day. I consider that something of a wonder – you have come close to extinction often. Of your father’s generation, he is the only one left. Of yours and the next, you know well.”

Miles coughed into his hand to clear his throat. “Now, let us address the unspoken question I suspect you are most interested in. Before the third William’s son was born his sister was his heir, as there was no other directly and legitimately descended from the old king. Because of this her life was ordered towards that end by her father, when it became apparent there would be no other legitimate children, around the time she was ten. Her brother continued this. Her husband was chosen as a man who could not only rule ably alongside her as king-consort, but also as one who could support her claim, and was liked and respected by the nobility. He was also selected on the basis of needing to support her, not supplant her, and to uphold her brother’s natural place in the order of things. I doubt it was easy to find someone who could be trusted to do that.”

Fulk said, “They chose Count Stephan of Blois; he was famous for being a man of honour, and also had sufficient royal blood he could have tried to oppose Matilda. They were cousins, but Papal dispensation removed that obstacle. It could have worked well, actually, but it was never tested. Perhaps for the better, given that they only had one daughter, and their line died with her.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, abashed – quite adorably, Eleanor found - by venturing his opinion on royal manoeuvrings of more than a century ago in such company.

Miles swapped his attention from Eleanor to Fulk. “The question so many have asked is could it ever have worked? You say it could, and I am inclined to agree with you, although it would have been tough going for the first few years. However, considerations of whether a queen would be accepted aside, Matilda’s personality was not best suited to the role. She possessed innate arrogance and superiority, and a vengeful streak. She would have perhaps been her own worst enemy.”

Sir Miles transferred his focus back to Eleanor with a lecture that made the hair stand up sat the back of her neck. “A king should show mercy and benevolence to his enemies, so men do not fear to throw down their arms and surrender to him. Without such possibility for reconciliation even the smallest dispute becomes a battle to the very end, and as such it becomes costlier and far, far more deadly. Once in a while a king becomes strong enough to survive such to the death struggles with no greater harm done, and so can take a harder line on rebels. It is an exceptional compliment on your father’s ability and hold, your Highness, that he is one such king.”

“And it is going to leave my brother one rather stunning backlash,” Eleanor stated frankly. This particular snippet of instruction was of the type almost always reserved for the heir to the throne, and that was why it made her faintly uneasy. It made her wonder if Hugh’s tutor might also be Trempwick’s creature. “The nobles will demand far more of him before they accept him as king, and they will continue to demand more of him unless he becomes strong enough to resist them. They want back what was once theirs, and with assurance it will not be lost again.”

“There are times when such force is not only justified, but the correct thing to do.”

“Of course,” admitted Eleanor easily. “But even so the nobility do not like seeing even the worst of their order broken completely – they know that they could suffer the same fate one day. Exile and confiscation of all lands, money and chattels used to suffice for the very worst offenders, and was accepted for generations. It replaced the old Saxon laws which called for death. Exile always leaves hope for reconciliation and a return to grace. Far from showing weakness, mercy proves strength. It proves the king is sufficiently secure and confident that he can forgive enemies. Hunting and destroying utterly those who stand against their lord is a sign of weakness, equivalent to a man who will not allow even a tiny rushlight in his house, for fear of a blaze that burns it to the ground. A truly strong king strikes a balance between the two, doing what is necessary even when unpopular, but showing mercy those who demonstrate their disapproval. A select few examples should be made to remind people of what can happen at the worst, so they appreciate the mercy more.”

Eleanor found Miles was watching her with evident fascination, and Fulk was listening to her with his head propped on one fist, his eyes alight with keen interest. She knew why too – she was speaking more like a prince than a princess. Unlike everyone else Trempwick had been only too happy to indulge a young princess and her questions, and had encouraged her to ask about anything which caught her curiosity. He had not always answered, and there were subjects he had forbidden, but subjects such as this one had been received well.

Miles concluded, “So it follows that our current king is not so strong after all.”

“He is, but not as much as he would like to believe. I believe he is afraid of opposition, and I also believe he needs to keep a tighter hold on what is his than most, if he is to be content. He will let nothing and no one go; he will control everything. He is fortunate in that he has had the resources and luck to do so, with some few exceptions.” Eleanor spared a few moments of attention to the current chess puzzle before her. It was an easy one; she solved it by castling. “Hugh will face demands to go back to that, to ‘honour the customs of the land and his ancestors’, just as every king has, and this time it will mean far more than symbolic reassurance. In this case customs will most certainly not mean those established and altered by my father’s time. It will be an effort to return to as things were in my grandfather’s day, and before.”

“You are correct,” Miles said sadly. “Hugh will inherit decades worth of frustration and grudges. Every wrong, every slight, every tiny unpopular act your father committed will return to haunt your brother tenfold. I am afraid there are rather a lot of them.” Sir Miles refilled his cup with more small ale. He took a healthy gulp. “So, your Highness, I think your many unasked questions are answered, and the answers are – and can only ever be - ones you are already familiar with.”






Spending a few hours like this was balm to Hugh’s soul. Sitting in his room playing chess with Miles and Constance, discussing whatever interested any of them. His time for such pursuits had been severely curtailed of late. A goblet of wine, a chessboard, and fine company – it was easy at such times to forget he had concerns beyond giving a good game and providing his own share of intelligent conversation. He did not even need to mind his actions; his natural behaviour here suited every possible demand propriety, duty, manners and all else could lay upon him.

But, alas, this time there was something that was not carefree to bring to the table. He delayed until the first game ended. “Well played,” he congratulated his old tutor, as he toppled his king to admit defeat.

“Not so bad.” Miles consumed more of his wine, or put forth the appearance of doing so. He was capable of two linked deceptions: the first being drinking more than he really did; the second being an aptitude for pretending convincing drunkenness while as sober as the day.

Hugh invited his wife to take his place at the board. “See if you can defeat him, dearest.”

The swap took place, and the new game began.

Able to conscience delaying no longer, Hugh asked, “You have formed your opinion on my sister?”

“I have.” Miles contemplated his next move, made it, and then looked up to meet Hugh’s eyes earnestly. “I see what Trempwick must have.”

Hugh nodded slowly, and said nothing. There was nothing in need of saying.






5, 529

For the next 2 weeks I’m not going to have much chance to write. I’m being ‘invited’ (read: forced with absolutely no way out at all) to go on a very stupid course. Obviously I’m not a happy froggy at being forced to waste huge chunks of my time. Even less so when most of it is related to telling us things that are simply common sense and should be obvious to anyone with an IQ above that of a melon. The final frog upsetting straw is that at least one day is dedicated to The Horrific Crap That Should Be Banished To Some Hell Or Other™ that is team building exercises. :winces:

I think I might manage to post a bit; the next few scenes are looking reasonably short by a frog’s standards. If I post one scene at a time it should be more timely than saving up for a usual frog sized chapter.

[frogbeastegg]

There. A starting place. A beginning to unravel this snarl. Instinct provided it. Trempwick always trusted the instinct built up by decades of experience.

He finished scribing the coded symbols comprising his short message and inserted it into the little leather case, ready to affix to the leg of his chosen carrier bird.

Instinct said he was wrong in his judgement of at least one person. Judgement built carefully on observation, knowledge, research, experimental manipulation. Almost certainly sound. But perhaps not. And if not …

Trempwick let his chosen bird transfer from perch to his wrist. He ran a fingertip lightly over downy breast feathers ruffled by the wind coming in through the window. He kept a steady stream of gentling words going, smiling wryly as it crossed his mind he had been saying much the same things to Elgiva when he leapt from bed with no warning or explanation for a second time. Unnecessary; she had always been tolerant of him. One of the reasons why he liked her: no questions. Ever.

Trempwick attached the note to his messenger. He paused at the window, bird clasped lightly between his two hands, ready to be let fly. One tiny, all but insignificant little starting place. If he were wrong here, then it may lead to something fractionally larger. Then larger still. On and on until he found something the size of a grain of sand. From there he could go to work, collecting more grains. In a time he might have enough to fill the palm of his hand. At that point he should have much to begin to work with. If he got anything.

Trempwick gave the bird a little throw, offering it up to the winds. He watched until it was out of sight, winging towards Waltham. Leaving the window he began to wander back to his chamber, and Elgiva.






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:sigh: This course is not as bad as I thought. It's worse. I'm stuck playing children's party games half the time. Or doing 'tasks' of such simplicity and stupidity a three year old would be insulted. Or drawing pictures. Like a shield which 'represents' me, my past, present and future. In a baking hot room. On the 6th floor. For hours. My intelligence is not just insulted, it's looking for revenge with a gun and no mercy.

I'll see if I can manage more tomorrow; I'm anticipating using my one allowed sick day. I'm roasted and dizzy from this ungodly British heatwave, and sitting down being inactive for so long has left me with terrible cramp in my legs which has been near perminant for two days. Plus frogs do not absail! Or do army style assault courses. Or spend time working out how to get across a room (unless the floor is covered in landmines; then we tend to go a different route) as some kind of exercise in illogical (non-exisitant if you have a bit of sense) problem solving. They do not possess clothing they do not mind ruining.They most certainly do not want to cook in a coach for heaven knows how long getting to the site of this foul torture.

But enough about the joys of my course. I haven't even gotten into the company, or the other tasks, or the fact we have nothing to do half the tiome but are not allowed to leave, or the plan for next week, or ...

[frogbeastegg]

As dinner ended Eleanor politely thanked her latest partner for his fine company, and showily focused her attention on her brother before he could find a way to continue to claim her time.

As Hugh and Constance stepped away from the table Eleanor fell into step at her brother’s empty side. “Hugh, I wish to speak with you.”

“Then you had best join us on our way up, but mind I do not have an abundance of time at present, so pray keep matters brief and to the point.”

Anne joined the group also, and the four began to ascend the staircase towards the solar. Constance led, then Anne, with Hugh and Eleanor bringing up the rear.

“What do you think of the Earl of Chester?” enquired Hugh, as the passed the door into the second floor.

Eleanor’s answer was both brief and understated. “Not much.”

“He is one of our staunchest men, and an excellent general.”

“He has the imagination of a carrot.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Hugh, “but he has many other qualities.”

“Yes. The sense of humour of a schoolboy, the keen wit of a village idiot, and the fine and gentle temperament of a destrier. He is known for being cruel. He spent most of the time talking about his hunting hounds.” As an afterthought Eleanor added, “And he really is not interested in me.”

“He liked you.” Hugh managed to make this sound like a miracle.

As they passed the third floor Constance drew Anne off towards the room she shared with Hugh, leaving the siblings alone to talk.

“No,” corrected Eleanor painstakingly. “He liked having a captive audience.”

“He appreciated your abilities as a listener,” countered Hugh, glancing over his shoulder at her. “He found you able to support conversation in an agreeable manner, complimenting his own contributions in a way he admires, thus producing a harmonious result.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and entered the solar. Hugh went to stand before the fire. “I will state now that I am most pleased with your behaviour with him. You have been everything you should; modest, demure, courteous, and impeccably mannered.”

Eleanor also stood, not wanting her brother to tower over her any more than he already did. “This is the second time in as many evenings you have placed me with him, and you invited him to take me for a short walk today in such a way I could hardly refuse.”

“Yes.” Hugh held his hands out closer to the flames to warm. “He is a very suitable choice, and as a couple you get along most well. I saw this quickly, before the second course of last night’s meal.”

Eleanor scowled. “To be frank I pity whoever and whatever ever has to spend time in close proximity to him, be it human, animal, or lifeless object.”

Hugh glanced at her over his shoulder again. “Nell, you exaggerate-”

“No, listen to me,” she interrupted firmly. “I do not like him, not one bit. I will not marry him, so you can cease pushing us together. I want nothing to do with the man – nothing. No more of your matchmaking! You gave me your word.”

If any of this made an impression on Hugh it didn’t show; he remained unconcerned and facing away from her as if he did not even find this important enough to grant her his attention. “There is no harm in introducing you to the possibilities, as you may find someone to your liking.”

Nettled by his dismissive demeanour Eleanor permitted herself one very pertinent and true jab at him. “You forget yourself. It shall not be your decision to make. It will be for our worshipful father will decide, and then I shall start refusing. You have no place in any of it.”

At last Hugh turned away from the fire. “As I previously stated, if you find a preference for a person than I shall do my utmost to support that cause, bringing this sorry state of affairs to a happy conclusion for all involved. I do not purport to make any decision what so ever. Again, I repeat myself when I say that no harm is done.”

“Harm is done! I find your belief that I do not know my own mind insulting in the extreme, likewise the assumption I will tamely fall for whatever dolt you push at me.”

Hugh dropped a hand to his belt. “I will overlook the insinuation about myself in those words, but calling respected members of our highest nobility dolts is hardly worthy of someone of your rank.”

Mindful of Fulk’s order that she stay out of harm’s way she didn’t bother to respond to that; a certain amount of Hugh-upsetting was inevitable, but she would keep to the bare minimum, even if it meant passing up a few potential opportunities to try and win a little more ground. Eleanor met her brother’s eyes, and said very clearly, “I do not like him. I do not want him. I will not have him. The same goes for any other. No more matchmaking.” That last she spelled out even more distinctly than the rest.

Hugh continued to look down at her. Then he shrugged, and went to add another log to the fire. “So be it, if as so you desire it. At dinner I shall have the chaplain seated with you; there can be no considerations of marriage or any such entanglements there. I shall not again send you a companion out of compassion for your loneliness, and I shall not let any others bother you. Nor shall I again trouble you by giving in to your many pleas to be allowed outside of these walls. When our father returns he will choose for you, and now you have no chance to influence that decision so it becomes favourable to you.” Hugh stepped away from the fire, and said deliberately, “Goodnight, Nell. I am sure you wish to return to your rooms, as you are so weary.”

Having achieved what she had set out to do Eleanor simply wished him a good night and left, without reacting in the slightest to the intensified imprisonment he had just laid on her.






“Waterskins?” repeated Jocelyn, very much in disbelief.

The king’s physician bobbed his head. “Yes. It is something I heard of but never tried. I have been presented with no other suitable call to try the technique. You fill them up with cold water from the well and put them around the king, much as you do with heated stones to warm a bed. The coolness draws the fevered heat from the body far better than damp cloths.”

“And you pack them all around the king?”

Lionel didn’t even blink, plainly not seeing what Jocelyn did. “Yes.”

“Like a fragile object being ported in a crate stuffed with hay?”

Now Lionel blinked. “I suppose that is a good enough analogy,” he allowed reluctantly.

“It’s absurd! He’s a king, not a gilded statue! You admit yourself you’ve little idea that it’ll work; we can’t afford to take chances. What if it makes him worse? What if he hurts himself on one of the damned bags next time he starts lashing out? What if it’s too cold and he freezes to death?”

“I have done all I can with more usual methods.” Lionel doffed his hat and scratched his head. Instead of putting the hat back on he dropped it to the table set at the king’s bedside. He mopped his patient’s brow, but the simple chore now reeked of a hopeless need to do something. The speed with which the king’s muscular frame was melting away to gaunt old bones was terrifying. His wounds were slowly beginning to improve, the inflammation reducing and the traumatised skin beginning to be replaced with healthy flesh, but that wasn’t the happy sign it should have been. “He is dying,” sighed Lionel. “All I have done, and he is dying. We have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Either we break the fever, or we bury him.”

“Waterskins.” Jocelyn experimented with a sigh; his own wound didn’t protest at it. “Fine, fine, Waterskins it is. I’ll leave the detail to you; you take whoever you want and tell them what you need.”

A short while later Jocelyn left the sick room and started his early morning rounds of the castle’s walls, speaking to his new soldiers and inspecting their general turnout. Yves’ old men were shaping up rapidly – the threat of being thrown out in favour of better men had acted like a red hot branding iron jammed on the rump of an ox. He’d made a few examples, getting rid of the worst, and ordering a few fines and floggings for the lazy, while at the same time rewarding those who had cared for their equipment and did their work well. A few alterations to the command structure had gone down well, bringing more competent men to the fore and culling the more corrupt or abusive sergeants.

His own health was the stark opposite of the king’s. The low fever had cleared, and the wound continued to heal very well. With a bit of care Jocelyn was now back to life as usual.

Nearing the end of his circuit of the inner curtain wall Jocelyn climbed to the top of the eastern tower. The guard turned, changing his grip on his spear so it was ready for use if needed. When he saw Jocelyn he dropped the spearbutt to the floor and saluted. “Lordship.”

Jocelyn acknowledged with a curt nod. “Chill morning.”

“Foggy too, but it’ll clear soon, I’m thinking.”

Jocelyn was halfway through the door leading back to the stairs when the sentry shouted, “Lordship!” Jocelyn turned back, and the soldier pointed off into the distance. “Over there.”

Jocelyn stood beside the man and gazed in the direction indicated. For a time he saw nothing, then the blowing fog revealed for an instant the figure of a single horseman, riding at some speed towards the castle. “Sharp eyes there,” he said to the sentry, gaining a pleased, shy shrug.

Jocelyn met the messenger at the outer gatehouse. He recognised the man immediately as one of the garrison from Ardentes, an Osmond by name. He must have set out before dawn, and his lathered horse spoke of how fast he’d ridden.

Osmond bowed to his lord. “Lord, message from Sir Gautier.” He held out a battered letter.

Gautier was the man he’d installed as castellan in his other castle, a man he’d known and trusted for many years. “He expects a reply?”

“Yes, lord.”

Jocelyn took the letter. “Go wait in the hall, get yourself a drink and food. I’ll send for you when I need you.” He stood slightly apart from the others clustered about the gatehouse, broke the seal on the letter and began the laborious process of reading the damned thing.

On getting the gist of the message Jocelyn swore some of his choicer oaths. He sent one of the gatehouse guards running for the castle’s marshal.

As soon as the man arrived Jocelyn snapped out his orders, “Assemble me a troop of fifty, all mounted and armed. I want the best men, and I want them ready for a few days in enemy territory. Now! I want the sentries doubled, and I want the patrols strengthened. Send someone around the outlying villages, warning them that they might be attacked.”

Leaving the flurry of activity his command caused Jocelyn returned to the keep, and from there to the solar, shouting general demands for his wife, squire and new messengers to be sent up to him.

Richildis was the first to appear. “What’s happening?” she asked, before she had even got through the door.

“Raymond de Issoudun, that’s what!” exploded Jocelyn at the top of his voice. The effort made his side hurt abominably, but that only acted as a goad to his temper. “Well, I’ve had enough of him – I’m going to chop him up into so many bits he’ll be going to hell in a basket! God’s teeth, he’s going to regret this!”

Richildis’ lip curled. “Which is not an explanation, and you promised you would stop cursing all the time.”

Jocelyn gnashed his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. Thumping his wife wouldn’t help, no matter how satisfying it might be to wipe that sneer off her face. “Oh hurrah,” he grated, “that extremely unpleasant man, Raymond de Issoudun, has burned and looted two of my darned villages in Ardentes. And a church. And killed some of the locals. What a nasty man he is. I’m going to go and have a nice talk with the basta- er, with him, and show him how upset I am. With a mace.”

Richildis stared at him. “Oh, good grief! It’s pathetic. Alright, explode. I’ll forgive it this once, given the reason.”

“Thank you so very bloody much!” roared Jocelyn. “The day I need your permission to do anything will be a damned dark day indeed! I was trying to keep my word, and that’s got sod all to do with needing your permission for anything! I’m honourable, despite what you might think, damn you!” He sucked in another lungful of air. “By Mary’s favourite dress, I’ll slaughter the bastard! If he thinks he’s going to catch me weak or preoccupied he’s damned wrong!”

Richildis eased her fingers out of her ears. “I’m assuming you’ve got a better, more refined plan than the one you’ve told me about so far?”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” he snarled. “I’d have thought your so refined and educated mind could see the obvious!”

“War, then.”

Jocelyn mangled a smile, and a show of sarcastic applause. “Yes, clever girl. War.” Far more seriously he added, “He’s called my authority into question, and by God’s hip I’ll not sit still for that. He’s only daring to creep out of his damned castle because the king’s dying. I’m going to remind folks that king or no, I’m here, I’m alive, I’m the count, and I’m pissed off!”





I’ve got a Fulk scene absolutely flying down, but I doubt I’ll have time to finish and post that tonight.

[Aetius the Last Roman]

:Clap, Clap, Aetius Salutes You:

Work has kept my from reading for the last month but it appears that things have gotten quite gripping. Nice to know training is going so well for you :)

Anyways,
This is great! It seems that the end is near and everything is coming full-fold on all the characters. I love how much momentum has gathered with William's death, it is a situation waiting to explode. However, how come trempy hasn't heard of it by now?

It's interesting seeing how much Trempy is actually missing now and he is underestimating greatly. I wonder though, will we see a froggy battle scene towards the final end or will it just be a quite dagger in the back Geisha-style?

Enough of my ranting, the new additions are great and good luck with the continuation of this novel (is something bigger than 600 pages called something bigger), a Novelisk perhaps?. I look forward to seeing this published.

[frogbeastegg]

Someone sneezed. The sound cut through the dreamlike unreality, dragging him back. William opened his eyes; for some reason it took a lot of effort. He became aware his head pounded like a blacksmith’s anvil, and his body felt like he had been stepped on by … something with a foot larger than his entire body.

He remembered burning – hell fire, surely, from its fierce heat. And other things, sometimes people. But even now those half memories were shredding away like cobwebs before a gale.

One remained, and came back to him with some sharp clarity. It brought with it fear of a kind he hadn’t known existed. William moved to sit up, but found he couldn’t move at all. “Joanna …” The words came in a hoarse, low croak, and it took a time for him to recognise the voice as his own.

Then someone was there, raising him up on an arm and pressing a cup to his lips so the rim jolted against his teeth. Unable to resist he allowed some of the acrid liquid to run down his throat, realising as he did so that he was incredibly thirsty.

“Welcome back, Sire,” came a voice. William supposed it belonged to the arm and the cup. He should know it … “Now, you must rest. Sleep, Sire.”

It was not a difficult request to oblige.







“If I say I want to get you alone for a half hour will you start running?” asked Godit, a cheeky smile pasted liberally on her face.

Not for the first time Fulk wished Godit would talk to him like a normal person, instead of wrapping everything up in blatant and meaningless flirtation. “What? And lose my reputation as a fearless knight?”

“Oh, good!” Godit leaned forward and grabbed his hand in both of hers. She tried to tug him to his feet. “Come on then.”

Fulk jerked his head to the door leading into Eleanor’s solar. “I’m guarding. Sorry.”

Godit dropped his hand and planted her hands on her hips. She sighed in frustration. “There is another guard around – he can take over. You go ask your princess for an hour or so to take care of some urgent business. She won’t miss you; she won’t even know you’re gone. She’s busy nattering away with Anne and Constance while we poor servants languish here in this grotty hall, dying of boredom.”

Mariot, Adele, and Constance’s maid all laughed at Godit’s antics, and Hawise contributed a tentative smile.

Frowning, Fulk asked, “What urgent business?”

“Business which is urgent,” declared Godit, winning another lot of laughter. She pressed the back of one hand to her forehead. “Hark unto his cruelty! A fair maid – that’s me, by the way – languishing of boredom and unable to set forth to buy her much needed cloth.” The hand dropped away, and she resumed a more normal mode of speech, “I do actually need some, by the way. Linen, boring white linen; enough for a new shift.” Godit swapped back to her languishing maiden role, “Ahem, cloth, for want of a suitable escort to protect her gentle virtue and oh so desirable person.” She winked at her audience and confided from behind a hand in a stage whisper, “And not too empty purse.” Again, back to the fair damsel. “And lo, she hath found a brave and handsome knight to undertake this quest,” she sniffed, and abruptly the fair maid turned into a fed up girl, “and he wants to sit about on his backside, doing nothing! Some preux chevalier!”

Fulk laughed along with the others. He moulded his features into confusion, and held up his empty hands to either side. “I only want to know if I should get my armour.”

Godit grabbed his hand again and put her back into trying to yank him to his feet, or at least drag him forward off the bench to the floor. “Armour would only get in the way; you’ll do nicely as you are. Come on!”

Mariot looked about the little gathering. “Well, Godit, I’ve often told you that your approach to men scares them. Look at him – just like a sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Eyes wide in terror, heels dug in, and looking for an escape while refusing to budge!”

Fulk allowed himself to be hauled up; he couldn’t see any way to avoid playing along without it proving memorable, and setting minds to wondering why. He straightened his belt with showy dignity. “I will have you know, madam, that I am not a sheep. I am a-”

“An ox!” cheered Godit. “A big, slow, trusting ox with lovely liquid brown eyes. If you’re a good ox I’ll find you a lump of salt to lick later.”

Fulk sniffed. “I was going to say horse, actually. More specifically a stallion with a very good,” he paused for effect, “temperament.”

The room erupted into laughter again.

Fulk rapped on the door into the solar. He went through when called. He bowed correctly to Eleanor, noticing she looked decidedly bored with the game of tafl she was playing with Anne “Permission to go out for a half hour or so?”

“Would this be related to the very loud laughter that we have been hearing?” enquired Eleanor.

“Yes.”

Anne asked, “What is happening?”

Fulk shuffled his feet. “Just assorted stupidity. Godit wants to go and buy some cloth for a shift, but she won’t go without an escort.”

“So she is stealing my bodyguard,” finished Eleanor. While she seemed suitably uncaring Fulk knew that inwardly she must be more than a little irked. “Then you can buy me some new ribbons for my hair; I am tired of these blue ones.”

“Any preference for colour and so on?”

“Not blue,” replied Eleanor helpfully. “Run along.”

Fulk wondered if he should ask for some money, but decided against it. He had visions of coins being rammed down his throat by a bored and jealous gooseberry who wished she could escape from her prison and take Godit’s place. Besides, even if asking for money might be very proper and expected he’d much rather get the ribbons as a gift. People would simply believe she would pay him later, or had already done so, so it would do no harm. He bowed again and returned to the outer room.

Godit immediately seized his hand and started to drag him towards the outer door. “If we’re not back in a few hours don’t worry,” she advised the others, “but if we’re not back in a few days assume we got kidnapped.” Godit patted the hand she held captive. “Come along.”

“Let me go get my cloak,” pleaded Fulk. “It’s cold out there!”

“Cloak. Hmmm, yes, that could be useful. I’ll get mine.” She vanished back into the main room.

Fulk collected his cloak from his room and counted out a couple of pennies into his scrip, then after a little reflection added a few more. He might be able to use this occasion to get a proper gift for her without drawing notice.







When Fulk’s interruption ended Eleanor quickly returned the little gathering to the topic they had been discussing. “Will he change his mind?”

Anne’s reply was quick and brightly optimistic. “Yes! Hugh is really quite a big nice softy, so I am sure he will see that he is being really unreasonable and be sorry for it.”

Since Anne considered the arse in the crown to be a kind person her reassurance had the opposite effect to the intended – it made Eleanor’s heart sink. She looked to Constance for a more authoritive verdict.

Hugh’s wife placed a few more stitches in her embroidery before answering. “I will speak to him. He is a good and honourable man, and when he sees clearly what he is doing he will repent.” She worked her needle into a patch of empty material, and laid her embroidery to one side. “I shall go now. The longer this is left the worse he will feel when he sees his mistake.”

“Thank you.”

Constance smiled. “Just do not complain to me if he runs over here and launches into a lengthy apology.”

“If so I shall savour the unique experience,” Eleanor assured her, not entirely joking.

When Constance left Eleanor had only Anne for company. They played through a few more moves of their game. Eleanor was losing once again in the face of Anne’s greater experience, but she was now familiar with all the rules and basics, plus a good many of the more intermediate and advanced facets of the game. This, combined with some actual thought and effort, meant she was not losing too badly. She was quite confident that a few more games would see her battling on an even footing with Anne, and from there the giddy heights of victory beckoned.

Abruptly Anne said, “Go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

“When one is in possession of all the facts it is quite easy to see a Godit related thunderstorm brewing.” The queen grinned wickedly. “Let me make a starting place for you. It is so unfair! There you go, you can continue it from there.”

Eleanor scowled. “Spending time in my company is doing you no good – you used to be such a nice, innocent little thing. Your family would be appalled, and I am certain the moment my father sees you copying my own particular evil grin he will flay me alive for corrupting you.”

Anne’s grin grew into a more natural one that was entirely her own. “I am sure that my grandmother will be calling for your head on a platter when she reads my reply to that letter of hers.”

Eleanor heaved a very martyred sigh. “Wonderful; as if I did not have problems enough. I think I shall forbid you from visiting me, for my own safety and your own good.”

“Your opportunity is slipping away, and who can say when you will get another. Godit really is a very nice person-”

Eleanor’s scowl deepened. “Oh yes, just lovely. She only flirts endlessly with my husband whenever she gets near him, knowing – and I am really not at all happy about that! – how we feel about each other.”

“Actually, she thinks you have gone off Fulk, and is trying to wean him off you so he stops …” Anne searched her memory for the exact words, “looking like a wilted plant. Or something. She … um, she wants to marry him.”

Eleanor showed admirable restraint, and didn’t yell, “Over her dead body!” as loud as she could. She began a very terse list, “Who gets to flirt with him? Godit. Who gets to talk to him? Godit. Who gets to spend time with him? Godit. Who gets to go out with him? Godit. Who gets him as dining partner? Godit. Who can get to see him at will? Godit. Who can get his help in whatever form required whenever it is needed? Godit. Who can he go to whenever he feels like company? Godit. Who is it easier for him to be alone with? Godit. Who is not likely to get him killed? Godit. Who could he have some future with? Godit. Everything that should be mine she gets.”

“Except his heart.”

“And she is doing her best to take that too. All I can do is watch.”

“She can try, but she will not succeed. True love never dies.”

“How very idyllic and romantic,” mocked Eleanor, knowing she was being unkind and not particularly caring.

“But it is true … is it not?”

“All we get is chaperoned conversation, and the odd stolen and very wary minute, and that takes a lot of arranging and cannot be done too often or people will begin to wonder. How long can anyone tolerate that for? It is driving me quite insane, and I do not have a very good alternative flinging its pretty little self at me morning, noon and night. All I have is a lying, deceptive, murderous, manipulative so-and-so who wants to use me for his own gain with not a jot of thought for me or what I want, and in any case my brother has disposed of him.” Eleanor rested an elbow none too gently on the little gaming table and planted her chin on her fist. “He is my knight and I do not even get to annoy him.”

Anne looked down, then back up. “Why would you want to annoy him?” she asked curiously.

Eleanor’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and she felt herself go crimson. “Because it is fun,” she answered eventually.

“Oh.” Pause. “Really?” Another pause. “Why?”

“I am not thinking annoy as in making him want to break my neck. I am thinking annoy as in … annoy.” Eleanor smiled dreamily; blush, Godit, frustration, and all else forgotten as she recalled many happy hours of Fulk-bothering. “It really is most enjoyable.”

Anne’s sceptical voice encroached Eleanor’s daydreaming. “And he likes being annoyed?”

If anything Eleanor’s daft smile grew. “The adorable bastard matches me every step and turn, and gives as good as he gets.”







Out in the bailey Godit gave up her grip on Fulk’s hand and settled very close in at his side, her arm hooked through his. The familiar flood of chatter closed over Fulk, and as usual he listened with one ear and made the correct noises in the right places.

Godit managed to drag out her cloth buying long enough that Fulk’s feet began to ache standing and waiting. She kept asking his opinion, holding up bolts of material of every kind next to herself and demanding to know what he thought of everything from colour to how it would hang when made up into clothing.

Eventually he lost patience, and pointed out that she had come for plain white linen, not silk, not brocade, and not anything else. That had started her sulking, and she had left without buying anything at all.

As soon as it became clear he was blithely unconcerned by her sulking she grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him close to her side again. “You are heartless,” she accused.

“Hmmm,” agreed Fulk.

She jostled sideways into him. “You! Well, you can act all you like; I shall not believe it. I know much better. You’re kind, caring, brave, handsome, honest, decent, reliable, respectable, noble-”

“And made of solid gold,” interjected Fulk, hoping to put an end to the unwarranted, and frankly irritating, praise. Godit’s thumb was running up and down the curve of his bicep; Fulk tucked the arm in question in tight to his body so she had to stop.

“Spoil sport.”

“You changed your tune quick enough.”

“When you go out of your way to be entirely unreasonable, and almost insulting, actually, in a way, if you think about it, what can I do? I’m an honest person; I say what I think. No overdone praise from me, and no mincing of words either. How long have we known each other now?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Something like two months? Yes, two months sounds about right. No, then again, more like a month and a half. Yes, that’s better. Or is it? A few days under a month without your princess here, then about two weeks with her here, though it’s getting on for three weeks now. Oh, we’ll just say seven weeks then. Yes, so, seven weeks, that’s how long we’ve known each other; every single day of that time, too.”

“It seems much longer …”

Godit beamed, and misinterpreted his remark. “Yes, sometimes I find that with people I really get on with – it’s like you’ve always known each other. It’s just proof of how we’re quite suited to each other; more divine hints on why we met and what we should be doing that you’ll ignore, so I won’t even bother pointing them out to you! Anyway, to return to my main point. In all that time how many times have I dragged you into a bush, or something?”

“Erm,” managed Fulk, before her tidal wave of words crashed back over him.

“Not once. That’s because I’m very respectable, as I keep on telling you! Flirtatious, yes; slut, no. And so on. Where was I? Oh yes, my point. So you can stop trying to escape from my grasp, and dodge my least move, and no more eying me with suspicion whenever I do anything, and by the way having my hand crushing against your ribs like that damned well hurts, so kindly stop it!”

Fulk unpinned her hand with a guilty start; he hadn’t noticed he was hurting her, thinking only of stopping the distraction. “Sorry.”

“I should hope so, both for the crushing of my dainty hand and for the yet another slight aimed at my spotless honour.” Godit halted, yanking him to a stop. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him chastely on the cheek. “I forgive you.” She began walking again. “Did I tell you about the letter I got from my family yesterday? No, I’m sure I didn’t. Remember your bright idea about asking the queen to protect me from unwanted marriage? Well, I went and did that, as I’m sure you’ll remember, and messengers have finally made the trip out and the trip back to my home, so everyone’s all up to date. Anyway, it turns out it was in a nick of time – they’d only gone and arranged something with this minor lord I know slightly. Angus, he’s called, and he’s got a nose like a turnip.” Godit glanced up at him from under her eyelashes and smiled slightly. “Now there’s a crime you could never be accused of; you’ve got a very nice nose, even if it is slightly crooked. Honestly, what incompetent idiot set it for you, or was it so badly broken there was no chance of getting it straight again?”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose self-consciously. “No, it wasn’t a bad break, and the man who set it was competent enough. It just healed as it did.”

“Few others agree with me when I say it’s a flaw; most find it adds character, and I suppose I can agree, although I think it’d look better straight, since it’d go nicely with your bone structure and all. But then it’s certainly better than a turnip shaped blob positioned above a beard and moustache that could comfortably hide a small army, like Angus has. Dear Lord, and they wanted to wed me to that!” Godit pulled a face and shivered. “Not if I’ve anything to say about it! Worse yet he’s got these thick eyebrows – like hairy caterpillars. Yuck!” She giggled. “He doesn’t even seem to have a face, just that nose, some watery eyes and a load of hair. And all this hair’s bright red, typically, so it looks even sillier than you might ever believe. I’d bet that he’s just as bad under his clothes. More hair than man. Or even hairier than a bear, maybe. Well I can assure you I’ve no intention of ever finding out! Which is why the queen’s letter was so well timed – it forced them to drop negotiations just before they were completed and I was called home.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Yes, isn’t it? Although maybe it means I missed another opportunity to try and get you to marry me – if you ever change your mind there, just call. I won’t even demand a fancy ceremony or anything; we could have it all sorted within an hour of your call. I really couldn’t have stood poor old Angus, not unless I took a razor to him, and then he’d end up as bald as an egg, and that’d be just as bad.” She started laughing, drawing glances from the others wandering about the shop stalls. “I didn’t say, but his hair isn’t anything but frizzy.” She pantomimed great clouds of hair standing out to either side of her head in a messy cloud. “Poof! Just like that. Forget a razor; I’d need a pair of sheers to make any headway.”

She continued to describe the unfortunate Angus as they visited several other cloth merchants. Godit didn’t find any material that took her fancy, but she certainly didn’t skimp on time spent searching.

Fulk lightened his purse by several pennies on a pair of obscenely expensive ribbons. Plain white with a running vine pattern woven cleverly into them; they were well worth the frightful cost. Godit cooed over them, and made a greatly appreciative fuss of pattern, workmanship, and colour which could easily have provided him reason to give her a similar ribbon as a gift, if he were so inclined. Unluckily for both her and the seller, he wasn’t.

Godit eventually lost interest in towing him about the various shops and stalls, and instead began to lead him out of the town, off towards the quiet, empty ground off the main road. When Fulk protested she would only say that she wasn’t taking him into an ambush, and that he should stop worrying for once in his life.

As they walked she chattered on and on about various subjects, including how much work must have gone into clearing the trees and large shrubs from all this land around both castle and road, making a covert approach or preying on travellers all but impossible. Fulk disregarded most of it, senses alert and free hand hovering near his sword hilt. This outing was feeling more and more bothersome as time passed, and by now a little nagging warning had set up residence in the back of his mind.

They climbed up a hill. A third of the way down the other side Godit stopped, removed her cloak and spread it on the ground. She sat down, and patted the space at her side. “Sit down; craning my neck to look up at you will give me a crick.”

Reluctantly he did so, keeping his sword clear so he could draw it easily. Good manners dictated he offer to give her his cloak; she refused with a shake of her head.

Amazingly enough Godit seemed to be struck dumb. If it hadn’t been so disconcerting Fulk would have been grateful for the chance to rest his ears. After a long while she said, “I can guess what you’re thinking. Yes, even I can be stuck for words sometimes. Well, not really stuck, more like not sure where to start, or which particular way to go. See, I can see several different ways, and I can only go for one, and obviously I don’t want to pick the wrong one. I want the most effective. Except now I’m gabbling away, and that’s not going to help me one bit.” She shifted to sit opposite him, feet tucked under her body and hands clasped in her lap. “Alright, got it. People are beginning to wonder about you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, they are. How shall I put it? You’re young, you’re fetching, and you’re entirely alone. You don’t even visit brothels. People are beginning to wonder why. Not just one or two, but a lot.” In the silence that greeted her rushed announcement you could have heard a pin drop. “People don’t buy for one second that you’re overly religious, or even chaste. They wonder if you prefer boys or other men-”

“What!?” roared Fulk.

“Oh yes,” Godit assured him. “Or if you’re incapable, or missing a few bits thanks to an accident.”

Fulk began to feel distinctly ill.

“Some very few whisper that you must love someone who has left no room in your heart for any other.” Godit raised her eyebrows. “But so far someone has always pointed out that has nothing to do with the price of fish, and there’s nothing to stop you from scratching your itches elsewhere. Rosalind - that’s Constance’s second maid - is convinced that you’re so deeply in love and so romantic you can’t even stand the thought of doing that.” Godit paused, then said airily, “I think that’s a lucky guess, don’t you? The general disbelief – and you’ve got to admit that hardly anyone would be so, well restrained even if they were going to marry their love - doesn’t stop people from speculating as to who your ladylove might be. Eleanor is cropping up with steadily increasing frequency; people love the idea of a princess and her knight.” She waited expectantly for a bit, then prompted, “Anything to say?”

“I really don’t like whores.”

Godit clapped her hands in delight. “How very straightforward. You might want to drop that in a conversation or two sometime. You don’t have to explain yourself to me; I can already guess. But as I said, people are wondering.”

Fulk hitched a shoulder, pretending indifference. “And I’d say it’s none of their business.”

“Whether that’s true or not has nothing to do with it. So, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing; nothing much I can do. I’m not much bothered anyway.”

Godit tisked. “All men hate having their honour, prowess, and tastes slandered; admit it. All you need to do is stop giving people cause to wonder, and you can do that in many ways.”

“I’ll do as I am; I’m not changing my habits to suit others.”

“We could always put it about – in a suitably subtle way, of course – that you are paying court to me. Or we could simply become lovers.”

Fulk very carefully did not groan. “As subtle as a warhammer to the face; not at all like your usual tact.” He was, of course, being sarcastic.

Unfortunately Godit missed that. “Mariot said that sometimes being very straightforward worked far better than all the delicate stuff.”

“She put you up to this?”

“No, good grief, no! It was just one of those general conversation things you men never bother with, because you think all you need to do is ride up to a girl on your most expensive horse, grab her, sling her across your saddlebow, and ride off.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “However once in a while that can be fun, and you do have a very nice horse, so if you want to go back and get it I’ll wait here patiently …”

Fulk’s sides nearly split under the effort required to quell this latest urge to groan. He drew his cloak tighter about himself. “I thought you wanted to get married?”

“Is that an offer? If so, YES, I accept!”

“It was a question, as well you know.”

“As I said, conversation and so on; it gave me a few ideas, knocked a few daft notions from my head. I held myself much too high; I’m cured of that now. Because of who, what and where I am the whole virgin bride thing really doesn’t matter all that much. I’m not important, or an heiress, I won’t have a big wedding, or one with some alliance or other depending on it, and since I’m going to be the one choosing I’m not going to end up with someone who will kick up a fuss, make judgements about my character, or refuse to open a vain for me.” Fulk opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him. “Unless you’re about to agree, shut up and hear me out.” She smiled hopefully. “Were you about to agree?”

Fulk said somewhat loudly, “No.”

“Damn.” Godit snapped her fingers and pouted with a practised cuteness Fulk realised he found increasingly grating each time he saw it. “Oh well, shut up and listen then. I’m not aiming for the sun now; I’m looking at what’s right here in front of me, and what can be done. So perhaps I can’t have you in matrimony, but some part is better than no part. All else discounted and ignored, it would be safer for you too.”

“Er, I’m flattered, but you are undervaluing yourself -”

Confronted with his refusal and desperate to change it, Godit interrupted, “I told you people are wondering, and I told you people are slowly getting nearer the truth. Think of what that might mean.”

“Many knights fall in love with the lady they serve; it’s only a problem if they act on that love. She’s gone off me, she’s well chaperoned, and I would never do anything to harm her or put her in danger-”

“But does her family know that? Her future husband? A little rumour wouldn’t go down too well with them.”

“How likely are they to hear it? Or believe it? Princes and high lords don’t pay us all that much mind, and it still doesn’t change the fact she is well chaperoned and obviously increasingly taken with Trempwick.” Impatience lent his words a clipped brevity that fitted very well with the image of a man talking of his lost love.

“Perhaps. It’s a gamble though, and if you’re wrong …” Godit trailed off suggestively, and made a little shrugging gesture with her clasped hands.

“It’s unlikely, and my conscience is by far quieter this way.”

“But-”

“No,” said Fulk flatly. “I’ve told you often enough I don’t do substitutes – it’s unsatisfying, and inconsiderate to whoever I end up with, which then makes me feel guilty. I spent years looking for someone to match my first love and didn’t come close, and a boy’s love is nothing compared to a man’s.”

Godit reared back, mouth set into a tight line. “If you stop wallowing in your dream you might find it fades! Excuse after stupid excuse – as soon as you see reality peaking at you you run and hide behind yet another excuse!”

“It won’t work. I won’t fall for you, it doesn’t matter what you do that won’t change. You won’t manage to get me to marry you out of guilt when you ‘realise’ what you’ve done, or shockingly turn out to be pregnant and miscarry after we’re married but before I can find out the lie, and if your family turned up to discuss points of honour with me they would get no success – I know all the usual tricks.” Fulk had to raise his voice to remain audible above her protests that he was wrong. “What’s more I’m tired of repeating myself and telling you this.”

“You say one thing and do another – you play along with me half the time! One minute you tell me to leave you alone, the next you’re laughing and smiling and playing along, encouraging me!”

Now the groan escaped. “This from someone who keeps on complaining I read too much into her flirting, and who gets insulted because I keep on putting a stop to it. I would have thought by now my complete lack of interest would be quite obvious.”

Godit surged to her feet. “The only obvious is your … your obsession with that damned princess of yours! You’re pathetic! Pining and mooning after the impossible, refusing to see what’s right before your eyes, and living in some stupid, stupid dream!”

Fulk stood up and bent to pick her cloak up off the ground. “I’m doing a better job of seeing what’s in front of my crooked nose than you are.” He brushed a few dead leaves and bits of grass off the heavy wool, folded it down the middle and offered it back to her.

Godit snatched the cloak back and flung it about her shoulders. “I don’t know what you see in her – she’s not beautiful. It’s very generous to even call her pretty with that nasty black hair. She’s not lovable either; she’s so joyless, grumpy, and utterly thankless and rude. Then there’s those ugly scars; it’s well known how she earned them with her wilfulness, and irrational rebelliousness. You know I’d die of shame if I had even one such mark.”

Fulk regarded her evenly, and when he spoke his tone was measured and smooth. “She’s pretty, and that’s not generous. A deal too much fuss is made over blonde hair; it makes no difference to her features and expressions. Anyway, I happen to like black hair. The scars? She got some of those saving my life. She barely even knew me at the time, and I don’t think she liked me much. She could easily have left me to die, and lost nothing. She knew very well what would happen; that was damned obvious later. It got her no small amount of trouble from Trempwick as well. So yes, think of what it says. How many others would even have tried? As for the rest, you are wrong - you don’t know her, and you know next to nothing about her.”

“She doesn’t even care about you!” screamed Godit, her face contorted with rage. “She went off you as soon as she realised what she stood to gain with her marriage, and she sent you away like some thieving servant!”

“She tried to put an end to the trap we were caught in; if I stopped loving her for that then I never did.”

“You keep on wasting your life; I’m going to find someone else, someone better. A real man, not some pathetic monk-boy with an obsession!”

Fulk couldn’t help himself; he started to laugh. Godit went purple with rage, and tried to slap him. He blocked easily with his forearm. He guarded against her second blow the same way, and backed down to avoid the third. She subsided, seeing that she was not going to get the better of him.

Breathing heavily she said, “I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

“Roughly sixty pounds a year from land plus more as pay, a baron who is rising rapidly in the world and gaining royal favour from several parties, and all wrapped up in a tolerable body. I’d be a very good match for you, far better than what you might otherwise get. Oh, and you made the mistake of thinking I’m soft, both in head and in spirit.” Fulk grinned slowly and flexed his fingers, forming a fist and letting it go several times. “This seems a good time to remind you I’m sworn to protect Eleanor and her honour, and I take that very seriously.”

Godit spat at his feet, turned, and flounced off.

Fulk gave her a head start, and then followed at a distance to make sure she got back to the town safely. Ruefully he reflected that at least this time she was not likely to go back on her word and start flirting with him again. He only hoped she would not disregard his threat and start being malicious, as some women did when flouted.







Pregnant women, Hugh knew, were prone to peculiar whims, frequently at inopportune times. Thus far Constance had limited herself to minor things, such as a desire to eat strawberries in the middle of the night, an urge even more irrational due to it presently being late winter. All a good husband could do was endure, and remain forbearing throughout the ever-changing moods, even if that did on occasion involve being blamed for the lack of strawberries at a time of year when it was quite impossible to possess any.

This latest whim, however, he did find more problematic than any of the others, and hoped it did not mark the beginning of a general scaling up of caprices. Having his wife march in and interrupt his business, demanding he took her for a walk in the garden was not going to allow him time to get much done. Worse, it gifted him with another of those decisions with no solidly correct choice. Pregnant women were supposed to be indulged, pampered, and generally fussed over. One simply did not tell them to go away and come back later, because the stress might adversely affect the child, or even cause it to be lost. No chances could be taken with this baby, of that Hugh was adamant. Conversely, he had duties and responsibilities had had to meet, and that required time. That his removal had been witnessed by men whose respect he desired and required only worsened the situation; too much indulgence shown towards a wife or children meant a man was weak. Really he should have directed her to leave and await his convenience. As to why she wished to visit the miserable spectacle that was the garden in winter, that was anyone’s guess, and a complete mystery to him.

He did his duty by her, as he hoped could always be said to be true, and walked with her to the walled garden, all the while making pleasant conversation and enquiries about her health.

Constance sat down on the stone bench under some winter-bare apple trees. She smiled up at him, a certain glint shining in her eye that always accompanied exhibitions of her intellect, perhaps in defiance of his shameful private thoughts that her mind was adversely affected by whatever it was which turned women into lunatics during pregnancy. “You are cross.”

“No, I assure you I am not, dearest.”

“A brave effort, but I can see through it. Sit down and hold me, please.”

Hugh sat and tucked half his cloak about her along with his arm. With a sigh she settled into the curve of his body and rested the side of her face against his head. “No, I am not cross,” he assured her. “However you must not make a habit of this.”

“I hope never to need to! I am supposed to be lying about doing very little, biding my time and taking no chances at all. But that is dull, and really unnecessary – most women are far more active.”

“We cannot lose this child.”

“I know, which is why I am only going for a walk tomorrow. I wanted to go for a ride, but the midwives started shrieking that I would jar the poor mite loose.” She rolled her eyes. “I am safely past the time when that might happen, but the noise was intolerable.”

“Constance, are you certain that is a good idea? You have been advised to remain at rest-”

She turned his face towards her with a gentle hand on his jaw. “And I am sick of it. A small walk will not hurt, trust me. You know I will not do anything rash.” The kiss did not leave him much room to argue further. “Now, I dragged you out here because of something that cannot wait. You promised your sister you would not force her to marry.”

Hugh replied, “I have kept that vow.”

“She finds not.”

“That is not so; I have kept my vow, I promise you.”

“But Hugh, you have been playing matchmaker-”

“There is no evil in that,” he interjected. “I merely acquaint her with the potentialities, and I have offered to support any preference she might have, provided the man is suitable. I will not do more than mention the name and put in some goods words on his behalf, but that could in the end make the difference between a happy match and a less happy one. Or between quiet acceptance, or more … unseemliness.”

“Yes, and that is good. But when she objected you stripped away more of the few freedoms she has remaining.”

“I put an end to the activities she found so objectionable, nothing more.”

“Hugh, you all but ordered her to stay in her rooms and banned visitors aside from myself and Anne. Placing her with the chaplain at dinner suggests she cannot be trusted with more worldly partners.”

A troubled frown came to Hugh. “I did not intend such an impression be given.”

“Worse, Hugh. You did this because she did not go your way, because she objected to what she saw as the breach of your word.”

“No, she cannot think …” Conviction struck. “She does; she believes I mean to skirt about my word and force her with less obvious means. Oh mea culpa!” he cried. “I spoke from anger, with less thought than I ought, and see what disarray emerges from that? My promise as good as broken, my honour destroyed, my sister dishonoured, and I appear as a cruel man who will bring down whatever unkindnesses he can when thwarted.”

“You need her solidly on your side.”

“I am strongly aware of this, and therein you find a main part of the origins of the promise in question.”

Constance stroked his cheek, turning back the tides of self-loathing closing over his head and blocking out the sun. “You see your error, now I know you will mend it. You will not repeat it. All people make errors; it is human. Few have the courage to face that, or to make amends.”

“I will mend it, as soon as we leave here,” he vowed. “I shall restore her to her previous state, and beg her pardon and understanding. More, I shall consult her on what is to be done for dining partners from this point onward.” Emotion welled in him, and he discovered a wish to share it, finding it most beautiful and insistent. Hugh set his own hand over hers. “Never leave me. I … I need you. Without you …I am … I am lost.”

Her handsome eyes sparkled again. “Death is the only thing to part me from you.” She laughed, a low chuckle which made Hugh think he would not be calling upon Eleanor for a while, after all. “Good men are too hard to find to think about replacing them.” As he blushed under her praise she leaned in to kiss him again.






Hugh was practising his foot combat when the messenger arrived. The gravity of the man’s burden was indicated in part by his appearance; travel stained, worn, almost ragged. He did not walk; he staggered, and could manage no more than a couple of hoarse words as he collapsed to his knees before his prince, “Five days hence.”

Hugh called for someone to take care of the man, and stepped aside to read the message. It could only be word from France, but he found it mystifying and disquieting that while the messenger had worn royal colours the seal was not his father’s. Hugh took the time to examine it in detail, reading the legend around the charging knight with the unfamiliar coat of arms. It belonged to a Jocelyn de Ardentes, someone he knew very little of. Something was greatly wrong.

Hugh freed his hands of his mail mittens, and began to work the leather thong lacing the letter closed with shaking hands. In his haste and clumsiness he broke the cord, and the seal fell away into the dirt at his feet. This went ignored; Hugh unrolled the letter.

His hands began to shake so violently that he could not finish the letter. “Dear merciful God!” he whispered.

“Your Highness?” asked his training partner – his shield bearer and trusted second, another William, though usually abbreviated to Will - from a respectful distance. “You have gone whiter than milk …”

Hugh tried to answer, but all that came was a humiliating stammering. His teeth began to chatter, and the trembling spread to his whole body.

Will advanced to his side, and placed a hand on his prince’s elbow. “Hugh? God, man, you look terrible – are you ill?”

“Fine,” Hugh managed to get out. “I need …” What did he need? The king was dying, is not already dead. His destiny had finally caught him fully. He did not know what to do. He heard a sound midway between a sob and maniacal laughter, and after a time realised it came from him.

Will said, “I can send for your wife, or a physician.” When Hugh didn’t manage an answer Will called to a waiting squire, “Find lady Constance; tell her to come at once.”

The king was dying or dead. What now? The two thoughts danced and whirled about in Hugh’s head. A third joined them, and chased the others away, such was its magnitude. A few brief days ago he had wished he was king, and now … From his mind to the devil’s ear? A wordless cry tore itself from Hugh’s throat; he dropped to his knees and began to pray in a hysterical jumble of thoughts and sobbed words for forgiveness, and for his father’s life.





5, 738

12 pages; a proper frog sized episode. The product of a couple of hours spent writing like a fiend, and then a little touching up and a few completing bits and bobs tonight. Not sure how things will fall out for the next part; I’ve still got 4 days of that course to endure. I’m also not sure how long the next scenes are likely to be … longish, I think.

Let's see; in today's 'training' I did ... nothing. Oh, I lie - I did a quiz. A quiz of idiot trick questions, like "If there are 3 apples and you take 2 how many do you have?". The doing nothing at all was the other 5 1/2 hours. By nothing I do literally mean [i]nothing. But we weren't allowed to leave. ~:mecry: The rest of the week is set to be pretty well identical ~:mecry: ~:mecry: ~:mecry:

Will there be a froggy battle? If there is a froggy war, froggy battles will follow in due course. Froggy assassinations, well they can happen if any number of circumstances are met. We could even have both. :looks infuriatingly mysterious:

This being medieval Europe it takes time for messages to get about. As the messenger gasped above, it's taken him 5 days to make the trip and he's been travelling as fast as possible. He's only made the trip so quickly because he has been able to swap to a fresh horse several times each day. He also got lucky on the channel crossing; bad crossings can take days to complete, and sometimes a wait for several weeks is required before a favourable wind is there.

[Monk]

12 pages!! *gasps for air, trying to rest mind* so...much...reading :dizzy2:

nah, j/k froggy . I admire you for putting so much into your installments, mine pale in comparison at an average of 3.5 to 4 pages each ~:eek: . In any case


Will there be a froggy battle? If there is a froggy war, froggy battles will follow in due course. Froggy assassinations, well they can happen if any number of circumstances are met. We could even have both. :looks infuriatingly mysterious:

...

I don't think anyone can say so little with so many words my good frog ~D (a strange compliment i admit, but hey, i thought it sounded nice to me! ~;) )

[frogbeastegg]

The spit roast chicken looked appetising. The pottage was filled to bursting with vegetables and chunks of bacon. The bread was newly baked, fresh from the ovens only hours ago. A selection of pastries, some sweet and some savoury, had been prettily arranged on a gold plate. However Eleanor was of the mind something was most definitely missing from the lunch that had been delivered to her rooms. “I have a quest for you, Sir Knight,” she proclaimed extravagantly, as Fulk lopped a leg off the chicken and transferred it to her platter. “Go find me some cheese.”

“Sweet Jesú!” muttered Fulk, removing the other leg with a few quick cuts. “Other knights get dragons, but I get dairy products.”

“I do try to keep your tasks within your limits.”

“I think I was just insulted.”

“Poor dear,” cooed Eleanor. “You were.” Already her spirits were soaring – bothering Fulk was good for the soul, even if she did have an audience consisting of Anne, Anne’s maids minus Godit, and Hawise.

“Somehow I’m now inclined to wander around several countries in my quest, dawdling and taking my time.”

“Meanie.” Eleanor pointed imperiously at the door. “Go quest, Sir Knight, and come back victorious! Your lady doth command it.”

Fulk turned around with exaggerated reluctance and started to plod towards the door, shoulders slumped. “Some days I dream of running away from all this, going somewhere where I’ll be appreciated instead of belittled. I’ll become a minstrel and take to the road with a lute.”

“I would not bother if I were you - a donkey slowly being minced hindquarters first by a giant quern sounds better!”

“I can sing quite nicely.” Fulk trilled a few lines of a popular song to prove his point. “And for that, your royal unkindness, I’m going to think of how best to use that reward you’ll owe me when I return victorious.” He grinned rakishly and waggled his eyebrows. “There’s plenty of room for creativity in that traditional ‘one request’ reward.”

Entirely unconcerned Eleanor chose a chewette she believed to be filled with minced venison. “Then I shall hope the Cyclops guarding the cheese treads on you and squashes you quite flat.”

“For example I could request titles and wealth beyond my wildest dreams.”

“And jumps up and down on your head.” She saluted him with her pastry and bit into it. It was indeed venison, with a herby, lightly spiced gravy.

“Or perhaps I’ll ask for half the kingdom.”

“Then kicks you in the groin. Repeatedly.”

“I might simply decree that you remain cheeseless for the rest of your life, in penance for your cruelty towards me.”

“You evil bastard!” exclaimed Eleanor. Anne giggled.

At which point proceedings were interrupted by a very sick looking Hugh, wearing his full armour and shooed along by Constance. He collapsed onto the nearest bench with such a thump Eleanor was glad she had recently had the woodwork seen to. Constance placed his helmet on the table, and began to unlace Hugh’s ventail.

Eleanor waited a bit to see if any explanation for this highly inconvenient interruption was forthcoming. When not a word was offered she said dryly, “I doubt I should offer you something to eat, brother dear, lest you return it to my floor.”

If she could only have turned the words into an ointment Eleanor could have sold them as a miracle cure; Hugh got heavily to his feet, turned to face her and snapped, “Disrespect, even at such a time as this! It is intolerable!” He brandished a fist, only for Constance to catch his wrist and push his hand back down. She whispered something at him, and Hugh inclined his head and made no effort to resume hostilities.

“Lord save me from your sense of humour, or lack thereof.” Eleanor dumped her venison patty on her platter and dusted crumbs off her fingers. “So, tell me, at a time like what?”

Hugh looked about the gathering. “Out; all but my sister and the queen.” He squinted at Fulk. “You had best remain also; this will touch upon your duties.” Very notably he did not apologise for interrupting their meal, or for trampling over other’s authority by ordering their servants. Something was definitely wrong.

As the assortment of maids made themselves suitably scarce Hugh finished his wife’s work, and cleared his coif from his head. His arming cap he dropped onto the bench. Bareheaded, it became apparent he was paler than Eleanor had thought – fresh milk had more colour.

Beginning to feel alarmed Eleanor rose. “Hugh, what has happened? Has Trempwick done something?”

“Oh God!” Hugh folded up on the bench again, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Eleanor thought she heard a muffled sob. His words were indistinct and hard to make out, “If so I have killed him! Oh, God forgive me, surely if that were so it is my own doing!” Constance sat next to Hugh and held him, heedless of the mail and armour digging into flesh through the layers of her clothes.

“Is Trempwick dead?” ventured Eleanor. She thought that unlikely, something drastic had certainly occurred – Hugh would not be in such a state otherwise.

Anne settled on Hugh’s other side, and took hold of his nearest hand, pulling it insistently but gently away from his face. “If you had a part in anyone’s death then they deserved it, else you would not have done it.”

For some reason that caused Hugh to cry out as if in pain, tear his hand free of Anne’s, and hide his face once again.

“Hugh, what has happened?” tried Eleanor again. She got no response. The two other women were so engaged in trying to calm him that Eleanor felt it safe to exchange a quick look with Fulk.

He formed a fist and made a little punching gesture, then nodded.

Heartened by his support of her plan Eleanor marched over to her brother. She pulled his hands away from his face and dealt him a backhand slap that could not be described as kindly. It was, though, immensely satisfying, and put a sharp end to his dramatics. She clamped a hand on each of his armoured shoulders and leaned down to glare at him, nose to nose. “Explain. Now.”

Hugh stared blankly back at her. Then his eyes picked up a bit more life, and he said in a low voice, “Our father is dying, if not already dead.”

The words sent a shock through Eleanor; it was the last thing she had expected. The arse in the crown had seemed one of life’s permanences; always there, always going to be there, lurking on the fringe of her life like an exceedingly black thundercloud. Immediately she wondered if Trempwick could have been responsible, but she dismissed the thought almost as quickly. As her own plan was centred about his existence, so too was Trempwick’s … for now.

“Not William!” cried Anne.

Eleanor sighed, suddenly feeling immensely old and mature, at least in comparison to her fellow royals. “Of course him, unless our mother was rather less than what she aught to have been. You had best explain considerably more, Hugh. If this is so we do not have a moment to waste.”

After her initial outburst Anne was mercifully more sensible; she set her jaw and waited for more information.

“He … he went hunting,” stammered Hugh. He took a deep breath, and managed to go on with a steadier voice. “His horse fell. He hit his head, broke ribs and his shoulder. He has a long, deep cut over his chest, more than a handspan long. He was out of this world by the time help got to him, and he had not returned to it by the time of the message. This was five days ago. The message is real, there is no doubt.”

“He could survive that,” said Anne. She looked to Eleanor for confirmation, eyes pleading.

As gently as possible Eleanor broke Anne’s heart. “He is old, and age does not make for good healing.”

“He is not dead!” screamed Anne. “I will not believe he is dead until you bring me home his body! He is not dead!”

“Given the severity of the injuries -”

Anne shot to her feet and tried to stare Eleanor down, a ridiculous spectacle since she was the shorter of the two by a good few inches. “What does it matter to you? What difference does it make to you? You hate him! You are glad he is dead! You do not care, not at all! I will not believe it!” She stamped her foot. “I will not!”

Eleanor’s heart was filled with a heavy, jagged dead weight that under other circumstances she would have identified as sorrow and loss, and it was that which motivated her careless, bitter words. “We need him, and going from that it would be just typical of the man if he were dead. My father has always been inconvenient.”

Hugh proved he had recovered sufficiently to slap her; Eleanor blocked with an up-flung arm, but his hand still caught her face with sufficient force to snap her head around.

As she recovered Eleanor saw Fulk had taken a step forward, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles shone bright white. She glared at him and he forced his features back into a neutral set, hiding his fists behind his back. His eyes still burned with anger, and Eleanor wasn’t sure if it was entirely directed at Hugh or if a part share of it was her own, thanks to her unwitting provocation.

Turning her attention, and eyes, away from Fulk Eleanor noticed that Constance had seen also, as she had scrambled up and to one side when her husband had erupted, and so now faced side on with a view of both Fulk and Eleanor. With stomach-churning conviction Eleanor knew Constance had figured out the what and the why. She held Constance’s gaze, now pleading wordlessly herself. After a pause which seemed to stretch forever Constance gave a curt nod and turned back to her husband.

Hugh said slowly, “He might not be dead.”

“That matters little,” declared Eleanor, gratified to find that she didn’t sound - and wasn’t behaving as if - her wits had been scattered. “What matters is that he is dead, dying, or possibly going to survive and come home to prove it – in a month or so. You must be crowned, as soon as possible.”

Hugh placed one hand on the pommel of his sword and flung his head up proudly. “I will not usurp my father’s throne.”

Of all the pointless, obtuse things to say! Eleanor could have screamed with frustration. With effort she kept much of that frustration from her voice; it would do no good. “It would be nothing of the sort. If he lives then he will still be the king, and you will only have been crowned early. At one time that was in fact the custom, to ensure the desired heir had the best chance of gaining the throne when the time actually came. The tradition died out in just two generations, but there is precedent, and that is what is most important.” Eleanor pinned Hugh with an unwavering stare, trying to impart some of her own steeliness and sense to him, and to make him understand how the previously precarious situation had just been unsettled still further. “You must be crowned, and you must set about taking control of the treasury and all else. At once.”

“We can wait until we know more.”

Constance touched Hugh’s arm, and when he looked to her she shook her head minutely. “Every day you delay will make your task harder, and England will suffer for it. It will be every man for himself, aiming to seize whatever they can. You will give time to rivals to build up their readiness to challenge you.”

“Rivals …” Hugh paced a few steps, then turned back to Eleanor. “I wonder, could it have been Trempwick’s doing? An assassination.” The little colour he had regained fled. “If so then it is my own fault for not warning our father of what I suspected; I as good as killed him.”

“No.” Having dismissed the idea herself within a heartbeat of it forming Eleanor was mildly aggravated to find Hugh incapable of doing the same – it was quite obvious, if you only applied a little thought. In the space of minutes Hugh was undoing all the good he had done for her opinion of him over the last few weeks, and for the first time she found herself wondering if Trempwick had motives other than personal gain for plotting to place her on the throne. John had been a complete idiot … “It runs counter to his interests at present; he must be married to - and in control of - me before he can capitalise on my blood, and you have proven unwilling to hand me over. Also, it would look very suspicious if he had cause to press my claim too soon after the wedding.”

Hugh thought this over, and was apparently satisfied. To Fulk he said, “You will guard my sister night and day; do not stray from her even for an instant. If you require more men, only tell me and I will see that they are transferred. Be wary of all her visitors; some may be fool enough to attempt an abduction, even here, and they may enlist the help of previously trustworthy people, such as servants. I fear Trempwick himself may attempt such.” He turned to Eleanor. “I am certain you understand why I feel this necessary.”

Eleanor smiled weakly. “If I see anyone hailing me as queen I shall throw something at them, and I take a dim view of kidnapping as a means to romance.”

Hugh scowled. “Such levity-”

“Hugh, I understand my position only too well.” Eleanor laughed, and it was not a happy sound. “I find if I think on it too much I am tempted to fake my death, pack my bags and run for it, to live out my life in obscurity under a false name in Constantinople.”

“It would be best if you married -”

“No, Hugh. You promised me, and I am holding you to it.”

“I can find you someone honourable and suitable; it would solve a great many of your dilemmas in one fell swoop, and some of mine also.”

Eleanor spoke in a level, calm voice, imbuing each word with the absolute certainty of an unalterable truth, “I will accept no one, and if you try to foist someone on me I shall scream my denial all the way to the altar, all the way back, and keep on screaming for the rest of my days. Whoever you picked would die the second I saw opportunity. Needless to say, dear brother, I would also cease to support your cause the very instant you set this in motion.”

Hugh’s frown deepened. “You make our situation impossible,” he complained.

“Not in the least. I make it somewhat tricky, but no more than that, and it is part of the price of my support. Or do you expect me to aid you for nothing, despite great personal risk and loss?”

“I shall not neglect you, but nor have you as of yet given any indication of what you would consider to be an adequate reward. I find myself dubious as to what you would want; money, lands, power – I doubt you truly desire any of these, except to the extent necessary to support life.”

“You already know, or should if you have been paying attention. I want to live decently, and away from court. I want something to do with myself, something not involving sewing or similar, but instead using my talents and intellect. I want to choose my own husband, and the freedom to not choose if I so desire. I shall probably think of more in time, and shall refine these items as I go, but I shall not ask for anything that will pose a difficulty for you. If anything I expect I shall be a rather cheap ally, especially considering what I am offering you.”

Silence fell on the room. Eleanor waited for Hugh to decide a course of action. She was sadly disappointed; he seemed paralysed now, sunk deep into his own emotion rather than labouring on his this world.

Anne stopped chewing her thumbnail long enough to ask, “What will we do? And … what will become of me?”

Eleanor gave Hugh a space to reply, but he did not. Constance kept up her comforting, and prompted him, “Hugh?”

Nothing. Then he blinked heavily, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I do not know,” he admitted.

“You do,” encouraged Constance. “You only need to find your confidence and recognise that.”

Hugh bowed his head and pulled away from her. He went to stand separately from everyone, in the corner of the room, hiding everything more expressive than his armoured back from them. “I should, but I do not, and so I prove at this beginning I am unsuited and unworthy.” He rested his forehead against the stonework with an audible thud.

Eleanor’s temper blazed. “You are pathetic! I spent more than a month giving everything I had to fool Trempwick, I risked everything, I destroyed my life, I allowed myself to be made a fool of and humiliated again and again, I suffered no small amount of unnecessary pain, and for this!?”

Hugh’s shoulders heaved, wracked by a hoarse sob. “I should have died instead.”

“A fat lot of good that would have been!” said Eleanor scornfully. “If you do not pull yourself together and stop lurking in that corner like a kicked dog I shall drag you out and slap you until you start showing some sense! You have given up before you have even started – small wonder you are not doing well.”

Hugh turned around slowly, then leaned back against his corner. “I cannot usurp-”

Constance insisted, “You are doing nothing of the sort.”

“But we do not know he is dead.”

“We do not,” allowed Eleanor, “but then nor does Trempwick, and rest assured he will not waste time waiting to be sure. He will begin to move the very second he hears, and if you do not start now you may never catch up. He will not give you time to be crowned, settle in, and become harder to remove. An anointed king is an anointed king, and people are seldom happy with trying to take that from him – he has been set apart forever as something more than his fellow men. Tell me, if our dear father does return who would he prefer to find ruling in his stead? You are his sole surviving son, and his designated heir.”

Constance supported Eleanor’s line of reasoning. “He would approve of your initiative.”

A little late, Anne joined in. “I know he would not be angry. He would understand that you were stopping anarchy, and would like that and find it really admirable. William would be really angry if you did nothing and let everything go to chaos.”

“But still …”

Eleanor selected proverbial red hot poker number four and delicately applied it to Hugh’s backside with a pleasing sizzle. “Very well; do nothing. Only have the decency to let me pack and leave for Woburn right away; since it appears I shall be Trempwick’s queen after all I see no point in wasting time and angering him by siding with you until you are completely doomed and he ‘rescues’ me from you.”

Hugh’s nostrils flared and bolted upright, his previously pasty face going red. “If you think I shall suffer such an abomination to come to pass you are lackwitted!”

“I was going on present behaviour, brother dear. You are doing a very nice job of sending England towards its first reigning queen.”

Hugh calmed down, but not quite so down as to return to his previous depressed slump. “I cannot help but feel it is wrong.” He sighed heavily, bowed his head. A short while later he looked back up. With a shrugging motion he pushed himself away from his supporting wall and stepped forward, left hand coming up to rest on the hilt of his sword. With a jerk he straightened his shoulders, and pulled his head up in an imitation of his earlier pride. “However it appears I have no practical alternative. Very well.”

Anne repeated her earlier question. “What will we do?”

Hugh looked to Eleanor. After a moment so too did Anne, then Constance. Fulk had been doing so from the very start.

With all the eyes of the room upon her Eleanor experienced a moment of nerves. It passed swiftly; she had known what to do before she had begun to work on her brother, and someone had to take control. “This must be announced; formally and soon. It would have been better to keep it as quiet as possible for as long as possible, but Hugh’s reaction has made that impossible. By now half the palace will be talking of the message which reduced him to a jabbering ruin, curious as to what it contained.” She focused on her brother. “You will summon all notable personages present here to the hall, and there tell them. You will offer to let any who wish to see the message do so, so it will be harder for any to accuse you of falsifying its contents, or whatever else twisted minds may come up with. You will then set about the necessary steps to begin the transfer of power, and give orders for the preparation of your coronation. You must remember to act the dutiful son, something I do not feel will be difficult for you. Pray often and obviously for our father’s recovery and fast return. Promise gifts to churches, buy prayers, and so on.”

To Constance she said, “You will play the dutiful and devoted wife, but also remind people that you are an expectant mother, and that all is proceeding perfectly. You must do whatever you can to reassure people about the future.”

Anne she saved for last. “You need not worry; until he is confirmed dead you are still queen, not widow. Even if the worst does come to pass you will not be left to the mercy of your family, or forced into retirement or another marriage. We will provide for you, and protect you.” Eleanor shot a significant look at Hugh; he inclined his head in silent agreement. Eleanor continued, “There is little for you to do at present, but that little is important. Be seen to be praying for your husband, and to support Hugh.”

She addressed the group collectively again. “Whatever happens, and above all else, we must be seen to be above suspicion of a coup or involvement in his accident.” Eleanor cocked an eyebrow at Hugh. “I suppose your reaction went a good way to clearing you of that.”

Hugh asked, “And Trempwick? I should give orders for his arrest?”

“No!” Shaking Hugh until his teeth rattled was a pretty inviting prospect. It might also start his mind working. Possibly. “Think of how it would look – you blocked his marriage to me, our father dies, you take power and your very first act is to remove him. People will ask why, and they will use it as excuse to reject you. It would be proof you have little inclination towards justice, and perhaps all is not as it seems about your succession. Do not underestimate him; he will have set matters up well to give me a claim over and above yours. You would be as good as admitting it was true. For the same reason you will, sadly, not be annulling our betrothal just yet. If I suspect rightly he may reveal himself, and so give you excuse to be rid of him.” Eleanor didn’t mention that in doing so Trempwick would probably cause enough trouble to make Hugh’s hair grey overnight. They did have one major advantage though – Trempwick did not know she had betrayed him, and so would work assuming she would support him.

There was a pause. Anne enquired, “What will you be doing?”

“I shall be keeping out of the way, for the most part. Best not to parade temptation before everyone’s eyes too often. I shall publicly support Hugh, and like everyone else I shall make a show of begging divine aid like a good daughter.” After speaking so much Eleanor’s throat was sore. “This will do for now; we must make a start. The rest can wait until later.”









5, 777

:grins: I had been waiting to use that little bit of cheese related Nell/Fulk dialogue for ages! It needed a few tweaks to suit the scene, but it’s been on ice so long it has freezer burns.

They really are such an interesting family … the sister who wants to strangle the brother, the brother who wants to clobber the sister, the wife who keeps on getting in the way and seems to support everyone all at the same time, the mother-in-law who is years younger than her stepchildren, and the brother-in-law no one knows about. And that’s before you add in the volcanic father, the dead idiot brother, the dead brother who no one can agree about, the snooty eldest sister, the bland and boring middle sister, the reportedly adulterous younger sister, and the dead mother who might or might not have been a little bored.

Hurrah! Yay! Hurray! Yippee! Etcetera. My course is over, and not a moment too soon! The atmosphere really took a dive in the last few days, and the background froggy terror had escalated into real fear. It all went wrong when, in answer to one of those general queries that seem to have no weight attached at all, especially since it came from another female, I said I had a boyfriend of nearly three years, and was happy with him. At which point the males (technically men, but more like really scary boys with criminal convictions …) stopped asking about my books and started calling me a bitch and mouthing abuse at my back, and some of the women went mardy. Heh, well I suppose they had just admitted that they tended to get dumped within weeks …




~:joker: Perhaps I missed my true calling - politics. :begins to wonder if she can take even more words to say even less ....:

[Lothair]

Long time now since you have updated. :/

[frogbeastegg]

just a flying visit. myt pc has been fried, 2 weeks ago actually. lost nearly everything on it, and still not got it back repaired. Should have it again soion, maybe tomorrow. will then have to settle it all to my liking, and see what little i managed to save. Think I saved Eleanor and my historical notes, but not much else; it died while I was trying to back things up. had to 'borrow' my dad's lap[top to type this; not something i'm able to do often at all. as you can p[ropably tell I don't get along with it too well ;p low resolution+crap screen+crap parts+crap keybo0ard=froggy hell.

will resume business as usual when my pc is returned.

[frogbeastegg]

There should have been something. But there was not, not a thing, only a stolid, dull silence that gripped the whole hall. In the tense waiting Eleanor felt time slow to a crawl, as though only tiny moments passed instead of large ones.

As each large moment slipped away like sand in a time-glass the truth became increasingly evident. A truth she had, in all honesty, already known. There was no enthusiasm for Hugh, not even one man to start the cheering for him. Just silence. Nor was there mourning for her father.

Enough time had passed now that there could be no cheering for the new king, or mourning for the old one. It would be insulting, coming much too late to be anything other than an attempt to stave off displeasure. A formality, taken up too late because no one cared.

At her side Eleanor could tell without looking that Hugh’s confidence was dying in a welter of arterial blood. If only someone had taken up the call of “Fiat!” - or anything! – her work would have been shored up, and Hugh settled enough to resume command of himself.

Certain members of the audience were looking to her, not her brother. She did not like what she saw there: speculation in many, a burning loyalty in a rare few, almost mocking consideration in more than one. If she had stepped forward and announced her accession at least a few would have begun to shout “Fiat! Let it be so!” Eleanor began to pray that they would keep their stony peace.

Eleanor stepped forward from her station slightly behind and to her brother’s left, moving out to stand facing him at arm’s length. “Let me be the first to pay homage.” It was a deal too early for that, but it might prod a little life into the noble audience, and it would state clearly and early that she was in her brother’s support.

Hugh managed the simple, oft-repeated ceremony automatically and without mistake, for which Eleanor was grateful. The damage that would have done …

As she freed her hands from his and stood up again, Eleanor heard movement in the audience. The Earl of Chester stood at the very front now, apart from all others. “Let me be the next,” he said loudly.

That broke the stillness. Others began to step forward, calling that they too would swear now. Only a few were anything like enthusiastic, and many were only following the crowd so as not to be remembered later by their king as hesitant, but came they did, and that was most important.

Some, however, Eleanor saw did not come forward. Many of those who had looked to her walked out of the hall, and some few previously neutral followed them. The Earl of Hereford was the most notable of those who departed, and he was only present at the palace to secure for his eldest son the newly vacant position of sheriff for the shire. They would be gone from the palace with all speed, and Eleanor doubted they would be as easy to bring to heel as such reluctant vassals usually were. Promises, assurances, gifts – Trempwick would have set things up better than to allow petty things to tear away the followers he would desperately need. He would have promised more than Hugh could give, such as titles and lands already possessed by those likely to be Hugh’s allies. A more heavy-handed approach would only lose Hugh more support, and it would require might and security in his position he didn’t have at present.

The first hurdle was passed, not with aplomb, or even so well as to be average, but it was passed. Only a few of the highest nobles were present at court, those with positions in the household or business that required their being here. The church had no good representatives either, aside from the royal chaplain. Winning over those remaining many would be the next obstacle, and a major one to be tackled while dealing with the many other bars to Hugh’s safe rule.

Eleanor watched her brother’s confidence slowly stabilise, and begin to return.






William eyed the steaming bowl of broth with a detached curiosity. Eating, such as he could manage, no longer seemed anything but a trivial interruption to the stifling life of the invalid.

The woman carrying the broth attracted only a fraction more interest on his part. It was the smallest things which made this non-life intolerable, and the woman was one of those small things. His memory of the few days before his accident was hazy in places, but she he recalled well enough. Jocelyn’s wife; the name forgotten. The one who had screamed in horror when he had said he would take her son away. Now she nursed him, she and Lionel.

“I have forgotten your name,” said William, not really aiming the words at her, or caring about her presence. “It is there, but still not quite there … I cannot reach to grasp it.” Frustrated, he tried to form a fist and pound the mattress at his side. He managed no more than a loosely curled hand and a weak movement little more than a feeble swat.

She walked across the room to him with a sinuous grace that, along with her beauty, somehow only ever increased his sense of despair. “My lord king shouldn’t allow himself to become upset over such a trivial thing; my name is of little import.”

“If your mind was riddled with holes and hazy parts would you be happy?” demanded William petulantly.

She set the bowl down and began to check the bandage on his head, not dignifying his question with a response.

He sourced a little strength for his voice from his anger, and the result came close enough to his old imperious snap that William didn’t feel too badly. “Am I king, or am I not? You dare ignore my questions?”

Their position gave him an excellent view of her face. It remained as it had always been … or as he always now remembered it: blank, with what lay behind the eyes veiled so he could read nothing even there. “Richildis; my name is Richildis.”

When she had checked the thick bandaging over his chest she placed one arm behind him and raised him up sufficiently to drink his broth. He caught the scent of the soup before he could see into the bowl. “Not beef again. I want something else. I am sick of beef broth!”

She placed the bowl to his lips and began to pour it down him, giving him the choice of drinking or drowning. “Beef will give you strength.”

When the bowl was empty William drew breath and tried again for something with authority in it. “I said I did not want it.” This time he had been less successful; his voice sounded weak. He turned his face to the wall, and ordered, “Get out.”

Richildis tucked his blankets back around him before leaving.

Something wet ran down William’s cheek, another something, then another on the other side. It took a while for him to realise what it was; he had not wept since he was a boy.

With all his heart he wished Anne were here. In the next moment he was wholly glad she was not; he could never have born seeing her pity. He wanted her company desperately, and if anyone could do something for his sick spirit she could. But he couldn’t face another way of seeing what he had become.

As if it was not clear enough already, ground into his face time after time, and becoming starkly clearer day by day. It would have been better if he had died. His logic told him that without flinching, but his soul and heart rejected it powerfully. He did not want to die. Only wait, his heart cried, wait and heal and then everything will be well. He may never fight again, and perhaps would always be weaker, and he might not in the end remember everything, but he would be alive, and not in this non-life either. Living he could not find out what awaited him in the next life. Hell, he was increasingly certain.

“But I tried,” he whispered through his tears, “I tried. Surely you cannot condemn me for that?” No heavenly answer came. “I gave money to the church, lands, gifts; I protected it. I confessed often, did penance and was absolved, and I cannot go to hell for that, the clerics say. I did good. I minded my charge as king. And I tried so hard …”

Lying here in his sickbed gave ample time for reflection. Too much time. It was all he could do, that and sleep, but despite his injuries, despite his weakness, sleep did not come as easily and intensely as it should. It was not only because of the grinding, aching, throbbing, burning pain that had been his ever-present companion since he first woke. Reflection showed him too much to allow him peace, and convinced him he would not receive eternal peace when he passed on. Long years of his life lived, and all with a sense of purpose, a sense of knowledge and righteousness. Even when he had not liked his own work he had been able to justify it, and to see why it was necessary. But now it all looked so different; he wondered if there had been other ways, other options, and how everything would have been if only, if only he had altered whatever in whichever way. Regrets, so many regrets …

William dragged a trembling hand up to swipe ineffectively at his eyes, wanting gone this latest sign of his complete weakness. It was only with supreme will and concentration that he managed to fumble his way through the simple motion, and his face still felt damp when fatigue forced him to allow his arm to drop back down.

If he died Hugh would become king, to be consumed in turn by that attractive, loathsome crown and all it stood for. He would have failed, finally, to protect his last son. The longer he held on the longer the boy had some freedom, and perhaps he might find a way to resist the parasite when it inevitably did become his. It wasn’t solely a case of clinging to continued existence; William knew he needed to return as king in fact, not only in name as he was now. The boy would be ruling in his stead.

If he died now he would never see his grandson, or granddaughter, this child of Hugh’s. He wanted that badly, even if it would be so bittersweet to see the crown’s future victim and know some part of what the future held for the child.

He would have liked to see Matilda and Adele again, their children too. The grandchildren he had never seen, the daughters he had not set eyes on since they left for their marriages.

He would not be able to shelter and guide Anne as she grew, giving her whatever he could to make a life of her choosing when he did pass on. He would not leave her at the mercy of the father who plainly cared nothing for her beyond her value as a pawn. Age would give her much of what she needed to stand on her own feet, if she was provided for sufficiently and taught correctly.

And the brat; love turned hate which preyed upon him relentlessly as he lay here. Such a fine case of ‘should have been …’ But ‘should have been …’ had no place or part in what was, and so the best he could hope for was to see her married, settled and content; a final victory for him in their long war. He was still uncertain if being glad of missing her wedding was dismal or not





Some hours later Eleanor burst into the main hall from the stairs leading down from the royal solar, Fulk trailing several correct steps behind her. As public business was now over for the day, and there were still a couple of hours remaining until dinner, the hall was mostly empty. Not nearly empty enough for Eleanor’s tastes though, as the Earl of Chester was waiting, and as soon as he saw her he headed over.

“Your Highness,” he murmured. Unfortunately she couldn’t think of an excuse to keep her hands well out of reach; he secured one, bowed over it and kissed her fingers. “My condolences on such tragic, tragic news.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor surreptitiously wiped her hand on her skirt.

“Still, start of a new era, is it not?”

“My father might yet live.”

“True, true,” he agreed smoothly, “we all pray that is so. I feel obliged to say that you bear up well under the strain of events, far better than I expect from a woman. It does you great credit.”

Eleanor quashed her irritated sigh and let him ramble on uninterrupted.

“A rather sad display earlier, I must say.” He smiled patronisingly at her. “I thought you played your part nicely, and it is admirable your brother had the foresight to tell you to do such if matters proved tricky.”

Eleanor tightened her hold on her temper; it was already simmering after finding precisely what the arse in the crown had left her in his will: nothing. Nothing. Even for the sake of appearances he could not bring himself to give her so much as a worn out tunic, preferring to leave her a beggar and pauper, dependant on other’s charity and Trempwick’s goodwill. As if to add further proof of his hatred for her he had, as was traditional, distributed items and money generously to all who had served him, right down to the second stable boy. Anne had been excellently provided for, well beyond what Eleanor had expected her to receive. For some reason that ground salt into the raw and bleeding wound, despite her anticipating, and being glad of, Anne’s fortune.

“Have no fear,” continued the Earl, unaware that his audience was beginning to wish she could set Fulk on him. “Your brother will soon whip everyone into line. It all works like dogs, do you see? Got to make it clear you are leader of the pack.”

As she blinked Eleanor rolled her eyes; she might have known he would find a way to bring dogs into the conversation yet again. “Yes.”

“Dog refuses to take orders or accept you as leader? Beat it, then it follows you with its tail wagging happily. Damn, it even loves you for it. Same with people, no matter how high or low or all that. People like having strong guidance, and being sure of their place.”

“Your grasp of politics is stunning,” said Eleanor, with a touch of sarcasm. “You make it sound so simple.”

The Earl preened, and unfortunately chose to elaborate. “Well, it is not always so simple. Often you have to beat the creature several times at least for varying mistakes and so on, though some weak – or wise, maybe? – creatures never challenge you, and then there are always a stubborn few who go feral or will not learn. Those you have to kill.”

“Marvellous.”

“They see you are stronger, then they scramble to please. You have to show no weakness or mercy; instead consistency!” One meaty fist drove into the palm of the other hand with a smack.

“Wonderful.”

“Why, I have my dogs so well trained that you can place a bowl of best meat next to them and they will not touch it until I give them leave!” He beamed, seemingly expecting her to be awed. He leaned forward a little, and confided with glowing pride, “I expect – and get – just the same from all my people, right from my son and heir to my meanest serf. They do whatever I see fit to demand.”

“They must consider themselves so lucky.”

“As I said, they love me for it.”

Loved just as she loved her dear, departed parent, thought Eleanor. Diplomacy called for a more tactful exit than simply hitching up her skirts and running for it, so she produced a smile from somewhere and said, “Thank you for aiding my brother earlier. Now, please excuse me; I wish to pray for my father.” Since praying that he ended up in hell suffering the most exquisite agonies possible was sinful, Eleanor resolved to ask that he got what he deserved, which amounted to much the same thing.

“Oh! Of course.” He distinctly did not move out of her way. “If I might ask something …?”

“Yes?”

“As you will be aware, I am the Earl of Chester, and have all that should fit that title, be it lands, wealth, honours, men-”

Believing that this was going to be a not so subtle request for more honours Eleanor interrupted, “I think my brother would perhaps be best for this.”

The man only smiled and patted her hand. “I shall speak to him next, but it seems prudent to come to you first. I am, as you can no doubt tell, assuring you that as my wife will have a suitable life.”

“Wife?” yelped Eleanor, pulling her hand free of his grasp. “Never!”

“I do not see why your brother should refuse me, especially given my little intervention for him.”

“I am already spoken for,” she said frostily.

The Earl flattened his eyebrows and looked at her down his nose. “It is obvious to me that your brother will not let you go to Trempwick, not now it is his place to choose for you.”

“Ask if you must, but he will refuse.”

“I shall ask,” he assured her. He bowed; Eleanor kept her hands safely hidden behind her back. “I shall go now. Good day, your Highness.”

As she left the hall Fulk moved up a little closer, walking just behind her elbow. “I think I’d better put my armour on,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll get a nice quarterstaff too, so I can beat your eager suitors off if they get bothersome.”

He didn’t manage to raise a laugh or a smile, but Eleanor’s depression lifted fractionally. “You can get me a staff as well; I do not see why you should have all the fun, and they are my suitors.”





Fulk let the gap between himself and Eleanor increase once more to the correct distance, and made no effort to keep their brief conversation going on the way back to her rooms. He had to find some way to speak to her alone, speak properly, something they had not done since before he left Woburn. Even another rushed, wary, partially overheard conversation marred by either an audience or the perpetual fear that someone would interrupt would be better than nothing.

He was worried, and growing more worried by the hour. Eleanor’s position had been unenviable before he met her: insecure, precarious, unpredictable, and lacking much hope for the future. Now it was worse, far worse. Her past had partly been a lie, and Trempwick had added treason to his other abuses of her – that must leave deep scars, surely? He knew she hated her father, but even so his loss must have some effect on her. Eleanor being Eleanor she would never admit that, just as she would never admit that she must be terrified right now. As if all this wasn’t enough, she was left to prop up her brother.

What really made Fulk’s blood boil was the simple fact that no one else had even considered any of this, or if they had they didn’t care. No one but him, and he was the only one close to her unable to do anything.

As he crossed the threshold into the old nursery building Fulk decided there was some small part he could do, and just one thing he could say without suspicion landing on them.

They entered the solar. Because he was behind Eleanor he didn’t see what Hawise had been doing when the door opened, but he did see her stand up and hesitantly bite the inside of her lip. “I … I heard, after you left ….”She hesitated again, checking Eleanor’s reaction to see if her words were unwelcome. Encouraged, she finished softly, “My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor moved to the table to sit down, but stood staring at the only chair, the one at the head of the table that was hers by right. She shivered, and settled in the window seat instead.

Fulk said to her, “As long as I’m with you no one will harm you, and as long as I’m alive and wanted I’ll be at your side. I gave you my word.”

Eleanor averted her face, hiding it from both him and Hawise. “If someone wants me badly enough to risk force then they will happily cut their way past you if you linger in the way, and that will help me not at all. It only makes the horrendous worse.”

Fulk stood up straighter, confident, knowing he was doing the right thing and for the right reasons. “That’s why I’m going to raise you an army; I can’t protect you with just two other men, not if you ever hope to leave these walls. Twenty men should be enough, twenty skilled veterans. I can select them, make sure they train and work as a unit, lead them, and I can teach you to handle them so they’ll obey you. You need your own force, and you’ll have one.”

The slight downward tilt of the corners of her mouth that was becoming too familiar didn’t ease, and misery continued to rob the blue of her eyes of their usual lively sparkle. “I cannot afford such a force. I was left nothing by my father, and Trempwick controls my lands. The money from Hugh might just pay their wages if you hire cheaply, but I could never equip, feed or house them. I might manage one more man, perhaps two, but no more.”

Left nothing at all? Now he understood the slight increase in desolation after she’d exited the little meeting with a clerk he’d been left standing outside the door for. “Then it seems you’d best go speak to your brother and demand your due. He can’t tell you it’s not his decision to make now.”

Unexpectedly Hawise spoke up, “Yes, he’s right. You need your own force; there’s no avoiding it or edging about it anymore. And I can’t believe you were left nothing; that must be a mistake.”

“It is not a mistake,” Eleanor answered. She met Fulk’s eyes. “It would likely not be so simple as requesting nicely.”

“You’ll manage.”

The tiny change in Eleanor’s posture was reversed; her shoulders set level and her back straightened out the barely visible slump. “Someone had better go and request an audience with my brother for me.”





It never rained but it poured. Trempwick had always found that saying to be inane. He still did. It rained, it poured, it drizzled, it sleeted, water could pour from the sky in great sheets or in such tiny and scarce droplets it did not even seem to be rain at all. This before you began to examine the many different weights and sizes of water droplets involved in what was generically termed ‘rain’ because it was not enough to be any of the other grades. Human cattle and their idiotic simplification. Missing the detail, as usual. The devil was in the details. Now there was a saying a spymaster could agree with.

He held one message in each hand. Hence the musing of that idiotic adage. In his left a message from the agent in the queen’s maids. In his right one from France. Left; the results of his searching for fraction of a grain of sand. Right; something urgent.

Which first?

Trempwick laid down the message in his right and began to unfasten the left. The devil was in the details. Small impacted large. To act solely on large was to be thoughtless. He could never be accused of that.

Trempwick read the few brief lines. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting his mind begin to absorb and work. He opened them again and read the message a second time. He committed it to the flames of his study’s small fire. So, Godit had failed. Ergo, the knight was … Trempwick let the thought stew, testing different words to see which fitted best. The knight was … changed. He had his fraction of a grain of sand.

From here; easy. Objectives; obvious. Define the change. Find how far it stretches. Find the cause. Piece all these answers together. Then he would have a whole grain.

Ideas were brewing already. Trempwick considered the flames burning about the tiny, destroyed note. He thought. Considered. Tested various potentialities. He found one which seemed to fit. It was not love; it was love. The knight loved Nell, not just loved her. Love was rare in this world. It was dangerous. It made fools of people … and made them more than they were. It tended to … shatter(?) certain parts of life and order. Love would answer all the posed questions, form a half of a whole grain.

So. Could the knight stand to watch Nell marry another? Knowing she too had loved? Would he believe she had transferred her affections to her betrothed instead? Believe deep down, in bone and blood, not the weaker belief of a resigned mind?

Trempwick’s face hardened. No. He would not. Love made fools like that. Even if it were true he would not believe. This was significant, in some way he did not yet know.

If.

If …

The word dropped heavily and ponderously; the first rock in a mental landslide.

He had already known, just not worded it. Nell loved the knight. That he had known. Too much undertaken on the knight’s behalf for it to be otherwise.

Now, add the new …

Two such loves, matching.

Placed in such circumstances.

One admirable mind, that thought.

One at least willing to risk all. But not for the previously assumed reasons. It was love. Nothing else. That motivated the knight. It had for a long time, Trempwick saw now.

Trempwick’s heartbeat sped up. He heard each beat clearly in his own ears. He felt his pulse hammering at his body.

And Nell?

Reckless Nell. Wilful Nell. Nell who had so often acted to preserve the knight. Nell who was in love. Nell who had already proven over and over she would risk, and hurt, and bleed for the knight.

Nell who had just got her bodyguard back.

The bodyguard who would(?) not stand by and watch. Who would know her act for what it was(?) Regardless, he not be dissuaded by it as previously believed. Not the impotent fury of watching his love walk away for another … but a seeing through of illusions to almost match Trempwick’s own? The message had been clear on one thing: he had lost nothing of his feelings for Nell. They eclipsed all else? Certainly eclipsed most.

Nell who had just got her bodyguard back. From the bastard. Because he had tried to kill her, and needed to play with appearances. That was very certain; there could be no mistake there. Returned, after she had sent the knight away. Ah, but that after he gave proof she could not fool him. And a laying out of what he would do. She did so to protect him, as Trempwick had always known. Send the knight away to remove any cause for Trempwick to act.

But.

But.

Trempwick froze, even his mind. He made no effort to think, to breathe, to blink, to anything. He became a living statue. All the better to let the mind run its natural course, and instinct be heard.

He found he was left with two main questions. On those everything hung … everything in this regard, this particular part grain of sand.

What could they ever hope to accomplish?

Would Nell be so utterly stupid?

It could not last. It could not remain hidden. It could not end well. They could not hope to gain much in their short time.

No, he decided. Very likely not. They might risk themselves but never each other. They would do anything to protect the other, not caring for themselves. He had made sure they knew there was doom, if even suspicion was there again. He had made it clear he would know. He had proven he would know. He had proven there could be, never would be, hope for them.

He relaxed a little. They would do nothing foolish. But he now believed there was something. Even something so small as spending ‘harmless’ time together – harmless in every way but the fact it strengthened what was already there. That was harmful, and suited him not at all. And to love even such woeful time was precious and wonderful … and so the something? Taking advantage of what was there, forced to be there, unavoidable, not their doing or fault and so not for him to act upon so long as all remained suitable? The something …? Likely so.

His fraction of a grain of sand had turned to a complete grain. From here he could plan. Work. Find more. Begin to unravel more of what troubled him. He had his beginning.

And Nell would be removed from the knight as soon as possible!

Then arrangements would be made for the knight. Something final. But without Nell ever knowing; no chance she ever could.

Trempwick opened and read the second message. It was in his favoured code. He read it once.

He sat, tranquil inside.

The storm broke. An outwardly calm storm, as his always were unless he chose to let them be otherwise. His jaw tightened, his teeth clenched. His hands balled up into fists, crumpling the little message, his nails digging half-moon cuts into his palms. He held his breath, lungs mostly full and burning with his anger. He closed his eyes, breathed in a little. He let his breath out, saying softly one word that contained all his emotion, “Damn!” If such things were possible that one word would have charred entire forests with its intensity and heat.

Trempwick took a moment to mourn his friend. For all his flaws, shortcomings, a man worthy of his service. He had managed to surprise his spymaster on occasion, and that was good.

Next he recognised and indulged the sour part of him screaming that years of work were imperilled because some animal could not die efficiently. Once allowed to vent its fury across his mind that part fell quiet.

Trempwick brought his control to bear. To be even this unrestrained now was to invite disaster. He smoothed out the crumpled message and read it twice more, absorbing every nuance. He memorised it. He burned it.

He had not been wrong in opening the minor before the major. Smaller may indeed have bearing, use, on greater. In a small, slight way. But still a way. The devil was in the details.

First. Main choice: continue or concede?

Easy – continue. He would not abandon his work so readily. He reminded himself that he had wished for something to stretch him a little. This would.

The situation was poorer than planned, poorer than he might hope. But it was not nearly impossible. He could adapt. Recover. Work around. Use. Oh yes, he could use. He could no longer simply sit back, hold position, wait for William to return. That was all, really.

Trempwick shut his eyes and devoted everything he had to planning; rapid and detailed planning. Mistakes now would cost, ruin, later. Existing stratagems could be altered for this. He made a comprehensive inventory of what was required. What was desired. What would be helpful. What must not be.

He opened his eyes again, stood up. Time to begin.

The first was always to tidy the table. The message had stated alive but grievously wounded and not likely to live. He would regret William’s death, and felt a pang of guilt that it was to be his hand responsible. There was no help for it – his time was over. If he lived on then it was only as an inconvenience. William’s grasp had now slipped, would slip more, and it could never be re-established completely. In the time he was helpless the world would move on. It could never move back. He hoped his friend had expired on his own, as he deserved. But if not he would be tidied.

When Edward answered his master’s summons he was not ordered to set the death in motion. That was Trempwick’s right … responsibility. Both. His friend, his lord, his plan, and so his death to detail and to bear in full. No, Trempwick had a set of different tasks for his underling.





Trempwick sipped his mulled wine, and watched his late-arrived guest begin to eat the cold food laid before him. The man had been given little chance to speak, arriving several hours after dinner. He had been captured by Trempwick’s quiet guards as he entered the ten mile radius about Woburn. Word had been sent to Trempwick, who had given permission for him to be delivered to the manor itself. The man had done little but complain since arrival, though he had been here for but long enough to remove his cloak and for food to be fetched.
The Earl of Hereford chewed a mouthful of pie vigorously. “I was not followed; my party set out as if to head home, then diverted to here when we were out of sight and certain we were not watched.”

Trempwick smiled blandly. That could be interpreted in so many ways. Saved him the bother of finding an answer – the man would find his own. The one he wanted.

Hereford had advantages. He was a talented solider, liberally blooded in decades of fighting against the Welsh. He was powerful, yet still ambitious. He was convinced that the bastard was indeed a bastard. He saw nothing to like in the bastard, had hated him for years. He was too proud to follow one of such tainted birth, even if he did not take a crown that was not his. He was married to Trempwick’s cousin, making him family. Family counted for much. Family stood together, supported the same cause. He was amiable to the idea of a queen; convinced of Eleanor’s merits by certain promises of a certain new position created for him as Lord of the Welsh Marches. A queen could hardly be expected to keep the border quiet with her own sword …

“I thought you would want to know at once. Today prince,” he sneered the title, “Hugh announced our king is dead, and he is taking the throne.”

Trempwick said, “I am aware of this.” Simple inference, combined with the knowledge provided by his network. It seldom failed to amaze others when demonstrated. Or to remind of his reach.

“But perhaps you are not aware that the princess was present throughout, and was the one to break the uncomfortable silence that greeted the announcement?”

Fascinating. “Go on.”

“You should have seen him – stammering and useless, struck dumb. He did not get his way at once, and had no idea of what to do. It was pathetic in every possible way. The man is entirely unable, unworthy, unfit and ill-suited – his lack of royal blood shows. As well to put a sheep on the throne! But the princess showed her mettle and breeding, I would say, and I think others would agree easily enough. It was quite plain to me why she did that – her half-brother’s hand had left a rather distasteful red mark on her face.” The Earl speared a mouthful of cold roast pork on the end of his eating knife. He waggled the meat at Trempwick as he spoke, “The whole hall went still as anything when he finished speaking, and I was not the only one looking to the princess. She saw it, and at that said she would be the first to pay homage to her brother, and so she did. That started that ambitious crawler Chester off, and others followed him.” He snapped the meat off his knife and swallowed without chewing properly. “But to balance, others followed me when I walked out, others who were not looking to her at first. Even those who did go were mostly unenthusiastic; saving their own skins and currying favour. But they will not stand by him, not if they can help it. They will be off home, to sit out of the way and let events take their course without their involvement, unless forced, or given something to put fire in the blood and fight for.”

“This mark, it was clearly visible?”

“Oh yes – recent, red, not a bruise and not like to bruise that much, but clear enough at the time.”

So everyone would have seen it. Trempwick set his goblet down and moved to stand before the hall’s large fire. Nell had been forced by violence to aid her brother. It was clear for all to see. How very useful. “He will pay in full,” Trempwick assured his guest.

“I should bloody well hope so!” Hereford pounded his fist on the table, making the dishes rattle. “That muck-blooded, whoreson bastard dares too much!”

“You will return to your castles; garrison and garnish them in case of siege, then have your army ready. You may be needed to fight for your queen.”





Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Barrowden and Ketton. Eleanor basked in the glow of her new titles, although considering who she was they were so low as to be offensive. Three manors and two small castles, the main at Towcester and another at Warmington; an income totalling around £145 per year, assuming an average year. She sighed happily and snuggled down deeper into her blankets. Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Barrowden and Ketton, combining to make an income that would do well enough for a member of the lowest edge of the mid-level nobility. The arse in the crown would have been so disappointed.

She had been striped of her previous two manors, but she cared little for that. There was no point mourning that which you had never seen and were not likely to get. The money from Hugh would also come to a stop as soon as she began to gain some of her due from the land, around Hocktide.

From this she would have her army. Fulk would begin selecting men tomorrow morning, recruiting locally with an eye to replacing and possibly expanding from other regions as and when they travelled. Eleanor looped an arm up under her pillow, raising it up slightly and hugging it to her cheek. She worked to keep focused on this bit of goodness, hoping for once she could get to sleep before the worrying set in.







5, 944

There you go; 11 pages. I’ve a further 9 almost complete, but I want to tweak them further. From this you may infer that finally everything is back to normal. Damn, it’s so good to write again!

:Edges nervously away from Trempwick’s italicised thinking and “Damn!”, and puts up a sign reading “Danger! Spymaster at work!”:

If he wouldn’t have me beheaded for saying it I’d admit I pity poor William more than ever.

[frogbeastegg]

When his squire at last completed the final stage of his lord’s bedtime preparations and departed, Hugh did not lay down, instead remaining sat upright in bed. Alone at last with his wife after what was, he could say without fear of being womanishly melodramatic, the worst day of his life, Hugh had much to speak of. “I desire to speak my mind, to make clear to myself my thoughts. I would also appreciate your council, above all on a collection of matters that cannot be raised with any other.”

Constance folded her hands above her chest on top of the blankets. “If you like.”

“The Earl of Chester approached me today, requesting the hand of my sister in marriage. When refused he said she found the match favourable.”

She suppressed a smile. “After hearing your second hand edition of Eleanor’s verdict on the man I find that unlikely.”

“I also. However, once turned down, he said most resolutely that she had encouraged his suit.”

“Equally unlikely.”

“Be that so or not, it is not the crux of the issue. He believes he was encouraged, and so what my own actions must be in reaction are most clearly dictated by all. Conscious encouragement or not, her behaviour was not what it should have been, and therefore was at fault, a fault which has caused me much trouble and can do harm to her reputation.”

“Alternatively Chester said that in the hopes it would sway you,” suggested Constance, so quickly her words attached onto Hugh’s without a gap.

Hugh frowned. “In all sincerity that possibility had not occurred to me; I own my omission. Sadly I must say that it helps very little, assuming it is true. What troubles me here is not the simple fact of what I should do, but other aspects. Chester may be the first but he will by no means be the last, and each such man turned away will lose me a little more support, a little more love in the hearts of those I need as staunch allies.” He allowed himself one of his very rare fidgeting habits, and rubbed the space between his eyebrows with the knuckle of his first finger, feeling the deep crease there which accompanied his down-drawn brows. “Moreover, what of Trempwick? The betrothal cannot be broken without explanation, and I fear none of us will ever care to voice the truth. There is no other good reason, and out of duty alone I should honour the contract drawn up by my father. I cannot allow Nell to marry that man, but nor can I openly provoke him, or the ensuing outcome will be blamed upon myself.”

“To be honest, Hugh, I do not know what is best.”

“I cannot breach the contract. I cannot honour that contract. I cannot wed her to another. I cannot leave her as she is. None the less, something must be found, and soon.” Hugh lay down, unconsciously mimicking his wife’s thoughtful pose. “There is a second, separate issue tied to this one, namely that the alterations to all have made our positions quite different. I am no longer so clearly and solidly placed to insist upon being the master of our relationship; I need her, now very much so, and this gives her power, such power it makes me frightened. If she withdrew her support I do not know where I would be, except that I foresee a variety of most unpleasant and untenable futures as a result of it. With that threat she can force whatever she wishes from me, I fear. I am now beholden to her; she is the master of the two of us.”

“Not so,” stated Constance. “She needs you as much as you need her, and remember that your goals are the same, at least in the main. Her path is limited from this point: either she places you on the throne and keeps your goodwill, knowing she will need it, or she opposes you, and so either ends up as queen or destroyed.”

Hugh found the matter illustrated itself best in the simplest of examples, which he now provided for Constance’s meditation. “She can threaten to leave me; I cannot threaten to abandon her.”

“No, but you can make it clear when something threatens your goodwill towards her. Once you are securely on the throne you will need her far less, and she is too intelligent not to recognise that. Stand your ground; give as you must, but stand where possible and battle where necessary.”

“I wonder if perhaps you are right,” allowed Hugh. “Though I find it appears much like dancing between closely scattered hot coals, barefoot, while onlookers throw knifes and try to press me off-balance.”

Constance gurgled with laugher, which she quickly quashed. “Sorry. Only, the mental picture of that …” She shook with silent hilarity. A funny snorting noise indicated her failure even restrain herself that far.

Hugh warred to keep his horror from showing, and he began to ponder the wisdom of consulting her on this. Pregnancy rapidly appeared to be diminishing her resistance to those feminine foibles that only rarely cast their giggling, dull-witted shadow over her. He very fervently hoped she would return to rationality soon.

He cleared his throat, hoping to restore her attention without recourse to strong words. “Certainly the present course cannot be allowed to run for much longer. Only today did I find myself required to grant her new lands and permission to begin raising a small force for her protection – she scorned my offer to allow her to borrow my own men whenever need arises. I also felt it quite impossible to pursue the matter of Chester; it seems most unfeasible to apply correct discipline there without causing a ruction, truly it does. I fear … I find myself …” Hugh let his words come to a halt, unsure of whether to voice this particular one, even to his wife. Doubting his sister’s loyalty and integrity was such a grave fault it would harm his image in Constance’s eyes, and despite the sinful pride he knew that was he was certain he could not do that. He needed her to think well of him; to see her shrink from him or turn away would destroy him. He was also deeply concerned for the child; the worry this would cause if his suspicions were not instantly and comprehensively dismissed could be so detrimental to the malleable temperament of the forming baby.

That simple fact was that if Nell were in fact in league with Trempwick she could arrange for him put himself from her path without a speck of mud coming to stain her own public character. Oh, he did not believe that, he hurriedly assured himself. To believe it at this point would be to wilfully believe the bad of someone, his own kin at that, despite more plentiful evidence to the contrary. As the notion had only declared itself to him fully during the long homage ceremony that afternoon, Hugh suspected himself of some jealousy, and thus found it likely that if the emotion existed it was the motivation behind this suspicion. When it had been his moment to act, to lead, to prove his mettle, to do what he had been trained towards for years, he had failed. She had not. She had been all that he should have, excepting only grief for the departed and humble respect in attitude. He had been outdone and shown to be inferior by his youngest sister, and at the task that was the centre of his existence and had no place appearing in hers. To recognise his inferiority was humble, and that in its turn was most fitting. To envy those greater blessed was human, but in the most disgusting sense of the word; he fought hard against even the shadow of the possibility of its existence.

But still, she was his little sister! She was supposed to look up to him with awed respect, while he sheltered and guided her. That was how it was laid out, based upon God’s own proclamation of man’s superiority. It was so hard to reconcile the extremes, and therein, he believed, lay the root of his discomfort.

Worse than the suspected jealousy was the tiny flowering of something very ugly towards Nell in his heart, something unique in its way, something he could not put a name to. He did not need a precise name for it to see that it was best stamped out and banished along with the rest of his internal rot.

Constance still waited expectantly. Hugh found his tongue, and diverted away from the troublesome subject he had nearly broached, “Then I find I must now put to you a question to which I can find no satisfactory answer, no matter how hard I search my heart, no matter how many authorities I consult. When one clearly sees the path of right leading ahead, should one turn from it when it is very likely pursuing that right will do untold harm?”

“That depends on the right, the subject, the why, and the harm.”

“It is quite the thorny dilemma, I admit. Alas, I find it topical at present, and in more ways than one.”

Showing remarkable understanding Constance punched to the heart of his deepest affair with this question, supplying new material, “Your sister and her Fulk. The more time I spend in their company the more I find I believe that they seem happiest when the other is nearby, even if they are in a room full of people and unable to even look at each other. If you watch closely you can see that they are rather attuned to each other’s presence and moods. Indeed, if you watch very closely, and know what to watch for, it is quite apparent at present. As Eleanor becomes more downcast and worried, Fulk becomes …” She caught the corner of her lip between her teeth as she considered carefully. “Edgier,” she chose, in the end. “I do not think they know they are doing it, so they cannot really guard against it as effectively as with the more conscious things.” She subsided, but Hugh could tell that there was still more, so, despite having heard more than enough for his peace of mind, he waited.

Constance sighed. “Really I feel I should not tell you this, as I entered something of an undefined agreement, but I trust you to honour the agreement I made at least in appearance; she must think I said nothing. Earlier, when you hit your sister, the bodyguard looked ready to kill you with his bare hands. She stopped him with nothing more than a look, and so I am convinced they are one of those pairings who can communicate quite well without the need for words. There was far more to it than a simple ‘Don’t!’, more on both sides.”

“Then there remains not even the flimsiest shred of doubt,” said Hugh heavily.

“He will do whatever is necessary to protect her without thought to himself, and she will not allow him to come to harm if she can prevent it. They understand each other. As guard and guarded that is … almost ideal, in that he will keep her safe and she will do nothing reckless.”

The soothing tone and flow of reassuring words had no effect on Hugh. “She is a harlot,” he growled.

“Hugh!”

“An utter disgrace!”

“Hugh-”

“Again and again I turned a blind eye, desiring to believe better of her, and so it turns out she is every bit the slut I feared-”

“At least she has good taste,” interjected Constance, her calm voice such a contrast Hugh spluttered into stunned silence. “He is handsome.” Hugh’s spluttering turned into outright choking, and he had to sit up. Constance thumped his back for him until the fit passed. “I knew that would put a stop to your silliness. Do stop slinging about such inappropriate words. It is not like you, and it does not suit you; leave such behaviour to those too foolish to know better.”

“They are highly appropriate,” gasped Hugh through a raw throat, “and I wish they were not.”

“As I doubt she has even slept with him, let alone charged him for the privilege, she cannot be a harlot, and there would have to be a few more men hidden about before she could be a slut; the plural there is very important.”

Hugh accused, “You are on her side.”

Constance gave him a withering look. “I told you what I had seen. I am simply disappointed to see you turn into another thoughtless, shouting fool of a man!”

Hugh’s jaw dropped, and it took him a moment to re-gather himself sufficient to reply. “I am no such thing.”

“Usually, no. But now? I am tempted to ask who you are, what you have done with my husband, and how you have taken his form so convincingly.”

Hugh reviewed his latest words, and flushed. “Very well; I admit you have some slight truth in what you say. But you cannot blame me – it is difficult for a man to find his sister is a … a …” A something that he did not appear to have a word for that his wife would not object to.

“An adult?”

“That is not at all the line I was thinking in,” he muttered. Louder he asked, “What do you think will happen, if I part her from him? I find it doubtful she would gladly support me from then on. But such a – a perversion of the natural order of society cannot be condoned!” Hugh’s frown was now so deep his own eyebrows obscured the top range of his vision. “He is, by all accounts, a baseborn bastard got on some peasant slut by a knight of little import.”

Constance smiled. “I would not be surprised if that is a part of why she likes him.”

“Yes; she seems to take great delight in disgracing our family, and shaming herself.”

“Oh, Hugh!” chided Constance amiably. “That is not what I meant. Being what he is, and from their history … well, I think that he must perhaps be one of very few to see Eleanor and not the princess. He does not look at her and see a prize he could use, as most others do, including, to an extent, you.” More sternly she added, “Do not argue that is not so, because it is.”

“It is revolting. She could hardly sink lower if she tried.”

“I doubt either of them wanted this, but love strikes where it will. It is unfortunate for them, and I do pity them, even – and because – I see how impossible it is.”

“She should never have been allowed to mix so comprehensively with such riffraff.”

“You sister has led a very unusual life-”

Hugh interrupted, “Which she should not have!” He froze as he realised what he had done, and in a panic scrambled to right his wrong. “I did not mean to criticise my father’s wisdom; I am certain he must have known much touching upon this that I do not. I do, however, criticise Trempwick’s judgement and methods; he is the one who allowed this to come to pass. He is to blame.”

“That is unimportant now; we must deal with what is, not how it came to be.”

Hugh did not need to consider, not really. However he still took a moment to do so. When he realised he delayed not to think, but to simply delay, he crushed his cowardice while compelling himself to look it squarely in the eye and know it for what it was. Then he spoke. “To give indication that we are aware of anything is to force ourselves to either condone it in some form, or to act to separate them. It seems to me that both are undesirable, as painful as it is to me to admit it. I know that all that is right and good demands I intervene. I yearn to do so, and in so doing put an end to this disgusting situation. If I do indeed maintain my position as her master I have some hope that in the future, when circumstances are calmer, I will be able to do so. Rest assured that as soon as I see safe opportunity I shall act as I should.”

“I agree; for now you can do nothing that you have not already.” To Hugh’s amazement Constance chuckled. “It is a great shame he is not suitable; I dare say she would wed him gladly enough.”

Hugh shuddered. “Do not mention such an atrocity even in jest.”

She raised her eyebrows, and her smile picked up a distinctly devious air. “Ah, but if he were suitable it would not be an atrocity.”

Hugh did not know what to say to that particular piece of absurdity.






It was the same as the other two settlements, and Jocelyn’s men set to with practised efficiency. Those peasants who had not fled before the army prevented it were herded together away from the buildings, all unharmed except if they resisted. He’d been very specific about that, but then he had more sense than a rock, and recognised that he couldn’t get fines, fees, aids and labour from a collection of corpses.

As half the soldiers began systematically looting the houses Jocelyn began his little speech. He stood before the peasants in full armour, feet apart, hand on his sword belt near the hilt of the weapon, his squire at his shoulder holding his helmet and shield for him. “If you don’t already know who I am, I’m Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes, Count of Tourraine. That makes me your lord. That makes Raymond de Issoudun a rebel. You’re supporting him. Behold my mercy!” He flung an arm to gesture at the men moving from building to building. “I’m not killing, I’m not taking your tools and I’m not taking all your food and animals. Mercy,” he repeated, emphasising the word.

The first few buildings had been emptied; their contents had been split into two piles, one for him to take, one for the peasants to dig through and argue over when they’d gone. The sergeant took a break from overseeing the work to glance to his lord, recognising the pause from the other times they’d done this. Jocelyn nodded towards him, and the man disappeared back inside the nearest house. A short while later he exited carrying a burning brand, and began touching it to the thatch to speed the fire he’d set inside.

Jocelyn resumed his speech, cutting across the shouts of dismay. “Mercy – because I’m damned inclined to toss the whole stinking lot of you in there to roast like the treacherous scum you are! Next time I will; be bloody sure of it! This land is mine, you are all mine. I’m taking what’s mine back, and by God’s teeth you can be sure I’ll not have this happen again.”

Finished, he stood back to watch as the looting continued and more buildings were set to burn. All things going to plan they’d be leaving before the fires became unstoppable, so there’d be something left, though a something in need of a lot of repair. The smoke, which was beginning to bloom up into the sky, would be a beacon seen for miles though …

One man at arms struggled out a house with an armful of feather pillows nearly as large as he was. “Jesus’ favourite pair of sandals!” swore Jocelyn. He gave a low whistle of admiration at the sheer cheek of it; bloody peasants had no sense of their place. He’d have to get his bailiff to keep an extra close eye on this lot, to make sure as much as possible was wrung from them. Money was wasted on peasants.

Eventually he grew bored of watching the parade of household objects. He surveyed the gaggle of mutinous looking peasants held at weapon-point in a pen of armed men. His eye passed over them easily enough, taking stock and finding nothing worth the time, but then he found one that made him pause. He weighed up her merits with practised speed. If you washed her hair Jocelyn felt quite sure it’d turn out a nice dark honey colour, and she was pretty enough in a partly scrawny peasant way. Since there was no man hovering protectively it seemed unlikely she had a husband, or one of those bothersome fathers who through they could take on an army with nothing but their onion breath. Or if she did they were both away. Not that it really mattered. What mattered was time, but with a bit of ingenuity he wouldn’t join one poor sod he’d captured once, and end up in a battle with his chausses around his ankles and his hauberk stuffed under a bed. That was assuming his second dose of entertainment appeared this time where it hadn’t before. His oath to Richildis he negotiated in seconds: she wasn’t here and he had an itch, and anyway war was different to being about at home, and, whatever the occasion, peasants barely even mattered. Besides, a few minutes without finesse, delicacy, or anything much aside from the most basic of engagements really couldn’t count.

“Bring that one to me,” he commanded, pointing her out to the guards.

Close up it turned out she had bloody freckles. Jocelyn sighed; damned pity, but he supposed it didn’t matter much since he’d only have to put up with them for ten minutes at most. He caught one of her hands and held it up so he could examine it, finding the usual collection of calluses. “Well, you can keep those to yourself,” he grunted. He fished a penny out of the purse he wore at his belt and held the silver disc up; that was one of the few advantages of peasants – no need to pick your way through charming them. Or was that a disadvantage? He’d never been able to make his mind up.

The miserable resignation Jocelyn loathed receded a little at the sight of the money.

He was just settling his sword belt back into place a short while later when he heard one of the sentries give the alarm. About damned time, and just when he was back at risk of becoming bored. Jocelyn tossed the coin to the girl, and ducked out of the house. Outside men at arms hurried about, forming up into battle order.

Alain caught up with him quickly. “My lord, it’s de Issoudun, and it seems like he’s brought most of his men. They’re coming from the north, right from his castle.”

“Any estimate on numbers?” Jocelyn asked his squire.

“It’s rough, but the guess is at maybe eighty to a hundred.”

“Bloody perfect; means he’s left only a skeleton force in his castle, and he’s dragged along nearly every man he’s got. Took him long enough, damn him.” Jocelyn called held out his hands in a wordless demand for his helmet. Before he crammed it onto his head he bellowed to the huddle of terrified peasants, “Get on with you; go! Out of the way and don’t bloody come back till later!”

In a world reduced to what he could see through the two eye-slits of the helm’s face guard Jocelyn watched the peasants stream away in the opposite direction to the oncoming army.

As he walked briskly to his place in the centre of the infantry line, Jocelyn settled his shield on his arm. To Alain he snapped, “Get my horse and hold it ready behind the line. Keep your damned head down; if you or the beast die I’ll be so pissed off you’ll be glad to be dead!”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with his men at arms Jocelyn drew his sword. “Forward!” he shouted. The line began to march, men still running into place at the flanks. They had to get clear of the village.

In front of him he could see de Issoudun’s force quite well now; they were also assuming battle formation and closing rapidly. Their infantry line was supported by a conroi of cavalry in the rear, and de Issoudun’s banner flew over them. It was obvious, and becoming much more so, that Jocelyn’s force was the smaller, substantially smaller. He had no cavalry, excepting himself. All in all it was a recipe for defeat. Unless you knew about the eighteen mounted men at arms and three knights hidden where they could come up on the enemy’s rear with scant warning …

Jocelyn drew a lungful of the now dusty air. “Halt!” The line did so with good discipline. “Missiles, shoot their damned cavalry where you can.”

As the other army advanced the left flank trailed behind a little, and was in more ragged order than the rest of the line. Jocelyn bared his teeth. “Daft bastard; brought peasants to battle to bulk up his line.”

The lines closed enough for Jocelyn’s few archers and crossbows to open fire; the pitiful number of missiles skimmed overhead individually, numbers being too few for volleys to be effective. If they made any impact on the enemy Jocelyn didn’t see it.

A score or so of men jogged out of the enemy line and began to skirmish using plain bows. The occasional scream of pain indicated that targets were being found on both sides, but not many, judging from the far more common sounds of arrows hitting shields or armour.

“Pick off those damned skirmishers,” yelled Jocelyn. The order wasn’t necessary; before it was half complete he saw one of the enemy archers fall, an arrow protruding from his chest. The half healed crossbow wound in Jocelyn’s side ached in sympathy.

He let the missile duel continue for a bit, and de Issoudun’s line continued to come at them.

Deciding he’d delayed enough Jocelyn ordered, “Forward! Keep order!”

Both side’s missile units moved off to the sides as the two lines closed near to charging point and continued to pick off whatever targets they saw.

Jocelyn raised his shield so the rim brushed his chin and brandished his sword. “Charge!” He broke into a jog, the men at his sides doing likewise, and he trusted the same all along the line.

He covered the final few paces at a run, shield thrust out. “De Ardentes!” He collided with the men opposite him, flinging all his mailed weight and momentum behind the hide covered planking, trying to knock a hole in the line those following him could use. He slashed at one man, and kept pushing forward, using his shield more than his sword to bash and barge a path. The enemy centre was made up of trained men at arms, not conscripted peasants, and so he made little headway.

One man went down with a thrust to the face, and Jocelyn advanced over his body. As the ranks behind each line crashed into place Jocelyn found the crush became so intense it was hard to wield his sword effectively. He began to bludgeon with the weapon’s hilt and pommel, punching out, and using his shield offensively to clear more room. Where he could he slashed and stabbed.

Men at his side fell and killed; he hardly noticed. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him and the two men to either side of his target. Whenever one disappeared another took his place, racing Jocelyn for the suddenly empty space. He heard nothing except the clash of weapons, men shouting, grunting and screaming, and the roar of his own blood in his own ears, his own ragged breathing.

Something dinged off his helmet; reflexively Jocelyn heaved forward with his battered shield. He felt the man stumble, and a cut to the shoulder put him from the fight. Another small step forward, another helmeted face glaring back at him over a bloodied spear point.

Keep moving forward. If you’re going back you’re losing.

He stumbled on a body, and a blade came over the rim of his shield. It failed to pierce his mail, but the force numbed his left arm. Jocelyn saw the sword begin to descend again, then it fell away to one side as someone cut down the man using it.

The first he knew of his cavalry’s arrival was when the enemy started to give ground. As soon as it became easier to advance, as soon as it seemed fewer bodies took the place of those he had felled, he knew what was happening: the rear of the enemy line was no longer pressing forward.

Jocelyn buried his blade in the thigh of one man and jerked it free in a gush of blood. He advanced a step, guarded a wild cut from an axe, and nearly found his shield wrenched from his arm. In the struggle to free his weapon the enemy left himself vulnerable; Jocelyn spilled his guts onto the ground.

Then that was it; there was no one else, just retreating backs. Men flung down their weapons and shields to run faster. Some tugged off helmets and other easy bits of armour; anything to lighten their feet.

Jocelyn halted, gasping for breath. He let his shield drop from guard so his arm hung limp, and stabbed his sword point into the ground, resting part of his weight on it. “My horse,” he shouted.

The ranks of his infantry line were ragged now, but still solid, proving he was the victor here. The men were bloodied, many leaning on their own gore-soaked weapons as they panted for air. Not a few nursed wounds. Already men were sifting through the groaning, tangled wreckage for wounded to send back for treatment.

Alain arrived, leading Jocelyn’s destrier. Jocelyn climbed up into the saddle. He had to fight briefly to control the animal; the scent and sight of blood had fired up its spirit and it was eager to do what it was trained for. One slow soldier nearly got kicked by a flying hoof.

Jocelyn dug his heels in and the horse leapt forward. He didn’t follow the rout; there was no glory in cutting down fleeing common soldiers and there was none worth capturing there. He had specific prey in mind, but first he needed to join the unit of cavalry so recently arrived. He’d sprung his trap successfully, but he’d be thrice damned if he’d settle for second best!

His mount was fresh and his destination clear; Jocelyn covered the ground in no time at all. He slowed on the final approach; his prey was already found. He reined in before the disarmed man held between two men at arms. Removing his helmet Jocelyn beamed down at his prisoner. “It’s so nice to meet you again; words just can’t do it justice.”

Raymond de Issoudun didn’t answer.

“You’d better hope your wife likes you enough to want to buy you back even when you’ve lost your lands.” Jocelyn made a show of looking the man up and down. “I reckon she’ll cut her losses and be grateful for it.”

De Issoudun clenched his jaw. “She’ll do it.”

“Really? Because as I remember it, loyalty wasn’t one of her best attributes.”

“I taught her a thing or two on the subject since then. If she doesn’t ransom me my brother will, and then I’ll go and repeat the lesson. So she’ll buy me back.”

“Then I’ll look forward to renewing our friendship.” Jocelyn smiled in a certain way.

De Issoudun flung himself forward, only to be restrained bodily by the two men standing at either side. “Touch her again and you’re dead!”

“I’m not dead this time, and it was her doing most of the touching. Not my fault you’re as delightful as a bowl of cold pottage.” Jocelyn flipped his helm about in his hands and began to fiddle with the lacing which adjusted the fit of the padded skullcap. “Well, that’s enough pleasantries. Let’s get to business. I’m the Count; you’re nothing. You’ve broken my peace and the king’s peace-”

“The king’s dead, and I couldn’t give that,” Raymond spat on the ground, “for your peace.”

“Wrong; he’s still alive, and slowly getting better. You attacked me and you lost, so I’m adding your castle and so on to my collection. I’ve a nice room complete with locking door waiting for you; if you’re really lucky you might attract a rat or two you can keep as a pet. You’d get on very well; birds of a feather, and all that. We’ll see if anyone wants to hand over money for you, and actually I’m hoping they do. I don’t want you cluttering up any of my castles, not when I can turn a profit and send you into exile.” He looked up from his helmet and savoured the word, “Mmm, castles. Three, to be precise, thanks to you, and with a lot of divine benevolence.” Jocelyn crossed himself. He leaned down in his saddle and confided, “I don’t think He liked you burning that church.”

“Rot in hell,” snarled de Issoudun.

“I suppose it’s too much to expect you to give me your parole?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Jocelyn made a face, pretending to be innocently baffled. “But only those so pathetic they can’t even manage a whore do that. But I expect you’ll need to do something to while away the hours, unless your friendly rat is a better conversationalist than most. I wouldn’t trust you so far as I could throw you with my hands tied behind my back, uphill, upwind in a gale anyway, so it’s no loss.” To his soldiers Jocelyn said, “Fish him our of that armour and bind his hands. Keep him closely guarded; if he gets away I’ll have your hides. He’ll come with us to the castle; we can store him in his own cells for a bit. Clean and mend his armour, then add it to our stocks.”

Jocelyn rode back to his infantry, humming a very workmanlike rendition of ‘Blooming in Spring’. It had been an excellent day, and it wasn’t even midmorning yet.






5, 963

Pray excuse a frog while she laughs at two of her major male characters. Hugh was being so typically Hughish, and Jocelyn is simply terrible :gring:

[frogbeastegg]

“You must stop weeping,” chided Mariot, raising Anne’s face with a finger under her chin. “Your eyes are all red and swollen, and it’s spoiling your looks.” She dabbed at the river of tears with an already sodden scrap of material.

Anne jerked her head free. “As if I care.”

Eleanor was sure she could detect a slur in Anne’s voice, but all the crying made it very hard to be certain. She also thought she could hear some conscious imitation of herself in Anne’s words, and that she liked not at all. Anne was applying none of it correctly; words, tone, timing – it was all wrong, and all sounded sulky and argumentative. There were a great many better responses to Mariot’s simply daft attempt at comfort, and each of them would have carried Anne a little closer to quashing the idea, and others very like it, for good.

“Now, what would your grandmother say to that?”

“I care even less.”

Mariot looked about in mute appeal to the others in Eleanor’s solar.

Godit answered the appeal, and said quite gently, “She would remind you of the need to mind appearances, because of your rank.”

“And what is my rank?” demanded Anne. “Queen? Wife? Widow? Pawn? Prize? Unwanted?” Mariot tried to wipe Anne’s face, but the girl knocked her hand aside. “No one knows, and no one knows what to do with me.”

“You are my father’s widow, and your life is no longer a question of what others want for you. Widows have the right to decide for themselves.” In theory, Eleanor added in the safety of her own mind.

“But what should I do?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“My family will want me to go home again.”

Mariot nodded. “Yes, and it’d be nice to be in Scotland again, wouldn’t it, sweetling?”

“Yes,” said Anne slowly.

Eleanor heard the unspoken reservation, and voiced it for the queen. “But?”

“But I just want William back, and everything to go back to being right again. That is what I want. I do not want to argue with my family, but at the same time I am sure I do not want the same things they will want for me: returning home to live with them and taking up a child’s place in the household again, then another marriage. I liked him and I miss him, and I liked it here, and I liked being useful, and I really liked being in charge and everything, and having some say in everything, and - and everything.” The gabbling, something Anne usually did if exceptionally embarrassed, was also beginning to make Eleanor wonder if the she might be closer to being drunk than not. Anne hiccoughed, sniffled, hiccoughed again. “And anyway I really don’t think William is dead, I mean I doubt he would just go away and then get killed, because it really does not seem like the kind of thing he would do.”

Godit put an arm around Anne’s shoulders and hugged her tightly. “Life goes on. It might look bleak now, and you’ll always remember him, but everything will get better. One day, though you might not want to hear it now, you’ll find someone else you love.”

“I would rather have William back.” Anne clutched her goblet of wine and took another long drink, evidently emptying it for the third time in close succession that morning, as she handed it to Adela for a refill. “He was always really nice, and so kind and gentle, and considerate too. He always brought me books, and we used to read together, and he was always interested to hear what I was doing, even if it was really boring or silly or something. If I needed help or anything he always knew everything. He might have been old but he was not old, not like your granddad or something, so it was like he was really wise, but also really nice and fun instead of being all stern and scary, and he did not have these eyebrows which stick out all over the place like a bird’s wing gone crazy, and that was really better than my own grandfather, because I always hated that. He was really nice, he really was.” Anne stopped to catch her breath, sniffled, then started crying full force again. “I really liked him,” she wailed.

Eleanor intercepted the wine as it was being sent back to Anne, and hid it behind her stool. Hawise collected the cup and removed it from the room, walking out nonchalantly with it concealed from view by her skirts. Eleanor gave a nod of thanks when she returned.

The peon of praise continued to flow, and Eleanor tuned it out. It was making her stomach roil. There was only so much nonsense she could hear before she felt obliged to speak a few home truths about the arse in the crown, and she recognised, after near non-stop king-related provocation since yesterday, she was reaching breaking point. Better to let Anne keep her fond, false memories, and from past experience Eleanor knew she wasn’t likely to take much notice of anything that didn’t fit her cosy ideal of her late husband.

Instead Eleanor once again looked to see what she could do to encourage Hugh. If he regained his confidence he would not need her to play nursemaid, and if he had a good council of trusted advisors then she would be even less needed. She could up and leave him to it. Perhaps she would not be able to go very far or for very long before she was needed again, but she would be away.

That question was by now so familiar she rattled off her answers in no time at all, examined each again for flaws and best implementation, listed again the chief stumbling blocks Hugh was likely to encounter, and searched fruitlessly for anything new.

Eleanor turned her mind to another puzzle, one no less familiar but far from simple. It was one she had found no positive answer to. Was there any way to salvage Trempwick from this? To keep him alive, and bring his formidable resources into line to work for Hugh? Respect and ambition, they seemed to be the main areas. If he respected Hugh’s abilities Trempwick might work for him because he considered him worthy. If his ambition could be curbed somehow he might be content again with the role of advisor. But how? Eleanor could never see Hugh doing anything to gain Trempwick’s admiration, and she was no longer completely confident ambition was the spymaster’s sole motivation in seeking to place her on the throne.

Fulk nudged her in the ribs; Eleanor started and looked up. “Yes?”

Anne apparently hadn’t noticed Eleanor’s lack of attention, because she continued to lean forward eagerly. “Can I? I promise I will not be a bother to you, and I will do whatever you say whenever you ask, truly I will. Please?”

“Er …?”

“Oh!” Anne’s hand shot to her mouth; she missed her aim sufficiently to whack herself on the nose with her longest finger. “Of course, silly me, you want to know why. It just seems like a really good idea, if you do not mind. I would not have to go home, and I could wait and find out everything which happens with everyone and everything, and you have been so helpful ever since I first arrived.” Anne absently reached out for her wine again, and seemed quite surprised when her hand closed on thin air. She blinked a few times, tearstained face crumpling with a frown. “Where is my drink?”

Using Fulk as a screen to stop Anne seeing, Eleanor gestured a firm ‘cease and desist!’ to Adela when she moved to fill another goblet. To distract Anne she prompted, “You were saying?”

“Oh, yes. Please let me stay with you, please. William’s message in his will did say I should stay in England as long as I wanted, and it is just a lot like the kind of arrangement other noble families do, with fostering and everything, and it would be really fun, I think, and I would learn ever so much.”

“Ah.” It was not the most intelligent answer Eleanor had have managed. It was quite diplomatic though, much more so than “Help!” Anne’s proposal was terrible in every possible way. It would bring at least one know spy for Trempwick into her household, and potentially spies for other, unknown parties. All the extra eyes would confine her to a life of perfect, expected, tedious suitability, and Fulk may as well be in Jerusalem for all the likelihood of their getting some time alone together. As much as Eleanor liked Anne she knew the queen was best kept to controlled doses, especially at the moment.

As Anne started asking for more wine, Eleanor allowed herself to be blunt. She didn’t want a lot of people near her. She wanted Fulk, and she wanted to leave the palace. That was all. Nothing and no one more. Well, maybe Hawise. The girl was very talented at making life comfortable in an agreeable, fuss and bother free way. Eleanor did not want more to worry about, more clutter to get in her way, and more strains to add to the too many she already had. People near her were in danger; either Trempwick or another might try to snatch her away by force, and anyone in the way would be disposed of.

As she laboured to find a very tactful way to say the mentionable parts of that, Anne piped up, “I know it is what William would have wanted. He really loved you, you know, and he was always saying how he chose your name because he found it really peaceful sounding and thought it suited you. You were always his favourite-”

“No!” Eleanor cursed herself for her outburst, but, committed, she saw no reason whatsoever to dither and allow matters to become worse, especially not when she could turn her denial of Anne’s persistent, ludicrous belief into something altogether different. Something which did not make the raw spot quite so obvious to others. “No, he would never have wanted that, and you know it.”

Anne smiled blearily, and nodded. “It’s true; always his favourite. He told me, you see. He had all these dreams for you-”

“Stop it,” Eleanor begged. Dignity was forgotten in her need to stop this before she lost control of her temper, and lashed out unforgivably. “He hated me, and he always did. Why must you force me to say it over and over? Perhaps you like hearing it. Or perhaps you want to hurt me. Well you do not - I do not care for his hate, or his love.”

Anne balled up her fists and hammered them down on the cushion either side of her. “But you were his favourite, you were.”

“Enough!” she shouted, clinging desperately to the last fraying shreds of self-possession. “He would not have wanted you anywhere near me; he would have been horrified at the thought of it. If you do not know that then you did not know him as well as you think.”

Anne burst into tears again, making Eleanor feel positively rotten.

Godit spared time to give Eleanor an absolutely vicious look, before joined the rest of the group trying to cheer Anne up. As she patted the girl on the back Godit declared, “Never mind. Some people just don’t understand what love is, they don’t understand the least thing about it.”

There was one very pregnant silence. Everyone in the room except Hawise could guess the meaning of that remark, and if Hawise were as bright as Eleanor believed she might be able to make a good guess.

Anne sniffed, wiped her nose on the bit of cloth Mariot had been mopping her tears with, and said with unintentionally comical gravity, “That is really unfair. It is downright mean, is what that is.”

Eleanor thought it best to brush over the entire matter as soon as possible, before this group became privy to any more secrets she would rather they weren’t. “We will never agree about my father, so I find it best that we do not discuss him wherever possible. Otherwise, for all else, I will do whatever I can to help you, as I have always promised. You need not decide what you are going to do yet awhile, so take your time and make the decision a good one.”

Anne smiled broadly and nodded like her neck was broken. “I’m thirsty.”

“No more wine,” ordered Eleanor. “Someone go fetch some small ale or something.”

Godit took the chance to leave, which was good. Eleanor had no idea what had happened between them, but ever since Fulk had gone on that shopping trip with the maid they had been frosty in each other’s presence. She didn’t particularly care that the maid had taken to ignoring her wherever possible, but she did worry why. It was not good enough to presume that Godit had failed to snare Fulk once again, and now loathed her as a more successful rival who did not even want the prize. Eleanor wanted – needed - to be certain.

Before Godit returned Eleanor’s door guard presented himself. Eleanor recognised him as Sewal, the man who usually took the afternoon and early morning shifts. He tugged his forelock. “Sir Miles to see you, your Highness. Says it’s right urgent.”

“Why are you on duty, and not Walcher?”

“He’s right sick, puking all over and moaning of his head.”

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “You mean he has a hangover?”

Sewal shuffled his feet, he tugged his forelock again. “Aye, your Highness,” he answered reluctantly. A good deal more enthusiastically he added, “He were taunted into drinking mead, and he don’t know how potent it can be. It weren’t intentional, beggin’ your pardon.”

“How very useful.” Eleanor waggled a finger at Fulk. He stepped forward, left hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword, exuding a comforting air of pain pending for someone other than her. “Walcher’s health would be aided considerably by a bit of air. Find him, and send him on a nice run about the inner ramparts in full armour. Two laps, I think. Be sure to bring him here first, so I can express my disappointment and find a good spot to watch.”

Fulk bowed. “Yes, your Highness.” He departed, and judging from the expression on his face the unfortunate Walcher was going to find himself getting an earful from his commander as well as his princess.

Eleanor returned her attention to the patiently waiting guard. “Send Sir Miles into the hall, please.”

Sewal bowed, and left.

Sir Miles and Eleanor both entered the outer room at almost the same moment.

He wasted no time in saying, “A message from your brother. Trempwick is here. You will remain in your rooms and not set foot outside, and you are not to see him. If you do not show sense and obey things will go hard for you.” He continued to avoid her eye. “I am sorry, if I had a choice I would alter the wording a little. He is at his nerve’s end, and the strain is telling.”

Eleanor clasped her hands in front of her, knotting her fingers together tightly as she found herself battling her temper yet again. “Does he not want my help? I know the man far better than he, and mistakes will cost.”

“I am sorry, your Highness. Those are his orders.”





This time please excuse me as a grin at a drunken queen. :sigh: Suddenly this story has a profusion of drunks. I do hope it doesn’t lower the tone :tongueg:

There should really be at least one more scene to go hand in hand with this one, but it is proving rather intensive to write, and so it will have to follow another time.

Now for the news you have all been dreading: froggy has a new job, in a bookshop. So less time for writing. I should still manage, though maybe not at quite the old pace. It depends, I haven’t had my hours given to me yet.

[edyzmedieval]

My'lady Frog,

Your story is wonderful. I just can't stop.

Oh well, 2 interesting OT aspects:

1. Good job finding a job!!! Now we won't have to worry about you getting our HoF 2005 Best Story award! ~D

2. If you want to release this book(I highly reccomend it!) can I be your manager?! ~D

[Ciaran]

So far, I´ve read the first four pages and all I can say is: Wow, it´s really great. You do this for a living, writing, I mean, don´t you?
It´s truly captivating, I couldn´t stop until my laptop batteries had run out.
What is this "Red Hand" about, anyways, another story of yours? Where do I get it, I´ll need something when I´m through with this one.
The only ting that mars the enjoyment is this nasty ad bar blocking some of the text :furious: Is there any way to get rid of that?

[The Shadow One]

Lady Frog:

So, you have a job at a bookshop? Congratulations. I still cling to my job at the library, despite now working a real [sigh] grown-up job.

Yes, jobs wreck havoc with writing and trying to get published. I find that I must get up at five a.m., write frantically for two hours, read during my lunch hours (adds to my anti-social persona), and maybe try and get another hour or two of writing in during the evening some time. I accomplish this by drinking lots and lots of strong tea.

My goal is still 3000 to 5000 words per day. Most days I get the low end; the high end has now become quite difficult.

I'd think a bookshop would be better than a library [as long as it's not one of those horrid Barnes and Nobles or Waldonbooks]. After all, anyone can come to a library and, ha, ha, anyone does. A bookshop requires you PAY for the books. In my mind, I imagine you at a small corner bookshop that smells of cut paper and coffee, with books along every wall and piled on the tables and counters. Perhaps it specializes in rare volumes and first editions. When things are slow, you sit on a comfortable stool, drink tea, and read in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight, with occassional glances at the world as it hurries past your storefront windows.

[Sigh] Nicely done. When you are published, they'll put one of those small brass plaques on the wall outside the shop: "Lady Frog worked here."

The Shadow One

:duel:

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh strode up onto the dais, swept his mantle to one side with a flourish of his arm, and seated himself on his throne. He draped the rich fabric of the cloak across his knees, secretly delighted by the effortless majesty of the motions he had just performed. He waited, schooled into serious expectance. Taking advantage of what breathing space was offered Hugh worked to impose matching tranquillity on his mind and nerves, and to prepare himself for this most unexpected confrontation.

The hall was busy, and filling still more as people filed in to watch whatever was to be played out. There were too many for simple curiosity, or honest desire to be involved in events. Hugh believed that a person, or persons, must be busily engaged in spreading the word and encouraging others to attend. This boded not so well, as if such persons were in reality busy then it seemed that the likely ultimate source was Trempwick. A desire for witnesses spoke of something which needed to be displayed, or of an anticipated victory.

The spymaster himself was making steady progress across the hall. He could not be said to dawdle, true, but he did not hurry. Behind him, in a column four wide, walked a mixed party of various ages and including both sexes. As they had been permitted to pass each of the guarded points on the route here it seemed all but certain that there was not a weapon amongst them. Hugh could produce no accurate count, but it mattered little; Trempwick had brought far more than the permitted five. They should never have been admitted, and Hugh would have given much to find how the spymaster had bypassed procedure so neatly. This he felt confident he could use, although he felt a certain trepidation, as the spymaster would surely have known he would be challenged on the matter. In challenging him Hugh would have to be cautious not to play right into his slimy hands.

In the time remaining Hugh prayed privately for aid and guidance. Instinctively he knew this would be the last battle between himself and Trempwick. There might be other clashes in the future, but here, now, before witnesses the footing for those meetings would be decided. More, as a long and troubled night had revealed to him, he was losing his grip so badly that he had nearly let go. Then he would be a failure. Such men rarely survived long in the game of politics, and their families also tended to meet unhappy ends. He could not afford to falter again, and that made him feel awake as never before. For Constance and for their child he must do better. If he forgot all else but them it became a little easier to focus and keep panic at bay. For their sake he would do whatever was needful, even if - and he shuddered to think it and prayed earnestly and long this would never be required - he had to sell his soul to the devil himself.

Coming at last to a halt before Hugh, Trempwick did not kneel. He bowed from the waist, going not a fraction deeper than protocol required. “Your Highness.”

This was provocative, but Hugh saw no way to retaliate. As he had not yet been crowned he was still a prince, and Trempwick had treated him as such, but many others had taken to bestowing kingly honours on him. Trempwick’s lack of such stood forth like a Saracen in a parade of Swedes. “I believe I gave you a task to carry out, and orders to focus yourself upon it entirely. Why, then, have you returned?”

Trempwick bowed again, shallow this time. “I crave your pardon, my lord. It is a matter of the heart which brings me here, though I am shamed to admit it.”

“Then let you remove yourself from my presence and return to your duty.”

“Forgive me, but I cannot.” Trempwick paused briefly, letting the murmur of surprise run about the hall. He raised his voice a little when he spoke again so his words could carry across the new background noise. “How can I in good conscience obey one duty and neglect, no – wilfully disobey another?”

Hugh’s mind spun as he struggled to find an apt reply that would not carry detrimental meaning to those not privy to the full story here.

Trempwick gave him no more than a small gap in which to speak. He turned about and held his hands up and out to the side, appealing to the crowd. “You all here know of what I speak, if I name the duty I so shamefully let slide. You are my witnesses. Each and every one of you sees how I fail, and in so doing betray my oldest friend, who is also my lord and master. Did I not undertake the solemn duty, and swear faithfully, to be a good husband to our king’s youngest daughter? Have I not let the appointed date slide by? Have I not failed still to make good on my word?” He turned back to Hugh, his tone beseeching now. “I ask, no, beg,” he dropped to his knee before the throne, one hand stretched out in supplication, “that you allow me at last to make good my oath.”

Nell again. It was always Nell. No one spoke to him but to ask for her, or so it seemed all of a sudden. He was sick of it to the very pit of his stomach. “This is not a matter for public bandying.”

“My duty was laid forth publicly, and my failure to perform that duty has also been public. How, then, should I hide my confession behind closed doors? I have been in error, and I would make amends.”

Hugh braced one hand on his knee and leaned forward. “I wonder that you fall back upon the duty that you find most favourable to yourself as reason to neglect far more important ones laid upon you.”

“I make no secret of the fact this match has come to be very pleasing to me, but it is simple for any to see that this duty predates the other. Nor is it a matter of what pleases. The simple fact is that I can no longer sit still and blot out the pains my disobedience cause me. I have explained myself to Nell many times over, but I am aware of the unhappiness this causes her. I do not know how I can face William again with this on my conscience.”

Hugh surged to his feet. “How dare you! To trample so upon recent grief.”

Trempwick’s face was a picture of polite puzzlement. “I am afraid I do not understand, your Highness. Our king was hurt, yes, but he is alive, well, and recovering.”

His legs felt as if they were made of water; Hugh sank back into his seat. “This is not what we heard.”

“I had assumed this would be the most common of knowledges,” said the spymaster gravely. “I am shocked to find otherwise.”

“It is not so because this is not the message we received. The message was displayed commonly, for all and any to see. It said he was gravely ill and like to die, and so many can attest.”

“I fear you mistook my words. I do not accuse you of hiding anything, your Highness.” Trempwick fidgeted on his knees, subtly suggesting he had been kept there an unreasonable length of time.

Hugh ground his teeth; as if many would have thought that of him if Trempwick had not spoken of it. He did not believe any of it, and struggled to repress the instinctive panic the words had provoked in him. He did no wrong in what he had undertaken, and even if his father did recover – please God! – then he would have done no wrong in assuming, and relinquishing, the throne. The spymaster lied for his own gain. He must believe that, and not allow himself to doubt. A mental image of Constance, her beautiful body broken and marred by gaping wounds which had long since ceased to flow with her life’s blood rose unbidden in Hugh’s mind. The revolting vision proved useful in banishing much of the uncertainty, and in making him heedless of the remaining traces.

Trempwick gave forth a most excellent imitation of relieved solemnity as he said, “This does better explain your recent actions, I admit. I had thought it most shocking that you immediately announced your intention to take the throne, though William still lived.”

Hugh nearly stammered an explanation, but stopped himself in time. To do so would seem as if he had a guilty conscience, and would give the spymaster further material to work with. “I do wonder why you should have heard such news where I have not. I wonder at the reliability of this report; there is great confusion, and many contradicting, false rumours which spread with the speed of fire. Only news that comes with the royal seal affixed may be trusted in this situation.”

Trempwick smiled. “Matching news will be delivered to you very soon, I am sure of it. Then you may join me in my heartfelt relief.”

Even if he attempted to be as optimistic as Anne, Hugh found it hard to believe such a message would arrive, and now there would be people wondering if he repressed good news to further his bid for power. Trempwick was winning. The bald knowledge made Hugh desperate; that he could see no solid countermoves or parries increased his frantic need to win. A king plays by different rules, he reminded himself. He was a king now. He must win, above all else he must win. A lifetime of penance would guard his family better than a flare of goodness soon extinguished. He turned the subject, “We will speak of your men. You will explain why you have flouted the ruling, and brought such numbers with you.”

Trempwick spread his hands. “I wished only to carry my bride home in the style she deserves.” He fidgeted again, swapping the knee which touched the ground with a wince. He massaged the joint which had been resting on the flagstones.

“The ruling was settled in place by my father, he to whom you claim such obedience. It disturbs me that you disregard his word so lightly.”

Trempwick’s head jerked up. “I can assure you that there is nothing light in my actions regarding your sister,” he said. Now there was little enough trace of his earlier deference. “I will do her every due honour and more besides.”

“Even where it means disobedience to your king?” Hugh’s words rang out through the hall with pleasing effect.

“You will notice that not a man amongst them has even an eating knife, and there are women present, so there is no threat involved. I believed you would understand and approve. But perhaps I was mistaken.”

“I could never approve of something which tramples upon one of the foundation rulings of visitors to this court, no matter the cause. It would have been better if you had required them to wait outside the gates, as indeed the ruling demands.”

“They were allowed entry along with myself at no less than three guard points, after being scrupulously checked for anything which may pose a threat to your welfare. I should not have thought, after this, that you would find objection it their presence.” Trempwick fidgeted again, this time drawing sympathetic looks from a few nearby. He bowed from his kneeling position, and said, “Forgive my impatience, but you have not yet given me the answer I came here seeking. Will you allow me at last to do as I swore, and marry your sister? You need not make ceremony of the occasion, only let us stand together before a priest in the presence of this very company. You need not even provide a feast; we shall depart this very day, along with the escort that has troubled you so greatly.”

“No.” Hugh planted his hands on the arms of the throne, consciously imitating the pose he had seen William I using in the picture drawn to commemorate his founding of an abbey. “I have given you my reasons, which are not to be repeated before gatherings, and I will not be harassed into changing them because you ask over and over, and think to place me in a difficult situation where I must bow to save face. In addition to my previous reasons, it would be wrong to expect Nell to marry at such a time. She is waiting for news in the same way as I. In the tragically likely event our father has passed away then it would be improper for her to marry so close to the event.”

Trempwick’s voice was low as he asked, “Is this your final answer?”

Hugh gave everything he had to the illusion that the tacit threat had not affected him in the slightest, and to his own ears it sounded a success. “It is. Now I will thank you to withdraw and return to your designated tasks.”

“May I at least see her, and pass on my best wishes?”

“I regret this is not possible. She is feeling unwell, and has withdrawn to her rooms. I fear that the turmoil of recent days has adversely affected her.” Prudence dictated that the truth of his sister’s position in the game remained hidden from the one it could harm most. If Eleanor could be used to misdirect Trempwick, then so much the better, and if the spymaster were focused more on achieving her perhaps his efforts elsewhere would be hampered. As she was not present she would have no need to declare herself openly for one side or the other. That the seclusion also prevented her from aiding her mentor, if such was any part of her design, was a considerable bonus.

“This also is your final word?”

“It is.”

Trempwick rose to his feet. He held himself stiffly, proudly too, and when he spoke he did not seem to shout, or even to raise his voice, but still his words echoed clearly throughout the massive hall. “Then it seems there is but one way left for me to phrase this. Give me back my wife.”

The hall exploded into excited talk.

Hugh belatedly realised his jaw hung open like a lack-witted yokel; he closed it. “You lie!” he shouted. He was not convinced of his accusation. If it were true then his worst fears were also likely to prove true – Nell was not in fact his ally, but instead his adversary.

“I do not,” returned the spymaster calmly. “And I will prove my claim.” He half turned and indicated his army of followers with one hand. “Behold my witnesses, twenty-three in number, not including my mother and her maid, who acted as Eleanor’s ladies. The priest is to be found there, at present in the centre of the group.”

Trempwick clicked his fingers, and the group of witnesses parted. The priest came forward to stand a step behind Trempwick’s right elbow. One other man stepped out from his place in the middle, bearing a flat, shallow box set with jewels and gold work. He knelt before the group, and two others moved to his side. One opened the box, and together they took out the contents. Even before they finished unfolding the sheet and holding it stretched out between them for display the small, smudged bloodstain was clearly apparent on the snowy white linen.

This time Trempwick did raise his voice, “Give me back my wife!”

It was true, in his heart Hugh knew it had to be true. She had betrayed him, played him for a fool, and he had walked so willingly along to his own ruination like plodding pony in a halter. There but remained one thing to do: fight, and see if he could undo what they had worked. “This is false! You slander my sister, and unless you withdraw this claim of yours immediately I shall have you pay for the insult.”

“Insult? There is no insult here, only what should have been public from the start. Why did we wed in secret? Because I very strongly suspected you would do as you have done. Over and again we were denied permission to do as we were contracted – and desired – to do, and we were blocked by you,” he jabbed a finger at Hugh, “your Highness, against your father’s command. It became ever more obvious that you would stand in our path, though it go against father, law, church, and the wishes of the betrothed couple.”

“Wishes? Why did I block you time and again?” Yes – why did he? Hugh thought faster than he had ever done in his life. “Because my sister came to me and begged my aid in avoiding a match she found repugnant in every possible way-”

Trempwick drowned Hugh out, “Nonsense! You have seen us together, and your words are madness in the face of that. I will admit freely the betrothal was not to her taste, but she agreed to our marriage happily enough. Minds change, hearts change, and once past the initial shock she began to see much she liked. Now she-

Hugh also raised his voice to drown Trempwick out in turn, “The betrothal contract was not lawful; she was forced into it, and so it can never be binding. I will not uphold such a travesty of a match-”

“Your father wished it,” Trempwick all but bellowed. “He holds the right to make such decisions, not you.”

“I intended to speak on her behalf to our father when he returned, to beg him to reconsider giving her to someone so unworthy of her, and so against her preference in a marriage that returns nothing to us and ours. Now the decision is mine to make, and I make it: you will not have her.”

Trempwick whirled away to stand at the forefront of his gathering of followers. “The decision is nothing of yours – we are already married, before witnesses and in the eyes of God.” He drew himself up, glowing with virtuous passion. “We have no need of your yay or nay, only our own consent, and that is freely given and can never be retracted. She is mine, and I hers, body and soul, in this life and the next.”

The thought he should applaud Trempwick’s performance came abruptly into Hugh’s mind from he knew not where, and on a whim born from the adrenaline of the situation he followed it. “Your acting is the best I have seen; you should take to the stage and work miracle plays instead of slander. Your claim is false, I know this to be so. It cannot be otherwise.”

“We married the day before she left to come here, in the hall of Woburn manor, before these witnesses and the village priest. All here will swear upon their immortal souls and whatever relics you choose that this is so.”

“Bribed oaths mean nothing.” Hugh waved a dismissive hand. “Let them perjure themselves if so they desire; they shall pay for it in the next life.”

“Then let Eleanor come here and speak her part. Perhaps you might believe her?”

“I will not rouse her from her grief to face the latest perfidy you have worked against her. I will not slight her by even entertaining that there may be truth in your false claim, knowing what she has told me, and remembering how she begged me to save her from you.”

“Over and again you level that accusation at me, and the only thing keeping me from ramming it back down your throat is my due respect for your rank. I will not even dignify it with a response.”

Hugh felt himself bare his teeth in a grin of pure exhilaration. “Yes, I think that suits well. Your nonsense is such that I will no longer dignify it with a response. Get from my halls and take your false witnesses with you, and do not come back unless expressly summoned.”

“I give you but one final chance. Return to me my wife and let us go in peace.”

“Now you dare threaten me. Get you gone, before I decide not to allow it.”

“You gave me public assurances of safe conduct, would you now break them?”

It was true, and Hugh was as trapped by it now as he had been when Trempwick’s messenger has begged those same assurances from him in public, where he could not deny them. “Safe conduct is the reason you do not now lie in a pool of your own blood for your work this day. It means you will not even be held to answer for your words, but will instead walk out the palace gates with your retinue, to face retribution on another day.”

Trempwick stood, so immaculately poised Hugh hated him for it. At last he gave a curt nod, as if some greater decision had been made. “So be it,” he said, again not raising his voice but still projecting his words clearly to all present. “I have come and I have asked, and I have seen also, and now there is nothing more for me here. If any harm whatsoever befalls Eleanor I will find you responsible. I am not alone in that; there are other, powerful men who stand with me. Our king recruited her guardians well, and we do not care to see her held prisoner and degraded, and very few will look kindly on you when some ill befalls your main rival. There are many loyal to William, who will not see him displaced without a fight. Continue with your usurpation at your peril. I renounce you and any allegiance I have to you. I name you for what you are: Hugh FitzEnguerrand de Saint Brieuc, traitor and usurper.”

The hall went into uproar.

Hugh’s heart twisted, and he felt his grasp on his inheritance tremble. He could not be sure of the mood of the hall, so mixed and strident it was. Shouting and more shouting, questions, accusations, demands for evidence, demands for action of varying sorts, all that and more jumbled together and issuing from a hundred mouths at top volume. Over and again he caught a few words which seemed to label his sister as Trempwick’s wife, and sometimes called for her to be returned for the sake of peace. Others still kept quiet and only watched how the land lay. There were snatched bits of support for Trempwick, words surfacing from the sea of noise to snap at Hugh, before vanishing again before he could do more than note the sting of their passing.

Reacting blindly from the agony of it, Hugh came to his feet so violently that the throne toppled backwards. “Throw him out!” he roared. “Him and all his creatures, and his lies.”

Trempwick flung one final comment at him, “You made a very good shield for the intended heir while she learned; William knew better than to let his pride rule him against the good of all. A queen is hard enough to accept, without her being a child also, and in need of very different training to a future king. You may hold the rightful heir prisoner, and you may have blocked your father’s will for now, but I think you will find that helps very little. Harm her and you as good as kill yourself, and William does not die so easily.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, before the men at arms struggling through the press of the crowd could reach him. His entourage fell into neat ranks behind him, a few of his own unarmed soldiers going before him to force passage.






Sounds of a fight from the hallway had Eleanor coming to her feet, hands ready to draw her knives if needed. “Stay here. All of you,” she snapped to Anne, and the four maids. Thinking to spare them whatever had come for her, and knowing they could be no help, she rushed out into the main room and slammed the solar door shut. Fulk wasn’t here, he was taking the drunken guard for his run, so that was one burden less.

The door to the hall burst open, revealing a somewhat dishevelled Trempwick. “Quiet, Nell!” he ordered. She obeyed, submission long ingrained.

The sounds of bare-handed fighting continued as he ducked in through the door, closed it and shot the bolt across. He began to drag the heavy chair from the head of the table to barricade the door. Abruptly the noise stopped.

“Not much time.” He hugged the wall near one of the windows and leaned cautiously forward to snatch a glimpse of the outside world without showing too much of himself. “Things may look bad, but only trust me. I have arrangements underway. Your brother will not dare harm you now, and you are safe from being given to one of his cronies. Be ready, think, and keep your head down. Let me do all else, and trust.”

The sound of running feet pounding across the courtyard’s cobbles came only seconds before the outer door being kicked open. The racket of booted feet and rattling armour transferred to the hallway, and the fighting began again, this time with the clash of steel against steel.

Trempwick swore, and closed the gap between them, catching Eleanor up in an embrace. “Trust,” he emphasised, looking down at her. “You need do nothing, so pay mind to your safety above all else.”

A man screamed outside the door, ending with a horrible gargling.

Trempwick looked up sharply. “Bastard!” he spat. “Killing my unarmed men.” He backed her into the corner furthest from the door and placed his body between her and the solid wood. “Listen, and pay attention.”

Another agonised scream emphasised his point. The door rattled as someone tried to open it. It rattled again, differently, as someone put his shoulder to it and began to try and force it open.

“Things will be wild for a time. Much unexpected will happen, and doubtless you will feel both lost and shocked, and that is understandable. I only beg that you think, as you always have, and continue to act with the discipline and skill I have taught you. Do not let your surprise show at anything; mask your emotions, take what is offered you and use it so far as is safe.” Trempwick glanced to the door; how it was Eleanor couldn’t see, thanks to his body blocking the view. “This is not how I wished you to find out, but your brother is a bastard, fathered by a man named Enguerrand. He cannot be king.”

“What?” breathed Eleanor, uncertain if she believed sufficiently to begin to wonder if there might possibly be some chance this was true. She had seldom seen the spymaster so disarmed of his habitual guards, self-control, masks and lies, his stillness. She had never seen him in action, using every heartbeat to maximum advantage and planning on the spot as he risked life and limb, as she was now. She could see a distant, vague glimpse of the young man he had been, working in the field and gaining those scars she had been so shocked by. It made him feel marginally more honest.

“That is why all has fallen out as it has-”

Trempwick spun around as the door finally exploded open, the bolt housing ripping free of the doorframe and the chair going flying. Men in Hugh’s livery began to pour in, weapons drawn, some of them bloodied. A sword point came to rest a few inches from Trempwick’s chest.

Still crammed safely behind Trempwick, Eleanor couldn’t see his face. He slowly raised his hands out to the side, palms outward to show they were empty. “I am unarmed, saving my belt knife, though that did little to prevent you butchering my men.” The contemptuous air in his voice thickened as he said, “Are you here to kill me?”

A new man stepped into Eleanor’s view; she recognised him as Will, Hugh’s trusted friend and oftentime chosen second in private military matters. He had no naked weapon, but his hand lingered near the hilt of his fine sword, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. “That game we shall not play; both of us know my lord granted you safe conduct.”

“Then tell your murderous creature to put up his weapon before I grow weary of this.”

Will gestured, and the soldier lowered the point of his weapon. “Throw him out, and any of his party you find still lingering. Including his mother.”

Two empty-handed men at arms advanced and tried to seize Trempwick. He fought them off, swatting their grasping hands away at first, then using stronger blocks and dodges. Outnumbered and unable to fight effectively for blocking the path to Eleanor, he was finally secured. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. Eleanor recognised the tone of his voice as the one she usually considered most dangerous: quiet, silky smooth, deceptively friendly, able to cut like a whip and as treacherous as a river.

“Yes, but it is anyone’s guess as to how long you keep those titles if you continue your current course. Make amends on bended knee, and you might come out of this with something left.”

“I say the same to you.”

A shiver ran down Eleanor’s back. She could guess as to what he spoke, but by God his confidence in his words was terrifying. That more than anything made her aware of how badly out of her depth she was in opposing him, and how much she wanted his support still.

Trempwick cast a significant look in Eleanor’s direction. “This day’s work will not be forgotten,” he warned.

Will hesitated. He waved again to the man with the drawn sword, and the soldier sheathed it. The two holding Trempwick relaxed their grip, and Trempwick shrugged away their restraining hands. Will said, “If it will be remembered, then let it also be remembered that it was not my own decision, and I did my duty by my friend and lord.”

Trempwick held for a second before rotating to face Eleanor once again. He did not look entirely dissatisfied with his exchange. Trempwick’s hand caressed her cheek. “Kiss me, and smile for me, beloved Nell. It seems I must away.”

The smile was hard, so hard, and the best she managed was an unconvincing contortion of her mouth. The kiss she managed, a chaste brush of lips on his cheek as the guards began to pull him away.

Halfway to the door Trempwick dug in his heels and turned back to her. Both guards moved in and secured tighter grips on him, dragging him stumbling along backwards, struggling, fighting for a few more vital seconds. “Hatred is a good mask for love, Nell. Exile allows what ordinary life would not, and gives secrecy.” He was dragged through the door, still struggling for extra time. Hemmed in by several men at arms, Eleanor didn’t follow him.

From the hallway Trempwick’s voice echoed, “You were chosen!”

The outer door slammed and the sounds of wrestling faded away. Eleanor shoved past the human wall and ran to the window in time to see Trempwick strolling away between his two guards. He kept a casual air that made his captivity seem only a foolish, obvious mistake that he indulged out of generosity. It made the entire situation look ridiculous.





Well, that was unique. Everyone stopped following my plan ages ago, so I’m well used to things going their own way. I’ve been seeing flashes of scenes past, present, future, not featuring in the written version, and in alternate versions of the story for even longer. But never before have I had a scene shift and alter and swap while I tried to write it. I had to piece this together from no less than 9 major separate versions and maybe 100 minor variations.

Frequently as I wrote one character’s dialogue the reply came from another version of the scene. Often everything rewound itself and played out differently to what I had just written down only seconds before. Sometimes Eleanor was present instead of not. In one version she tucked Fulk under her arm and sided with Trempwick. In another she declared she was married to Fulk, and so couldn’t be to Trempwick. Hell, in one version she actually died! In another version Hugh and Trempy started a nice little fistfight. Sometimes Trempy accused Hugh of being a bastard, and the other half of the time he didn’t. Occasionally Nell was mentioned as William’s true heir, sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes Hugh got quite solid support from everyone, sometimes that same support went to Nell, and other times it went into a confused mixture with no clear winners. And so on.

I think this is the ‘true’ version. It seems to be. It has to be. Looking ahead in the more stable parts it all flows and follows on from what I have pieced together here. But then, I see glimpses of the futures following on from the other possibilities too, including the one where Nell died (I try not to allow that one to surface. Ever. I can kill her if I must, but I don’t like to think on it. It’s like contemplating the death of any loved one.) But this one does seem like the right one. If some of it has me frowning slightly, and wondering what they are all up to, well, that’s what happens when your characters break away entirely and decide their own course.

What does puzzle me is the fact that their language seems ever so slightly different …

Might I recommend everyone goes back and reads posts 47 and 52 again? And if you are really keen, number 49 too. It will be marginally useful to have that fresh in mind soon. I’ll say no more. :sigh: This is where I wish everyone could read the whole thing start to finish in less than a week …



Thanks, edyzmedieval. I’m not sure authors have managers. Agents, quite often, and publishers almost always, but managers I’ve not heard of. If you have your own commercial scale publishing house and about half a million pounds going spare you are welcome to make generous offers to print, distribute and promote an Eleanor book though.

No, Ciaran, I’m just an amateur. Self taught too, with about a year and a half of practise. I’ve never been paid a penny for writing, but then as of yet I haven’t tried to sell my work. It’s all incomplete, and needs finishing first.

Red Hand is another story I had going here, but I stopped because I wanted to do so much more with it than was possible with an internet story. I am slowly reworking it into what I want it to be, and when I am done I shall see if anyone is interested in publishing it. You can find the old version here (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=31691), but be warned it’s unfinished and never will be here. It’s also not very good in terms of writing quality; I’ve learned a lot since then. I’ve learned an awful lot since the first pages of Eleanor too.

The Shadow One: No, my bookshop isn’t so refined as that, but it also isn’t likely to be a Barnes and Noble type either (not got them where I live). I’m enjoying it, and I’m already finding books I want to buy which I will get an extra 20% off. That’s what counts. Especially the 20% staff discount. :gring:

[Ciaran]

Something I didn´t mention in my last post, I like your writing style very much. You have me laughing quite a lot, as a matter of fact, my neighbours must think I´m off my rocker, laughing like mad and reciting passages in English aloud. I´m only about halfway through yet, past prince John´s betrayal and the chess & cheese scene - with only two hours worth in bttery time, there´s only so much you can read and I make a point of not reading more in a piece, lest I run out of story.

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh was standing at the window, his back to the room. He did not turn at her entrance, or when the door closed behind her escort, leaving them alone together. “Sit down.”

Eleanor perched in one of the fireside chairs, the one with the better view of the room. “What did Trempwick want this time? There were two men killed in my entrance hall, my guard was tied up, and a horde of armed men burst into my rooms without warning or invite to drag him away.” She bit her tongue to keep from adding that the whole experience had not been terribly convenient; Hugh’s imperviousness to humour was dangerous to her health, as well as irksome.

“He wanted his wife back.” Hugh turned from the window. “He revealed you are married.”

Eleanor went deathly pale, then flushed to a deep reddish purple. “Married!?” she shrieked.

“That is what he said,” repeated Hugh, his speech clipped and terse. “As did the twenty-three witnesses, and the priest, also his mother and her maid. He even bought the bedsheet.”

“That - that backstabbing, double dealing, lying, murdering, cheating, slanderous, shifty, deceitful, untrustworthy, treacherous, dishonest, ambitious, complete and utter bastard!” The final few words were not as impressive as the rest, owing to a lack of breath to articulate them at the same volume, and ‘bastard’ came out as little more than a hoarse squeak on the very final drop of air she had. Eleanor paused to refill her empty lungs.

Hugh folded his arms and tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. “So you deny it, then?”

“Yes!”

“He claims otherwise, very convincingly.”

“I am not married to him.”

“I suppose it would only be prudent for me to inquire at this point if you have in fact lain with him, or anyone else.”

“No I damn well have not,” exploded Eleanor. She felt blood rush to her face in what promised to be a spectacular blush, and aimed a litany of curses at both of the men responsible for this mortifying situation.

“Then it may in fact be possible to prove his claim invalid, at least within a limited circle of people.” Hugh squinted very dubiously at her. “If the necessary proof can in fact be provided.”

Eleanor’s mouth went dry. She had never heard precisely how these things were checked, beyond the obvious way of marrying the person in question off to a willing victim and being extra vigilant for outside sources of blood, but the little snippets and allusions she had heard here and there did not put her in mind of anything she particularly wanted to do. But when the devil vomits in your kettle all you can do is clean up as best you can. “It can.” She prayed she was right; not every virgin had a maidenhead to prove it.

Hugh’s lip curled ever so slightly. “We shall see.”

“Surely you do not believe him? Surely you cannot think me capable of-”

“God alone knows what you are capable of,” he spat. “He trained you, and it shows. You were warped even before he got to you.”

Eleanor stared in mute horror, struck dumb by his abnormally uncontrolled temper, and his complete lack of faith.

“You lie, you betray, you manipulate, you murder, and you are nothing which you should be. Family means nothing to you. I fear it pains me in the extreme to admit I would not be surprised - though I would be thoroughly horrified - to find you used your body as a tool to gain what you wish; it is what many in your …” his lip curled further, into a fully fledged, unabashed sneer, and he laid heavy emphasis on the next word, “occupation do. You have been scampering around the realm with opportunity to do heaven knows what, in contact with people of the lowest sort, and maintaining disguises of such a sort any abandon you care to indulge could pass unremarked. You are even perverse enough to-” Hugh clamped his jaw shut on his words. Eleanor could see him struggling for control, his lips pressed so tightly together they were drained of much of their colour. “Look what you manage to do to me. No one else, only you. I should not even be contemplating any of this – it is entirely, wholly unworthy of me, and should have no place whatsoever in connection to someone of your station. And it would not, but for your own influences. Your fault, all of it.”

“You will not blame me for your fits of temper,” she protested, but it lacked a great deal of conviction. How could she ever have been stupid enough to believe that things might be different to how they had always been? Now Hugh has seen her for what she was he rejected her, making assumptions and twisting the truth into something all the better for him to turn her away without a glimmer of guilt on his part, as so many had before him, as many had without even waiting to see the full extent of what she was.

“I assign blame where it belongs. You did the same to our father, and Trempwick, and me, and others. You bring out the worst in everyone. You always have. Trempwick would have remained loyal if not for you. Our father would not have become what he did if not for you. I shall not even speak of how Anne begins to be corrupted by your influence. And look what you have done to me. You have dragged me from my path and flung me into this. We are sliding rapidly towards hostilities, and again you are at the very root of it.”

“It is not my fault.” It was little more than a whisper.

“It is. You damage everything you touch.” Hugh grabbed Eleanor by her shoulders and hauled her to her feet, twisting her around so the light fell clearly on her face. “You are so like him. You even have many of his traits. No one could ever doubt you. It is not fair!” He began to shake her, his fingers digging into bone with unrelenting, heedless strength. “I am his son, I am! That is what matters. Nothing else. I do not need to ask who I am – I know. I will be king. It is my right, mine. My right, and I will have it or die in the trying.”

Eleanor wrapped both hands about one of his arms and tried to get him to let go, at the same time clinging on for stability as she was pulled to and fro. Hugh loosed her, then caught her left forearm as she reeled. His hand didn’t even need to finish closing its unforgiving grip before he knew what he’d found, and his face darkened.

“Those damned knives,” he shouted. “I told you not to wear them.”

He ripped her outer sleeve back, wrenched the two buckles undone, and yanked the scabbard from her arm. The leather straps tangled in the little fastenings, and he had to tug hard several times before they finally snapped and the weapon came free. He cast it behind him; it hit the wall and clattered to the ground. He repeated the process on her other arm. She didn’t fight, except to try and win free and get away.

“You have your bodyguard; you need nothing else. I will not tolerate your perversity any further than I must.” He gave her arms a very sharp jerk, nearly pulling her off her feet. “I am the master here, not you. That has not altered because I need your assistance. You owe me your loyalty. You need me to protect you. You need my favour, if you hope for a future you find comfortable. I have given you much, things you have no right to expect, even, and I can and will take it all back again if I must. If you betray me you will regret it for the rest of your days.”

Between Hugh’s shouting and their on-going scuffle, the first awareness Eleanor had of Constance’s arrival was when she heard her shout, “Hugh! No!”

He dropped Eleanor; she staggered and nearly lost her balance. Blindly she stumbled backwards to get away from him, until she tripped over a stool and fell. Eleanor scrambled to her feet and stood, trembling, watching Hugh for any sign he might come after her again. When she saw he was clustered with his wife, head bent down, speaking quietly, her immediate fear ebbed a bit.

Constance was saying, “… knows you well enough to predict this would be your reaction; he is hoping you will damage your cause further. You must put the doubt from your mind, as you always have. This time is only different in that the lie is more detailed, and spoken to your face. Because that man says it so boldly, does that make it true? Would William have kept you close by if he doubted you were his? No, you know he would not have.”

Pause. Then Hugh drew a shuddering breath, and replied, “God will judge; if I have no right to the crown then he will not let me have it.”

“Yes, so do not let Trempwick’s words affect you as they have.” Constance moved back a half pace to stand close in at Hugh’s side, instead of between him and Eleanor. “Are you alright?” she asked Eleanor.

Eleanor nodded, not trusting herself to lie convincingly if she spoke.

“Your hand looks as if it may be bleeding, I can take a look, if you wish.”

Eleanor looked at the hand she had fallen on. A large splinter was embedded in the long muscle at the base of her thumb, and blood was leaking leisurely from the wound. “No.” She marshalled herself against the pain, and pulled the splinter free.

Hugh said, “To return to the matter I had you brought here to discuss; we were speaking of proof before you led me astray. I give you one final opportunity to tell the truth, and I suggest you take it. If you are proven to be lying I shall not be pleased.”

“I am not lying.”

“Very well; you have had your chance. Constance, send for your midwives. They are respectable and knowledgeable, and well able to judge such matters.”







Hawise folded up one of Eleanor’s shifts and set it down in the pile to be taken upstairs. “She’s running herself ragged,” she declared.

Fulk looked up from his calculation of how many man at what wages he could hire from the sum Eleanor had set apart for him. “You’ll mean Eleanor, I presume.”

“Yes. She will say nothing, she lets nothing slip, and any attempt to begin something other than normal conversation is rebuffed. I run out of ideas.”

“Always been the same.” Fulk waggled a finger at her. “You’ve had your ears scorched a few times while trying to play healer. It’s the same principle here.”

Hawise picked up another item from the pile of returned washing, held it up so she could see what it was, then began to fold it. “It’s easier to apply a salve to an obvious injury when she’s slowed down by pain and can’t get away so easily.”

Fulk grinned. “You’re proving to be an apt pupil in princess control.”

“But you’re the master.” She put the folded shirt on the table next to Fulk. “So what are we going to do?”

“Sometimes it’s better to leave be.” And this wasn’t one of them. If only he could get opportunity …

“Not this time,” said Hawise firmly. “I think you know that. We need to-” she broke off as they heard the outer door open and the guard speaking to someone.

By unspoken, guilty agreement they both buried themselves in their work.

Fulk looked up again as Eleanor walked into the room. She was carrying her knives in one hand. Whatever her brother had wanted her for it hadn’t done her any good; her eyes were empty, her face and gaze downcast, her attitude suitably demure, but in a listless, hopeless, almost defeated way, instead of the assured, contained manner she usually had when assuming such a pose. Or perhaps it came from the excitement he’d missed earlier, when Trempwick had come calling. No one he’d spoken to knew what had happened, beyond that there were two dead men, one bruised and shaken guardsman, and one Trempwick thrown out by armed force. Within just minutes of that Eleanor had been summoned to her brother, and that he’d heard all about from Hawise. A demand for her presence which had barely been polite, and armed guards who had marched her away like a untrustworthy ally in need of constant, close guard.

Fulk hid his relief, and his anxiety, pushed his calculations away and stood up. “Just in time, we were about to send for lunch.”

“I am not hungry.” Her voice matched the rest: quiet, dull, bleak.

He clutched his heart and reeled back in dramatic disbelief. “Not even if there’s cheese?”

Apparently not; Eleanor placed her knives on the table, and as she did so Fulk noticed a splotch of dried blood on her hand. “Mend those, please.”

Fulk held one of the knives up before him, hilt uppermost. The little pommel was dented, as was the cross guard, and one of the straps used to fasten the sheath in place had snapped just below the buckle. He looked at her across the weapon’s hilt. “What happened?”

“Ask for a price when you drop them off at the relevant craftsmen, I shall give you the money to pay when you collect them.”

“At least tell me you’re not hurt.”

Eleanor looked about the room, and quickly checked the solar through the open door. “Anne has left?”

Hawise picked up the last item in the laundry pile, a breastband, and laid it on top of the mound of Eleanor’s things. “She went shortly after you did, back to the church.” She hefted the entire collection, and vanished out into the passageway.

“What happened?” asked Fulk again, hoping now they were alone she’d answer.

“Nothing,” she snapped. “Why must it always be assumed I am at the centre of a disaster of some sort?”

“Trouble and you go hand in hand.”

“Like you and stupidity.”

“You’ve been fighting with your brother again.”

She stared him right in the eye, face expressionless but slightly tight, betraying the emotion she almost succeeded in hiding. Very clearly she said, “Stop pestering me.”

Hawise reappeared with a small pot and a scrap of clean linen. “For your hand,” she explained, as she set them down on the table. “There is wine to wash it with in a jug in the solar.”

“My hand is perfectly alright, as am I.”

“Not it’s not,” returned Hawise, at the same time as Fulk said, “No you’re not.”

“Go to hell!” With that Eleanor stormed out.

Fulk waited a few seconds for the dust to settle. “Well,” he said, making his mind up without the need for deliberation. He turned to Hawise in a swift, fluid motion. “You’d better be what we think you are, because I can’t do this alone. Tackled right she will start talking, if it’s done right, but not if there’s an audience. Before we got here that was easy, and people weren’t so stupid as to assume something sordid was going on simply because we weren’t chaperoned. I’ll risk life and limb; you stop outside and make sure no one interrupts.”

Hawise nodded once. “This means we pen her up in her bedchamber?”

“Yes. Unless she jumps out of the window she’s got nowhere to run to.” Fulk rubbed the back of his neck, thinking back to the other times he’d gone Eleanor baiting. “It’ll probably get a bit … noisy. So don’t go running for help. If anyone’s being murdered it’ll be me.”

Hawise smiled and shook her head. “You are terrible, and yet it does capture the essence of her, in an exaggerated way.”





The door to her bedchamber opened slowly, and a cautious foot snuck in. A second foot followed it, along with the attached body. He wasn’t wearing his sword, which was unusual, since he’d taken to wearing it near constantly since officially becoming her bodyguard again.

It took Fulk some time to spot her, hunched down on the floor in the corner, partly hidden by the bulk of her bed. So much for the faint hope he would think she wasn’t here. “If you were any smaller I wouldn’t be able to see you.” He took another step into the room and closed the door softly behind himself.

Eleanor lifted her chin from her up-drawn knees just long enough to say, “Go away.”

“I expended a lot of energy climbing those stairs, and I’d rather not waste it.”

“I am not in the mood to be bothered by your inanities. Go away.”

“Can’t. I’m on a quest.” One hand come to rest on his dagger, fingers curling around to touch the hairpin hidden there.

“Go away,” she shouted. “Leave. Or have you stopped obeying my orders, if you ever did?”

“No, oh solitary one.”

“Please,” she said quietly, not sure if she were asking him to go or stay.

“You’ve not got your knives, so I don’t need to be afraid, not like that first time.”

“You are supposed to be a big brave knight.” He had only been a simple man at arms back then. If she had known what they were starting that night she would have … what? Run away, or run towards? “A few tiny knives should not bother you.”

He flashed a grin. “How about the raging princess throwing them?”


Eleanor raised her chin again, and leaned back against the wall. She felt much too tired for this, but she put in a token effort, if it would make him happy and stop him worrying. “Are knights usually afraid of princesses?” He was obviously staying; she expected to find herself plucked from her corner and safely installed in his arms within moments. After days of wanting just that she was surprised to find she preferred to be alone now.

“This one is, oh aggravated one.”

“You are terrified of me?”

“Quaking in my boots as we speak. Never knew I had a fear of princesses till I ran into you.” He looked thoughtful. “Or maybe you are why I developed it.”

“You should leave.”

“I’ve got Hawise guarding the door; we won’t be disturbed, and no one will know about this, unless she does work for Trempwick. In which case,” he shrugged, “he learns nothing new. Even that cold-hearted bastard wouldn’t expect me to do nothing now.” He came closer, moving deliberately slowly. At arm’s length he stopped and dropped into a crouch. He placed a cloth wrapped package between them. “Gingerbread. We’ve got a tradition, and I couldn’t find any nice looking pastries quickly.”

“No matter how hard I try I have never been able to drive you away.” Her tongue tied up when she tried to say that she was so very glad of it. The fact he was keeping his distance wasn’t lost on her; it worsened her own turmoil of moods.

Very gently he said, “As you tell me to leave I hear you begging me to stay. I always have.”

“I should have told you to clean your ears out.”

“Too late now,” Fulk assured her cheerfully. He unwrapped the slab of gingerbread and broke a corner off. He popped it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed quickly, half coughing. “Spicy,” he wheezed, fanning his mouth. “Spicy, and just a tad aggressive, in a castle-levelling way.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “Idiot.”

If you’re so tough, you eat it.” He broke off another piece and held it out to her. “Go on, eat that and then tell me it’s mild. I dare you.”

After a brief pause Eleanor accepted his challenge. “It is very mild,” she claimed, each word scorching her lips as it left her mouth.

Fulk shunted the rest of the slab towards her. “Then you’ll be quite happy to eat the rest, oh deceptive one.”

“I would not want to be greedy.” She pushed it back. “We shall share it. In fact you should get the lion’s share because of all the effort you expanded coming up the stairs after me.”

Fulk returned it. “But you’re the princess.”

“And you are the knight.” The hapless slab went back to Fulk.

And back to Eleanor. “You haven’t been eating properly for days.”

To Fulk. “You have all those new recruits to find and deal with.”

Fulk dropped his voice, “A man really should look after his wife.” He gave the gingerbread another push.

Eleanor couldn’t find anything to say, and the food lay still. Her jaw muscles began to ache and her throat felt tight, a warning of impending tears. She aimed her mind at nothing and hugged her knees tighter. Her bid to retain control worked insofar as she didn’t burst into tears. It didn’t stop her from admitting in a rush, “I want to go home.”

Fulk went very still. “Back to Trempwick.”

“Back to how everything was before. If they had not betrothed me to Trempwick it might all have been alright. Everything as it was before, but with you there, like it was in the very end.”

The tears she was fighting so hard against made her view of Fulk hazy, but she could tell she’d said something wrong. His face was blank, he was still so immobile it must have taken conscious effort. He gazed down at the gingerbread, but she didn’t think he saw it.

“I was happy then.” He looked up, watching her now. “The night you blundered your way into admitting you loved me, I was so happy, and the few days afterwards …” She blinked rapidly, fighting desperately to maintain self-discipline. “Then they betrothed me to him.” She swiped at her eyes. “And I am so sick of crying! It is pathetic.”

“No,” disagreed Fulk quietly.

He shifted to her side, knelt, and picked her up. She intertwined her hands in the front of his tunic without thinking, holding on as if her life depended on it. Fulk sat on the bed, settling her on his knee without disturbing her grip. Curled up in his arms, her head resting on the curve of his neck, it comforted her, as she had known it would during the many long days and nights. It also made her tears flow, try as hard as she might to prevent it.

“I needed him.” Her words were not ones she wished to speak, choked with tears, rather thick and indistinct, and with an emotional edge she didn’t care for, but she couldn’t seem to stop them any more than she could stop crying. “For once I really needed him, and he went and died. Even this time he would not help me.”

“Oh, love,” murmured Fulk.

“I thought at least he would never hurt me again, but I was wrong. He found a way. I shouldn’t care about his damned will, but I do. He hated me so much it was as if I didn’t even exist.” She sniffed; her nose was running, yet another indignity lumped on her by this entirely wretched business. She was not particularly pleased by the way she was lapsing into more common English either.

Fulk flailed about behind him, then handed her a long strip of finely woven linen. “Here.”

Eleanor blew her nose. “Thank you.” There was a gap, then she found herself, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, wanting to share a little more. “When I was little I always dreamed that I’d do something to change his mind and make him love me. So stupid of me.”

“And foiling Trempwick should have been that.”

“It’s stupid, I know. I … suppose I hoped for a … a little respect after all this. Stupid, so completely stupid.”

“I don’t think so. It’s like wanting your enemy to respect you, even though you want nothing more than to kill him. Opinions matter, including where we wish they didn’t. Everyone wants to be thought well of by everyone else.”

Eleanor said nothing in response. His idea was palatable enough, but still disgracefully weak. She should not have cared, not in the least, not at all, not in any way. She should have been - as Anne had accused her of being – glad her beloved regal ancestor had removed himself from her life. All the words she had on the subject were dried up, exhausted long in advance of her need. While words were so difficult to come by, tears were plentiful. For a long time that was all there was: tears, tears and Fulk’s consoling bulk.

Fulk delicately took her hand spread it out across his own palm. He kissed the lowest section of her heartfinger, right on top of the band of faintly marked skin left by her betrothal ring. “You’ve taken your ring off.”

Eleanor curled her fingers back up, clasping his hand weakly. She worked her face deeper into the curve of his shoulder. Anything but explain, or let him read the answer for himself in her face or eyes.

The movement must have revealed the improvised necklace she wore, or perhaps it had been peeking out of her neckline before and he had not given indication, because Fulk hooked the ribbon on his finger and drew the cord out from under her clothes. Trempwick’s betrothal ring dangled in the air between them. He looked down at her. “The arrangement’s broken?” Their proximity was such that she could smell ginger and spice on his breath.

At least he hadn’t ask why she’d kept the ring on her person – yet. She couldn’t even answer that question for herself. “It is broken.”

Fulk caught the ring up so it lay in the palm of his hand. “Are you going to wear this for long? If you are then you’d better get it put on something stronger.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. The tears, which had been slowing, returned again, now caused, a little, by gratitude for his lack of jealousy or probing. “I really don’t.”

Fulk tucked the ring back inside her clothes. “I’ll get you a sturdy leather thong anyway. If you decide not to wear it then it’s no great financial loss. He turned her unresisting left hand palm upwards, and ran a thumb along her palm near the cut. “What happened?”

He would find out sooner or later; the whole palace, the whole of Christendom eventually, would be speaking of it. Better that he hear from her. “He said we were married. Trempwick. Everyone will believe him; Hugh says he put on a good act. We’re not, but no one will believe me if I say so, and I can’t prove it to everyone. Hugh …” she faltered, wanting to speak of that dreadful audience even less so than the broader, blander parts.

Fulk’s lips touched the top of her head. “Go on,” he encouraged.

She could manage, if she kept details to the minimum. She could. “He didn’t believe me when I said we weren’t. He went berserk. He only stopped when Constance arrived.” She tilted her face up, and caught his sleeve with one desperate hand. “It was not my fault, honestly it was not. He just went berserk.”

“I believe you.”

Eleanor relaxed, her hand dropped away from his arm. She picked up from before her distraction, having to work hard to manage even this bland description. “He would not believe me; he demanded proof.”

“He should know better than that. It’s only a good guide to what you are, not how you can to be that.”

“He had three different midwives look at me, one after another, giving their verdicts with no chance for them to consult and organise a lie. I nearly died of embarrassment.” She would nearly die again if she spoke of the probing fingers, the discomfort, the sudden flare of pain in a place she couldn’t even feel normally as they found what they were looking for, the business-like comments imparted to her and other, different, but equally professional exchanges with Hugh that had drifted back into the queen’s bedchamber though the partly open door after each woman left. “He had to believe, in the end.” Hugh had apologised immediately, but what good was that? He was only sorry she now knew what he thought of her.

Fulk’s reaction to the end of her tale had been well controlled, but she had felt the slight relaxation, the slight start of surprise. Eleanor pulled away from him and sat up, eyes blazing. “And you are amazed as well,” she accused. This after she had told him she had managed to keep just out of Trempwick’s reach.

“Dear heart, I’m afraid I’m in the unhappy position of having quite a good idea of what women are like. Even more terrifyingly, I know what men are like.”

“Oh, so now you think I am attracted to the man who tried to kill you?” The allegation was all the worse for having had, very briefly, a tiny bit of truth in it. She struggled free of his arms and stood up, fists planted on hips. “I think you should leave before I am tempted to see if I can strangle you with my bare hands.” Or, more accurately, before she burst into tears again. She would not let him see how deeply he had hurt her, even if he wouldn’t take delight from it.

“As enjoyable as that might prove to be, oh outraged one, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I was referring to such things as delicately guarded reputations, maidenly embarrassment, and considerations for the feelings of the poor dope who loves you and would be plotting murder all the more seriously if you happened to admit that a certain spymaster had forced you.”

“Oh.” Eleanor blushed. She sat back down, wiggled back into the position she had been in before, and rearranged Fulk’s arms so they too were back as they had been. “Right. Do carry on.”

Fulk held up her injured hand and inspected the messy clot. “It looks clean enough, but you’ll let me wash off all this excess blood and put something on to hamper infection.” His tone didn’t invite anything except obedience.

“Yes, my lord,” she said meekly.

Fulk blinked in surprise, and instigated a very thorough search of face and tone for sarcasm or other mockery. He didn’t find any, because there wasn’t any there. He made a false start at an answer, bowed his head for a moment, hiding his face completely. Looking back up, he kissed her with melting tenderness. “I love you.”

“Mmm,” agreed Eleanor. “I really should hope so.”

She leaned in to kiss him again, but Fulk held her gently back with one hand. “Probably not a good idea.” One corner of his mouth lifted into a very lopsided smile. “No, I take that back – it’s a very excellent idea, but sadly impractical. At present I trust myself so well if it were possible I’d stand behind myself with a cudgel, tapping it meaningfully on the palm of my empty hand.”

“Oh. Sorry. I should probably-”

“Stay put,” inserted Fulk, securing her in place with an arm. “But stop wriggling, please! Delicate torture’s all very well in its time and place, but now it’s neither meet nor fitting.”

Eleanor caught up her improvised handkerchief and gave her nose a final, good blow. As she put the cloth back down on the bed, she noticed that there was a bit of embroidery along one edge of the linen. She also noticed that it was very familiar embroidery, and now she looked the long, shapeless strip of material was recognizable too. She brandished the material under Fulk’s nose. “That is my breastband. And it was just washed.” It was only now she realised the pile of newly returned clothes was right behind them on the bed.

“There wasn’t much else to hand,” said Fulk apologetically.

Eleanor threw the soiled item of clothing on the floor. “Thank you very much,” she grumbled.

They sat peacefully for a bit. Fulk’s hand wandered leisurely down her back. When it eventually reached the small of her back he stated, “You’ve not been sleeping well.”

“No.” Eleanor let her attention linger a short while longer on the way his thumb was stroking her spine. Almost wistfully she detailed, “Too many worries, too many plans to make, too many problems to search out and combat.” She paused. “Too many bad dreams, of what was and what one day might be. The dead haunting me.” She paused again, and this admission came out in a very small voice, “I wish you were with me. For all that we only spent two nights together, and one in the midst of an argument, I feel sure I would sleep better with you there.”

“What?” teased Fulk. “I would have expected you to be revelling in the luxury of having this massive bed to yourself.”

“I … got used to the idea of company.” Eleanor held her breath as she waited for his reaction, not daring to look.

A very minor pause preceded his jovial rejoinder. “Well then, I’d best speed up my search for a dragon to slay, if your good rest depends on me. Tired gooseberries are more than any sane man wants to deal with.”

“You are not entirely happy.”

“Dear heart, there’s not a single good way to say it, but I don’t like tripping over evidence of Trempwick’s work. Not because I’m resolute on innocent gooseberries, but because I always wonder what the hell the man did to cause that effect, and I doubt he did anything good. It leaves me wondering what scars he left.”

Eleanor looked that over, but found nothing to say. As tempted as she was to put a cheerful front on the issue and let it die she knew he would never believe, because he had seen too much, and knew too much. But again, as with so many things, it was so much easier to say nothing, or keep to the barest details. “Everyone will think me his wife now, even if I deny it. He brought far more proof than most of the cases which end up in court and last for months and years before any decision is reached. All he needs is my agreement, and he has the same proof that most weddings produce, if not a few witnesses more to make all more solid.”

Fulk laughed sourly. “Damned man has more and better proof you are married to him than I do that you’re mine, even if I do have your support, and the queen’s.”

“If I deny it then many people will think I do so out of fear, or because I have lost my taste for the match. Only a few will accept that I am speaking the truth. Hugh’s midwives will be viewed as bribed accomplices trying to mend the situation to his favour, and I am never going to go through that miserable ordeal again simply for the sake of proving that the blood on the sheet was not mine. It would achieve precious little anyway.”

There was one very glum silence as they both encountered a lack of anything to add to this inventory; no solutions, no suggestions, no hopes.

“Eleanore Regis Anglia e Filia – it is who I am, who I have always been. But I am the King of England’s daughter no longer. So what am I? I cannot define myself in terms of you, and Lady of Towcester is so lowly as to be denied me for that use.” Eleanor sighed. “I do not even know how to sign my letters any more.”

“Eleanore felia regis, the Gooseberry. That’s who you are. Princess and gooseberry, and in need of no more to identify yourself to any with half a brain. Don’t specify the king you’re the daughter of.”

There was a light knock at the door. Hawise’s voice filtered through, “Constance is coming, I can see her from the window.”

Fulk’s hold on Eleanor tightened, and he growled, “Damn that woman, and her impeccable sense of terrible timing!”

“I shall have to go down.”

Fulk kissed her once, then let her go. “I’m certain there’s a lot left unsaid.”

He was right, but Eleanor said, “I must look terrible.” She poured some water from the ewer on the room’s little table into a basin.

“So we shall finish this another time.” That had an air of dependable promise to it.

Eleanor busied herself scrubbing her face. As she groped with eyes shut for the towel she told him tartly, “You should not threaten me; it is not nice.”







6, 157

That’s why you were recommended to re-read those old scenes – so you would get the references in the Nell/Fulk scene.

Hehe! You should see me as I write this, Ciaran! I laught, I cry, I repeat bits out aloud to make sure it sounds right. Then, when I go back and read bits after a gap of a few weeks since writing them, I start doing it all over again. This is probably one of the reasons I prefer to write with the door to my room firmly shut.

[Ciaran]

Talking to yourself, or reading out loud for that matter, might seem strange anywhere, but doing so in English in Germany, well, you get the picture, I´m sure. That´s why I saved this topicto my laptop´s harddrive, if I read while still being at the uiversity I´d find myself in the loony bin within seconds, not to mention being banned from the university network.

And now I´ve got a whole weekend for reading :book: :jumping:

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick reined in his horse and swung down from the saddle. He threw the reins to his nearest companion, and began towards the inn.

The innkeeper came running out from his building, wiping his hands on the shabby apron tied at his waist. “My lord?”

Trempwick didn’t break his stride. “Have you done as I ordered?” He halted in the doorway, closing his eyes and reopening them several times to help accustom them to the gloom.

“My lord, yes.”

“Excellent. Then be about your work.”

The innkeeper bowed, and scurried off, calling instructions Trempwick paid no heed to. Simple orders to simpler underlings, all as he had directed beforehand. Trempwick hooked the bench out from the table opposite the doorway with a foot, and sat. His arms he rested on the rough wood surface of the table, crossed at the wrist with his hands dangling off the edge.

A cup of ale appeared before him, and a fist-sized pasty which exuded a meaty scent. His sword was returned from where it had been stored these last couple of hours, his gambeson and hauberk following only a little behind. Trempwick ate, watching a boy and an adolescent run to and fro carrying armfuls of gear out to his party: swords, the odd spear, helmets, armour, the general clutter of fighting men who knew their work.

The winter sunlight was blocked by the mailed bulk of a man, sending the inn’s single room into deeper murkiness. Mauger crossed the space to his lord in several jingling strides. “Nearly done.”

“Good.” Trempwick took a deep, slow breath, and held it in. Time to shed the few women and old men he’d brought. From here, only fighting men. No need to look harmless now. “Lose the baggage.”

Mauger nodded, and left.

Go again over what had happened. Trempwick quenched his thirst with the ale. Simple steps. Simple points. Nell was now his. None would touch her now, none but the most desperate. Bigamy. Too dangerous. Too hated by the church. Loathed by all but heathens and their harems. Trempwick’s own enmity another price. Nell’s bad feeling another. The disapproval of society damning for one who moves in to break another’s agreement in such a way, bigamy or no. The desperate? Even they would think twice, and twice again.

The bastard was thrown from balance. He would flail about like a landed fish, destroying his own cause. So satisfying. Why crush a man when you can let him crush himself? Thus you were kept free of the blame …

The bastard’s valuable playing piece lost. Hard to promise away a sister who was already gone. Promise her as a widow? To give away a widow one must first kill her husband. A promise for the uncertain future is less value than a solid marriage now. Notwithstanding the tainted, vastly diminished value Nell would have. Widow of a failed traitor. Failed rival of her brother. A threat, always, until her death. A gift that would bring suspicion down on the receiver. A source of trouble. At that point, best to seal her away in honourable imprisonment, not marry her off.

Cause for open disharmony present, with blame on the bastard. Such a man to hold his own sister prisoner? To deny her marriage? And how dare he -it was for none to interfere between a man and his wife, no matter the man, his wife, the cause, or the interferer. The stalwart friend of the father driven away by the son whom he tried to serve, forced away by such poor treatment none could stand it and still consider himself a man. Only the most craven wretch would stand for such handling. Trempwick smiled cynically. Honour, decency, all had left him no choice but to do as he had done. It was quite entertaining.

Cause for others to desert the bastard now openly given. One wife stolen and held away; what would prevent more? Or sons, or daughters – what limits to the royal depravity? Stolen, not honest imprisonment or the place of an honourable hostage. A bastard, unable to inherit legally. A bastard, with no royal blood. So failure in two of the most major tests for kingship. Two, before you consider the aptitude of the man. A hint, a crude hint, of William’s other intentions, not wanting this bastard to follow him. Now there was a banner for the discontent to rally to. A banner raised in the glorious misdirection that he, and Nell in turn, had been forced to this by the bastard himself. A legitimate reason was required before one could part with one’s lord and expect anything other than disgust from one’s peers. Legitimate reasons he had supplied in plenty for all and any who cared to use them. Hastier than he had ever desired, yes. None so elegant as he had hoped. But it had worked well enough. More than well enough?

The bastard shown to be a man not of his word, to break lightly even agreements so solid that the breaking was unthinkable. Proven not to care not for his supposed father. Or the for church. Or tradition. Or for those who had rendered long and good service. Or his sister, and her wants, honour and deeds. Such a callous, wanton, man. Previously believed honourable. But did he now act it? No, not at all. The mask was off, the true colours shown. Who wants such a man as king? Not even a fool. Such a man would have to be dragged back into line again and again by the armed might of his barons. He would do so much harm each time. The kingdom would not prosper. It would falter, stumble, lurch from one problem to the next

Suspicion over William’s accident, raised. Badly, yes. Clumsily, yes. But only voicing what some must already wonder. But … a man speaking from emotion, from bitterest disappointment and a broken heart? No, Trempwick owned he had not been overly blunt for that.

Mauger returned. Trempwick unfurled his limbs and stood again, brushing pastry crumbs from his hands and tunic. With his trainer’s help he donned his armour and sword. Only partial armour, not full knightly regalia. Lighter, easier, enough protection for the work he had to do. But not the hindrance, less of the noise, less of the sparkle of light on metal to give all away. As he settled his coif back on his shoulders, Trempwick asked, “It is done?”

“Aye, all done.”

When in a hurry, don’t move slowly. That was wisdom. Trempwick stalked from the building. He paused in the doorway to survey his troop. The scattering of non-combatants had been sent safely away, their part done. All others had transformed, no longer a variety of minor nobles and household knights in their best, trotted out before their betters to swear to what they had seen. Now, warriors, proud and deadly in well cared for yet battered equipment which testified to each man’s repeated survival of combat.

Trempwick climbed into his saddle, and put his spurs to his horse. When in a hurry, don’t hurry. That was also wisdom. Tripping as one ran slowed one down. Insufficient care or thought would hamper, slow, destroy, perhaps. While his every movement now must be swift, sure and confident, he could not afford to hurry. Would never want to either.






Hugh finished his prayers, crossed himself, and pushed up from his kneeling position. His joints cracked, the cold of the church’s stones soaked deep into them during his lengthy vigil.

He gazed meditatively at the spot he had recently occupied, contemplating perhaps dropping back down and completing another set for the good of his rotten soul. Guidance he had begged for, and the granting of the sign he had come here to seek at the behest of Anselm, the royal chaplain. Forgiveness he had also requested, and the strength to better himself. Hugh stepped back from the altar, crossing himself again. He had done a half of what he came here for, and anything other must await another time.

Anselm said, “Ready?”

“Yes, Father. I am ready.”

The old man nodded gravely. He brushed the decorated front of the great bible resting on the lectern with a loving hand. “Then we shall see what is said.” He heaved the solid weight of the bible up so it stood on its leather spine. “Oh Lord, grant us now your wisdom. Give this man your advice and comfort, and help him find his path.” Prayer completed, Anselm let the bible go. Balanced as it was the book did not tumble; the gold-studded back and front covers slammed down onto the woodwork with a portentous boom which made the hairs at the back of Hugh’s neck stand up. The pages slithered and were dragged by their fellows, one after another in a rustling cascade until, at last, the great book lay open at a random page.

Father Anselm had closed his eyes as he let the book go. Now, still blinding himself, he plunged a finger down to choose a passage. He opened his eyes, and read out, “His speech is as smooth as butter, yet war is in his heart; his words are more soothing than oil, yet they are drawn swords. Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall.”

Hugh crossed himself, and murmured a quick prayer of thanks. There was no there was no mistaking the meaning of God’s word, as sometimes happened when a passage bore no immediate relevance. He had been blessed, truly blessed. Hugh could almost believe that this had been penned those many lifetimes ago specifically so he could find it now, the description of Trempwick so fine that Hugh could not better it if he were given a day to select his words, and the relevance to his dilemma so penetrating it reduced him to awe.

Then he recalled the haste with which Father Anselm had closed the bible again, giving him no chance to look upon the words for himself.

Some change must have come over his face, for Anselm said, “Would you doubt the word of a man of God, and of the Lord himself, and wonder if I had instead quoted the passage I found best fitting instead of reading what was truly there?”

“No, indeed I would not,” denied Hugh quickly. He crossed himself yet again, the thought of his scepticism unbearable in the face of the gift he had been granted. Moreover, he had known Anselm all his life, and trusted his integrity and council, on the rare occasions it was gifted to him.

“Then accept his message.”

“I will. I do.”





Only a short part, I know, but for some reason I am extremely tired.

Mmm, a weekend for reading. Nice. :dreams of how many books she could get through in a weekend with little else to do ...:

[The Shadow One]

Lady Frog:

I have a confession to make.

I am really starting to like Trempwick. Maybe it's the way you've been letting us look into his mind, a window into how it works. Your narrative in this part of the book shines because, unlike other parts of the book where I feel you're telling me what a character is thinking, here the words I read are what I imagine are the actual thoughts going through Trempwick's mind.

It's as if you're not telling the story, you're revealing it.

Very well done. I am looking forward to Trempwick living up to the promise of his character.

[Kommodus]

Aye, battles are always hard to do, you tread a fine line between plain statement and sensory over load.

That's a fact. Has anyone here ever tried to read the Illiad? I did, once, and even made it about half-way through before boredom got the better of me. The battle scenes were numerous, long, and ponderous, and eventually it seemed that they all followed the same basic formula:

1. History and heredity explained for a Greek hero and a Trojan hero.
2. Trojan hero challenges Greek hero, announcing his inevitable victory, proclaiming his own superiority and the inferiority of his opponent.
3. Greek hero answers Trojan hero in kind (steps 2 and 3 may be reversed).
4. Trojan hero throws a spear or fires an arrow at Greek hero.
5. Trojan projectile weapon misses, is dodged, or is stopped by the Greek hero's armor or shield, or does only superficial damage.
6. Greek hero throws spear at Trojan hero or attacks at point-blank range.
7. Greek hero's weapon pierces through the Trojan hero's shield/armor/body and kills him.
8. Greek hero "vaunts" over his fallen opponent, exalting in his victory.
9. Optional: Greek hero strips Trojan hero of his armor.

This is repeated again and again, with minor variations (i.e. background explanation has already been given and isn't needed a second time, number of attacks varies, occasionally the Trojan hero wins). It's mildly interesting at first, then becomes boring and repetitive, and finally is practically unbearable.

I'm not sure why I felt like saying that. Basically, battle scenes are difficult to write, being mostly visual affairs. I think J.R.R. Tolkein was pretty good at it. The most recent battle scene in this story, between Jocelyn and his rival, seems to do well in capturing the brutal, dirty, confused mess that most medieval skirmishes probably were - it comes off as hardly more than a brawl between rival street gangs. Definitely a far cry from Homer's heroics and Tolkein's grand, lush descriptions, but it achieves what it sets out to. War isn't pretty, and there's certainly no need to portray it as such.

P.S. Yes, I'm still following this story, and it's nice to see the pace pick up a little. I'd comment on the continuing character development, but right now I'm too lazy to give it the thorough treatment it deserves, so I'll leave it alone.

[frogbeastegg]

Constance had spoken of this meeting as a matter of some urgency, although she had not said precisely what was to be discussed. However when Eleanor arrived back in the royal solar she found only Sir Miles sitting by the fire. Hugh was nowhere to be seen.

“He must still be with Anselm,” explained Constance.

The heavy lines on Miles’ face deepened as he smiled at Eleanor. He moved to put his goblet of wine aside, but changed his mind and continued to hold it close as he came to his feet. “Nell, my dear! Please accept my belated congratulations on your marriage.” He raised his drink in a toast and consumed a few generous mouthfuls.

“I would rather wed a serf than Trempwick” declared Eleanor. She swept past the man and claimed one of the empty window seats.

Sir Miles dropped back into his chair, cradling his goblet lovingly in both hands. “That is no way to speak of your much beloved husband, my dear,” he scolded. “Now, I am afraid I have not brought a gift, but it was such short notice, and really I am quite unsure what would be appropriate. A fast horse and an armed escort to the nearest place of safety, perhaps, or mayhap a few daggers to decorate your darling Trempwick’s ribs?”

Despite herself Eleanor smiled a little. “A Papal annulment might be nice.”

“Alas, that would be beyond my capabilities.” Miles swigged more of his wine; he studied her over the rim of the vessel. “Maybe I shall only gift you the more traditional bolt of expensive cloth, or such like.”

At which point Hugh arrived. His step faltered in the doorway as his eyes fell upon Eleanor. Then he walked on before the hesitation could become more than a brief pause in balancing on the toes of one foot as the next came forward slower than usual. “Anne is not yet here?”

Constance replied, “Not yet, no. I did send someone for her.”

“Then needs must we delay until she deigns to allow us her presence.” Doing a very good impression of a man who had just drank vinegar thinking it was something altogether more pleasant Hugh declined his wife’s invitation to sit next to her, and stood by the side of the fireplace instead. “I am not best pleased to be kept waiting, but her presence is preferable. She may be of some small use, but moreover I did swear faithfully to my father that I would see that she had the ways and means to survive our world. There is much she might learn here. Also, she is still the Queen, and so must be consulted in all that affects our realm.”

Sir Miles tapped his fingers on the goldwork of his goblet to politely draw his lord’s attention. “Surely there are some few things we can be getting on with? As much as I enjoy the company, idle minutes do us no good and possibly quite a bit of harm.”

“Yes, there is something.” Hugh turned his attention to Eleanor. “I will tolerate no longer your dressing like the wife of my least vassal. Once we are finished here persons will be sent over with a wide selection of materials; you will choose what you please and it will be made up to suit. In the meanwhile you will take to wearing the better clothing which I know you brought with you. You may have the clothing intended for your wedding to wear on more formal occasions; they shall not be allowed to go to waste.”

They had a kingdom to take, and Hugh was fussing about clothes. Eleanor was so glad to see he had settled his priorities correctly. “Bluntly put, brother dear, I do not like dressing my rank. It draws too much attention to me, makes me feel uneasy, and is not suited to half of what I find myself needing to do. What is more, people have this nice habit of tearing my clothes, or spilling blood on them somehow.”

Hugh flushed pleasingly at her dig. “You receive precisely what you deserve, so look to yourself for the blame. And you have now used your sole warning; my good humour ebbs. I care not for your excuses. This is but another of your eccentricities, and one which grows increasingly intolerable as our circumstances alter; you will be in the public eye far more than ever, as much as some of us may wish otherwise.” His tone left no doubt that he wished otherwise very strongly indeed. “I will accept no argument otherwise; the matter is settled.

Remembering her promise to Fulk Eleanor kept quiet. It wasn’t too hard; she had no particular wish to be attacked again, least of all in front of an audience, and definitely not on such a trivial matter.

“Quite a change in you, Hugh,” Miles said mildly. “Something of your old self returned, I would say.”

“If I fail I, and all I hold dear, will be lost. I will not allow this while I have breath in my body.” Hugh linked his hands at the small of his back and straightened his already correct posture to the point Eleanor thought he resembled a statue, and even so she has seen uncarved lumps of stone with more lifelike flexibility. “It is God who decides the course of all; he shall not let me prevail if I am unworthy, or not intended to have what it is I now seek. He will never let the righteous fall if they but trust unto Him.” As Hugh’s speeches went, this one was quite pretty. As far as Hugh’s speeches went.

Anne fortunately was not much longer in making her appearance; she arrived a minute or so after Hugh’s second pointed remark on her tardiness. As she pushed the door closed again she winced and rubbed her temple with one hand. “Sorry. I do not quite feel well …”

Hugh told her sternly, “This is why it is never prudent to drink to excess. We have wasted time waiting for you, and I doubt you are able to think clearly, so you are now of less use than you aught to be.”

“Sorry.” Anne’s eyes filled with tears; she ducked her head and scuttled through the room to sit beside Eleanor, shrinking down to make herself smaller and less noticeable.

Eleanor moved over to make more room fore the girl, glaring at her brother as she did so. “It was not her fault.”

“No,” he agreed. “It was yours, of that there is no need whatsoever to remind me.”

Eleanor opened her mouth to let loose a heated denial. She closed it again, words unsaid. What was the point? He had decided she was guilty and wouldn’t change his mind.

“Wise choice; you begin to learn. Good. Such behaviour may induce me to a little clemency when deciding on the reckoning for this later.” Anne looked as if she was going to speak, but Hugh gave her no opportunity. He raised his voice a little and said firmly, “To move to the aim of this. Miles?”

The portly knight set his drink down on the floor and heaved himself to his feet. Eleanor sat up a little as stealthily as possible so she could see how much was left in the goblet. As she had suspected it mostly full when it should have been nearly empty. The only time he did drink as much as he appeared to when she was present was in the hall at dinner and other such occasions, and even that may not be as honest as it appeared. Eleanor was slowly beginning to wonder if the man had a far greater capacity for drink than he let people believe, coupled with a talent for acting the drunk. The more she saw of the man’s interaction with her brother the more she felt he was more than a simple mentor and friend. If she were forced at this moment in time to state an occupation for him she would have gone with Hugh’s spymaster, or some position of a similar nature.

Miles ran a hand over his hair to settle back some stray strands blown into his eyes by his movement. “It is quite simple, predictable, and not as we would like, I fear. The court is buzzing, thanks to Trempwick. Over and over I hear reports of it being said that the princess should be returned to her husband. Chester went the furthest. I myself heard him say quietly that,” he inclined his head towards Eleanor, “forgive me, that Nell was something of a harlot. That she had not only welcomed but encouraged his advances, mentioning marriage to lend some air of respectability to it all.”

Eleanor’s outrage seemed to be worn out from overuse; this latest slur provoked nothing more than a feeling of complete, sick fatigue.

Hugh’s own sense of outrage was in good working order, if not nearly as vehement as Eleanor would have hoped in the cause of her much maligned honour. “To think, I had considered him a good match for her …”

“Nell and Chester?” exclaimed Miles, so aghast at the idea Eleanor loved him for it. “God, Hugh! What a damned waste, and sickening too. At the least find her someone with the brains to appreciate her.”

“She needs a steadying hand.” Hugh put an arm about his wife and pulled her over to lean against him. “More than a steadying hand; someone able to devote long hours of attention to her to ensure she cannot lapse back to bad habits.”

“Yes, but also someone who will not let her go to waste. Damn it, Hugh, you would harness a good Arab mare to a donkey by those principles, so long as the donkey can drag the mare after it. Match like to like; you will do better. And do not forget there is a steadying hand, and then again there is a crushing one.”

“You think you know what is better for my sister than I myself?” Hugh had started upright, but Constance placed a hand on his leg, and he relaxed back.

“If you think Chester fit for her, then yes. I would marry her myself, but my wife would object.” Miles slapped his paunch with the heel of his fist. “Anyway, she should have someone closer to her own age. Yes, a fine young thing made mostly of muscle and with a flat stomach, not some decrepit old blob or wizened stick. Ah, but then not a silly boy either.”

“Next you will say I should allow her to marry for love,” remarked Hugh laconically.

Miles looked at Hugh very oddly, then started to laugh. “No, now you take it much too far. All I am saying is that you should get her a good match. Not an old man, not a brute, not a fool, and not anything else unsuitable. Actually,” he mused, suddenly serious, “if he were not bent on this course, Trempwick would make her a very good match, even if he is a bit old.”

“I would say not. He has done a very poor job of schooling her in the years he has had her, and I would not expect that to alter in the future.”

Eleanor sat quietly and played good victim for as long as she could, but in the end she could stand their jeering no more. That expired tolerance came far quicker than it once had; the reminder of precisely how unappealing she was made stark contrast to Fulk’s interest and Trempwick’s very well faked liking. “I am still in the room,” she said pointedly.

There was a pause. Hugh aimed a warning finger at her. “Interrupt again and I will thrash you here and now; I am weary of your lack of manners.” He turned back to his friend. “You see? How can we make that appealing and at the same time not allow her primary assets to be used? Her blood is her best appeal.”

“Now you are being plain rude, dear boy.”

“I speak only the precise, apparent truth, and it gives me no comfort beyond knowing that I am honest even when it discomforts me.”

Sir Miles hitched a shoulder. “It is all mute anyway. Chester does not want a wife; he wants something with four feet, fur, a cold nose and a tail which wags at the sound of his voice. Failing that he wants something he can stab with his sword, and I do not mean that in a crude sense.”

“Such disrespect for one of my earls really is quite-”

“Accurate,” interjected Constance. “A very astute observation of Chester, if I do say so. If he could somehow combine dogs and proper knightly warfare he would be quite delighted.”

At Eleanor’s side Anne giggled, groaned, and pressed one hand to her forehead again. “I think so too. Dogs and fighting are all he usually speaks of; it is really boring.”

Hugh’s mouth took a distinctly downwards turn when he saw he was outnumbered. “Whatever he is, he was one of the first to rally to my standard. His skills in battle make him all the more valuable as an ally, and so, along with his rank, he does make a possibility worth considering seriously when contemplating marriage for my sister. That does not, however, mean he is what I would consider the best choice, or perhaps even a good one.”

Miles commented, “He remains loyal to you, Hugh, but he has no love now for your sister, and he is open on it. He has chosen his side and damned himself to sticking to it, making him one of your more solid allies.”

“That he has taken to libel in his disappointment is regrettable, but we must also recall that he has no cause to believe otherwise.”

Constance said, “And there we come to the crux of the issue: no one will believe there is no such marriage unless they see proof to match that Trempwick brought.”

Eleanor stood up to draw more attention to herself; this time she would not allow herself to be threatened into silence, promise to Fulk or no. It was too important. “As this concerns me, allow me to place it in a nutshell. People believe, and there is no way we can alter that belief. I am as good as married to the man, like it or not. There are but two ways to disprove it with any speed. I will not marry simply to prove I am not already married, and I do not wish to marry regardless. The other way only converts a person or two at a time; useless.”

She had intended to add that she would not be treated a second time like a whore being sold as a guaranteed innocent, or a thoroughly unimportant girl who caught the eye of a choosy rich man with a penchant for virgins, but mortification got there first and her throat closed up about the words. As far as Eleanor was aware neither Sir Miles or Anne knew of Hugh’s insisting she prove her honesty, and neither needed to know. Far better to let them think she had sworn that Trempwick lied, and her family had believed her because of what was known of her and of Trempwick, just as should have happened. To admit that her own brother doubted her so badly added another very heaped helping of shame onto the already mountain-sized pile. Even where there was very significant doubt the preferred course for nobility was to add a discreet sum to the dowry and have a quiet word with the betrothed husband, when there was one to speak with. Only the lowly were subjected to poking and prodding; it was a point of noble privilege similar to knights always being ransomed, not killed. Granted, dowries had nothing to do with this particular situation, but her sworn word, combined with the knowledge of the situation, should have been more than enough. Mistrust was for those not close to her, and there it was both understandable and almost - but not quite - forgivable.

Anne gingerly let go of her head, and said very quietly, “When I was at home back in Scotland there was a similar sort of case between one of the household knights and one of the lady’s maids. It took five months to settle it, right about the point the baby began to show obviously. Even then the man’s father refused to accept it, and kept on arguing long after everyone else had given up. He thought his son could do better, even if he was only a second son.”

Moving to the end of her planned speech, Eleanor continued, “The only way is to take this to the church court, but, as Anne just indicated, that will drag on for months, perhaps even years, and the whole process will prove decidedly humiliating for both myself and for those supporting me. We can afford none of that: time, loss of face, harmed authority.” She mustered her regal dignity and stated simply, “We are royalty, not merchants, and not a one of us should be seen to plead, or to be in the power of those below us. We appear in our realm’s courts as judges, and not otherwise, be that court religious or secular.”

Constance said, In the end there is not even a guarantee they will reach the correct verdict; bribery is not unknown.”

“Trempwick would start nothing so easily unravelled,” agreed Eleanor. “He would have safeguards in place. Furthermore it would add credence to his claim, and help to ensure it spreads and is not forgotten. It seems best to me to continue to deny it as if the claim is so ridiculous it merits nothing more than casual dismissal; I doubt he would have anticipated that.” As Hugh was prone to taking her at her word whenever it was less than convenient Eleanor amended her statement, “At least, not so much as the other ways.”

Hugh’s reaction was stunning in its predictability. “I like it not.”

But even as Hugh was rejecting the idea, Miles was warming to it. He sat up and leaned forward, his expression keen, just as he always did when confronted with a problem which intrigued him. “This way does have advantages. Who would have her now anyway? Who would risk excommunication and society’s disapproval, in addition to the enmity of her family and Trempwick, to kidnap her and force her into a marriage which could barely hope to stand? Nothing could be gained, only lost, and those losses would be major. Granted, it would be by far best if she married to our support, but now that is not possible without a lot of groundwork, and so a good share of the threats left open by this are now disabled or significantly reduced.”

“Disabled? Trempwick has openly renounced me for this, and my court mutters.”

Constance was by now nodding her own agreement. “It is a poor second best, but we must use what we have.”

Anne said, “I do not see what else we can do, not really, except kill Trempwick, and now that would look really bad.”

Hugh looked about his small gathering. “You are all in agreement?”

One after another everyone put in a word of consent.

Hugh bowed his head. “Then so be it. I like it not, but for now so it must be. It will stand only as long as it takes for a better alternative to be discovered.”

Sir Miles sipped his drink. He swirled the ruby liquid about in the goblet, staring pensively into its depths. “I shall say this for the man: he has an overweening sense of pride. Maybe not in the usual sense, or the showiest sense, but it shows through right clear in the smaller things.”

“I would hope that you have some solid basis for such claims, Miles.”

“Oh yes.”

“Then I wait to hear them, in particular that which has prompted this opinion’s expression now, after, I suspect, a very long time of keeping your peace on this facet despite my asking on the man many times over.”

Miles spoke to Hugh but he watched Eleanor closely the whole time. "I speak of the sheet, of course. It was subtly done, and very well done also. To any who took more than a cursory look, and to those who have more knowledge of such matters than the most innocent and ignorant, it was quite the message. The stain was there, visible, clear and undoubtable. But it was not excessive, or even sizeable. That is to say, it appeared the bride was most willing, and Trempwick quite skilled and considerate as a lover. It made a far better showing than most ever manage. It will be remarked on, just as larger stains draw comments on the groom’s clumsiness, and such like.”

Eleanor fumed silently, keeping her outer self a careful blank.

“Moreover there was a second, very small, very faint bloodstain, barely there at all. Which would imply that there was a second, er, occurrence, not very long after the first.”

“Smug bastard,” muttered Eleanor. She wondered if she could apply a few creative ideas with a knife next time she saw Trempwick without feeling overly guilty. With a mental sigh she realised she probably couldn’t; the man was something of a father, after all. Not to mention that chopping off the offending parts would require getting within blade’s reach of them, a completely unappealing idea.

Miles scratched at his chin, pulled a face and ran his hand over his jaw as if realising he had forgotten to shave that morning. Judging from his stubble, Eleanor thought that about right. “Not only is he boasting of his prowess to the world, but he makes of the whole thing a demonstration of his talents at fakery to those few who know the truth here. He can do both better than any other, or so he wishes to brag. As I said: pride.”

“No,” disagreed Eleanor. “Efficiency. I expected no different of him, even if I do not like to hear I was right.”

Miles sat up and leaned forward again, his attention now openly and completely on her. “Oh?”

“He is only working to support the story he has spun, and doing so to the best of his ability. Given that we are both supposed to care for each other it would be remarkable if he had been rough or quite indifferent to me past what was required, or if I were indifferent to him.”

“Fourteen years sat at his knee, learning …” Miles looked up to seek Hugh’s eyes. “I told you, I did tell you.”

This fell on a studiously indifferent reception, but Eleanor noticed the corner of Hugh’s eye did crease as though he would frown. “It is one thing to espouse an opinion; it is another entirely to be correct.”

“Thus far, Hugh, thus far …”

Hugh grunted something that sounded like a reluctant agreement. “Yes, I grant you that. I grant you too your other points as made previous to today. But I maintain those of my reservations which those proven points have not laid to rest.”

“It will work, I feel confident.”

“My father thought likewise.”

“Then continue his work, but purged of Trempwick’s taint.”

Constance said, “You know my own thoughts, Hugh.”

“No! I will bow to that which I do not like or approve of when I see the necessity, but in this matter I do not.” Hugh slipped free of Constance and rose. “I must away to my formal council. The King of France has dared demand I do him homage for all my lands across the sea. It is an insult. My father held those lands free of vassalage, and my grandfather only bent knee for Normandy, despite marrying for Brittany and inhering more. A way to refuse without immediate war must be found, but that is a matter for those more competent in matters of war and diplomacy.”








6, 281

My primary hard drive failed; more damage from that storm. I was sans PC for a few days, and there were a couple of days where I didn’t dare write anything for fear of losing it.

I doubt that scene really flies, but I’m in the mood to write comedy, or maybe action. But this scene is what comes next, so that’s that.

The Shadow One: Yes, that’s Trempwick’s mind you are seeing into, and that is his strongest ‘unique flavour’. It’s why I hear him whispering at me long before I needed to write his POV scenes. It was something a bit odd to write at first, but I’m settling to it. I wasn’t sure if the very fragmented style would make him look like he was thinking rapidly, or if he was retarded. Then there is the issue of what he observes and does, not what he thinks; ‘thinking’ style should only be there for thoughts, but if it swaps from fragmented writing to fluent and back again it looks like an error. But he doesn’t observe and do in the same manner as he thinks, so it can’t be written like that.

With the other characters this is … not possible … in some cases … sort of. I could manage this kind of window into the mind with Nell, Fulk and William, but only if they were written in first person, not … er whatever this is. I wouldn’t feel too comfortable with first person though, not with this story. Jocelyn refuses to let me mess with him like that. Hugh is so blergh I couldn’t stand it.

Kommodus: Welcome back. That battle was the first I have written in … oh, something like half a year. It’s also the one I am most pleased with. Jocelyn really shines as a POV provider for me in such scenes; he makes it easier than any other character I’ve tried to fight with. That’s partly because he doesn’t take much notice; he doesn’t dwell on what he is doing, or the carnage, or on how he feels. He’s a veteran of many battles, and he enjoys fighting. I’d like to take Fulk through a proper battle too, see what he makes of it. He’s only done fights so far, and he’s not bad there.

Fight scenes are harder because of their smaller scale. I’ve done a few of those in the battle-less months. The pain is that you need to describe a lot more, you can’t get away with minor detail like “He kept on moving forward, killing and blocking until his arms ached.” The more you describe the greater the danger of it feeling too slow or too cluttered, or of it getting boring or repetitive, or of this fight feeling like the last 16.

[The Stranger]

holy mother and god???? is that really one post.

[The Shadow One]

Yes, that’s Trempwick’s mind you are seeing into, and that is his strongest ‘unique flavour’. . . . I wasn’t sure if the very fragmented style would make him look like he was thinking rapidly, or if he was retarded.

Okay, from my perspetive as a reader, it doesn't look too fragmented. Retarded means the mind moves slower, right? [Stephen King does a great job in The Stand of showing how the retarded, or mentally challenged, think.] So I don't think that's an issue.

One thought about battles. Have you considered taking a look at Stevenson's The Black Arrow? I mean, I know it's dated and all, but there are several battle scenes in that book and, as I recall from my childhood [and my adulthood] they are well written. One, in fact, involves a melee around a statue, if I recall.

Another source might be, and I hesitate to mention it because I know the reaction some people have to his work, but how about Sir Walter Scott [an Irish-Scottish mix, I still consider him one of greatest authors in the English language]. Seems like he couldn't write a book without a battle scene or two or four.

Just a thought. Nice chapter, by the way.

[Ciaran]

Whew, done, well apart from the newest installment.
It´s impossible to review everything from the last six pages, at least not without reading it all again.
Now, some short notes:
Your chrismas special and Fulks letter to his mother had me really going mad with laugher. Really hilarious, I loved them a lot.
I liked the story twist, too, that one was great. I knew Trempwick is a crafty guy, but getting that ambitious...
You mentioned your personae dramatis had fanclubs on the other forum, mind if I start a Jocelyn one? I really like that guy (isn´t Jocelyn a female name?), though he´s opportunistic, uncough, cruel, uneducated and generally everything contrary to the image of a knight, but probably pretty much like what not a few knights actually were like. The scenes with him are always fun to read, even though it´s not quite obvious precisely what his purpose is in the story, apart from hosting William.
By the way, what are the numbers at the end of each chapter - if one post is supposed to be a chapter - supposed to mean? And about where in the story are we? I don´t mean I want it to end soon, quite the contrary, the longer the better, I love long books.

[Aetius the Last Roman]

Once again lady frog I am thoroughly impressed. :2thumbsup:

I only got my internet up just 2 days ago and have fervently had to read up on the last 10 posts or so.

Its nice to see the plot finally going full circle. Is Sir Miles going to become a fully-fledged character, it looks like his counsel to Hugh is getting far too important to cut him out of the final scenes.

[frogbeastegg]

It might be different this time. It might. By nature Jocelyn knew he tended towards optimism, but still, maybe, just maybe … Damn it; two sizeable new castles, vast tracts of land, a count’s title, and that stinking promise to his wife – if that wasn’t enough what would be?

The grinding of iron-bound timber on stone runners coupled with the rattle of chains as the portcullis raised to admit his troop into Saint Maur. It was a sound with no hope in it. Jocelyn took it as an omen and glumly resigned himself to another of his traditional frosty homecomings. Optimistic, yes, but not so daft he’d run head first into a wall many times over in the hopes it might not hurt every time.

His horse’s hoof beats echoed back at him as he rode through the gatehouse tunnel. Then he was through into the inner bailey, turned the corner into the bailey proper, and there they were. Richildis, neatly turned out as ever, and Mahaut. No sign of Thierry though, which struck him as damned odd.

Mahaut waited just long enough for his horse to stop before she squealed ,”Papa!” and tried to run to him. She was jerked back by the hold her mother had on the neck of her dress.

Jocelyn muttered an oath as he dismounted; damned woman wanted to ruin even the one enjoyable part of this whole wretched business. In return he completely ignored Richildis, and went to kneel before his daughter instead.

Mahaut held up her arms, begging to be picked up. Beaming, Jocelyn obliged, although his valiant effort nearly ended abruptly when she pleaded, “Can I have a new crucifix, Papa? One made of gold with jewels and pearls and pretty patterns and stuff all over it? Please; I’ll be ever so good, I promise.” Jocelyn nearly dropped her at her next pronouncement. “I want to be a nun.”

Richildis filled the gap quite decently, which was just as well as Jocelyn was trying not to roar, “Not a chance in hell!” “Mahaut,” she scolded, “I told you not to bother your father with that the instant he got home.”

The child tightened her hold around Jocelyn’s neck so she was half throttling him to make putting her down difficult, and craned back over her shoulder to look at her mother. “But he’s been home for a really long time because he’s come all the way from outside, through the outer bits of the castle and all the way up here. It’s a big castle, so it takes ages to get anywhere in it.” She turned one of her heart-melting smiles on her father. “Please can I have that nice crucifix? Please? I’ll be ever so careful with it.”

“No.” He lowered her back until her feet touched the ground, but she didn’t loose her hold.

“But I can’t be a nun without one!”

“You’re not going to be a nun,” said Jocelyn firmly. Alright, so in that case he wouldn’t need to worry about oily hands getting too close to his precious daughter, and certainly it’d save him the trouble of finding her a husband whom he wouldn’t want to kill – that alone promised to send him grey, then bald, then dead of a seizure – and he had nothing but admiration for those who dedicated their lives to God – hadn’t he given one of his sons to the church? – but the idea stuck in his gut on the way down and no amount of coughing would move it. Wonderful in every way though He might be, Jesus was a chronic absentee husband, and not one for a merry life.

Mahaut decided it was in her favour to let go and burst into tears. “But I want to!” she wailed loudly.

Richildis shooed her husband out of the way and knelt next to her sobbing child herself. She gathered Mahaut into her arms. “Nuns have to wear really boring clothes.”

“I’ll find you a nice count, maybe even a duke for you,” soothed Jocelyn. “Someone just like in the stories.” Not bloody likely – he’d cut the legs off any slimy git getting within a mile of her! But politics dictated he continue in a different tone. “Handsome, rich, brave, and deeply in love with you.” So, a slimy git with a gift for fooling ladies. Not! Bloody! Likely!

Mahaut’s tears slowed and she raised her face from her mother’s skirts. “But he’ll still be just really annoying and bothersome.”

In an undertone Richildis informed him, “Thierry put worms down her clothes the day after you left.”

“And I don’t want to be kidnapped – it’s really scary!”

Another quiet explanation, “Then he and the other two pages played ‘damsel in distress’ with some of the other boys. Guess who the unwitting damsel was …”

Mahaut hiccoughed. “I don’t like all the running about with bowls of soup and bandages and everything either, because it’s hard work and boring anyway, and all you get is shouted at..”

“That’s the king; he’s not a good patient.”

“And it’s all nothing but work!”

“That would be me. This castle is in a right state, and I won’t leave it as such.”

“I thought being a lady was all nice and about dancing and hunting and fun things, but it’s not. It’s boring. It’s hard work, and it’s full of annoying people too. So I’d rather be a nun.” Mahaut smiled in an adorably shaky way through eyes which still shone with tears, using every drop of charm she had. “Please? And the crucifix too, because I can’t be a nun without one.”

Jocelyn ruffled her hair, more immune to arrows than he was to that look. “But being a nun is even more boring, and a lot more work. There’s a lot of praying, and you have to eat in silence, and the food is boring. There’s never any dances or feasts. You won’t see any tournaments either.”

Mahaut didn’t straighten her hair out again as she usually did; her lip quavered, then she erupted into more noisy tears. “But that sounds even worse!”

“It’ll all be perfectly alright. I’ll find you a nice husband, and I’ll let you refuse any you don’t like. If you find someone you do like then I’ll let you marry them instead.” Please God that wouldn’t come back to haunt him later!

Richildis said soothingly, “You can have servants to do almost all the work for you, as I told you. I don’t like doing that myself, but you could if you wanted.”

Mahaut’s tears slowed, then stopped; she scuffled her toe in the dirt as she thought. “Well … can I have a pony then? A lady can’t really walk everywhere, and I haven’t got one yet, and you did say I could have one when I was big and I’m big now.” Jocelyn found himself of the receiving end of another watery smile. “Please?”

“Oh … I suppose so.” Four years old and bloody formidable; he almost dreaded to think what his daughter would be like at marriageable age. For the first time Jocelyn considered the fact the suitors might need protection from her, and not the other way around. God damn and hell, it was a frightening thought.

Mahaut cheered and flung her arms about Jocelyn’s legs in a hug, nearly bringing him crashing to the ground. “Thank you!” She scampered off before Jocelyn could find anything to say.

He gathered his breath, then asked Richildis, “Thierry?”

“In the armoury cleaning armour under supervision until I say otherwise.”

“I’ll see him later. Jean?”

“The baby was the only one who behaved nicely even for a day of the time you were gone, although Thierry and Mahaut both did better than our sovereign king.” The subject of the children at an end the bit of friendliness turned into the usual distant formality, “Welcome home, my lord. Your bath awaits.”

A bath. Potentially so agreeable, but dear Tildis was never any fun, so the only benefit was in washing off the grime of a day in the saddle. Thrilling. Jocelyn led the way with her at his side.

Midway up the stairs to their private rooms she told him, “The wedding between Elianora and the count’s son is arranged for the day after tomorrow; it will be held here at Saint Maur. The guests will begin to arrive tomorrow, and preparations are well in hand.”

“What?” yelped Jocelyn.

“You did tell me to do as necessary there.”

Yes, he had said something like that. But he hadn’t told her to finalise things without even warning him. What if this hadn’t been convenient, or to his liking? And talk about infringing on his rights! Was it worth putting up with her sulking if he beat her? Probably not, he concluded. He generously decided not to even thump her about the ear; it wouldn’t improve his chances of getting a slightly warmer welcome after his bath. “You should have had the decency to send me a messenger so I knew.”

“I didn’t see the point; you were expected home yesterday evening so a messenger would have been wasted. You could have told me that you weren’t coming home then.”

“I decided to spend the night in my new acquisition rather than rush back; I was tired after the battle, as were my men. Besides, I’d need to settle the new castellan into place, and see what shape the place was in.”

She didn’t reply, and he didn’t bother to say anything more. In the solar she began to help him out of his armour; duty rather than any desire to set him at his ease. He endured her dispassionate handling while his mind wandered through a variety of subjects.

“Tell me of the king,” he demanded, as his clothing began to be shed.

“Much as my last message; healing but fractious. He has several messages, but we’ve not let him have them for fear it will make him worse. Even a small upset could be enough to push him backwards into death.”

Once he stood bare-chested in just his braes and hose she gave the large bruise on his shoulder and upper arm a cursory inspection, followed by the half healed crossbow wound. It wasn’t doing too badly; the recent action had upset it so the torn flesh was red and puffy, but praise be there was still no sign of bad infection.

She again didn’t pass comment, and disappeared into the bedchamber to get him clean clothes. It was a damned neat excuse, Jocelyn thought sourly as he stripped off his remaining garments, to avoid helping him the rest of the way.

He sunk into the tub of hot water with an absurd grin on his face. Of all the privileges of rank and money this had to be among the best; he fully intended to soak until his toes wrinkled. If he could find a way to get a back massage out of his wife then so much the better. If he could get her to lose her own clothes and join him, that would be about perfect. Also impossible; the one time he’d managed something close to that he’d had to pull her off balance while she washed him so she fell in fully clothed. The shrieking had been nasty, and he’d parted with a fortune on a bolt of velvet to get her to stop brooding. Ah well.

When she returned Richildis set his new clothes to one side and began to wash his back. Massage it wasn’t. “Confound it, woman! You’re taking half my skin off!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” she replied tartly.

Jocelyn glowered at his kneecaps and muttered a few unpleasant words about women.

Wordlessly she took up one of the two jugs of warm water and came to pour it over his head so she could wash his hair. Jocelyn closed his eyes and waited in anticipation of something rather different to what he got; she dumped the jug over his head in one go, banging him on the crown with the bronze. Above the roar of water in his ears he heard her shout, “Faithless bastard!”

“Tildis!” he protested, getting a mouthful of water from the excess slopping from his hair. He clawed at his sodden mane until his vision was cleared and lumbered to his feet. “Damn it, you bloody stupid miserable bitch! Now what are you up to?”

“Oath breaker!” She hurled the jug at him.

Still half blinded by water and hair he didn’t dodge well enough, and it caught him on the arm. He also happened to step into the side of the wooden tub, his momentum carrying him on backward so he lost his balance and fell. The tub went with him, and water flooded the solar in a respectably sized wave.

Jocelyn lay stunned, his body reporting pain from numerous sources. He tested his limbs to see if he’d broken anything, then pushed himself up. The damned woman looked terrified, and that went some small way to reducing his immediate desire to kill her. “Explain. Now. I don’t care to bloody wait until you wake up from my beating you unconscious to find out what in Christ’s name is the matter with you!”

“Your face. You broke your promise, you bastard!”

Jocelyn raised a hand to touch the area in question, and his fingertips encountered a set of scabs disappearing into his closely cropped beard. They had been collected yesterday evening courtesy of some finely cared for nails. He’d forgotten about the scratches shortly after they’d stopped stinging. Damned typical; trouble with a woman about a woman caused by a woman, and with him trapped in the middle of it, entirely – well, mostly - innocent.

“While I’ve been working my fingers to the bone doing all the hard work you’ve been off acting like a stud in heat! Your word is completely worthless!”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” roared Jocelyn.

He fear seemed entirely forgotten now; she screamed, “Oath breaker! Liar! Faithless cur!”

“Mad cow!” This time it was her turn to sprawl on the floor; he knocked her flying with a single blow. He let her crawl away and get up; if he was going to put up with weeks of sulking because he’d beaten her he damned well wanted it to be worth the bother, and sure as Satan was an ugly pig he didn’t want her to make a habit of this.

“That’s why you were late home.”

“No it damned well wasn’t,” he insisted at the top of his voice.

“Oh, so I suppose it was a hawk that raked you?” She laughed scornfully. “More like your usual plan of rape and pillage went awry.”

“Saint Paul and a pot of pottage!” he swore. “I kept that ten times damned promise, though I wish now I hadn’t.” The peasant didn’t count, so he had in fact kept it. Being completely in the right for once was a heady feeling.

“Ha!”

“It was de Issoudun’s wife-” Suddenly stopping her from braining him again with the pitcher seemed more important than explaining himself. He blocked, twisted her arm till she dropped the vessel, then sent her reeling away with a well aimed backhand.

Showing some actual sense the blasted woman cowered away from him instead of attacking again. But she didn’t shut up. “Another of your former sluts. So you admit it now, you animal!”

“Tildis, dear Tildis, people don’t claw faces in moments of passion, and if you were anything but a living icicle you’d know that.”

“Swine! Don’t blame me for your failings!”

“Your failing,” he corrected.

“You’re the one with the clawed face where your ‘charms’ didn’t work.”

“Considering she’s still quite keen on me it’d be a bit odd if I’d raped her, don’t you think? God’s balls, she’s noble anyway. She wanted to nibble my ear and plot her husband’s murder, but she wasn’t at all happy when I said I only played ‘love and murder’ with my wife now.” Jocelyn produced his best smug smile, loving the lack of a need to invent an excuse as he went for once. “So you’re wrong, you hellcat!”

“A likely story.”

“I suffer for days, turn down one enthusiastic lady and pass by a selection of promising looking ones, and what do I get? Not even a kiss to welcome me home, just suspicion and a ruined bath.”

“Burn in hell!”

“Lies get you sent to hell, not the honest truth, you stupid witch!”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I’m a man of honour and all that inconvenient rubbish, and I promised you I’d behave like an insipid little boy.” The solar fire blazed, but the room had a slight draught and Jocelyn was still wet. He was shivering now; the wretched spectacle he must make made him wish rather urgently for some clothes. “Don’t know why you care anyway,” he muttered.

Richildis blushed and looked away. “You weren’t supposed to upset the bath. You won’t blame me for that.”

“I damned well will – you heaved a jug at my head!”

“But it was your own fault you dodged so clumsily.”

Jocelyn tisked. “Dear, dear. Avoiding the question. I might begin to get the notion you’re jealous but are too embarrassed to say it.” Behind his back he crossed his fingers.

She snorted. “Put some clothes on; there are some sights a person shouldn’t see on a full stomach.”

Women! All this fuss, and why? If she had said even one word about this all coming from a caring for him he would have forgotten the entire matter and been delighted, although it’d have taken some work to convince him thanks to her usual very frigid reception. If she’d grumbled about people laughing at her again because of his wandering, or apologised, or asked for mercy he’d have given it. But she didn’t, so he didn’t. He got dressed, then laid into her with his belt until the yowling began to make his ears hurt, which didn’t take all that long; Tildis had never been good at suffering in silence. Job done, he left her to pay a cordial visit to his son to instruct him on the finer points of not behaving like a complete horror.

A few minutes later he left the armoury too, feeling like a right cruel bastard. A right cruel bastard whose poor arm was beginning to tire. At least the boy didn’t make much noise, there was something to be said for that. He stomped off to see his baby son.

Cradling Jean in his arms, Jocelyn tickled the boy’s stomach with a finger and cooed, “You’re the only nice one; yes, you are. Your sister is trying to empty my coffers, and your mother and big brother are both made me feel wretched. At least you’re pleased to see me. Yes, you are.”

Jean took a deep breath and started to wail for all he was worth. Then Jocelyn felt the dampness reach his skin.

A couple of minutes later Jocelyn shot out of the nursery like a scolded cat, having left his squalling, purpled-faced and damp son to the tender care of his nurse. He resignedly headed back to his bedchamber to collect a new tunic and shirt to replace his current piss soaked ones. The brief contact with his wife started him wondering what expensive thing to buy as a peace offering this time.

It was hard work, this family business.

The king, when Jocelyn finally got to him, was looking better. The bandage was gone from his head, leaving the ugly wound open for all to see. It emerged from his hairline and curved down his temple in a jagged, untidy line, terminating just past where his cheekbone started. It was going to leave a nasty scar, that was for certain. He still looked pale and emaciated, but the fact he was obviously alive was encouraging. Previously he’d looked like a body ready for burial.

The king’s head turned to see who this new visitor was. “You.” His voice was weaker, but not badly so. Probably the tenderness of his broken ribs. “That wife of yours is a menace.”

Jocelyn controlled his face with supreme effort; his damned wife was his damned wife, and no one would damn well complain about her except him, damn it! Except the king, whom he couldn’t stop. “I know, Sire.”

“I have messages. She refuses to let me have them.”

“For the good of your health, Sire. We are all very worried.”

The king’s blue eyes became beseeching. “Tell me, how do things stand?”

“I’m holding things here, but as for further afield I couldn’t say. Most know you live, but I’ve disposed of one rebel who thought otherwise.”

“England?”

“I don’t know, Sire. I’m sorry.”

A hand stretched up from the bedside where it lay to clutch weakly at Jocelyn’s. “My messages, maybe they will say …”

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Jocelyn repeated again.

“My daughter will have married my friend by now. And my son, my wife … Please. I worry already, and cannot do so more, no matter what news they bring.”

Jocelyn had to admit he was surprised; he’d always had the impression the man hadn’t cared one bit for his youngest child, and the son was a man now, well able to care for himself. The wife? Having possession of one of his own Jocelyn knew you couldn’t do a thing with them, but for some reason that defied identification you couldn’t exactly live comfortably without them. But still, this was the fearsome King William of England, sixth of that name; it was near impossible to picture a man of his reputation worrying about his very young wife.

As if reading his mind the king sighed. “It is hard to be a king at present. I am only a man, an old, old man who has stared death in the face and found he can no longer laugh at the Reaper.” His eyes lost their focus on anything in the here and now for a bit. Then he sighed again. “Tell me,” he asked softly, “How bad is it? Will I be left watching my wife struggle to hide her revulsion?”

Jocelyn took his time in answering, not sure what the best course would be. Did he flatter the man? Give him the honest truth? Try and avoid answering in any case? “It’s … it will be the first really noticeable scar on your face.”

The king ran the tip of his index finger over the scab, tracing it from top to bottom, hairline to cheek, with a practised ease which said he had done the same many times. “I am not a vain man; I was never handsome. But when I go home … You know my dream? If I were solely a man, and never a king? To return home to find my wife waiting, my children there too. Waiting because they are eager to see me again. A home I would not want to leave, or often need to. I would ride in through the gate …”

“And she would come running, catching you the moment both your feet touched the ground,” finished Jocelyn, in the distracted tone of a man mostly lost in his own imaginings.

The king smiled, his first genuine smile so far as Jocelyn knew since his accident. The strained lines about eyes and mouth relaxed and new lines creased the skin, but etching joy, not pain and sorrow. Then it became a wistful expression. “It would ruin it all, if she stopped in horror the moment she saw your face.”

Or if she waited through duty alone, and never moved a step.

“Will my Anne stop?”

“If she’s a frail heart, yes,” answered Jocelyn honestly. To lie now in this strange little conversation would be almost blasphemous. “But if she’s got sense, no, not beyond the first shock of seeing how you were hurt.”

The king’s body sagged back in relief. “That poor little girl,” he murmured. He set his face and the soft spot vanished as if it had never been. “Give me my letters.”

“Sire …”

The king turned to study Jocelyn again. Intelligence gleamed in the depths of his eyes; measuring, assessing, judging with regal hauteur. Then they softened. “Please.”

Jocelyn inclined his head. “Sire.”






The count returned with two messages, both still sealed. William dismissed the man, desiring to read in peace. One from Trempwick; one from Hugh. It was hard to decide which to begin with, but in the end he laid his son’s missive aside and began to struggle to open the other with hands that had nothing of their old surety. Trempwick never wrote to pass the time of day; if he thought it worth sending a letter than something of import was happening, and his sense of import precisely matched William’s own.

By the time he had fumbled the leather thong free and the message could be spread William’s hands were trembling from the strain. Because of his eyes he had to hold the parchment some distance from his face, and that effort set his arms shaking too. That made it difficult to read, and that only forced him to hold the pose for longer, increasing the shaking, making it harder to read, and so on in an ever-increasing circle.

The message was thankfully brief, but by the end William was sucking in a deep lungful of air to roar his outrage. His ribs and broken shoulder exploded into fiery pain before he managed more than enough for a single curse, so he accepted what he could. “God’s teeth!” It was more speaking loudly than shouting, and the last word ended on a squeak, but he felt better for it.

The brat had twisted Hugh about her little finger and defied his will yet again! There was no other explanation, even if Trempwick reported that Hugh had been led by bad council. She was supposed to be married now. Hugh had not allowed it. She was with Hugh. Simple. Obvious. Oh, why did it have to be that his daughter was the one to run rings about his son and heir?! Why could Hugh not have been the one to possess her gifts? It burned like bile to admit that, even to himself in the safety of his own mind.

Despair mixed with his fury and lent it a bittersweet edge. This was to be his legacy, then, this was what he would leave behind after a life’s work. The proof his worst fears may prove true. The boy simply could not manage it; he was not fit for the task inescapably before him. It would all have been for nothing. William had fought, bled, worked and lived for nothing because so little would survive him by even a year.

William scowled at the foot of his bed. Trempwick had failed him; he had been convinced the brat no longer had opposition to the wedding, and would cooperate. Although perhaps he might have been right, if she had not been wrested from his grasp by an inane order from Hugh. What in the devil’s name had the boy been thinking!? On the surface his excuse of calling her in to attire her fittingly, and so on, was well enough, but this was the brat! Hugh must have believed he could control her, despite William’s warnings.

William opened his son’s letter brutally, ripping the fastening away. He held it up and read at speed, anger lending him strength. In disgust he cast the letter to the great mass of unoccupied space in his large bed. The brat had done her work well; Hugh went on vaguely and meekly about something of import which he couldn’t speak of. Pointless! Promises to explain this grievous breach of the should-be were not nearly good enough. He wondered if the boy even knew why he was delaying the wedding, or if he had been fooled into it without actually understanding sufficiently to describe it to another.

How the brat must be laughing! First at her victory, second at his inability to intervene in the near future. God alone knew what she hoped to accomplish by this. Well, she wouldn’t be laughing for long.

He filled his lungs as much as he dared, and shouted, “Service!”

The speed at which Lionel responded told William that his physician had been out outside the door, waiting like a faithful hound. His eyes fell on the opened messages. “Damn that man! I knew it best that you did not see them, but he would not hear of it.”


“I am well enough, more than well enough,” said William through clenched teeth. “I have some purpose now, and you should know nothing will have me mend faster than a need. Fetch my clerk, and do not force me to waste my strength in fighting with you, for I shall have my way in the end.”

The first missive William dictated on his clerk’s arrival was to his son. “Get your sister married to Trempwick at once, and with no more excuses. I care not! I have made my decision, and my will shall be done. Disobey my express order again and you will regret it dearly.” As he trusted the clerk implicitly he didn’t need to concern himself with couching his message in neater terms; Geoffrey had taken down many more sensitive letters in his years of service.

He made a second for Trempwick. “Be ready for your wedding, for I have ordered it again, and in terms that none will dare defy. Have her returned to your hands as a priority; keep a close guard on her until my homecoming.”

He began to plot a way from this prison of fussing people so he might return to England as soon as possible, even if it meant travelling by litter like a feeble old woman.





Most of that Jocelyn scene shouldn’t be funny, but it is. Interesting ….


Yup, that’s one scene in one post. It’s actually fairly short for my standards at only 7 pages in MS Word. I’ve done some twice as long.


Trempy’s thoughts had me worried because … well, he speaks nicely, but underlying it is this linguistically crude, fragmented set of thoughts. Often something which would be one or two fluid lines of dialogue end up as a series of fragmented sentences, which then skip off on a tangent with no warning. The very usual thing, in my reading experience, for displaying a supposedly intelligent character’s thoughts is to go elaborate and flowery, taking the time to really polish up the English language and use your thesaurus until it groans – to think rather like Hugh speaks, but with plenty of explanation for the reader. That explanation is often done as if the reader is so stupid they couldn’t work anything out unless it was spelled out.

Trempy doesn’t do that. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Mind you, he doesn’t stick to many other examples for his loose character type. He’s not obviously evil, despite being Nell’s main opposition now, and you couldn’t call him the villain even if he is in the space traditionally occupied by that role. He might not be amazingly intelligent by real life standards, but by fictional standards he’s well ahead of the usual suspects and their Bond-villainesque ‘plans’.

The vast majority of the fiction I read has a battle or fight of some sort at some point, even if it is only a simple fist fight which lasts not even half a page. It seems nearly impossible to write historical fiction or fantasy without it, but that’s the nature of the plots, worlds, characters, and of real history. Only the odd mystery book, like the Cadfael series, escapes, and then only on occasion.

It’s a matter of practise; I just haven’t written many of them. That's how I learned almost everything about writing; I don't know a thing about technicalities, and I can't explain what I do because it's all on the level of instinct. I read, and that must help, but I don't conciously imitate anything at all, major or minor. It's all 100% pure frog. Give me chance to write more battles and fights and I'll do better and feel better about it, but I can't simply write them as stand alone practise peices for some reason. It has to be part of a greater whole, like this story. Same thing with mush, that other major area in need of amphibian practise.

I did read a bit of Black Arrow when I was about 13, but the book vanished before I could finish. I’ve not found it again yet. I tried to read Scott’s ‘Ivanhoe’ but the historical accuracy is so dire I can’t stomach it. As a writer he didn’t strike me badly.


This is the latest fanclub listing from the paradox forums, updated as of today with the brand new Miles fanclub. I’ve also added Ciaran to the Jocelyn fanclub on this listing, but forgot to do so with the other. Next time I update the story, then.
Fanclub updates:
Trempy: 3 members
Anne: 2 members (wishing for a hangover cure)
Fulk: 5 members (limbering up)
Nell: 6 members (fretting about knights doing their own stunts)
Godit: 5 members
Constance: 1 member
Hugh: 1 member
Jocelyn: 4 members
Miles: 1 member (enjoying a glass or five of fine wine in celebration)
Anti-Trempy: 2 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member
Anti-Hugh: 1 member

Yes, I add in comments about various characters in brackets on a sort of random basis. It’s not planned on any basis; I just find myself adding them when I update the listings. It’s their reaction to something, either in the story or in the reader’s comments, usually in that alternate, comedy version of the world. Hence things like being listed as Nell bothering Fulk behind the scenes, while Fulk in turn is listed as stewing in his own juices, and Godit appears as sulking over Nell’s ability to bother Fulk.


Full circle … you know, I hadn’t thought of that until it was mentioned. Yes, I suppose in some way it is. Sir Miles will be … well, wait and see :gring:

[frogbeastegg]

Oh, I forgot to explain that the numbers are the viewcount as I go to post each part. I track it for very mild reasons of curiosity. It's not something I obsess over, and if you look specifically for it you'll see that about a quarter of the time I forget to include it. Speaking of which:

6, 381.

Each part is not a chapter; it's just a convenient blob of the story of about the right length to post and completed at about the right interval to post a new section. If I were planning to divide this up into chapters I think I would do so after the whole work was completed, making it the final thing after all the editing etc. That way I would be able to find the best places for a stopping place, or to draw the reader on.

[frogbeastegg]

Here's an uncanny discovery. I found this (http://womenshistory.about.com/library/etext/bl_cf_ee_003b.htm) a short whole ago while looking for something. That's quite the resemblence to Nell as I've always seen her, except she is too stiff and stately, and the book should be dumped. It's the face which isn't quite right; the rest is very close indeed, for a more formally attired version of her royal gooseberryness.

:starts printing a copy off to stick on her wall:

[frogbeastegg]

The Welshman was hardly what one might call presentable. Filthy, and he stank; he wore simple garments of homespun in what must have been a medley of greens, browns and reds at the start of his journey. A fine envoy from one great lord to another. But he had made the trip travelling day and night with never more than an hour’s rest. That was indeed fine.

Trempwick told him, “You have done well. Rest now; you can begin your return journey tomorrow. My hospitality, such as it is here, is yours.” Such as it is indeed; Woburn was being stripped to the bone. His secrets were already safely away, dispatched within hours of his knowing he must openly go against the bastard. But he would not leave even a stool here for his enemies to pick over. He would never be back, not as he once was. Success and this little place would be insufficient for more than a passing visit with wife and a small entourage. Failure and death or exile beckoned. It was … a shame.

The man shook his head, begrimed curls too stiff with dried sweat and dust to bob at the motion. “No. I go at once. My lord will have need of me.”

“As you like. At the least we can provide you with a fresh horse and a bag of food for the road.”

Leaving the man to the care of his servants, Trempwick entered the manor building one last time. He passed through empty room after echoing empty room until he reached his study. The room where it had all begun? Or where he had merely drawn together the many fragments? Yes; the latter. Here, a few short months after bringing her from the palace, he had found he knew his princess was far more able than her brothers. Even the dead Stephan, who had been the best of the three, arrogant and overconfident wretch that he was. Oh, how it had rankled to be hated by Nell for disposing of that brat of a boy. She could make a worthy heir where they could not. And her mind combined with his … what could be accomplished! If he trained her rightly, what could be accomplished! Even then the bastard had been paralysed by the weight on his shoulders. Even then John had been pointless. So he had begun to shape a brighter future than that which convention promised. Year upon year of slow, patient, careful work. Work on Nell. Work on William. On the bastard. On all players of any significance, potential or import. Working slowly, so slowly, so very patiently.

Teaching her had been a joy. Seeing her grow had been fascinating. Watching her learn, gratifying. Good and pleasing in many aspects. Having a worthy person with whom to talk. Company, of an agreeable sort. A challenge too, from time to time. Someone he could spent time with as it suited him. A change from the more mindless devotion of his carefully chosen chief underlings. It had been pleasant, having an apprentice sat at his feet. The respect he had won from her, inspiring. The hatred, stimulating. The knowing he had stolen a father’s place in her heart, so good … until she turned it back on him; incest! The grudging acknowledgement of his mastery over her, satisfying. She had disappointed him by retaining the slender hips of practically a child instead of filling out into something substantially more useful. His hopes of a dynasty had died, only to be replaced with visions of an heir like Augustus: a person selected for merit and taken into the family. If such had served the Caesars then it would do glory to him and his. Ability seldom ran in the blood anyway. Though a child of his own could have proven interesting. Or simply disappointing.

Nell would have made a good successor for him as king’s spymaster, if he had not had greater things in mind for her. That had originally been more his intent in taking her. That and curiosity, and a glimmer of appreciation for the girl. He would have won William over to that, in time, if it had been his wish. But not to making her heir to the crown. Shame. Limited vision which focused less on the capabilities of each child and more on gender. Yes, a queen would be highly unusual. But it was not unthinkable! And it was better, here and now, and given the alternatives.

It was what was better – and the human cattle would call him traitor if they knew of his work! Their minds incapable of comprehending what he did, they would fall back to simplicity. But he was not a traitor! That thought was savage in its intensity. To support the bastard would be treachery, to his friend, to the realm he knew he could better, to Nell who would be wasted, and to himself, he who knew[I] and [I]thought and struggled on lonely in that. But they would bleat the bastard should be king, though he had no talent for it, no right to it, no true thought on it, and no decent future as it. Fools. So yes, he was a traitor by their terms, and his mind lent a sneering twist to the word. Better to be that than another fool in a mass of fools.

And now it was all thrown because of an animal! That still galled beyond his belief. He had planned for mischance, disaster, the whims and wills of God, stupidity on the part of others, and all else that beset mankind. But to have it all come from a mindless beast? Indignity! A bit of meat destined for the table had placed him in this delicate position. A future spit roast had in part influenced the destiny of one of the mightiest kingdoms in current existence. It was too much to be borne. And yet it was the same idiotic happenchance that had blighted time and again even some of the best, throughout history. There was some comfort in that. It was a setback, no more.

It was humiliating.

He stood at the second window, as he often had, thinking. Missing his fireside chair in his bedchamber. This place had been his home for fourteen years, barring the occasions which had necessitated his public appearance for a variety of reasons. A grant from his king. One which suited him far better than the title Earl of Northumberland, or any such other. While the titles gave him wealth and power Woburn gave him sanctuary. Here he could think without endless noise and bother impinging. He could ignore much of the clutter than came with titles. What need had he for endless demonstrations of wealth and status? The power, the influence, the control – that was it. Not the clothes, or the meals, or the entourages, or the granting of gifts, or any of that.

He could have worked instead to gain a similar standing with the bastard as he had with William, or even stronger influence. Of course he could. He could even have ruled through the bastard, with a bit of work. But it would be so unworthy. Not that he desired all to know his work for his own. But that he would serve only those who were fit for it. Idiots and fools could destroy the very soul. They asked no worthy questions. They followed blindly, or opposed equally blindly. They contributed nothing of use unless you chose to exploit their wealth and other such unintellectual details. They could not surprise him with their own insight or thoughts. They needed watching at all times, and could handle nothing reliably on their own initiative, no matter how small and trivial. Then they would dig in their heels at the worst moment, endangering all and not even seeing it. Some breeds, of which the bastard was one, allowed notions such as chivalry and honour to get in their way.

Honour; Trempwick snorted. Honour was well enough at times and in ways, but better to remove a dangerous foe with a knife in the dark than to honourably allow him to continue and destroy you. Chivalry, ha! All about forfeiting advantages, ignoring optimal tactics. Prancing about playing games. If you had the skill and fortune to unhorse your opponent during a duel why in the devil’s name should you throw that away and dismount yourself to continue on even footing? Or ride away and let the other go? If you cause your foe to lose his sword, let him fight on with his dagger or surrender. Letting him pick his blade up again defeats the whole purpose of disarming him in the first instance! Trempwick’s mouth twisted to a wry smile. Ah, but the honourable opponent would yield upon losing his sword. Why? If the other were fool enough, and if you were not outclassed, why not take up your sword and then take your victory? Yield when you cannot win or it is expedient to do so, then find another way to your victory. But that was neither chivalrous or honourable. It was sensible. It was fortunate that many of knightly rank proved more sensible than chivalrous or honourable. Trempwick felt he would go quite mad, otherwise. But still the majority were contaminated to some degree or another.

Mind you, honour had provided him with the delightful excuse to part ways with the bastard. Earl of Northumberland gave him the status to place him in the very upper echelon of society, and other such necessary details. Which was why he had arranged to get it. That, and the strategic implications.

Trempwick closed his eyes and summoned up the map of England he had burned into his memory while still a boy and supplemented with travel and experience once grown. Here was Northumberland, creating a solid barrier between England and Scotland. If Scotland took the bastard’s part the two would not be able to combine without circumventing or destroying this barrier. Which would not be easy. He had sent feelers to Scotland often enough, but he had managed no more than a few troublesome lords. Their king refused to budge. A wily man. Wanted to keep free for his own best gain. But now there was the matter of his daughter … His male cousin had ambition. Ambition was so seldom choosy about allies. A King of Scotland with divided interests between home and England would be easier for a cousin and his supporters to defeat. The daughter may prove useful too, being as she had a fondness for Nell. That in addition to the usual hostage worth, bargaining power, influence, more. No practical aid from Scotland, only chaos that limited the aid provided to his enemy. That had value.

Here was Wales and the border with England. Here was Hereford, his ally. This strip of border land was under his control. This belonged to Chester, an enemy. In the middle various lesser Marcher lords on one side or another, but none so powerful as those main two. Here were the lands firmly controlled by the Duke of Gwynedd. He would rise, but cautiously. His sons but one were hostage and in the bastard’s control. So covert support from him, no more. Thus the messenger had promised: arms, men, money, and all as ‘mercenaries’ and ‘raiders’. In return he would free those hostages as soon as may be, releasing the duke to come openly to his side. A man only needed one son. Dead sons called for vengeance. The slayer would be the bastard. Convenient. And Trempwick would have tried so hard to save them. And he might do so yet. If it were opportune.

But here, and here, and here were the other three Welsh primaries. This one was firmly on Trempwick’s side. A bastard brother to the current duke, wanting to enlarge his domains, and knowing he could do so if he nibbled away at his neighbour, Chester’s, holdings. The enemy of your enemy is your friend, and said enemy is unlikely to take from you your hard won conquests to return them to your joint foe. That one was a fence-sitter, a ditherer. He would join whichever side looked most likely to win once there was surety in it. This one was also eager to raid English lands, but sadly his widowed mother had married Chester’s younger brother, making them kin. He would stand with his family and attack Trempwick’s allies. Meanwhile the duke would try to control the three and bring them back under his rule. The bastard would need to devote much to the border, and would lose in prestige if he could not bring them to heel quickly. Given the right conditions a Welsh army could enter England to join with Trempwick’s own forces, or those of his other allies. This simplified, ignoring the smaller lords whose part he had no wish to repeat to himself again.

Wales and the border were always tangled. Too much intermarriage. Too much power in the Marcher lord’s hands. And such a barbarous people, the Welsh. Strange. Odd warfare too. Odd soldiers; ragtag savages, excepting what passed for their nobles. Requiring careful usage away from their home. But then also very disposable soldiers. Only the archers had worth. It was archers he would be provided. Along with many other considerations …

Now, here were his holdings in Kent. Well placed to threaten London, Waltham, and other strategic locations in the south and east.

This was London. The mayor had been brought; there would be no Westminster coronation for the bastard. The ceremonial crown was held securely also, the lesser one with William. Important – once anointed the bastard would be so much harder to remove. A pushy common man eager for the social advancement Trempwick had carefully promised. Born a merchant with a merchant’s soul, buying and selling was easy for the mayor. Which was why reliable men were placed about him, to tactfully prevent him selling his soul elsewhere for more. The Londoners themselves … he had done the necessary. Division in the city’s loyalties: inevitable. Measures: taken. Situation: as secure as could be managed at present. More his city than the bastard’s. This before their future king stole his father’s friend’s wife, his own sister. That would go down poorly in the proud city.

Canterbury lay here. The Archbishop was recalcitrant. A pompous old windbag. But Trempwick had success with the Archbishop of York, whose seat was there. They would cancel each other out, nearly. Canterbury was more prestigious and technically the primary. But York thought to gain that position, with some help. A monarch had good say in his next archbishop. Gifts and sweet words were already on their way to the Pope, thirty days good travel distant in Rome.

The Earl of Norfolk had strong castles at these points, and could threaten these parts. Norfolk made no pretence of honour, unlike Hereford. Simply, he thought he would gain more under a queen than a king. As did many of Trempwick’s allies. The queen they placed on the throne would surely be grateful to them, and thus generous with the defeated’s land, titles, goods, kin, and all. Queens could not lead armies. They could not fight their own battles, guard their own borders. By this fact alone there was space for more prestige, more honours, more titles newly created to fill these gaps. And more. Also more hope of greater independence. A queen could hope to exert less control over how her battles were fought and what happened afterwards. She could not assume control of a campaign herself, stealing the glory and plunder. A queen could not crush unruly vassals with her own hand.

Or so it was thought. For now this suited. Later it would be time to show that Nell was no retiring damsel, even if she could not wield a sword. Later she could prove her capability for holding what was hers. A new Ethelfleda, the famous Lady of the English. Trempwick chuckled. It amused him. It truly did. How quickly, how comprehensively these lords forgot the wives defending the family lands while their husbands were away. Or the widows and few unmarried heiresses strong willed and fortunate enough to be free of oppressive guardianship. Oh yes, easy and honest to admit they were sorely disadvantaged in it. Nell would be disadvantaged. But did that mean no hope of success? So it may take a little longer for her to set herself up as one to follow. So she could not fight personally. So she would have need to prove her worth more often. So all would wait for her to fail, then set out to take what they could from her. So she would have to work far harder. But did that make all impossible?

Beating others about the head with a sword was but one facet of the needed. It was the sole one she couldn’t do, given time. Although teaching would be necessary at first, and advisors she should always have. Generals to lead for her. He had planted seeds, taught some, but had never consolidated it or made it open. That would have been dangerous. All aspects of ruling he had taught in some part, covertly. Cautiously. Innocently. Never openly. Never with the aim and reason stated. Always discussions of history, or current events, or similar. Always his own cares spoken of to her reluctantly. And so on. He had much left he had planned to pass on too, his time cut short by that accursed stag. That would have been the consolidation, the final phase before openly turning her mind to ruling. If approached rightly she would see the attraction. He knew she would. If done rightly.

Here, Cornwall. He would not help. Too much, too long a rivalry between his house and Trempwick’s own. He would declare for Hugh simply to strike at Trempwick’s domains, more private warfare than political.

Devon, there, allied to Cornwall via several bonds of blood. Another enemy. Another private war.

But there was Surrey, and his mother was kin to the current earl. Family, bonds of blood, and all that. Powerful tools in making allies. Surrey would come to him. Suitable promises had been made.

Here, the Duke of York’s main stronghold. Uncertain, but likely to swing to his powerful neighbour and his Archbishop, thus becoming another on Trempwick’s side. Well, so long as said neighbour seemed to be winning. York would be fickle; he wanted gain, feared loss, and wished no destruction to come to his lands. He would be pleased enough to lead his men to plunder other lands, and to add a keep or two to his possession. But woe betide his loyalty if so much as one village of his was burned. He would quail. He could also be swung by words, pretty promises, and by the wind itself. Infirm of purpose, and weak! He could be relied upon to hop to wherever he thought he best advantage lay, but without thought for loyalty to one cause or another. Also careless that each time he turned traitor that side would never trust him again, and so he would lessen his gains and be held in contempt.

The Earl of Derby held this, a central location of great potential use. Strategically sound; able to threaten so many other areas. A gathering point in the heart of the country. But a man who would try to remain neutral. Like others of the Midlands; not tied by blood or friendship to either main party, safely away from borders. A conservative trio: Derby, Leicester, Nottingham, the last not an earl but powerful in his own right. They would come when it was to their safe gain. Or perhaps from ambition, but that doubtful. Or friendship or blood tie to another who had declared. But they would be neutral for the start, all clustered together and good friends. Would try to remain neutral, very likely.

Trempwick roused himself from his thinking with a shake of his shoulders. Such indulgence at present was a luxury. He needed to go no more over each and every earl, each and every significant player, each and every strongpoint in all of England, Wales and Scotland, or to begin again the same process for the lands across the Narrow Sea. He had done it all before, time and again. He knew his business. Now he wore his armour for a reason. He had his troop of household bodyguards armed and waiting to move out at his command for a reason. He had messengers flying back and forth to all corners of the realm for a reason. He stood at the heart of a flurry so intense it left him hardly a spare part-hour in the whole day, always was there some instructions to give, some messengers to receive or send, something to oversee, something to do.

Yes, his time had been cut short. Yes, some of his work remained undone. Yes, he had been pressed into action he had not desired. Yes, his carefully laid plans had not come from this intact. Yes, he did have some qualms, some worries, and some doubt. Yes, he did see many ways in which he could fail. Yes, he was back-footed because he still did not have Nell safely in his possession. Yes, he had compensated wherever possible. Yes, he had new plans. Yes, he had used what he now had to his gain. Yes, some very small part of him longed for what had been; for him and Nell and teaching and Woburn’s peace alone. Yes, he was now in the fire along with the bastard, Nell, and all others in this game.

Yes, he could succeed.

And he would.

Nothing was ever forged without fire, heat, sparks, noise, labour and care.

Time to move out again; he had things to settle. Then a rendezvous to keep. His step sure, Trempwick left Woburn’s echoing shell.





The fire spat. An ember fell onto the bare stone in front of the fireplace, and Fulk stretched out a foot to stamp it out while remaining seated at the chess table.

“Show off,” muttered Eleanor.

“Having trouble, oh tactically hasty one?”

“No I am not. I am merely thinking.” She frowned, and Fulk bit the inside of his lower lip to keep his smile under control. “Why is it that I am assumed to be having difficulty because I take a few minutes to think over my strategy? Must I always make my move within seconds of yours? Am I not allowed to think? I am often told I play too hastily, and now I take the advice people – including you, you nonsensical buffoon! – give I must be having difficulty.”

For a moment Fulk teetered, his grin almost escaping him. His goblet of mulled wine had gone cold in her ‘few minutes’. “I can give you a hint or two, if you want.”

“I never take advice from my enemy; it tends to be a trap.”

“I would hope I’m never your enemy, oh light of the brightest sun. It promises to be too uncomfortable, and I’d have to find myself a new employer.”

“Humph,” Eleanor grunted, in an entirely regal and dignified way.

Hawise covered her mouth with a hand and pretended to cough to cover her amusement.

Fulk sighed tolerantly, and settled back again to wait. In covert little snatches, always conscious of the maid’s presence, he indulged in what might be termed ‘admiring his wife’, and most enjoyable it was too. All except her clothes. Because of whatever order Hugh had given her Eleanor had changed into her best clothes; slate grey silk underdress, light grey wool overdress in her usual style, and a new silver and pearl girdle, all gifts from Trempwick, she’d admitted when asked. Gifts, not simple obligation as all the rest had been. Grey, Fulk abruptly decided, didn’t suit her one bit. Oh, very well, yes it did look alright, and it was all tailored precisely to her, and actually the shades were a good choice, and the girdle looked very well with it, but he didn’t like it. Not at all.

Eleanor’s hand reached to one of her bishops. Fulk advised, “You don’t want to do that.”

Her hand paused, hovering over an ivory mitre. “Whyever not?”

“Because in two more turns I’ll get that knight there,” he indicated a piece, “if you move the bishop.”

She resumed thinking, and Fulk resumed waiting and watching. The sooner the first of her new clothes arrived the better. Between the three of them they’d chosen a nice lot of colours and fabrics, none of this nasty grey. In his mind’s eye he substituted the underdress for a rich red damask patterned in a darker shade of red with tiny peacocks hiding in equally small bushes; the overdress became a rich purple velvet. The girdle transformed from silver to gold, the pearls replaced by amethysts. Much better, if she had to dress her place. Fulk still hadn’t made his mind up if he liked that idea or not. The more she took up her birthright the further she got from him. One day she might go somewhere he could not follow; it was far harder now than it had been at the beginning. She wanted a return to the simpler life they’d had at Woburn; he wanted it even more. More still he wished he could rescue her from blood, court and family, and take her away to their combined lands to live in simple peace and quiet. To keep her safe. Even if it were possible, which it wasn’t, she would grow bored with just him, a household to run and nothing else.

Eleanor asked, “Now who is taking a long time?” Fulk looked up, and she nodded at the chess board. “I made my move ages ago; it is your turn.”

They played on.

Because she was playing slowly, putting considerable thought into each move, the game went on past the time they would normally have retired to bed. That was why they were still downstairs when Simon arrived with an urgent message for his lord. “The groom begs your presence, my lord. Sueta’s sick, very sick. Like to die, in truth, and he wants your witness. Colic, he says, and it looks that way to me too, with respect.”

Fulk cursed. If the beast died then he’d be a knight without a warhorse again, and he hadn’t the means to buy another at present. Jesù! He hadn’t had chance to pay even a single instalment on the loan he’d used to buy him in the first place. They were well suited too, and it wouldn’t be easy to find another warhorse with which he had the same affinity.

“Sueta?” asked Hawise.

“My destrier,” he explained shortly.

“But doesn’t that mean-”

“Sweetheart, yes. It’s a pun, because the brute’s got a foul temper.” It was, and a common one too; perfectly safe around those who weren’t privy to certain truths. But if anyone could guess, it would be Hawise. Fulk wondered what had possessed him when he’d named the creature, and answered himself in the same instant: grief at losing Eleanor. A bit less cleverness and a lot more caution would have done plenty of good, but it was far too late now and Anne was as much to blame as he.

“Sueta …” repeated Eleanor. From the way the corners of her mouth turned incrementally upward it was apparent she understood and he’d be hearing more on it later. That’d be something to look forward to, and it might lighten his feelings after seeing his pride reduced to a lump of horseflesh fit only for dog food. “You had best get gone, or the groom will be weeping from fear in case the horse dies before you see it is truly sick, and accuse him of foul play.”

At least he hadn’t been dragged from bed to go and watch his horse die; that was some very slight consolation. He followed Simon out into the night, across the deserted bailey to the stables where the warhorses were kept, and into the dark interior of the building.

Alerted by he didn’t know what Fulk was already turning, so the hand didn’t clamp across his mouth effectively enough and the dagger skittered off his ribs instead of sinking between them into his heart. It left a searing trail along his side, and warm blood began to course down his back and flank.

He sank his teeth into the top part of his assailant’s hand, one set of fangs crunching into the first knuckle while the other side of his mouth found the more agreeable target of the fleshy webbing between thumb and fingers. He tasted blood and had the satisfaction of hearing a bitten off yell of pain. At the same time he rammed backwards with both his elbows and threw his weight to one side.

He won free, and spat out the lump of flesh before it could choke him.

Simon had set his torch in a wall bracket and drawn his own belt knife now, and he lunged at his master. Fulk blocked with his forearm, flung the boy’s guard wide, and delivered a hefty blow to the lad’s abdomen, sending him back a few steps.

Taking advantage of the sudden space Fulk flowed to one side to keep both assailants in front of him. He drew his own dagger; it was too tight for swords. He guarded against a wild lunge from the assassin, then twisted aside from a thrust aimed at his ribs by his erstwhile squire.

Working together, though the boy proved clumsy, they forced Fulk back towards a corner. It was either that or allow himself to be surrounded, and that would prove by far more fatal than the lack of space.

Simon followed up on the man’s next lunge, slicing at his former lord’s neck. Fulk blocked in a nick of time, and the boy’s own lack of skill helped divert the blade so it only scratched Fulk’s shoulder.

Fulk’s free hand whipped out and knotted itself in Simon’s tunic, yanking him close and using him as a partial shield even as his dagger tangled with the assassin’s again.

Simon gouged his shins with his boots and lashed out wildly with his small blade. Fulk slammed the jewelled pommel of his own weapon down onto the boy’s wrist, breaking it. Simon’s blade clattered to the ground.

Fulk swapped his grip a bit, set the other hand and its dagger flat against his squire’s chest, and pushed with all his might, at the same time letting go his hold. The youth sprawled bonelessly backward, already pale-faced and drunken with pain.

The assassin shoved him roughly away, and Simon crumpled to the ground, holding his wrist and sobbing under his breath. The boy had always been too soft to make a knight, Fulk thought dispassionately, lunging a quick, unsuccessful cut at the other man’s belly.

The assassin prowled warily now, his dagger thrust forward at arm’s length, on guard and searching in the dark for a hint of an opening. Fulk did likewise. Blood now soaked his braes and shirt, and still flowed. But it wasn’t a river which threatened to rob him of his strength, so he had no need to hurry on that account. Given more time blood from his shoulder would spoil his grip on his dagger, but for now his clothes sopped up the mess. His blood was up with the joy of battle, so he barely noticed any pain, either from that wound or the other. But there was a reason to finish this quickly – Eleanor. If they’d lured him away …

Fulk drove forward, slashing to force the other to block. The blades tangled and he thrust forward again, and again, sending the man back and back, attacking from this side or that, hearing, shepherding, until at last he was out from his corner and the other man was the one with less space to work.

Fulk barged forward to lock them body to body. He rammed his dagger’s hilt into the other’s face, shattering his nose. At the same time he tried to put his knee in the other’s groin, but that was blocked. They grappled, each trying to bring their weapon into play. Fulk was the stronger, but not by much. He tried the knee trick again; the assassin twisted and hunched away from his attack just as he had last time, and in that half second of vulnerability Fulk thrust his knife into the base of his throat. He twisted the blade and withdrew it in a gush of lifeblood. Bereft of Fulk’s support the man collapsed, choking in his own gushing blood.

He heard Simon spew his guts into the straw. The boy was no immediate threat, so Fulk ignored him. He wiped his dagger on his tunic before cramming it back into its sheath; the first habit any man at arms learned, lest dried blood cause a weapon to stick in its sheath when you needed it, or begin to rust so it weakened.

He staggered towards the door, still catching his breath and struggling to process what had happened. It would have been a horrible, vindictively efficient death; bleeding his life out helplessly, unable to make even the slightest sound. His soul would have fled with visions of Eleanor back in Trempwick’s hands still playing before its eyes. But that’s what the spymaster would have wanted. If he had been half asleep when he arrived he’d have stood no chance. Thank God his squire was so lack-skilled he’d withstood Fulk’s efforts to improve his fighting.

He broke into a run the instant he cleared the door, drawing his sword and crying the alarm as he headed back to Eleanor’s rooms. But there was no one nearby to hear; the castle was bedded down for the night, and the sentries were too far.

He found the ground floor empty. The two upstairs rooms held only Sewal’s corpse, carefully tucked into Fulk’s bed so he looked like he was sleeping. His neck had been snapped.

His shouts had roused out Walcher, and he sent the man running at once to call out the rest of Eleanor’s men from the tower where they had been quartered.

Fulk didn’t wait for them, but set off alone in pursuit, still shouting the alarm whenever he thought there was a chance he would be heard. He knew that those responsible would be rushing Eleanor out of the palace, which meant one route and one route only. If they got her past the outer walls she’d be lost.





And now for the good news: I’m working a lot for the next few days, so I do hope you like suspense :tongueg:

[Aetius the Last Roman]

Brilliant Princess Frog,
Far from my normal excesses of joy, this is not excess, this is due diligence,

We actually have an idea of what is and will happen with Trempwick, where the power is. We also know his motivations know, clear as sky and as I always believed, not as evil as people suspected them of being.

In addition to that, the speed of Eleanor's abduction was brilliant, keeps the pace very fast.

I look forward to reading the next installment.

[frogbeastegg]

A few minutes after Fulk left two men in Hugh’s livery presented themselves in the solar, bowing respectfully as they entered. “Your Highness,” said one, “we beg pardon for the late hour, but we have this to give you.” He showed a message with a green wax seal.

Eleanor held out her hand for it, and the man advanced sufficiently for her to take it. The seal was Constance’s; Eleanor broke it and read the message. She didn’t need to read the contents to know that she was in trouble - it was written in Trempwick’s favoured code. It said only “Rescue; go with them.”

The second man grabbed Hawise, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream his action prompted before it could get beyond an intake of breath. He pinned the maid to his body with his other arm, and in doing so must have felt the knife she wore on her forearm, because he removed it and thrust it through his belt. He drew his own long-bladed knife.

Eleanor was on her feet quickly. “Leave her be! She is not to be harmed.”

“Time wastes, and we were told no chances.” But he didn’t kill Hawise, only swapped his hold on her, ready to shunt her along with a blade poised at her back.

The second man moved to the doorway. “Come, your Highness.”

Thanks to Hugh Eleanor was weaponless, and even with her knives two would have been too much for her without more qualified help. Worse still, these two were very likely only part of a larger group. Having no other option Eleanor went with them, dragging her heels as much as she dared and praying rescue would present itself before it was too late. She could only hope Fulk was still alive. She feared he was not, or would not be for much longer. Hawise and her captor brought up the rear.

On her way through the entrance hall she saw Sewal being carried upstairs by a third man, his head dangling from a snapped neck. Eleanor crossed herself, sending up a quick prayer for the dead man’s soul. The first man, apparently the leader, tugged at her elbow, encouraging her onwards.

Moving through the deserted courtyard another four men joined the party, all either dressed as palace servants or in dark clothing which blended with the night’s gloom. The man who had borne Sewal’s body rejoined them not long after. The elements were in their favour; the moon was slight and the stars mostly blocked by clouds. A fine but persistent drizzle discouraged the sentries from straying from whatever shelter they could find near their posts.

“We’ll get you a cloak later,” the leader promised Eleanor in a hushed undertone. “For now, speed.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, thinking that if she found out where Trempwick was hiding they might be able to send a troop over and capture him, if she was rescued in time.

He didn’t answer except to hush at her like she was a fractious child.

The group paused in the shadows cast by the church, just before the first gatehouse. Two men in soldier’s livery and partial armour detached and walked openly up to the guards. They halted when challenged, gave the correct responses, and were allowed to advance to the puddle of good light cast by the brazier just outside the gateway’s tunnel. There they chatted with the two sentries, and the sound of laughter drifted back to where Eleanor stood.

Sick with the certainty of what was to happen next Eleanor knew there was not a thing she could do; if she gave up her pretence of compliance now she would gain nothing and throw away her sole advantage. She watched as a comradely clap on the back in parting turned into a hand over the mouth and a dagger in the heart for one man, and the second fell to a blow to the head with a short club.

The leader’s hand at her elbow set Eleanor into motion again, and her group advanced to the cover of the gatehouse building. The two bodies were removed to inside the guard room, and the murderers took the men’s place, giving the appearance nothing had changed to those who had not seen the whole story.

They passed through the inner gatehouse without further ado.

About a third of the way across the inner bailey, carried on the still night air, Eleanor heard the most welcome sound of her life: Fulk shouting for help. He was alive!

The leader of the group cursed and picked up his pace, half dragging Eleanor along with him. She allowed herself to stumble, buying another second and slowing them down a bit; the leader’s hold on her never wavered, and he jerked her back to balance with scant gentleness.

At a curt order the three remaining unassigned men detached and ran on ahead of the group towards the guards, their careful footfalls all but silent on the muddied cobbles. Once close enough to be in earshot of the guards they slowed and casually left the shadows, approaching as openly as the other two had. It was only logical to assume that there would be men and horses waiting in cover very close to the gates, ready to speed her away to Trempwick. Once back in his hands her fate would be sealed; she would be his wife, his pawn, and his queen, protected, jealously guarded, watched over at every minute of every day. Trapped.

The shouting was growing closer. Eleanor struggled to glance back over her shoulder, but she saw nothing before she was tugged forward again. This time it appeared they would not wait safely at a distance until the guards were disposed of and the gates opened.

Nothing left to lose, and rapidly running out of time, Eleanor wrenched her arm free of the man’s hold. Almost at the same time Hawise fell over, pulling her own guard down with her. “Run!” she screamed.

Eleanor started to take that sound advice, but the fallen man snatched at her skirt, slowing her. There was the sound of fabric tearing, then she was free, but the leader was back. Despite her best efforts he caught Eleanor’s arm and twisted it up behind her back so to move was to break it. “Leave her!” he snapped to his other man, who had now subdued Hawise again.

The other man gave the maid a push, sending her sprawling back to the ground. He kicked her and she lay still, limbs sprawled in the total relaxation only the dead or unconscious managed. He drew his sword and began to walk backwards, checking for pursuit. He pointed. “Sir!”

As the leader swung around to check Eleanor was forced to move with him, and she saw also. One lone man was sprinting towards them, naked sword in hand. There was no question as to who the fool was; Eleanor would know him anywhere. She began to stamp and kick at her captor’s feet and shins, doing everything she could to break free without snapping her arm like a dry twig. It wasn’t nearly enough; he was too strong, too tall, and had far too much of an advantage over her.

The second man set off to meet and delay Fulk.

The two gate guards were fighting now, outnumbered and surprised, and a thick river of blood on one man’s thigh shone darkly in the flickering torchlight.

The leader’s fist slammed into the side of Eleanor’s head stunning her, and before the effect could wear off he slung her over his shoulder and began to run, carrying her bodily towards the gate. Craning her head up as far as it would go, and her vision clouded by red, black and white sparks, Eleanor was just in time to see Fulk’s opponent go down, his head nearly cut free of his body by a chop which battered through his guard.

Not long after she heard a scream from the direction of the gate, though whether it was friend or foe she couldn’t say. Friend, probably, she thought, remembering the man with the leg wound. Not even seconds later a second scream came.

Still struggling to watch Fulk, Eleanor saw another man running towards him from the gatehouse, loosely followed by another, and another two, then a handful more, all spread out in a ragged trail and coming at him from behind. She called a warning, but she couldn’t fill her lungs properly thanks to the shoulder in her stomach and he didn’t seem to hear it.

It seemed the two gate guards were dead, as the sound of the portcullis beginning to rise now filled the air.

The jolting of being carried by a running man stopped and Eleanor found herself dumped roughly back on her feet, still securely tucked under the man’s left arm with her back pressed to his body. A quick glance told her all she needed to know about the gate guards; they lay, one with a gaping hole through his ribs, the other curled into a ball with his hands preventing his intestines spilling further from his body, weeping in his agony, begging for death while simultaneously sobbing that he wanted to live.

Midway across the courtyard the skein of men caught with Fulk; he brandished his sword in Eleanor’s direction, and they continued to advance, this time together in a disorderly charge. It wasn’t until they were close enough for her to make out the badge sewn proudly on the chest of their tunics that Eleanor understood that these were her own men.

When the portcullis was halfway up two of Trempwick’s men started to heave the massive timber bar out of its rests. They had it free when Fulk’s men were only a few more moments away, and one man dove back to the fighting, leaving the other to work the two bolts at top and bottom of the gates and wait for the portcullis to raise sufficiently for them to swing inwards, finally allowing escape.

An angry gesture from the leader sent that man also in to fight Fulk’s men, and the leader struggled to unfasten the bolts himself while holding on to Eleanor. Naturally she did everything she could to make this impossible.

Dazed by another knock on the head and outmatched in every way in this uneven fight Eleanor found herself tucked under the man’s arm soon enough, and he began to struggle with the bolts one-handed. All she could do was watch and continue her ineffectual resistance, seeing snatches of the battle raging between her own men and Trempwick’s.

In the confusion she saw one of the two replacement gate guards in the midst of Fulk’s reinforcements; he felled one of her own men at arms from behind. More people were streaming towards the main fight from various directions. Then her view was jerked away as the leader of it all finished with the first bolt and moved to the second.

The hammer of boots on stone stairs rose above the din of fighting and preceded by a moment the appearance of a stunned looking guard emerging from the staircase leading up to the wall; he nearly collided with Eleanor and her captor. Trempwick’s man killed the hapless guard before he could realise what he’d stumbled into and act accordingly.

As the man at arms tumbled to the cobbles in a bright spray of blood Eleanor’s searching hands closed on the hilt of her captor’s knife. It was a struggle to draw it, pressed awkwardly against the man’s moving body as she was, and as soon as his attention was not fully focused on his dying opponent the leader noticed what she was doing and tried to stop her. But he could only use one hand to that end, reaching crosswise across his own body and hampered now by his own hold on her.

With a final effort the dagger came free, and Eleanor turned it on its owner’s stomach in the same movement. She only scratched skin before the leader’s hold on her wrist arrested the thrust, and slowly her hand - and the knife point – was forced back and away from his body. Her wrist was groaning in the man’s crushing grip; she could feel her hand separating out slightly from the bones of her arm, making her grip less sure and making her fear the joint would break. She gave up the fight and allowed him to push the arm over and away, putting the knife out in front of her. At the same time she stopped supporting her own weight in a move designed to pull them both downwards. It didn’t work, but it did loosen his grip enough that her right arm came mostly free, and she swapped the dagger to that hand. She struck wildly behind her; the blade sank into flesh. The grip on her tightened convulsively. She twisted the dagger, trying to cause more damage and reduce the clinging hold of soft tissue on metal so she could yank the weapon free to strike again. That too was another long struggle, but her captor’s strength seemed to be ebbing. When the dagger finally came free again she stabbed a second time, then she was free.

Eleanor didn’t waste time retrieving the dagger or looking to see what she had done; she dodged away and ran out of the gatehouse tunnel towards the knot of fighting men containing Fulk. She wasn’t stupid enough to get too close, no matter how badly she wanted to reach him. In that mess no one would notice who she was until after they had struck her down, and she could do no good anyway.

Two men spotted her. They ganged up on one opponent, put a swift end to him, then broke from the fighting and came to surround her; their livery bore – in one case half hidden by a splash of blood – her gooseberry and crown badge.

Now her view of the raging battle was part blocked by their protective screen, but Eleanor could see Fulk in the thick of things, laying out about him with admirable efficiency, jaw clenched and a thunderous scowl writ large all over his face. He seemed unharmed, but in the darkness and chaos it was hard to tell. The rest was less straightforward. She could still see one of the men in dark clothes, and several men in red and white were fighting others in the same livery; at least one of those guardsmen bore her father’s badge. One in a gambeson and open-faced helmet with what might be Hugh’s badge battled another in blue and yellow. Men in a motley of ordinary clothes, liveries, and hastily flung on armour laid into others similarly attired, and from the outside it was impossible divide the combat into two neat sides. It seemed – and came as no surprise – that Trempwick had had others in addition to the original team of ‘rescuers’, waiting in case of need.

She was allowed no more time than the few seconds it took to see that much; her two guards began to respectfully drag her away towards safety. She turned side-on so she could walk with them while still watching the fight.

Hawise was gone without a trace.

At the point where she could no longer see Fulk clearly Eleanor tried to stop, but her protectors pulled her on. Did he even know she was safe now? She stopped and refused to move; what if he fell while she wasn’t here? What if he died? Then she responded to her guard’s urging and began to walk again, recognising there was nothing she could do, and her presence didn’t shield him one bit. It only endangered what he fought for.

Just before the inner gate the sound of many feet gave away the advance of a sizeable force; unsure if it were friendly or not Eleanor’s escort took up a defensive stance about her, swords at the ready. It was Hugh, at the head of his own bodyguard of ten, none of them armoured but all carrying weapons and shields.

Eleanor waved a hand over the shoulders of her human wall to attract her brother’s attention. “Hugh!” The two men at arms bowed to their prince and moved from his path, leaving Eleanor able to explain with considerably more dignity. “Trempwick. He sent people to carry me off. Fulk is down there with my men and a few other loyal soldiers; save them, please.”

Hugh and his little troop set off again, advancing in good order and at speed. Left standing aimlessly Eleanor could only marvel that for once her brother had not dithered or wasted time in talk. Perhaps his reputation as a decent soldier was earned after all, and not gained off the labour of other’s backs.

Hawise’s disappearance was now explained; she was tagging along at the rear of Hugh’s group. “I went to fetch help, being useless in the fight,” she explained as she came to stand at Eleanor’s side. “I played dead.” The maid looked very pale, and she hunched a little to one side where she had been kicked, but otherwise she seemed well enough.

The rest of the battle – if it could now be called such – was brief, brutal, and very bloody. Hugh’s disciplined, formed men soon cut their way through to Fulk and the small knot of survivors clustered about him, and from there the two groups combined forces. Fulk’s weary, lightly protected men fell back behind their comrades, making a second rank behind the shield wall they set up. With nowhere to run the men fighting for Trempwick formed up in a defensive knot and prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible. For the first time they raised a battle cry, and it did nothing for Eleanor’s reeling stomach – “Princess Eleanor!”

In answer she heard Hugh’s own men roar, “God for prince Hugh!” and, after a tiny pause, Fulk’s voice rose to add, “The Gooseberry!”

Eleanor sighed, then found herself laughing. There was not much else she could use - her only other serious option being the one Trempwick had usurped and twisted to fit his own ends - and at least it was distinctive, precisely as it should be. However it would take a long time and a lot of proving of her men’s prowess in battle before anyone’s heart quaked on hearing that. Heaven alone knew what her poor soldiers would make of it; they would be the ones having to shout it, follow it, and rally to it. The laughter stopped suddenly when she noticed at had a hysterical edge to it.

That question was answered soon enough; those of her men remaining in the fight echoed Fulk’s shout, as did the two at her side. One man grinned as he did so, but his voice was loud and clear.

Abruptly Hawise tore away from the group, rushed to the edge of the outer wall and was violently sick, one hand braced on the stonework for support. It was the only thing Eleanor had ever seen her maid do which could not be described as sensible, but it was wholly understandable. As she went to hold the girl’s head Eleanor decided that she must be slowly growing hardened with experience; she could feel bile burning the back of her throat, and it wouldn’t take much more to reduce her to the same state as Hawise, but for now she was still alright, even after being in the fighting for a time.

She tucked her skirts back to keep the hem from trailing in the mess on the ground, then wondered why she bothered – she was already soaked in the gore of the man she had stabbed, her outer dress was torn in several places, and said hem had a large piece missing from it on one side.

Eleanor left her maid’s side when Fulk led the remains of her little army back, leaving Hugh’s men to use their daggers on those too badly hurt to survive and make arrangements for sending the friendly wounded for treatment. With a will she controlled her impulse to run to him. She checked him over with her eyes for any sign of injury; he was so soaked in blood there was barely a clean patch on his clothes, but there were no visible wounds from the front, and as tempting as it was to circle about him to look from every angle it would be just as much of a give-away as hurling herself into his arms. Her anxiety receded but didn’t leave.

It was his face she checked last, knowing that when she did so their eyes would meet. He was matching her own careful control, but the intensity of his gaze made her skin prickle; it spoke so eloquently of … everything. She almost smiled, but some small awareness of the rest of the world outside those soft brown eyes remained, and so she didn’t.

“You are well?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you.” She managed to break her gaze free of his, and looked about the battered collection of her surviving soldiers. “Thank you,” she repeated, making sure this time it was aimed at all of them. From the nine total, including her two door guards, only five stood before her now. Several nursed obvious wounds, but the others were like Fulk, so messy she couldn’t tell if they were hurt or not. She knew Sewal was dead. Careful examination of faces paired with the trained memory that was one of Trempwick’s legacies she put names to the missing three. “Aubrey? Waleran? Richard?”

“Waleran’s lost half his arm and has no wish to live. Aubrey’s dead, stabbed in the back by one of Trempwick’s traitors. Richard’s got a sliced shoulder.” He indicated the slanting muscle running from neck to shoulder. “Also a cut leg. He’s with the other badly wounded. He should recover, if he doesn’t keep on bleeding or take a bad infection.”

Two of her own dead, one badly hurt, many smaller injuries scattered amongst the rest, Hawise would be bruised all over, five guards killed, and this before the tally of other dead and injured she didn’t know of in detail was added. This she wasn’t used to, unlike most other nobles. “This is the first time anyone has ever fought and died for me …” And they hadn’t done it for a weakling who would burst into tears as a result; Eleanor paused for a moment to gather her self possession again. A speech of some sort was more than expected; it was ingrained tradition, a part of the fabric binding leader and follower together. That too she had never needed before. “The first time anyone has been seriously hurt for me. The first time a battle has been fought in my name. The first time my battle cry has been raised, that a force of mine has engaged in anything other than a training mock-battle. I doubt it could have been done better. This army is not even half formed, and our enemy fought with treachery and underhand cowardice …” She paused again, struggling. “But you won. I owe you my freedom, and I will not forget that.” She supposed that simple end was as good – or bad - as any.

The reception seemed mostly favourable. After a bit one man grinned, “With respect and all, it weren’t such a bad job you did with that one you knifed, for a gentle lady and all, beggin’ your pardon.”

Almost certainly desiring to put an end to that line of thought before more people knew she’d defended herself, Hugh stepped forward from the outskirts of the group where he had waited. “I am most relieved to find you safe and well, dear sister.”

“Thank you, brother dear.”

He turned to Hawise, pulling a ring from his finger. “I owe you a debt of gratitude for alerting my captain, thereby allowing me some chance at vengeance on those who dared to attack my sister.” He took her hand in one of his and pressed the ring into her palm, closing her fingers about the gold and jewel. “This token will be joined by a more suitable gift as soon as one may be found.”

Hawise curtseyed. “Thank you, Sire, but nothing else is necessary. I did only my duty.” The reply was as much tradition as Hugh’s giving of a gift and Eleanor’s speech. He probably kept a store of rings to wear in case of such need, so he wouldn’t have to part with any he wished to keep.

“None the less, something will be found.” Hugh tugged off another ring and gave it to Fulk. “I have heard of your bravery, and of your swift action. Without you it appears there would have been little left for us but a horseback chase, hunting a party with a head start and preparation for such a game. It would have been a task equal to that of Sisyphus; my sister would have been lost. You also shall be rewarded.”

Fulk bowed, stiffly to Eleanor’s eyes, and she thought she saw him wince. “Sire.”

Hugh said to Eleanor, “I shall not insult your bold defenders by offering you men of my own to guard you in the place of those you have lost, or as addition to those you still possess, but if you feel such a need then I shall comply with the request with all speed and gladness. Again, it gives my heart joy you are safe and well.” She suffered through a formal hug, returning it with about as much enthusiasm as it was given.

“I am weary,” she lied, taking advantage of a particular common assumption most men held and she had always hated. Well, she could hardly announce she wanted to take her knight somewhere more suitable and check him over very carefully for damage.

“But of course.” Hugh kept his hands on her shoulders, but at least the embrace ended. He squinted at her with a good show of brotherly concern. “This excitement must have been far too much for you, and you have been exposed to sights you should be sheltered from.”

Yes, that was the assumption. Carrying the pretence further would cause her to sprain something, and it would lose any trace of respect she might have gained with her men. “More like it is the middle of the night and I have had a most energetic evening; I did not tamely let them carry me away like a table, you know. It is also raining, and I am getting wet.”

His hands dropped away. “You had best go then. I will see you tomorrow, the morning.”







6, 505

Hmm, I really do feel I need to practice this fighting lark a lot more. There is something vaguely bothersome about this part, but I can’t put my finger on it. Normally I would bundle this scene with the following one, but work, work, and erm, work.

Yes, the pacing has picked up now. We are out of the 'waiting, reveal, brewing' phase of the story; now the storm has well and truly hit. Well, I suppose from my point of view that storm has been raging for a while now, but that's not the case from a reader's view. To a frog things are raging right about the point each day takes more than 30 pages to cover, thanks to the many little bits which need showing for one reason or another. Oh, I can't wait until that goes down to a more reasonable amount for each day again! And the thought of covering whole periods in a "Four days later ..." skip makes me feel quite giddy.

[Ciaran]

Wow, I´m gone for a week and what do I see when I come back? Not one, but two updates, you really know how to make my day, Lady Frog :book:

By the way, at the moment, you story is about the same length as the Three Musketeers, if both are saved in the same text size and font style.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk stopped as he passed a horse trough and rinsed the drying blood from his hands and lower arms. In the dark he couldn’t see if he’d removed it all, but he splashed about in the icy water with a thoroughness that he considered admirable. Eleanor dabbled briefly, and after her the rest of the men at arms followed suit in ones and twos.

Back outside the old nursery building Fulk ordered two men to enter in a pair, swords drawn, to search for intruders. Only when the entire building had been searched this way did he allow anyone else to enter. Trempwick was a right cunning bastard at times, and the problem with that type was that they were … well, cunning, and usually when it was less than convenient. It was tempting to assume that everything was safe now the main attempt had been defeated, especially since his clothes were sodden with blood and his wounds registering properly as the heat of battle faded, but he would take no chances. Eleanor was safe and unhurt, and so long as he was cautious she’d remain so; that was the only important thing.

The building was empty as expected, and the men came out bearing their comrade’s corpse, to take it to lie in the church with the other fallen. Fulk set two men to guard the door in place of the usual one, and gave the rest permission to seek treatment for their minor injuries and return their quarters to get what sleep they could, that is, once they had picked up Simon and thrown him in a nice, safe cell.

As he entered his own little bedroom the party was reduced further to just himself, Eleanor and Hawise. That was still one person too many, to Fulk’s way of thinking, and it wasn’t the gooseberry he wished away. The room was the first decently lit area they had been in since he had been lured away, and he entered first, not out of any grand design, but just because that was the order they were moving in. Behind him he heard Hawise gasp, “You’re hurt!”

At which point a princess appeared at his side, scowling quite adorably. “You did not say anything, you mute donkey!” She pulled his clothing aside so she could view the wound on his back, her breath causing a little draft on his skin that struck cooler for the moisture of his own blood.

“It really wasn’t that important,” protested Fulk.

One gentle finger pulled ever so slightly on his skin to open the cut, then let go. “If you bleed to death all over my floor I shall make you clean it up.” There was a slight catch in her voice, and she moved around to examine his arm instead, keeping her head closely bent to the task to hide her face.

“I’ll send for a physician,” said Hawise.

Eleanor’s head came up, and she snapped, “He is mine; I will tend to him.” A pause, then she repaired her automatic response. “My knight, wounded in my service, rescuing me. Duty says he is mine to mend. Any will tell you that, and you should know it already.”

Hawise’s calm eyes moved from princess to knight and back again. “I shall order the door guards not to let anyone past even the first step of the stairs - themselves included - for security reasons. I’ll fetch the necessary medicines as well.” She departed quietly before either of them found anything to say.

When Hawise’s footsteps had become inaudible Eleanor said quietly, “Of course it is important.”

Fulk began to remove his belt, giving the working of the buckle more attention than was strictly needed so he wouldn’t have to look at her, or do anything which might push him past the point of no return and cause Hawise to arrive in the middle of a scene which would remove any last lingering traces of doubt as to how he felt about his fretting princess. “Only to love-struck, soft-hearted, caring, fuzzy and gentle gooseberries. Oh, and me.”

“Maybe we should call someone else – I only know what I am doing in theory.”

“You’ll do fine. It’s simple, and having done this before more times than I like I can tell you what to do if need be.” But she didn’t seem much happier, and Fulk supposed the problem was not that she didn’t feel confident enough to play healer, but that she couldn’t stand the thought of hurting him. If she really didn’t want the responsibility then he’d let someone else treat him, but it was so much better to be cared for by someone who had an interest in your survival. Not to mention it was a legitimate, harmless, perfectly good excuse to spend some time very close to each other. “Knights are practically immune to pain anyway, which is why I’m able to spend so much time in your company without bursting into tears, oh beloved mine.” He tried to catch her hand as she passed, but she dodged without really seeming to, making even the brush of his fingers on her skin difficult.

“Idiot.”

Fulk bowed as best he could without pulling his wounds. “Thank you, your supreme kindness. I bask in the warm glow of your praise.”

“The lighting in my room will be better; the two candles in here are a bit meagre,” she said, moving through. She took the single burning candle from its pricket and moved about lighting all the others until the room was as bright as it could be during night.

By the time Hawise had returned Fulk was sat on a stool in Eleanor’s room, stripped to the waist and humming a cheerful tune, doing his best to seem unconcerned. He accepted the cup of mead the maid offered him and held it up in a toast which included them both. “Your health.” He downed a few mouthfuls of the strong stuff, making it seem like he consumed more. He didn’t intend to be anything remotely close to drunk, but, like the appearance of nonchalance, if it made Eleanor more confident, and thus her hands steadier, then so much the better. He didn’t want to end up with a crooked seam.

Hawise returned with a fresh set of clothes for him, which she laid out on Eleanor’s bed. “Well, then, I shall leave you to it. I’ll take Fulk’s bed for the night, and bolt the outer door. You bolt this inner one, and no one will know or disturb.”

There were many better responses than sitting there, mouth flapping like a landed fish, but for the life of him Fulk couldn’t find one. Denial at this point seemed futile, and threats or bribery wouldn’t win the maid’s reliable silence.

“What precisely makes you think I want him here?” enquired Eleanor.

This seemed to amuse Hawise, although the only outer sign of this was a slight easing of the serious set of her face. “You would be a very strange creature if you didn’t. I thought that I had proven myself loyal tonight, if nothing else. Living so close to you both as I do I saw you are so well suited I suspected, and now you have given yourselves away, so there is no longer any need to pretend otherwise.” At which point she disappeared through into Fulk’s room, shutting the door behind herself with a quiet, “Goodnight.”

Fulk chuckled. “Sensible, right to the very last. I almost pity whoever she marries. Just look at how effortlessly she sorted us out.” Again he tried to catch hold of Eleanor to draw her close; again she shrank away just out of his reach. “Makes me glad I’ve tamed a gooseberry.”

“Tamed! Ha! If you were not injured I would knock you even sillier than you already are.”

“See? Perfectly tame.” Again his levity went unnoticed; it appeared he’d touched a bit of a raw spot.

“Huh,” she snorted. “‘My lord’ him once and he gets delusions!”

“Dearest-”

“Don’t ‘dearest’ me, you menace!”

“You wound me, beloved.”

“I would, but I do not want to hurt you.” Before Fulk could do himself an injury laughing at that contradictory statement she proclaimed, “I will not blindly obey you-“

“Course not,” he agreed blithely.

“And you need not think I will not argue if I disagree-”

“I’d expected that.”

“I shall certainly tell you if you are doing something stupid-”

“I should very much hope so!”

“And -” she stalled; her frown changed to thought instead of irritation as she finally took notice of what he was saying. “And you are agreeing with me, you impossible object.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought too.”

“You are annoying. Very annoying.”

“I love you too.”

“Er … yes?”

“Yes. It’s why I put up with so much of this.” He brushed at his bare shoulder as if to remove a speck of dirt, but instead prodded the gash he’d forgotten was there, so his next words were unaccompanied not by an air of comic detachment, but by a wince. “That and my natural tendency to be a saint.”

“If you wanted sensible and obedient you should have married someone else.”

“Hmm, yes. But I married you.”

“I will not change.”

“I’d hope not.”

“You are quite impossible.”

“I’m very reasonable.”

Eleanor crossed her arms, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I really do not understand you sometimes!”

“But I’m so simple and straightforward.”

“Sadly not.” As a rueful aside she added, “Which is good, or I should become dreadfully bored with you.” Then back to her serious tone, “What do you want from me? I do not understand; you seem to change your mind every other moment. I am a bad enough bargain as it is, without adding more problems.”

“Heart of my heart, didn’t I just say? What I want is you being yourself, though I wonder at my sanity in wishing that kind of trouble upon myself. If I wanted tame or boringly sensible I’d have found someone else. I expect you to drive me to distraction sometimes, and at least occasionally I’ll probably wish to kill you with my bare hands, but I’m also mad enough to find that appealing. I won’t at the time, but I’ll laugh later, assuming I’m still in any fit state to laugh at all. Yes, I expect you to obey if I give an order, but I’m hardly likely to do that often. That said, if I order you to dance on the table or something equally daft and pointless I expect you will have a collection of kind and thoughtful words to share with me, involving choice blessings like ‘I hope a special place is reserved for you in hell!’.” Fulk shrugged, and said honestly, “Really, it’s not that unusual. For every man who wants perpetual obedience there’s another who wants differently, including some few who’d by far leave everything to their wife and obey her instead. That’s not me,” he added swiftly, just in case she got some strange ideas. “I couldn’t stand that, so you’ll understand how relieved I am that you’ve not reduced me to a powerless pet, or similar. Which you could, perhaps, if you tried, given all.”

“I had not even thought to try that …” Eleanor snapped her fingers. “Damn! What a missed opportunity.”

Fulk looked at her sidelong, pulling an understated expression which said quite simply ‘Help!’. “Ah, the humour of a gooseberry. Jesting aside, oh centre of my existence, you’ve no idea how much your trust means to me, or your regard for my poor old pride. In the end much of this is but theory, but it still matters.” He rose and took a step towards her, but she turned around and started to play close attention to the medicines Hawise had delivered.

She said, “You named your destrier for me.”

“He’s got a milder temperament.” Another step, this time partly to one side, and he had her trapped against the little table. He took her hand in one of his and shook it formally. “Hello, nice to meet you. My name’s Fulk; I think we met once …?”

“Ah …” She twitched her fingers in his grip, trying to work them free without actually blatantly attempting to get away from him.

“Beloved, what’s wrong? There’s no one here, and we’ve got all night.”

She mumbled something which sounded a lot like, “Exactly.”

“Interesting,” commented Fulk.

“What are we going to do?” she burst out.

“I thought I might get these wounds seen to before I bleed to death. That would be nice.”

“This really is not a good idea.”

Fulk deliberately misunderstood. “I thought it sounded passable enough; less cleaning than my expiring in a pool of blood, for a start.”

“It is tempting fate.”

“No such thing.”

This was getting nowhere; Fulk decided a change of tactics was in order. “So … if you’re behaving like a shy, proper damsel instead of your usual goosberryish self will you start shrieking if I try to kiss you?”

The hesitation worried him; somehow her response, when it at last came, was not quite in the light tone he’d expected. “That depends.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She smiled in a decidedly impish way, back to her old self as if that odd little waver had never happened. “So far you have always to make it a distinctly interesting experience, but I am not in the mood to be bored. So if you have lost your talent I shall scream in your ear to make things a little livelier.”

“I’m not sure it’s worth the risk,” said Fulk bleakly. “Princesses are capricious – you might decide to be bored simply so you can watch me being chased about by a horde of armoured men intent on my death.”

“Mmmm,” agreed Eleanor. “However, it is rather hard to scream if one’s mouth is otherwise engaged …”

“You used to be such a nice, innocent thing, dear heart.”

“Knowing you has ruined me,” she lamented. “I should demand compensation.”

Whatever had caused her to shy away before seemed to be over, judging from her enthusiasm when he kissed her, and from the way she clung on.

Rather breathlessly he enquired, “Can I buy you off with a second kiss?”

She drew a small circle on his breastbone with a fingertip. “Perhaps …”

“Worth a try then.” It most certainly was.

When they broke apart again he held her close. “I am gone for not even five minutes,” he said very seriously, “and you manage to get yourself abducted.”

“You can talk! I let you go to see your horse and you come back stabbed.” She raised her head from his chest to look earnestly up at him. “Speaking of which, you are dripping blood down my arm a bit. We really should-”

As she had said, it really was hard to talk with your mouth otherwise engaged. The opportunity was too tempting to pass by, and she was about as eager as he.

Recognising the danger he let his hold on her loosen, but couldn’t quite bring himself to let go entirely. “Shoo, before I decide to keep you.”

She was relieved, and she didn’t bother to hide it as she stepped to one side, then out from the table and away to freedom. That hurt. “What if I have decided to keep you?”

The words were at odds with her behaviour, but Fulk chose to act on them instead. He produced a show of outraged horror, and exclaimed, “Some innocent maiden you are turning out to be!”

“Did I not say this was a bad idea?”

The world suddenly seemed a bit wobbly to Fulk; he sat himself back down on his stool and gave a part of his mind over to making sure he breathed deeply, slowly and steadily. There wasn’t any danger in it, but he knew better than to press himself too hard. The spell would soon pass if he rested; it was only a reaction to the excitement, blood loss, and pain of the evening. Common enough.

Immediately she was at his side, one hand supporting him as if she feared he would fall over. “Are you alright?”

“I think I taught you to kiss rather too well.”

“Twit.”

She collected the items Hawise had brought up and began to clean the wound on his back. Every now and then the dabbing stopped and he felt her gently tease out a fragment of clothing or similar; she set such debris down on the tray holding the medley of medicines, but Fulk kept his face averted and refused to indulge his inquisitiveness. It was one thing to be hurt; he could tolerate the pain easily enough, and none of it really bothered him any more, unless the wound was grave. But to coolly watch his own flesh being sewn up even as he felt the needle and thread pass through his skin, or to gaze on the wounds and allow himself to look properly, that was another thing entirely. For some reason that sickened him and set a tiny, persistent horror springing to life in the depths of his heart, accompanied of visions of himself disfigured, maimed or crippled. Far better to wait a day or so until it all began to heal up; at that point he was perfectly alright, unless the wound was infected. Seeing a mix of angry red flesh and pus gave birth to a new kind of terror.

Eleanor straightened up from hunching over him. Fulk noticed her hands were red with his own blood now, and some stained the edges of her sleeves where they had not stayed rolled up. “I am going to wash the wound next,” she announced.

Fulk grunted something suitably affirmative sounding and braced himself.

The stuff burned worse than fire, and from the smell it wasn’t wine she was using. “I was going to drink that mead,” he grumbled, purely for the sake of grumbling.

“It is more effective than wine; being stronger it burns away more bad humours.”

He bit his lip, which made his next words a bit muffled, “Yes, I can feel that.”

The trickle of mead onto his back stopped. “I will not lose you,” she declared in a low but vehement voice.

“You won’t.”

“I can see your bones in one place.”

Fulk caught his breath as she continued to cleanse the long cut. “I’m well enough, really. I’ve survived far worse. You’ve survived worse yourself.”

“He promised me you would not be hurt. He promised me, and when I think of what I did to win and keep my part of that promise …”

“It’s Trempwick,” he said as gently as possible, which wasn’t all that, thanks to his loathing of the man. That she was even slightly surprised by this astounded him, just as he’d been dumbfounded when earlier she’d said she wanted a return to how things were, Trempwick included. She’d finally won free of his poisonous grip and she wanted to go back. “What else did you expect?”

“Your death is not necessary.”

“My love, my dear heart, my bane of my existence, necessary has nothing to do with it. He wants me dead because,” at the last second Fulk swapped his original answer – that the spymaster wanted him dead because she loved him – for one less likely to upset her, “he knows I will do anything to protect you.”

“Even for my goodwill when he needs it most he will not keep his word to me. The one thing in the world I want and he must destroy it, when he could far more easily offer it to me in trade for my cooperation. Always everything must be his way, to his plan, and by his liking, with no consideration for any other.” She moved to clean out the wound on his arm. This one was a couple of inches long but deep enough to damage muscle as well as skin. “If I see him again I will kill him with my own hands; I swear it. Too much is too much, and I will not leave him to try a fourth time.”

Fulk had the sinking feeling that she really did mean it. “No, you won’t, unless it’s in self-defence, and you’re to do everything you can to stay out of his grasp.” While a knife to the heart was just what Trempwick needed Fulk didn’t want Eleanor to be the one to place it there – it was too damned dangerous. That’s before you counted the gooseberry factor; the saints in heaven must surely tremble to consider the lengths she might go to - and the trouble she might cause – to keep that oath if she set her mind and heart to it. He had visions of her seeking the spymaster out so she could kill him, and from there any number of disasters beckoned.

She had finished cleaning his cuts, and had threaded up the needle ready to begin stitching before she answered. “As you command. I think the guilt might be too much for me to live comfortably with anyway.”

Guilt? Over killing that arrogant snake? Fulk didn’t ask, he didn’t want to ask. It was simply more evidence of the cursed man’s work, twisting and warping Eleanor to suit his purposes. It was all so damned neat; whatever the spymaster did she never managed to rid herself of him entirely. Even when she hated and wished him dead she went crawling slowly back. He forced a wry smile instead. “Good! Because I hate to think of the effort required to rescue you from the mess you’d get into. When we got back to safety we’d have to have a nice long argument until you came to see I was right. At which point I’d be merciful and not beat you witless, and you’d be very apologetic and mend your ways. It would all be a lot of fuss and hard work, and ultimately it’d be far better if you just agreed with me now.”

“Really.” One eyebrow raised in a neat arc. “It all sounds most improbable to me; I shall be the one rescuing you, as usual.”

“Who was nearly carried off over the shoulder of a suspicious type not even an hour ago, oh obstinate one?”

“Who charged alone into a mass of enemies with no support, until a handful of friendly allies showed up to fight alongside him, badly outnumbered? And who sent my dear brother to save you?”

“We should retire to a nice quiet country manor and be boring for the rest of our natural lives.” Fulk gestured at the needle and thread she was still holding. “You know what to do?”

“Mostly.”

“Just remember, don’t pull the stitches too tight or I shall end with a puckered scar. But don’t leave them too loose either, or the wound will get infected. Space them nice and evenly, and don’t embroider a fancy border pattern onto me.”

She worked slowly, being unaccustomed to the task, and with painstaking care. As she sewed Fulk talked, partly to distract himself from the sensation - which was far from pleasant, even if it did feature her touch on his bare skin – and to keep her nerve steady. “We’ll get a nice manor house, one with a nice large main hall, a solar, a large bedchamber. A tower too, at one end, with a guest room, store rooms and so on in it. A bit like Woburn, I suppose, but nicely maintained. We will have glass in the solar windows, and the bedchamber ones too. No rushes on the floor in those two rooms; we shall have carpets, brought all the way from the Holy Land and the Infidel who make them. They are supposed to be much warmer, and very soft on bare feet. We shall have wall hangings too, in those rooms, on every available bit of space, covering up most of the blank whitewash with colour and keeping the draughts at bay.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Our bed … massive, simply massive, and with a feather mattress and feather pillows; the most comfortable bed ever made. Better even than the king’s. It will be piled high with nice blankets too so it’s warm, and sheets of the softest linen available. Or perhaps silk - yes, silk for the summer months so it’s cooler. Light-weight silk blankets too, woven with a nice pattern of some sort. The woodwork will be carved all over with … oh, I should think a gooseberry and crown device will appear somewhere prominent, and my wolf and coat of arms can go alongside it. The rest can be made up of more general designs.”

“Funny how you have placed so much thought into the bed,” said Eleanor dryly. “More thought than into the room, actually, or even the building.”

Fulk grinned at her. “I shall keep you locked in the top room of the tower, guarded by three maids of immaculate reputation and virtue. Food will be delivered by a eunuch, and you’ll never leave except in my company. I’ll beat you every morning before breakfast, and again at night on Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.”

“You are too kind.”

“I know.” Fulk winced as the current stitch tugged a bit more than the others; she saw and apologised immediately. He kept on talking, “We will need men at arms for security, but I’ll have a little barracks built for them apart from the main manor building. There will also be a good defensive outer wall, with a couple of towers on it. We’ll have only the best cook we can find, with a couple of skilled helpers. The food will be wonderful, but not fancy and too rich like court food, and it will all be spiced correctly. I’ll administer our lands and all the other usual business, with help from you, and we’ll leave to tour our other holdings or visit court from time to time as necessary, but for the most part we’d stay in the one place.” He paused. “Actually, I had been thinking all this, but with a small castle, and without the nonsense bits like eunuchs. Small, quiet, safe, comfortable. We’d do well, I think.”

“Yes.” He heard the reservation in her neutral tone.

“But?”

“But it is nothing more than a dream. It will never come to pass.”

The silence which fell then lasted as she finished sewing his wounds, as she smeared salve on them, as she bandaged them. It was broken only when she stepped back and wiped her forehead on the back of one arm. “Done.”

Fulk rose and headed to the pile of clean clothing. “Good. Now I can change out of these.” His braes were clammy with blood on one side right down to where they ended near his knee and that leg of his hose wasn’t much better off. He untied the points of his hose and stripped them off, sparing the occasional glance in Eleanor’s direction to see what she was doing. Fetching new clothes for herself, it turned out. He removed his braes, and again glanced at her. She was very studiously not looking in his direction. “No need to be embarrassed.”

“Who said anything about embarrassed?” she said, turning pink and still keeping her eyes averted.

“We are married.” And apparently it hadn’t changed a thing; she was just as ill at ease as she had been the other times they had been in a similar situation.

“Yes, I do remember the little ceremony and everything.” She ducked behind the bed so it, and two lots of bedcurtains, blocked their view of each other; she was carrying her own change of clothes.

Fulk donned his new pair of braes and tied the waist cord in the usual knot and bow. On a bit of reflection he added a second knot on top of the bow, reviving a precaution he’d let slip since they had hardly time alone together. A bit more reflection and he added several additional knots. He left the rest of his clothes; he couldn’t see the point, since he’d only have to take them off in a bit to get into bed.

Curious, he leaned a little to one side, and saw Eleanor’s outer dress lying in a pool on the floor. Female clothing was so much harder to get off. “Want any help?”

“No.” she declared with a firmness that didn’t leave room for anything but quiet acceptance.

But some causes were worth a bit of effort. “Sure? I promise not to tear your laces or pass lewd comments.”

“No!”

Fulk let a very loud sigh go and waited, tapping his fingers on his thigh. When he felt a safe amount of time had passed – when he saw her underdress and shift join the outer dress on the floor – he leaned a little further. Able to see nothing he inched over a tiny step. And another. Now he could see an elbow, and she dropped her breastband onto the pile. He was curious – he’d never seen her naked. The best view he’d had was of her back, and that had always been when she was covered in cuts, welts and bruises. He risked another tiny little step, knowing that if he went too far she’d spot him. He extended his lean a fraction more … He could see a half blocked view of her from the side, with her front half being the part that was blocked. That left him with a shoulder, an arm, and a glimpse of flank, but nothing more. Nice enough, but now he was much more curious. He overdid it; she spotted him as he crept over another fingerspan. She grabbed the curtain and tugged it out to cover herself so completely most of her head vanished from view too.

“What do you think you are doing!?” she squeaked.

“I’m curious. It’s perfectly natural, you know.”

She scooped down, deftly caught up her dress, balled it up and threw it at him, all the while keeping the curtain covering her. “You bastard!”

The dress fell out of its wadded up lump and fluttered to the ground before Fulk’s feet. “Eleanor-”

“I am not a curiosity to be stared at!”

“But love-”

“You have seen more than enough as it is; you will find the rest looks exactly the same.”

“Somehow I do doubt that; limbs tend to look a bit different to torsos, for example.”

She frowned, puzzled. “What nonsense are you spouting now?”

“I’ve seen a whole one arm in side view. I doubt your legs look identical to it, and your waist will certainly be nothing like, nor your breasts, or any other part of you, except, perhaps, your other arm.”

There was one weighty silence. Then she said, “Oh.”

“What did you think I meant?”

She hesitated. “I am covered in scars.”

“I know, but you may rest assured it’s not the scars I’m interesting in looking at. You don’t wish to stare at me because of mine.”

“That is entirely different; yours are battle-scars and meant to be there, whereas mine are … well, you know what mine are. You have escaped quite unscathed anyway.”

So she had been looking! Fulk grinned.

The same thought apparently occurred to her; quickly she explained, “I had to look while tending your wounds. Staring at half-naked men is for serfs and other common women, not decent noble ones.” Eleanor settled securely back behind her curtain, and when she stepped back out again she was wearing a clean shift. She took a very quick, almost accidental look at Fulk, went pink and looked away. “Please stop being muscular at me. It is most disconcerting.”

Fulk tried not to laugh, choked, and ended up coughing uncontrollably until his eyes watered. “You really do pick your moments to revert to proper noble, you really do!”

Eleanor’s blush deepened. “This is entirely your fault.”

“Mine?” he gasped, still coughing a bit. “Why?”

“Because it usually is,” she snapped.

Fulk snatched up his shirt and put it on, even though his torso was half covered in bandages now anyway. If it would make her feel a bit more comfortable, then good. There were far better ways to settle her self-consciousness and to erode the rather insane modesty; slow working, but they would work, unlike quarrelling. “Proper, modest nobles are allowed to stare at their husbands as much as they like.”

She considered that for a bit. “You,” she said, “have never had a Trempwick launch himself at you.”

Fulk started to cough again, but this time for reasons other than laughter.

“Quite,” she agreed. “And on that note, it seems fitting to ask what precisely you did to upset Godit so much.”

“Her cunning plan wasn’t cunning enough.”

Eleanor nodded slowly. “Yes, now I understand it all in fine detail. Thank you very much.”

Fulk sat himself down on the rug before the fireplace. He was growing cold, and the heat coming from the low-burning fire was very welcome, as was the opportunity to rest a bit. “Come join me,” he invited.

She seated herself at his side with a faint air of caution he didn’t much like. But he had a forming idea … He swayed a bit, then put out a hand to steady himself. Quickly she grabbed the stool, shifted to sit behind him and pulled him back to lean against her, making sure his weight fell on the side away from his wounds. Fulk sighed gratefully and allowed himself to relax; it was much as he’d thought. Now to figure out why she tried to keep her distance unless tugged closer by something. He would guess at the cause being nerves, but what did she have to be nervous about? They’d spent enough time like this before that she shouldn’t be worried.

“Well, get on with it,” she prompted. The extra height granted her by the stool was sufficient that his head was just at a comfortable level for her to play with his hair. She ran her fingers through it, combing it back from his face.

“Nothing much to tell, to be honest. She said people are wondering about me, and seemed to expect that because of that I’d take her up on her offer to be my lover. I didn’t.”

“Oh dear.” She was now separating his hair out into what felt like three clumps …

“Indeed. It went so far past throwing herself at me as to be akin to launching herself with a trebuchet.”

His hair parted she started to do something which occasionally tugged at the clumps she had split it out into. After a while she said in a carefully controlled voice, “Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

“With you, I thought.”

“Oh.”

“Or on the floor ….?”

“It would do your wounds no good,” she said practically. “You would wake up so stiff I would have to fetch two strong men to haul you to your feet, and that would do my poor, abused name scant good.”

“Then I shall be with you.” The tugging at his hair stopped. Fulk reached up an exploratory hand; his fingers found his hair worked into a plait about an inch and a bit long, the end held in place by some dainty fingers for wont of a tie. “And somehow I begin to wonder about my safety!”

“Ungrateful beast,” she teased, letting the plait go so it unravelled. “All it needed was a nice pretty ribbon.”

“I think it works better if I play with your hair.” With a bit of work he got to his feet and extended a hand to help her up. She didn’t accept it, but she did stand.

Fulk moved in closer and cupped her cheek in one hand. “What is wrong? If you want me gone then say so.”

“No.” She threaded her arms about his waist and leaned her head on his chest again.

Fulk undid the ribbon holding her own braid secure and pulled the plait to pieces with the fingers of one hand, the other looped about her. He passed several very pleasant minutes just playing with her hair and looking at her. Her look became increasingly speculative, until she made her mind up and she stood on tiptoe so she could reach to kiss the hollow under his jaw. But the pose was awkward and must be uncomfortable for her to hold for long, so he generously decided to nibble on her ear instead before she could sprain her toes. That went down well, judging from her funny little sigh. She tickled the back of his neck with a finger, then dragged his head down so she could reach to kiss him. They only broke when they ran out of air, which took a rather long time, then picked up where they had left off so soon as they had caught a bit of breath. And again. And again.

Suddenly Eleanor placed the palms of her hands on his chest and tried rather half-heartedly to push him away. “This is why I say this arrangement is a bad idea.”

Fulk broke off kissing her neck long enough to say, “Yes?”

She prodded him in the stomach with a finger. “I know what you are like.”

“Me!?”

“Yes, you.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “And what about you?”

“I am not the one with a Maude.”

“As I remember it she was the one who ripped my shirt off!” retorted Fulk, a tad defensively. “So it was not entirely my fault. And might I point out you are the one who kissed me, just now. I am blamed for everything; I feel so hurt and victimised.”

“Oh, very well,” she said, a cross between exasperated and amused. “I know what we are like, which is why I was very sensibly trying to keep my distance. I may need to …er,” she mumbled, “re-prove that Trempwick is a lying wretch.”

“Sweetling, I’m unfortunately rather aware of that. But it’s why I’ve a shrewd plan to hire ten-thousand mercenaries, and send them off to kill Trempwick and bring me his head so I can display it on a spike. Then, while everyone is busy looking at the head, I shall send in the troop of travelling minstrels to distract everyone while we disguise ourselves as wool merchants and slip out the back of the palace, then run away to live in safety under false names somewhere with a pleasant climate. But before we leave we’ll steal the crown jewels so we can sell them, and live on the gold they raise.”

“That is a good plan?”

Fulk nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes.”

“Oh dear,” she sighed. She let her head loll forwards so her forehead rested against his chest. He could tell by the way her body shook that she was laughing silently.

He kissed the top of her head. “But I find I prefer your own plan for Trempwick disposal; let your brother do much of the work. Mercenaries are very expensive, and it would be a lot of hard work to organise. Since you have a brother you may as well get some use from him.” He let the moment of silliness pass, and said much more seriously, “Matters will sort as time passes. It might take a while, but they will resolve. Now, it must surely be near midnight, and I am getting cold stood here. Time for bed, I believe.”

Being a well-mannered courtly type he picked her up and carried her so her bare feet didn’t have to tackle the icy floorboards which lay between fireside rug and bed. The nice reward for such consideration was that she wouldn’t then want to warm her frozen feet on him.






6, 619

:stares at the duo with a kind of bug-eyed, deer-in-headlights horror … shakes her head and laughs a bit: Oh dear.

I’m not a well frog. I have one of those wretched summer cold/flu things, though it’s reaching the end of the worst bit now. It’s been nasty, very nasty, and I’ve been in no state to really do much of anything, even reading. :leaves, coughing like (I’ve been told) a dying horse, sneezing occasionally, and very glad that in text form no one can hear her hoarse voice and comment “Gosh, you sound dreadful!” yet again!:


The Three Musketeers ... makes me remember that I have only read the abridged version of that book, and really must buy myself a proper version of it and the sequel sometime. At 447, 226 words Eleanor is not too far off the published novel I mentioned earlier, 'The Fiery Cross', an absolute brick of a book weighing in at 1412 pages in normal sized paperback. All this in about 7 months ~:eek: :dizzy2:

[Ciaran]

Just how exactly does a dying horse sound ~:confused:
Well, at least you don´t sound like a dying frog, and you´ve graced us with this newest installment. Hopefully you´ll be better soon.

The poor Fulk, being married and still... and I can´t recall Nell ever being so unsure of herself.

[frogbeastegg]

“I begin to feel very ignored.” Eleanor directed the pleasantly spoken words at the world in general, but they aught to hit Fulk’s armour with a nice resounding clang. It had seemed like she only just shut her eyes to be woken again by his transferring onto Hawise’s pallet on the floor of her room. He’d said barely two words to her since. At least Trempwick - mercenary though his interest in her was - had not dropped her almost as soon as she turned him down each time, but here she was watching the beginning of a misery she’d always wished to avoid, and always known she couldn’t if married. Denied, Fulk didn’t care to be near her, and from there it was but a short hop to looking elsewhere. Slowly his interest in her would fade. There wasn’t a damned thing she could do. That one night couldn’t be repeated; it was too dangerous. If someone – admittedly highly unlikely though it was – came looking for one of the three in those rooms there would be no hiding that all was not as it should be. Either Hawise would answer the door, or she would fetch Fulk. It wouldn’t help anyway; it would only be a repeat of the same. In a public marriage he would drift away, having no cause to keep her nearby, as her lands and wealth were his regardless and there was so little chance of an heir from her. But in this clandestine match? She didn’t really know, but it promised to be wretched. He had been unfailingly decent, and that was scarily close to being kind. Kind was good – in a match which never did have love. Kind would have been endurable with Trempwick, before she had seen entirely too much of his plans for their future. Kind with Fulk was adding honey to your hemlock. Rancid honey.

Sure enough, Fulk was the one to reply. “How could anyone ignore such an endless source of delight as you? Especially when they know you have weapons.”

“Thanks to my brother I am disarmed.”

“You are not disarmed,” said Hawise. “You still have your tongue.”

That maid was really beginning to get out of hand. Eleanor resolved to do something, although what she couldn’t quite say at the moment. A variety of mild friendship was one thing, and it really would not suit to have a cowering maid, not to mention Hawise had wits and a gift for using them in a handy way which really did need keeping. But she should not be … be … annoying. Yes. She should not be so annoying. Fulk could be annoying because he was Fulk, and Fulk being annoying was quite enjoyable, as was annoying him back, and really it was a very different kind of annoying when it was like that anyway. But Hawise being annoying felt rather more like a disapproving tutor speaking to a young child, and that really was most … well, annoying.

“Scant good it did me last night,” Eleanor retorted.

She waited for an increasingly impatient time. Declaring, “This grows ridiculous!” she crossed to the door leading outside, demanding her party follow her with a harsh gesture. Hugh’s man stepped in to block her path, but changed his mind at the grim faces of her soldiers.

Dainty little shoes might not pound on the courtyard’s cobbles in a satisfying manner, but there was still enough else there to speak loudly of resolution on her part: clothes that streamed out a little behind her at the speed of her travel, the set of her jaw, the way she trod on the sentry’s foot when he tried politely to prevent her from making her entrance in the great hall by standing in the way.

She didn’t pause, heading from doorway to dais, Fulk closely at her heels, and behind him Hawise, then two of her own guard. The men wore her livery, their armour also, and their hands rested on the hilts of their swords.

Eleanor stopped at her brother’s side, turned to address the gathering of nobles in a clear voice. “I will give five hundred pounds to whomever brings me Raoul Trempwick, in any condition, dead or alive. He will answer to me for what he has done. Enough is more than enough.”

The resulting silence was not good enough to hear a pin drop, but a slighter larger object should be audible. Eleanor certainly did hear Hugh’s jaw drop.

“I told you to wait,” he growled in an undertone.

“Outrage does not allow for waiting,” she whispered back. “If I was to do this it must be done quickly, or it would ring falsely.” There had also been the risk she’d have talked herself out of the decision she’d made, and not made the speech which could end in Trempwick’s death at her request. Now it was done, and in best noble style: she had promised away an extravagantly large sum of money she did not have, in a flamboyant manner, before a goodly crowd, and all for a matter that did not precisely warrant it. Melodramatic indeed, and delightfully so. No, royally so.

“I had wished to consider the merits and pitfalls of such an action.”

“Consideration is very well, brother dear, but not when it takes up the time for the action being deliberated. Already it is an hour past dawn.”

A voice from the gathering attracted her attention; she missed the first part of what the man said, but the word “husband” made its way to her ears.

Rapidly she countered, “He is not my husband.” The words echoed from the hall’s high rafters.

“No?” challenged the noble … Rochester, Eleanor recognised him, after a little effort; he had gone considerably fatter since she had last seen him, and his face had fleshed out enough to appear different enough for a cousin or part brother. A royal castellan, deeply reliant on the ruler’s favour to keep the tenantship granted to him. Either he wished to ruin himself, or he trusted that Hugh would not drive a competent man out because they had once taken different stances. The latter would be a promising sign.

“No. If I must be wed to someone who is to me as a mule is to a high-blooded horse then I would do so with every dreg of style due to me. I would not match the humiliation of the groom with the degradation of a pauper’s ceremony.”

“This was not said before, when it would have been a deal more timely.”

Eleanor looked down her nose at him – able to do so only because of the extra height granted to her by the platform on which she stood – and mimicked an expression of haughty disdain she had seen her aunt Adelaide use frequently on the blessedly few times they had met. “I know he lies, he knows it, The Lord knows it, and so do any with the wit they were born with. His claim is so laughable it does not bear denying.” This convinced precisely no one, but in a war of words and claims Trempwick had stolen the march and brought a far better army. She didn’t expect to convince anyone; the denial was a matter of form, and a necessary one at that. It must never be said that, when confronted with the claim, she had failed to deny it as full-heartedly as she could. From lacks like that were battles lost and marriages finalised. “His lies are but one thing, his attack on me in an effort to bring a perverted truth to those claims is entirely another. The former is a bothersome fly, the latter an affront I cannot and will not suffer in silence.”

“If not married to him you are still contracted to him, and so he is within his rights to claim you by force if you prove unwilling, or if that contract is dishonoured. It worries me that this has even come to pass.”

“The contract is invalid; it always has been. I was forced to it.”

“Princess,” said Rochester surprisingly kindly, “that matters little. Your father and your betrothed agreed, and you gave your word on it. You did not seek to break it once it was made. You did not protest it again. To the contrary, you grew amiable to the match. You say you would have married him. Whatever the beginning, and whatever the fine detail in law, it seems to me, and I know many will agree, that the contract stands.”

“Coward that I am I saw little point in protesting further, as it would only have resulted in my pain to no good effect, and since it seemed I must have him no matter what my wish it would not have been prudent to turn his heart against me. My brother did no wrong in acting as he did; he did much right.”

“Moreover,” Hugh spoke up, “the contract is null and void, as the law says thus. It is not for any to alter the letter to suit personal desires and whims; it is for all to follow the letter. In a court of law the pertinent facts go only that the contract was forced, and was never replaced with a version undertaken voluntarily on both parts, even at so informal a level as my sister stating publicly that she no longer had any opposition to marrying the man. If it were not so I would never have intervened, and reversed the decision made by our father, as is now my right as my sister’s guardian.”

There was a general unhappiness at this, but it was a quiet mood. No one challenged either of them or tried to disagree, but again there was a lack of support. But no one challenged or disagreed, or called it a lie or manipulation of truth, justice or law, the very things men looked to the king to uphold as adjudicator-in-chief. It wasn’t good, but at least it was not bad either.

Hugh took a step forward, casting her into his shadow. “It is time and past time; will you have me for your king? Yes, I ask, and my forebears did not do so for some two generations, but there, then, I say that I am being open, and not rushing in unseemly haste to secure one after another the points of power before having the crown placed on my head, never giving those who would be my subjects a chance to say yay or nay as the custom of the land dictates,” he laid emphasis on ‘custom of the land’, a clever touch, given that the king was supposed to uphold it equally with, and sometimes above, the law itself, “and has so dictated since time before memory, since before even the Romans set foot on our shores. Before you speak to me of weakness and an inability to trample those who might protest, pray allow me to remind you that even the first of my line, William the Conquer, asked and was granted leave to take up what he had won, this after God’s clearly pronounced wish that it should be his, giving him no need to consult further with mere men. In England kings are elected from the pool of those available. It is my father and grandfather who broke this tradition, and, though I pay them due reverence, I must conclude they did it from fear. Fear that they would not be given what they instead took through out-pacing all other possible contenders. Yes, the king chooses his heir, and yes that heir is always now a son, not a cousin or nephew as it was on occasion before, but this is not the final word. It is but the strongest of recommendations, one thus far always followed, except in the instance of Harold of Wessex, whom his peers chose over the named heir. I need not speak of the consequences of that decision.”

Hugh held his hands out a little to each side, palms upwards and empty. He looked about the gathering, at the nobles and clergy who had remained at court while others left, and at those who had raced to court from wherever they had been in answer to Hugh’s call and to the news of the arse in the crown’s death. The greater part of the important personages were here now, except those who had gone over to Trempwick, or were too far away to come in the few days allowed, or had taken the risky decision to remain undeclared for a time longer, risking any chance at early influence and gratitude they might have. “Will you have me?”

By Hugh’s standards it was quite the nice play-piece, a good bit of acting on the necessary kingly stage. He had stressed his commitment to the customs of the realm, and his willingness to ask and listen to his future vassals; both things expected of a king, but not always there. He had brushed over the earlier complete lack of enthusiasm by making it sound as if the question had not been posed before. He had given the almost-illusion of choice, not quite a true illusion because there was a real danger they could refuse him and turn to her instead. But that would be unlikely … surely that would be unlikely. Ah, but then it was supposed to be so very unlikely that she was ever considered for the throne while she had brothers yet alive ….

Eleanor held her breath. She saw Hugh doing likewise.

How would they see Hugh, now forced to finally weight him and render a decision? A nice, needy would-be king, weaker than his father and grandfather, not as weak or profitable as a queen, perhaps, but then there is weak and there is too weak, and then also too unusual and too unknown. He’d proven himself too, a capable warrior and prince, not outstanding or great, but outstanding and great tended to lead to a boot firmly planted on the necks of the upper nobility. He was thought just and honourable to the point of stodginess until very recently. There was a child on the way too, and this one looked like surviving. He had control over his sister, the only other good candidate, and she appeared to support him, and if that cause were to die then there would be some nice lands and titles to hand out as rewards to Hugh’s loyal followers. Some had already done homage to him …

“Fiat!” Eleanor wasn’t sure who had shouted it, or even where exactly in the hall it had come from, but it was repeated and echoed until the acceptance built into a roar. But then, these were the people who had decided Hugh suited their best interests.

Let it be so. There should never have been any doubt it could be otherwise, this should have happened days ago, and there should have been a larger group here to acclaim him. But at last, fiat, let it be so. At least in this respect matters were steadily returning to being as they should, though Eleanor doubted much else would be as easy or as neat at this.

Hugh bowed his head. “Thank you. I swear now upon my soul that I shall give my all to being worthy of this trust you have given me.” He crossed himself. “This oath I will repeat again at my coronation, upon holy relicts. Prepare it, for two days hence.”

Another roar of “Fiat!” bounced about the hall.

Eleanor bit back a smile. Two days hence; a quite impossible date, if preparations had not already under way since shortly after the news of the accident arrived. Which made this election about as much of a charade as all those which had preceded it.

Hugh held up a hand for silence. “With regards to Trempwick, there too it is now time for action. This now had gone far beyond hot-headed insults and personal quarrels. He has attacked me and mine; my family, my stalwart retainers, people under my sworn protection. He has abused the trust set in him by my father, and by myself, and used now that trust to corrupt my people and launch his attack. He has broken the peace. He has declared war on me, in a most dishonourable way, while I allowed him time to cool his head and consider the situation, then come back to me to make peace between us. He is a traitor, and once I am crowned I shall bring him to his knees before me.”

That was greeted with much less enthusiasm. Eleanor supposed this was because it would mark the proving point of Hugh’s attitude, and the beginning of what might be a long struggle between nobles and king. Would he press for the complete destruction of the fallen man, if indeed he did overcome him? Or would he do as he should, and offer forgiveness in exchange for confiscated lands and titles and closer guard in the future? What manner of king would Hugh be, in short. How safe would his nobles be from him if they fell into dispute? Would he act on the law and custom he espoused now, or do as his father had and choose his own course, backed by the might of his sword?





6, 702

I brought some (as in 23 over the last 9 days) new books, and they are proving to be very absorbing, so I’ve not been writing much. As you can tell. Mmm, new books … large piles of new books … which all seem to be really good (if fiction) or really fascinating (if history) …. Mmmm, new books :gring: Froggy loves the combination of payslips, reduced books, and a range of thousands to choose from, oh yes she does.

Apparently a dying horse has a very deep, wheezy, loud cough which sounds like it must be rattling rib bones.

Hehe, yes, poor old Fulk! He is going very cross-eyed. :tongueg: Nell is ... well, Nell, and an essay unto herself. So I won't start to explain her, or we shall be here all night as one thing links to another, and before you know it I've done a 25 page analysis of the gooseberry. I'll let what is in the story stand alone; it should be enough to make sense anyway. I hope.

[Ciaran]

Upping the stakes, I see. Nell demands Trempy´s head and Hugh is elected King, things really get moving. But wasn´t Hugh elected King some time ago, there was some scene, as far as I recall. ~:confused:

23 book ~:eek: I wouldn´t even know where to store them, much less when to read them :book: , but I do envy you. I suppose there´s much to be said for working in a book store. For my part, I´m still waiting for a shipment to arrive from your island (it can´t take two weeks for a package from the UK to Germany, now can it?).

[frogbeastegg]

The way Anne squealed with delight, jumped up and flung herself onto the strange man before he could even finish opening the royal solar’s door would have set tongues wagging with a vengeance, Eleanor observed privately. Then she realised with something very close to terror that she sounded like a disapproving aunt.

The man allowed himself to be knocked back a step by the exuberance of the welcome, then hugged the queen back. “Hello, Menace. I see you are setting a high standard for solemnity in English queenship.”

Anne let the man go, took a step back and assumed her usual queenly pose. “I happen to be a very good queen. Well, mostly. The bits I understand, anyway. I think. I hope.”

“And yet your forget your basic manners,” he chided with a grin. “Still my dear little Menace.” The man bowed to Eleanor. “Pray allow me to introduce my lowly self. I am Alexander, Earl of Angus.”

That would make him king Malcolm the third of Scotland’s eldest child, a bastard. As his title showed he was dearly loved by his father, so loved, some said, that he was preferred to Malcolm the Lame, the legitimate son and heir. He was about the same age as Eleanor, with a closely cropped beard that grew longer and came to a point at his chin, and curly auburn hair. Not handsome, but he looked like he laughed a lot, and there was resemblance to Anne in more than the hair colour; the fine, almost feminine cheekbones, the odd other slight touch here and there about the mouth and nose. He had the skinniness of a youth whose growth had mostly been up, not out, but a few more years should balance that out. Though perhaps he would never be one of those solid looking men, always a little on the slender side.

He came up from his bow and winked at her. “And you, I presume, are princess Eleanor. I must say I am disappointed.”

Charming, charming as a sewer. “Yes,” said Eleanor acidly, “most people say that.”

Anne elbowed her brother in the ribs; he grunted and clutched the sore spot. “Ouch! And now Menace is trying to kill me. How fair is that, when this trouble I appear to be in is all her fault?” He aimed a friendly swat at his sister’s head.

“My fault?” asked Anne.

“Yes, you evil little Menace. To believe even half of what you say in your letters home, I had expected her to be surrounded by a golden glow and with a halo.”

“Oh,” mumbled Eleanor. For once it appeared the fame had been good, if exaggerated.

Alexander bowed to Eleanor again. “So you may imagine my shock when I saw you were merely mortal.”

“Alex,” Anne interjected in a loud voice, “is not very good at diplomacy or anything. He is useless, really. But we still like him, even if he does always upset people when he talks to them. We just keep him away from all ambassadors and people of import so he cannot start any more wars by insulting people too much.”

“It is true,” he admitted cheerfully. “At home I am usually kept gagged, and my dear father made me take a vow of silence, which I then forgot about and broke.” Alex coughed once, straightened his elaborately decorated tunic and resettled his sword belt. “I should reserve private family foolery for more private moments, no matter how glad I am to see Menace again. Let me begin again.” He bowed to Eleanor once again, a very correct courtly bow. “Alexander FitzMalcom, Earl of Angus, pleased to make your acquaintance and at your service. I would thank you for the care you have shown my sister. Menace though she may be, I am very fond of her.”

“She does not seem that much of a menace,” replied Eleanor.

Alex’s freckled face lit up with another grin. “You are not her brother, and you have only known her for a little less than a quarter-year.” He looked sideways at his sister. “But perhaps she does work to impress; her letters do go on at considerable length about you, almost as much as about your illustrious father, to tell the truth.”

Eleanor lowered her eyes to the floor and brought out her demure princess act. “I could not think why. If you will excuse me I shall leave you to exchange your greetings in private.”

“No need, though the thought is kind. From what I gather Menace would only come running to you to tell you why I am here, so you might as well hear from the source.” He turned to Anne and said, with the confidence of one who knew his news would be welcome, “I am here to bring you home.”

Anne’s lower lip jutted out obstinately. “No.”

“We thought your family’s support-”

“I am staying here,” she said firmly. “News of William will come here soonest. He will need me.”

The Earl shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. “Menace, the word we had … I doubt he will need you again.”

“You mean you think he is dead. So does everyone, nearly. But the message did not say that. We had another just this morning, and it did not say he was dead either.”

Eleanor spoke to Alex, as it was easier than seeing Anne’s hope flicker and die, or, perhaps worse, continue to burn as brightly. “It said he was growing worse with no signs of improvement, and this was a week ago. They said he had perhaps another two days. He is dead; he cannot have come back from that. He is too old, and too badly hurt.”

Anne played with her wedding ring, turning the thick gold band about as if inspecting it for damage. For a moment it looked as if she might take it off, but then she closed her hand into a fist and looked back up. “You said he would be dead before, but you were wrong because he was still alive when that letter was sent. You were wrong about that and you could be wrong again now.”

The second letter had been sent not even two days after the first, slow in arriving thanks to a rough crossing of the Narrow Sea. It had been a brief and unremittingly bleak missive. Even Hugh had put it aside without a word, and from there gone to the chapel to pray for his father’s departed soul. The letter had been displayed to any who cared to read it – and there had been many – and now no one but Anne spoke of the old king’s return in any context but a state funeral.

“And you,” Anne turned on her brother, “you did not even like the thought of me marrying him and coming here in the first place.”

Alex scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “As I said enough times previously, it was the man I did not like, not the rest. I will not apologise for wishing someone of more suitable age and temperament on you.”

“There was nothing wrong with his temperament,” said Anne very softly. She then corrected herself, “There is nothing wrong with his temperament.”

“Your grandmother is going frantic. Our father is worried, everyone is worried, even your step-mother.”

“Everyone? Even Malcolm?” enquired Anne, and she sounded very disbelieving.

“No,” Alexander admitted, looked away slightly. “Not Malcolm. Disregard him, for he is as sour as ever. But everyone else close to you worries. It is not good for you to stay here.” He glanced to Eleanor; his words were now chosen with extreme care. “There is a new king rising, and he has a queen of his own and concerns of his own. There is nothing for you to do, and your place is going to be taken by another, as it should be. Things will be … busy, and you should not be here.”

“You mean,” said Eleanor, “Hugh’s grip is still very weak and it is being challenged, and Anne would not be safe in the midst of that. And you would be right.”

“I will be safe.”

“Menace, I shall be blunt, as it seems you will not listen. You are a rich prize in your own right, and available for marriage again. You could be used to bring pressure on our father by any who held you, and you know there are many parties who would like to gain by that. You are under Hugh’s protection, so any successful attempt on your makes him look weak and will give him endless embarrassment. He has already failed to protect his own sister adequately. Matters become more and more unstable here, and from there lawlessness and violence will grow. I care nothing for the rights and wrongs of this Trempwick, but the simple fact is that there is now open warfare between him and the new king, and it will not be settled quickly or lightly as is often the manner when vassals test a new liege. You serve no purpose here; you have no place here now. If anything you absorb resources and attention needed elsewhere. To return home is not to stay there forever, or to cut yourself off from things here. You will be able to return, if you wish, once things are more settled or if your husband needs you.”

“I know,” Anne admitted eventually. “You all spent years of my life teaching me my duty; you cannot expect me to forget that now it is convenient to you. My husband is my family now; all others must come second. I will leave … when there is no reason for me to stay. It should not be much longer before we hear …” She broke off, blinking rapidly to keep from crying. There was no need for her to admit what she refused to face except in rare, odd moments. It would not be much longer before the formal announcement of the death arrived.

Alex tried again, adopting a unchangeable tone, “I was to bring you back with all decent speed. Our father orders it.”

Anne touched her wedding ring, perhaps for reassurance. Her shoulders jerked back level and she raised her chin and stiffened her neck as if she bore the weight of her golden crown now. “I am the Queen of England. I will not be ordered by any but William. It would be beneath my dignity, and disloyal to my husband, and he has been nothing but kindness itself to me and it would be really ungrateful to abandon him. Even if it were seemly. Which it is not.”

“He is dead.”

“Then I am a widow,” she replied calmly. “As such I am subject to no one.”

Alexander’s eyes bulged out quite comically; he gaped at his little sister and stammered, “That you do not mean, surely not!” He recovered a very little, losing the stammer. “You are too sensible to believe such notions. Everyone is subject to someone, and you would never be fool enough to throw off your own family so. It would be your ruin!”

Anne’s queenly demeanour cracked; her hand shot out and caught hold of her brother’s. “No, I do not mean it like that. But … I do mean it, really, but not so badly. I have been a queen for nearly three months now, and not a play-queen either, but a working, real one, and I cannot just forget all of that and go back to how I was. And I cannot be ordered like I was before. It is all a very big mess and I really am not sure what to do at all, but I do know …” She took a very deep breath and said resolutely, “I will not be ordered home against what I want, or anything like that. So I am staying, at least for a bit longer.”






“I told you something was not quite right with her, but no, you refused to listen, and now look at where you are! Oh, why could you not listen, Raoul!?”

Trempwick stood, his body unfolding with ponderous deliberation. Before his limbs had finished straightening his mother took an involuntary step back, even knowing her son and his foibles as she did. How … something. A mix between amusing and grating. Both placating and goading. “Be silent, mother dear,” he said pleasantly. Pleasing, that level of control. So many would simply have hit her. Or shouted. Or given some larger indication of their poor mood somehow. But not he. Better than so many of them, in so many ways. But she had doubted that for a heartbeat. Even knowing him. How demeaning. He was not a brute. He was a thinker.

And yet he was in this coil! And the path traced back from this moment, littered with indignities. Animals. Idiots. Inconveniences. Stupid decisions belonging to others. Disgusting little irrational feelings. No man stands alone. Bloody pity! Some ‘wise’ old dead man’s words, whose name was lost to time, had been right. But in the usual manner he had been right only by being wrong on the subject he spoke on. Seeing others’ messy actions as a benefit, ha! A spurt of viciousness; Trempwick hoped dearly that the nameless fool had met his death in a manner which crammed his error there full in his face. Imagine, if the actions of others did not affect him. A glorious prospect! To be only the influenceer, never the influenceed. Alas that it would never come to pass.

She did not regain the ground she had given up, but no longer stood poised for flight. Seemingly remembering who he was. That she should ever forget … again, pleasing and disgusting on the most base of levels. Analysis: why pleasing? Some very base delight in being recognised as stronger? Desire to dominate in some way aside from intellectual ones? So much frustration that his tastes slipped a little? The known outlet for frustration that was physical action and violence appealing in this difficult time … ? His control being insufficient? Something else? Odd. Further investigation required. Later. But for now: tentative decision: the satisfaction of simply letting lose and hitting something appealing. Refined: The fear he might do so, as he rather wished to. But would not. Because he was himself. Also: the gratification of it being known when he was pushed too far, without his needing to recourse to anything cruder than that simple action of standing. Preliminary; return to this later.

She said, “I told you that princess was not as tame as she should be.”

Too much. Too much! Trempwick growled, “Be silent and stop displaying your ignorance!”

“You should have kept her on a tighter rein, a much tighter one.”

A moment. A breath, so. Mind channelled, so. A mental grip, here. Control now restored. “No, mother. I should not have.” Result would have been a mindless puppet thing. Not suitable. “Nell is no longer here; you may cease playing the part of disagreeable shrew. There is nothing to gain by it at present.”

“Fourteen years of work on her, and what is the result?” she wailed. Hands cast in the air, beseeching God. Tears brimming on her eyelashes. Quite the shameless display; unlike her. Distraught. “Nothing! Nothing but our destruction!”

Was it indeed? “I appreciate your confidence, mother.”

She spun to wave a finger in his face. “How can you be so glib? You will hang!”

“Hung, drawn and quartered, to be precise,” he said coolly. Pleasing again; sounded as if he spoke of another he cared not for, not himself. “This after a lengthy, showy trial, imprisonment, a long and hate-filled trip to my doom, and in the end my body butchered and put on display until it is finally all eaten by carrion creatures. A more excruciating death you can hardly find.” Now, a smile, the one which called to mind a wolf waiting outside a sheep-fold. “But do not worry, mother. You will be sent to live out your days imprisoned in a nunnery, which is much as you wish anyway.”

“Raoul!” she shrieked. The next instant the anger collapsed. She flung herself on him, holding him tightly, weeping. “My beautiful son. I could not bear it, I could not. To know you died in such a way …” Suddenly she gripped his tunic near the shoulders and shook him, looking up at him, face tear-stained. “Flee, you must flee, now while there is still chance.”

“Oh, I do think not.” He extricated himself. Sat down again, one leg idly crossed over the other. “You see, all is not as bad as you seem to believe.” Her lack of faith: disappointing. But she was privy to so little. No one knew even half. No one could judge as he could. See as he could. Understand. Only he knew all. Only he.

“You have lost your princess, she has turned on you.”

Laugh. “So she has many times over the years. But I always bring her back into place. Always. This time will be no different. She might wish to be free of me but she never will be, even after I am dead she will not be.” That wolf smile again. “I did my work well.”

Private worry: why had she turned on him? Important to know. Guess: the knight. Somehow. But how? A ‘gift’ of him from Hugh? Perhaps … but the bastard was so stodgy. Or plans to run away with him? Or something equally foolish? No, too foolish to be believed of Nell. Hopes of placing her brother so far in her debt she could keep the knight? Ha! How very, very, very far he would have to slide into her gratitude for that! Or perhaps not the knight at all. No clear way for it to be the knight. He was a distraction, as ever. Muddied the waters. Pity he had not died as he should have. Removed that distraction from his vision, purged that extra bit of unpredictability and point for change in his planning. He could have won Nell about to it. Maybe an effort to be free of him? But … he had guarded against that so well – minus him there was no future for her but the one she always fled. Self-preservation, perchance? Likely, in some way. She was in the bastard’s hands now, achingly vulnerable. No opposition from her reported until after the rescue began to unthread. Saving her own skin from the disaster? Possible. Play along with the bastard until it was safe for her to stop? Very likely. Rivals to thrones tended to disappear …

Rescue of her was paramount. Would the bastard harm her? Unlikely: all would know it was he. Very damaging. His position was delicate enough now. Better to use her to bolster himself.

Problem: details even now clouded. Rescue failed last night. News of that known to him within an hour, as he waited for Nell to be delivered to him and his escort. More news flooding in, from spies and general bodies. Now, early evening, and much known. But far more unknown.

The devil was in the details.

Without the details …

Well, what could he do? Really? Hypothesise. Guess. Reason. Use logic. Knowledge. All he had. But still it would be a tower built on infirm land.

So. For now. He would … act. He could do much without knowing all. For when had he ever truly known all? Had he let that stop him he would have achieved nothing. Done nothing. Never left his chair. But stayed sitting, thinking, worrying. So long as he planned nothing upon that which he did not know. So long as he carefully set insurances. So long as he exercised far more caution than usual. So long as he kept countermeasures in place to compensate and correct anything that might go awry due to his not knowing. In short: business as usual. But more careful.

Item: plans were made to be resilient. Even if Nell did support the bastard, now he could advance. Then she would come to him. Many reasons for her coming, all dependant on why she was opposing him. But a reason for each eventuality. All he had to do was keep on beating the bastard. Then she would come. Saving herself from that disaster. Or coming to his approval. Or his guidance. Or his caring. Or fleeing the bastard’s plans for her. Or because she saw what she could do and what the bastard could do, and saw as he did that she was far better than him. Or because she wanted power, power to control, to break, to mend, to say yay or nay at her will, and the so many other little and precious nothings which her family denied her. And the many greater somethings which the very powerful had access to. More control over her own fate, far more control, in every way. And then the special delight of being queen …

She would love it! Truly, she would. Given time to accustom herself. To discover the advantages. A small example: who would ever say a queen dressed poorly? Instead Nell would be the height of fashion, those very people who had scorned her now tripping over themselves in their haste to imitate and win her favour. Oh yes, Nell would enjoy that. Not from any flattery or such nonsense. But with the sweet delight of one who had been nothing now being everything, and being in the centre of it all, knowing. Knowing that those fools were fools. Knowing of her superiority to them and power over them. Knowing what they were, and what they did. The delight, simply put, of becoming incontrovertibly better than one’s tormenters. Winning protection from them. Gaining grudging compliance. Defeating them in the only way which truly mattered: with the scale and standards which hurt them most.

One very special savour: Nell would adore being the first queen of England ruling in her own right. Making history. Proving herself to all. Doing the ‘impossible’, the ‘unthinkable’. And doing what promised to be a good job of it. If guided …

And think of the way it would salve that internal hurt of hers. So her father and family rejected her and tried to crush her. But if she were clearly better than all of them ... Achieved things they never even dreamed possible. Replaced them. Outdid them. And on her own terms, in her own way. Not theirs.

Ah yes, and that keen need of hers to prove herself. And to be approved of. Especially by him. That a part of why she would always be his, even after his death – she needed his approval. His respect. She needed him to tell her she had done well before she truly knew it. Or truly believed it. Whichever. No matter, the principle more important than the label attached. A child’s need to be good and worthwhile in the eyes of the one who raised it, and to be recognised as good by the one it learned most from and respected. A human’s need for recognition.

He had seen early on the spark inside her that would respond to power. He had nurtured it. Set her up so it would grow, predictably – important that. Predictability meant security, reliance for him - if ever given chance. And he had intended to give that chance. At the right moment. That moment was … now.

He knew her in a thousand thousand ways.

And yet she had surprised him …

Before now, and most like again in the future. He didn’t want mindless.

But now it was dangerous …

He could compensate. He always had. He always would.

Unless the student outgrew the master …

That would be welcome(?). And she wouldn’t do it in such an unintelligent way! If she surpassed him she would do so with sense, not in a move that would doom her to a life which was no real life as pet prisoner and proper princess. Assuming she survived even so far.

But Nell could be terribly rash …

But never so rash as to ruin herself. Rash enough to spit defiance at her father to her own hurt, yes, but there … well, that was a smallish hurt on the grand scale. Never rash enough to provoke worse. She could, would and did give way when sensible. He had needed to do little, to win her for the betrothal. She would have talked herself to it, given a little more time and pain.

Points: He would have her back, unless he went down in defeat. He would not be defeated unless something went terribly wrong. He needed her, but he could use her even when she stood against him(out of fear for her life, in her bastard-brother’s captivity). She was his wife, even when she denied it (out of fear for her life, in her bastard-brother’s captivity). She was his, even when she demanded his head (out of fear for her life, in her bastard-brother’s captivity).

It could all be explained. Perhaps not rightly. But to his benefit. Anything but the useful reasons he would keep private. Nell stood against him out of fear for her life, in her bastard-brother’s captivity.

So to win all he needed to do was … not lose. It sounded poorly, and simple-minded people would read it in a simple-minded way. Giggling in their ignorance that if one did not do one then the other was assured. Win or lose. One or other. But those who thought would see the depth and complexity of that. The gap between winning and losing. The dimensions to such flat words. The degrees of each. The cursed wasteland between, where neither was achieved and one did not win or lose.

Trempwick nodded at his mother. “Oh yes, I am far from finished. Very far. But matters will get busier, and the real, hot work begins. It is not as I might have preferred, but it will do well enough.”

“Raoul-”

“Do not protest at me, mother. It is a waste of my time, and that is a most precious commodity on any occasion. Or do you perhaps approve that little of my plan which I have shown you, only to lose your stomach when words become deeds and it is no longer a nicely neat thing?”

“I am afraid for you. You are my only child now. I still miss your brother; I could not stand losing you.”

The elder brother who had not even seen his second year. He didn’t remember him, of course. He’d not even been half a year old at the time. Amazing that such an unformed, short-lived thing could leave such a lasting mark. Truly, and meant in no bad way. It was fascinating. “I have no intention of dying in any way which lacks taste, or of dying at all, if it comes to that. Should all go badly I shall take ship to somewhere I will be welcomed; I have already courted several potential refuges. I would be valued, with my abilities and knowledge of realm and people. But it shall not come to that.” Thought. “You had best go to Hastings and take refuge behind its walls. The castle is all but invincible.” Overstatement, but near true enough. A stronghold of considerable strength that would not fall quickly. Easy to reinforce or rescue. His best holding in Kent. Closer and safer than those in Northumberland.

She went pale. Gasped. Eyes went wide.

“You know I always plan for the worst,” he soothed. “You will take Elgiva too, as you may both be used against me if captured.” No one should know about Elgiva. But if they came sniffing about Salcey trouble could come. “If you are both safely out of the way then a great many potential harms are blocked. Not to mention there is nothing for either of you to do.” Truth: they were now useless and a liability to him. So he would put them safely away until times were more suitable. Such a great pity to oust Elgiva from his hunting lodge here at Salcey. A breaking of his life almost as much as leaving Woburn. Now his holiday was banished too. Nowhere to retire to when he wished for a break. Nowhere he could find the specific, comfortable welcome Elgiva managed. Sad … even when he got her back, even when all there was settled as he wished it, Nell would never be to him as Elgiva was. Not now. Looking ahead at the future … Perhaps when all was peaceful he and Nell might manage for a day or so to retreat to a quiet property with the minimum of retainers, business banished, to do little more than laugh, love, relax … But never could she be so … domestic as Elgiva. Which was good, and bad.

The price of success. His cosy life banished. His quiet, mostly lost. Those little pleasures, so hard to obtain.

Everything had its price. Nothing came without a negative aspect. He knew it. He accepted it. He moved on past it.

But still, he would miss.

Interruption: his mother saying, “I will not take her with me. Or Juliana.”

“Oh, mother!”

“Aim for something fitting to you, Raoul. I always tell you this.”

“Mother-”

“You could have had your pick of many ladies with noble blood, not servants and peasants.”

“Juliana is noble.” In a very minor way.

“One out of how many? No, do not answer that.” Beseeching look now, in a wily way. Familiar: she was going to declaim the world as she wanted it. Again. Because he was lacking in her eyes. Incredible. After all he had done, achieved, he was lacking. What would be enough? He did not care. Not now. Once had, but not now. “I cannot believe you are happy with such unrefined creatures, truly I cannot. And it is not fitting! You-”

A waste of his time. And boring. And repetitive. And he had it memorised. “And being your precious son I should be consorting with only the best, because somehow it is quite unthinkable that anything else could be to my tastes. You miss half the point – such people tend to be convenient in various way and for various reasons. They will also do nothing to cause ructions when I do collect my wife. And, dare I say it, half of them were more sensible and less bothersome than their noble-blooded rivals. Giggling, twittering, lack-brained females in fancy clothes, bah! They make me ill, and you would push me at them thinking it better.” And the noblemen didn’t do much better in his eyes – what allies and enemies he had, he thought sardonically.

“Your tastes lie in the gutter,” she sniffed.

Scowl; let her think his ill-temper returned to the edge of control. “Thank you for your kind assessment of my princess, mother. Enough of your nonsense; you will go and you will take Elgiva with you. And drop Juliana back with her family, if you must lose her.” Not that he cared at all for Juliana. A single brief encounter to ease a need, combined with some low level, incompetent agenting work from her. But still, no point in being untidy, or letting her get into harm’s way. Or letting her blab to ears which should not hear. Quick mental check: … No, that was it. All others were past. Past interest, past caring, past danger, past whatever. In some way or another no longer part of his present. Good. He tried to keep his love life neat.

And now he really should get moving again. With a sigh Trempwick stood, muscles a little sore from all his unaccustomed riding. “As you might expect, I must go. I have much to do. I shall leave you sufficient men for an escort.”






6, 781

The earlier scene was a bit of a failure. Hugh should have been declared king, but wasn't. People even walked out, and the whole thing was only saved by being converted into a homage ceremony, which is a different thing. Now he is trying again, on a different note (asking, not simply expecting it as his right) and with an audience that is more likely to support him than any other. He is sort of pretending the earlier scene didn't happen and that this is the first time he has waited to be acclaimed because it is very important for his future security on the throne. Now he can say that he was chosen by the great and powerful of the land, excepting those rebels who followed Trempwick. Also, it counters Trempwick a little, and takes advantage of the situation.

[Aetius the Last Roman]

Once again brilliant work,
I really missed the good Trempy POV's.

[Ciaran]

As it would seem, Anne has spent way too much time with Nell, considering how she acted at her introduction compared to now... And Trempwick is scheming and brilliant as ever.


The castle is all but invincible. Wouldn´t that sentence mean the castle is very vulnerable, saying it is anything, just not invincible? I´ve seen this construction used in both ways, supporting and denying, but I´m not sure which is correct.

[RabidGibbon]

Haha... I've reached the end at long last, loved this line by the way

“I have no intention of dying in any way which lacks taste"

The only problem with reaching the end is that theres no more to read. I'll need to find something else to keep me busy ~:handball:

[frogbeastegg]

Constance should not be riding; on occasion such activity promoted miscarriage, and therefore it was most vital that she refrain from such risk. Regrettably this was not possible; she was to be crowned queen at his side, when his own coronation concluded. Moreover, many insisted that the risk was minimal, so long as the pace remained stately, and so Hugh had found himself with no support and sorely pressed on many sides in his attempt to keep her safely at Waltham. Minimal risk may be deemed acceptable by some, but never by him. Where this child had not been murdered he would not lose it to misfortune! Hugh snorted; such ideals were well enough, until one became king and necessity called for a hasty coronation followed by a lengthy progress through the most important areas of one’s new realm, wife at his side throughout.

Hugh looked to his left again, the motion designed to be casual to imitate a viewing of the scenery and mask the true object of his concern. His efforts at subterfuge availed him little; she noticed both movement and where his eyes focused.

Constance leaned a little forward to scratch her mount between the ears, and in the cover of that motion she said for his hearing only, “Vigorous activities of all sorts, Hugh …”

If he had blushed it would have signalled to onlookers that the private conversation was not on the most dignified of levels. So it was to his extensive relief that Hugh did not feel his face flame, or even heat slightly, indicating that he had more than likely escaped such a misstep. “You are indeed correct,” he replied, his uncomfortable awareness that she had the right of it making his voice stiff. “I shall take a mistress and cease to bother you.” As he should have immediately on finding he was to be a father. His loathsome selfishness would be justly rewarded by God if it caused that which he feared so much, if it would not involve the death of an innocent and more heartache for Constance. There would be no justice in that.

“Oh, do stop being such a damp blanket.”

“I am not a damp blanket.” His eyes slid sideways and then to the other side when he realised his words had been a trifle louder than was prudent, and so might have carried to unwelcome ears. It appeared fortune had protected him, and this had not happened. He resolved never to be so careless again, and with that oath came the remembrance of other, identical oaths which he had failed to keep. Castigating himself for his weakness, Hugh determined that this time he would prevail. He was to be king now, and if such lapses were unworthy of a prince then they were damning of a king. “I am merely concerned for your well-being, and that of our child.”

Constance nudged her horse closer to his and leaned over to touch his arm. “I know. But you worry far too much. The others … were lost for a different cause, and most pregnant women are far more active without any problems. So long as it is not taken to excess all will be well enough. Or would you have me die of sheer boredom and inactivity?”

Hugh crossed himself to advert the ill-luck caused by such temptation of fate.

She returned to a slightly more distant station so Hugh’s stallion couldn’t take exception to her palfrey’s proximity and attempt to bite it.

The cavalcade rode on, pace steady. There was no hurrying, but each person in the large group was mounted, resulting in a steady six or so miles per hour. The baggage carts and other such encumbrances unable to maintain the pace followed in a second group, escorted by infantry, as this group was by nearly a hundred mounted men at arms and knights. They had left early, and would be in the city just before Sext, the slower group arriving just as evening began. The coronation itself would take place in the latter part of the afternoon, culminating in time for the feast to begin immediately at the correct time for dinner. As it was a Thursday he was just evading the dreariness of a fish feast; meats gave so much more variety and suited the palate better, and the cooks could work many more wonders with such material. Fish could only have so many flavours, appear in so many different guises, and was suited to fewer types of dishes. Such a dismal feast was all he needed to add the final touches of wretchedness to this, his most unhappy accession.

Ahead of him in the line rode a company of twenty knights, armoured and five abreast. Then the immediate royal party, consisting of himself and Constance, their flanks guarded by two more knights for each side and the rear brought up by Hugh’s squire and Constance’s maids, followed by another ten knights also riding in ranks of five. Behind came Anne, escorted by her own household troops and her ladies. Behind the former queen came Eleanor’s party; a small group consisting only of the single maid Nell possessed and her meagre little army, most of whom bore their still healing wounds from their rescue of her.

Hugh turned in his saddle and leaned until he could see his sister’s party. Two of her men at arms rode ahead of her. She herself rode alone. Behind and to her left came the maid he had pressed on her. Behind and to her right lay the man Hugh had initiated this search for. He wore his full armour, tripped out like the knight he was, but bareheaded, his coif resting on his shoulders and his kettle helm – an eccentricity which betrayed the man’s lowly origins; such a helm was the choice of a footman, or of a knight who was to dismount and fight on foot, not a warrior who expected to do battle in best knightly style - hung from his saddle. He had no squire to carry his lance and shield, the boy he had been assigned having sold his loyalty to Trempwick in return for a promise of sponsorship so he could enter the clergy. Instead this Fulk wore his shield on his back and carried his own lance, iron point aimed at the sky. There was a faint aura of the knight errant of manuscript pictures about him.

Hugh returned his view to forwards, unable to keep the frown entirely under control. The situation was most vexing! He owed the man a considerable debt; to refute that would be churlish, and unworthy of even a merchant. Debts must be paid, and a king must pay his debts promptly and lavishly; it was expected. This Hugh did not object to; it was a fine principle and one he strove to live by, as indeed he strove so hard to always do what was right and good. However there was one caveat: the man had the audacity to love where he should not even dare to dream. It was from this malformed source that the need for reward sprung – the knight had acted so recklessly, fought so very desperately, solely because he loved the princess he served. Without that extra portion of exertion Trempwick’s creatures would more than likely have succeeded in their vile bid to abduct Eleanor.

So, to sum up all in a nutshell, he should reward the knight for his impudence. Similarly, he should, at the very least, dismiss the man for that same reason, and be sure that he never set eyes upon Nell again. Most vexing.

But, in all this, there remained the bold truths he had named to Constance on previous days, now vindicated and doing some honour to his sense of foresight and elucidation. Honourable those insights may not be, nor honourable the actions they promoted, but effective, and that must be the main focus. It must. He could build and enhance religious institutions in penance, if he survived and thrived. If not, he would answer for his sins personally. His soul was nothing to the safety of his family. Hugh reminded himself yet again that if he fell, they fell, so by fair means or foul he must prevail. If that meant sacrificing his chance of salvation and eternal bliss then it was a small price to pay. It was. And perhaps it was a kind of martyrdom, a martyrdom of the spirit rather than the flesh, and so there could be redemption in that agony. He recalled the second part of the passage chosen for him by God himself: Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall. He found them a balm to his aching heart, and repeated them often. However, they seldom completely banished the pain.

The knight was, for the present, a useful addition. As he had proven so spectacularly he was the best single guard for Eleanor that could be found, and there was need of such a guard for as long as people other than himself sought to use her to their own benefit. Not, he added hastily, that he sought to use her so poorly. He only wished to do his duty by her as her brother and guardian. An army she might now be forming, but there were many times when one was more use than a multitude. Once he had her secured into a suitable future then the need would pass.

How many would charge alone into unknown numbers of enemies after being wounded, only for the sake of pay and the keeping of an oath which could still be discharged honourably if one took the time to secure company and advance in a manner less hazardous to one’s own health? Precious, precious few, even if it should be all, according to the tenets of chivalry and honour. In the latter situation Nell would have been lost but the guard’s honour left intact in the face of his failure. As the proponents of courtly love insisted, the love of a lady did indeed push one to greater and better deeds than one would undertake otherwise, turning the plain man into a valiant hero.

Rewarding the maid for her small part had been easy. Sixty marks provided her with a generous dowry, opening the path to a marriage far better than she could have expected otherwise, and far sooner, as she would not have to make up much of her dowry from money saved from her wages. This he had done yesterday, publicly. The knight should also have been rewarded at that time, but he had not known what, instead delaying with a statement that his gift would take longer to prepare.

What did one give to the man who saved one’s sister from a rather complicated fate? Money would be insulting. Lands could do in part, but they would appear bland if given as a whole, and this gift needed to be magnificent. Armour would be redundant, as John had attired Fulk to the level of a wealthy knight in his attempt to bribe the man to his side. Horses were also mostly redundant, the man being in possession of a good pair. Although … he could cancel the debt the man owed to the treasury for the loan granted him to purchase the animals. That would be a beginning, admittedly a small one. He could offer marriage to a good heiress, but that would work poorly. It would raise the man higher when such was not precisely desirable at this present moment. Secondly the offer may be refused, and that would be devastating to Hugh’s prestige; the man had been offered similar before and turned it down.

Hugh asked Constance quietly, “What do you give a man who saves your sister from an undesirable fate almost single-handedly, and in so doing prevents greater harm and difficulty befalling you?”

She turned to face him, smiling slightly. “His heart’s desire,” she said deliberately. “Shame that one’s heart over-reaches so substantially. I doubt he will care much whatever you give him as none of it will be what he truly wants, so gift him something impressive looking to placate the audience, but something also practical so he may get some use from it.”

“He always wears that plain old sword …” mused Hugh, summoning to his mind’s eye as many of the knight’s appearances as he could remember. “Matched with a dagger that was once my father’s.”

“Yes, he does.”

“I shall offer him his choice of replacement; a blade of the highest quality to fit his build, height and technique to perfection. That will do for part, and I had thought to banish his debt to the treasury, but more is required.” A moment’s more thought offered up a lack in the knight’s armoury. “I shall gift him a mace to match the sword; I am not aware of him possessing such a reserve weapon, or I should have seen him use it on the training grounds, I feel.” And then, without warning the final piece dawned on him. Hugh felt a smile grow slowly on his face, from nothing until a broad grin. “I shall give him Chilham castle.” He glanced sideways, still smiling. “What make you of that?”

“Chilham is held by Trempwick …” She too began to smile.

“So it costs me nothing. It carries more than the one message, and thus serves more than the simple purpose of rewarding the knight. It would appear that Trempwick hates this Fulk, so the loss will hurt and anger him all the more for it being in this cause.” This prompted pure glee, of which Hugh found it terribly difficult to be suitably ashamed. “Moreover, it acts upon that which I proclaimed: Trempwick is a traitor, his lands forfeit unless I see fit to return them to him, in whole or in part. They are mine now to dispose of, and this is the proof I do indeed mean to take the action I spoke publicly of. Importantly, it does not cut off any hope of reconciliation either; Trempwick may surrender to my mercy and have hope of coming back with something left. Or so it must be believed.” Hugh tapped his fingers on the raised from of his saddle; after a moment’s such distraction he confessed, “I would rather see him dead. Far rather. But to be bold on that now would be to overreach substantially. I do not have a firm enough hold that my lords will sit still to watch one of their number destroyed utterly, from the fear that they could one day share the same fate.”

“You will exile him, I think.”

“It is the best I can currently hope for, yes. Even that will be hard to obtain approval for, I fear. And approval I must have.” He sounded bitter to his own ears, but he found he cared not. That all kings started from this general position of needing to prove themselves and build their control consoled him little; he knew his position was quite probably the weakest of his entire lineage. Rebellion for them had not sent half their court walking out the door to stand aloof or join the traitors, or resulted in so many not answering the summons to come to witness the coronation and pay homage to their new lord. It had been a simple trial, a test to see what could be wrung from the new king and how far one could go before matters became too hot to be tolerable. They had not been left such a legacy of treachery, treachery that could not even be spoken of, though it lay at the centre of the festering situation.

A king should rule, not be ruled. He was below only God, chosen by the divine hand.

Constance asked, “Are you planning on sending him with troops and resources to take the castle when you grant it him, or will you wrest it from Trempwick’s grip yourself? Or perhaps send a third party?”

“It will depend on the moment, and what else is taking place.” Hugh listed the final reward he had decided upon, testing it to see if it sounded grand enough, “A banished debt, a mace, a sword, and a small stone castle with attached lands worth … perhaps eighty pounds in a good year.”

“It sounds well enough, and is considerably cheaper than the precedent set by ancient kings. Half your kingdom and Nell’s hand in marriage is a trifle costly.”

And there, right there, was a very exact example of why women always needed a man’s supervision. Even the ones fortunate enough to possess a full set of wits went thoroughly awry when breeding. Hugh smoothed away the worry-lines on his forehead with his fingertips, being as they were reluctant to leave of their own accord.

He fixed his eyes on the horizon, where London was just beginning to appear and disappear from view, a dot in the distance. He watched as his advance messengers clapped their spurs to their horses and galloped off ahead to warn the city of their new king’s impending arrival and to formally demand hospitality on his behalf.

“I must put her to work,” he announced abruptly. Once voiced the concept grew no less distasteful. Still he felt as though he began something that could only end badly. Worse, he felt as though he surrendered in a battle he should fight on to death or victory. But there it was, said and as good as done, for he could not back down now. Eleanor would go to Miles, to be his apprentice and, the other man believed, his replacement one day. Such a belief was inaccurate. There was, as much as he loathed it, no better way. Miles refused to answer any query on Trempwick, saying only that Hugh should ask his sister, as she was infinitely more knowledgeable. Moreover, it had been proven too frequently that Miles was not Trempwick’s equal, as he freely and frequently admitted. He did not know the man well enough, either in personality or in methods. Only Eleanor did. While acknowledging the necessity of the move, and thus conceding the defeat of certain of his objections to the appointment, there was no defeating some of his other objections, primarily those relating to the decency of the situation and the effects it would have on her behaviour. The matter of her loyalty to him had become less cloudy in recent days, thanks to events, though he still knew her to be lamentably mercenary. This too caused him much worry. It seemed that it was a risk he must take, hoping the lesser evil would defeat the greater without overly much harm being done.

Constance snapped her fingers. “Damn! Miles won. How very inconsiderate of you, Hugh. I would have expected you to allow me to win my wager. Now I must furnish him with a barrel of best wine.”

“You placed bets?” Hugh’s horse pulled its head up at the tone of its master’s voice, ears pricked and teeth bared; a battle-trained mount expecting trouble. Hugh dragged on the reins, wrestling Balendin’s head back down and bringing him back under control. He stroked the beast’s neck, soothing. All very well the image he presented in full, gold-washed armour and red velvet surcoat, mounted on his favourite dun warhorse, but the beast, named for strength and bravery, was not entirely suited to such usage. Image was of high priority, he reminded himself sternly. It was wrong for him to accept the need with anything less than good grace.

“He said you would see the light after last night. I thought it might take a little while longer.”

“You I think are crack-witted!” Hugh brandished a finger at his wife, uneasy at remonstrating her in public but feeling that delay was not permissible. “You disappoint me very much indeed! Placing bets upon my decisions, turning the governance of the realm into a game for your entertainment, and reducing your council – which I had previously considered to come from good faith and judgement – to nothing more than manipulation to suit your games.”

“It was a joke, Hugh.”

Hugh paused, finger still raised. His mouth closed, the finger retracted to form a loose fist with the rest of that hand and dropped down to rest on his thigh. “Oh,” he managed to say.

“It was quite obvious you would see the necessity at some point, the question was only how long it would take.”

“I like it not.”

“But she will, and if you wish to keep her at your side some element of reward is vital.”

“She is my sister; she owes me her allegiance by default and by blood, without thought of reward or gain. In any case, she has been rewarded; she has profited in lands, coin and goods by her allegiance to me.”

“Ideal and reality; that is very much the ideal. For the latter, those are things she cares less for, and the urgent need for money was something you yourself created and pressed on her as a means to control her. One of your better recent moments, I thought.”

“That I find myself encouraging her along her deplorable path pains me no end. I should be removing her from such disgraceful entanglements, not placing her as apprentice to my spymaster.” Hugh drew his sword so a couple of inches of steel showed from the sheath; he laid his hand on the cross this formed with the hilt and swore, “It shall last only as long as unavoidable. The very instant her services in that regard are no longer necessary it shall end.” He let the blade slide back home into its case. “It is my hope she will lose her taste for intrigue, in learning that it is not a game.”

He thought Constance rolled her eyes, but he could not be sure. He strongly hoped not; such behaviour was deeply unfitting of his consort, or indeed any well-born lady. “She already knows that.”

“I shall still do all to curb her worst excesses. Indeed, I am resolute that she shall continue to be driven towards behaving as she should and that this …” his lip curled, “employment should be confined to the outermost limits of normally acceptable behaviour. She may act the councillor, as that in itself is not unheard of, though almost always it is the wife advising her husband, or the mother her son. She shall have nothing to do with the more dubious portions of Mile’s duty, such as dealing with spies.”

Hugh ceased to speak, brooding alone in his other worries. He feared Eleanor would see this as a partial surrender on his part. How could he rule a kingdom if he could not rule his own sister? He knew how matters should be, he knew how he should act from expectation and precedence, and he knew the results he aimed for. Alas, none of it seemed to match up. He must establish control over his sister, to limit the embarrassment she caused, purge her contrary aspects, and bring her to fitting compliance. To limit also, he could bring himself grudgingly to admit, the threat she posed to his own position. She must be relegated to a very clear subordinate position, and the obedience thereof.

You do not buy someone into such submission; you send them to it by proving your superiority, if they do not fall into place of natural accord, as the greater majority of mankind did. The means to do that were simple; again precedence and expectation provided all that was needed if he felt unsure as to how to act, and he felt no such uncertainty.

But … it was not quite chivalrous, and that also was an expectation of him as noble, knight, and king to be. Though perhaps chivalry did not apply to her, as she was no meek damsel or innocent – she had killed, in Sweet Jesù’s name! And chivalry … was more about … good treatment of deserving ladies. It said nothing about being weak and indulgent to the wilful, the insubordinate, and the troublesome.

Another complication arose from Eleanor’s complete lack of propriety. She might owe him her support by right of blood, but she would give it only as it suited her. Like the less honourable vassals. Worse than the less honourable vassals; they did not have the greater tie of blood to him, and so she stood guilty of disregarding the two strongest ties in this world, ties most others respected. Even otherwise dubious people abided by them, to some extent or another. So needs must he ply her with rewards and gifts to keep her sweet, though this sat at odds with his need to take a hard stance to force her into line. Carrot and stick … such misleadingly simple terms. It seemed now increasingly less a source of wonder to him that their father had so frequently lost his temper on any subject related to her.

And then there was her temper! Family legacy though it might be, it was quite deplorable. Unintelligible too, for she lost it over such strange causes. Unbidden the memory of her outburst the day before yesterday played before his eyes; it still prompted horror on his part. He had given an order, she had blithely disobeyed it in announcing to all she opposed Trempwick before he had been able to decide if such an action were beneficial, and he had called her to account. Or thus ran the simple beginning, and there the matter should have ended, justice served. But no, she had refused to accept that she had done anything worthy of punishment, even while admitting – and eventually the repeated admission had reached shouting point – that she had disobeyed, and that she had forced him to take action instead of deliberating first. And she had accused him of being illogical! For reasons best known to herself, and therefore beyond the comprehension of normal mortals, she had also decided that it was his fault she had nearly been abducted, placing the main weight of her absurd claim upon the fact that he had damaged her two daggers so she had not had them available to defend herself. As if her continued possession of those two deeply inappropriate items would have aided her any. Trempwick’s doing, of course; both the entire blame for the abduction attempt and the fact she possessed and placed faith in the weapons in the first instance.

So he had, in the end, been required to subdue her before he could beat her for that original transgression. Then it was required that he beat her for making such a fuss, for arguing, for insulting him, for biting him so he actually bled, for trying to punch him in the nether regions, for several other miscellaneous injuries gained during the vicious and deeply undignified fracas, and for various other offences in that brief time.

All in all it now seemed a very attractive idea to marry her off to the first available suitor regardless of her feeling on the matter. Let her become another man’s headache, please God! He would have packed her up with his own hands and sent her to Trempwick if it would not have further endangered his throne. Almost he wished that the kidnapping had been successful. A foreign husband seemed most attractive, one residing somewhere distant. If she remained in or near his own lands he would sadly see her again on occasion. Somewhere very distant. Somewhere on the far side of Christendom.

Hugh sighed. Dispose of Trempwick and he would be safer, then in turn he would no longer require her and could remove her disharmonious presence from his daily life. He could remove the knight from her also. So much he could do, to set the world to rights. All he first needed was to secure his throne.




6, 850

:looks up from her Big Fat New Pile of Books long enough to agree with Constance: Yup, Hugh’s a damp blanket. :goes back to her current read, a biography of King Richard I, the Lionhearted … remembers that this is no longer ‘Eleanor playing out in her froggy little mind’ and is instead ‘Eleanor in non-hazardous form written for exposure to the general public’, and so she has a part to post. Puts the book down again:

Have half an intended episode; it looks like the other half is going to sprawl across another 8 or so pages, and will take a bit longer to write.

Been reading like a mad frog; practically breathing books, and I don’t remember the last time I flew through so many. I brought another Big Pile to go with the Big Pile I mentioned before, and I can see more Big Piles appearing soon in my future. Mmmm, books. Nothing so happy as a frog with books. Er, a frog with good books. A frog with crappy books like Miles & Boone brainless romances is a frog who is not amused.

:goes back to her book, reading while absently wondering which book to read after this one …:

Missed the good Trempy POVs? You mean there were bad ones? He’s looking for your head now, Aetius :winkg: In case it’s not clear, that’s me joking. I don’t think you meant that. I’m a bad froggie

Anne has been queen for several months now, and that has had an effect. She’s been forced to grow up, shoulder responsibility, and so on. Queening requires confidence, or some show of it, and it also requires a bit of arrogance, and an ability to put your foot down from time to time. She might have a long way to go before she really fits the crown, but she is better than she was at first. She is also right; she ranks far above her bastard brother, and her father now comes second to William.

“X is all but Y” is a construct I have only seen used in the way I did, or if I have seen it used otherwise it was rare and I have forgotten it. As I used it it means that the castle is very, very close to being invincible. It’s always used as “X is very, very close to being Y”, or at least it is in my experience. Rather like “Nothing if not”, e.g. “The castle is nothing if not invincible.” Sorry, I doubt that is a very useful explanation, but I am not very good at such things.

Have another 7 pages to be going on with, RabidGibbon. We also passed page 700 in this episode :not sure if she should drink champagne or start editing drastically …: Hmm, I’ll go with editing, but only so long as that edit is the one I’ve been dieing to do for some time, fleshing out the beginning and trimming the middle and end, adding a lot in, refining what’s there, taking a very little out.

[frogbeastegg]

Small correction to that last part: where Hugh said "yesterday" when speaking of his fight with nell, he should have said "day before yesterday." It's edited now, but those who have already read the part should remember an extra day has passed over what was stated before. Like this:
Day A: Nell demanding Trempy's head/Hugh being 'elected'. Their nice little fight. Trempy's evening scene.
Day B: Misc stuff which I didn't need to show first hand.
Day C: Them heading to London for the coronation.

[Ciaran]

Ah, a new post, and a greatone, Hugh this time. The poor guy. I can respect William, for all his faults, but I can´t help but pity Hugh. The whole thing is far too big for him, with his mixture of realism and idealism.

Something I didn´t mention beore, but which occured to me already quite a while ago: In contrast to most (read:all I know of) authors writing historical stories you focus on a pretty narrow timeframe, in contrast to telling the whole life story of one person or another.

Have fun with your books (you´ve got no idea how much I envy you), but please don´t forget your faithful audience over them.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor’s delight at being outside of Waltham’s walls for the first time in what felt like a medium-sized lifetime was tempered most effectively by the fact fresh bruises and riding didn’t make the happiest of allies, less still when you were sitting on some of said bruises.

She wore her crown too, and, thin though the plain circlet of gold was, it was heavy enough to be uncomfortable after a time. Another of Hugh’s typically Hughish ideas, and perhaps not such a bad one. There were always times when one needed to - as she had always thought it – hit people over the head with your crown. He wore his own prince’s circlet, a band thicker and more elaborate than her own, so it was hardly as if this special brand of mild torture was reserved solely for her.

Eleanor passed the time by flirting with dreams of Hugh’s reaction if she set herself up in opposition to him and won. As the day wore by, she went from magnanimous receptions of her defeated brother to envisioning him in chains and on his knees. So long as it never became more than a daydream …

But then she only clung to Hugh’s cause now because there was no good alternative. Enough was, quite simply, enough. As soon as she could leave him to his own devices she would do so, and may he rot alone in it. If he made a mess he could live with it, and good riddance.

Ah, the pleasant theory. The reality was she was trapped; if he went down she either fell with him, or ended up replacing him.

A knightly sneeze from behind her drew her attention to another topic, that of Fulk. She had been doing everything she could for him: changing the dressings every three hours, examining and cleaning the wounds each time, watching his general health for signs of a fever, making sure he rested and ate properly, even resorting to buying – along with similar prayers for the dead and other wounded after Trempwick’s attempt at abduction - a priest to pray for his health for the next week. Now he’d caught a cold.

A second sneeze almost had her turning around to see if he looked alright, but she didn’t. Not for the usual reason of it being a giveaway, but because he seemed irked by her concern. He was spending more time away from her, and saying less when he was present. What little he did say was … staid. He also thought she had broken her promise to him and upset her brother on purpose, that much was certain from the way he had gone very still and quiet while she explained what had happened – and that it was entirely not her fault! - and then left the room without a word immediately after she’d finished.

Eleanor rubbed the space on her heart finger where Trempwick’s ring had left a pale band on her flesh, and where Fulk’s own ring should sit. As she should have known in the beginning, this marriage was doomed. It could not work. There was nothing to it but a mutual promise that made them both miserable. A marriage in name only matched with a clandestine marriage – at that point what was left? Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, there was love … for the moment. How much longer would that last as things were?

The thanks for her consideration of him which had seemed sincere that night now felt like irony on his part. What consideration? He had nothing from this match that he should. She either denied it him, or it was not possible due to the clandestine nature of the marriage. To add to that he was hampered and limited, unable to marry another, and that only one such problem. Still, it looked as if his unasked for promise of fidelity was going to be forgotten soon enough.

Eleanor checked the scowl and moulded her features back to frigid neutrality. Might as well get in practice. She worked the muscles at the corners of her mouth, attempting a smile, but the best she got was one side twisting up into an expression she doubted looked pleasant. The effort was abandoned, more than abandoned: she felt her lips twist downwards again. Only very, very slightly downwards; she still had that much, even without trying, but it was treacherous enough.

Why in the devil’s name had she been fool enough to land herself in this trap!? A lifetime of good sense lapsed for all of a few minutes, and here was the result. A portion of her fears either slowly coming true or threatening to in the near future, and made worse by Fulk being something more than a politically suitable near-stranger.

Although, worse in some ways it might be, it was far better than in others. Fulk would not – well, could not, even if he wanted to – take everything that was hers and drop her in a remote prison to die of neglect while he enjoyed himself. She should be grateful for his decency too; how many would tolerate even a fraction of her … gooseberryness? Let alone play along with that gooseberryness? And for all his joking he would never hurt her, no matter the provocation, and that too was something of a miracle.

Without knowing she was doing so, Eleanor glanced back until she could see Fulk. As the world went a little hazy she realised what she was doing; quickly she faced forwards again and blinked to clear her eyes of the tears that were threatening yet a-damned-well-gain. There too was another point; most men would be less kindly disposed towards a wife who resembled a leaking water barrel, but Fulk had yet to complain. So tolerant … and she realised she was smiling stupidly. A lowered face and a world viewed from under her eyelashes gave a suitable impression of maidenly modesty, and it hid her expression too. Perhaps that was why it had become the standard for female behaviour, and not something dreary like humility.

Summing up a frown of the type Fulk always called elegant, Eleanor tried to stop being a prat. Love makes fools of all, it was said, and it was certainly true in her case. Any chance she had of claiming to have more sense than a feather pillow and looking credible had vanished with that last smile. It was getting worse as time passed too …

But it was true, he was very indulgent and kind. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, but she had been very lucky he had so tamely accepted her refusal of him. Most wouldn’t have, especially not after being kept waiting so long. She didn’t have any right to refuse him; she was his wife. Persistence was the best she could have expected, force the worst, but he had let her go without complaint. It was so very … Eleanor’s face fell; it was almost as if he was not really too upset at being rejected. But he had always seemed so, er, enthusiastic. She almost glanced in his direction again, but stiffened her neck in time to prevent it. To be pragmatic there were many reasons for enthusiasm, happy little reasons like that nice male ego which relished outlandish things, such as doing something others had failed to do …

Eleanor chewed her lip. There was enthusiastic, and enthusiastic, and Fulk had seemed more enthusiastic in the better way … but really you might expect a bit more than instant, decent acceptance … mightn’t you? He was probably being considerate, and so on … probably …

The awareness on her peripheral vision that something unusual was happening broke her from her unhappy speculation. Hugh’s advance riders had returned to the group. They shouldn’t have. They should have been inside the city, inspecting the lodgings offered for the party and making sure all was ready.

Eleanor sat up as tall as she could, trying to see around all the bodies between her part of the column and Hugh’s. Hopeless. She touched her heel to her mare and advanced at a cantor along the outside of the column to Hugh’s position, trusting Fulk and her guard to follow without express order.

As she passed Anne’s group the girl broke out of her place and matched Eleanor’s pace and direction. “What is wrong?”

“No idea. Something, and that is bad enough.”

The front of the party had halted now, and the effect was working its way back along the column, bringing the whole dribbling to a rest, though it would take considerable time for the ripple to reach the rearmost of the hundred or so.

She spared the time to look over her shoulder, and there Fulk and her men were following faithfully.

Eleanor pulled to a stop near her brother. “What is happening?” she asked.

At the sound of her voice Hugh froze, his back stiffened. Deliberately he turned to face her, his face a cold mask enlivened only by eyes which flickered with … rage? “A mistake.”

“Which would be …?”

Hugh’s jaw muscles spasmed, and he said nothing, clenching his teeth.

Constance spared her husband a worried look, before supplying, “They refused to open the city gates.”

Hugh repeated, “It is a mistake. They must not believe it is truly me. We shall soon rectify it.” He dug his spurs in and set off at speed towards the now not so distant city.

His guards weren’t long in following after him. Eleanor looked to Constance and raised an eyebrow in silent query.

The older woman placed a hand over her lower belly and looked down with a faint smile that, while typically expectant-mother, was faintly wistful. “You go; I shall follow at a boringly sedate pace.”

Which was as Eleanor had expected. Carefully, keeping her torso between her hand and Anne’s line of sight, she pointed in the direction of the former queen.

Constance grasped the meaning as speedily as Eleanor had hoped, with hardly a gap between her own pronouncement and the one she had been requested to make. She smiled at Anne. “Please, keep me company. No need for all of us to go haring off like wild things.”

The wind bore a disorderly noise out to the group; a clamour, a roar, something big and unorganised, hostile, but not the sound of fighting, wordless and unneeding of words. With an element that was … human wolf, a pack giving tongue to its hatred and rejection, showing its unity in the face of one it wished to intimidate, banish, rend limb from limb. It was the sound which rang in the ears of criminals as they died on scaffolds, the lonesome as their kind turned on them, the outsiders and exiled as they were driven off, any who had no favour and fell foul of the mob. It chilled the soul.

Distance might reduce all to indistinctness, but Eleanor could see well enough that the noise had started as Hugh came close enough to be recognised by the Londoners.

Anxious to see what was happening and wishing to give Anne as little time to argue her way into following as possible, Eleanor set her horse in motion before Constance had even finished talking. One hand flew up to her head, negating the slim chance her dratted crown might come off.

Midway to the city she left she called back to her escort, “Wait here!” Hugh’s men should be protection enough, and it would look best if she were seen to be on her own and therefore not acting at the will of armed guards, even if those guards appeared to be her own men.

Eleanor arrived part way through the proceedings, and halted about a hundred yards from her brother.

Hugh was riding back and forth before the city’s gate, just out of arrow range. His destrier’s movements were jerky with repressed tension, its head up and teeth on display, hauled into each turn with a savage yank of the reins. Iron-shod hooves had churned the damp earth to mud and ground the sparse February grass into the morass.

Hugh’s bodyguard waited, stationary, a short distance behind him, many of the men fingering their weapons, checking shield straps and helmet lacings, and other such nervy motions gone through frequently by men expecting trouble and reassuring themselves.

On the gatehouse roof stood a small party of well-dressed men, and a mob of people and soldiers lined the city walls, pressing to see. They were jeering. The sound of hundreds of voices raised and united in derision was now joined to the sight of people waving fists and throwing anything they could lay their hands on. The missiles fell far short, but that didn’t seem to dim the enthusiasm with which more were launched.

Hugh shouted something that was lost in the din, waving a fist at the Londoners.

One of those on the gatehouse raised both his arms to the sky to call attention to himself, and then flung an arm out to point at Hugh, declaiming some speech. Those closest to him cheered again, and the shouting slowly took a new turn, one theme spreading slowly out through the chaos until it grew cohesive enough to be intelligible. Two words, mixed and mingled, but meaning the same: “Ut! Out! Out! Ut! Out!” The old Saxon warcry, now in English and French according to the rank of the speaker; common and noble mixed and united. The first time it had been raised by so many in generations.

The men at arms up on the walls bang to drum their weapons on their shields in time with the words. Civilians took to clapping or hammering at the stonework of the rampart with their bare hands in imitation, and still they jostled to see.

The noise rolled and grew, drowning all other sound.

Eleanor’s horse paced nervously, eyes rolling in terror; it wasn’t battle-trained like most of the others here. She tightened the reins and concentrating on keeping it under control.

The roar began to fade. Then it grew again, changed now to “Queen Eleanor!” All along the wall people were pointing at her, waving, raising their hands to heaven in thanksgiving or prayer. But some, many – there were so many people there - continued to throw debris at Hugh even as they acclaimed his sister.

So there as some real truth to Trempwick’s ambition; it could possibly be done, it could possibly go from theory to reality successfully. More voices celebrated her now than had ever done her brother, and in the country’s capital. They would open the gates to her, she knew without a doubt. She also knew Hugh’s men would stop her the moment it looked as if she might run for the city. But the potential was there; they would open the gates for her, hand over control of the city, the White Tower, the crown jewels, the apparatus of state at Westminster …

One of Hugh’s knights spoke to his lord, gesturing quite wildly at both city and the party he had brought to London. His words were persuasive, for Hugh yanked his horse around and gouged its flanks with his spurs, galloping away from the city.

The mob sent up a wordless cheer; the chanting of her name resumed, louder than ever, now just “Eleanor!” repeated over and over.

Eleanor’s horse reared; she kept her seat with some difficulty.

Never before had she realised how nicely her named suited this usage; the three syllables lending it a rhythm a brief name like Hugh could never possess, the syllables themselves having a flow and a pleasantness to the ear that wasn’t found in something brief, guttural, harsh or otherwise snappy. It flowed back and forth like a wave, hypnotic, strangely melodious considering the unruly source.

Another of Hugh’s knights was riding full tilt towards her. He slowed to a walk close to her, grabbed the bridle of her palfrey without so much as a by-your-leave, and started to trot away, Eleanor’s horse docilely following where it was led, whatever its mistress’ thoughts.






Trempwick saw the knight unceremoniously lead Eleanor away. Interesting … Hostage? Or untrusted? And the way she had lingered, if she were siding with her brother …

The cheers had touched something in her. As he’d known they would. Such recognition was potent. Heady. Addictive. First it overwhelmed and embarrassed. Then it became enjoyable. Then more and better was craved. Unless there was arrogance to start. Then it was enjoyable from the start. Nell … it would partly frighten at first. Frighten as well as intrigue. From there it would grow. She was simply too unused to such attention. Had never expected it. Was used to less kind receptions. Perhaps had not believed it possible, that such could be achieved. He had not been able to set her mind thinking in depth on the question of queenship before being removed. But she was Nell. She would think. He had set it in motion; the rest she would do alone. She would see the bastard was disaster. That she could rule instead. And do better. And was wanted. And all the other … things.

If she were not siding with her brother, then she had still been touched by the show. And had been waiting for a party to sally out and rescue her? Or simply wishing one would? Or only taking the chance to be a little alone, a little freer than her usual captivity permitted.

He braced his hands on the edges of the narrow slit window and craned to one side so he could see the bastard. Slinking away like a whipped cur. Which is what he was.

The enthusiasm of the city for their queen! It had taken work, by him, by others. But the result …

People. Like sheep. They follow where led. Enough go one way, the rest follow contentedly, thinking it their own choice. When it wasn’t. When it was following for the sake of following. For not being alone. Left out. Unusual. To fit in. Belong. Just needed to find the right few[I]. Get them to lead and the mindless [I]many would follow. Rhetoric won the hearts of mobs …

No ceremonial crown. No crown jewels. No control of the capital. No control of the White Tower. No control of Westminster. No coronation of the time honoured pattern. A tale which would spread and spread, discrediting the bastard and making him more a joke than he already was. Pity that one could not be a jester. Ah, now there was a use for him when he was defeated!

So much to do, from London. His presence here kept quiet. Only those few who should know did. Easy to ‘hide’ here. But not truly hiding. Not in that sense. Time should be spent here, working things., he would leave eventually. But not for a few days. London, a tiresome place. Noisy. Busy. Crowded. Stinking in its own filth. Full of idiots. Pompous. Arrogant, full of its own importance. As if being a Londoner was something to be proud of! Perhaps, if one was a runway serf hidden here for the year and a day it took to win freedom for life. But otherwise?

And there … there was the knight, sat on his horse, away from Nell. Like a dog told to sit and wait. Could almost see his tail wagging. If he but had a crossbow which could shoot so very far …

Consideration he had been toying with: what if Nell had swapped to supporting her brother because he had tried to kill the knight? Love, after all. Would she be so stupid? So completely stupid? What possible future was there in that? And why not come to him and bargain, then? As she had before. Often enough. On many things. Additional: he had given her his word and trained her to trust it by giving it rarely and keeping it – to appearances - always. She knew also how matters went awry in the heat of the moment. How plan seldom matched reality. How one over-zealous agent could kill where told to temporarily disable. Or how one man could fight too hard, necessitating a change of plan. And all without any involvement on the part of the planner. Him. Nothing to do with him, the knight’s fate. He had ordered lured away and kept safely busy. Honest …

Simply, he could not credit her being so stupid as to join the brother because a fool had tried to kill the knight. Even for love. Because the bastard would never bargain over the knight. He would kill, and that was that. As soon as he was aware. Or if not then – it would take some considerable … reason for him not to act - as soon as it became possible. That could not be hidden forever, and in keeping hidden so little could be done. Being in love they were not for perfect appearances and never a glimmer of the truth. It was … impossible for them. Could easily betray themselves with a look. A smile. A word. Anything. And sooner or later, somehow and somewhere, to someone they would. Nell knew that. But he would bargain. She knew that too. If she had to choose, he offered the best hope and future for them.

This disregarding other such matters unrelated to their love. They complicated much. But the end result arrived at the same. Just more slowly. Had already gone over that several times. Gone over this too. Same result as now.

Trempwick rubbed his right forefinger and thumb together as if testing the quality of cloth, remembering the feel of parchment …

Parchment with a message. Intercepted.

William was alive. The fever only just broken, when that message was sent.

And the message committed to the flames of his brazier. The seal melted and reformed to a blank disc ready for reuse. The original messenger killed. The thief who stole the missive killed. False trails created, to cover.

So it was for him to kill William.

Trempwick stepped away from the window and wandered aimlessly about the tower room. It had been started. Nothing to do but wait. Wait, and continue to ensure no word of the truth came home.

Such a sad end for …






Fulk waited as instructed, but by no stretch of the imagination could he be called a happy knight. Pity he couldn’t disobey and follow her anyway; doing so in front of this large of an audience would only cause plenty of trouble. It wouldn’t set the best of examples for the men he commanded either.

He picked up the arming cap hanging from his saddle next to his helmet and donned it, the action making him feel a little less on edge. Better to be prepared and end up looking paranoid than to be needed and be unready. He pulled up his coif and laced the aventail, fastened his helmet on securely, and swung his shield down from rest. There; ready to fight in a moment’s notice.

Taking his shield’s weight on his arm also reduced the pressure on his wounded back; well padded and bandaged though it was, the long cut was aggravated easily enough. Though he’d die before he let Eleanor know that! Fulk wondered if it was possible to die from a surfeit of care. She worried endlessly, and did every tiny possible little thing to promote or speed his healing that she knew of. Anyone would think he was very seriously hurt and at death’s door, to judge from her. He had tried to stop her from fretting so much, but that had gone down very badly for some reason. For a bit there he’d believed she was about to burst into tears, but then she’d thrown the bundle of clean bandaging at him and told him he could die for all she cared. Then she’d disappeared for a few minutes, come back, and finished playing physician as if nothing had happened. Strange, even for her …

Fulk stood in his stirrups, stretching his leg muscles out. He flexed a little, leaning to one side and then to the other from the waist. Feeling a little less cramped he settled back into his saddle, his lance sloped back across his shoulder. Then he sneezed, nearly breaking his nose a second time by reflexively bringing a mail-clad hand up to cover it.

His health was taking quite a decline: wounds, cramps, colds, tiredness, though that last came from restless nights filled with princess rescuing and other such feats. Maybe it was true what they said … but then surely all the clergy would die? All the clergy except the badly behaved ones, Fulk corrected himself. It had better not be true; predictions of fatal congestions and other such delights did nothing to warm his heart. Once upon a time he’d thought it ridiculous; he’d even used the stupid theory to wheedle his way into the affections of a chandler’s wife for a couple of hours. “Too much pent up desire is bad for the health,” he’d smarmed like a complete egotistical git. “Fancy saving my life?” Now why hadn’t she slapped him and told him to die in a particularly rancid gutter somewhere? One of life’s great mysteries, that. The only thing he could find to say in his defence was that he had only been fourteen at the time, and that was a very tasteless age.

That too was something thing he’d rather die than tell Eleanor - she might offer a solution. He didn’t think he had the willpower to resist. Whether that solution involved her or another woman he didn’t think he could resist. That was a very depressing fact. He was better than he used to be, but still not good enough, and that stalled night had done him a murder. Consequently he was doing his best to avoid temptation, which was also depressing. When a knight finds the gooseberry of his dreams he seldom envisions a future of sleeping on the floor and wishing she would stop rubbing balms onto his back. And it was all Trempwick’s fault! Damn that man to hell for all eternity, to endure the worst torments possible! Like celibacy!

Fulk made a funny noise rather like a whimper, then sneezed so violently his head whipped forward and he rocked in the saddle. Sueta looked back at his master over his shoulder with a doleful expression which said, with perfect horsy eloquence, all humans were mad.

Mind you, thinking of a knight’s dreams of a gooseberry filled future from before he’d met said gooseberry and discovered that she was what he wanted and also a princess, he’d never expected to wish to slaughter half his love’s family with his bare hands. Fulk totted up family members on his fingers. If you assumed the old king was still lingering like an unpleasant smell then yes, it was exactly half. Brother and father. Of the two sisters, one was pitiable in a pathetic way, the other seemingly quite a bitch and deserving of a good slap or five.

He’d spent over an hour the day before yesterday, hammering away at a training dummy and wishing it were Hugh, after a fast exit so she wouldn’t see him lose his temper. He should never have let her answer her brother’s summons alone. Then he could have … stood about uselessly and watched. Fulk exhaled noisily, drawing attention from the men at arms. Never mind; let them think he was bored with waiting. They couldn’t guess the true cause of his frustration.

The noise coming from London had changed now, proclaiming Eleanor as queen. The distant little princess’ horse didn’t like the salutation much, and Fulk held his breath until she had the palfrey back under control. Like most nobles, she was a fine horsewoman, but even the best wound up prematurely dismounting sometimes.

Queen Eleanor … it sounded horrible! So – so distant, meek, softly caring in a nauseating way. It sounded like someone who spent half her time praying for sick little lambs everywhere in the world, and the other half being so boringly proper even her staid churchman of a confessor told her to go and do something exciting for once. She would hate it, he felt sure. Queen Eleanor was not his Eleanor.

Hugh was now in retreat, having finally been made to realise how pointless his efforts were, and how harmful to his dignity. Eleanor was returning too, led by a knight Fulk didn’t know, a knight who had shown her not a dredge of the respect due. Fulk checked his sword sat lose in its scabbard, just in case, and moved out to intercept, the men following.

He rode to speaking distance, barged in a bit close to the knight, raked his gaze over him with obvious contempt. The man was all expensive and haughty, probably lacking much substance. Fulk said, “You can go now.”

“I,” pronounced the knight with the inbred haughtiness most nobles insisted on inflicting on their lessers, “am Sir William of Beverley. I will not be dismissed by such as you!”

“For a knight you’ve a damned poor grip of manners.” Fulk nodded at Eleanor. “In case the crown is not enough of a hint, that’s Princess Eleanor. I’m not aware of you being either the lady’s guardian, husband or groom, so I’d suggest you stop leading her about as if you were. Or perhaps you think she’s a prisoner?”

Sir William’s hand dropped to his sword, ready to draw. “I offer escort, no more, and Her Highness has accepted my services.”

“Escort like she’s in disgrace. Even if she were subject to you it’d look that way. If you were a gentleman you’d ride next to or behind her, not drag her horse where you will.”

Evidently the princess at the heart of this argument was feeling a bit ignored, because she said a bit loudly, “Enough!” To Sir William she said, “I did not accept your offer – you made none. I do not care one bit for the indignity of being dragged about like a prisoner or errant child.” Before Fulk could get too smug she turned on him, “And what in the devil’s name you think you are doing, I could not say!”

Fulk released his sword and put both hands on the reins. “The only people I trust with your security are those who helped me rescue you from Trempwick before the battle became certain. He’s corrupted all types and in all places. Your Highness, I gave you my word – and gave it your brother – that I would guard you from any harm. I’m a man of my word, always. That man’s slighted you before all, and he’s not one of those few I’d trust with your safety.”

Eleanor looked as though she were about to say something scorching but thought better of it. She rode off, waving her little army to follow her, but ignoring the two knights.





The messenger caught Hugh’s sorry party around a mile from Waltham, his horse half dead from over-exertion and the man himself in little better condition.

The Welsh had broken their vassalage.

Hugh listened to the report in complete silence. Small border castles burned. Marcher lords joining the enemy and attacking those who remained faithful to the crown, be they Welsh or English. Villages destroyed, people and animals slaughtered, whole swathes of land laid waste. A good portion of the border was in enemy hands, so a combined Welsh and Marcher army could pour into England at will; the remaining loyal lords in the area were not sufficient to reliably check that.

Some of the rebels were proclaiming for ‘Queen’ Eleanor.

When the man had finished his report, given in the dead monotone of a man who had seen too much and had been tried beyond endurance, Hugh still said nothing. No one present at that small, impromptu council said a word. And kept on saying nothing.

He looked down, at the bright red surcoat of velvet he wore over his gold-washed armour. In capitulation to a newly emerging fashion his coat of arms was embroidered onto his chest, instead of leaving the flowing garment wholly in one colour and undecorated. Three lions; this close he could see the individual gold threads comprising each stitch, the little gold clasps which, in combination with more clever embroidery, held the trio of sapphire eyes in place. This was the first time it had been worn, and it was a product of his status in more than its materials and crest. People had laboured long and hard with all their skill to produce it in such a short time.

Hugh raised one hand to touch the middle of the three lions, feeling the softness of the velvet contrasted with the harsh scratchiness of the gold thread. Three lions, no longer was there a label of cadancy across the top of the coat of arms. No longer was he the son and heir. He was the head of the family. Crowned or not, he was the king. He knew what must be done; past example was blessedly clear and blessedly numerous. None of it need burden his conscience; it was not his doing. He had not rebelled. Responsibility lay with those who had sworn to a peace they had not kept. Now he would keep his father’s part of the bargain; reaction, justice, and … so others in future would not grow bold when considering breaking their word to him.

But still it revolted him.

Hugh took a deep breath, and did his all to ensure his voice came steady and assured. “Execute the Welsh hostages. All of them. At once. Do it publicly. Hang them. Raise me an army, and the means to fund it. Alert the lords in the threatened area inside the border; get them to arms to fight under me. Send scouts; I want to know all that happens in the March and Wales itself.”

Miles and Will both nodded, and murmured, “As you command, Sire.”

She still hadn’t spoken. Hugh considered this a boon, but a boon he mistrusted. He squinted at his sister; her countenance remained calm. They had hailed her queen, and she had been entranced … Gooseflesh sprung out on Hugh’s neck, and almost he shivered. To this he was entrusting a good portion of his safety. He could reverse his decision with only minor loss of face before his wife and no other, as no other yet knew. And yet … if he fled in fear now he would flee again next time he saw potential for her to do him harm, and in so doing would not only act the coward’s part, but let her influence and dictate his life’s course as surely, and far more insidiously, than if he openly requested her council.

London. The remembered – scarce forgot! How could he ever forget? – humiliation. Hugh closed his eyes; his heart felt tight, blazing with his anger, a blaze which threatened to break loose as it had – to his eternal shame! – before the walls under the tirade of abuse and refuse. Never, never before had a king been greeted so. “Strip London of each and every privilege, charter and liberty it possesses,” he commanded. If their action was unheard of, so to was the extent of his retribution. Which was only fitting. London held more privileges, more charters, more freedoms than any other settlement in England. Or had. Such losses would hurt, and hurt badly in pride, face, wealth, status, in all the things the famous Londoners cared most about. It cost him not a clipped penny more than the parchments needed to writ the command. Perhaps now they would laugh, but not when he was in a position to enforce it.







6, 954

Sorry; taking a long time, I know. I’ve … not been entirely happy with this part for quite a while, and it’s taken me all this time to bang it into acceptable shape. It felt so lifeless and blandly dry. Actually, so did the last part, though not so badly, and to an extent several of the parts before. I think I’m getting on past that now, having squinted at several things which are maybe not right.

Or to put it another, typically froggy way: the bounce was missing. I’ve put it back.

Hehe, I have visions of Fulk’s helmet flying off when he sneezes! I do like those rare occasions when he looks back at his past; he’s got a lovely way of putting things :gring:



Compared to the likes of Sharon Penman, Colleen McCullough and co, yes, I'm a very narrow focus. :shrugs: But that's how the story is, so it's not my own choice. However, this is just a slice of the whole - it's a single part of Nell's life, and her life is part of a greater story. Whether that story is worth writing I can't really say at present. Certainly some select parts of it are, like perhaps Fulk's parents.

There are other historical authors who write similarly focused tales ... Elizabeth Chadwick, Roberta Gellis, though those are fairly romantic, but usually not so badly that a frog can't enjoy them, and they at least tend towards very good hisotrical accuracy. Ellis Peters wrote some fairly focused tales as well as sweeping ones and mysteries (A bloody field before Shrewsbury, marrage of Megotta, to name two I can think of). Rosemary Sutcliff did focused, loosely focused and epic. There are others too, but these are the names which spring up on idle reflection.

[Ciaran]

Ouch, that hurt for Hugh, no doubt.
"Queen Eleanor" does have quite a ring to it, contrary to Fulk´s believes, but then how would "King Fulk" sound? Strange, at best, so no surprise he´s not best pleased.


Compared to the likes of Sharon Penman, Colleen McCullough and co, yes, I'm a very narrow focus.
Who? I was thinking more along the lines of Ken Follet (Pillars of the Earth) and some German authors.

[frogbeastegg]

Displaying admirable sense Hawise scurried out of the solar, closing the door behind herself, as soon as she saw the look Eleanor gave Fulk. Under other circumstances it might have been amusing, the maid turning around and fleeing almost before she even crossed the threshold, almost before any of the three had crossed it.

“Idiot!” accused Eleanor, feeling significantly better for it. Whatever her calmer thoughts about losing her temper, after some fifteen miles of simmering it felt damned good to let the leash slip a little. It was not as if she was losing control completely, and she did have just cause, unlike a certain other royal from whom she had inherited the characteristic.

Fulk crossed his arms and stood with his weight mostly on his left leg, eyebrows slightly raised. “I’ll assume that’s a ‘thank you’.”

Entirely too furious to speak, Eleanor basted Fulk in the most malevolent glare she could manage.

Fulk’s eyebrows rose a fraction more. “Don’t look at me like that, please. It burns.”

“Your brain is cracked - why would I thank you?”

“Your status is one of the best protector’s you have; I guarded that status.”

“Status!?” Eleanor refilled her lungs to bellow, “There is no status in being fought over like a bone between two dogs, or in having an over-eager knight for a bodyguard, who will not wait for my order but instead takes all on himself and decides what does or does not concern me.”

“Your order?” Fulk’s hands dropped back to his sides and he stood up straight. “You wouldn’t have given it.”

“I had no chance, thanks to you.”

“If you’d been that way inclined that expensive turd would have been quite nicely charred before I even arrived.”

“Which means you took it on yourself to change my decision-”

Fulk said placidly, “Of course.”

“You… you,” stammered Eleanor, trying hard to get something coherent out past the knot of rage, also fighting the so very tempting urge to kick something very hard indeed. “You over-confident, stuck up, arrogant, idiotic, pile of rusted metal! How dare you!?”

“Easily.”

“We have appearances to maintain-”

“Which was why I acted.”

“No! If you were what you are supposed to be you would have done nothing without my express command.”

“I’m supposed to be – am,” he corrected himself vehemently, “a man of my word, and I did as I should for that.”

“In public it is not for you to decide anything; it is for me!”

“Nothing except matters brushing on your safety and honour.”

Eleanor threw the first non-damaging thing which came to hand at him, a cushion. “I know!”

The cushion bounced off the arm Fulk flung up. “Which makes me wonder what exactly you’re shouting about, being as I acted on precisely those grounds.” Fulk ran both hands through his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp. “Not things I like, but you’re here, you’re who and what you are, and so there’s not much to be done but make the best of it. If you’re noticeable people will wonder and ask questions if you vanish, meaning that brother of yours can’t drop you in the sea with a rock tied to your feet. If you stand on your rights it will be harder for others to force you to your will. You can’t fight on your own behalf to defend your honour, so you’d better be known to have a champion who’ll do it for you, then people will give some of the respect you’re due. That’s me,” he prodded himself in the chest with a thumb. “There might be a few I can’t reach high enough to drag down and kick, but they’re ones like your brother. Turds in armour I can and will extract an apology from at the point of my sword. If you are known to have your own, highly protective guard then people will be less inclined to try and abduct you, and if you’re seen escorted by others than your usual men then people will wonder why.”

Eleanor tried to stop searching for something to smash, strangle, rend, or otherwise hurt and/or destroy, knowing from wretched experience that that way lay complete surrender to her temper. “Whatever truth there might be in that, I am not helped by a rogue knight picking fights and insulting his betters.”

Fulk flushed. “Betters?” There was scant reassurance in the fact he didn’t shout.

In the face of it, Eleanor’s fury died a swift death, and she realised how he had taken her unthinking words. Against her better judgement she closed the gap between them to touching distance, braced to dodge away if necessary. She didn’t quite dare to do more; all her thoughts of how he would never harm her abruptly seeming naïve in the extreme. “Better in all the ways I care not for – blood, wealth, status. But others care, almost all others.”

“And what, pray, is left of a man after all that is discounted?”

“Now you are being impossible-”

Fulk grabbed her by the shoulders, bending down to stare her eye to eye. “What is left?”

Initially too shocked to answer, it took a moment before Eleanor said softly, “The man himself.”

He let her go quickly, turned, and crossed the room to lean on the wall near the fireplace, staring into the flames. Fast he might have been, but not fast enough to cover that flash of surprise. “What would I be, if I left you to be treated like some nobody of no importance or account, putting you in further danger?” He pushed himself away from the wall and marched out the room.

A heartbeat or so after the door slammed Eleanor replied, “Alive. Safe.”








The question of the pronunciation of Eleanor has arrisen on the other forum, thanks to the mention of how it sounds in the last part of the story. Since the audience here is every bit as varied as the one on paradox, I'll post my response here too.

It’s one of those names used in quite a few countries, each with its own pronunciation. Being English I consider the English pronunciations to be the common ones, and use accents to indicate when I want another pronunciation used, such as when Jocelyn said “Pity we didn’t name her Éléonore in honour of that particular princess.” That would be the French pronunciation (I think! Hope!)

The English pronunciation where I live has two different versions, both about as common as each other.
El-a (as in “a princess’)-nor.
El-ay (rhymes with ‘hay’)- nor.
Nell is an El-ay-nor, the more … flowing of the two. Smoother sounding … sort of softer too.
The French version, as best an English froggy can get, is El-ay (again, rhymes with ‘hay’) –o (as in ‘Oh, how surprising’) – nore. Making it 4 syllables. Leastways, that’s how I heard it pronounced on a site with French audio clips of names.
Don’t ask me about the Spanish! Or the many other versions – no idea how to say them.




Who?
Gah! Those are the more famous authors too, unlike Chadwick and Gellis! Though I suppose that changes quitre a lot if you are outside of Englihs speaking territories ~:)

Honestly, I hardly know what to say. All of those I mentioned are great authors, though I'm a very critical froggy and can (and do!) grumble about each and all of them at length if given chance. They are in the top tier of historical fiction for the periods they write in. Hmmm ... if I try for a short description I shall be here for hours and pages.

Offical author sites, most of which have excerpts of multiple books:

Sharon Penman (http://www.sharonkaypenman.com/) (on the whole a very solid author, except her dodgy grammar. But her Welsh trilogy and book 1 of her Henry II/Eleanor of Aquitaine trilogy is, IMO, by far her best work. ‘Sunne in Splendour’ is good. The Justin de Quincy mysteries are nice enough, but so very light. The 2nd Eleanor/Henry book was quite ... erm, well I am tempted to say bad. All currently in print.)

Roberta Gellis (http://www.robertagellis.com/) (Sadly out of print, for the most part. I assembled her entire medieval works second hand, mostly at reasonable prices, but some I paid around £20 for. Which means I like her quite a bit, romance heavy or no. That said, some of her books are decidedly better than others; there is a gulf between her best and her worst. Also, when say romance, I don't mean trashy romance novel. I mean considerably more sensible, well written and plotted. Er ... though the froggy critic in me demands I add that it's still not awe inspiring fiction, more like good fun, and possessing good historical accuracy. Er, I shall shut up, my opinion on her barely even scratching the surface, being as it’s quirt a long opinion even for me.)

Elizabeth Chadwick (http://www.elizabethchadwick.com/) (Some of her books are again better than others. Another fairly romantic author, but like Gellis in that it's good romance, and historically sound too. She is rare in writing mostly about ordinary people and lower nobility rather than royalty and higher nobility. Her first 5 books are out of print; I recently blasted a part of my pay buying second hand editions of her early books, the cheapest book being £5 and the most expensive £34 ... Again I shall shut up without really saying much.)

Colleen McCullough (http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/authors/Colleen_McCullough.htm) Not an official site, but a listing of her works. (You want to be reading the famous 'Masters of Rome', not the rest. She is dry to read, and she falls blatantly in love with her Julius Caesar, but damn she researches her setting so well! All currently in print.)

I don't have time to do any more, and I run the risk of adding more and more authors to the list, because they shouldn't be left out.

Ken Follet's 'Pillars' I have a copy of, as yet unread aside from some skimming of various bits at random. I'm terrible for doing that :embarassed: Not bad, not good, I didn’t decide to ignore it, but nor did it ump itself higher on my to read pile … to read mountain (there are around 150 books of various types that I have brought and not read cover to cover. Course, a large blob of those are history ones which are more for dipping into and researching with, so it is not as bad as it sounds. Plus I buy when I can, rather than when I need something new to read, having had books go out of print and/or hard to get in the time between me finding a copy and me having time to read it). I’ll get there soon enough. My reading matter is selected basically by what I feel like reading, so new books can be read immediately while others hang about for a year or more.

Um, I shall shut up about books now :tongueg: Can't you tell why I work in a bookshop, live in a small library, never have enough time to catch up on my reading, and appreciate the pay from my new job mostly for the stupid quantities books it allows me to buy.

[RabidGibbon]

Can I ask a (perhaps) daft question? Heh, who am I kidding I'm going to ask it anyway.

I skimmed quickly through the text and couldn't find an answer, but I didnt look too hard.

Is Constance a member of a family strong enough to help Hugh in any upcoming civil war? ie: A rich powerful father who would really like his grandson on the throne - and his daughter advising a (seen as) weak King?

[frogbeastegg]

The fifth poncy git of the evening smarmed his way up to Richildis, inclined his head, and said in an ingratiating tone, “My lady, if your husband does not care to dance with you, perhaps I might steal the honour?”

Richildis granted the git a very stilted smile. “My husband swore to rip the balls off any man who so much as touched me, and grind them into dust.”

At which point Jocelyn left off his casual viewing of an assortment of pleasant-looking females and hastened back the few steps which separated him from the damned woman. “Tildis, dear,” he growled, keeping his voice low, “you’re beginning to annoy me.”

She dipped him a very precise curtsey and retired to chatter with some of the other women lingering at the edge of the central space reserved for dancing.

Jocelyn snorted, and went in search of another drink. He needed one. It was a wedding, for Christ’s sweet sake, and more to the fact that damned bitch was driving him demented. Two bolts of silk, a necklace of gold and small jewels – how much more did he have to give her before she’d stop sulking?! It was her damned fault anyway; she had been the one who’d smashed him over the head with a jug. She should be the one trying to make peace.

Too late Jocelyn saw what danger his lack of attention as he crossed the great hall had placed him in. He caught the King’s eye. As he bowed respectfully to the solitary figure enthroned at the head of the hall Jocelyn swore under his breath. Three times tonight, three times! A ceremonial crown wearing; he’d never been to one before, and he bloody well hoped never to be at one again. One of those fancy status things: the King sat enthroned, alone, at the head of the hall, wearing his crown. It should be the great crown, the one each successive monarch was crowned with in Westminster, but given the lack of said crown William was wearing his personal one instead. As he sat he said not a word, neither ate nor drank, and generally did sod all except watch and act like one of those haughty-looking statues people had on their tombs. Anyone catching his eye had to bow and pay their respects. Even if they’d done it before. Twice. The royal presence might sound a blessing for your nuptials, until you found it killed more than half the fun. Shame a person couldn’t tell the king that if he wanted to come to the party he should bring a cask of good wine and join in. Actually, from what people said that’s what the King might do, if he were fit and well, and not needing to reinforce his hold on his realm.

The King was dressed in his finery, made less impressive by the fact it hung off his illness-shrunken body. His crown, a gold band about an inch wide with a trefoil at centre front and cut gemstones placed at pleasing intervals, naturally sat high enough on his head as to avoid pressing on his wound, though the weight of it must be brutal to that weakened frame. Under the clothing Jocelyn knew there was still plenty of bandaging, but maybe that lent the man some illusion of bulk to make his appearance of health better. The King … burned, for want of a better word. Ever since those messages from home he’d burned, the fires growing higher when a second batch of messages arrived. Jocelyn didn’t know the full contents, but he’d been one of the first to hear the official version, that Prince Hugh was making arrangements to be crowned and had refused still to allow his sister’s wedding. Burned grimly, a set determination which made the King’s eyes blaze and drove that gaunt body on past pain, exhaustion, beyond what Jocelyn, physician, anyone thought possible.

Jocelyn grabbed a drink of some sort and ensconced himself snugly in one of the little alcoves lining the wall. This late in the evening the window’s shutter was closed over, but that only made the little nook cosier.

The bride and groom did as brides and grooms everywhere were supposed to do, and led the dancing. Elianora de Ardon was more alive than he’d ever seen her, and there was much to be said of the groom’s concern over her, even if it was so tender as to be nauseating. Jocelyn bared his teeth in a private grin; looked like his little speech was a good one, and would make a foundation for the speech Mahaut’s husband was going to get. He’d have to carefully elaborate Mahaut’s version though. “Look after her, or I’ll rend you limb from limb with a very blunt spoon.” was really too much of an understatement, and not nearly detailed enough as to what he considered suitable treatment.

The minstrels struck up their new tune, tootling away with enthusiasm, and a good portion of the people in the hall set to hopping, bobbing and generally making fools of themselves. Jocelyn tried some of his drink, discovering it to be hippocras. One of these new fangled paired dances, rather than a carole. One man and one woman, paired up and wobbling about until something somehow indicated they needed to swap partners in some convoluted way Jocelyn didn’t see either understanding or pattern for. Then they wobbled about with the new person, until again they swapped.

What was it …? Step forward. Forward. Step left. Step forward in a twirly thing which meant you ended up a quarter turn from where you started, rotating yourself and your partner about on the spot. Step backward. Jocelyn frowned. And all so stately and slow, not a hint of bounce like in a carole. And as for the attitude! His grip tightened on his goblet, and he checked to see Richildis was still safely gossiping – ha! Complaining about him, more like. Bitch – with her female acquaintances. She was. Good. That meant he didn’t have to rip out eyes and such like. No, this new fangled nonsense was a part of the greater courtly nonsense.

The attitude; now there was a good example of what was wrong with all this courtly rubbish. The men gawped at their partners as if there was nothing else in the world, all faining that mellow, soppy expression naturally found only on the face of a man gazing at his love. They poured all their attention on their partner. Bloody lies! They did it all again with the next one, and the next, and on and on. God’s thigh! They were a bunch of … of … man whores. Jocelyn considered his new term over a few slow mouthfuls of wine. It wasn’t good, and he’d not be seen dead ever uttering it, but it would do. Accurate enough, anyway.

His attention snapped back to what his eyes had been gazing on sightlessly for several moments. Damn and kick it all to hell in a basket! Now he’d missed a bit! Forward, forward, left, twirly bit, backwards, no idea, some stuff, rubbish, heaven knows what or how much should be here, step right, step backwards. Bugger it!

“Not that I care,” he proclaimed aloud, before bringing his cup back to his lips with considerable haste.

Well he didn’t. Not at all. Dancing was for effeminate things, not for real men. Especially dancing like that. And anyway, he danced right nicely with a weapon in his hand, and that was what really mattered. That people generally agreed it was a talent any noble should have only proved that … something.

Jocelyn tossed off the rest of his wine in one go and set the goblet down on the padded bench running along the back of his little alcove. He leaned one shoulder against the wall, then hurriedly stood back upright, brushing at the side which had contacted the plastered and whitewashed masonry. His clothes were perfectly clean, but how damned humiliating would it be to have a white powdery mark down one side, or similar? Very, that’s how much.

And anyway, it was amusing to watch as dancer after dancer caught the King’s eye and had to stop and bow, more often than not getting in the way of his fellow idiots.

He tugged at the high collar of his posh new formal gown, feeling that the damned thing was going to choke him to death before the night was done. Clothes shouldn’t have collars that went higher than the part where neck met shoulder, by Saint Romanus! Those who had invented this uncomfortable fashion deserved to spend all eternity being prodded up the arse by a bunch of devils with hayforks.

As he lowered his arm again he noticed something, and swore softly. There was a gravy stain on the confounded idiotic idea of a dangling sleeve! Jocelyn glanced about him furtively, and on finding no one was watching him he licked his fingers and dabbed at the mark. It spread outwards. Glancing about again to see if he was still safe, Jocelyn tweaked his sleeve so it hung slightly crooked, with the stain hidden against his body.

A few minutes passed in the boredom common to these posh gatherings, made far worse by the fact everyone was still mostly sober and on their very best behaviour thanks to the crowned observer.

Having had enough, Jocelyn snagged a passing servant and demanded another drink.

The drink was duly fetched, and as he raised it to take the first sip Jocelyn noticed Richildis looking in his direction. At this distance he couldn’t see her expression, but he could guess easily enough: aloof, icy, disapproving. Well, damn her; Jocelyn took that first sip, extending it to a good few mouthfuls, exaggerating his motions enough that it would be very clear to the miserable bitch what he was doing.

God, but she looked good in those new clothes she’d had made to reflect her new status on formal occasions …

Jocelyn felt his face soften, and immediately stopped looking at her, hardening his features again. And promptly caught the King’s eye. As he dipped down in this latest bow, Jocelyn’s hair fell in his eyes, meaning he had to faff about sorting it back out into neatness again, praying no one would see him fussing like a girl waiting to meet her lover.

After a while more of the boring ‘entertainments’ the musicians finally shut up. Jocelyn inched forward to the front of his alcove, hoping this meant the bedding ceremony was about to get underway. Then he could go to bed. Not to do anything remotely interesting, though, because the miserable bitch would claim to have a headache yet again, and forcing the point would only make her sulking worse.

Poetry. They were declaiming poetry. The groom yorbling at the bride like a right prat, whinging on and on about flowers, summer skies, and how pure his heart and intentions were. Poor girl was in for a boring night, then.

“Oh, for Saint Swithun’s sake!” muttered Jocelyn, ducking back into his hiding place.

The poetry went on.

And on.

And on.

One idiot after another stepping forward to show how refined and educated he was, each trying to out-do the others.

Jocelyn yawned massively, covering his mouth with a hand.

Then someone grabbed his elbow, and he was hooked out of his nice little alcove.

“Found you,” blared Henri.

“Oh, goodie.” Jocelyn tried to free himself from his uncle-by-marriage’s grip before others noticed, but thanks to the other man’s nasal whine and complete lack of discretion, plus the fact he was being dragged towards the gathering, that was damned impossible.

Jocelyn found himself dropped into the central space left by the group of variously inebriated guests. He glanced about nervously, hoping for some clue. His eyes touched on Richildis; she had also been shunted forward a bit. And the way she was looking at him, half pleading, half warning, well that didn’t make Jocelyn feel any happier. Surely they didn’t expect …?

Henri clapped him on the shoulder. “Your turn now; I know you’ll want to honour my niece.”

They did. Oh … damn!

Jocelyn tried to chuckle and smile as if none of this was anything but the best thing in the world. “Ah, but then it’s getting late, and I’d hate to be the one responsible for keeping the happy couple apart.”

Henri’s vacant expression summed up perfectly the response to this attempted dodge. Vacant? If bloody well only! The man might look and sound about as smart as a dead weevil, but he’d taken his ward – as Richildis had been at the time, both her parents dead – and a carefully selected innocent young man recently come to his inheritance, and worked on them until they’d agreed to the idiotic notion of getting married. He done his best to meddle ever since. Bastard.

Jocelyn took a step back, trying to graciously – or not so graciously – depart. He met only laughter and friendly urgings not to be shy.

“Go on,” cheered Henri.

“Er …” Jocelyn made the mistake of catching the King’s eye again. The bow cost him time and sealed his fate, allowing the gathering to reform around him.

He made his second mistake recovering from the first; he met Richildis’ eyes, and saw the desperate begging there.

Jocelyn stopped trying to escape and started rummaging about in his memory. Surely he could think of something?! Er … that one about the happy little pony which Mahaut had repeated endlessly for a fortnight until it had been bored into his brain so intensely he had begun to dream about that thrice cursed pony. Dream about turning it into dog meat. No. Romantic crap – that was what he needed, and fast. The audience was beginning to shuffle and fuss, and looking at Richildis was positively painful. She thought he couldn’t do it; she knew this was going to be hideously embarrassing. And yet, hope against hope, she begged him most heartrendingly to do something to save them.

A ditty sprang to mind, and he almost said it before he recognised it properly; the one about the three widows and the squire would not be suitable. Oh, God’s nose hair – it was perfectly suitable. This was a wedding, damn it! People were supposed to be making crude jokes.

Richildis was going pale, shrinking back to get out of people’s notice.

Jocelyn looked about for inspiration. At which point he damned well caught the damned king’s damned eye again. Clenching his teeth, Jocelyn bowed. So inconvenient! But it brought him a bit more time.

Idea! He smiled at his wife, doing his absolute best to look suitably gentle and courtly-dumb. “I couldn’t think of as single one to match how I feel about her.” Damned right!

“There must be one,” said someone, to the general agreement of the mob.

“Oh no,” Jocelyn assured everyone, “not a one. Unique.”

Henri quirked an eyebrow. “Perhaps you could create one now?”

Bastard! Jocelyn hazarded a quick guess that this damned foolery was Henri’s idea in the first place, and all so he could humiliate his niece and her husband, because said husband hadn’t jumped to agree to his tacitly worded proposal to sell the King of England to the King of France. Oh, in many ways it had been a sound idea, but it would get him the everlasting reputation of being a treacherous bastard, and Jocelyn felt sure God wouldn’t like it. The King had been entrusted to him to guard, so guard he would. Though it was possible he could have been dropped into his hands for another purpose, like coin to buy with …

Nah. And anyway, if the idea came from Henri he wanted nothing to do with it, no matter how good or bad it might be.

Jocelyn flailed for Richildis’ hand, caught it after a few goes, and patted it lovingly, securing it on his arm just at the crook of his elbow. “I could labour all my life and never find even a line to be worthy of her. Even the great poet ever to live could do her no justice.”

“Then perhaps something to please the gathering, if not in tribute to my niece?”

“Ah …” Jocelyn coughed. “Well … um …” There are times in every man’s life where all he can do is throw up his hands and bellow “Sod it!”. This was one of those times. Jocelyn said, “It is a wedding, and to please the audience, I know one that’s usually very popular.” So he recited the full ballad of The Knight of the Drooping Lance.

Well, it was a wedding.

The guests laughed as uproariously as usual, but Richildis went so rigid you could have used her as a door lintel. They parted ways without a word, when the ‘amusement’ ended.

To Jocelyn’s retreating back, Henri said all too loudly, “And we’ll have to show our gratitude to our gracious hosts with a dance in their honour, in a while. I’m sure our bridal couple will gladly enough surrender the leading of one to them.”

Jocelyn fled back in the direction of his nice little alcove, but as he cleared the edges of the now scattered crowd a hand closed on his left buttock and squeezed. He spun about, coming face to face with not many teeth, swarthy skin that could have belonged to any peasant field-worker, and a wart precariously balanced on the end of a nose, about to lose its balance at the least provocation. Being a brave man he managed not to scream, but it was a damned near thing.

Being brave didn’t mean hanging about in the face of such peril – Jocelyn mumbled something about the privy and ran for it, cursing under his breath. Why oh why did he have such foul luck!? His wife was her usual unaccommodating self, it had been days since he’d last had a woman, and the one who flung herself at him as a nice, easy target had to look like … like … he didn’t want to know what that looked like. Please God there was nothing else on this sweet earth which bore any resemblance to it. And may Christ have pity on the hag’s husband.

A cursory survey of the nice-looking women proved every bit as glum as he’d expected. They were all in noticeable places, so if he approached any of them Richildis would know and then he’d have to spend yet more time and money trying to buy her back to something approaching civility. Though it was her damned fault! If she were warmer than a snow drift he wouldn’t need to look elsewhere while she was around, but no, the damned woman wouldn’t see that.

He heard laughter, and turned to the source. A man was pointing at him, repeating something in an exaggerated manner, which set the little cluster about him laughing again.

Struck as motionless as a statue Jocelyn felt his stomach go hollow, everything in him dying down to stillness. Another bust of laughter restored motion; he snatched up his drink from where he’d left it and left the hall.







7,055

This is actually an incomplete single scene. But it’s been a while since the last part was posted, thanks to the demands of abnormally large deliveries of books to the shop, and I decided a break actually suited well, as it represents time passing nicely. I’ve got 2 days off now, so I expect I’ll have the rest done soon.

It's not exactly a daft question, as I've never said much about Constance's background and family. But suffice it to say she's married to the heir to the throne in a day where love matches were very rare for nobility and the wealthy. Love was a bonus, and to be hoped for, but practicality and gain was the main thing.

[frogbeastegg]

The solar was dark, lit only by the low flames burning in the fireplace. Jocelyn didn’t bother to light any candles, he just sat himself down on the rug in front of the hearth. In the distance he could still hear the party; the musicians had started up their noise again. He let out a sigh which emptied his lungs so well they ached a little.

Eventually the door crept open. Jocelyn took a moment to appreciate the image of his wife standing framed in the doorway, lit from behind. She had to spoil it all by placing her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Jocelyn twisted his fingers into the shaggy fur of the bearskin, pulling the hairs into clumped spikes and smoothing it back down, only to repeat the process over again, and again. “Good question,” he sighed. “I was wondering the same myself.”

“You are drunk.”

“It’s a wedding.” Jocelyn’s hand fell slack and he closed his eyes. “All the men are drunk. They always are, to some extent or another, at weddings. Even at this miserable excuse for one. Though it’s more like tipsy.”

Richildis swapped to folding her arms, though it seemed more like she was hugging herself. “The groom isn’t, not this time. He’s sober as day.”

“But only very slightly drunk.” Jocelyn flicked the rim of the empty goblet lying next to him on the floor. “That I dumped into the fire. Found I didn’t have the taste for it any more. Had enough …” He tapped the goblet again, harder, sending it rolling slowly across the floor. “The boy had damned well better be sober, after what I told him.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“That if he got too drunk he’d make a limp showing before all when they put him to bed with his bride, and he’d never hear the end of it.” He tried to muster a suitable leer, but somehow he couldn’t be bothered.

Richildis snorted. “You’re disgusting.”

“Ah, well, if I said I’d told him I’d be a mite pissed off if he hurt or upset my ward in any way you wouldn’t believe me.”

Her eyelashes fluttered, and she looked down and to one side. “Everyone but me …” Her voice sounded suspiciously choked.

“Tildis?” Jocelyn started to push himself up with one hand, but abandoned the attempt because there was no damned point. Jesù, he was drunker than he thought, to forget that.

Richildis said nothing, chafing at her forearm, the fingers of her hand distorting clear tracks in the fine material and probably leaving matching tracks of redness on the skin beneath. Then her head came back up. “People are wondering where you are. You’re the host, people expect to see you acting like it. There are people who want to talk to you as well. You have done nothing all night except drink, eat and sulk.”

“A bit unfair, Tildis. I did more.”

“Ah yes, your ‘poetry’.”

“What else could I have done?”

“The same as everyone else; you could have recited something decent.”

“If I-” Jocelyn started to blaze back, before he could stop himself. He twisted his features into a sneer and began again with a far more suitable answer, “If I wanted to I would have, but I’d hate to disappoint your high expectations of me.”

“When I left people were still laughing. They will be laughing for weeks. Laughing at us. Laughing cruelly.” Richildis’ ears pricked up at the faint sound of music resuming after a pause between dances. “That is the one they were going to play that in our honour. They must have grown tired of waiting, because you have been gone so long and I so long searching for you.”

Jocelyn laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Ah well, no loss.”

“No, I suppose it is only a missed opportunity to be left standing alone at the wall, missing the fun, alone, while people laugh at me behind my back. You refuse to dance. You won’t let me partner with anyone else. It’s always the same.”

Jocelyn heaved a gusty sigh and rubbed his nose with a finger. “I don’t know the steps to go with that tune. I only know some of the older caroles. Not many of them, either.” God above! How many years of trying to hide that now wasted? Ah well, once sunk, where was the point in bailing. Jocelyn laughed again. “And there you are – proof I’m drunk, like you said. My tongue’s run away with me because I’m drunk. Maybe not badly so, but it’s enough to make me look a right prick. And you know what else? I didn’t recite nice poetry because I don’t bloody know any! I’m a pathetic old relic with no idea what I’m doing here any more.”

“Stand up.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

Richildis grabbed hold of his arm and started to pull him to his feet. “Up.”

Women! For the sake of his peace and quiet Jocelyn let her drag him up.

“Stand up properly.”

“Tildis-”

“More than a bit drunk, I think - you’ve had enough. You’re unhappy as you are and you’ve had enough. Else you would have said nothing and kept on trying to hide it, as you’ve done for all the years I’ve known you, with some success too – I always thought you contrary on purpose. So, do you want to learn, or not?”

Jocelyn opened his mouth to say God knows what.

She held up a finger. “Think. Either you choke down your pride now, or you choke on it for the rest of your life. No one need know but us.” Richildis had held her hands clasped in front of her; now she offered the right one to him, taking his answer for granted. “First take your partner’s hand in a gentle grip.”

And so he did, without actually deciding to.

“Gentle grip,” she repeated, prising at his fingers.

“That is gentle, damn it!”

“If I were a spear, perhaps. Sometimes I think you don’t know your own strength. And you promised to stop swearing.”

He began to blast back with something witty, but stopped midway through the first syllable of the starting word. “Sorry,” he said instead. He looked down at their hands to see she’d manoeuvred his hand into holding hers so the last two joints of each finger was nestled in his and covered by his thumb while her own palm cupped the back of his hand, and all so delicate it gave rise to the feeling his hands, with their many little scars from a lifetime of fighting and training survived without major harm to testify to their usual deftness, were massive and clumsy and would crush what he held like eggshells. The same feeling his children had prompted before they had grown enough to look robust.

“Step to your left …”

And so she guided him through the whole thing, the one set of steps was repeated some four times, supposedly with a different lady per set, before the dance could be called over. At first they went slowly and with her telling him precisely what to do, but by the fourth go they had picked up speed and she only spoke to correct his odd mistake. Simple, really, once you’d had it explained and if you’d a good memory.

“Not bad,” she said. “But stop watching your feet like you expect to trip over.”







Actually, that’s more like half the remaining half of the scene, but again a break suits it well enough. Jocelyn and Richildis are being difficult. The way the characters want it to go appeals strangely to me, but it’s not what I planned, and I had reasons for that planning. Also while appealing to me their divergence also annoys me for several reasons. Hmmm, got to decide whether to let them have their way or not.

Anywho, in the meantime you can aid a frog’s curiosity. What do people think Richildis means when she says “Everyone but me …” It’s not really important, I’m just very curious as to whether I managed to give the impression I wanted to. It’s not exactly just the words, but the emotion and spirit behind them.

[furball]

Froggy, I'm only on page 5 of this forum, just having read post 136, which is the aftermath of the king's beating of Eleanor after she returns from "saving" John.

The writing in the entire chapter is masterful! The story started well and you are improving with every chapter. Really, the tempo, descriptions, dialogue - everything - in this chapter were spot on.

I've been reading Eleanor ever since I found it earlier today. Tom Wolfe's 'I Am Charlotte Simmons' sits forlornly abandoned. Wish I'd been around when you were posting to help cheer you on.

Regards, and thanks for the wonderful read!
- Furball

[Ciaran]

Ah, Jocelyn (and I still think that is a female name) is back ~:)
The poor guy, he might be a good knight but when it comes to the fineries of court life :dizzy2:


What do people think Richildis means when she says “Everyone but me …”
I´d say she´s surprised he cares about Elianora (his ward), considering how he treats her, Richildis. Not that he treads her exactly badly, but still, I suppose he´s far from being a dream husband.
Ah, can it, I´ve hated this interpretation stuff back at school when I had to do it, and my opinion hasn´t changed much since. "What´s it the author wants to say with this..." :dizzy2: He wrote for the fun of it or because he did it for a living, that´s what.

[furball]

Post #345, the one where Hugh informs the family of William's near-death? Please re-think this at some later time. The LAST half is fine. Wondering and plotting and worrying. The first half needs a little more love and uncertainty. You jump so quickly into the plotting that EVERYBODY seems stilted, stone in their character. Particularly Anne. A KING IS DYING! That should be more unnerving - even to Eleanore in general terms. And Anne. Sheesh! You have her say 3 or 4 short things to prgress plot and nothing about what she might feel.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor came awake to a hand shaking her shoulder. She blinked, trying to clear the gritty feeling from her eyes and, on realising she wasn’t in her own room, remember where she was.

Wrapped in her cloak, lying on Fulk’s bed, waiting for him to return. The door to her own room was open so a soundless retreat was possible in the event it might be needful. The door out onto the landing and stairway had been bolted, Hawise taking on the task of receptionist in the event of someone arriving; she could answer the door and delay while Eleanor fled, or, as now, could vanish outside when the stray knight turned up. The arrangement worked only because Fulk was not present.

She sat up, but not to make any room for him. “Where on earth have you been? I must have been here for hours.”

“Not even two hours. Matins has not rung yet. You’re exhausted, I think.”

“And a fine answer that is,” Eleanor replied around a yawn. With one hand she swept her hair back out of her eyes; it was loose and the way she had been lying had not done much to improve its orderliness.

“In case of future need I shall note this observation down somewhere safe: let sleeping princesses lie; they’re tetchy if awakened.”

“You are entirely uncooperative.”

“I think the same could generally be said of you. It must be catching.” His line of sight shifted downwards, away from her face to her bare feet sticking out of the bottom of shift and cloak. “Why are you here? And aren’t your feet cold?”

“None of your business.”

Fulk laughed. “There is a princess in my room, sat on my bed, scowling at me, and she tells me it’s none of my business! Oh endless source of delight, sometimes you truly are a strange creature.” Fulk sat down on top of his clothing chest, knees apart and arms braced untidily across the tops of his thighs. “I was sat playing guard in the outside doorway, gazing at the moon and slowly freezing to death.”

“Mea culpa. I am … unpractised at … certain things. And I forget things. Which I should not …” Goodwill and guilt only go so far, as does a desire for peace. A good deal more certainly Eleanor said, “But I was right – I am not helped by a rogue knight.” The next bit proved a good deal harder, so she only managed a mumble, “But I really should not let my fear for you affect me like that.”

“Dear, dear, my gooseberry is subscribing to more correct noble wisdom! I wonder …” Fulk sprang – if the movement of a tired, wounded man could be called that – to his feet, and placed an icy hand on her forehead. “No, no fever.”

Eleanor batted his hand away. “You are obnoxiously cheerful.”

“Better than the alternative.”

“I was actually speaking about losing my temper because of worry. As to that wisdom, for once it is not rubbish. If you are busy worrying about what will happen if you die or are wounded-”

“I’ll be a damned sight more careful. Beloved, I’ve fought with nothing but visions of glory with nary a thought to the mere possibility of anything less than great and heroic victory.” Fulk paused. His mouth twisted into a bitter line. “That’s how I killed my father and destroyed what was my life.” Fulk sat back on his makeshift chair with a heavy thump. “But if it hadn’t been for that I wouldn’t be here now, and I find it impossible to wish I’d never met you. Well, I suppose there are times …” Abruptly he grinned at her, stilling the fluttering of newly born panic. “But even then there’s no honesty to it.”

“Wrong wisdom, crooknose. Close, but wrong. But then you are a man; I doubt I should enlighten you further.” That would defeat almost the entire point. Men should be worried enough to temper exuberance into caution, but never so worried that they became paralysed, cowardly, or otherwise unmanly or apt to die. The difficulty came in putting this – and other closely related wisdom – into use. Thanks to her upbringing she had very little by way of example to follow … but there in murky memory was a figure with an indistinct face, and some rare words: “Men need their confidence, but not too much of it; either extreme is dangerous. If you show doubt in their prowess then they too may begin to doubt, and that too is dangerous. So you send them off with smiles or teasing or whatever else suits.” Presumably her mother had gone on to do just that, but there the memory grew fuzzier still, to the point where Eleanor couldn’t remember if she had seen any more or not.

Fulk dug out the little silver crucifix he wore on a thong about his neck and held it in full sight to ward off malevolence. “And it is so that Woman has manifold mysteries, all to be kept from Man, for else their arcane evil would be disarmed, and thus their manipulation and perversion of God’s order would be at an end.”

Eleanor applauded him, careful, though, not to make sufficient noise for it to carry outside the room. “Oh very good! You missed your calling in life.”

“I’m too pleasant to be a rabid priest.” Fulk’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword even as the cheerful mask fell from his face. His fingers fondled the simple hilt of the weapon, bringing to mind the unwanted thought of who had given it him and how he must have touched her in the same way, this long lost Maude of his. “Your brother is giving me a new sword,” he said. “My choice, to suit my build and tastes. A mace too. He’s banishing my debt to the exchequer. A small castle, one taken from Trempwick’s holdings. He told me as he passed me, on his way to you. It’s going to be formally announced tomorrow.” Fulk’s hold on his sword stilled, tightened, then went slack, his hand dropping to the wooden surface of the chest. “I want none of it. It’s all meaningless. Pointless.”

“You are rising-”

“But not enough,” he interrupted softly. “Never enough.” Fulk looked at her, eyes narrowing a little. “What did he want with you? Hawise said as she let me in that now wasn’t the time for another argument.”

“That maid is entirely too happy meddling,” growled Eleanor.

“Oh most wondrous blossom, I know you like her, in part because she meddles, pesters, organises and is sensible at you, useful too, and all in that quiet way of hers. A more normal maid would likely end as a target for those hairpins of yours.”

Eleanor declared with utmost regalness, “Humph.”

“But this says nothing about that brother of yours.”

“I have been given to Sir Miles. He is my new master.” ‘Master’ had something of a sarcastic ring to it, which was both unexpected and unregretted. “Except I shall never call him that.”

“Eleanor, the trouble that might cause! It’s only politeness; it means nothing unless you want it to, and-”

“Might as well ask me to call him ‘Father’ …” Eleanor hugged her cloak about herself, the heavy wool pressing on her back uncomfortably.

He absorbed that, and perhaps understood it, for when he spoke again he said, “Somehow I doubt that is all Hawise meant. We’re not like to argue over Miles.”

“You do not need to know the rest.” If one wanted to restore harmony to one’s relationship with a broken-nosed knight one quite simply did not tell him that you had been involved in a rather unpleasant fight with your brother over said knight and his clashing with said brother’s bodyguard. She had been left with no choice – and wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise – but to defend Fulk entirely, placing vociferous blame for the entire incident on Hugh’s bodyguard. The outcome had all been highly predictable, and could be summed up simply as “Ouch!”. Hugh was a complete hypocrite, and one day Eleanor fervently hoped she could cram that fact down his throat, preferably while riding away from him on a very fast horse.

“No, I suppose not.” His words were terse, harsh, and all the idle relaxation went from his body.

“Fulk, it is boring, a waste of time speaking of, time which could be better spent-”

He held up a hand, forestalling her. “No, don’t bother. I’m just a lowly knight-”

“And an idiot!” This time she didn’t mean it in one of the kinder ways. “I have never seen you so – so determined to make yourself miserable over something so unimportant.”

“Unimportant? If I were an earl or a prince-”

“Unimportant,” Eleanor said again. She let her grip on her cloak relax, finally relieving some of the pressure on her bruises, though she acted only because keeping warm no longer mattered. “If you become an earl now it is still not enough. If you were born one you would have been entirely different, and none of this would have come to pass. You are what you are, and I like you for that.”

“I am what I am.” Fulk sagged back against the wall and ran a hand over his face. “I’ve been saying that all my life, insisting I’m proud of it too.” Pause. “I don’t think I’ve ever really meant it.”

Her heart bleeding for him, Eleanor stood and moved to stand awkwardly at his side, unsure of what to do next.

Fulk pulled her so she sat on his knee, settling her so the entire length of her body rested against his, not even a finger’s breadth standing on its own. “I’m cold,” he said by way of almost guilty-sounding explanation. After a bit he said, “If the man is all that’s left …”

“Then you stand greater than my brother, or any.”

He shook his head, his hair tickling her face. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes!” Eleanor kissed the hollow just below his ear. “Circumstances are not easy, but many could not survive it as you do.” He didn’t say anything. “There is …” Eleanor’s thought was formed but not in words, and it was the translation to something which could be shared that proved difficult. “There is ... no bravery in … in taking the easier ways. Or … or anything good in it. If you … if you were to do something to prove you are brave …” She stopped, thinking. “If you were to challenge my brother, yes, it would be said you were acting like a man, defending what was yours, protecting your own honour, guarding me. But then I would lose you. You would probably die. It is cowardly. Selfish. And because of that very … unmanly. You would leave me alone to suffer, suffer more because of what you had done, while your own suffering was at an end. The same can be said of much else. Perhaps everything else, in this. You are taking the harder path, which makes you far better than the many who would not.”

Eleanor felt a trace of damp on her temple; she sat back a little to see. A solitary tear, lost onto her skin, the glistening track on his own flesh the only sign of its birth.

He kissed her, so softly, their lips hardly touching. After a few moments Eleanor forgot even the very mild awareness she’d had of poor Hawise, sat out in the corridor, cold, bored, and as tired as the rest of them. Her thoughts had steadily narrowed down to nothing but Fulk; now the process was complete.

Several minutes, hours, days – who could tell? – later they stopped and sat, simply looking at each other, nothing more, faces close enough that their noses were almost touching. He was not saying something, she could tell. So, too, could she tell what; she was finding he had a certain way of looking at her sometimes: tender, peaceful, enraptured. He too had forgotten anything else.

Suddenly very nervous it was hard to speak. But she must, or … “I will not refuse you again.”

“That’s not exactly wise.” For one horrible moment she thought he was going to tip her off onto the floor. The next she feared he would crush her, because he tightened his hold.

“I am too young to be wise.”

“Aren’t we all?” he sighed. Eleanor studied him in consternation, until he kissed her eyelids. “I’m only a man ...”

Eleanor felt herself go a deep crimson; her seat had becoming increasingly unsettling because of that fact. “I had noticed.”

Fulk pressed his lips together, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards, his eyebrows drawn down into a passable attempt at a glower that sat firmly at odds with the rest. “You are terrible. But I love you anyway.”

From the burning sensation her blush was only getting worse. “Yes. Well. Um … It is your fault,” she rallied. “Everything. Always.”

“So eloquent, my love.”

That she didn’t reply to, but only because he had decided to kiss her again.

Fulk drew a very deep breath. “Let me love you. I will do you no harm.”

“Er …” She was not going to ask what in hell any of that meant!

“No one will know. You will still be a virgin. I’m not asking for anything dishonourable either. Any sin will be mine, so you won’t have that to worry about, and I can confess it without casting even a hint of suspicion in your direction-”

Unable to stand hearing more Eleanor interrupted, “Um …” The unfortunate thing about deciding something was that eventually you had to follow through, and it was getting harder to imagine saying anything the more she heard. Big brave princess, and all that; she gathered her nerve. “Um … less talking helps,” she managed to mumble. “Or so I am led to believe.”

Fulk placed one hand on her neck, his thumb stroking the outline of her jaw. “I do love you.”

“Um, all things considered I should really hope so. Yes.” Eleanor gave him a wobbly smile as she remembered to add, “I love you too. When you are not being annoying.” She was rewarded with a decidedly soppy grin. Her mind no longer drowning in romance a few important details occurred to her. “Um, we should let Hawise in. It will look strange, if anyone comes upstairs. And she must be cold and tired herself. And … er-”

“Peace. I’ll sort it out.”

Fulk carried her through into her room and set her down on the bed, then disappeared off to deal with Hawise.

Eleanor threw off her cloak and burrowed down into the bed, trying to create a warm patch for herself and wondering how she could ever look her maid in the eye again.

She heard rather than saw Fulk’s return, the covers being drawn so far up they covered most of her face too.

“I might agree with you on that maid of yours,” he said as he bolted the door. “She went straight to my bed, sat down, and told me to go away so she could get undressed.”

Undressed. Oh, damn! Eleanor poked her head out of the top of the blankets just enough to see Fulk, then ducked back down because he was beginning to remove his own clothes. First she would try to keep her shift and underclothes on. If that failed then she would have to hope he didn’t really look. In the event of that too proving to be a vain hope she could only pray he couldn’t tell the difference between yesterday’s bruises and today’s, and wouldn’t be too revolted.

Fulk slid into bed next to her and gathered her to him, but not before he tossed something he had been holding down on top of the covers out of her sight. Noticing that she was shivering he said, “If you’ve changed your mind …”

Eleanor muttered something about being cold to avoid answering that.

Fulk rubbed her back, his fingers brushing over her so lightly it didn’t trouble the sore flesh. His lips lingered on hers, then the top of her neck, the lobes of her ears. He claimed her mouth again, hands still gently exploring her body.

It was enjoyable enough that Eleanor began to relax. She began to copy him, feeling clumsy, seeing with some detached part of her mind how her own efforts revealed his to be so practised. That rather hurt in some indefinable way; she stopped touching him and threw her uppermost arm about his waist, the lower one already drawn up out of the way with the hand resting just below her chin, useless because of the way they lay face to face, his lower arm and her own bodyweight penning her left arm in.

He moved to kiss her again, checked and looked away. “I don’t want to pass on my frustration to you. Or do something daft.”

“Er …?”

“Well it’s true. I’m hardly proud of it.” He looked back at her, not quite meeting her gaze and face tinged ever so slightly pink. “I’ve never actually done this before. Not this way. Same idea. Few differences. Important differences. And I really do care, but at the same time it seems rather inconsiderate to try and arouse you when I know I’m going to leave you er, hanging. But it’s about as bad to just ignore you. Not to mention less fun for me. But then too much fun and I’m afraid I’ll go a bit barmy.”

Eleanor digested that. “Oh.”

“I suppose really I shouldn’t take the risk, and be as considerate as I can in something so one-sided.”

“Ah.”

“I always wanted everything to be perfect.” He sighed, kissed her briefly, then admitted, “Perfect doesn’t include ‘brilliant’ ideas like this. So please don’t judge based on this. The real thing really is very different, and far better.”

“Hmm …” By now Eleanor was positive about two things: that she was blushing badly even by her own standards, and that she sounded like she had been dropped on her head at birth.

She became aware of a very anxious pair of brown eyes now meeting her own. “You do understand?”

“Er … Yes,” Eleanor lied valiantly.

“And you don’t mind?”

“Er … I suppose I shall survive.”

“I love you.”

Before she could tell him that she recalled him saying that a few times before, Fulk kissed her again, more demanding then he’d been all night but still tender.

He ran a hand up her leg, gathering her shift and pushing it up. Once the material reached her waist he seemed to lose interest, much to her relief, and returned to running his hands over her body, the light touch setting her skin tingling.

Eleanor took matters into her own hands and kissed him again. He made a rather interesting noise much like a groan, gently pushed her onto her back and climbed to loom over her on all fours, and all without breaking the kiss, which was, she supposed in a back corner of her mind, fairly impressive.

He prised gently at her thighs with one hand. Eleanor resisted a moment, then gave up. Whatever she was expecting it wasn’t what happened next: he slid his shaft between her thighs, pushed them shut on it with his own legs, then began to move. At which point a few unpleasant jokes she had been unable to escape hearing and equally unable to forget made a deal more sense, especially that one about the archer who always aimed too low.

Fulk nibbled at her lower lip, persuading her to forget such musings. Eleanor was only too happy to oblige, and in the spirit of things she threw her arms around his neck and clung on, returning his kisses.

His motions steadily grew more frantic until he spasmed, sobbed her name into her head and collapsed into a heap.

At a loss for anything else to do but feeling something was definitely needed, Eleanor delicately extricated one hand from under his bulk and – cautiously - patted him on the head.

Fulk began to laugh, the tremors of his body passed on to her own.

Until the end he had been doing a good job of supporting his own weight so their bodies touched but his did not rest entirely on hers; finding it hard to breathe Eleanor pushed at his shoulder. Fulk obligingly rolled off onto his back with all the grace of a dead donkey. He lay catching his breath for a bit.

He didn’t give himself long before he sat up and grabbed the mysterious object he’d carried in earlier; it proved to be a towel. He mopped rather shamefacedly at the sticky mess on her thighs. “Sorry.”

Staring at the mess, Eleanor shuddered. While acquainted with certain basics, warm slime had been unanticipated; the little she had heard had indicted something more like water. Which would be preferable. Sensitive to the way he stopped dabbing, Eleanor covered her reaction by saying, “Now I think I understand that joke about better out than in. Ugh. And to think I had considered it one of the more harmless jokes at my father’s wedding.”

“Beloved, there are a few hundred such jokes, and they broadly fall into several categories, including one also pertinent to the moment: better in than out. That one’s not about seed. Better out than in is, so you’re right there, but then there’s a line which goes opposite to that too.”

She moved her elbows so she lay flat again, wishing he would hurry up and finish; lying with her shift hitched up about her hips was not dignified and now that whatever you might want to call what had just taken place was finished she felt stupid like this. The bed beneath her was damp as well. “I do not think I wanted to know that.”

Fulk finished his mopping and began to struggle his way out of the massive bed. Eleanor snatched her clothes back into some semblance of order, bolted upright, and asked, “Where are you going?” Surely he wouldn’t just leave?

He held up the towel. “I don’t fancy sleeping curled up with this.” Fulk dumped it on the chair and shot back into bed at her side.

Eleanor settled against the curve of his body, pillowing her head on his shoulder and trying not to think too much, profoundly glad he was holding her still and trying to be content in that alone. There was but one thing she needed to think on, and that was the fact they were married. That one thought made the others nothing. It did.

Fulk’s hand stilled on the neck of her neck, no longer toying with her hair. “I’m sorry. I should not have used you like that.”

“Used.”

Fulk raised her chin with one finger and looked her in the eye, steady though his eyelids drooped. “I didn’t mean it so, never so. I meant you deserved better.” He chuckled, kissed her quickly, and said, “I’ll have you know half my brain just went wandering, so I’m not my usual articulate self. It’ll come back … sometime.”

“You hope,” suggested Eleanor impishly.








:Anyone with eyes will notice that the frog is blushing quite badly, worse than Nell, even!: Urk! :froggy just about manages a mortified mumble, to explain: I spent a few days trying to find a way to avoid writing the :cough: detail :cough of that, all unsuccessfully. While being sworn at by Jocelyn, for refusing his extra scene for all kinds of valid reasons like pacing. Never written anything like that before, either. Not really. When you think about it. Generally speaking. Actually. But either I was less detailed, at which point it looked like something else had happened, or I recapped it in retrospect, which meant exactly the same thing, when all was said and done, except it was being talked about, not done, and sort of felt all blergh like that. :goes florescent red: I mean, more blergh than it is already. I have the feeling it is not the least bit romantic, but then given the material it’s hardly set up to be a great and wonderful love scene anyway. Humph; I suppose I need practice at writing such things, for those times when I have to, although heaven knows I don’t want to.

:froggy sidles away, with the nasty feeling that everyone is now looking at her oddly or staring, thinking thoughts she would rather not about frogs who write such things: Don’t blame me – blame them! :she points at the duo: It was their fault, not mine! :froggy notices Nell is pointing at Fulk and protesting that it was him, entirely, and really nothing much to do with her:

Though I must admit to laughing quite a bit at a few lines in that! I made the mistake of sipping my tea as I proofread it, choked, and nearly ruined my keyboard. It was the pat on the head which did it. I also admit to getting all teared up, in one short place. And pitying poor Fulk, even as I wonder whether I like what he did or not, and also wonder if he’s suitably believable, being as this female froggy is going entirely on what Fulk says, with a dose of hearsay, rumour, and a smidgeon of observation to help.

Got to say I’m really very interested as to what people make of this, both in writing and in what happens. Like I’ve said many times already, never written anything like this before, not really …

:froggy goes to hide under a rock somewhere … with a large pile of books to read. And a light – lights are nice when reading books while hiding under a rock. Otherwise it’s a bit dark.:



One big miscellaneous cross-forum thank you for the variety of thoughts on Jocelyn/Richildis. :looks like a smugly pleased frog: Hehe, not bad for a line which took me all of 20 seconds to write and no thought at all.

It's in part thanks to these responses that I felt able to skip the Jocelyn scene - it would say nothing that is not already there and, more importantly, *seen* to be there. Adding the scene would only have slowed the tale down, and with this Nell/Fulk scene it would have felt very one-themed, repetitive, dull, and the (at least my own) response on finding the Nell/Fulk scene immediately afterwards would have been "Not more mush!" I also feel it will be far, far better handled in the before and retrospect, not the during. It was also not a scene of the type I need Jocelyn for; he's done enough with what is already here and planned for inclusion. In short, including it would have been very damaging.

On giving characters their heads: I do it very often. Indeed, the entire Nell/Fulk romance comes from doing just that, and thus the entire story which springs from it. Originally I wanted them to be friends, no more, off on spytastic adventures like at the beginning of the story. I presume that you will have noticed that as soon as they got on screen together they started to spark, so badly that my carpet was nearly set on fire.

But sometimes it is not the right thing to do. Sometimes what feels important to a character is not actually important, or does not need to be shown. Sometimes the deviations to the plot, where such are prompted by character demands, are not good.

Fanclubs: Been a while since I posted anything here about the fanclubs on the other forum; I recall there was a bit of interest.

Fanclub updates:
Trempy: 3 members (fuming)
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 5 members (sleeping like the dead, but only snoring a very little bit)
Nell: 6 members (also asleep, looking as angelic as only a sleeping gooseberry can)
Godit: 5 members (also fuming)
Constance: 2 members
Hugh: 2 members (disgusted!)
Jocelyn: 5 members (worrying about the safety of the women in his family, and sharpening his dagger ready for any necessary castrations)
Richildis: 1 member (rolling her eyes at her husband … safely behind his back)
Miles: 2 members
Hawise: 2 members (thinking that Fulk’s bed is far comfier than her pallet on the floor)
Mahaut: 1 member
Anti-Trempy: 3 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member
Anti-Hugh: 1 member


Furball, I shall come back to both of those in a day or two ~:) A good answer requires time to peculate, and I feel whatever answer I arrive at will take more time to write down than I have at present.

[furball]

No rush, froggy - and no real need to reply. And I realize there may be things I don't know at this point in the story. Re-reading the whole post, I see that Anne does react at first, though she seems to settle down pretty quickly. Really, no need to reply. I'm sure we'd all rather have more story. :)

EDIT: Finally caught up with the tale to date! To answer one of your questions, the Nell/Fulk scene in the latest post is fine. Tender, believable and not as unusual as many of today's college kids might think. :) *I* might have gone . . . err, out of my way to give Eleanor some pleasure, but it's my understanding that was not common in medieval England.

[frogbeastegg]

A hand closed on Eleanor’s shoulder; the pressure on a few particularly raw bruises both recalled her attention and made her wince.

“I said,” Hugh repeated patiently, “that your manner is subdued today.” His eyes narrowed as he removed his hand. “Or perhaps I am mistaken, and you are only sulking.”

“Or thinking.”

“Then I would find it obligatory as to enquire what about, to have such a marked effect on your demeanour.” Hugh linked his hands at the small of his back. “Penitential thoughts of a change of ways, I might hope?”

Eleanor continued to meet his gaze, unspeaking. If he knew what she had done … She repressed a shudder, sick to the pit of her stomach at the thought of what would happen.

At last she turned away, chin tucked in. “Leave me alone, Hugh. I am sore, tired, and heartsick, and in no mood to be baited.”

“I do not bait. That would be unworthy. Indeed, it seems to me that you attempt to bait me.” If he was expecting some kind of contrition at that, or denial, or anything else then he was sorely disappointed. “I find,” he said when it became more than plain she would not speak, “I must now enquire as to what makes you heartsick. I see nothing to cause you hurt, though much should, and that it does not is a mark of your woeful lack of duty or familial feeling. Therefore, this being so unknown to me, I cannot offer the slightest assistance.”

Eleanor lifted her head to give her brother a flat stare. “I shall not even dignify that with a response.”

“Quite impossible.” Hugh strode away to stand at his own window again, looking down at the view of the training grounds it offered. “Still, I should doubtless expect no different than for my offer to be flung back in my face.”

“It is the stupid question I fling back, nothing more. There is plenty of reason and I am immune to none of it, though my vulnerabilities may be different to yours.”

“Such disrespect-”

Eleanor stopped paying attention; perhaps with some good fortune his rant would keep him entertained for a while, leaving her free. Fulk had sat with his back to her, shoulders curved inwards a trifle, half dressed. His words she remembered perfectly. “I won’t bother you like this again. I’ve disgraced myself enough.” Pause, then as an afterthought, “Disgraced with my selfishness, I mean.”

Oh dear Jesù, as if she needed more complications and worries. If he had disgraced himself, then what precisely did that say of her? And to be abandoned so quickly - that said much, and none of it complimentary. Anyway, she had only done as he told her, as she should, so honour was intact and if there was any fault it was his. Which was not comforting. What would he do now? Probably much as she’d thought before. Not that she could really say whether she was disappointed or not that the experience wouldn’t be repeated; while there had been definite good things other parts had been rather … um. Yes. Maybe very.

Hugh slapped her across the mouth; the blow stung but she thought it did no damage that would last past a few minutes. He said, “I will not be ignored. This is the second time. You will reflect on your manners. It is not fitting for one such as you.”

One side of Eleanor’s mouth twisted upwards. “Quite true, brother dear. No matter how poets ramble on to the contrary that last is quite true.”

Hugh scowled, deepening the shallow creases that were slowly beginning to permanently mark his skin. “You make no sense. No poet has ever numbered rudeness or like vices amongst the virtues fit for one in your place.”

“No, I would think not.”

“Rather patience, meekness,” that one he stressed even more than the others, “charity, piety, obedience,” again emphasised, “nobility, humbleness-”

“And a certain knowledge of one’s own worth,” Eleanor added. “Well, that I can claim, if none of the others.” She knew the value of what she had given … or thrown away, as some would have it. Not quite the value of her maidenhead, but still a good portion of the almost obscene horde of wealth and gains she could bring. Not, she reassured herself, that she cared about such things anyway, and not that anyone would ever know to be in a position to be outraged and decry her as … well, not quite a whore, as there was generally considered to be a trace of honour in such restrained dealings … so far as there could ever be any honour in something so disreputable. But she was married to the man in question, damn it!

Fed up with herself, and knowing she needed to do something about her brother, Eleanor pointed at the view from her own window. “Anyway, why did you bring me here, place me in front of this window and demand I wait?”

“You will see,” he snapped. With that he turned back to his own window and stared out with such concentration he stopped blinking.

After a while she did see. Hugh might not have summoned her here to watch Fulk but there was no point in wasting her time further than had already been the case.

As Fulk took to the field and began to limber up the few spectators braving the drizzle subtly shifted so a significant proportion of the women were now watching him. As Eleanor scowled in their direction a couple more scurried out to join the little throng of gossiping ninnys. All very well for some, having nothing better to do and the freedom that came with being unimportant. It should not be allowed!

Fulk worked his way through a variety of twists, stretches, and exercises designed to keep honed his muscles and sense of balance, armour glinting in the weak sunlight. He had thrown his entire being into the exercises that Eleanor knew he could complete flawlessly while chatting away on a variety of subjects with a princess, and this unnecessary absorption allowed him to steadfastly ignore his audience without being rude.

Absorbed with her watching, Eleanor started when Hugh spoke. “Now, here it is.”

‘It’ came in the form of another knight, armoured, his surcoat the colour of dark wine, two squires bobbing along in his wake bearing his great helm and his lance, and a few friends following at a looser distance. The coat of arms on the shield he bore was known to her: Sir William of Beverley.

Fulk didn’t let the other man’s hail interrupt his cartwheels; he answered as he went. What was said Eleanor didn’t know; the little antechamber on the second floor of the great keep afforded an excellent view but fine detail like the movement of lips was lost.

“I thought it might prove educational for you to see the ending of what you have wrought.”

Eleanor stilled her panic as best she could, turned to glance at her brother, and said calmly, “Pardon?”

“Your knight; you allowed him to damage my own guard’s honour. Therefore it is now necessary to allow things to be … settled. Before the poison can worsen and dispute become hatred and covert war. I saw fit to confine matters to blunted weapons.”

Bastard! And he had brought her here to watch.

Eleanor looked back to find Fulk was now standing, engaged in heated debate with the other knight and his entourage. Sir William chopped a hand through the air, shouting something. Fulk only folded his arms; if he replied his words were far calmer. Sir William spun away to where Fulk’s shield waited, propped against his lance and great helm. A well-placed kick sent the shield tumbling face first into the mud, defacing and befouling the coat of arms. Then he spat on the shield.

Eleanor gasped at the magnitude of the insult.

Fulk’s hand dropped to his sword and began to draw. No more than a few inches of steel must have cleared the scabbard when he let the weapon drop back. Words were said, not many, and then he was away, striding to where Sueta waited with the man at arms he had taken on as his new squire.

“He cannot hope to win,” commented Hugh. “Your knight. He is talented, but he spent overlong without a warhorse, and is thus less able then he aught to be in the true mode of knightly combat.”

The space used for tilting practice had been cleared and spectators had moved to get a better view of the action. Word was beginning to spread that more than the usual training was happening; new people were appearing on the grounds and in doorways and windows.

Fulk was ready: mounted, head covered entirely by his bucket-like great helm, lance at rest and shield levelled, waiting on his fidgeting destrier at one end of the run. There was nothing there that Eleanor saw which spoke of anything but comfortable confidence; she hoped he had grounds for it, and wasn’t just bluffing.

Hugh’s man took up his position at the other end of the run, and set his spurs to his stallion’s flanks going from walk to charge without stopping to see that his opponent was ready.

Fulk’s reaction was admirably fast. Not fast enough; they clashed before the centre point, Fulk having less time to build speed and momentum. His lance tagged Sir William’s shield and skittered off as the knight angled the surface to throw the blunt point. Sir William’s hit was solid; the sound of the impact carried all the way back to Eleanor, and Fulk reeled back in the saddle, his armoured back slamming into the narrow top of his high-backed cantle. Eleanor held her breath, thinking he would fall. Somehow he didn’t.

By the time he reached the end of the run he was settled again, slowing Sueta and resettling his lance and shield for another go. Instead of stopping and waiting for the other to also be ready to start the next run, Fulk turned and spurred back to the charge as soon as he reached the end of the grounds. Hugh’s honourless churl of a knight did likewise.

The thud of the dual impact carried again; both men hit their targets and both were flung back by the shock, but both managed to deflect the pressing force so they were not unhorsed. Fulk had done better than his first run, but it appeared Sir William’s aim had been truer than his.

Three runs; that was the usual. Eleanor stopped breathing as they turned and spurred back towards each other. She saw Fulk lower his lance and couch it firmly under his arm, stand in his stirrups, lean a little forward, tilt his shield to carry the enemy lance on out past his shoulder harmlessly. But for the clarity of that, she didn’t know how it came to be that his lance shattered and he rode away all but lying on his horse’s back, one foot kicking free while the other bore much of his weight and efforts to retain his seat. Sir William emerged as unshaken as the previous times.

Eleanor turned to her brother with a delighted laugh. “He won! He broke his lance where yours did not – he won.”

“This is not a tournament. The rules are different. Your knight lost. Any can clearly see he is not a match for his opponent. Even in a tournament such would hardly be an undisputed win, being simple luck.”

“How am I supposed to know about tournaments anyway,” Eleanor muttered, face flaming at her error. So much for the very little she knew of one of the nobility’s favourite obsessions. Trempwick deplored them as crudely violent affairs filled with muscle and not a jot of sense. “Never been to one. They change the rules all the time too, to suit the sponsor, so I could have been right.”

Back outside it appeared the same argument was taking place. Heatedly.

Unwilling to settle for such a clouded end, both men dismounted, drew their swords and moved to the middle of the ground. Eleanor didn’t know how Fulk had swung the advantage back his way, but she was grateful enough to send up a minor prayer of thanks. After the battering he had just received – and heaven forefend it had done fresh damage to his healing wounds! – he must need any and every advantage.

She had never seen Fulk fight before, not truly, as the times when he had put his all into battle she had also been busy. The graceful flow, one move going into another, and another, a never-ending dance, stances changing unpredictably to threaten his enemy in new ways and guard himself against the other man’s own threats, it was hypnotic. Then a pause, circling, waiting, probing, before he surged back into action again. In his hands it was an art. And he was so fast.

It was the tilting all in reverse; both combatants clearly skilled, but one able to dominate the other to such a degree he was left devoting himself to hanging on and not to winning.

After a while Eleanor began to feel stupid for ever having doubted he was in fit condition to prod someone else with a sword. You wouldn’t even know he was wounded, watching him now.

Fulk engaged Sir William in another exchange of blows and parries, moving at a blur and blocked at every attempt. Until he out-timed the other knight, hooked the cross guard of his sword on the rim of Sir William’s shield, yanked it aside and delivered a cut that, if done with edged weapons instead of wood, would have cut through coat of plates, mail, flesh, muscle and deep into the bone of the left shoulder. A slow killing blow. The three separate attacks were strung together so smoothly they appeared but one planned move arranged between the two men beforehand to the novice eye, not a gambit and two reactions to take advantage of successive weaknesses.

“Well,” beamed Eleanor, “I think there is no doubt that time. He won. Quite tidily, too.”

Hugh held his pose, staring out of the window. He lifted his hands free of the stonework of the window ledge with a small jerk, as if they rested in a sticky substance. “We should take warning from this. It was surely God’s judgement on Sir William for his unknightly conduct preceding and during the engagement, and in his quarrelsomeness in not accepting the first verdict and entering into a second round.”

Eleanor didn’t bother pointing out that almost every knight in the realm would have acted the same, doubtless including Hugh himself to the extent of wanting a clear and glorious victory. They were a silly bunch.






:rolls about on the floor, laughing her froggy socks off at the indignant, mortified Fulk, who is stalking up and down and shouting that really he knows all this helpful advice people are giving him, thank you very much, because he is not hopeless, useless, inexperienced, or just pointless, and really is actually very good, actually, and he was only working in the limitations of what he had and being considerate and about as honourable as circumstances allowed! Froggy also laughs at the bemused expression on the gooseberry’s face, just for good measure.:

I’m shocked! Fulk originally lost – there was no sword fight, just the three runs with the lances. Then he sort of snapped when he found what people were saying. He rolled up his sleeves, said, ”Right!” in that nastily meaningful way people have, and forced things to a course which suited him better so he could smack someone a wee bit hard and vent some frustration. All I could do was go and hide behind a solid object and hope this didn’t damage anything in the story.


:froggy dips her quill in a pot of ink and begins to write in her best handwriting.:
Dear assorted mob of characters who bother me endlessly.

I am writing to you in the hopes that I may be able to encourage you to cheer up. I would like it very much if you would all stop worrying, fretting, stressing, doubting yourselves and others, and generally being Right Depressing Pains. Also, please stop expecting horrible doom every other page. Cheer up! Stop whinging! Be happy! If those glum thoughts threaten again, sing a happy song!

Thank you.

Yours sincerely,
Froggy.

PS: I do not mean happy as in be mushy. Please stop that. It’s not fair on a frog. All these POVs, and all of them infested with mush, gah!


:froggy folds up the bit of parchment, puts her own special froggy seal on it, and sends it to the cast via her fastest messenger.: Not that it will do any good; they will ignore the frog and go their own sweet way as per usual, happy or sad. But it had to be said. Bah!



A few quick words on the ‘Will is dead!’ scene. No, after reading it again and thinking on it I still find this is exactly as it should be. If it were different it would be out of character. Think of who these people are, the situation they are in, and what it means. When someone smashes a hole in your canoe you don’t sit about crying because the paintwork is ruined – you start bailing and paddling for shore. Then you complain about the paintwork. As you will now know they do all do their respective paintwork mourning later.

On medieval standards: hmm, actually that was more the Renaissance. Medieval ideals were considerably more fair in that regard, in no small part thanks to the belief that women had seed just like men, and that it was released in the same way. But … well, er … humph. Either he’d rupture her hymen by accident, or do something deeply sinful as opposed to just slightly sinful, or leave her hanging. Er, I’ll leave it to you to sort out what classes as doing what. And all with the risk of him doing a Maude Mark II.

[Ciaran]

I´ve just read the two recent updates. The first... now why do authors have to be more detailed than needed? Allright, in this case it was needed, I give you that, anything else would have lead to...misunderstandings.
The second, a nice fight :duel: even though shorter than previous ones, if I recall correctly (it´s not exactly easy to keep 1158 pages of text in mind).
You left out a Jocelyn scene? ~:eek:

[aw89]

There, done.

Could have used some of those eyedrops though...

GREAT book/story/whatever you want to call it. Its better then several books I've read. I don't see how you should have troubles in publishing this one. (Giving you a enough money for a hefty book pile ~;))

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, endeavouring to be surreptitious in this faintly undignified behaviour. If she should see there was no telling how she would interpret it; he only knew it would not be to his liking. Fear, or some other such contemptible emotion. The simple fact of the matter was that delicate handling was required, and such was easiest done when in fit personal condition. Fearing his lips would split and crack if he attempted a smile or similar expression was less than constructive.

Hugh gestured at the map laid out on the council room’s table. “So you are aware of our position.” An unenviable one it was too: the Welsh border in flames and the west of England threatened, many significant holdings in rebel hands in the north and south-east, and across the seas a France that would strike when it saw he would do homage for his continental lands. Spread all over, in England and across the Narrow Sea, lords who had not personally done him homage or given him any token of loyalty, meaning they could break away or not as they desired, or simply wait and see who won before coming to join a side, without a hint of condemnation or leverage he could apply.

The situation, while difficult, was not impossible. Threatened on many sides he may be, he did have the advantage of being centralised, unlike his foes who were scattered here and there, unable to consolidate. A guard on certain fronts and a willingness to lose some in pursuit of a greater goal would delay his enemies while he took much of his force to crush one, then after that one another, and so on until at last he had driven them all before him in disarray and defeat. Some successes on his part would gather men to him, just as losses on his part would thrust them into the arms of his opponents. It would more than likely prove an expensive, exhaustive and lengthy struggle, and that in turn contributed to the unpleasantness of the situation.

The French lands were in the greatest peril – they would by necessity be left until he had stabilised the situation here sufficiently to send men and resources to support the local lords. However, hand in hand with this, those lords would be least prey to Trempwick’s slanders; last to hear, distant from those involved and so perhaps less likely to believe. Also, regardless of whom they chose to declare for, it was the King of France they would need to defend their lands from, unless they deserted to that kingdom. Thus there was a certain assurance of a good defence even from those who declared for his sister. The French boy king and his controllers were sufficiently unappealing that no great harm was likely to be done him by desertion, and, galling as it may be to admit it, there was a great appeal in a king who was distant and so less able to interfere. He, with his divided, sprawling lands, would be less concentrated than the King of France, based close by in the Ile de France.

The best he could do until such a time as having the resources to spare to cross the sea and assert himself and his rights was send orders and messages, doing all to win men to cooperation and a course of action he found favourable. He might perhaps spare one trusted man and a very small troop to serve as rally point and begin to organise, stiffening men’s backs for the inevitable fighting. To pull soldiers from France to here to bolster his army appealed, but seemed too dangerous to be permitted; it would drain the pool of those uncertain numbers there who would fight for him, leaving those lands more vulnerable. And if he were refused the aid he sought …

Eleanor nodded. “I was aware before; Miles told me.” There was an unspoken comment residing after that, Hugh could sense it, and he was certain it said, “I also worked much of this out for myself, as I am not an idiot and do have both eyes and ears.”

“I wished to be sure you knew,” Hugh said stiffly.

“Of yesterday I spent perhaps half an hour with you, and the rest of the day with Miles, being a good apprentice.”

“Then it shall not surprise you to learn I am sending an embassage to Scotland, to confirm our alliance and make it again in my own name. Thus it shall become binding once more.” To guard his northern border against a second, far larger threat merging with the one already there, and place pressure on the rebels in Northumberland.

She gave him a very flat look. “No, it does not surprise me.”

Hugh took a calming breath and tried to quash the irritation she – as so frequently the case - caused. “I am glad to see that you consider your new position with suitable gravity.”

Her reaction to this compliment was not pleasing; she acted as though it were another pronouncement, in need of no special notice or reply.

Refusing to be hurried by her, Hugh continued to elaborate as planned, caring little if she already knew or not. He had decided the best course previously; it would be done so. “To suit the occasion and import of the mission, this embassage must be made up most carefully. Anne, utilising her role as link between our houses, is the natural choice. However she is …” Hugh searched for a tactful way to say the necessary.

“Young, too young to be the lead. Also widowed, so less prestigious and much less tied to our own house.”

“Still,” Hugh said pointedly, desiring her to know her unwanted contribution for what it was, “she may be beneficial. She will do as a part. Another must take the main place, one closely associated with myself, trusted, able to forge and authorise a treaty which will last and assist me, and do so quickly.”

“Are you asking me to go to Scotland, brother dear?”

Hugh ground his teeth. “If, for once, you allowed me to speak in my own time and say what I will you may find out! I am out of patience – next time I shall silence you myself.”

She sighed gustily, and moved to sit in one of the room’s chairs, seating herself in such a manner that she plainly declared she expected to be there for a very long time. Placed as she was, she was safely out of his reach unless he cared to go to her and so clearly warn her of his intent. Eleanor flipped her braid back over her shoulder with one hand, crossed her ankles and settled down to listen, again subtly suggesting that the listening was liable to be protected and tedious.

Intolerable! Hugh pulled his hand away from his belt, where it had instinctively come to rest. If he moved to correct her she would have sufficient warning to be on her guard, and the resulting struggle would be as undignified as ever, and would interfere with the essential business he was attempting to conduct here. He turned his back on her, unable to stomach the sight of her in the knowledge that he shunned the duty he should undertake, not gladly, for that would be to take pleasure in another’s pain, but with a ready heart, knowing it was to her benefit and betterment.

He said, “Anne will do as one. Another must be an older head, wiser, better able to negotiate and act the diplomat. Someone I can trust,” Hugh’s eyes dropped to the floor, and he was glad this small betrayal of his feelings was hidden, “and there are so very few of them. Very few. Of those, I need all of them here. But need to varying extents.”

Behind him Eleanor shifted restlessly; the soft rustle of her clothing betrayed her.

“I see I am boring you with the very explanations I thought you may appreciate.”

“Hugh, you are saying nothing I did not know or had not guessed.”

His reproof failed so dramatically, Hugh changed direction. Perhaps after all his carefully planned actions here could be sped along. Then he could attend to her manners and be rid of her much the sooner. “As I began to say before you took advantage of the gap as I paused for breath, I shall advance to the end of what I wished to say. Anne will be the link with their family, the advisor on the Scottish court, environs and nobles, and a reminder of the old agreement. Miles will be the mind; he has the wit and experience for it, and I can spare him best of those I cannot spare at all. You will be my representative; my blood, my house, linked to me, and your presence will do honour to the mission.” Hugh glared at her over a hunched shoulder. “Honour provided you comport yourself in a fitting manner. Make no mistake of my displeasure if you somehow cause difficulty in this. Miles assures me he will keep you under control; indeed this was one of my conditions in agreeing.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened; one of the muscles in her cheek twitched. “Did he indeed.”

“He did, or I should not say so. While this is not to be a blood alliance, there being no one of my blood free to wed besides yourself,” and free was a relative term there, Hugh added with silent displeasure, “if the question of marriage arises, I beg you, give it good thought, for your own sake, mine, and that of our position. Unjust thought it is, you shall never completely be freed of the damage Trempwick has done you through his claims. A good marriage will be harder for you, even once he is proven a liar in the minds of all men. The taint to your name, and the scandal, shall remain, and people will wonder.”

“I know.”

Hugh watched her expectantly, aware she was considering the matter most carefully. A pleasing sign.

Eleanor pronounced, “I shall give any proposal of marriage due consideration. I shall agree to nothing which does not suit me, or to anything I know to be wrong. But I shall consider.”

“Good. You leave the day after tomorrow. Your escort shall be comprised of your own troops, those Miles can summon of his own in the given time, Anne’s own guard, and a number of my own men, with a combined total of about eighty men under arms desired. A very strong guard. The required servants, grooms and so on shall be supplied by the three households; yours being what it is,” he gave her a most disapproving look, “you shall be able to contribute little.”

“Who will be in charge of the soldiers?”

It was a long time before Hugh could produce the answer he had known for a goodly while, or perhaps it was only an illusion prompted by his reluctance to say. “Sir Miles is more than competent to lead, though he should not be concerned with the smaller matters. Unless you object, those will fall to your knight; he shall be the second in command. To do just honour to your status.” Hugh faced his cowardice, looked it straight in the eye, and conquered it. “Also in recognition of his recently demonstrated skills. Whatever else may be said of him he does well the task I assigned him, namely protecting you from all hurt, physical or otherwise, and he does battle with great skill.”

Unsaid, always to remain unsaid except to Constance, to whom he had confessed his ignominy as always, the final part of his decision to send her: the simple fact she would be away and gone, several weeks, perhaps a month if matters proceeded slowly or travel was slow. Gone.






I admit it – this part is bad. It has all the bounce of a brick, and about as much subtlety, the important points here being driven home with a mallet and the whole matter of Nell going to Scotland dealt with bluntly, scantily and badly.

But I’m bored! There are many scenes I really want to write lying past this one. I don’t want to talk about going to Scotland; I want to go to Scotland, and all the events which happen in the meantime. The fact it is Hugh being all stodgy does not help my interest. If I could I’d just put a placeholder marker in the text and come back to write the scene later, but I can’t because of the episodic format of this beast. So instead you get this, a rubbish scene which says what it needs to in a bad way, but says it none the less. Aside from maybe a few things which I can say later, to better effect.

Humph!


Ciaran: 1158 pages of text? Including the latest update it comes to 736 pages in Word ...

Yes, I left out a Jocelyn scene. :hide: But I leave out a lot, even in this indulgent (as in it includes many things that strictly speaking could be edited out without trouble) version of the story. I have no way to include some of those things, others are just too pointless even for my current state of indulgence, some are in the past or the future outside the story's limits, many are just simple lines or brief exchanges. Some are even alternate versions of things which happen, or are set in worlds that sprouted from events that happened differently.



Welcome, aw89. Have some eye drops. :hands some over:

Alas, I do see many problems to getting this published, not least the fact I have nothing else published at all, not even a short story.

EDIT: A hefty book pile? Hehe - I did a count last week. I have 82 history books left to read cover to cover, though most of those I have read parts of as research and interest required. I had 237 fiction books to read. Since that count I have read 4 more books, and brought 3 more. Well, that puts me 1 book ahead, and of the ones I read one was just under 600 pages long, two 900 pages, and one very clsoe to 1,100 pages, whereas one of the new ones is a slender history book ('1215: the year of the magna carta, only 299 pages excluding the biblography, notes and other bits that are not really there for reading as such), and the other two are only about 600-700 pages each. So I am quite well ahead on simple bulk of pages. Not that I really count such things. It's just nice to know I am making some progress ...

[aw89]

Well, what about a house to store those books in?

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor accepted the cup from Hawise with a grateful attempt at a smile, and downed the contents in one long go. The herbal mess might not taste terribly pleasant, but it wet her throat, which was dry with talking after telling them about her audience with Hugh, and it would do some good to stomach cramps. Another of Hawise’ quiet, unasked for bits of help for something Eleanor hadn’t even mentioned.

Fulk sniffed the air; she could see him mentally recognising the herbs and working out what they were for. “Feeling a mite delicate, are we?” he asked, with the stinking cheer of a lucky bastard who was completely and forever immune to this particular malady.

“If I ever get my hands on Eve I shall make her a very unhappy woman,” growled Eleanor. “She ate the damned apple - she should be the one suffering. Not me.”

Fulk smoothed his polishing cloth down the blade of his new sword and said matter-of-factly, “Actually, I see you as something of my own personal Eve. It’s the smile, I think.” He glanced at her from under his brows, eyes dancing with laugher he asked, “Got an apple?”

“Where would I get an apple at this time of year?”

“Use that wicked imagination of yours, my little rib-bone. I’m sure you’ll think of something more suited to the season, and to me.”

“I doubt it is quite the same if I tempt you by dangling a bowl of pottage before your nose.”

“If it’s nice pottage …”

“I doubt I want to bother, even with an apple.”

“Spoil sport!” Fulk returned to polishing his already blinding sword. “I’m hungry. I was hoping for an early lunch.”

The faint queasiness lingering at the edges of Eleanor’s perception grew to a level where it was harder to ignore. “Please, do not mention lunch.”

“Not even if it’s got cheese?” Fulk exclaimed, “My God! You went all pale the moment I said cheese. My love is sick unto death!”

Eleanor stared flatly at Fulk. “I just decided I do not like you.” A sharp pain stabbed in the pit of her belly; she hunched forward a bit in the hopes that might ease the constant dull ache and discourage any more such pains. “Good timing,” she grumbled. “Normally I am perfectly alright, but now I have to wander off to Scotland I feel positively terrible. The world conspires to be inconvenient at me.”

Fulk chuckled, then advanced to full-blown laughter. “Oh light of my eyes, you do have a way with words, sometimes.”

“I shall remember this when we get on the ship,” said Eleanor sweetly. “You need not look for any sympathy from me when you get seasick. I shall laugh at you. Mercilessly.”

The point of his sword gouged a scar in the floorboards, so suddenly did it drop. “We’re travelling by ship?”

“Well, how else did you think we would get there? Fly?”

Fulk set his sword aside and dropped the cloth onto the floor next to it. “I’d hoped we’d ride, since that’d be the usual way” His shoulders rose and fell in a fluid motion. “The world conspires to be inconvenient at me too – I’m a decent enough sailor after the first two days. It’ll take us about a day and a half, in good weather. As if this trip didn’t stink enough.” Fulk snatched his swords back up and scoured at the blade with a vengeance.

Hawise placed a few more neat stitches on the tunic she was mending. “Stink?” she asked.

“Like the tanner’s quarter,” returned Fulk.

The tanner’s quarter being the most rancid part of any town, Eleanor didn’t agree. “Perhaps like the fishmonger’s street, or a midden heap, but certainly not worse.”

“Maybe to your refined nose they reek badly enough, oh royal one, but I said tanner’s quarters and I meant it.”

“Leave my poor nose alone.” Eleanor copied Fulk’s own habitual gesture along with his saying, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

Fulk waggled a finger at her. “Being silly isn’t going to distract me.”

“Distract? As if I would even try.”

The fun was spoiled by Hawise repeating, “Stink?”

“Her brother packs her off to Scotland with a guard of eighty men drawn from four different sources, Sir Miles, and Anne, and demands she wins him an alliance with the Scots. It stinks. Trempwick’ll know – he can’t not know, and that guard won’t be anything like enough if he exerts himself to get her back. Ten times that number would not be enough. That’s before you think that of those eighty something like seventy-five of them can’t be trusted because they haven’t proven themselves, unlike those few who helped rescue her. As for the King of Scots himself, God alone knows. If he takes it into his head to detain her, or use her as a hostage, or force her to marry to suit his ends then there’s nothing much to be done to stop him. Hugh could have sent someone else – he could have sent Sir Miles and Anne alone, with their respective guards. It stinks,” declared Fulk again, very passionately. “If I wanted to be rid of my sister and rival without ruining myself overly much then I’d think of something very much like this.”

Quite sure he was finished, Eleanor remarked dryly, “Well, I never did claim Hugh and I were particularly close.”

Fulk exclaimed something which sounded very much like, “Gah!”

Eleanor leaned across the gap and touched the back of his wrist lightly. “You worry too much, crook-nose.”

Fulk twisted his hand to capture hers. “Do I? I know you – I don’t think I can worry enough!”

Hawise, being the faithful maid she was, halted with her needle threaded halfway through the fabric and said, “I agree with him.”

Eleanor tweaked her hand back from Fulk and curled it in her lap with her left hand. “I feel distinctly harassed.”

“Good. Next thing is that you start to see sense.” Fulk disarmed his words by shifting forward on his stool to reach her more easily and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Softly he urged, “Find a way out of this. Refuse to go, if necessary. Say you’re ill – you are. You can get a week, easily, and delayed enough then you won’t be going.”

“I cannot. There is nothing so unusual here. Princesses and queens are ever the diplomats for their families, where other royalty and high nobles are involved. It is time honoured tradition, as is their safety while engaged on such missions. Anne’s father will not harm me; to do so would be to damn himself, and his heirs would never be free of the infamy, like the damage of betraying or hurting a guest but magnified a hundred times.” Eleanor remembered the solar’s windows; through one it was possible they could be seen, if someone came down what amounted to a back ally in the inner bailey. “Sit back; someone could see.”

Fulk braced his boots on the ground and shoved away from her, moving not just himself but his stool back a goodly distance too. He showed no reaction, but she couldn’t help but think he was hurt.

“Hugh would not purposely send me into Trempwick’s arms; it would do him too much damage. Trempwick …” Eleanor’s hand rose to the betrothal ring she wore about her neck. “Trempwick is as Trempwick does. He is my master. But that also makes me his apprentice.”





:Froggy looks up from her book, bleary eyed. She yawns, puts a bookmark in place and drops the book on to the large stack of others. Froggy yawns, blinks sleepily, and yawns again: For those of you wondering why the posting of new parts is suddenly so slow, here’s why.

The problem with being the book expert at work is that one has to be the book expert. Things have now got to the point where people often ask me if we have a book instead of checking the computer – I’ve learned most of our inventory so if asked for a title or author I know if we have it or not, and frequently roughly how many copies we have. I’m also the one who knows what most of the books are. I’m the book frog. Which means I have to try and keep pace with our new and more interesting (i.e. more popular, most likely to sell, something we need to promote, interesting looking, famous, etc books) so I can explain what they are when the inevitable customer or ten asks what X book is about, or for something suitable for Y.

:froggy blinks and reaches for her current book in a zombie like state, and tries to read and type at the same time: Consequentially I am reading all sorts in massive quantities. I’m also reading stuff I wouldn’t usually. Now that can be good, but then some of this stuff I would not read because I know I will not like it. That said, I have found some I enjoyed, like Garth Nix’s Abhorson trilogy.

Thou shalt not speakth to the frog of the customers who now ask about Dan Brown’s ‘Angels and Demons’, making the poor amphibian suspect she has to suffer through that too. Da Vinci Code was bad enough, and that’s considered his best book.

I need to read:
-Shadowmancer (Children’s but supposedly for everyone, like a darker Harry Potter. I’m not expecting great things, but maybe decent)
-River God (I wanted to read this one for some time, so an edition for £1.99 less 20% is great!)
-numbers 3, 6, 7, and 12 from Lemony Snicket’s ‘A Series of Unfortunate Events’ (One down, and counting, and I fervently hope the later books are better than number 3. I shall skim; that should do me a book per hour and a half)
-Ken Follet’s Pillars of the Earth (had it for a while, but never actually got around to reading it properly, instead reading excerpts here and there at random. Looks good)
-Tim Severin’s ‘Viking: Odinn’s Child’
-Mary Renault’s Alexander trilogy (looking good; a name I have been hearing for a time and wanting to try)
-There are 3 history books which are different to our usual – they are proper history books, not children’s stuff or error filled light fluff. All by Michael Grant: Eternal Egypt; the Fall of the Roman Empire; the Rise of the Greeks.

And that is just this week! That’s 1,500 – 2,000 pages, excluding the history trio! I’m only glad I already know my Shakespeare well enough not to need to read his complete works, along with Enid Blyton, Philip Pullman, and several others which a frog needs to know about which came in recently. This being ‘Christmas’ time we are getting two deliveries instead of one, and it seems like both more types of books and more interesting books. So that’s more for me to cover.

I can do about 100 pages of fiction per hour with excellent comprehension, maybe 120 if I skim a bit. History is more like 60 pages per hour, sometimes less, and I can’t skim that. I’m managing about 400 pages a day.

I also have shelves full of books I want to read and we don’t stock, which I am trying to make some dent in between work titles.

:froggy whimpers, but keeps on reading at a fast pace, thinking that after her current one Shadowmancer should be the next book, because we have 18 copies of it and just today one customer was asking all kinds of questions about its content, themes, and so on:

Ok, so I don't need to do any of this reading, strictly speaking. But I like it when I go into a bookshop and the people there know their business, and I get enough comments from customers to know it is really appreciated by them too.

The 'Wheel of Time' series is also looming in my future, thanks to the new one just coming out. :gulp: 11 very big, fat books, of which I have heard plenty, much of it about braid tugging women, books in which nothing actually happens, men who endlessly whine about not understanding women, and other such encouraging things. A best selling, highly popular series, which I doubt can be as bad as it is often made out to be, although it may not be great. Anyone here read it?

Humph! And yet will they send us the two newer Discworld books, 'Going Postal' and 'Thud!'? No, they send those to the other branches. Gah! I still haven't read or brought either of them. :mutter: Rather have Discworld than Jordan.



A house to store my books in? :manical laughter echoes through the thread: No, I plan far better - a large house complete with a library wing! :gring: :loveg:

[Ciaran]

I haven´t been commenting the last update, so here´s for both of them.
Bad: no, rather short, yes, but considering your postscripts, that´s not surprising. I really wished to go to your book store, the ones I usually visit often as not can´t tell their invenory with the help of the PC, let alone from memory. What that says about the knowledge of the book´s content, you can guess. Besides, I can´t complain because you posted two updates n as many days.

As for the length, after reducing the huge spacings between the paragraphs, re-formatting to single- spaced lines and Verdana 10 font style, the story as of now has a lenght of 789 pages.

[littlelostboy]

Yahoo! I'm finally a member and finally I can post a reply for my addicting story! I've already said what I've said at the Entrance Hall but I think I have to shout it here again, make it more worthy. Nice story! Wow! Fantastic. Sorry, I'm raving. But this is a time for me to celebrate! Promoted to memeber and finally able to do a proper reply for this story. YAY! ~:cheers: ~:cheers: ~D

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk closed the outer door of Eleanor’s quarter’s behind himself, scrubbing at the ink stains on his right hand gained while putting his name at the end of several copies of documents relating to his now cancelled debt to the royal treasury.

He stopped, struck motionless by the sight of the man he’d left on guard duty inching out of the main room, helm clasped in both hands, his fingers worrying at the metal of the rim.

Fulk didn’t waste breath asking if something were wrong. “What happened?” He was braced to spring into action the moment he knew which way and how, should it prove necessary.

“Sir, she insisted, and beggin’ your pardon and all, but she’s a princess, like. Won’t take no notice, or no for an answer, and off she went, and it’s no place of ours to try and stop her, anyhow. She were well guarded,” he added hastily. The wretched man twiddled his helm about in his hands, trying to wring it like a cap. “She’s got four and her maid with her, leaving me behind to give you word of things, so she ordered. Sir.”

Fulk dropped a hand to his sword. Something sat wrongly here – if she’d just gone somewhere then there’d be none of this fuss. “This bothers you why?”

“She said you were to look for her in the third northern tower of the outer walls, if’n you asked, sir.”

It took a moment for Fulk to realise what that meant; as he did he cursed.

“There be none so unusual about it, sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying such. Many go and watch these things, and it’s justice and all, and you know how it all links to her.”

“I do,” replied Fulk curtly.

“It were only that she seemed so odd and out of sorts about it all, or else there’d be no real upset, like.”

Fulk left the door swinging in his wake.

He had no excuse to run, or even go at a rapid dog-trot, but he walked as briskly as he dared. It was a long enough way, and things were already beginning …

The hilt of his sword felt comforting in his left hand, though why was anyone’s guess. The weapon was as fine as could be, made of the best metals and the best craftsmanship, plain in design but its simple ornamentation giving it a terrible beauty. His own coat of arms had been cut into both sides of the pommel and enamelled. It could sheer the limbs off a man, lop heads, slice from shoulder to navel in one stroke, and do so without losing its edge or taking damage. But it couldn’t harm that which had no solid body.

The inner bailey was quieter than usual, but the outer one was an anomalous mix of busier and quieter. More people, fewer of them working, and the majority of them scattered about trying to get up onto the walls or out of the main gate to see what lay outside the palace itself. Fulk worked his way through, using shoulders and elbows where necessary.

At the foot of the tower in question stood two men in Eleanor’s livery. They tugged their forelocks to him in greeting.
Fulk stopped, itching to be on but knowing appearances were all. “I don’t like all this crowding; it’s ripe for Trempwick to have another attempt at her. In all this confusion …”

“Aye,” agreed one of the two.

“Stay alert. Don’t move without my own order, not even for God himself.”

The other two soldiers were inside, standing guard in the room that accessed the wall ramparts. Fulk repeated his excuses, and was told that Eleanor was in the room above, where no one could get to her without going past one or both sets of guards.

He opened the door to the upper most room carefully, having done his best to make sufficient noise on the last leg of the stairs that they would hear him approach. As soon as he began to catch sight of the occupants through the growing crack he felt obliged to say loudly, “If you kill me you’ll feel guilty. I hope.” Eleanor had both her knives drawn and ready, and Hawise was still fumbling to free hers.

He shoved the door to as the weapons disappeared back from whence they came. Crossing to the window he saw what Eleanor was watching. He caught hold of her, spun her about and buried her face in his shoulder, holding her head there with one hand and pinning her arms down with the other. Just in time – from the hungry sound the crowd made the first of those set to die today had just been set loose to dangle at the end of his rope.

She struggled, trying to free herself. He tightened his grip, knowing he was probably hurting her and not much caring, if it was the only way to prevent her seeing.

“You let her watch this?” he demanded of Hawise.

“Let?”

“Oh, you know what I mean! And your hold on that knife is still terrible. Do you listen to nothing we try and teach you?”

Hawise shrank under the force of his glare, flushed at being found wanting. “I’m sorry. I’ll try and do better.”

“Don’t try: do.” He’d relaxed his hold a bit; Eleanor tried again to prise herself free. Attention devoted to retaining his hold on the princess Fulk snapped, “Oh, go and sit outside.”

The maid gone and Eleanor subdued again there was a brief bit of peace, peace with the sound of people jeering at the man slowly strangling to death, kicking and swinging.

A funny, muffled grumbling noise came from the front of Fulk’s tunic.

Fulk released Eleanor’s head. “Pardon?”

“I said, as much as I like your nose I do not want mine done to match.”

“Sorry.” Wondering how much trouble he’d just gotten himself into, Fulk tried to kiss her, just a chaste brush of lips. She suffered through it without a hint of response, but at least she didn’t try to bite. Feeling cautiously encouraged he asked, “You like my nose?”

“If anything ever happens to it I shall be heartbroken.” She tried to raise a hand; Fulk adjusted the arm he’d flung about her body so she could while he still retained his hold on the rest of her, keeping her facing away from the window. “Really it quite suits you.” She ran a fingertip lightly down from bridge to tip. “I cannot imagine you without it being crooked.” The flash of deep blue annoyance in her eyes gave him all of a fraction of a heartbeat’s warning; she flicked the end of his nose. Tears sprang to his eyes. “I presume you have forgotten my poor back is still decidedly tender?” she asked pointedly. “Which makes you neglectful. Else you do not care, which makes you cruel. Nor do I much care for being half suffocated, manhandled, and all for purposes which remain decidedly mysterious.”

Being wise in the ways of gooseberries Fulk didn’t set her free or loosen his hold enough that she could get away easily, but he did shift the pressure as much away from her back as possible. “Sorry.”

Her breath warmed the thick wool of his tunic as she sighed. “I think I hate you.”

“I hate you too, oh exasperated one.” He kissed her again, between her eyebrows.

A roar from the outside indicated the second man had begun his slow decent into death. The last of the Welsh hostages; the most important two. The only ones to die here. Because they had lived here.

Eleanor started, beginning to try and look. Fulk once again pinned her and smothered her face in his shoulder so she couldn’t. “That,” he said firmly, “is nothing to do with you. Nothing.”

“It is everything to do with me.”

“No!” He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her a little away from him so he could look down at her. “No. Nothing to do with you.”

“That is Llwellyn. His half-brother too.”

“I know, heartling. I know.”

Her head sagged forward so her forehead rested against his breastbone. “Owain is fourteen. Llwellyn not much older than me. He went bravely, you know. Not such a pathetic little man, after all. Mayhap I should not have called him that.”

“It is nothing of yours.”

“There were sixty-four hostages, all told. Hanging is a cruel death. A dishonourable death.”

Sometimes it took hours for a hanged person to die, sometimes even much of a day, depending on a great many things like their build and weight and the angle of the rope. Unless a kind executioner broke their neck, or friends dragged on their legs to speed things to mere minutes. As nobles they should have been safe from such an end, beheaded instead. That was a clean death, far faster, and without the indignity of choking out what remained of your life as your bowels failed and your face went purple, your body twitching and dancing uncontrollably. These two would have no such mercy, save perhaps in deference to their rank if they still lived in a half-hour.

Fulk clasped her to him again, now gentle. “Since the Welsh broke their bargain there’s no other way this could have fallen, save ways which make your brother weaker than he already is.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, his thumb stroking her jaw where it came to join her ear. “It is none of your fault.”

“I was supposed to marry Llwellyn …”

“And I’m right glad you didn’t. I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead,” the slowly dying, he corrected privately, “but there it is, and I can’t regret it.”

“If I had this would not have happened. Any of it.”

“No, you’d probably have died with your first child at fifteen or such, and that I can’t regret either. To speak ill of the dead,” the horribly dying, “again, I don’t think he was like to be one to care much for you.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “He would not have. We were not suited.” She tried to raise her head; he laid his hand over her cheek, preventing it. “I have something of a duty to watch,” she explained. “Trempwick urged them to rebellion, because of me. He can use me like that because I made it possible.”

Duty; so that was what she called it. Not what he’d have chosen, preferring instead ‘self flagellation’ and similar. “Oh gooseberry mine, I know being royal has its foibles, and that a certain sense of ego is one of them, but really you do try too hard sometimes. Trempwick is far more to blame, as is your father. The Welsh themselves decided to rebel. There are many who made this mess; it is none of your doing. As for whatever might have been, it could have been worse. There’s no ruling that means all ‘could have been’s must be better than the is.”

“There is some truth in what you say – I know that, and always have – but there is truth too in what I say. I made this possible. I did not do so alone, but I did do so.” She seemed to accept the fact he wasn’t going to let her watch, for she settled her head more comfortably and looped her free arm about his middle, working her hand into his belt. “Well, we do what we choose to do, and we none of us can see the future. All that can be done is to live with it. I dare say many people have managed to contrive far greater disasters than this. Just look at Helen of Troy.”

Fulk gave her a possessive squeeze. “You’re certainly no Helen.”

“Oh? I thought you mad enough – or blind enough - to believe me beautiful.” She sounded amused in that faintly tolerant yet disapproving way usually reserved for benignly insane relatives.

“I do,” he assured her. “But did no one ever tell you fishing for compliments is beneath your royal dignity? You understood very well what I meant.”

“It is also beneath my royal dignity to stand here like this with anyone possessing a nose like yours,” she said tartly.

“You leave my poor nose alone, oh disreputably royal one.”

She tensed, listening to the noise drifting in through the window. “They are still alive?”

Because she asked it, he looked. “Yes.”

“No one is helping them?”

“No.”

“A common thief dies better. God forgive me.”

Fulk rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. “There is nothing for Him to forgive.”

“Talking of that which you do not know or understand is a bad habit of yours.” But for all that she snuggled in closer against him. “Let me know when it is over.”





The blow did more than snap Eleanor’s head around; it threw half her body to one side and sent her reeling to keep her feet.

Before Fulk could do more than twitch Hawise’s hand closed on his bicep. “She won’t be happy if you die,” she hissed.

Fulk clenched his teeth and locked his leg muscles, willing himself to stay in place and unmoving, if not for his own sake then for hers. He wrenched his face downwards to hide the naked hate he knew must be there, clear and loud for all to see and understand as they willed. His eyes never left the scene.

At the far end of the hall Eleanor slowly straightened, wiping blood from her mouth. Hugh was on her before she had truly recovered, twisting her arm up behind her back. He headed towards the stairs up to the private rooms, her obliged to walk before him unless she cared to have her arm broken.

After they left the unnatural hush lasted a few moments. Then someone said, “Well, for once I find myself reminded of the old king, looking at him.”

A spurt of nervous laughter proved short-lived.

Some woman’s voice commented, “Makes me wonder why Raoul goes to such trouble to get her back.”

“But she had a point,” declared a man’s voice, high and passionate and youthful. “She did! It was a disgrace – Welsh or no, hostages or no, they were noble.”

“Hostages,” came another voice, “to a broken agreement, meeting the end laid out for them by that agreement. No other could have been done.”

Profoundly disinterested, Fulk stopped listening. Both siblings had their merits with their arguments; it could be said both were right. Llwellyn and his brother had deserved better ends, if only to prevent setting a precedent for hanging nobles. To do other than what had been done would have been mercy, and in these circumstances that was a form of weakness that would store up trouble for the future.

It had started quietly enough, the two siblings speaking softly enough that the whole hall couldn’t hear, though any could see both were emotional. It had gotten louder quickly, Hugh losing his vaunted calm and Eleanor – even from the distance of half the hall – recognisably about to lose control of her temper completely. Then Hugh had accused her of having no idea of a noble’s manners, let alone anything else linked to that high station, and Eleanor had thrown back that from what she saw of him he might as well be a swineherd’s bastard. At which point he’d slapped her. The breach in good manners was shocking, far more so because it came from someone normally so fastidious. Fulk tried not to think of what a Hugh so furious that he forgot one of the most basic rules of conduct was capable of; Eleanor was penned up with that and no help available.

She returned a quarter of an hour – a lifetime! – later, chin raised and every ounce of royal hauteur called forth for display. She also wobbled and walked in a swaying line. Wits were scrambled, someone commented covertly.

The very instant it seemed permissible for him to go to her, Fulk did so, Hawise keeping him close company. He put out a hand to steady her; she slapped it away and snapped, “I did not give you leave to handle me at will, bodyguard.”

He snatched his hand back, burned, smarting even though he knew that had been for the benefit of their audience.

Once outside the hall the fresh air did her some benefit; she began to walk a little straighter., shaking her head to clear it.

“Damn my brother,” Eleanor swore. “Damn him and his self-absorbed arrogance.”







:sighs: Poor Nell.

:surveys the ‘Wheel of Time’ series, where it sits on her shelves. 10 paperback books, taking up 44.7cm of space.: I’ve only got 1-10, and New Spring as part of the Legends I anthology, instead of as the standalone book. I’ve heard the stand alone book is too bloated to be good, compared to the short story with the same name. I won’t bother with buying book 11 until it too comes out in paperback. I may borrow it from my library, as they almost certainly will get it soonish. 44.7cm of books! Gah! I started to work out the page count, but I lost my place around 8,000 pages and couldn’t be bothered to start again.

It’s going to take me a month to read this lot if I read nothing else and keep a good pace! :wails: At least I got them cheap.

Ciaran; same with the other bookshop in my city. I've been told books don't exist when they definitely do, that they are not in print when they certainly are, that the author does not exist when s/he has written quite a few books, that they are not available in this country (and two weeks later I find Uk editions of them on the shelves ...), and I once had an order for a book take over 1 year to be fulfilled. Literally. If I want a book they usually don't have it, can't or won't get it, and generally prove useless. This is why I love Amazon.uk so much - they almost always have everything I want, cheaper too, and they only fail me on the incredibly obscure, out of print, years old type books I occasionally look for.

Then welcome, littlelostboy. ~:wave: Congratulations on your promotion, and hope you enjoy the rest of the story.

[frogbeastegg]

“Which way?”

Eleanor lifted her face free of Fulk’s cloak long enough to answer, “West, for now, and quickly. We must find cover before dawn, and put as much distance between ourselves and the palace as possible.”

She tightened her hold about his waist as he swung their horse about to the new course and applied his spurs, and pressed her cheek into his back against the wind of their passage. The thick folds of his cloak cushioned the links of his mail and billowed out around her wherever he hadn’t got them firmly weighted in about himself.

Fulk took one hand from the reins and placed it over her own, pressing them into his belt buckle and dragging some of his cloak over to cover them. “Try not to fall off,” he advised, his cheerfulness strained.

Eleanor spat out a mouthful of wool from her first effort to reply, and turned her head safely to one side. “I would have thought you knew that funny old fairy story: if you keep hold of him all night no matter what, you can keep him. So I shall! Just do not turn into a snake or something, or we will both fall off.”







The fairy story being Tam Lim, or one of its very many variations and predecessors.

That is hardly even a scene, let alone an update of froggy proportions, but proper frog-sized updates have not been possible for a while and every little helps. Saving up for a new update is not quite the same as saving for a new bookcase; writing does not arrive in predictable batches. Besides, we’ve hit one of those parts which I have been looking forward to for a while, hearing and seeing snatches of scenes and dialogue for months.

[furball]

Froggy, your writing is getting SO polished. Each way you write is done with panache and style:

"“Sir, she insisted, and beggin’ your pardon and all, but she’s a princess, like. Won’t take no notice, or no for an answer, and off she went, and it’s no place of ours to try and stop her, anyhow. She were well guarded,” he added hastily. The wretched man twiddled his helm about in his hands, trying to wring it like a cap. “She’s got four and her maid with her, leaving me behind to give you word of things, so she ordered. Sir.”

Fulk dropped a hand to his sword. Something sat wrongly here – if she’d just gone somewhere then there’d be none of this fuss. “This bothers you why?”
"
Great paragraphs, both, and the way they play off each other, with the curt ending, "This bothers you why?" . . . very satisfying! And, "Something sat wrongly here." A NICE turn of phrase that brings the focus even more back to Fulk, while advancing the tension.

[littlelostboy]

Frogbeastegg, just a week ago, I was watching one of Jackie Chan's recently released movies, "The Myth". It is a long and complex movie to explain in writing but quite simple when you watch it. I'm not sure if it released in the UK or US yet but the basic storyline is that of a Mongolian general (Jackie) falling in love with a Korean Princess (Kim Hee Seon, apparently not like your Gooseberry). However, Jackie is torn between loyalty to the Chinese Emperor as the princess is the Emperor's concubine and his love for the Princess all the while he is the 'bodyguard' for the Princess. However, unlike Fulk, Jackie is damn high-ranking commanding a vast calvary army himself.
Sounds somewhat like your story! Quite emotional too. If you watch the movie, you should listen to the soundtrack! It is called "Endless Love" and it is sung in a mixture of Korean and Mandarin. Jackie and Hee Seon sang the whole song.
Hehehehehe, conincidence, yes? No? ~D

[Weebeast]

Ludens stuck up a link in a main hall where we talked about a royal family being an agent. I gotta say it's a pretty good read regardless my obsession of assassins particulary a female. Anyhow, it kept me reading and reading.

(Sorry, I'm not much a constructive critic. As long as I like it and understand they word you're saying it then it's all good.)



#52 (Just so that I know where I left off.)

[The Shadow One]

Lady Frog:

Just a note to say how much I am still enjoying this tale of yours. I actually caught myself up tonight, considered posting this note, went onto other things, came back, read it again, and decided to post it after all.

Your pacing improves with each page. And I enjoy your personal introspection at the end of each segment almost as much as the story itself.

If I were to offer a criticism [here The Shadow One steps back a pace and prepares to duck quickly] it might be a lack of description of the surroundings. There is plenty of dialogue and no shortage of action, but the pages I've read tonight -- which account for the last couple of weeks of postings -- are devoid of any kind of description.

Hmm . . . just a thought . . . and it didn't stop me from reading . . .

[littlelostboy]

I've finally finished reading the whole thing after a intense reading session that lasted a month. ~:eek:

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk handled a costrel to Eleanor. “Here, drink a bit of that. It’ll warm you.” He went to see to their horse, an unimpressive looking beast carefully selected for that fact, that and its stamina and speed.

He looked as he had when they first met, aside from his longer hair. Eleanor smiled faintly, remembering she had told him he looked like a knight from the battle of Hastings. He still did, in his plain clothes and old short-sleeved mail hauberk, occasionally casting her a speculative glance when he thought she wouldn’t notice. The air was ripe with unspoken questions.

She unstoppered the flask and took a cautious sip of the contents. Coughing, Eleanor waited for the liquid to finish burning its way down her gullet. Mead, and neat at that rather than the slightly diluted version she was used to. It tasted wrong without the bit of apple juice.

“Sip,” advised Fulk, his back to her, “It’s strong stuff, but warming.”

True, the burning had come to rest in her stomach, making her feel a little less chilled in general. Hoarsely she replied, “I did sip.”

He laughed under his breath, she was sure of it. “It takes a bit of getting used to.”

Eleanor jammed the cork back into the neck of the costrel and dumped it on the ground, drawing her cloak tightly about herself. It was a cold night; the sky was clear and the stars out. The rotten log she perched on kept her a foot or so above the ground, but she could still feel the chill seeping from the frosted soil. The winter-nude trees in which they sheltered – from eyes; the bare branches were sadly little aid against the elements – glowed silver with frost and moisture slowly hardening wherever the night’s light fell. The whole landscape did, lending it a faint feeling of unreality.

Safely away from the palace, a good number of miles put between them and pursuit, and at last stopped. Time for a final few details. Eleanor removed the simple gold ring from her right heart finger, twisting and pulling at the band until at last it came clear. She settled it on her left heart finger, finally able to wear her wedding ring.

Looking up she found Fulk had left the horse; he stood watching, the hem of his long cloak swaying. He had not asked a single question yet, or delayed, only done as she said with efficiency. Roused from his bed perhaps an hour after he got into it, told to dress warmly and to put on his old armour and sword, and to make ready to leave. He hadn’t even heard any of the orders she had given elsewhere. He knew only what she had told him as they travelled, and that little enough, due to the difficulty of conversing while moving at speed and in as much stealth as could be managed. He knew they went to Southampton, and there to Perth, to rejoin Anne’s party.

“Go to sleep,” she told him. “We will move again in a few hours, a little after dawn. I will keep watch.”

“I’m willing to hazard that you’re a fair bit more tired than I. You sleep now; I’ll watch.”

The mere thought of sleep made Eleanor’s eyes go heavy; the frantic planning between being ordered to Scotland and the present had not allowed any time wasted in slumber. As tempting as the idea of curling up and letting it all go was, she knew better. “My part in this is all but done for now; all is now yours to do. You need the rest more than I.” He was inclined to be stubborn, she could tell, and while he might not be a master of the attitude he was talented enough to be bothersome. “Dearest, listen,” she said, softly, “there is nothing left for me to do but trust you. You, however, must get us safely to meet Anne in a timely manner, with no one any the wiser as to who we are.”

“Tired princesses are tetchy.”

“So are tired knights, and, myself being a gently born lady, I think it most unfair that I be the one to suffer the irritable companion.”

“Oh, now she wants to be cherished and cosseted!” Fulk grimaced, caught up the mead and consumed a manful swallow of it without showing the least inclination to cough and splutter.

“Yes. Having left a place where I could have a hot bath not even an hour after my request, simply to be here with you, I think it only fair I get some compensation in other regards.”

Fulk’s eyebrows rose. “Compensation?” He dropped the leather flask onto the pile of saddlebags. “You get to tell all and sundry for a few days that you’re my wife, and neither of us will die because of it. That’s more than enough. You’ll be the envy of every woman we meet.”

“Yes, who could resist such a modest man?” said Eleanor dryly. “Now stop trying to be witty and go to sleep like a good broken-nosed knight, before I get fed up.”

“If you’re half asleep you won’t be able to think rightly, and I rely on you to do all my thinking for me.”

“I can doze while we ride, if I sit before you instead of behind. You will not deprive me of the simple pleasure of using you as a royal pillow, thank you very much.”

Fulk snorted in amusement. “Royal pillow. Alright, never say I’m not a graciously obedient knight. I’ll do as you say, unchivalrous as it may be. Sensible, though, I’ll give you that.”

“That is why it is unchivalrous.”

Fulk unbelted his sword and placed it on the ground close to hand, rolled himself in his cloak as tightly as possible, and lay with the saddle for a pillow, still in his armour. His conical helmet, freshly blackened with paint so as to keep it from reflecting light, Eleanor picked up from the piles of bags. She set it down next to his sword, the simple iron bar which guarded the nose carefully aligned so his hand could close on it on first or second blind grab in case of sudden need.

Fulk’s eyes opened again as she dragged over her impromptu throne, to sit by him. “An angel to guard my head,” he joked, quoting a children’s rhyme.

Eleanor smiled angelically down at him. “Shut up and go to sleep, luflych,” she ordered in her best imitation of lower-nobility English. That was the final aspect of her disguise, well practised over the years but unused in some months. If she spoke continuously like that now she would fall back into the knack of it faster, hopefully before she had any need to sound as though she had been born talking that way.

Fulk’s eyes went perplexed at being called ‘luflych’, then sealed shut in a way which said he was not going to enquire as he had enough to worry about without the quirks of gooseberries.

Eleanor stayed by him, lightly stroking his hair back from his face until he was asleep. “Rest well, luflych,” she whispered, testing the word out again to see if it still felt as it had on the first use, where there had been no thought behind the selection. It did, more or less. It felt right. On examination it was about as uninspiring as ‘gooseberry’; simply the base English word for ‘lovely’, generally unused except by the lower orders. But … it suited him somehow. The meaning, the slightly rougher sound compared to the more common word, even the language it was in – a language of scholarship, learning, poetry and nobility fallen from high grace and such gentle usage to something entirely more workaday. The way it was not of any court or polished gathering of false and flowery language, imbued with a blunt honesty. She tested it again, “Luflych …” It did suit.

Eleanor moved a few steps away and knelt stiffly on the ground, cold-numbed joints unwilling to cooperate with their usual grace. Hands clasped in front of her, she began to pay off a little of the debt she owed. One set of prayers each for those pairs of people, one man and one woman each, sent out of the palace tonight at varying times and by varying methods. Trempwick would surely catch some, if not all. Not a one of them knew why they did as they had been told, or of the danger they faced. The more said the greater the chance of information reaching the wrong ears, by one means or another. Let them be safe, remain safe, and end safely, her safety not brought at the cost of their lives, or if blood must be shed, then let it not be in vain.

Another set for the young woman with her hair dyed black and her face half hidden by a massive swollen bruise. May no one look closely at her. May she keep the pretence faithfully and well, so none knew that the princess going in state to Scotland was not a princess at all. She would be seen little enough, having now excuse to hide away until that bruising faded. May she survive whatever inevitable attempts Trempwick made on her, more than survive – escape unscathed. May she not think her bargain so badly made, if that were possible. It was one thing to hear and to accept, another to live through and still accept, though to her very great credit the girl Miles had found had not flinched from the unappealing request put to her. For which Eleanor was glad: the girl would have been incarcerated for a couple of weeks, and another brought into the secret in the hopes she might prove more useful, to meet the same fate if she did not.

May Anne, Miles, and the rest of the official party arrive safely and travel safely. Trempwick could not help but know she was with them, and nothing could guarantee her safety in that party. Nothing but her absence. That absence only protected her so long as Trempwick looked in the wrong direction; by the time he found his mistake it must be too late for him to counter her own move. Else he would hunt for her when he may find her. Her protection was their great danger; her danger their short-term protection. May they be safe.

Llwellyn and Owain: may they forgive her for using their deaths so. May they forgive her also for throwing her weight behind Hugh’s insistence on hanging them, changing the minds of Constance and Miles, who had argued for clemency and beheading.

Anne … Eleanor hesitated. No, if Anne were to forgive her for excluding her entirely from her plans then let it be of her own accord, not divine prompting. Only let her be safe. She was not what Trempwick wished for, but he would not turn his nose up at having Anne as a prize if it should be easily obtainable. The girl would be very … useful.

May the four gate guards who had in the depths of the night let Fulk and herself out of the two rings of Waltham’s walls be in peace. Loyal men, trusted by Hugh and by Miles, and placed in danger’s way because of this trust. May they escape notice and thus questioning from unfriendly sources. If … if they should be caught or pressured … oh God, let them stay silent! Let any falling into Trempwick’s way stay silent! Lest one weak point unravel the whole, and doom all of those involved.

May the crew of the tiny ship in Southampton be as loyal as Miles believed. May they be safe, and their families, and those they cared for. May their needs and wants be met. May there be no space or thought for them to betray. May they be safe from unwitting betrayal, or from attracting Trempwick’s notice, either from his person or from his many agents.

May Hugh keep in good health, and may he do well in his efforts to gain his throne while she were away. May he begin now to do as well as he was needed to, and better even than that. Gingerly Eleanor explored her cut lip with the tip of her tongue, trying to gauge how badly it must look. Probably not so bad, and with the blotch of face paint that had made up her injured cheek removed she should pass well enough as normal. Give the man the simplest of jobs, explain to him several times what he must do, and take the hardest part yourself, and he still managed to make a mess of it. If she had not been reeling away already to make it look worse than it was … And as for his complaining about how that necessary evil had made him look! May he develop some modesty, and not always think first of himself. May he cease to be so stuffy, as that was the source of a deal of his problems and shortcomings. May he stop playing at being king and be king.

May Trempwick … No, no point in praying for him to miss her absence completely, or some other such. Better to ask for something less than a miracle. May Trempwick discover her disappearance too late to be able to counter well. May his efforts to hunt her down remain one step behind as per her plans. Please God, may she have that one day lead before he found that the girl posing as princess was not her and began searching. More than one day’s lead, if possible. May he hunt in the wrong direction, may he fall for at least a few of her false trails and tricks, may he finally locate her when it was once again too late for him to reach her.

May she be forgiven also for wishing Trempwick catch her innocent decoys instead of Fulk and herself.

Eleanor turned, smiling, to look on the slumbering form of the owner of the final name on her list. Keep him safe. Above all, whatever else, she prayed, keep him safe.

Lastly, reluctantly, spurred on by the way Fulk smiled as she touched the back of her hand to his cheek, Eleanor asked for protection for herself, something she had long ago ceased to do. For his sake, that he may not suffer more because of her.




:froggy claws her way out her current pile of books, eyes half closed, massaging her strained wrists: Oooh, Diana Gabaldon’s Fiery Cross did murder to me. 1412 pages of mass market paperback, read over 3 days. So heavy … Humph; not as good as the beginning of the series either; Outlander/Cross Stitch (depending on your country) was good, but each progressive book interests me less. It seems like far less is happening although the books are getting even longer, and while I don’t mind rambling plots, slow story telling, scenic tours and all that (hehe, I write some of that stuff myself, as you may have noticed a bit :p) I do like it to be interesting. Not nearly 100 pages of Jaime treading on a snake, being bitten, and then being ill. Or similar. And Brianna can take Roger and little Jemmie and jump off a cliff and die, now, or preferably sooner. Blergh. Bring back the intrigues of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s court and inter-clan squabbles, the excitement of the Jacobean uprising, the focus on the more interesting original characters, the …

Er, ok, enough. It was an alright book, but I hope the next (and presently last, until the next is published) book in the series is heading back to how the first two were. And take the setting back to Scotland! I read the first two a while ago, halted part way through the third book, then didn’t pick it back up again until now, when I started at the beginning again, to refresh my memory and because I liked the first two books. My brand new copy of the sixth book, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, is sat on a shelf looking heavy at me.

Presently on this week’s reading list:
Umberto Eco’s ‘Name of the Rose’ Not one we sell; I just want to read something of my own for a change. Er, make that own as in one not linked at all in any way to work. After all I have been reading some I already owned, or wanted to read, and there are some I had read before, and a few I had started to read but not finished. I started it a few months ago, but got interrupted by a need to read a few books for work. That in turn started off this reading frenzy.

Diana Wynne Jones ‘The Tough Guide to Fantasy Land’ It’s funny. It’s also alarming how many of the entries are true thanks to the billions of bad to average fantasy books out there. Come on people, write wilful princesses without freckles, slightly tiptilted noses and penchants for cross dressing! It’s easier than you think. :looks sideways at Nell: Or better yet, try a tame princess with freckles and a slightly tiptilted nose. Defy the stereotypes! Mix things up! Make your pirates say “Yurgle! Blackberry pie!” instead of “Aaarr! Shiver me timbers!” And so on. :looks about at all the people staring at her: Um, I need to write a bit of comedy, stupid, silly frog comedy. It shows.

C S Lewis’ Narnia series. This being a re-read; I used to read them a lot as a young frog, but it’s been a while, and the Narnia box set is one of our best sellers at present. The really good thing about Narnia is that I can read one book every 2 hours at a relaxed pace, and they are easy, relaxing books. Perfect material for frogs suffering from reading massive Gabaldon tomes one after another for a week or so. Not a one of them is thinner than 800 pages.

The Wheel of Time. It’s still sat there, being Big and Long, with A Lot Of Pages. I picked up book 1, read about 4 pages, and realised I really was not in the mood for something like that. So I put it back. No point in reading it when I am not in the mood; I will only hate it. I’ll try again in a week or two.

A breath of snow and ashes. It’s the last one in the series until the seventh is written; it’s also the new one, and the second half of the one I just finished, as the plot for one book ended up sprawling enough to be cut into two books. I need to read it soon. And excuse me if I mutter quietly that really with some editing it very probably could have been just one book, not two. I mean, I do like detail, and all that, but there is a point where even my eyes begin to glaze over … Although she is a very popular, multimillion selling author. So maybe it is just me. Or not; I do see quite a few other people who say they liked the first two, found the third ok, and disliked the last two (this before ABOSAA came out).

Er, enough again. It’s just I don’t really have anyone to talk about books with, as such.




:looks at furball's reply: Er, am I going mad, or did there used to be more to that? :hits her email, where she has kept a few of the 'new post' messages, complete with the copies of the contents of said posts: Yes, there was. I take it you changed your mind about that part on pacing for some reason? This topic isn't a fan club; if you think something is bad, please do say so. As I've said before, I do consider all comments, even if I do not always change because of them.

Thanks for highlighting the good lines. It is a simple thing to do, and it really helps me.

And did you actually mean you didn't like 'Pillars of the Earth'? If so, I'd like to hear why. Every single opinion I've seen on that book is nothing but positive, which makes a frog squint sceptically. As ever I'll make up my own mind, but I really like encountering other's opinions on books I have read myself. Highly educational for a writer, that.

As for Pratchett, I used to like him. I have not brought or read 'Thud!', and only just picked up 'Going Postal' in paperback. I got it free, which is the only reason I bothered. No idea when I will read it. I used to really like him, but none of the books since 'Carpe Jugulum' have really felt ... hmm, I can see how they would be good, and liked bits of them, but overall I was bored while reading, felt no urge to re-read as I used to, and can hardly remember what happened in them. Except the two children's Discworld books about the witches. But again, I can't even remember the name of the main character. That's bad - I always remember all sorts of details about all the books I read for years afterwards, even if I hated them. I can't seen to re-read any of his older works either, which I used to do fairly often.

littlelostboy: Congratulations on catching up.

No, I haven't seen that film. Or even heard of it, until you posted. I might see if I can watch it, if/when it is out on DVD. I shall investigate the soundtrack; I could use more music suitable for writing to.

The 'princess falling for lowly protector/lowly protector falling for princess/both falling for each other' thing is a very common device. Which is why I wanted Nell and Fulk to be no more than friends. :scowls: That intend did not even last for the first 5 pages of the very rough draft, thanks to them Taking Matters Into Their Own Hands(TM). Hehe, I am a tough enough frog to admit that they were right in doing that; the story, and the characters, benefited greatly from it. Even I do, as it forces me to practice writing things I would shy away from by choice.

Welcome, Weebeast ~:) Comments don't need to be 200 pages long and in fine detail to be useful. Even simple "I like it." type comments are useful, or "This line was funny." or "I liked this particular scene because it was really touching/cool/funny/reminded me of my breakfast." and so on.

Ludens is giving out links? Hehe, act of faith, methinks, as he's not up to date with the story, so for all he knows it could be rubbish by now. I'm flattered ~:)

:looks at The Shadow One in a wide-eyed, innocent and cutely harmless way: As if I would hurt you for being useful. :smiles nicely, and somehow it looks disconcerting:

The comment on pacing, taken with furball's original, is food for froggy thought. Or maybe not - I know it has a way to go, because it's being posted episodically by a writer who is learning as she goes. That said, I must say I feel I am doing better than some of the published and very well selling/loved work I am reading now, such as the latter volumes of Gabaldon's series, or Tad William's 'Memory, Sorrow, Thorn' trilogy (in four books, because the last is so long ...). Then there's the famous 'Wheel of Time', which I haven't read but even die hard fans admit that there are 1,000 books where nothing really happens.

So, er, in summery: froggy pacing = decent, but could be better, could be worse too. Something I wouldn't mind hearing more about, like where it lags, where it doesn't, where it is really great, where it is at it's worst, and so on. I'd also like the moon on a stick and a pet unicorn to ride to work every morning to save me walking.

Descriptive matter, or the lack thereof, is one of the few recurring 'Need more!' comments I get. It seems to be a natural amphibian weakness. Just keep on prodding me when more is needed, and I shall try to add it where I think it useful. I'm not going to put it where I don't think it should be, but still, I do wonder if anyone is interested in reading, for example, a more detailed description of Fulk in his old armour in that last part, or of Eleanor's new rooms and what is in them, or of [insert just about anything here]. It keep on thinking that if I describe one more time what Nell is wearing, or similar, I shall have people wailing in horror. Each time I begin to write such a thing I remember all the other times I have. Which is why the longer description of Fulk's current look ended in the bin, and Nell didn't get one at all. Well, that and the fact it didn’t quite feel right there.

[The Shadow One]

Lady Frog:

Another great post. It gave me something interesting to read over a very late lunch today.

Umberto Eco's The Name of the Rose? This is just eerie. I bought the book my freshman year of college; I found one at a second-hand bookstore in MINT condition, an original Harcourt Brace and Jovanovich hardcover first edition. It even has the stylized copper inlays on the cover.

I read it at the time, thought it was pretty good and shelved it away. During my recent move, I came across it and tossed aside to read again.

From a Catholic perspective, Eco's book is a masterpiece blend of history, intellectualism, and great storytelling. I'm on about the last 50 pages, hope to finish it tonight, and I've enjoyed it much more the second time, particularly since I've lingered over the passages describing the history tensions between the Franciscans and the other Orders in the Church. Odd to think that one concept -- embraced poverty -- could have had raised such fierce emotions in a Church committed to the betterment of the world.

I won't say any more in the event you haven't read it, but I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts on the work once you've finished it.

Descriptions: Well, the Shadow has to admit a moment of embarrassment as I reread my point about the lack of description. It occurs to me that someone -- perhaps someone not as innocent or THICK as I -- might read that note as requesting an enhanced description of a particular [cough, cough] SCENE. THAT IS NOT THE CASE. I appreciate you not reading that into it.

Moving on, descriptions are tough -- it takes talent and a lot of practice to blend a scene with dialog and description in a way that doesn't make the scene feel heavy or slow the action. Some authors rely heavily on descriptions, (Eco to name a recent read) and can make the story sail despite all the extra text; others, like Hemingway, avoid descriptions almost altogether.

I agree that in the midst of a good story, I sometimes get so involved with getting the story on the page that I forget to describe the scenes I see in my head. I just assume everyone else will see the same thing I do.

I look forward to the next installment.

[Ciaran]

Oh, an update, nice. I´ll have to go and sacrifice a crump of cheese in the frog goddess shrine ~;)
If you´re wondering why I´m currently reluctant with reviewing the newest installments, I´m re-reading the story from the start and didn´t even glance at the newest installments. I´d like to read them in the whole context, not as seperated bits. But I´m catching up, so a review might come some time in the future.

[frogbeastegg]

“Alright.” Jocelyn blew out a puff of air and wiped the palms of his hands on the skirt of his tunic. “Alright. Just act normal. Alright, no problem. Why should it be a problem, anyway, damn it?” A quick check that his clothes were all nicely arranged and didn’t make him look like a twat, one final deep breath and muttered “Alright,” and he opened the door.

The best way to give bad news was to send a letter from … oh, ten miles away aught to do it. Shame life didn’t cooperate.

He greeted the gaggle of women working in the solar with a pleasant smile, working hard at being charming, chivalrous, handsome in a suitably manly way, and just really nice. “Morning, ladies.”

There was a dutiful chorus of polite replies. The ladies in question, all five of them, were working industriously away at a new hanging to grace the wall of the main hall behind the dais, replacing Yves ugly choice of a serpent-monster eating a man whole. Richildis was seated at the head of the group on a backless chair, three of the others gathered about her on stools, sewing away at minor panels and borders while she worked the main scene. The final maid was the youngest, set to work cutting sections of plain linen to supply more panels to surround the central image.

Nice. Be nice. Jocelyn came to look at his wife’s work, a little curious as to what was going to be decorating his new castle. It was also a nice thing to do. Which was nice. He made some suitably appreciate noises. The image was nothing interesting; it would do, but not worth much notice. Some man and some woman sat together in a garden, with a few birds and a hound curled up at their feet. Plants too, or there would be once the stitches were in place over the faint guidelines inked onto the fabric.

Enough of that time wasting stuff; get on with it. And be nice! “Might I request the fine company of my wife this fine morning?” Oh yes, right smooth that sounded – dandified and repetitive! Far better when he’d just blasted in through the door and cheerfully told everyone not called Richildis to clear off.

Someone giggled. Some actually giggled. Jocelyn glared about until he located the culprit; the rabbit-faced girl cutting cloth.

Before he could chuck the female out the window – oh very well, door. It was a bloody long drop and she looked too heavy to heft comfortably – Richildis started to get rid of her associates.

“This,” she said to him as soon as they were alone, “has best be pleasant, such as, for example, your telling me that we just inherited a large sum of money from the death of a relative we didn’t like. Anything else and you can go away. I’ve had enough for one day, thank you.”

“It’s not even noon yet, Tildis. Surely it can’t be that bad.”

“It can. The barrels of salt herring we needed arrived and most of the casks were spoiled, so now they must be returned and a new batch found. Mahaut tried to tie ribbons in the cat’s fur, and got scratched; the howling, from her and the cat! And then-”

Jocelyn stopped listening. It was all dreary tedium, nothing important. Except maybe that cat. Would killing the creature be excessive?

Another noise caught his attention, this one thinner and distant. Smiling and nodding as if he were listening, Jocelyn crossed to the window. Once the shutter was opened the noise grew stronger. Jean, wailing for all he was worth. The baby was cutting a new tooth and wanted the whole world to know it. As he put the panel of oiled parchment back into place Jocelyn congratulated himself on insisting that the nursery be set up in one of the outbuildings instead of somewhere in the keep. It might even have been a good idea to insist on somewhere in the outer bailey. The parchment might keep out the worst of the weather and let in a good dose of light, but by heaven it let in the worst of the noise too, and as much as he loved his children the racket they generated would try a saint’s patience.

The break in her yattering was enough to recall Jocelyn’s attention in time to hear Richildis say dryly, “And then there’s that. Poor love.”

Jocelyn scratched at his beard thoughtfully; it was getting a bit shaggy, and in need of its twice-weekly trim. “Got a good pair of lungs on him.” Mahaut had made less noise, and she was a girl, damn it.

As if that were her sign Richildis snatched up the small pair of scissors she’d been using to cut thread for her sewing. “Sit down and I’ll sort it out.”

Muttering under his breath, Jocelyn lumbered over to the stool. “Tildis …” he began, as she clipped away. He framed his words carefully, trying not to move his jaw so she wouldn’t cut his lips off.

“Yes?”

“You don’t think that perhaps … maybe Jean’s a bit soft, do you?”

The snipping stopped. His vision was filled by the distressingly pointy ends of the scissors, and his wife’s hand wrapped about the handle in a hold which was well suited to driving them through his heart. “No. Why?”

He ran a finger about the neck of his clothes, an ill-advised move which sent a load of cut hair down next to his skin. “It’s just he wails so much, and at the slightest thing.”

“He’s a baby. It’s what they do.”

“Well, yes, true, and then again not really. The others were quieter. And I’m sure Thierry was bigger by this age.”

The little shears began to clip away at his other cheek. “They’re brothers, not twins. Of course they’re different. There’s nothing wrong with Jean; he’ll be suitably fierce or whatever when he’s older, and then you’ll be complaining to me that he’s too much trouble.”

In the face of her certainty Jocelyn gave up. Waste of time trying; what would a woman know about babies anyway? He sat quietly as she finished amusing herself by butchering his beard; might sweeten her mood a bit, and by Saint Anthony and a sausage he needed all the help he could get before he told her his news.

Richildis stood back to admire her handiwork. “There. Done. As good as I can make it, without removing the whole lot.”

“Don’t even think about it,” warned Jocelyn, eying her sternly. Given half the chance she’d do it, the bitch. He examined his reflection in the bronze mirror she held up, stroking his beard here and there to make sure of the effect. Once again he’d come through the experience with a neat bit of hair that hugged close to his jaw, a shade longer than stubble. Good.

His eyes lingered on her rear as she took the mirror back into their bedchamber. News could wait, and actually the longer he left it the better she might take it. Really. And anyway, there were better things to do than talk about things neither of them would really like, and probably argue. Jocelyn clasped his hands in a very quick prayer – not that he needed divine intervention, damn it! And with her anyone needed all the aid they could get, anyway – stood up, and purloined her as she came back through the doorway. It was a mixed success. She didn’t stiffen the instant his arms went about her; she waited until he began to kiss her instead. Familiarity took over; he increased the pressure on her lips until his own mouth felt bruised, holding the back of her head with one hand so she couldn’t twist away, trying to wring some reaction or another out of her as she stood there like a bloody lump of rock.

About two heartbeats later he remembered, and let her go. “Sorry. Habit dies hard.” A few nights ago she’d told him she was afraid; that was understandable, he had to admit … grudgingly. That was why he’d sworn he wouldn’t force her again, so now she shouldn’t be afraid. It didn’t seem to have done much good. He should have remembered that promising her fidelity had changed her – into a maniac who smacked him over the head with a jug at short notice. Talk about making a rod for your own damn back.

She shot away from him, several long paces instead of the usual other side of the room, so maybe that was some consolation. Only some consolation: she was still trembling, in that damned just perceptible way of hers, and her failure to hide it made him want to crush her in his arms … or just crush her. “It does. Perhaps it will never die.”

“Damnation and a bucket of fish! Don’t blame me alone, like it’s only my fault!”

“I didn’t,” she said quietly. “You did.”

Sod their agreement, sod this argument, sod her, and sod trying to put news in some form she’d like! Sod it all! “The king’s insistent on leaving the day after tomorrow, and he’s about well enough to take the journey if it’s slow. We’re going with him; all of us. Even Jean. By his order. He wants to impress on me a bit more firmly who’s lord here and who’s the vassal, so he’s uprooting us all at his whim and dragging us off to no purpose of our own to amuse himself. Not a bad idea, but I’m damn-” There was that agreement too, so quickly he amended, “er, a Saracen if it’s not annoying. We’ll turn back when he reaches the Narrow Sea, all of us but Thierry. The boy’s staying with him, and that’s that, so don’t start shrieking.”

There was one of those great silences that usually occur when a small child stands up in a large adult gathering and says in a delightfully clear, carrying voice something akin to, “What’s a leper? Because my Daddy said the abbot is a filthy old leper. I always thought the abbot was a nice old man; he’s got hair coming out of his ears and it’s funny.”

Richildis went such a shade of white he thought she might actually faint. Then she spoke; he had to strain to hear the words, but even a deaf man could have heard the malevolence. “That butcher is going to take my son, and expects me to drag my other two children out into the midst of winter on a fool’s errand.”

“I’m hardly pleased either.” Jocelyn raised his arms in an extended shrug, then let them fall back to his sides, his palms slapping his thighs. “I tried, damn it I did try. He wouldn’t listen, not when I told him Jean’s teething and miserable and in no real state to travel, or when I said Mahaut was still so young she should be left in the nursery. Or when I pleaded your delicate motherly feelings, or need to stay here and finish mending the harm Yves’ did being as I can’t do much myself in my absence. Or anything.”

Part pleading, part as an order, she told him, “Do something.”

Jocelyn clenched his teeth on his instinctive reply, that he could do nothing he hadn’t already tried and failed with. He stood instead, feeling useless and pointless, stupid, abruptly, acutely conscious of small things like the way his arms hung at his sides as if he didn’t know where to put them.

There … was one thing he could think of to do, and that night when they had talked, the night of the wedding … and one other time she had liked it well enough in a relative manner of speaking … so maybe … and the worst that would happen was his being rebuffed same as usual. He moved over to her, extra-light on his feet and a little slower than usual. He didn’t kneel, given that she was not that much shorter than he, but he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him – carefully! – and patted her very gently on the back. “There, there,” he murmured. Er, but that suited the children better.

Amazingly she didn’t rail at him for acting like she was one of their children. Nor did she try to get away, or make it plain that his proximity was as appealing as a midden.

It took a very long time, so long that the only reason he didn’t give up and dump her was the fact he hardly ever got to touch her without her tensing up, but slowly the apprehension began to leave her.

“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Mahaut will enjoy herself, do her good to travel a bit, see a few things and people. As long as he’s well bundled up warmly and has something to gnaw on, Jean’ll be perfectly happy. If he can throw up on his nurse and mess his clothes as soon as they are changed to clean ones too then he’ll be delighted. And Thierry, Thierry will be so puffed up proud of being one of the king’s pages that he’ll be quite unbearable.”

Richildis sniffed, and again, the only indication he’d had that she might be crying, or almost crying. “I wish I had your confidence.”

Jocelyn wished he had his confidence. “Come on, cheer up. What’s the worst that could happen?”

She looked at him most eloquently.

“Yes, well.” He coughed low down in his throat, which only made his airway feel a bit blocked. A second go set matters back to how they had been before, and he had an answer to give. “That is why I shall be assigning each of the children a dedicated caretaker, whom I’ll tell that if anything in the slightest goes wrong I’ll mince them up and feed them to my falcon. I’ll tell Mahaut and Thierry that too. I’d tell Jean, but he’d just blow bubbles and laugh at me.”

“As you are here, do you want to practice a bit of reading?”

About as much as he wanted to break his foot. “I suppose I can. Just a bit, mind, not some whole bloo- er, big book, and not on anything boring.”

Now, if she weren’t Richildis, and if he didn’t know what she was like, at this moment in time he would kiss her, and, if she weren’t Richildis, she’d probably like it, making them both happy. But she was Richildis.

To his great astonishment she drew herself up to her full height, closed her eyes, and kissed him. He’d had far more impressive kisses in his life, more passionate, more enjoyable, more quite a few things; this one partially missed its aim and hit one side of his mouth while ignoring the other, was so chaste it could be his sister – God rest her soul – and very brief. It was also the only kiss she’d ever willingly given him.

As he gaped at her, looking in his mind’s eyes like some gawky, pimpled boy who’d never been kissed before in his life and hadn’t realised what girls were for until this precise moment, she mumbled, “Yes, well, we did both make our bargains. You should not keep yours alone.” A good deal clearer she said, “And don’t fling yourself at me and expect me to like it! Don’t manhandle me, don’t crush me, and if I’m not interested hurting me won’t help matters. I told you, be more … careful, and maybe I’ll …” She trailed off, evidently less able to word these things than she had been a few nights before.

Being one of those chivalrous idiots nowadays, Jocelyn finished her sentence for her, “Get less scared.”

He waited for her to get a book, watching her as she knelt by the locked chest. Melancholy; there was a feeling he’d never really expected to have anything to do with. Melancholy was for damsels who stood on tower tops pining for their lost loves, and other junk. Or for people who realise too late that they’ve screwed up so much, and will probably never fix it all.

In a low voice he told her back, “You hurt me, so many times and in so many bloody ways. You make me feel so God damned stupid and worthless. It’s not my doing alone.”

Her hands paused in their work on the chest’s solid lock. “I didn’t say it was.”







I hardly ever know if I want to laugh at Jocelyn, or smack him, or perhaps pat him on the shoulder and say, “There, there.” What a very odd man … hehe!

Richildis is easier :pats Tildis on the shoulder and says, “There, there.”:




I'm still reading Rose, nearly 200 pages in. I've had another book I needed to read at the same time, and my reading time has been a bit more limited over the last couple of days, thanks to my wanting (or should that be needing?) to write. I'll save my verdict for when I'm done.

Descriptions tend to be sparse because ...it's not what I write for or about. ~:) I write for dialogue, characters and character, plot and events, humour and emotion, and the neat little turns of phrase now and then. My style reflects that. Detail is not interesting, it is ... just detail. Nothing more. Now, sometimes I do see things vividly and need to write them as detail, such as the way Fulk's cloak was moving ever so slightly in the breeze in that previous part, making the hem sway. I also know I need detail to bring some life to the world, so I put that stuff in. Or try. But I'm a big enough frog now, with a developed enough style, to know that detail in abundance is never going to come naturally to me. It will always be something I have to add artificially, which means if often feels wrong to me. As I write by feel anything which feels wrong is revised until it feels right, or removed if it will not work.

My work will never be detail heavy, but it might manage to be a bit less … lean than it is now.



:Froggy is sitting on her cloud in frog god heaven, and a bit of cheese materialises next to her. Froggy eats the cheese.: Mmmm, nice. Books are good too. Don't burn them! Just wrap them up safely and put them on the shrine.

Starting again? Eeep! You now have 751 pages to read! :gives some eyedrops, knowing they will be needed: I imagine reading through the story again could be quite an interesting expereince. You should pick up on a lot of those little things I buried in the earlier parts of the story ... :looks hopeful, and wants to know if you do or not, becasue she is a curious frog, and feeling curious:

[Vladimir]

Well then, a week and a half restricted to business hours. Great story. I was hoping for some more "small unit action", assignations and missions with the two, and not such a grand theme. The big theme conflicts more with what I know of history and makes me a little uncomfortable. There were some parts early on though where all I could think was: What’s up with all this dialogue? For Christ sake somebody throw a pie or something! But that could be because I don’t like feeling intellectually inferior to a 14th century man at arms :knight:. Thank you though for not describing the beatings in such detail in the later stages. There’s a special horror when someone blames a tired, sore arm on the person whose back they just flayed open.

Yes the story could benefit from some editing, but better too much than too little. The characters are alive and unique but it would be nice to read some different accents; that’s always been a favorite of mine. I’ve been reading the story so much I almost typed this with an English accent! What I REALLY want is an intense battle scene from Fulk’s perspective. Besides the first abduction attempt I don’t think we have a real good idea of what he thinks. I want to know exactly what goes through his mind although I’m sure most of his actions are trained responses. Mostly I want to know this because I’ve fallen quite in love with Her Royal Goosberriness and might have to fight him someday ~:eek: :duel:.

What I enjoy most when reading a story is trying to discover things about the author. Which brings up this point: http://www.cabotcheese.com/ supposedly makes the best cheddar cheese in the world. It might be worth checking out.

[frogbeastegg]

If there was a better way to travel Eleanor hadn’t discovered it yet. Seated side saddle-wise before Fulk, curled up into his body, fastened against his armoured chest by the length of his cloak and arm he had wrapped about her, passing the time bandying words or dozing with his shoulder for her pillow.

Waking from her latest bit of light sleep, Eleanor looked about to see where they were. Still in trees, in a world still frosted about the edges. Nothing unexpected there; they were travelling via back ways, avoiding roads and other people as far as possible. By the sunlight it was somewhere about midday.

“Awake again?” asked Fulk.

“Possibly.” She worked on a few adjustments to his cloak, bundling one fold up to act as a better pillow and protection against tangling her hair in the links of his mail. “Or possibly not. This could be but a dream.”

“Oh? You usually dream about running away with knights to travel through frozen wildernesses?”

“All the time,” she assured him blithely. “That is, when I am not dreaming of ruggedly handsome outlaws.”

Fulk began to declaim in a rather stilted voice, “Alas and woe, for I have been captured by a creature of dubious morals. Oh woe, woe is me. Woe. Who now knows what my unhappy fate will be. What dire plans she has for me, I shudder to think. Woe, and more woe.”

“I thought I might go back to sleep …”

“Like a cat, you are, sometimes.”
Eleanor craned her head back, managing to just catch a glimpse of the underside of his chin. “Oh?”

“Lazy.”

“I am not! I am hoping to put you off your guard, so I can sneak away while your back is turne-” Fulk’s hand clamped across her mouth.

“Ssshh!” he hissed in her ear. His right arm slipped from around her waist to settle on the hilt of his sword.

As soon as she realised what he was doing, Eleanor’s hands went to her knives, ready to draw.

Fulk nudged the horse, encouraging it to keep walking. His head was up, turning from size to side, scenting like a hound.

Not being a battle-hardened veteran it took her a moment before she caught what he had: the faint fragrance of blood on the still air.

The very stillness was some reassurance; whatever had caused the blood to be spilt was gone now … or laired up, waiting. There was no sound of fighting, or of other people, or cries of wounded, man or beast. And beast it could be; something killed by a poacher or predator.

Fulk slipped down, pressed the reins into her hands and whispered, “Any sign of trouble and you go.”

He was off, moving through the trees like a ghost. Which was probably a good thing, as it saved the bother of his disagreeing when she told him that without him she was going nowhere.

The minutes passed; nothing happened.

Eleanor made more fuss over the horse than was necessary to keep it quiet and content.

Movement, there to her left and at mid distance where it was hard to see through the growth of tree trunks, bare branches, naked bushes, and some few bits of winter greenery. Someone approaching, carefully, but still making a noise. Not a half-decent hunter, then … or someone who didn’t see any need to keep his approach stealthy.

She had the knife drawn and poised to fly at the least bit of notice before she recognised Fulk.

“I thought I’d make a bit of a racket to avoid surprising you and being skewered. Instead I’m nearly skewered for making a racket. I’m disappointed – yet not the least bit surprised – to see you didn’t run away, like you’re supposed to.” All was well, but not perfectly well; such was evident from the way he spoke, almost normal in volume but not quite right in inflection.

“What was it?”

Fulk unknotted the chin straps of his helmet and pulled it free of the saddlebag strap where it hung.

Settling her knife back into its sheath Eleanor asked, “Bad news, then?”

Helmet laced on over his bare head, Fulk stuck a foot in the stirrup and settled back into the saddle behind her. With his left hand he took the reins back, but not before making sure his sword hilt was free of entanglement in their clothes. “Bodies,” he said curtly. “Half frozen; been here for at least a day. Nothing to concern us.” He jabbed a spur into the horse’s flank.

“No?”

“No.”

“Tell me.” That he didn’t only strengthened her suspicion that he had found something he believed would upset her. “Tell me; you are my knight, and I order it.”

“Bodies,” he repeated again. “Peasants.”

Considering the direction they had taken and how long they had been travelling, Eleanor thought it likely she didn’t need to be told, after all. “We are near the area London controls. There are some minor lords loyal to Hugh with lands touching on the edge of the area an armoured force from the city can reach at a day’s ride.”

“By the bodies, when the wind picked up a bit, I could small burning, faintly. Old burning, of fires long since gone out.” Eleanor pressed her hand flat onto his thigh, trying to comfort him or gain some comfort herself, she couldn’t tell. His free hand came down to cover hers, pressing it against his leg. “There are times I wish you were dim-witted, as much as I love you for not being so. Then you’d have to be told …”

“That people have done war in my name.”







Rather the opposite, I liked the small unit action but really wanted to get on to the big stuff. The story has always conflicted with real history in some ways, by its nature it can't do otherwise. But then it's not history; it's alternate history.

Hehe, about the pie comment. Until I read the end of that bit I thought you meant the dialogue was like something from a bad comedy.

Accents ... accents .... hmm. Nope ~:) It wouldn't suit this story and set of characters, not at all. It would feel utterly, utterly wrong. There's the various levels of polish to the characters' speech, and I feel that works perfectly, along with the various little ways of speaking and quirks of language a few characters have.

Oh, and Nell says in the completely unlilkely event you manage to kill Fulk she will have no choice but to kill you. Painfully. :hide: ~;p

[frogbeastegg]

I forgot something. I finished Rose a few days ago. In a nutshell it was ok. I hated the way he kept on using Latin without giving a translation. The plot was so so, the characters bland, the writing decent enough for a translation, aside from those oddities I mentioned to you before. It was the discussion on history, theology, religion, philosophy and so on which made the book good. I am sad to say that I found by the last half of the book he was repeating his subjects, and I wanted to tell him "Yes, you've done that bit, now do something else! We got it the first time ..?

He also manages to be the only author ever, historical or fictional, who made me cringe when going over the medieval church?s attitude to women. I have even read first hand medieval rants on the subject and felt less like bludgeoning the writer than I did here ;p Not sure how he managed it, but he did. Maybe it was the way he went over the same point over and over throughout the book to the point of redundancy. Not so bad as his endless repetition of heretics being different to the clear cut clumps of evil sinners that the church believed them to be. Yes, got it, move on already, damn you. :tongueg:

I also hated the entire plot line with the girl. It felt mostly pointless, forced and contrived, as if Eco had been told he had to get one sex scene in or the book would not be published. That it served to bring out the heretic monks and advance the plot there was good. The rest, pointless, a waste of space, unbelievable too. The plot advances could have been achieved far better with another. Froggy no like ;p Hmm, also a bit of a cheap device. "Look, here is a poor girl who is forced into prostitution! With monks, which is even worse! And by the way the church blames her entirely for this situation! And she is no good and wonderful too, and our hero loves her, and she must love him because she gave him a freebie on first sight and forgot her hard won food to feed her starving family! Haha, feeling pity yet? Yes, good! Burn her! Haha! Bet that made you a wee bit upset?" Er, not really. More like fed up and rolling my eyes.

That does not mean I did not like it. The parts I did like lend themselves much less well to discussion or comment. Basically the entire first half of the book found favour aside from the bland characters. Then slowly the plot became worse and the characters still did not develop, and the discussion began to feel repetitive. If the discussion had managed to remain fresh my overall pinion of the book would have been higher.

To this I need to add one last thing: I'm reliably told the book er ... interfaces with some of Borges work. I haven't read anything by him yet. I intend to, soon ... soon for a frog.

[Vladimir]

Good little snippet. It recalled my fond memories of riding, a light frost, and yes…the smell of blood on a cold day (but not that of burning peasants). Although I don’t have any of swords and princesses, yet. Reading over my first post it seems a bit more negative then intended. I’m much more into visualizations and actions (even simple ones) than dialogue. I’m glad to see that you’re reading so much; it will only enhance your fine (as in really really good) literary abilities.

[Ciaran]

Whew, done, 801 pages, at least in the formatting I use.


You should pick up on a lot of those little things I buried in the earlier parts of the story ... :looks hopeful, and wants to know if you do or not, becasue she is a curious frog, and feeling curious:
You want to know if I spotted anything that hints at the way the story goes later on, probably mainly Trempwicks attemt at coup d´etat utilizing Nell? Well, that I can answer precisely: No. Sorry to disappoint there, but as I think I´ve mentioned before, I´m horrible at spotting stuff, have always been and will ever be.

On to the latest installments, my, the pace picked up yet again, the hanging of the hostages, the flight of Fulk and Nell under cover - I first thought now she´s off to Constantinople at last - and then Jocelyn´s try at being nice ~:)
Talking about Jocelyn, I realized some, well, inconsistencies, with him. At one point you have him thinking this:

If he could read her mind like a bit of parchment what would he find? Probably a few familiar lines deploring him as an uneducated barbarian, a few long passages on how much she loved the children, plenty of miscellaneous and tedious rubbish, some bits in some foreign language or other, and a frightening collection of large words he couldn’t quite decipher. and

He skipped the biggest words, and several smaller ones he couldn’t make sense of.

But then, some time later, you´ve got him talking to de Issoudun:

But I expect you’ll need to do something to while away the hours, unless your friendly rat is a better conversationalist than most.
That choice of words seems a bit out of character, and that´s not the only time. Maybe something you´ll want to pay attention to when (if) overworking the whole story.

And for now, please excuse me, I´ve got to give my eyes some rest. It´s not as bad as it could be, were I forced to read from an oldfashioned CRT screen, but even reading from a TFT screen becomes tiring after a time. Plus I´ve got a big sacrifice in the Frog Goddess Shrine to do.

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick opened the door as another scream tore through the dungeons. Pleasing timing, but accidental. Ordinarily he left this to others. Except when it was too important to be farmed out.

His subject huddled in a corner, hands clamped over her ears. She was shaking like a leaf in a gale. Good.

He closed the heavy door with a soft slam, and stood waiting for her to take notice, moulding himself into an attitude of polite waiting and enquiry.

The man shrieked again. The effect was suitably rewarding: the girl quaked yet harder. Detail: when given a choice, always start hurting the male. Men were supposed to be stronger. Tougher. Honour-bound to keep silent. So if they started bellowing … Supposed. He had never much cared for the truth or lie of that. Only the use mattered. But he suspected it was perhaps not as true as all that.

Now he cocked an eyebrow as the girl finally registered his presence and looked up from her little world of misery. Cocked an eyebrow to say without words, “If he can’t stand it, you certainly won’t. And you’re next.”

“I think,” he said, dragging his words out a little more than usual. Made them sound more worrisome. “that you had best tell me a thing or two. Where is my wife?”

This pair had been caught by those he had watching, yesterday very early morning. Brought here for mid-evening. No time to waste – on receiving the news of their capture he had come. Hearing other reports as he came. And as he planned, and waited for the necessary to be begun.

Nell was gone. Fled. Where? Why? How: her and the knight, by horse, slipped out like this pair and the second pair even now being brought to him. Replaced at court it seemed by a decoy. That news so very new he had considered it for but a brief instant, it given to him as he worked his way through the Tower of London towards this.

She had been gone for a day. As best he could presently tell. She must have gone in the dark of last night. But when, in these long winter nights? Important! Time = distance = harder to track. Did she want him to find her? Want to hide from others? Hide from others and have faith he would find her, if not she him. Or hide from all? Why? So many reasons … So many answers … Complicated little thing, his Nell. When she wanted it. When she wasn’t being stupidly simple.

The man at arms screamed once more.

The girl sobbed and buried her face in her knees. Her hands pressed over her ears so hard.

With a courtly bow, Trempwick stooped over her and dragged one hand away. Carefully. So as not to hurt her.

And screamed again. One of those screams which … tore the soul, stayed with you for hours, days afterward.

“That would be his eye,” he commented. Remain light. Do not care. Do not sorrow. Let her see it. Now she had to listen. “His right eye. If he was ever an archer, he is not now. Or much of a warrior. His fingers are all broken, each and every joint. His back flayed to ribbons. A few teeth are gone, his nose broken, an earlobe lopped off … This particular man of mine has a habit of burning his own name into his victims, like branding a horse. He’s called Bartholomew; quite a long name, and a lot of letters. Eleven, to be precise, that being as many as all your fingers and one more, and each letter on an individual iron. He is proud of his literacy.” How crude. How distasteful. How utterly deplorable! All of it. “By now he is a bleeding, quivering ruin, blubbering away and telling my people everything we want to know and far, far more besides. Anything to make it stop.”

“Then why ask me?” she cried.

Jesù above, she was young! And he treated her like it. Like an idiot child. Elaborating, “Because I caught two of you. Because you might know something he does not. Because I like to corroborate my information. Because I can.” Now, from controlled to madman in a second! He yanked on her arm brutally. Put his face very close to hers. Shouted, “Because I want my wife back. And I will slaughter the whole damned country if I must to do that. I will stop at nothing to get my beloved back and see her safe.”

Within perhaps a quarter of an hour he knew everything. And the man at arm’s noise was getting most irksome.

They were brother and sister. The sister being the younger by a couple of years, if that mattered. Nothings, not nobles. They had received word their father was ill. Dying. Calling for them. So off they set, as soon as possible. They had been given permission and money for the trip by their lord. A minor knight sworn to another, sworn in turn to that drunkard who served as the bastard’s spymaster. They had travelled off the roads from fear of the bandits they had been told were everywhere. The rebels supporting the princess. The country was in flames. At war. So they had been told. By enough people it sounded true. And it was what they expected too. Logical.

Nell would have been gone two whole days at some point in this present night. Two whole days.

Nell’s work, this. Not Miles. It was … not in his style. He could see her … will threaded through it all. So his dear little Nell had finally overcome her squeamishness. He was quite proud. Question: using Miles’ resources as his ally? If so, why? Or playing the ally to escape her brother? One option dismissed without consideration: she would not try to flee both. Hopeless venture, self-damning.

As he left she asked what would happen now.

He paused in the doorway. Held the pose. Let her wait. Worry. Then half-turned slowly. “I see no reason why your knight should not have his whore back. Undamaged.” Quite a few reasons. But always be sure an asset will no longer be required before disposal. And it may be that she could be put to use. Even returned to her knight, she might be of use. “As for your brother,” he shrugged. “We shall see.”

Two rooms away from the tiny cell with the girl languished the man at arms. Trempwick paid him a visit, to tell his man to cease. The man at arms was a bit battered. A bit bloodied. A bit singed and burned. But in good condition. Not even so much as a single broken finger.

A lot of pain did not necessarily mean a lot of damage. A lot of damage was detrimental. He smiled, pleased. This had not been crude. And it had achieved more and in less time than the usual crudities employed by the less thoughtful. Time here was vital. Where others might have spent days he had taken not even an hour.

As he stared at the soldier hanging in his chains Trempwick wished it were another man at arms.

The man at arms lifted his drooping head and looked right at Trempwick. “Why?” he asked. Almost wept the question. Not a single question put to him, or reason given. Just pain.

There was but one suitable answer. Trempwick gave it, generous. “Because.”

As he left the dungeons, his boots echoing on the cold stone floor, Trempwick hummed a tune. To blot out the screaming he still heard. Even style had its cruder parts. To lend himself that … aura. To maintain it. Necessary. Aura/appearance/lie which was to him as armour was to a battlefield knight. There were people. Not many. Not likely to see or hear him. But if they did … he must be the spymaster.

One main worry: Nell was out there with the knight. Just the knight. In a country being ravaged by fighting. Why and where did not matter. She was out there. She was out there. It took much of his discipline to suppress the tide of sickened horror and fear. As he thought of what might happen …

Damn her for a fool! A fool making perhaps a good decision, and well. But a fool none the less.

He picked up pace. As fast as he could without leaving a walk. Why he hurried he did not know. What more could he do? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing he hadn’t already done, days and days ago. Then it had been simple caution. Acting against the very unlikely. All knew what their queen looked like. But only in words. Not a picture, not a person. Only inadequate words. All knew to err on the side of generosity – any dark-haired female of something like the correct height and age to be brought to him undamaged. A large reward for those who brought their queen to safety. The most painful and prolonged death possible to any who disobeyed.

But soldiers were soldiers. Men were men. Idiots were idiots. Almost he could hear their simple thoughts: “But she looks so ordinary. And she’s dressed like no one important, speaks like no one important, and only has one man with her. So …” And he was not God. Even He did not manage to control all to his whim, the mutterings and excuses of the priests ignored.

Nell had been right. Waiting was indeed the hardest part. Which he hadn’t seen until now.







:froggy seems to be in some mind of exhausted trance-like state, and is muttering things about Christmas being evil. Vicious comments about a nasty Christmas music CD with a playtime of not quite an hour, featuring the Smug Man, Happy Woman and Lisping Children which plays on endless loop hour after hour, day after day, week after week, are also present.: Gah! :starts humming ‘we three kings’, because she’s hard the damned CD so many times now it seems to be playing in her poor addled mind even when she’s away from the shop. froggy turns up her nice frog music to try and drown out the mental lisping song.: It has adverts in it too. Done by what’s his name Scoffield. The one who used to have Gordon the Gopher. :Mimics part of an advert, by saying in a stupidly fake sad sounding voice, “Because when they’re gone, they’re gone.” And adds in her normal frogsome tones, “Until the next delivery, and that being twice a week we are seldom sold out for long, you right twit!”: The woman sounds like Julie Andrews on an overdose of happy pills. :froggy starts to rub at her poor hands, which are peppered with an interesting pattern of paper and cardboard cuts, and her left index finger is so bashed from picking up boxes and prying out the contents that it is a delightful bloody mess, featuring real frog blood: It hurts to type :cries:



It doesn’t sound all that negative, Vladimir. ~:)

Hehe! I’m telling myself just the same thing about my reading. It seems to help, when I’m working my way through something I really don’t like much and/or don’t want to read anyway.

Ciaran: Plenty of things are hinted at. Things like this bit, when Trempwick is talking to Nell fort he first time about her growing attraction to Fulk:
“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.”
Who else is he talking about, if not Nell? He didn’t, after all, suddenly start to court her after Christmas, as she believes. It’s just she’s rather blind, wrapped up in her own troubles, and used to thinking of him as entirely safe in that regard, like a father.

Or, from the end of the same scene, where she runs off upset:
“Nell…” Trempwick called after her. She started to run. He stared after her, worried. “What to do? Two evils, but which is the lesser?”
If you know a thing or five, you might be able to identify the two evils he is talking about. Leaving her alone, or sending Fulk to her to provide comfort. You probably can’t get that the first go through.

And so on, and so forth, in profusion.


Jocelyn … being quite illiterate is not the same thing as having a poor vocabulary. He can’t spell or read long words most of the time, and sure, he doesn’t know what all of them mean, but he has a rough idea of most, and ones like conversationalist he can put a meaning to because they sound so similar to other words he does know. He’s been absorbing words all his life. Richildis alone has taught him a lot, without either of them thinking about it, simply by talking where he can hear.

Jocelyn's something of my opposite: he can talk, but he can't play with words on paper. Whereas I can read and write all day long with no trouble or effort, but get me to talk and I stumble over my words, or can't find anything to say.

[Ciaran]

An update, a bit late for St. Nicolaus (6th Dec.; Do the English celebrate that? I honestly don´t know...) but still, updates are always good.
Do you have, by any chance, an idea how long it´s going to be, or how it´ll end? Not that I want this marvellous story to end, far from it, I love long stories, the longer the better, but occasionally I´m curious as well.

By the way, I´ve watched Braveheart just the other night, now I can place to what mental image I had all the time of King William. When I read the title for the first time, I had imagined Nell a bit like that princess in that movie, certainly not a short, spying, scheming, occasionally murdering, snappy gooseberry with the hobby of driving her bodyguard-husband mad. But in the end, I´m glad I´m proven wrong, as you so aptly put it yourself:

. It sounded like someone who spent half her time praying for sick little lambs everywhere in the world, and the other half being so boringly proper even her staid churchman of a confessor told her to go and do something exciting for once

[Vladimir]

that drunkard

~:joker:

Of COURSE it must have been Nell's doing. After all he's the one that trained her. He couldn't possibly have been wrong about him or misunderestimated her. (I like that word)~;p

Poor poor treasonous Trempy.

[m52nickerson]

Finally i got to the last post!

Lady frog you have been the reason I have been going to bed each night for the last week with a slight headache. I just can't stop reading this story. Very few books have ever had that affect on me. I hope for pain sake this goes to print one day so I don't have to reread it from a computer screen.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk wiped out his pottage bowl with a bit of bread, chewed, swallowed, and sat back with the contented sigh of a man who had earned his dinner. Which he had, and it wasn’t dumb ego to admit it. Two days and three nights on the road, passing through war-torn lands, and all without the slightest hitch. Not that there hadn’t been potential hitches: he’d defeated them. Like a capable knight should. A bit of calm level-headedness had seen off the patrol they’d run into yesterday, though he’d sweated a fair bit when one of the militia had kept on insisting Eleanor looked like the description of herself, and should be taken back in case she was actually a princess. Good thing he’d been the baby of the group, and that another, far louder apprentice was indentured to the lad’s master’s main rival. Then there was the state of the land itself, too dangerous to keep on sleeping out of doors as planned, yet also it was dangerous to be seen by too many people. A neat bit of acting, a flash of coin, and that too was solved, getting them a private room in an inn where none were to be had, if the cookhouse could truly be called a room. And if blatant honesty could be called acting.

Eleanor informed him, “You sound like a dog. A great sleepy dog about to lie down in front of the fire and dream about chasing rabbits, legs twitching and getting in everyone’s way.”

Fulk grinned at her; at least she wasn’t bent on making his life uncomfortable in her own special way. As much as he’d enjoyed proclaiming to the innkeeper that she was his wife and there were an assortment of things he wanted to do which called for privacy, and that no he damned well would not like to either reconsider them or carry them out with other people about, he hadn’t expected her to be best pleased.

Lightly he said, “I’m just cheery at my good fortune in not sprouting hairpins in places I’d rather not have them.”

She set down her food with delicate poise that sat a little at odds with her adopted manner of speech. “I’m a suitably meek wife. I’d never dream of such a thing, no matter how bad the provocation.”

“Course not,” he agreed, stretching out his legs and tilting his stool back on two legs to prop his shoulders against the wattle and daub wall. It was good to be out of his armour at last, even if he still wore his rust-stained gambeson.

“I’d poison your stew instead. Less awkward questions afterwards.” She nipped off the final bit of flesh from the capon’s leg bone, lips drawn back to avoid getting grease on her face … or in a smirk.

He didn’t even entertain the alluring idea of doing something about that smirk for a heartbeat. It was a strange thing to celebrate - and part of him didn’t celebrate it at all - but he’d managed to be thoroughly restrained in all his dealings with her since they’d left Waltham. Caring, close, and entirely restrained, with not even a hint of a spark flaring up and getting out of control. It was a masterpiece of self-possession, worthy of any true knight who lived by the codes of chivalry and courtliness. He was a real Lancelot … Lancelot before became Guinevere’s lover.

Fulk watched her for a bit, then looked away, to stare at whatever he could find in their room. Which wasn’t much; the kitchen had been constructed of wood, same as the rest of the inn’s buildings, and by virtue of both that and its owner’s status, was unadorned, unlike the great kitchens of the rich. It hadn’t contained a lot on their arrival, and now had even less; the owner had taken away anything his guests might carry off, be it a string of onions or his best cleaver. Which left a square room, one very heavy table scarred with knife-marks, blood and other juices, one basket of logs, and one fireplace with the built-in ironmongery. They had been granted two stools from the main building, one of which had a short leg. Their baggage and his armour enlivened one corner, providing the only homely touch.

The small fire burning beneath the empty spit and pothook being the second most interesting thing in the room, he ended up staring into its flickering depths. He’d left Waltham, spirits higher than they’d been in a long time; happy to be away from a place where he didn’t fit and couldn’t settle, and to be properly alone with her at last. Thankful also to have her away; the court was poisoning her slowly, spirit and mind and soul.

Then he’d followed his nose to a cluster of bodies gilded by frost and bejewelled with iced droplets of their own blood, lying in false ceremony were they had fallen with no one left to come and find them. Killed in the name of the unassuming young lady sat at the table listlessly finishing her meal, her zest for eating lost … it seemed a long time ago.

She commented, “You’re smiling.”

“I was remembering that day you ate half of Trempwick’s piece of cheese while recovering from your cracked ribs.” His fond smile grew, touched with sadness. “Never seen someone eat so much cheese in one go; not before and not since.”

“Given what I’d just been through I think I deserved it, and more too.”

Things changed once, and again, and again, and still again, from where they’d met to here. Very little of it for the better.

But for now he was back in his own element, with real purpose. Nothing could quite dim the relief that gave him; if he must be hunted, endangered, taking part in some larger game he wasn’t made for, better to be doing that when he could do something.

But still, things had changed again …

“Do something with my hair, please.” Eleanor wiped her fingers on the already bedraggled hem of her dress and held up her plait between finger and thumb. It bore a certain resemble to an upset cat: fluffed out, with stray hairs sticking out in all directions. “It’s ailing quite badly.”

“Ailing? Worse! I’ll call a priest to give it the last rites.”

As he collected a comb from their bags she said, “It’s always the same when I have to do it myself. I can’t work ribbons into it to bind it all together like Hawise can.”

Fulk removed the ribbon from the bottom of the plait and started to tease what remained of the structure undone. Then he set to with the comb, attacking tangles at the ends of her hair first, gradually working his way up to the roots. He kept combing long after her hair was flawless.

“Shame we can’t manage a bath,” she said wistfully.

“Yes. A right shame.” Fulk dutifully stopped trying to get a better view of the mental image that gave him, and started telling himself it was a damned good thing a bath wasn’t possible. But his heart wasn’t in it. The mental Fulk grabbed his wash cloth and dived in.

“You smell like your horse, my luflych little knight.”

“You smell like my horse too, oh fragrant one.”

“Impossible.” She smiled obliquely at him, trying to keep still so he could keep combing. “I believe it’s impossible for anyone of my blood to smell of anything other than roses.”

“In my heart, beloved mine, you always smell of roses. Alas, my nose is not so devoted to the cause.”

“You look like someone skinned a hedgehog and pasted it on your jaw.”

Fulk’s hand shot to his face, feeling with exaggerated concern several days’ worth of stubble. “What? There’s a little nose and a tiny pair of eyes on my chin!?”

She chuckled and shook her head. “You are an idiot. You do know that, don’t you?”

“You tell me so often I couldn’t doubt it, oh spirit of kindness.” At last he stopped playing with her hair. “Want it putting into another braid?”

“Not until morning.”

“Oh. Well.” Which left no excuse for him to linger, excepting those which would make him a Bad Lancelot. He retreated to arrange the pallet they’d been given a safe distance before the fire, but close enough to gain some warmth from the banked down remnants that burned in the large hearth intended for cooking, not heating. “You take the bed; I’ll sleep before the door.” It wasn’t much of an honour; the pallet was thin and its straw stuffing lumpy. The accompanying blankets were in better shape, but still worn with fraying patches. He decided to swap them with the blankets from their own gear.

“Ah.” That could have meant any one of a thousand things, and he was damned if he knew which was the right one.

Fulk laid out his own cloak and the inn’s blankets, building his own bed on the bare floor of beaten earth. He’d use her cloak for a cover, about the closest he could decently get to having her with him.

Outside he heard the crunch of footsteps in a poor attempt to be stealthy.

They both froze.

Quite sure what their unwanted listener wanted to hear – and feeling like a bit more gooseberry-baiting fun - Fulk groaned, pitching his voice so it would be overheard without sounding put on. “Again!? Give a man time to catch his breath, you wonton. You’ll kill me!”

With startling speed she shot back, “You can rest when you’ve done something worth resting from, you selfish bore.” She smiled amiably at him as he gaped in astonishment. In an undertone she informed him, “You really are asking for trouble tonight, aren’t you?”

Fulk narrowed his eyes, trying to lose the stunned goat expression he was sure he’d got. “Yes, I think I am. And I’m beginning to hope I get it.”

Outside their listener left with the same rubbish attempt at stealth as when he had appeared, having seemingly decided that nothing worth listening to was currently occurring.

As if reading his thoughts as to where she had got that particular comeback, she whispered, “The comedy of Aalart. I heard it at Anne’s wedding. I’ve always had a good memory, all the more so thanks to … to my tutor.” She was right; best not to speak that name with unfriendly ears so close.

Fulk knew the brief tale well. Generally it was to be found in low dives everywhere, and at weddings. He resumed making his bed.

Unlike their visitor, Eleanor could do stealth properly, so when her hand touched his shoulder it was almost startling. “As gratifying as it may be, having you kneel at my feet does not suit my current plans. Up! I do not require a footstool, and the table is perfectly serviceable.” Her speech had reverted to normal, a sign of a royal mind very much elsewhere.

Being an obedient chap with a firm eye to making his future comfortable, Fulk clambered to his feet.

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, peering at him from almost arm’s length. “Hmm.” She examined him from the front, then leaned a little to one side, then to the other. “Hmm.”

Fulk fidgeted, her scrutiny making him uncomfortable. “Usually you’re a bit more subtle when it comes to admiring my good looks.”

“Hmm.” Eleanor tilted her head to one side and murmured, “Now what to do …?”

Fulk smiled in a disarming manner and hoped for the best.

“Hmm.” The smile he considered the second most impish she possessed burst into radiant life on her face. “Ah yes; how about …” Tucking her arms behind her back for balance she leaned forward and kissed him, the barest touch of her lips on his. She straightened just as the surprise was wearing off. “Hmm.” Eleanor tilted her head to one side, smiling that devilish little smile of hers.

So Fulk did the only thing a decent Lancelot could do: he caught her and kissed her back with a deal more enthusiasm.

Eleanor snuggled in against his chest, happy as could be. “No apple required.”

“Hmm,” teased Fulk.

“Hmm,” she agreed. She demonstrated further the pointlessness of apples by tilting her face up to his in a blatant invitation he couldn’t pass over.

Fulk was definitely feeling light-headed when they parted again, whether from lack of air, lack of blood to his head, or – more likely – both. “Now I’ve got all sorts of ideas of the kind I’ve been trying not to get,” he grumbled.

She blushed, and looked at him from under her eyelashes. “Hmm?”

“Hmm, indeed. You’re lucky you’ve no idea what you’re missing, you really are. Hard to miss what you don’t know.” With the greatest reluctance, Fulk retrieved his arms and stepped back, praying she’d leave him be, though a much greater portion of his soul dissented.

“I know I am missing another kiss like that, if nothing else, and that seems some considerable loss.” She bowed her head. “I know you are keeping your distance in some way, which you would not otherwise. I do not like that.”

“Heartling, you should be glad I’ve got the sense to keep my distance a bit.”

“Oh? And you are, I suppose? Glad.”

“No,” he admitted with a grimace. “But I’m not the one ‘married’ to a slimy git.”

Her reaction contained sufficient acid to burn the outer layers of his skin. “I would not say you were that. Stupid, perhaps. Annoying, most definitely. Deliberately obtuse, frequently. But not a slimy git.”

“You know who and what I meant.”

“Tonight we do not need to keep watches. You do not have to sleep by the door. It is barred, and we can move the table in front to block it if we wish to be paranoid.”

“I do.” He squatted by his half-made bed, yanking it all into place with determination.

Her foot came down on the edge of the blanket he was moving, missing his hand by a generous margin but close enough to warn him of her temper, if he were dull enough to miss the ice on her demand. “Why?”

He was not going to explain a few of the delights of not sleeping alone. That would feel something of a betrayal; it was one thing to outline a thing or two, another to speak in detail of moments which bared the bones of a relationship, and there was no good way to explain this in outline. Thus far they’d been very lucky she hadn’t found out for herself, on those occasions where his better judgement had lapsed. He’d always been sufficiently awake or sufficiently asleep to ensure she didn’t. “Sense. That way nothing unfortunate can happen.”

Eleanor unpinned the blanket, the sole of her shoe catching his knuckles in passing, leaving a small streak of mud and stinging flesh. “Very well; I shall sleep alone. Again. Which is all I was asking, lest you get any wrong ideas.”

Jesù! Now she’d said that he began to doubt it. That imparted a very strong desire to beat his head against the wall and scream “Damn!” over and over. He’d always credited her with more sense – she was supposed to be the prudent one in that regard. “Eleanor-”

“Often I am more alone with you than I was with Trempwick. He at least was not afraid to be near me. I was not left to wake from my nightmares alone.”

She’d said it very, very quietly, but the tips of Fulk’s ears burned. To be compared to that cursed man and to be found wanting!

Something must have shown on his face, because she said scornfully, “You think I sleep soundly knowing all I do?”

“I was thinking that it was obvious to me why he was there, and it’s got nothing to do with love, caring, or anything but hoping to exploit.”

Eleanor returned his look, face impassive. “Almost you sound jealous.”

“I don’t need to blacken his name – he’s done a right fine job of it alone. If he cared he wouldn’t use you as he has.”

“There is no point in pretending all was false to make my betrayal of him easier; that much I can now see.”

“Oh love, don’t weaken yourself towards him-”

“Weaken.” She laughed bitterly. “All I do is look at what I am working and stop lying about it. It is part of the price, to see and accept the hurt it gives. When that is forgotten …” She made a helpless gesture with one hand. “People become so many pieces on a board. As he sees them, with a few exceptions.”

From outside came another sound. Horses, and not stabled.

Hearing it also, Eleanor opened one of the shutters a crack and looked out. “Soldiers. Londoners.”

“Jesù!” Fulk took her place. One man stood at the stable door, another at the door leading into the main building. They wore helmets, one clasped a spear in his hand, London’s blue and white visible where their cloaks hung parted down the front. Under it he couldn’t tell precisely what they wore, but these were militia, else they’d wear a lord’s colours or their own. There was no doubt; they were here for less than peaceable reasons. The ‘prentice boy must have talked to someone willing to listen.

He closed the shutter carefully. Eleanor was already braiding her hair into a plait. Rather than go suspiciously quiet, and to cover what noise they might make, they talked, of nothing interesting or important.

Fulk laid his hauberk out on the table, the hem dangling over the edge. He thrust his head and arms up into the slippery armour, letting it slide off the table onto his body, cringing inwardly as the roar of links flowing over wood filled his ears, making it seem so loud the whole county must hear. Practice; he could get by without a squire, unlike some. He’d had to. He bounced a few times, not quite jumping as that would be too noisy, to settle the mail into place.

Eleanor was there with his sword, belting it on as he reached for his helmet. She pulled at the leather strap, testing the buckle was fastened properly, and stepped back, going to pack up what little they had taken from their bags.

Fulk caught up his shield, slung the guige strap about his neck even as he thrust his arms through the grips. Ready to go. He crossed to the door and listened, ear close to the woodwork. He could hear nothing.

Eleanor put their bags down within arm’s reach of the door, carefully. She handed Fulk his cloak, making it plain he should don it, pointed at the door, at Fulk, and made a shooing gesture.

He raised an eyebrow, not understanding properly. There was bound to be a guard. It made no sense to post men at the other buildings but ignore theirs after checking it was occupied.

She repeated the gesture.

Fulk pointed at the door himself, and mouthed. “Guard.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes, pointed at him and then at the space behind her, finishing with an expression with said “Now!”

Sometimes all a knight could do was trust a gooseberry.

As he passed her she whispered, “Be ready to pull. Then replace.” Whatever that meant.

Eleanor laid a hand on the door latch, balancing on the balls of her feet. She breathed deeply and deliberately several times, focusing. Then the door was opening and her right hand coming up, a loop of cord dangling from her fist. Her garrotte. As the guard began to turn she got the loop over his head and pulled, jumped back out of the way and suddenly her words made sense. Fulk grabbed the solder and pulled him into the building, even as he moved forward to take his place outside.

He stood on guard, trying not to look like a man worrying that his princess was shut up with an enemy soldier. It was only now that he realised how fortunate they’d been that this man hadn’t had a weapon to drop.

Behind him the door opened a crack, and he heard her whisper, “Done.”

“How?”

“With that knot there is nothing to do once the noose is over the head and tightened; it will not loosen, save if it is cut. Dying men do not think of that. Now, if you can subdue your curiosity for long enough, it might be nice to escape.”

“Stables. I’ll get that guard. Wait here, until it’s done.”

He strode into the courtyard, the two other guards coming into view as he rounded the corner of the kitchen building. Thank Christ the kitchen did not open directly out into the courtyard, but instead oriented its door towards the little storehouse. He made his way towards the man in question, endeavouring to look casual, like a comrade coming over to ask a question. A breath of wind could ruin his disguise, parting his cloak to show he wore no livery beneath. Maybe he should have taken the dead man’s, but there was no good way to make the change.

A covert glance to the inn showed the guard there leaning on his spear in the attitude of bored sentries everywhere. To get out from the stables they’d have to go right through the main building, and thus through that guard. The inn building had an archway right through its middle, and a surrounding wall sprouting out from the east and south-western sides blocking all other possible ways to escape. It wasn’t fortification, merely practicality; marking out the land which belonged to the owner, making thieving harder, and other such humdrum things which had no bearing on what was happening tonight. It still felt personal to Fulk.

The stable guard asked, “Henry?”

Fulk kept walking; to speak was to betray himself. He nodded, hoping that would be enough.

“Henry?” His voice was wary now; one hand fell to the hilt of his falchion.

A few more steps and the blade began to rasp free of its scabbard as the militiaman saw Fulk’s face decently enough to tell didn’t belong to the deceased Henry.

Any chance of stealth lost, Fulk said, “Peace! Be easy. I’m just here to look at my horse. Damned mangy creature’s my living – I don’t want you lot commandeering it, or doing it some upset. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To take horses for the Queen’s army.”

“Stand your distance.” The voice was panicky, the weapon he aimed at Fulk dipped and swayed. Fulk had always disliked the falchion; it was the butcher’s cleaver of swords, able to carve a body easier thanks to its heavier blade, but lacking in finesse and versatility, unable to thrust or stab. It wasn’t the weapon of a knight or cultured man; it belonged in the hands of the lowliest soldiers. This man would have to swing to make good his threat, and that would give the time needed to close enough to force the matter to a brawl. Unless this trembling man was hiding his soldiering lights under a bushel.

Fulk halted, and held his hands up to be seen. “Look, see? I’m not threat.”

“You’ve a sword, and dagger, and a helm, and you answered to my friend’s name.”

“What man of arms doesn’t have blades? It’s a cold night; my helmet’s a decent enough hat in lack of any better, as most soldiers will tell you. My name’s Henry – like seemingly half the country. All I want is to see my horse.” He tried a step closer.

“Stop!”

Fulk stopped again. “This nonsense wastes my time,” he said, injecting impatience into his voice. “I’ve a bed to get to. How about I pay you to see my horse is left in peace? I’ll show you which one he is. Two shillings, in good coin.”

Now in familiar territory the man began to bargain for his bribe. “I thought you said the nag was your living.”

“I did. I also said he was a nag.” He looked over at the second guard. “Waste too long and he’ll come on over. Then you’ll have to split the coin between two.”

“Three shillings, and you’ve a deal.”

“Two and sixpence.” It wouldn’t do to give way too easily.

“Three, or a I start shouting for help and your horse joins the cause.”

“Damn you to hell for extortion!”

“Mayhap.” Fulk would have bet a considerable sum the faithless son of a trader was planning to see that the stables were emptied when the troop left, be that part of the original plan or no.

“Fine. Done. If you’ll stop pointing that,” he twitched a finger at the falchion,” I’ll show you which one.”

The militiaman lowered his weapon but pointedly didn’t sheathe it. “Lead on, and don’t try anything. I still don’t trust you.”

Fulk did as asked. Reunited with their unimpressive-looking horse he patted the animal on the shoulder. “There. No beauty, no great blood, but sufficient to get me a horseman’s wage instead of the pittance of a foot soldier.”

“When you have a wage,” sneered the man, a city-man to his core, it seemed.

“When I have one,” Fulk agreed evenly.

There the sentry made his final mistake: he turned and started to lead the way out of the stables. Fulk drew his dagger, grabbed, and exercised a stroke he’d learned from Eleanor and nearly fallen victim to himself, stabbing up through the ribs to the heart in such a way that much of the blood flowed into the victim’s lungs instead of spilling out to foul anything nearby. One hand over the man’s mouth kept in any noise he might have made in his last moments. The corpse he dumped in an empty stall, kicking straw over it until it was hidden from view.

He saddled his own horse first. A quick search turned up a side-saddle probably belonging to the innkeeper’s wife; he put that on the mount he thought best of the few which remained, a gentle-eyed, rather elderly palfrey which also likely belonged to his hosts. Two more animals were saddled; he didn’t like the look of either of them, decent animals but in no way merited. They would belong to the Londoners infesting the inn. He cut their girths and bridles.

With one bridle in each hand he lead the pair out to the courtyard. Eleanor started to run across as soon as she saw him. The remaining sentinel’s reaction was almost as prompt; he started shouting.

Fulk stuck a foot in the stirrup and mounted on the move, still heading for the gate while aiming to intercept Eleanor.

She met him, threw their bags across her horse’s rump, and vaulted into the saddle, sparing just enough time to glance at him with a fierce smile. “If you can show off, so can I.”

“Stay behind me; I’ll clear the way. Ride on as soon as it’s clear, regardless of me.”

He thought she might argue, but she gave a terse nod and directed her horse to follow behind his. She called, “Don’t die!”

Seeing the lone foot soldier blocking the doorway, Fulk drew his sword, settled his shield and dug in his spurs. His horse wasn’t a warhorse proper, it wouldn’t bite and kick except by startled nature, but it knew what to do and wouldn’t shy from the noise and blood of battle.

The man’s nerve failed at the last; he jumped clear.

Free in the outside, Fulk immediately noticed two mounted men holding position not far from the inn. One was mailed, armed with sword and shield. The other wore a gambeson, again with sword and shield. This second man wasn’t trained to fight mounted; that was clearly evident from a multitude of small details, from the way he kept a bent-legged riding pose instead of a fighting seat with legs thrust down and forward to balance his weight and the weight of his armour, to his equipment itself, to how he held his weapon. One skilled man, one unskilled; it wasn’t surprising. It took time and resources to train a man to do battle mounted, and more time and resources to provide a suitable animal. Even the royal army was made up in quantity by men who could only use a horse for travel. An infantryman could ride patrol and intercept well enough, leaving the precious elite free to lead such missions, or for other tasks. If his own horse wasn’t a wondrous beast, it was still better than theirs, and that too gave him an advantage to counter their numbers.

Aimed at the right-most of the pair, the infantryman, Fulk touched his spurs to his horse again, picking up speed. His lungs filled with air of their own accord, ready to raise “FitzWilliam for the gooseberry!”. Instead he roared, “For valour!” He shot into the charge, blood streaming from his mount’s flanks.

His chosen man fell at the first cut, Fulk’s blade going in over his sloppy guard to find his face.

He took the other man’s attack on his shield, kneed his horse to bring it about and guarded a second attack. His own first attack was parried, his second too. The exchange of blows continued, men and horses jockeying for best position.

Another cut blocked, and another, but the third was a faint and the man at arms fell for it, a mistake which left him bleeding to death in the dirt.

Some focused their whole minds and beings on battle, oblivious to all else. The best didn’t. Eleanor was past the two dead men and still going. Behind them Fulk knew that two more men were thundering towards them, the pair of sentries posted on the far side of the inn, in case anyone climbed the wall, summoned by the noise of fighting and alarm. To leave them alive was to invite a lengthy chase.

Fulk hauled on the reins, pulling his horse about.

Another pair of skilled and unskilled. Time to show again why knights were always superior to part-time troops and the more casually trained poor man at arms.

He saved the charge for the last possible moment, advancing slightly slower to give them more time to fear. He pulled his shield around to guard his left closely, his sword held ready. Perfect discipline. He let them see his armour, see he knew what he was doing, see the blood of their comrades drenching man and horse alike. The blank white of his shield was broken by a jaunty crimson splash.

With a wild cry, one of the horsemen spurred into a premature charge, his fellow lagging a little behind him. Nerves.

Fulk waited for his own time, scant seconds later. “For valour! For valour and victory!”

His target shied away before contact, in terror at the sight of death bearing down on him. Fulk swerved into the second horseman, the trained one, instead, his horse jostling the other. He punched with the pommel of his sword, was blocked, and wheeled away to come at the man again from a better angle. His shield took the mace blow, his arm shuddering under the force of it.

The first of the two horsemen was back, trying to catch him from his vulnerable behind. Fulk would have given a small fortune to have Sueta now; the stallion could have been made to lash out with his rear hooves. He turned in his saddle, putting his shield to the maceman and his sword in position to threaten the man behind him. The move, and the subsequent quick swipe, caught the man behind him by surprise, and he too tumbled off to finish dying on the ground.

The maceman’s eyes were wide in horror. Fulk grinned at him; anything to encourage that necessary dread, knowing that the shadow cast on his features by his helmet and its nasal bar would make the expression more ghastly.

Fear made the man’s reactions quick but clumsy. Deprived suddenly of a controlling hand on the bridle and knowing something was wrong, the maceman’s horse bolted, his rider jolting in the saddle with the grace of a sack of turnips, his head hanging from the strip of flesh and sinew Fulk’s cut hadn’t severed.

Fulk rode away to rejoin Eleanor. She wouldn’t have got far; it hadn’t taken long.

She was waiting, drawn up so she could watch at a safe distance.







That was a frog-sized chapter! Gosh. Wow. And so on.

Love the little hedgehog exchange.

Ciaran: If I say I didn't even know it was the Saint's day will that answer your question? Huh, but this is a country where we're not even allowed to have our patron saint's day as a holiday.

I watched Braveheart once. I think it fair to say I hated it. ~:)

vladimir: Trempy's right to think that; even Miles admits he's no match at all for the king's spymaster.

:hands m52nickerson some eyedrops: Here you go. If this ever gets into print it will be a far, far better story than it is now, and well worth reading again.

[Ciaran]

Ah, nice, not only an update, not only a long update, but a long update with a fighting scene. And a, well, gooseberryish start, you really know how to make my day, Lady Frog.


I watched Braveheart once. I think it fair to say I hated it.
I´m less than surprised, for I´ve yet to meet a history scholar who is able to enjoy Hollywoods interpretations. But probably if someone made a movie about Nick Leeson I´d feel the same, constantly whining just how wrong they got it all.

[Vladimir]

Thank you. A very nice way to start off the week. I do so love it when the arrogant and prideful (even if they're extremely competent) succumb to those vices. I guess to Trempster the wine glass was always half empty.

Great flow, very...:san_kiss: :san_cheesy: and :charge: . The perfect gift for :san_smiley: .

[furball]

Froggy, I had a much-too-long post here about length. :) I agree with Vlad (below.) I'm enjoying the story but I sometimes think back to your saying that you're hoping to get published - then get too critical.

[Vladimir]

Personally I'm not a "slave to the story". I've just seen too much shoddy work and poor "mechanics" to advance the story (at which point I usually ask: “Is this where I suspend disbelief?”) and that's all I seem to hear directors talk about during commentaries. I've started to enjoy the journey more (especially since I don't have to pay for this story :san_grin: ) and care less about arriving at the end. From a profit perspective it does make sense to be more traditional though.

[frogbeastegg]

William sipped the medicine his physician gave him, managing decent grace at the fuss. The pit of his right elbow stung from the motion, the still-clotting scab on the small wound there pulling. The bloodletting had reduced the dizziness that had engulfed him; instead he felt tired.

“My lord recovers well, but must still have patience with his state.” Lionel accepted the empty cup back from his king without a break in his lecture. “To bring on such an imbalance of your humours!”

William grunted. “If you had letters such as I, you would have imbalances of humours.”

“If you were a lesser man-”

“If I were a lesser man I would lie down and die, and leave all to their own doing, to enjoy it or not as so happens. Instead I must mind my duty.” William waved a hand in dismissal. “Leave me. Send in my Count on your way out.”

The physical bowed, and, resigned, said, “Sire. As you will.”

His Count of Tourraine appeared after some delay, making a bow that, while correct, was economical. So much about this man could be called that. “I trust my lord’s health is improved?”

“Contrary to what many may say and wish I am not dying, and I shall prove this to their regret.”

“I am pleased.”

Jocelyn stood at the bedside, hands at his sides in a manner no courtier would have tolerated – it looked like he didn’t know what to do with his arms. As if reading his king’s thoughts the man folded his arms across his chest; a defensive attitude, here with some jauntiness to it.

William pushed himself up to sit. “Pass me my bedrobe.” The request was honourable even as it treated the lord like a menial; it showed trust in his loyalty, and allowed him to see his king at a private moment others did not witness. That it kept Jocelyn close at hand so he might be observed served a second purpose related to the first: it allowed William to get a better measure of him.

William got out of bed and shrugged the robe on over his nakedness. Seating himself on the foot of his bed, he requested, “Tell me about your daughter.”

Jocelyn’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Mahaut?”

“Unless you have another.”

He listened with half an ear to the flow. It started out halting, awkward. Then fatherly feeling took over, and the words burst forth; funny stories, occasions remembered with pride, a few tales of trouble. The child sounded much as he himself had seen: cute, with a potential for future disharmony if not carefully handled.

Then came a surprise. Jocelyn invited, “Tell me of yours.”

William twisted his seal ring on his finger, considering how to play this and taking care his Count saw him doing so. “Matilda is everything a father could hope for: dutiful, obedient, a good mother, though her inability to produce a son disappoints.”

“So I have heard,” replied Jocelyn rather blandly.

“Adele … was foolish.” William met his Count’s eye without art. “The blame is not hers alone; her husband failed her, gravely, or she should not have had cause to look elsewhere. And perhaps I also failed her, in choosing someone so unsuitable.”

“And Eleanor?”

Both knew this had been his original request; William did not care to be pushed to business ahead of his time. Or to forgetting his other children, if it came to that. William found his first words came of their own accord, not really what he’d have chosen. “Her first word was ‘no’, or so her nurse reported. I wonder that may be a fiction, created to suit a nature which even then was becoming distinctive.”

Jocelyn’s mouth quirked. “Mahaut’s was ‘ma’. I’m of a mind to believe her first sentence was ‘Can I have?’”

“She is,” William said slowly, “stubborn. Disobedient. Wilful. Disrespectful.” His breath caught; his words speeded. Emotion caught him vulnerable, unprepared. He said things he hadn’t intended to utter, ever. “And brave, so brave! And strong, and … and she has a mind. She is better than her brothers. I wish to God she were a son! I would have made her my heir, and died knowing my crown would continue undiminished.” The breath he took to refill his lungs was shaky; it made his healing ribs ache. “But she is not a son,” he said, clearly. “So she shall not be suffered to act as one. Traits which in a son are admirable are ruinous in a daughter. It is not her place to lead, but to follow.”

Jocelyn proved he kept up with court rumour, and that rumour in itself was healthy. “Fate can change.”

“Fate.” William rose and wandered to the window of his room, looking out at the courtyard of the castle where he guested, originally for one day but now for a few, until he had recovered sufficiently to continue his painstakingly slow journey. That journey had become all the more pressing this afternoon.

Not a single message from home had reached him in weeks. Not a single reply to his own missives. Then, today, that silence had ended. Rumour: an uncouth, unspecified, unreliable source, but one near impossible to stifle.

His kingdom was aflame.

William didn’t know … anything of what he needed.

Control, already tenuous, snapped. He balled his hands into fists and lashed out at the stonework of the window frame. Hugh had made such a botch of things! And the brat – she was proclaimed queen! Trempwick had called up an army for her and pressed her rights, calling Hugh a bastard. They were married, in dishonourable secrecy. And no one seemed to even remember he was alive! William pounded the wall again, grazing a knuckle. “I am not dead,” he snarled. “I am King.”

“Sire-”

“Silence!”

The Count prudently shut up.

William spun away from the window and paced to the other side of the room, spun on a heel and stalked back, working out his rage in the only way he could. However this was viewed several things were clear: Hugh was incapable. The brat was at the heart of the trouble. Trempwick had turned traitor.

William flung back his head and gave voice to a portion of his pain, “He was my friend.” He flung over to the bed and swiped one of the pillows with a fist; it flew across the room. The deserving target of his wrath many miles away, William hit another pillow again and again, his knuckles sinking deep into the feather-filled mass in a frenzy. “This is her doing – she twisted him! Her!”

Like a bubble his rage burst; William fell to his knees, trembling. He buried his face in his hands, fingertips digging into his scalp painfully. His healing body ached; the torment was welcome. Somehow it felt deserved. It distracted from the rage, the heart-felt pain.

It was that which made her worthy; if she could work this and make the unthinkable possible, then the brat had proven herself his best heir. If she could take the throne despite the many difficulties she faced then she deserved it.

Behind him Jocelyn’s voice suggested, “She could be a pawn.”

William lifted his head and turned, slowly, to stare over his shoulder at the man. His eyes felt tight, burning with repressed tears. “A pawn,” he repeated flatly.

“She wouldn’t be the first to be used so.”

“A pawn.” William climbed to his feet and advanced to stand so close to his Count that he could feel the other man’s breath each time he exhaled. “That bitch is used by no one. If she could be then she might have been of some use.”

Jocelyn’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Sire.”

Seated back on the bed William cupped his chin in one hand, index finger dug in to the flesh between mouth and nose. He couldn’t manage his calm for long; the very second he began again to think on what he’d learned he felt the need to inflict damage. Twisting a pillow between his hands in a grip like that used to snap the necks of birds, he roared, “The …BITCH!”

Desperately Jocelyn implored, “Sire, you will make yourself ill again.”

“Ill?” William’s hands convulsed on the pillow. Fabric tore; feathers burst into the air and floated about him like snow. “When she would have me dead? To suit her? Never!” He cast the remains of the pillow to the floor, stood and stamped on it, grinding it underfoot. More feathers came free. “I am the King. I am going home, to settle what is mine.”

If only he knew how to settle it.

He fixed his Count with a penetrating look. “Who will your sword support?” Other men he knew better; it was only this new Count he needed to approach in this way to learn his heart and mind. It was part of the process of learning this man, to use him and shackle him safely if required.

The reply came without hesitation or guile. “You, Sire.”

“I did not take you for a courtier, to feed me such pretty answers.”

Jocelyn’s shoulders slumped; he sighed. He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the wide strap of his belt. “I know neither of them,” he qualified, after a goodly wait.

William only sat back down and made himself comfortable.

“Prince Hugh does have the right, and was your choice.” There was a pause pregnant with impending unpleasantness. “If he is legitimate.”

William grimaced. His hands clenched into the bedding, screwing the costly fabric up. “For all the worth he has proven in letting his sister run about him so I wish he were not mine, that the weakness could not be said to come from me.”

A bead of sweat ran down Jocelyn’s temple to vanish into his beard. “If he were not legitimate … then where else could I look for my new master?”

William said nothing.

“I wish you a long, long life, but one day, Sire, you will need an heir. And God above guard me, but I do not know which I could follow in decency.”

The last of William’s temper ebbed, leaving him feeling old, so very old, empty. “But if pressed you would go with her, I think. There would be much to be gained under a ruling Queen, to the harm of her realm and enrichment of her lords.”




Well, isn’t that just the best part to post for Christmas? Actually, then again, perhaps it is – this time of year is famous for family feuds. :tongueg:

Ciaran: I do like some Hollywood attempts at history. ‘Knight’s Tale’, for example. That one manages to be likeable in a light way despite trampling all over accuracy in size 50 boots with nails on the soles. I also find Gladiator tolerable, on a very occasional, ‘dumb film’ basis.

Furball, you might be pleased/horrified to know I am in the habit of saving the email copies of your comments so I can reads them after they are deleted :tongueg:

Some of that I have answered before, mainly the cutting and editing parts, but I will go to the point about everything pulling together, if only because I thought up a funny(?) thing to say before I found you had executed Operation Delete, and don’t want to waste it: Stop looking at things from ground level. Instead, grab a cloud and soar above the world like a small deified amphibian, and look down. Do that and you’ll find their destinations are not as disparate as you might think. Readers have two advantages over the characters. Firstly, they have access to all POVs. Secondly they can step back and consolidate that.

Having just spent a paragraph saying that their paths are converging, I’m now going to do an annoying little about face, and say I agree with Vladimir. I too have seen too many convenient things in stories aimed at driving things along to the supposed ideal course. I hate it. Hehe, but then there are a very great number of things I hate in fiction. I know I’m guilty of some of them; in my defence I can only plead my weak craft, and continue to work to purge those aspects. Real life seldom has these convenient mechanics; history is full of examples of this.

I … don’t believe this story ever truly has an ending ~:) There is only a point where I stop telling the story. Nell’s tale can only end with her death; all her life is her tale, be she 1 or 100 when she dies. But then it continues with the people she knows, and passes to the people they know, and on and on. If Nell were to die now her story would be complete, but not Fulk’s, not William’s, not Hugh’s, not Jocelyn’s, not Trempwick’s, not Hawise’s, not Anne’s, not Mahaut’s …

Which is why I believe few will be satisfied with the ‘end’ of this work. It seems many authors who do something other than a neat little wrap up of everything get grumbled at by angry readers. :shrugs: Oh well, I shall try to endure with fortitude. I refuse to force a neat little ending where it all ties up happily; it would feel badly false, and go against all I believe. There can be no happy ending here; it simply is not possible. One character's happy is another's misery or death.

So to try and bring some sense to that: things are converging, but not artificially. How much they will converge is for the future to show.

[frogbeastegg]

The nasal of Fulk’s helmet created a strip of blankness in his vision as he glanced sidelong at the silent princess riding at his side. His latest rebuking look gained about as much recognition as the rest of them, which was to say it went completely ignored.

His hand rose to rub at the bridge of his nose, tipping his helmet up out of the way.

If there were any justice in the world he would collect his delightful wife, drape her over his knees, and generously apply his belt to her rear. Fulk gave the nasal a jerk, putting it back as it should be. Then there’d be a nice large fight, which would break her out of this near-mute wretchedness she’d been in ever since he’d met her after the fight at the inn. Last – but definitely not least – they could make up. Or so went the general idea. The reality would probably involve his nose being broken again.

There had to be consequences. He’d given her an order, she’d agreed and then ignored it totally. When he’d told her to keep on going he’d meant just that, not to get a bit of distance and then stop to wait for him, and she knew it. Had he been killed or incapacitated she probably wouldn’t have evaded capture, making it all pointless. To add spice to it all she seemingly didn’t much care that she’d proven that she didn’t trust his judgement in the sphere where he was the expert, disobeyed him, and trampled all over whatever dignity he could be said to possess. If she were moping over that then things would probably be alright: it would show some kind of remorse. But she wasn’t – she was moping over Trempwick’s work. Him she’d hardly even said five words to in the last day, including in response to what he’d said on meeting her immediately after last night’s battle.

No; reality wouldn’t get his nose broken. Lose his temper in front of her and he’d see her cower from him, hiding her fear behind bravado, for the rest of their time together. As she did with her brother, and had done with her father. There was the true reason he wouldn’t beat her, even though she deserved it. So he would say no more on the subject; uncharacteristically she refused to counter his words with her own, and that grated more and more, making the line of conversation dangerous as well as futile. Saying or doing nothing only condoned her waywardness, which introduced a whole new set of ills and left him a powerless pet husband. Trapped! Nothing for him to do which wouldn’t do great harm in the long run. If only she would argue back when he reproached her!

Fulk glanced at his princess again. She perched on her aged, weary horse, staring between its ears with the same distracted air she’d sported since the inn. Her eyes were distant, her attention very clearly elsewhere. He could guess where, and with no small amount of resentment. She was busily thinking away on Trempwick and realm and all such grandeur, plotting and planning and mourning, adding in all the new information they had gained as they travelled and calculating away. Again. They’d skirted another burned manor; she’d be thinking how that tiny little event changed the larger game. Or something. He’d bet his best sword that she didn’t spare so much as a thought for how this great game would have been changed had he proven unlucky and been felled in battle, and her captured because she didn’t flee as told.

Even away from the man, she was as much in Trempwick’s thrall as she ever had been. Perhaps more so. Sometimes it seemed the man’s shadow got stronger, and he could find no way to dispel it.

Fulk closed his eyes and schooled his face into blankness, trying to do likewise with his heart.

What was he going to do with her!?

Fulk rode on, staring down between his own mount’s ears, as lost in thought as his lady.






“That is everything?” Trempwick asked.

The man – boy, really – before him nodded, bobbed a shallow bow as if uncertain as to what he should be doing in the presence of this lord. “Yes, my lord.”

So. Nell had been found. And what she had done …

Nell had betrayed him(?).

The man/boy shifted restlessly. Blurted into the still air, “We did our all, my lord.” As if he could doubt, after the boy/man’s display of ‘grievous wounds’ gained in leaping from a horse’s path. Ha! A child’s bruises and scrapes.

“Yes.” His reply was distracted, he knew. Mind too busy elsewhere.

After all he’d done. Saved her. Raised her. Taught her. Loved her like his own. After all he had done on her behalf.

She had betrayed him(?). For the bastard brother who despised her(?). Or for the pet who could never be more than that(?). He should never have allowed her to leave him! Proximity = stronger control, fewer undesired influences.

The sense of loss was … wrenching.

“My lord?”

Trempwick looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“It were the queen, weren’t it?” The boy/man’s eyes were shining with earnestness.

Calculation: truth best. “Probably, yes.”

“Then …” his head went down. Came back up, expression all runny. “Why? We are her men.”

Again truth best. Rather, his best suspicion. Except betrayal. A poor second to that main. “If she had revealed herself it would not have been believed, and she had but one man for escort. She did not know why you were there, and she will have known of the war being waged. Given this, it was most prudent to flee. He shook his head. There was truth in this. In that truth, hope. Slender hope. “If you were in her position, sought after by many enemies, running for your very life and freedom, your identity and trappings of rank cast off to hide you from those many who would use you to their own gain, and now surrounded by soldiers who will not know you and may … abuse you-”

The boy/man started. Went bright red. And looked guilty.

Consideration: probably guilt over one/many of no important. Not one who fitted his description, and thus was protected. After the fate he had made clear for any who harmed in the slightest one who might be Nell … He would set people to make enquiries of this one in particular. Never hurt to be extra vigilant.

Trempwick held up a calming hand. “I do not accuse you of such intent, only say what she must, sadly, consider.”

The boy/man waved away, the last of the interviews with the survivors was done.

A little time to think.

Trempwick strode to the door, calling for his horse and bodyguard to be made ready, his armour to be fetched, and rations for several days of travel to be put together at once. With some idea of where to look, he would. And when he found her, he would see.

Problem: still no idea of where she was going. Or what she was doing.

So he would hunt her down. As he’d done before. And take her back. As he’d done before. And assert his mastery. As he’d done before.

And this time would be the last time. Never again would he allow her to … slip.






The green and gold banner flying on the castle’s square stone keep dipped, bobbed, and began to lower. By the time it had vanished from sight the gates were opening.

Tilbury was a simple castle; an old-fashioned tower keep with an artificial hill flung up about its foundations, surrounded by a wooden wall with stone gatehouse and two stone towers, a second wooden wall studded with wooden towers encircling that. The pair of trebuchets in Hugh’s siege train could have reduced it to ragged splinters within a week. Tilbury allowed him to place some mild pressure on London from a safe distance. It also served to guard his approach to Kent itself, and the formidable obstacle of Rochester castle.

Hugh resisted the temptation to check behind him to see if his army was arrayed to his satisfaction. They must be. He had given his orders, and they would have been obeyed. To turn back implied a lack of confidence in his own command, in his men’s loyalty, in his officers’ abilities, and in the general discipline of his force. This must not be permitted.

So too did he refuse to glance down at himself to see his armour and surcoat were settled properly. Such an action belong to a child, or to the irredeemably fretful. A prince – king! – could be neither.

Hugh became aware that a fraction of a sag had entered his backbone; he straightened. The fault has been so slight as to be imperceptible; this was no excuse. The throne he now occupied may not be more than a chair with back and arms, but still it was a seat of office. It must be occupied as was fitting for that stateliness, and as was fitting for this occasion itself.

The party approaching from the castle was small; one lady and two armoured men. The party bore no banners, and the men lacked shields. Even at this distance Hugh could tell the lady wore her best. She would be Alice Vitalis, wife of the castellan.

Excellent. All was as best could be expected. The first castle had fallen to him without recourse to hostility, and the inhabitants did him honour with their surrender.

The three dismounted some twenty strides from him, their horses taken by pages in his livery. The lady led, the two men flanking her and a step behind her. When they reached the spread of cloth before the platform his throne rested upon, all three sank to their knees.

As was appropriate to the captain of a surrendering castle, the lady spoke first. “Sire. I place all I hold into your hands.”

Hugh made a movement with his right hand to acknowledge this. “Where, lady, is your husband?”

Alice raised her chin and met his eye for the first time. She had green eyes; most striking. “He is with his lord, Sire. In London.”

The lord being Trempwick. “Then he will not be pleased to find you yield to me that which he was given to held in trust by his lord.”

Pleasantly she did not recite the many ills which likely would befall her on reunion with her husband. She knew, this he saw before she again lowered her face in a deferential attitude. “He will not be pleased, Sire,” she agreed humbly. “But I am not a traitor; I know my loyalties, even if he does not.”

Hugh was reminded of the necessity of finding a mistress. It was expected. A simple matter of comfort some may view it as, but in truth considerably more. Prestige – he need not lack the least of comforts while in the field. A matter too of rank; only those at the pinnacle of this army could expect a female companion. His companion must be of suitable rank herself; not so high as to make him a despoiler of the great and good, but of blood worth of being matched with his own. This too was prestige.

“Where are your children?” She had two, this he had been informed. There had been a third; that girl had died in her second year.

“In the castle, Sire. On your wish I shall surrender them into your hands.”

Hugh inclined his head in a regal nod. “I wish.” The children would be returned to Waltham as security for her loyalty, perhaps to be used against the husband if opportunity presented.

Alice bit the inside of her lip; she gestured at one of her men.

Hugh indicated she should rise. She was of average height, figure still good even after three children, young. The eyes were pleasant indeed, her colouring fair. The lines of her face could not be said to be special, nor unsightly, and much was lent to the good by her mouth. The attribute of proven breeder could not be undervalued; a bastard child, in combination with his legitimate child, would put an end once and for all to the murmuring of his fruitfulness. Her existing children would act as a leash; should any harm come to him they would die. When all was done and she no longer needed she could be rewarded and put aside without difficulty, indeed even be raised due to her link with him. Made a widow there would be many of the lower and lower-mid nobility who would be pleased to have an ex-royal mistress for their wife. Or if the husband did not die then her new resources and prestige would provide her a measure of protection, and enable her to live apart from the man.

All in all she would fit his needs most commendably, unless she proved either unwilling or boring. Or … indecent.

He took the greatest care not to linger overlong in his scrutiny, lest it be said he was smitten, or similar distasteful rumour. He must take care of his wife’s sensibilities and honour, another of the many contradictory expectations he struggled with as he strove to be a worthy king.

Standing, Hugh gave orders for a castellan of his own to be installed, the existing garrison marched out to the very last man, and twenty of his own men sent in to replace them. This gave him an overall gain of three men, bolstering his army to … The necessity of pausing to figure this was unforgivable! As commander he should know his force to the last man, and as an educated man he should not stumble over mathematics. Hugh castigated himself, but briefly, so as not to further impede his calculations.

Five hundred and forty-one men under arms. Of which thirty-two were knights, one hundred and twelve were mounted sergeants, forty-eight were mercenary infantry, two hundred and ninety-eight were armoured men at arms, and the rest lighter infantry. A goodly proportion of these men came from his own household. More came from the part of his father’s household troop left behind from the disastrous trip to France. Some of his own loyal lords had taken up their places as knights in his force, bringing their retinues of other soldiers. The majority of such men he had assigned to the army marching to Wales under the command of the Earl of Chester.

The force was so small as to hardly qualify for the name of army. It would grow; he would collect more men and lords as he marched. It made his heart bleed to require such men in lack of sufficient loyal subjects in the vicinity, but more mercenaries were on their way, in their hundreds. The limited size had allowed for a faster muster, and thus an element of surprise. Swift action on his part, if met with success, would do much to bring the undecided lords to his side.

Chester’s force was little larger. However it would gather the midland lords and those loyal on the Welsh border, and thus it would reach a size to be of good effect. In Wales numbers counted for less than mobility and cunning. There a simple two thousand or so could be of extraordinary effect.

The same could not be said of the lands Hugh campaigned in. Trempwick’s holdings in Kent. Weak little castles such as this one could be brought to heel with his current force; larger ones would shatter him, not he them. A series of assaults even on smaller fortifications would decimate his army and leave him weak. Extra care against ambush and pitched battle were vital; he had not the men to lose.

It was most fortunate then that Trempwick’s local forces were of two kinds: militia such as the Londonmen - untrained, poorly equipped, and unwilling to be in the field for long stretches – and professionals, who had the task of garrisoning the castles and so were limited in their actions. A garrison could control perhaps twenty miles in all directions about the castle; they could not ride out and join with other garrisons to form a fighting offensive without leaving the very strongpoints vital to maintaining control over the land vulnerable. The defender’s best course was almost always to hold behind their walls, riding out to harry and disrupt the attacker with swift strikes before fading back to the shelter of their fortress. In a siege they could hold out and cause more damage man for man, delay and tie up the larger attacking force, and, in the event of aid arriving, see the attackers destroyed.

All in all it was a matter for great care; the first misstep by either side would likely determine the course of events for a lengthy time to come, until new men could be recruited and new armies brought to bear.

Briefly Hugh wondered how his sister was doing. It was now eight days since she had departed; she should be in or very near Southampton. There was another factor to his wondering – she was out there with solely that knight of hers for company. Who knew what perversity they might indulge in? Try as he might he could not wholeheartedly trust to her honour and sense of self-worth, and he knew this to be a most terrible thing. He prayed nightly for betterment in this regard, as many others.

The old garrison had begun to stream out the gates, a train two abreast and all afoot, marching in good order. Having seen enough Hugh offered a very shallow bow to his lady guest and presented her with his hand. “It is a chill day, and ungracious of me to keep a lady stood watching her husband’s defeat, even when so merited as this one. Let us adjourn to my tent; I shall have refreshments served.”








Lol! Hugh has always been a hypocrite, but in those last two paragraphs he outdoes himself! “Oh noes!1!! My sister might have an affair!!1!!!11” :looks sideways at Alice: “Oh well, time to start the old charm up.”

Hehe! The Fulk scene has the unofficial title “Fulk Makes Executive Decisions.” If I hadn’t cut out 2/3 of the original total you’d see why. I found this way worked far better; it makes it all a surprise. It’s also less boring. :sighs: I did love some of the lines in the original version though. The ending in particular had me laughing. Poor man; he has problems. That Nell should be ashamed of herself! :rolf:

[Vladimir]

Well I see 'ye olde despot' is still up and kicking (and punching). It should be interesting if he makes it across the channel (accidents do happen you know). Or perhaps his skyrocketing blood pressure will cause a major artery to rupture producing a beautiful, if brief, red spray. Am I bitter? Noooo :tongueg: . I imagine the whole royal line smells pretty ripe about now; all that traveling and no time for a decent bath. I suppose we all make sacrifices in time of war though.

Very nice; three POVs in two rapid posts :loveg: .

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk made himself take the first step. After that one the others came easily enough, ending his dithering. Same as battle – launching into the advance was the hardest part. If he spoke to her now she would have no recourse but to hear him out and answer his charges; no retreat, no distractions, no other subjects to bring up, and if she sat there abstracted or distant, well then he would have to check her pulse for she’d surely be dead. He didn’t much like what he was to do, but he was lacking better ideas. Already he had delayed for days when all should have been ended on the very day the upset occurred.

He reached the heavy drape which served as a door in the simple house they occupied and raised a hand to push it from his path as he stepped through. But before his fingers could contact the cloth he realised there was a little gap between hanging and doorframe. He could see through.

He could see her.

The bathtub was before the fire, and Eleanor had her back to him. The high sides of the tub covered her so only a handspan or so below her shoulders and all that was above that showed. Her hair was in a braid and coiled about her head like a crown to keep it from getting in her way; already washed it shone in the firelight like wet jet. And …

Fulk stared, knowing he was staring and unable to stop.

In shades ranging from angry red to a dusky pink lines ranged across her flesh. Other scars were older, old enough to have become no more than silvery lines, hard to see until the shifting light picked them out, like the teardrop-shaped scar under her eye. Here and there he saw untouched skin, patches of milky white. They were small, and all too rare. Simple attrition had seen to that; so many times had blood been drawn over the years. Her brother’s work was still visible; yellowing bruises, no longer painful, not yet gone. They would go without trace, without permanent reminder.

Eleanor started to soap her left arm; the twist of her body brought the light to bear on her right shoulder. It picked out another mark, crescent-shaped and a pinkish-red, high on her right shoulder.

Once his eyes met that Fulk could no more look away from that one detail than he had earlier from the whole picture. The cut which had left that distinctive mark he’d treated himself, their first night at Woburn some six months ago. He closed his eyes; memory supplied an image of a cut in the shape of half a belt buckle, revealed after he’d rinsed away a clot sufficiently messy to obscure its form.

With very great care Fulk lowered his hand back to his side. Even greater care went into the step backwards, and the one which followed, and the one after that, until he was at the far side of the main room.

Fulk braced trembling hands on the wall either side of him and rested his forehead on the whitewashed plaster. His stomach was roiling. He wanted to lay hands on his former king and make him pay in blood for what he had done. He wanted to shout and rail, and kick something, punch something, do damage. He wanted to cry. He wanted somehow to smooth those scars away, banishing them as nothing more than a bad dream.

Above all he was grateful she knew nothing of all of this. To see him staring like that would have … He was so profoundly grateful that that thankfulness was the sweetest thing in his life at the moment.

Now the idea of trapping her in her bath seemed crueller than hitting her, perhaps even be the single cruellest thing he could have done. No longer just something which would keep her in place and focused while he talked, something which would guarantee a reaction on her part, something she wouldn’t like and thus wouldn’t want to risk repeating, consequences for her disobedience.

He’d known. He’d seen, even. But imagination has a way of being kinder than the reality when the heart desires a gentle fate, as it fed off fear and produced visions worse than any reality. And he had wanted so badly that she need not be so ashamed.

In a year from now most of those marks would have faded to silvery-white, if she were left in peace. If she were left in peace, and no more blood spilled. Then it wouldn’t be so horribly noticeable. The multitude of scars would still be there, and still visible. There was no changing that. But it wouldn’t be as bad.

He’d only seen a fraction of the overall damage.

When Eleanor was finished the bath would be his. He had until the time she appeared, dressed and clean again, in the doorway to master himself so she would never know he’d seen.








The detail as to where they are etc belongs to the following scene, Eleanor’s. It does not belong here. I would hold this back to post the two together, but I expect it will be at least a few days before that scene is ready. And somehow this works nicely in isolation. I don’t presently know where I’d begin or end many chapters if this were a book, but I do know this single little scene would be an entirely chapter to itself. If I named my chapters this one would be “Seeing.” It is IMO one of the most touching scenes I’ve written. Maybe that’s because I can see it all so clearly, or maybe not.

[Vladimir]

Very nice, excellent visualizations; my mind's eye saw the scene quite clearly and Fulk's emotions were far too, familiar. I have read similar short chapters and I think this would do as one. ALWAYS resolve an issue/fight the day it occurs (baring extreme situations). Days of festering does no one any good (just talking at the wind, not story criticism).

On a more delightfully evil note: "He wanted to lay hands on his former king..." Yes, excellent *rubs hands together*. Good to see the old boy is coming around to my way of thinking. But...the king isn't dead :devil: .

[Ciaran]

I´ve only now read the newest installments, my compliments - and birthday congratulations - to you, Lady Frog.
Hugh really is Prince Proper. Why, even when taking a mistress he goes as if by the book :dizzy2:
But hopefully we´ll see a siege battle some time in the future. Or a field battle. Just so it´s big. It´s time for one.



Ciaran: I do like some Hollywood attempts at history. ‘Knight’s Tale’, for example.
That´s not an attempt at history, but a fun movie with a historical background, which is something completely different. I was more thinking of movies centered around real, well-know events or persons.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor wondered if the mixture simmering in the iron pot hung over the fire would be more properly termed soup or stew; it was a bit runny for the former, yet in possession of too many lumpy bits for the latter. Well, whatever it was she wasn’t to blame – Fulk had condescended to let her cut a few vegetables when she’d offered her help and had taken charge of all the rest himself, even supervising her chopping, complaining that first the bits were too small, then too large. Some men were never satisfied.

Eleanor scooped a blob of almond milk cream out of the little pot she had discovered upstairs and started to work some into her hands. Days of running about in the cold had left the skin dried out and sore, prone to splitting across the knuckles if she flexed her fingers.

At least the whatever-it-was smelled nice. After days of cold food in cold weather anything hot seemed like heaven, and if it didn’t have a texture close to what she imagined shoe leather would have then even better. Their remaining bread had succumbed to mould several days ago, leaving them to survive on dried and salted meat, mildewing dried fruit, and cheese so stale that the wedge had been sufficiently hard to make a tolerable axe if fastened to a stick. The close brush with capture at the inn had forced them to revert to keeping away from all other people, skirting settlements and travelling off the roads, day and night with only a few hours rest here and there to make more time.

It was unspeakably good to be clean again, and wearing fresh clothes. And the delight of being able to feel her toes again!

This house could not be called a refuge. It was owned by a merchant, who worked for a man who in turn worked for Miles. Trempwick’s network would be aware of it, in the slender chance her master himself were not. Southampton was too important a port to neglect.

The design of the house was simple. The front room of the ground floor was a shop. The rear half of the building divided into two by a wattle and daub wall, the room exiting into the shop being a rather simple parlour, the rear being a cramped solar. Upstairs had but the two rooms, a bedchamber and an office for the merchant to play with the details of his business and accounts. The kitchen was separate, like the privy, both built in the plot of land at the back of the house, hence their trying to cook using the parlour’s showy fireplace. The townhouse’s thick outer door was barred not once but thrice, stout beams of wood placed in iron loops at top, middle and bottom; the solid metal hinges would open only inwards, not outwards, making the defence stronger. The front door was not alone in its extreme security; like any good target for thieves the house was part fortress.

Anywhere in Southampton carried risk. Any port in England had the same risk, unless she cared to catch ship in a fishing village, travel in a tiny little fishing boat and likely drown before nearing Scotland. Still it was safer than travelling with Anne. The hunt was well and truly on; her escape from the inn would have reached Trempwick’s ears and he could not have failed to work out it was her. Now all was reduced to a simple two possibilities: either he would catch her or he would not. There was now little she could do but follow on with her plan and hope she had brought enough time and confusion. If she hadn’t then she would soon be facing a prickly reunion. What she would do then Eleanor didn’t know and did not try to guess.

There was a relief in this simple course for her future. No longer did she need to play what Fulk called ‘Big Chess’. She needed only to run, until she reached Scotland. That left her mind free to worry away at other issues without guilt or a feeling of wasting time and energy on something which could only come after that which she neglected had been ended.

Hearing the back door being unbarred followed by water pouring away, Eleanor grabbed the spoon and started stirring their dinner. Something at the bottom of the pot felt all thick …

Fulk emerged from the solar a bit later, after locking the door again, attacking his damp hair with a towel. He was dressed in the spare clothes left for him in the house; creased deep green hose and a shirt, no tunic in sight. His jaw glowed pink from recent shaving, and there was a nasty nick on his chin, and his gait was stiff, like he’d just spent a time curled up on himself so his limbs numbed.

Eleanor bit the inside of her lip to keep in check the smile which threatened; his bath must have been worse than her own. If the house’s wooden tub had been cramped for her then he must have been sat with his knees stuffed through his ribs, being thankful he wasn’t of unusual height.

“That should be done by now,” he said, moving to occupy the stool opposite hers at the fireside, clarifying what he meant with a nod at the pot.

Eleanor peered into the little cauldron. She prodded a lump of meat with the spoon; the liquid seemed a lot thicker now than it had last time she’d looked, and surely there was less of it … So it was probably stew after all then. “I suppose it could be done … it does not look raw now.”

Fulk gave his hair one final rub and cast the towel to the floor. Through a haze of tangled hair he looked at her. He said nothing. He sniffed the air; his nostrils flared. Combing his hair back from his face with his fingertips he stood up and moved to the fire. “Yes, I think it might be done,” he said, wrapping his hand in the towel he’d discarded and pulling the stew from over the flames.

Eleanor fetched two bowls and eating spoons from the showy sideboard, placing them on the table near the pot. Fulk was still staring at the food, brows slightly drawn together, mouth compressed into a flat line.

“Well,” he said, moving his stool over to the table and seating himself again, “all yours. Enjoy.”

“You are not going to eat?”

“You think Neptune will want a bigger offering for our safe journey tomorrow? The less you eat the less you can bring back up again,” Fulk assured her cheerfully. “Besides, there’s not really enough of that for two, and being a dutiful husband,” here he gave her yet another of those reproachful looks, “I’ll let you have the lot.”

Eleanor peacefully served her dinner. She was not going to give him a helping hand; it was his problem, for him to solve. He had been fool enough to order her to do something she would not, something he should have known. She would not run away and leave him to an unknown fate. If he had any good objection to that then he would do better to say something openly instead of all this nudging and brooding. Usually he did so; a usefully honest man, basically. “There is plenty,” she said.

Fulk found the comb she had left and started to set his hair to rights.

One lump of meat looked particularly tempting, and Eleanor set forth to capture it. It resisted being scooped up. It didn’t even move. She tried again; with a bit of scraping it came free, the bit which had been in contact with the iron was all brown, and parts of the chunk had kept their close friendship with the pot. “It is burned!”

Finally able to do so without spoiling the ‘surprise’ Fulk burst into laughter. “That, oh most dedicated of cooks, is why you stir it a little regularly instead of furiously for a couple of minutes. I bet you’ve not touched it in all the time I’ve been gone, for it to be in that state.”

Eleanor dumped the spoon into the pot with disgust. She tried to keep her head high; dignity must be maintained even if she could feel heat flooding into her face. “No one ever told me that.”

“I tell you many things you don’t listen to, or ignore.”

A brief examination of her options led to Eleanor beginning the bowlful of unscathed stew. She would not risk provoking him into an outright temper tantrum by appearing to make light of his injured pride.

Hair restored to order, Fulk picked up his hauberk and settled in front of the fire to hasten his drying. He began to inspect the armour, going over it carefully in search of broken or damaged rivets or links. By its very nature mail was mostly self cleaning; the links scraped and rubbed against each other to accommodate movement and this husked off much of the rust which accumulated quickly with wear. The result was far from perfect but more than sufficient for campaign. Eleanor pitied whichever squire was unlucky enough to receive the task of restoring the mail to best condition; he’d be rolling it about in a barrel of sand until fit to collapse from exhaustion.

As she ate Eleanor watched, fascinated. His hands always seemed so big compared to hers, and yet they worked across the armour with deftness, the same light, easy agility which characterised most of his movements. All the easier to see that because the sleeves of his borrowed shirt ended a good half inch or so above his wrist bones. Because it was a fraction too small the shirt pulled tighter across the shoulders than it aught; she could see his muscles working at each little movement of his arms …

Hopefully a little before the point where she might be said to be staring Eleanor returned her attention to her dinner. “Did they not leave you a tunic?” she asked. “You will freeze without one.”

Fulk looked up, hands falling still. “Yes. It’s too big, and a right nasty colour. I’ll wear it when I have to, not before.”

“Oh, hark unto the fussy knight!”

“Says the princess wearing what appears to be a yellow sack. I tell you, whoever arranged these clothes had no idea what to expect.”

Eleanor tutted. “Of course not, you great idiot! Details can be dangerous.”

“Very light details mean I don’t get an ugly tunic and a wife wearing something which makes her look like a sick daffodil. Yellow doesn’t suit you at all.”

“Thank you for that,” Eleanor remarked dryly. The dress was a little on the large size and a cheery saffron colour, but it wasn’t all that bad. She returned to her dinner again.

After a while Fulk finished playing with his hauberk and set it aside with the rest of his gear. The rust and other dirt picked up on his hands he wiped off onto the much-abused and very versatile towel. He hitched his shoulders experimentally, reaching one hand over to touch the knife cut on his back.

Remembering herself, Eleanor did something with the spoon currently hovering part way to her mouth; she swallowed the lukewarm stew with difficulty. Pulling her eyes away from him she turned her mind back to the problem she had been working on for the past few days.

So dedicated was her musing that she nearly leaped off her stool when he tapped her on the shoulder.

Fulk seemed highly amused. “I said, would you mind looking at his wound on my back? It’s nearly healed, but days of wearing my armour with no break might have done it some harm. The padding chafes at it, and the weight of the mail can’t be avoided, then too there was my little bit of exercise in dispatching our rude visitors.”

“Oh. Yes. Can do.” Looking for a specific reason was very different to just looking; you focused on what you were there for and ignored the rest. Which was good.
As he removed the too-small shirt Fulk said, “Stop dwelling on that man and his works. You think on them long past the point of use. You may as well have stayed with him for all the presence he’s still got.”

Steadfastly staring at the ground and his boots Eleanor began, “But-”

“No,” he interrupted. A linen sleeve dangled to keep company with his feet as his arm fell back to his side, shirt bunched up in one fist. “There’s so much that is needful, then the rest is all worrying. You do far too much of that.”

“But-”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re even here. The body might be, but the mind? No, not the mind. Ever since you won free of that man it’s been the same, and getting only worse. Not even a moment ago you weren’t aware I was talking to you because you were too busy worrying pointlessly over things you can’t do much with and don’t know much about.”

Eleanor waited to see if she stood a chance of getting a word or three out. It looked promising; he kept silent. “You are wrong.”

“Am I? I’m not.”

Eleanor folded her arms, and stopped examining the fit of the floorboards so she could attempt to wither him with one of her better glares. “I was looking for a way to marry you openly.”

The tips of Fulk’s ears, stuck out through the rattails of his drying hair, went pink. “Ah.” And then, “Any luck?”

Her answer she considered well. It would not be kind to raise false hope, or to dash hope entirely, and to enlighten him too far might prove dangerous – if she could on occasion be called reckless then so too could he when he grew desperate. “After weeks, months of effort, not really. I have identified little steps, and if we could achieve them in sufficient number, then maybe. Perhaps in the future, when this war is resolved things may look better.” Those steps were mostly obvious, and verging on the impossible. They had also been identified months ago.

A very public wedding so none could claim it had not happened or cast doubt. The church’s blessing in the form of someone too important to cross by simply doing away with the match. Together those two would also make it hard for the disgraced princess and her lowly husband to simply vanish or be imprisoned without causing a furore, and beginning an argument with the church on the sanctity of marriage and the right of a layperson, even a king, to mettle with that. The marriage would have to be consummated as quickly as possible after the vows so it could not be undone on those grounds. Resources sufficient for them to live on would have to be found for when Hugh inevitably reclaimed all that the crown had granted them, meaning everything. Means to meet the fines levied on vassals who married without their lord’s permission; there would be two such fines, and given their status, Hugh’s status, and the magnitude of what they would have done those fines would be of record levels. Paying the whole would be impossible even with the wealth of half a kingdom; paying some would be necessary. There would need to be something, some way to appease Hugh. Lastly, perhaps easiest of all and the only one with some small chance of happening, she would need to find a way to live with being a pariah, hated, despised, a source of disgust, a breach in the social order and a traitor to her rank and family, a demonstration of everything which could be wrong with women.

All of that was but the minimum.

The scab had been ripped off the long knife cut on Fulk’s back. The healed flesh underneath was an angry red and sore to the touch. Eleanor did the only thing she could; she put some of her hand cream onto the injury in the hopes it would soothe the rawness a little.

She tied the string which held the square of oiled rag on the top of the cream container and put it on the sideboard, carefully not looking at Fulk now she had no specific reason to.

Fulk picked up his crumpled shirt and shook it out, the movements registering on the periphery of her vision, specified more through sound than sight. “Why do you always avert your eyes?”

Oh Lord! Not this again. “It is not proper to look.”

“Nonsense!”

“Why do people have such a difficult time believing I might do anything correctly, as if I always go out of my way to be shocking?”

“I meant, it’s perfectly proper if you’re married.” His words were low, quieter than was usual. “I don’t believe you when you say that any more. I think it’s an excuse. Why?”

Eleanor said nothing and started to gather together the used cooking implements, dumping bowl and spoons into the pot with its congealed, burned on stew.

“You do look, sometimes,” said Fulk conversationally. “When you think I won’t notice. But I do.”

“Very bothersome,” grumbled Eleanor, prudently keeping her back to him in case she blushed.

“I’m curious. Really very curious. Normally I can tangle out a gooseberry’s intent, but on this I’m lost.”

“Life should have some mystery left to it.”

Fulk appeared at her side, grinning at her retort and still parading about minus his shirt. He grasped the handle of the cauldron; she didn’t relinquish her grip. “Good to see that even in that dress you’ve still got quick wits.”

“Are you not cold?” asked Eleanor pointedly, looking off into the space between his left shoulder and ear.

“Yes, but I’m a knight with a plan. The best way to get an answer from a resisting royal usually seems to be to annoy her, bother her, and block any chance of her escape. Eventually she’ll explode into a charming display of temper and tell you what you want to know, along with several highly colourful phrases which would shock her noble pa, if he were still alive.”

Eleanor let go of the iron handle suddenly, pushing it towards him. His reactions were good enough that it didn’t belt him in the stomach as he deserved. “Delightful.”

“And often most successful, and as much fun as a roomful of jesters.”

“Arsewit.”

Fulk cupped a hand to one ear. “Is that the sound of a king clawing his way from his tomb I hear?”

The maddening thing about his idiotic plans was that often they were as good as he claimed. This small thing obviously mattered a lot to him. Eleanor sighed, capitulating. “I do not look because it is not proper.” When Fulk would have repeated his infuriating contradiction yet again she raised her voice for just one word, “Because,” he stilled, waiting. Dropped to a mumble she admitted, “I doubt I would ever stop looking. There is nothing proper about staring like a landed carp for hours at a time.” She glared at him defiantly, having made a fool of herself thus far it really couldn’t get worse. “There are some things in life at present it is not useful to be thinking about, so forgive me if I try not to exacerbate matters.” She prodded the pinkish mark on his flank Trempwick’s ‘test’ shortly after his arrival at Woburn had left him. “And I do not at all like seeing how piece by piece I am getting you carved up and killed!”

“You make me sound like a cross between a work of art and a roasted hog.”

When the kiss broke Eleanor found sufficient wind to gasp, “More the hog than the other.” Her knees gone weak, she leaned on him, head tucked in the hollow formed by his throat. No cause now to complain about him being restrained, if anything he was quite the reverse.

One of Fulk’s hands busied itself letting her hair down. “Seems I’ve got a few choices, amongst others, and I’ve been thinking on them, amongst other things.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t really come to any conclusion in any of them.”

Eleanor tiled her face up and kissed the underside of his jaw in commiseration. He reared his head up and away, trying to escape, but that only gave her a better target.

“However some of them are getting really quite pressing.”

He sounded so strained Eleanor thought it might be kinder to leave him alone, so she did. Close to him as she was she felt the small sigh of relief even if it were smothered well enough to be inaudible. His chin came to rest on the top of her head, companionable and making it harder for her to do that again.

“Really it all falls into two basic sides, and much as one of them appeals right now and I know it’d likely work, I’d prefer it if you didn’t hate me. So it seems like I’m going with the second, I guess.”

He expected an answer of some sort, it appeared. “Oh.”

“So I’ll ask, instead of making the question moot, and I’ll ask while you’re in some fit state to actually think.”

Unsettled, Eleanor pulled back to stand on her own two feet.

“You say you might need to prove Trempwick a liar again, but you won’t. You refuse both ways you might, rightly so to my way of thinking. So there’s no reason for us to keep apart.”

Oh.

“Well?” he said nervously. “Say something, before I die of tension.”

He wasn’t going to be a happy knight, and there was no way around that. Not that she felt much better. Already Fulk had frozen into an inscrutable attitude. “You are wrong; there is reason.” And only one which was worth speaking; the rest he would dismiss with a wave of his hand and some pretty words. “Of late I have had several occasions to be profoundly glad I am still a virgin. Imagine what would have happened to me as Trempwick’s wife if I were not; he would made me pay for the rest of my life. Or if I had not been able to prove his claims false; you think Hugh would have been kindly inclined to me then? Who knows what may happen next? I would be ruined, completely, like my sister. She is going to die in that prison of hers. It does not seem prudent to lose an invaluable, irreplaceable asset for five minutes of supposed fun.”

“Five minutes?” exclaimed Fulk, making a valiant effort. “Supposed?! Slander!” He drew himself up, so indignant he was the very definition of the word; shaking, the act wobbling on the edge of collapse. “More like five and a half, and I’d like to think it would be well worth being quietly disposed of for treason for.”

“I am sorry.”

He pulled his shirt on, tangling his head in the fabric and needing to fight his way to the neck hole. “You’re just thinking like the princess you are. Which is good. Knew you’d have to, now things are as they are.”

“I am sorry,” she repeated. It took much not to fidget, or run.

“Forget it. You are who you are, and that makes things different for you, which I forgot. I forgot how much damned value they place on these things at your level.”

Eleanor felt sure he hadn’t forgotten.

“Well.” He straightened his shoulders with a small jerk and raised his chin. “That’s that and there we go. They say celibacy is good for the soul.”

“You do not have to be.” It had been easier to dash his hopes than say this; why was it so often easier to hurt than to please?

He sighed, exasperated. “How many times must I say I’m not interested in anyone else?”

“I was not thinking of that. More of er …” the rest came out in a rapid torrent, “what you did before.” She waited for the humiliating rejection and wondered again why she bothered offering, knowing that he’d found it so unsatisfactory.

“I said I wouldn’t-”

“Yes. Well. If you are selfish I find it easy to forgive you because the need for it comes from my own selfishness.” Eleanor scrabbled for something to add, something basically honest and encouraging which wouldn’t leave her even further open to embarrassment. “Besides, it was not so bad, and whatever damage might be said to have been done is already done.” Or as the popular saying went, honour once lost could never be retrieved; the stain remained for all your life and on after your death, shaming your descendents. The subject of the saying may originally have been knights and their courage in battle, but it applied well to many things. Like princesses and baseborn bastard knights.

She waited for some sort of response in the same braced, part cringing way that had become second nature when around her father and now around Hugh, waiting for the pleasantries to break and the pain to begin. Nothing happened. Eleanor looked up, viewing him from under her brows, head still ducked; her eyes met his. He was gazing at her, expression fiercely neutral again.

Fulk reached out, slowly, and placed his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up. “I think we can do better than ‘not so bad’.”

And he was right. It was … agreeable.

In the broad sense of things there was no difference, or even really in the smaller detail. She knew what to expect, and he was settled on what he was doing; maybe that was all the difference. Tender, self-assured, focused entirely on her, it was almost as if he were trying to prove something. He said only one thing the entire time, excepting “I love you.”, and that was when she declined to part with her shift. “How could you be anything other than beautiful to me? I hope one day you’ll believe that.”





Still mostly asleep Eleanor half turned and stretched out an arm, only to find an empty space. Fulk was gone. Eyes open, she completed her roll, propping herself on an elbow. Nothing, and the bed’s curtails were drawn, denying her a view of the room. She worked her way across to what had been his side and parted the hangings.

He stood by the window, feet planted a shoulder’s width apart. He’d unfastened one shutter, and one hand rested on the wooden windowsill. The other hung at his side, fingers curled. His leaving was not the only thing he’d achieved without disturbing her - he was dressed. Exhaustion was taking its toll on her.

Without turning, or giving any sign that he’d heard the rustle of bedding which gave her wakefulness away Fulk raised his right hand and uncurled his fingers; a small object dropped from his grip to swing at the end of a cord he held.

Eleanor’s hand went to her breastbone and encountered only his necklace. Trempwick’s ring was gone. He must have cut the thong, or he could never have removed it without waking her.

The ring’s wild spinning calmed into a steady back and forth sway, that itself gradually running out of momentum.

“You still have his other ring.”

Eleanor’s right hand closed as if under threat of having the gold band with her badge removed also. “You have no right to take that.” Inwardly she winced, wishing the words recalled. He had every right, even if he had gifted her property back to her.

Fulk turned to look over his shoulder in earnest, then with a series of very deliberate movements put his back to the window and stood facing her. She couldn’t see his expression and wished dearly she could. “No right?” A flick of his hand sent the ring up into the air; he snatched it and held it in his fist again, the severed ends of the leather thong trailing from his hand. He loosened his grip sufficiently to draw the thong out with delicate gentleness and cast it to the floor. For a moment she thought he might toss the ring itself out of the window.

When he did throw the ring it was aimed right at her; Eleanor flinched back from the tiny missile. It landed on the blankets near her knees; she’d been in no danger.

“Lady, be glad I try so hard not to be jealous. Few others would be so indulgent.”

“I know. I am grateful.”

“Something’s been preying on my mind for months. It’s got more urgent of late.” He paused. “If anything happens to me you will go to Trempwick. He will take better care of you than your brother; he needs you.”

“No.”

His head turned to the right, not nearly enough to allow him to glance over his shoulder towards her. “I am not asking. I am telling.” Very resentfully he said, “You think I would send you back to that accursed man if I saw any better way? I’d give him nothing if it could be avoided, not even something I despised.” Fulk turned back to his window and laid his palms flat on the window sill. Calmer, still commanding, “In the event of my death you will go to him; I wish it. You will live as necessary; you will not do anything foolish. You will not waste my death should I die for you.”

“Without you I have no life.”

“And yet you will live. Swear it. On my soul.”

Without him Eleanor couldn’t see any future except a lonely time spent waiting to join him in the next life; as she didn’t care what happened to her during that time she swore as requested, to give him some comfort.

Fulk nodded, his back still to her. “Good. One other thing: You will not disobey me again, no matter the order I give, no matter your thoughts on it. You will obey. You will accept that in some matters I know more than you, and that you are not always right, not infallible, and not invulnerable. And no more skirting about what I order either; don’t think I didn’t know. If you don’t keep your word there I can’t trust you. Worse, it implies I’m not worth the effort, and that you don’t trust me either. I will not be so forgiving again.” She’d never heard him sound like that, authoritative and more than a bit frightening.

Meekly Eleanor agreed, “Yes, my lord.”

“I’ve told you what little I want before, and you’ve brains enough to work out what’s sensible and what’s not for this awkward marriage of ours, just as I know my own side of things. I will not be your pet. I will put up with much others would not, but I will not be your pet. Equal partners; as I won’t try and subdue you, you won’t princess me about.”

Fulk returned to the bed and started to remove the clothes he’d donned. “If I didn’t know my side of things I’d probably be throwing things or something by now.” Midway through removing his tunic his voice took a lighter note, a strained note. “My mother said we were all the same, nobles and knights. The stallions of the human race, she called us. Like warhorses; aggressive from birth, encouraged in it to a fine degree, though some are far worse than others. Kicking and biting at the least provocation or irritation, or from plain mischief. Said if the world had any sense the lot of us would be gelded alongside our saddle horses, so we’d be more use and less trouble, like our saddle horses.”

Eleanor offered a rather weak smile, only to realise he couldn’t see it. “Explains my father and brother …”

“She wanted me to be a clerk or some such, not a warrior; I don’t think she ever really forgave my father for that.” He climbed into bed and sought her out, cold to the touch. He settled her in the crook of his arm. “Go back to sleep.”





Fulk didn’t sleep again that night; he hadn’t expected to.

Forgiving. It sounded better than helpless. For safety’s sake he’d have to think of something in case she took it into her head to ignore this latest warning and go cavorting off into the middle of a battle or something, instead of staying somewhere quiet and being bored as told.

And as for the other … The princess sleeping in the shelter of his arms looked so defenceless. Sleeping people always did. You never realised how much of a guard most people had until you saw them with all defences banished.

Some excuses were easier accepted. Some hid more, covering the true weaknesses. Hers he thought was both, and a reasonable pinch of the truth. He’d found what he wanted and now he felt comfortable that he knew and understood, some possibilities dismissed, others priorities adjusted. She wouldn’t simply say she was afraid, or that she couldn’t stand the thought of him seeing her and being revolted, or perhaps that she didn’t want to risk the death in childbirth so many had foretold for her. Princesses – or gooseberries – were probably not supposed to have ordinary little worries, like being a disappointment to the one they loved. And so on. Matters of honour, state, and necessity all sat better and gave a defence harder to assault.

So he’d address those reasons as best he could without appearing to, as he’d started to do tonight. It was time and past time, and long past time. She was as fed up with this state of affairs as he was, with the disadvantage of being pulled in two ways; wanting and not wanting.









Sorry this took so long. The problem was really that I kept on being interrupted each time I sat down to write. I’d just get into the flow of things and then interruption! Because of the nature of this bit it took me a long time to settle back into it enough to begin to write again, and then I’d get a few more paragraphs done and be interrupted again. Ggrrrrrr! The ‘finished’ article feels rather rough, perhaps in need to trimming as well as polishing, but the way things are going I could be here for days yet before that is done.

Thank you to all those who voted for this story and my froggy self in this year’s Hall of Fame. I had meant to post earlier., but the best laid plans of frogs and men tend to explode into fiery death with loud bangs. Or something. That’s the second time Nell has won me this; the original Nell two years ago won me the first (and at the time only; this year the award was split into two. For the curious, there was no Hall of Fame last year, so nothing to win there) award for writing. It has been a long, long journey for both of us, and I like to think we’ve both gained a lot on the trip. I can hardly believe I’ve been keeping company with a gooseberry princess and her cohort of loonies for so long!

I had a PM’d enquiry about Blood Red Hand. As quite a few old readers are around here I thought I’d make the answer a public one. Yes, I am still working on it. However the story has evolved so far it doesn’t bear much resemblance to the original; it’s a big improvement in every way, and free of the constraints of the forum it’s blooming. As Eleanor would bloom if similarly freed.

The plot for the original … I’ll share some. :) Very, very, very brief summery of the main things here:

Donchad and Eve fell in love, to the point where, with typical Donchad recklessness, he asks her to dump Culad just before their wedding and run away with him. She refuses; the shame to herself and her family would be devastating, the alliance between the two families is needed, and pride won’t allow her to live as Donchad’s mistress. So Donchad leaves court the very evening of the wedding, slipping out during the feast with no explanation or farewell to his best friend and cousin.

Donchad and Nuala’s relationship falls apart, completely and devastatingly. He murders her father in an argument which gets way out of control, an argument over Donchad’s poor treatment of Nuala. Nuala herself dies a decade or so later, having spent most of that time living apart from her husband. She is split from her daughter, who she’d only just begun to love, and never sees her again. Nuala I pity something chronic. When you remember how in love they were at the beginning …

Culad and Eve have three children, two sons and a daughter, in four years.

Culad … never really recovers from losing Margaret. He takes too many blows, and finds little to fill the empty bits of his life. He likes Eve, but no more. Blows? Where to begin? It’s over four years before Donchad returns to court, and he only comes because Culad and Eve’s second child, a daughter named Margaret, dies. Eve might be older and in some ways wiser, but she’s devastated by her loss and can’t really hope her marriage to Culad will become more than the amiable but rather empty match it is, so when she and Donchad meet again, him having lost none of his feelings at all …

To minimalise things, Culad finds out. He loses his best friend and wife in one go, the two adults he most trusted and cared for, and his third child by Eve he loses too, because he can’t be sure he is the father. Loses in a metaphorical way, you understand; they don’t die. He banishes Donchad, locks Eve and questionable son up, and sinks deeper into his grief. The son is actually his, not Donchad’s.

Culad has slips back into his womanising ways, and goes from dabbling a toe in the pond to splashing about in the middle of the lake. He also begins to drink too much.

After a few years Culad is moved to forgive Eve, and brings her back to court along with her son. A year or so later he grudgingly makes peace with Donchad, but never again are they friends, and they spend most of their time away from each other.

Meanwhile amidst all this little GillaÍsu is growing up, watching his father grow more and more distant, more and more …broken. He resolves early on that he won’t be the same. The years go by and the boy grows, purging himself of every weakness he sees in his father and in those he might have looked up to, such as Donchad. Not like Hugh, more … cold, calculating, controlled. Not like Trempwick either though. A perfectionist, demanding the very highest of himself even when that is far too much and he almost ruins himself reaching for it. You have to see it to really understand it. Knowing how his parents were it breaks the heart; he is everything they were not, as he wished to be, and so he never loves, never really laughs, never enjoys life, never …

GillaÍsu was betrothed to Donchad and Nuala’s daughter when they were both less then two years old. He breaks that betrothal with the simple dismissal, “You are only suitable for a mistress, not a wife. Too simple, too lowly, too … bland to be matched with my greatness.”

Through all the years there is assorted plentiful warfare and politics. I won’t try to sum up.

Culad dies when GillaÍsu is 15, dies from wounds taken in battle. That scene was … horrible. He is cut from his horse and trampled; the body they bring from the field is a wreck, still living, but only barely. There is a scene as he is dying, unconscious, with GillaÍsu, Eve and Donchad in attendance. GillaÍsu proclaims that he is now the Duke of Ulster, and Donchad may take his whore and their brat and go. Go and never come back, and if they are still within his lands by dawn he will have them hunted down and killed. He dispossesses them of everything. Works better when you see it; Culad’s wife and former best friend being banished by his son as he lies dying and oblivious.

There is irony here. You probably won’t remember but:
He [Culad] picked it [a list of potential brides] up and quickly skimmed the list, “So then, headache, which one’ll it be? You choose.” He picked his son’s podgy hand up and positioned it over the list, “Go on, pick a name.”
GillaÍsu frowned in concentration, and then stabbed his finger at a name, proclaiming one of his very few words, “Duck.”
“Eve of Mar.” read Culad, “Eve of Mar…Scotland?”

GillaÍsu picked the stepmother he hated all his young life. He despised her for betraying his father, and for being weak enough to have an affair, the hate amplified by the fact that as a tiny boy he actually loved her, only later did the brown stuff hit the fan and only later still did he understand it. To begin with little GillaÍsu was crying for he missing Eve.

Colban the priest was a bastard, an anathema to everything he had been taught to believe. That’s why his former abbot hated him so much, and why his father was so distant and left him nothing. It’s not ‘accepted bastard’ a la Fulk, it’s ‘bastard as physical manifestation of sin and evil’. An unwanted child, in every possible way. Culad arranged for him to be released of his vows (he’d never wanted to be a monk, remember) and gave him a place in his bodyguard. He became an able and fearless warrior, and served well, becoming close to his lord. He died in battle about 4 years before Culad himself.

GillaÍsu is … a formidable Duke of Ulster. By sword and guile he forces the other Irish Dukes to bow to him so he becomes High King of Ireland. But as a man he is never happy. As a son he never finds much of his parents; he’s divorced from everything Culad and Margaret were.

There’s still loads I haven’t covered, many characters not even mentioned, many plot threads left severed or that you don’t even know exist. To outline it all properly I’d be here forever, and I’d start writing it as a story instead of a summery, because that is what frogs do. The same would happen if I tried the same with Eleanor.

Blood Red Hand was/is I think a rather sad story. It mostly seems to be about loss in its many forms, the happier bits seem only to be preludes to those losses and serve to make them meaningful. Even half the triumphs are losses in a way.




Vladimir: Good advice. Pity Fulk didn’t take it.

Ah, just imagine Fulk’s delight when he finds out William is still alive and he can in fact lay hands on him :evil grin: Poor dumb knight; he’d die for treason if he tried it.

Ciaran: That is why I can’t stand Hugh. Left to his own devices I doubt he’d even bother with a mistress, unless he’d been away from Constance for a few months and wasn’t likely to see her again for a while. He’s a loyal man, to those whom he finds worthy of it.

[Vladimir]

Good update. There always seems to be a certain amount of *ahem* tension (~:flirt:) in your story. As to:


The ‘finished’ article feels rather rough

Don't worry,


It was … agreeable.

Sorry to hear about the interruptions. Don’t worry about the pause in posting, the worst part (for me) is the fear that it may be indefinite. If it is please let us know. :sweatdrop:

[frogbeastegg]

The ship was a speck on the horizon. The tide was beginning to turn; no more ships could sail this morn. Trempwick stared after it for a brief time. Then he turned, abrupt, stalked away down the pier, his escort falling into place behind him. Apparently unconcerned. Unbothered.

No more doubt. No more wilfully blinding himself. Hobbling himself. Overconfidence! Softness! What it had done to him!

And so time to apply himself to his limits. Others would catch his treacherous Nell. And return her to him. He had a war to win. Once won, where was her choice?








So it's a small part, but it's a part none the less :tongueg:

Vladimir: I can honestly and definitely say that the only reasons I would stop this story and not tell everyone are death or memory loss. I don't think it is right to begin and then vanish; even if just one page is posted then an explanation of the abandonment is owed to those who did start to read. I also don't think it's right to stop posting any story before the end unless the reasons are very damned good.

[Vladimir]

Hmmm, I wonder who's on that ship ( :devil: ) and what's waiting for him ( :skull: ).

[Ludens]

So it's a small part, but it's a part none the less :tongueg:
And who says scenes have to be long in order to be good?

So, the lines are drawn, the pieces are moving (wrong order, I admit, but that's the nature of game), and it is down to Trempwick vs. Eleanor.

I am eagerly waiting for the next episode.

[Vladimir]

I am eagerly waiting for the next episode.

I agree. This time I'm actually looking forward to waiting. If my assumption is correct this is a major development and well worth the wait.

[frogbeastegg]

The clerk finished scribing the opening formalities of the letter and looked up to his master for further instruction. The King began to dictate, “Is it now custom in your lands to demand homage from the heirs of men still strong, for lands not yet theirs? I must assume you were at the time ignorant of my state of health, and so shall forgive you the insult caused.”

Jocelyn whistled, keeping it near-silent in this fancy gathering. If he could see the regents’ reaction to that! The young King of France’s mother and uncle were sat on an increasingly unruly horse, hanging on with a death grip as saddle and bridle broke. At fifteen the boy was old enough to want some of what was his, no longer to be mollified with toys. If he were any type of man, Jocelyn added. The boy was known for faffing about with banalities and nonsense like reading, writing and philosophy to the exclusion of more manly pursuits like the arts of war. So he’d written a treatise on the ideal prince, what was he going to do with it in case of trouble? Have it bound in a heavy cover and hit his enemies over the head with it in the hope they’d lose consciousness? That was why they’d invented swords - because they were a bloody sight more efficient. Then too there was the realm; if the boy lacked balls not all his nobles did, and the wounds caused by the regents had been festering for years. Like a rotten cut, all it’d take was one good prod and the poison would burst forth. Even if a right coward and incompetent prat the boy would make a good figurehead now.

The great seal was applied to the bottom of the letter; folded, wrapped in a protective covering of oiled silk the package was entrusted to one of the messengers standing ready. With a bow the messenger left on his errand.

“Now,” said William, addressing his gathered council, “to another matter. Gaufroi FitzRobert, my tenant at my demesne manor near Saumur. Summoned to me when I landed in Normandy, he has yet to appear or send me word, despite having had weeks to do so.” The King’s eyes flitted about the gathering, searching. Until they lighted on Jocelyn. “Ah, my lord of Tourraine.”

Jocelyn stepped forward to stand clear of the others he’d been with. “Sire?” Please God this wasn’t to be some filthy errand, disaster, humiliation, or anything else along those lines! A pair of candles to be lit from gratitude in the first church he found if divine favour continued to follow him.

“When a man takes to playing with his children then it is time and more to get him into action, lest his sword rust and he lose stomach for battle.”

“My sword’s in perfect condition, and so’s my stomach.” If Jocelyn’s tone was curt he didn’t care, even from his lord he wouldn’t stand for humiliation. God’s wounds!

Playing with his children? When his whole family had been dragged along against his wishes, crammed all together into one damned room night after night, stop after stop, and that when there was a room to be had. Following the royal progress was a bloody nightmare, worse than he’d expected. Too many blithering cretins. Limping along at a crippled, broken-legged dog’s pace because of the frailty of the King, not that there was any help or blame for that, only that it was maddening to dawdle so. Always too little space in wherever they stopped for the night – and sometimes there was no building, only tents, which was fine for a campaign but when your wife and baby were in tow it was disgraceful, in the name of a deified herring! Even if the tent were tall enough to stand in and of very good size – so only the favoured had a room. It was a mark of his standing with his lord and his rank that this time they’d been given a poxy little shithole of a room in the building where food was stored; many of the lower people were camping outside the manor’s walls, their customary places in the main hall and passageways taken by their masters. And as for being mewed up for a couple of days in that bloody hell-hole of a miserable pox-spawned castle while waiting for the King to recover from discovering the big fat steaming pile of betrayal awaiting him back in England!

The problem with spending all this time with his family was that he was stuffed in close quarters with his bloody family! Jesù grant him patience, but it was enough to drive a man mad. He loved, adored, worshiped his children and would do anything for them, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be around when Jean started crying in the middle of the night, or when Mahaut and Thierry both ended up sulking and pretending the other didn’t exist thanks to some upheaval about a ball and who it belonged to.

Richildis, damn her black soul to hell – God bless her! – was enjoying herself. Why? Being able to swan about being all posh at people was part of it, and basking in the King’s favour. But the main? The main had to be the damned fact they were all damned well packed in together like damned fish in a damned barrel, damn it. Alright, he was a confident man, and he could probably perform admirably in bed even with an audience. But, far and above any fears of one of those very rare … bad days lay the certain bloody knowledge that three children, one squire, one wet nurse and two maids would overhear the bitch telling him to keep his hands to himself and go to sleep. So much for his reputation. And so much for it if she didn’t, because then the whole mob would note a distinct lack of any sort of mildly happy response from her. The only groans that frigid bitch made were of the resigned sort. It effectively freed her from most of her part of their damned bargain, while she still nattered on at him about how to read some stupidly long poem on some prat giving some highly expensive whore who was currently pretending to be a virtuous maiden a rose made of pure gold and rubies to prove he loved her, like she’d asked him to.

“Good,” said the King. If he noticed the abruptness he didn’t show it. “Then you will have no objection to leading the party to demonstrate my disapproval for my errant vassal.”

Unsure which was most suitable, swearing or thanking God, Jocelyn bowed slightly and murmured, “As you wish, Sire.” While he was off playing soldier his family would be here in the King’s clutches, unprotected. It was a chance for him to show his skill, earn a bit more trust, maybe win a reward or two. A quick bit of calculation revealed he could have the whole thing done and be back with the court in two weeks, perhaps a day or so more. Unless something went wrong.

The King leaned over to speak to his clerk in a hushed voice. The other man nodded and started to write. Addressing Jocelyn once more, “You will take your contingent, saving for however many you choose to leave behind to act as your family’s honour guard. I shall lend you eighteen of my own liveried men, including one knight. One of my clerks will accompany you. This should prove more than sufficient; the manor building is not fortified and he holds no army, though the lands are rich. I leave matters to your judgement, only rid me of this disloyal man and do me no great harm in the process. I am having prepared for you a writ, detailing your authority as my man.”

“Thank you, Sire.” Praise be to God, and thanks for his bounty … ? This could turn out well. Surely no duchy to be gained from it, but many and of varied size were the useful things in life. Yes, surely God continued to watch over him and favour him! Jocelyn smiled as he rose from his bow, briefly, before he managed to wipe it away. Being away from his family on this little jaunt would mean he’d be away from his family. Make that three candles to be lit in thanks.

The clerk finished his writing, and began to fix the great seal to the writ. Jocelyn went to the table set next to the dais to collect it, and stowed it in his belt pouch. “With my lord’s permission, I’ll go and set things in motion at once. With a bit of haste I can leave tomorrow, first light.”

The King nodded his approval, crown flashing as it caught the light. “Yes, go. Remind them of their lord, their obligations, and the fact my reach is as it ever was. Disloyalty will not be tolerated, by any, no matter how small or how grand. Punishment will come, and of that all may be sure. Let that be remembered where hearts falter, and where false rumour spreads. I am king, no other.”








She Vladimir. It's Nell's ship ...

Ludens! Finally caught up? Well done :gives some nice soothing eyedrops to Ludens:

[Vladimir]

She Vladimir. It's Nell's ship ...



:oops:

Ship? I don't remember her getting on a bloody ship. :book:...

[Ludens]

Ship? I don't remember her getting on a bloody ship. :book:...
I don't either, but she does announce her intention to rejoin Anne in Scotland when she is in the house of the Southhampton merchant.


Ludens! Finally caught up? Well done :gives some nice soothing eyedrops to Ludens:
Yes. Now I am behind-hand with reading for my project. Oh, well, life is all about priorities :juggle2: .

A question, if I may: does Jocelyn have another function apart from providing a POV near William? He was introduced relatively late into the story and I didn't really care about him or Ricildis until the scene where she teaches him to dance. He provides comic relief (and is rather good at that), but I am wondering if he will grow important. I consider him as the odd one out, as all the other POV-characters are main players and their stories are intertwined, whereas his tale is almost a story on itself.

[Vladimir]

A question, if I may: does Jocelyn have another function apart from providing a POV near William? He was introduced relatively late into the story and I didn't really care about him or Ricildis until the scene where she teaches him to dance. He provides comic relief (and is rather good at that), but I am wondering if he will grow important. I consider him as the odd one out, as all the other POV-characters are main players and their stories are intertwined, whereas his tale is almost a story on itself.

In my own unskilled opinion I thought that he was being used to demonstrate how the nobility was changing at that period.

[Ludens]

In my own unskilled opinion I thought that he was being used to demonstrate how the nobility was changing at that period.
I don't think so. Not unless Froggy has a really feministic view on social development ~D .

[Vladimir]

I don't think so. Not unless Froggy has a really feministic view on social development ~D .

Careful not to bite your tong. ~;p Or maybe that's just a wad of chewing tobacco. :no:

[frogbeastegg]

The words from the outer chamber were so lost in the roar of water flowing over Eleanor’s head that she couldn’t even tell who had spoken, Anne or Hawise. She set the empty jug down and scraped soapy hair away from her face, remaining bent over the bathtub with the ends of her hair trailing in the warm water. “Pardon?”

“I said,” Anne called, “that I am really glad to see you here safe.”

So she’d said, a great many times, and Eleanor hadn’t even been back an hour yet.

Eleanor refilled the jug from the bowl of clean water and poured the contents, scrubbing with her fingertips to encourage the soap to leave. With impeccable timing someone started speaking again as the next load of water deafened her.

“Pardon?” Eleanor asked again, a trace of impatience escaping. Water went into her mouth, fortunately nearly soap-free.

Hawise’s voice answered. “Oh, let us know when you have finished washing your hair. Far easier.”

One final half filled jugfull did its work, and Eleanor simply upended the bowl over her head to get the last remnant of water she couldn’t scoop up. Gathering her hair into a rope she folded it over several times into a clump she could wring out with her hands, still hunched over the tub. A faint, salty tang filled her nostrils, the sea salt from her hair warring in the same water with the rose oil. When her efforts ceased to win even a droplet, she stood, tossing the clump of hair back over her shoulder where it belonged, to unravel and sort itself out as best it may.

“Finished,” she declared. “Now start telling me things.” Collecting her comb, Eleanor started to do something about the wild madwoman ‘style’.

“Well,” said Anne hesitantly, “there was nothing really. Are you sure you do not need help?”

“Perfectly. Unlike you I have not been plagued with a maid all my life.”

“But you have Hawise now. I do not see why you keep on doing everything the hard way.”

Hawise’s soft voice stated, “Habit.”

Eleanor’s comb paused for a second before setting to with renewed vigour. The maid’s politic reply somehow only served to remind of the true reason which lay below the still valid lesser reasons of keeping her independence and not wishing to be fussed over.

After a bit Anne spoke again. “There was nothing really. Godit has been in a really bad mood ever since she found you and Fulk were not actually with us. She was one of the few who did find out, it could not be helped.” She sounded very anxious; Eleanor could easily picture her, hands clasped together, eyes big and pleading.

With a smile that was part grimace, Eleanor told her, “I knew it would not be perfect. The important thing is that only a few know, and those closely placed to us and unlikely to talk.” And that they had known when it was too late for them to do anything harmful with the information. Her fingers began to work her hair into a braid; it was always easier to do when wet, because the strands clumped together and stayed so. “What did she say?”

It was Hawise who answered, Anne perhaps not wishing to betray one friend to another, or perhaps then only reluctant to say something she thought wouldn’t be liked. Her voice was kept low enough that Eleanor had to strain to hear, and anyone outside would have only heard the meaningless mumblings of general conversation. “She said it was disgusting, that you were cruel and took pleasure from it.”

To herself Eleanor murmured, “Poor man would have to go on a ship however we travelled, and I cannot say it was fun.” She’d spent the first part of the voyage alternately watching Fulk vomiting over the side and passing him some water to clean his mouth afterwards. The rest had all been looking after him, the first time she’d needed to do so since that voyage from France to England; his various wounds had all caused him far less trouble. If the wretched sight he made had prompted a soft feeling in her back then, now it had truly bloomed into something almost maternal. It was bloody frightening! It was one thing to love a man and all that, and another entirely to wish to gather him up and keep him from all harm, always and forever, wrapped up in some safe cloud of happiness like a babe in a cradle, stopping him from being a man at all. That Eleanor had vowed long ago she would never do. By the time he’d begun to perk up they had been about to dock in Perth, Scotland’s capital.

Hawise continued, unknowing of Eleanor’s interruption. “She said you should stop playing with him, as you do not care and know he truly does. If left alone he’d recover, but you won’t let him; instead you put a tighter noose abut his neck and make him hope where there is none.”

A bit too loudly Anne said, “She does not mean it! Not like that. Not really. It is only she loves him-”

Eleanor’s fingers tightened on her braid. “No she does not. She lusts after a handsome face and gentle manner, like many others.” “What does the fool expect me to do? I have no interest in languishing in a convent with only his severed head for company.” She looked at Fulk’s ring, once again on her right ring finger with Trempwick’s gift ring, her heart finger left bare.

Holding the end of the plait between her lips, Eleanor formed a loose knot with her ribbon and slipped it into place, pulling it tight before her work could unravel too badly. “What else?”

Hawise said, “We were followed, before we reached Dunwich. At a distance, and discreetly; men in hunting clothes, lightly armed with bow and knife. Our escort didn’t catch a single one, but they kept them far enough at bay. They vanished some time in the second night, and we were left in peace.”

Trempwick’s men, Eleanor was sure of it. “Was my decoy seen?”

“Only at a distance, by all but myself, Anne, Miles, and Anne’s maids.”

“Fulk’s decoy?”

“The same as yours, and also his squire, and a few of your men, the ones who were with us when Trempwick tried to abduct you. We were very careful.”

“I do not doubt it,” Eleanor assured her. If the trackers hadn’t seen that she was not there then somehow they must have been told by someone who did know. But who? That was the same maddening question she had been looking at for months. Godit still felt like the right candidate, but there was not a jot of proof, and no good way to obtain it.

Hair pinned up into a bun at the nape of her neck, Eleanor looked to the door again, making sure it was still shut except for the tiniest of cracks so they could continue to speak. Quickly she stripped off her shift and underwear and sank into the bath, one hand reaching for the soap before she’d even sat down.

Anne asked, “Do you want me to tell you a bit about Scotland now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my father and brothers are all away, so only my grandmother is left in Perth. James is still in St. Andrews; his household is based there. He is only ten anyway, so he would not be much use. Malcolm is hunting, around the royal manor at Glenrothes; that is quite close, about a two day ride. Father is holding court in Dumfries; word has been sent, and it is likely he will come up to meet us. It will be at least nine days, if they all move really quickly.”

“Tell me about your elder brother then, since he is near and we may meet him.”

“I hope not,” said Anne passionately. There was a pause which Eleanor fancied to be filled with the usual guilty flush. “He really is not very nice.”

Hawise’s voice came, “I had heard … But then you hear all sorts, and my own eyes have shown me that some things I’d heard aren’t true.”

Hurrying on with her washing, Eleanor wondered if she wanted to ask her maid what she had heard which had proven false. Probably not; hearing how her life had been twisted and falsified always made her furious, and there was not a single thing she could do.

“They call him Malcolm the Lame.” Anne’s voice was hushed as though she were telling a scary story. “But he is not. It is only the … nice way of saying it. He calls himself,” her voice dropped lower, “Malcolm Nefastus.”

Malcolm the Unholy, Eleanor translated from the Latin. Now there was an unlucky name, one which called for the attention of Satan and Church alike. She’d heard of Anne’s brother, of course, and most of what she had heard had been so fanciful she’d dismissed it as being a pack of lies.

“He has red hair.”

“So,” pointed out Hawise, “do you.”

“No, really red, not an auburn like me, or a russet sort of colour like Father or James. Red, proper red.”

Red hair generally being considered the mark of the devil, and of a wanton, capricious personality, a fiery temper; it appeared in the bible on such notables as Judas Iscariot and Cain. Eleanor began to wash her back, scrubbing at the skin as hard as she could, until the coarse washcloth made the flesh feel raw. People had said she should have red hair.

Hawise kept on being sensible. “Which means little, I think. All sorts of people who don’t have red hair act like they should, and those who do have it – like you – don’t. Mark of the devil? Nonsense. And I don’t see what this has to do with him being lame.”

“He was born with six toes on his left foot,” Anne explained. Quickly she added, “Or so they say.”

Eleanor rinsed her back off, more anxious than ever to have this bath over and done.

“Six, the number of the Beast. Left, the sinister side of the body. The Devil’s mark!”

Eleanor called through, “It is only rumour, surely?”

“Well,” Anne sounded reluctant, “I was not born when he was, so I cannot say like that, but he never takes his shoes off in public or does anything which might need him to, like swimming. They say the extra toe was cut off within an hour of his birth and burned on a fire, and the midwives sworn to secrecy.”

“So there is no proof,” concluded Eleanor. She grabbed the towel lying beside the tub and stood, wrapping it about herself like a cloak. “But the boy does little to help himself.”

Hawise said, “Surely if he could prove the rumour false he’d do so? That he doesn’t …”

“Yes,” agreed Anne. “And he revels in it, anyway. As I said, Malcolm Nefastus. And he is cruel, and mean, and nasty, and he holds grudges forever. He likes to hurt things. I really, really pitied his wife and when she died all I could think was that she had had a lucky escape. She was terrified of him, and dreading the day they would be old enough to share a household, consummate the marriage and so on. They are negotiating a new wife for him, but it is proving a bit hard because everyone has heard about him and no one wants to give a daughter to him unless there is a really good gain for them in it, more gain then a tie to the future King of Scotland, I mean.”

Eleanor moved closer to the fire, wanting the heat to speed her drying. Malcolm, then, must be the one case where rumour was mostly true, if Anne could be believed. He, however, was not important in what she had come to do. “Tell me about your father.”

“Well, he is really very formal. His court is really formal. You will have to … er …”

Eleanor suggested, “Behave nicely?”

“Well, yes.” Anne gasped. “Not that you do not usually, or anything!”

Small clothes donned, Eleanor yanked a clean shift on, linen clinging to still-damp skin. A quick investigation of the other clothes laid out for her revealed that while she might manage to dress herself the result would look shabby. She needed Hawise. Muttering a quick curse, Eleanor put her head around the door. “I also need to play princess as much as possible, correct?”

Anne nodded. “How did you guess?”

“The clothes.” They were of her usual, out of fashion style and there the similarity to her normal clothes ended. Not that it was much of a guess; so far Anne was only confirming what she already knew.

Hawise silently took her cue, stepping in to the bedchamber and picking up the comb, waiting by the stool and dressing table with an air that said Eleanor would have her hair done again before anything else.

Hopefully, Eleanor said, “It is late; there is no point in doing my hair again.”

“You will wish to see Sir Miles, I think, to inform him in person you are safe and well and tell him of your journey.”

“I do not need my hair playing with to do that.”

Hawise fished a hair ribbon out of the small ivory chest on the dressing table, and returned to standing, comb at the ready. “King and court absent or no, we’re still in a palace.”

Muttering Eleanor went and sat on the stool, Anne’s giggles ringing in her ears.

Hair done once again into a single braid with a gold and white ribbon worked through it, Eleanor was granted permission to return to what she had been trying to do in the first place: finish getting dressed.

She didn’t know who had chosen these clothes, or when they had been made. They were nothing to do with her. That didn’t stop them being an excellent fit, and really quite tasteful. The underdress of snow white silk was patterned in a slightly darker white with her gooseberry and crown motif, each little picture so small it could fit in a square two inches by two. The outer dress was a russet brocade, the same gooseberry and crown pattern worked on it in a brown; hem, neckline and the edges of the wide sleeves stiff with embroidery, gold thread and tiny little jewels, yet still not falling into what she considered gaudy or overdone. The girdle was new too, gold set with emeralds in imitation of the silver and pearl one Trempwick had given her.

Waving away the mirror Anne offered without even glimpsing her reflection, Eleanor asked, “Who is responsible for all this?”

“That depends,” said Hawise softly. “Lord Hugh paid. Constance and Anne, and myself, chose fabrics and designs, and the measurements were taken from those used to make up your other clothes.”

“I see.” This had obviously been set in motion long before she left the palace, and she hadn’t heard a whisper of it. They hadn’t consulted her, as if her taste and judgement were so bad, her opinion so unnecessary.

Anne smiled anxiously. “You had so many other things to worry about, and I know you did not really like standing model for your wedding dress, or sorting out the detail of your other new clothes, and those clothes really were not royal enough, even if they were really nice and richer than what you were used to, and as I said the court here is really formal and you need to look like what you are. We sorted out all the clothing you are likely to need for absolutely ages, including some plainer stuff, and some like you used to wear at Woburn and so on. If you do not like any of it you do not have to wear it or keep it. And you can order more if you want to.”

That old trap – if you don’t like it and say so then you upset the people who gave it to you; if you said nothing then you were stuck wearing something you hated and had to pretend you liked it. Maybe that wouldn’t be necessary, what she’d seen so far was very nice. Based on that hope and the mental insistence it had been a kind thought, Eleanor managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Anne took a step towards the door. “I should go now. Mariot was really ill most of the journey out, and I should check and see if she needs anything. Adela is with her, and Godit, but Godit is still in a mood, and still grumbling about how close she was kept as we travelled, as if it were any different for the rest of us. I think that she really does not want to be back in Scotland, not at all, and only came because of me, but will not admit any of it. It is getting so wearing that Adela is all grumpy herself, and really that is not the best company to leave someone who has been so sick in. I can ask for your dinner to be arranged and sent up here too.”

“Ill?”

“Oh yes. She was nearly sick on me, actually. She just missed my feet. She says it must have been something she ate; it started a few hours after we left Waltham. Really I nearly send her straight back, but she insisted on coming with us, even if she did keep on having to leave the road to visit the trees frequently.” She leaned towards Eleanor a bit and confided, “Upset bowels. And then her stomach too. It kept up even when there was nothing left, and she couldn’t keep anything down for over a day, and broth went straight through her-”

Eleanor held up a hand. “Er, yes. Thank you.”

“Do you think it could have been poison?”

“Possibly, but why would anyone want to poison Mariot?”

Hawise murmured, “That’s what I said. There’s no purpose to it, or not that I can see. Like a mother to you,” she inclined her head respectfully to Anne, “isn’t the same as being your mother. She doesn’t have the rank, or power, or importance. When all’s said and done, she’s the same as your other two maids: a noble lady in her own right, well placed, but not critical.”

“Unless,” countered Anne, face intent, “you wanted to influence me, because then if you got her on your side she would talk to me, and then I would probably follow her advice, unless it was silly or something.”

Eleanor sighed. “If that were the aim poisoning the woman would be less than gainful.”

“Unless someone had approached her and she had refused, so they tried to cover their tracks by poisoning her.”

“Has Mariot said she has been approached? Or hinted at it?”

“No,” admitted Anne.

“Ask her then, but I think you will find it unlikely.”

Promising that she would, Anne left.

Hawise gathered up the towels and the clothes spread on the floor near the bathtub and folded them neatly into four, draping them over the edge of the bath. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”

Eleanor looked up from examining her sleeves. They were not suitable for storing knives in; the cut was right, the material too fine, the slight bulk would never be hidden. “We had some trouble, and so we were forced to travel with all possible speed.”

“Through the night.”

“Yes.”

“Small wonder you look so tired.”

“I spent the first part of the trip mostly asleep.”

“But not the last part, and that would have been the longer part, I’m thinking.”

Eleanor experimented with fastening one of her knives to her lower leg, just below the knee, the weapon on the outside so it wouldn’t tangle in her legs if she had to run. Standing, she shook her skirts out again and tried a few poses. As far as she could tell it didn’t show, and this was the safer way to conceal the blades as the risk of someone taking hold of her leg was negligible compared to the same risk for her arm, though she’d always preferred the easier access keeping them on her arms gave. Stopping to duck down and grab a weapon from under your dress was slow - relatively speaking; the draw had been practiced over and over until it was as quick as she could make it – not to mention undignified.

Hawise watched, and as she didn’t say anything Eleanor assumed the weapon was well hidden. “The exchange went without problem?”

Eleanor nodded without diverting attention from fastening the second knife in place. “Yes.”

“That’s lucky, because we didn’t think there was any reason to send Luke out just yet, but Sir Miles insisted, just in case. Today was the first day.”

Luke, Fulk’s new squire and a man at arms who’d proven his loyalty during the abduction attempt, was supposed to go for a drink in the hammer and anvil tavern each evening when the bells rang for vespers, and stay there for an hour. Which he’d done, and Fulk had found him easily enough. It has been a simple matter then for Luke to bring to the palace, and more specifically the guest house given over to the party from England, his new friend, a masterless knight and his wife, back to see if he’d be accepted into his lady’s guard. Which he hadn’t; the knight had been sent packing not long after arrival. Except the knight and his wife were now the decoys, dressed in the clothes Eleanor and Fulk had arrived in and clutching the reward they’d been promised in the form of scraps of precious metal and small gems, the man muttering much as Fulk had done about his vivid pink and vastly outsized tunic. Because it had been dark, and because Luke had been able to get them past security smoothly, few knew the exchange had taken place.

All in all, it had gone quite satisfactorily. Her absence, and Fulk’s, from the party had been contained well enough that for anyone to speak of it would invite strange looks. A princess and her knight, alone, running through the wilds like outlaws and doing who knows what while lacking a chaperone? Impossible! Even those who did knew the truth of it would not be able to speak of it; Trempwick, for example, what gain did he get from a queen who had done something so utterly disgraceful? Rank could be a millstone about your neck, but like a millstone it had its uses.

When the dinner Anne had promised arrived, it was fish. Fish broth, poached fish, some vegetables, a bit of pottage, a hunk of bread, and more fish, this time grilled. It wasn’t Friday.

As Eleanor squinted at her meal, Hawise explained, “It’s Lent. Ash Wednesday was six days ago, the fourth of March.”

“Ah. There is not much ceremony in the middle of a forest.” Six days ago, and they hadn’t thought of it. The food left for them at the house and at the inn had been deceptive, or maybe the common orders didn’t bother with the fast if they could slip out of it, and as for the ship, salt fish was famously something sailors ate nearly all the time. Another small burden for her soul, and for Fulk’s. She would have to find a tame confessor soon. However one did that.





I'll be back to reply to comments later; got to go to work in a bit.

[frogbeastegg]

When I came back yesterday I ran out of time. Unlike Nell I don't leave my stew to burn.

You don't remember me saying Nell was on the ship because I didn't. It's part of the cutting and trimming I do to try and keep things moving and interesting. I had her in a port, saying she was going to board ship tomorrow morning. I had Trempy chasing after her. From there I thought it would be obvious enough that the ship Trempy just missed was hers. Or so was the hope.

Jocelyn does have a point, many points in fact, greater and lesser. If he were not connected to the main story here I'd start up a separate 'The Stressful Adventures of Jocelyn de Ardentes' story. :grins:

One of his greater points is to show William while he's in France; no need to try and hide the obvious. The other greater points you can wait for to manifest at the appropriate times. Smaller purposes, well, there's some I will speak of, and many I won't. He's the character I put the most ... design into. He's closer to being my creation than any other. Understand this is a relative term, rather like saying a character has long hair and then letting them choose the colour, style, whether it looks good on them or not, and the reasons why they wear it that way.

I decided these things about Jocelyn:
1)He must be a break from the literate mob of characters! In this time even amongst the nobility many couldn't read or read perfectly. Writing was a more separate skill than it is today, considered rather menial. Many of those who could read used a clerk to do their writing.

2) Not yet another happy sappy relationship, damn it! Way too many of them for realism. Not that I say this was a time of miserable marriages, because it appears a great many did turn out well, but there should be some balance. (you may note it didn't turn out according to plan; love-hate is not what I had in mind)

3)Needed to be a French lord.

4)A bit more balance! If you look at the main male characters tied up with women they are all rather extreme. We've got the ... harsh end of the scale with Hugh and William, and the rather soft Fulk. Where were all the normal men? Most of the more minor male characters were normal, but they didn't show it so much because the focus was not on them. I had the full spectrum of female characters, either there or waiting to appear. Note: That's normal in medieval terms. Not modern ones. Note 2: Normal for a warrior noble. If he were a merchant or something that normal would be slightly different.

The rest he did himself.

Hehe, you know, I picked Jocelyn’s home (and thus name) off a map of Tourraine. I chose Tourraine only because it was in the right part of France, far enough away yet still in the possessions I had designated as English at the start. Yet to my English pronunciation it was a fitting choice. It sounds a lot like ‘ardent’.


As I said to furball earlier, while on the ground it may appear the characters are pulling apart, looking down from the air they are not. I don't give out POV positions lightly. I don’t include any scene lightly.

All this said, given the power to edit I'd do a fair bit of work on his earlier scenes, mostly removing or adding in more important stuff, so they don't feel quite so ... aimless. Jocelyn is a character who I needed to ... hmm, know before I could really get going with him, and the only way to get to know him was to write with him. Similarly, his path through this is the vaguest. Time was I knew it all. Now I don't; the characters broke free and changed it all. I only know oh, let's say 70% of what happens. Jocelyn changed his path radically, forcing it from what I had planned and so changing nearly every step on the way to that end. That makes it very hard to decide what needs to be in and what does not until much, much later. It is only now I find I know enough to make those kinds of decisions.

He does illustrate social change a bit. He’s of the old school, where a knight and lord needed to fight, hunt, and rule his lands, little more. Now such a man is expected to be cultured, chivalrous, educated, a gentleman. That’s why Fulk is so advanced for his birth – his father was ambitious for him and gave him a noble’s good upbringing, knowing it would help boost his bastard son. Jocelyn didn’t get that. This is another of his lesser purposes, a very lesser one. The change and evolution is well documented in history books, and was happening throughout the English middle ages. Feminist? I don’t see where that has come from.

[Ludens]

So the answer is that his story will become intertwined with that of the main characters, but as yet this is not obvious? That's good. Right now, he seems to have drifted accidentally into the story.

Never mind the feminism-bit, it was a poor attempt at humour: I do realize he represents the old-fashioned nobility, but is trying to improve himself on his wife's account.


You don't remember me saying Nell was on the ship because I didn't. It's part of the cutting and trimming I do to try and keep things moving and interesting. I had her in a port, saying she was going to board ship tomorrow morning. I had Trempy chasing after her. From there I thought it would be obvious enough that the ship Trempy just missed was hers. Or so was the hope.
It was obvious to me she was on board, if you did not read that in my previous post. I was a bit disoriented when Trempwick stood on the harbour quay, but if the scene in the merchant's house was not enough to tell me what was going on, Trempwick's thoughts were.

Incidentally, I do not think this story has a superfluency of happy sappy relationships at all.

[Vladimir]

In my own unskilled opinion I thought that he was being used to demonstrate how the nobility was changing at that period.


This is another of his lesser purposes, a very lesser one.

:girlslap: Ouch.

[frogbeastegg]

She’d seen Fulk several times since they had parted ways to go to their respective baths the evening before, several times surrounded by an audience, several times and he’d lost none of his impact. Now, with just Hawise for company, she could do more than steal a rare, fleeting look and appreciate the effect properly.

He’d smartened up very nicely indeed, to the point to being a most arresting sight. Washed, shaved, his hair trimmed to remove the shagginess he’d been dangerously close to, wearing new clothes in place of the armour which would only cast insult on their host’s security. Diplomacy hadn’t prevented him from buckling on sword and dagger over the tunic fashionably cut to hang to mid-shin. In these clothes, fitting to his rank and station, he effortlessly cast into the background the many times more expensive outfits of his superiors, the restrained decoration and cut becoming on him a thing of simple beauty peaceful on the eyes, relief from the peacock display. Or so Eleanor felt; others likely wouldn’t have the taste to agree. But some would.

She must have created a similarly striking spectacle, for his eyes settled on her. Something went soft in those brown depths, shielded, subtly the lines of his face changed. “Very nice. Love the little gooseberries.”

“My knight is more interested in clothes than fighting,” she teased. “When I believed you to be practicing you were obviously at a tailor; you said nothing of new clothes.”

“Nothing to do with me. My squire, with aid from Hawise, and Anne’s little group.”

Godit. There was the one responsible, the one who’d picked out colours and fabrics to match him and considered what cuts would look best, and if the insufferable little whore had done it for unselfish reasons Eleanor was an elephant.

Eleanor raised a hand to check her crown and veil were seated correctly, for the umpteenth time. It wouldn’t do to have them crooked. They were, as they’d been every other time. “Time, I think. Let us be off.”

Exiting the rooms she’d been given Eleanor set off in a small procession to meet Anne. Small being an relative term: Fulk and Hawise flanked her, two paces behind, two of her men at arms strode in front, and another four in a column bringing up the rear. Eight people, three above the five maximum allowed in Waltham – Eleanor felt she should be off to subjugate someone with this vast army.

With Anne and her own group of followers the procession more than doubled in size.

Their destination lay not far away, some couple of minutes down tiled corridors with painted stone walls. At the Queen Mother’s apartment they were admitted without delay by an angelic-faced pageboy.

Anne crossed the sizeable audience chamber without hesitation, aiming for a door with angels blowing trumpets carved into it, gilded and painted. Eleanor followed her, a half-step behind, assuming that the girl knew her grandmother well enough not to place a foot wrong and put them into disaster. Face modestly lowered, Eleanor could look about a little as she walked without anyone noticing. What she noticed was a definite theme, that being angels. Angelic carvings, angelic paintings, angelic hangings, angels worked into the floor tiles and making up a larger image of heaven – if it could have an angel on it then it had several. In a sign that the woman hadn’t gone completely queer with age, out of the handful of servants only the page boy matched the theme by appearance.

A liveried man opened the door before Anne, bowing deeply. At this point their escort stopped, dispersing about the room to take their ease, the Scottish setting the example for the English.

Anne’s smooth progress came to a halt some five paces from the woman waiting in the solar. The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving the three of them alone.

Anne’s knees began to bend in a curtsey, a curtsey which expired before her hands had even touched her skirts. She stood, back stiff, eyes down, Eleanor thought perhaps her hands trembled.

For her part Eleanor did not bend knee, instead inclining her head in a nod, a simple thing which showed nothing of the long consideration which had gone into it. It no longer seemed right to announce herself as a ‘simple’ princess, to do nothing would have placed her on equal footing with two former queens.

Anne’s grandmother offered no reverence to either. Ignoring her granddaughter, her attention honed in on Eleanor. “So, then, what are you?”

The question and been expected, and as much thought had gone into the answer as into the nod. “An occupier of a rather exceptional position.”

“Most true.” Anne’s grandmother seated herself in a padded chair placed dangerously close to the fireplace, a movement which was accompanied by that same deep crunching noise a carcass made when the butcher finished cutting the surrounding flesh and twisted bone from socket. The woman gave no sign she’d heard it, and if it had hurt then that too remained unacknowledged. A bony hand waved at the two lesser chairs placed nearby.

When they too had seated themselves, the Queen Mother said to her granddaughter, “Almost you forgot yourself. You never must. You must hold your status dear, or others shall not respect it. You are my equal now, or so the idea goes.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“I presume you still have not conceived?”

Anne flushed. “No, Grandmother.”

“All to the good; it would complicate the situation unbearably. Much of the blame may be placed on his age, and the shortness of the marriage; you need not have too great a fear of speculation on your own ability.” The woman paused meaningfully. “In public. In private that is less than useful. We shall speak on this later. And mark that when I send you a letter I expect a decent reply, not vague ditherings about your husband being kind. I was most concerned, and your reply did nothing but make me worry more, you thoughtless child.”

Anne cringed, her face making her hair look pale.

“I expect to know everything,” the Queen mother stated. “All detail, no matter how small or large, else no good judgement can be made.”

Her words almost indistinct, so soft they were almost a whisper, Anne said, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

The old woman bolted forward in her chair. “Oh?”

“I don’t.”

“Speak properly and stop mumbling, child.” One knobbly finger aimed itself at Anne’s flinching form. “So you think you can do better next time, alone, with no help at all, being so experienced and knowledgeable. Make no mistakes on it, you cannot afford another barren marriage, or to be slow in conceiving at the start of your next. If the majority of the blame comes to rest on him then there is still a portion left over for you. That man had many children with other women, the marriage was consummated, and reports have it that he did visit you often enough for there to be chance.”

Sickened, Eleanor changed the subject. “I hear it will be at least nine days until your son arrives here, probably more.”

The Queen Mother fixed her with a glare, green eyes seeming sunken in her gaunt face. “This is true. He does not leave his court to go gallivanting about almost alone, speedier though it may be.”

Anne had explained that shortly after he’d come to the throne her father had done just that, and had narrowly escaped from an ambush meant to kill him.

“Then I hope you will understand why I say my party must leave tomorrow, to make way to meet him. My brother charged me to act with all possible speed, and so I must.” That decision she’d made that very morning over breakfast. There had been much discussion of how her party would be entertained while they waited, with Mariot reminiscing fondly on the many amusements she had seen here over her lifetime. Even Godit had broken from her sullen silence to enthuse about how much fun it would be. Dancing, feasting, plays, minstrels and jesters, games of every possible sort, hunting – hunting! Eleanor had never been hunting. Trempwick did not approve, saying once that it was undignified to act as one’s own butcher, and that they had sufficient money to send others to procure whatever they wished for their table, with none of the risks to their own persons. Hawking was another mystery, and another threat in the coming days. The potential for humiliation was great; every noble was supposed to be proficient in the hunt.

It had been when the subject of water jousting came up that Eleanor had decided something had to be done. As a sport young men standing on rafts with big sticks, trying to knock each other off into the water as the boats passed each other was, unless you liked to gape at soggy half-clad men, decidedly tedious. A quick talk with Sir Miles had revealed him as open to leaving early, and that had been that, mind made up Eleanor had started asking about the best route.

Anne’s grandmother said, “You come here for more than the renewal of the alliance. You come to bring us to war against your supporters.”

“Not my supporters,” corrected Eleanor calmly. “Their cause is different to mine.”

The old woman grunted. “We will see what he makes of you. For what you wish you must have considerable to offer us; I shall wait with interest to see what.”





Banished to a respectable place at one of the two lower tables, Fulk ate with Hawise, unhappy at being so far away from Eleanor. It was unthinkable that he could be seated in even the meanest place on the high table, and here custom was different. Weapons were not allowed at meals, not even daggers. Open weapons – Eleanor still had her daggers, and Hawise hers, and God alone knew how many others bore concealed arms. In the background armed soldiers stood to attention, a ‘symbol’ of how the king’s peace protected all in his lands. So there was no need for bodyguards to stand ready close by, even for gooseberries people had shown a violent interest in plucking.

The meal ended, and the tables began to empty. In the confusion caused by several hundred people milling about, Godit crossed the few places which lay between her seat and Fulk’s, seized his arm, and dragged him into one of the hall’s alcoves, taken by surprise Fulk had no time to resist.

“Stand still and behave,” she hissed. “And listen for once! That wouldn’t go amiss. This may be your last chance – stop it. Stop dreaming. You’re running out of time. People are talking more.” Knotting her hands in his tunic she tried to shake him, managing only to make him sway faintly. “You court your destruction!”

Fulk prised one set of fingers loose one at a time, folding them over into a fist and trapping that fist inside his own so she couldn’t undo his progress. “Enough of this. Same thing, over and over, and with the same goal. I’ve told you I’m having none of it.”

The hand he hadn’t begun to remove yet abruptly let go, to thump him in the chest. “Think of what I risk doing this. Angus is here – the one they want me to marry. I could be flayed alive!”

“He’d also refuse to marry you after the fuss, which would make you happy.”

“Pig-headed, stubborn fool!” Her free hand fell to her side, the one Fulk had captured went limp as she gave up fighting. “You aren’t real. You belong in one of Anne’s stories.”

“Maybe.”

“Shame it’s not religion you’ve a passion for. I could see you taking Jerusalem single-handed if that were so.” His grip had slackened; she slipped her hand free and stepped around him to leave. “Or martyred.”









I’m not a well frog. It’s been one of those weeks, you know the ones involving mysterious knee injuries which make the joint feel as though it should be broken when no damage has been done to it; primary schools you live very close to being shut down and disinfected by a government team because they have a rather horrific epidemic; viruses spreading from said school to infect the nearby community, which leave you coughing until you think your lungs will spew up, along with all kinds of delights like a complete loss of appetite (which has so far lasted 3 days and shows no signs of changing), fevers, delusions, difficulty breathing. Oh, and no week like this is complete without the blood test which leaves you passed out in a crumpled heap while the nurse hits the emergency button, and then is left shouting for help because no one is answering. Me? I hardly remember any of it …

On the plus side I did get a whole lot of reading done, because I’ve not been fit to go to work. So much reading I am sick of it. There is something wrong about reading a 1,000 page book in one day. Huh, I haven’t been fit to do anything else, except maybe sleep, and I can’t do that because I keep coughing all the time.

The Eleanor scene is crap except for a couple of little bits. It’s not what I wanted it to be. It’s the best I can manage in my present state. It gets across a few things, even if there is more I would wish to have in it. It’s not a scene which I care about in any particular way; it has its importance, but I do not enjoy anything about it. So if I could I’d leave it as [meeting with Nell/Anne/Granny] and simply come back later. But I can’t. Sod it, and on to the better stuff, and if one of the smaller subplots suffers a little, then so be it.




Ludens, Jocelyn is trying to improve on his own account too. It’s rare that it shows, and it never does for long. One example of such a time is that scene you mentioned, where he learns to dance a bit. If he were behaving the same but saying, “Flashy expensive sports cars are for wusses with penis problems!” then I’m sure everyone would assume he wants a sports car but can’t afford one. :winkg:

Vladimir: You were right, and the only one I know of to mention that you have seen that particular purpose.





Now, having done my authorial duty, I’ll crawl back into my corner and resume my effort to die with a book in my hand.

[Vladimir]

You're much too hard on yourself. I thought it was a wonderful scene and my eyes always perk up whenever I see the words Eleanor and bath used in the same sentence :eyebrows: . I still wouldn't mind seeing granny fall and break her hip. No, strike that, she'd be even more annoying. :2thumbsup:

So I take it avian flue has made it to the UK huh? j/k My best wishes on a speedy recovery. I think I've been pumped full of so many shots that I'm incapable of catching a disease. Either that or I just can't feel the symptoms any more :bounce: :fainting: .

[Ludens]

I hope you will get well soon, Froggy. I wish there was a fruitbasket-smiley, but since there isn't... Just imagine I sent one ~;) .


Ludens, Jocelyn is trying to improve on his own account too. It’s rare that it shows, and it never does for long.
I picked that up. I just tried to explain where the feminism-bit came from.

Anyway, is it just me, or has Godit become a more dull character since her secret is out? I rather liked her initially, but once Trempwick revealed she was a spy she just... phaled. Perhaps this because she hardly gets any scenes, though.

[littlelostboy]

Just finished reading the last post. Really like the exchange between Fulk and Eleanor, especially when Fulk found out that Eleanor still kept the ring Trempy gave her. Fulky boy just got very jealous. :laugh4:
Sorry to hear about your sickness Lady Frog, hope you get well soon and continue this saga.

[Ciaran]

I know I´ve been a bit slack in replying, but I haven´t yet had time to read the last couple of updates. Just wanted to give you my best wishes for a soon recovery.

[frogbeastegg]

His messenger returned.

Hugh waited for the man to hand away his flag of truce, dismount, be admitted to the command tent, and kneel before him. He did not prompt the man, nor betray any trace of the least reaction to his arrival. This moment hung as critical, and he would not have it whispered of in negative form. To be thought a coward, or eager, bloodthirsty, squeamish, impatient, restless, lacking self-belief, overconfident in his own predictions – so many, and he could be none of them, must be none of them.

“Sire,” the man said, “their answer’s unchanged.”

As he had known it must be. “So be it.”

Minutes later Hugh stood where the weapons had been set up. His army mustered to watch, those who stood free of any duties, mustered from the inquisitiveness which drove men to witness the start of all things which promised to be of import in their lives, or to offer a good tale to tell. Alice had chosen to attend also, her single maid dragged out with her to view the event. The master engineer stood ready.

Voice gratifyingly calm, Hugh ordered, “Open fire.”

The master repeated the order in a shout, and each of the crew masters echoed in their turn. The first catapult shot its missile into the air, a black speck which quickly became near-invisible to the eye.

The outer walls of the castle were hybrid, mostly stone and a section of wood. Funds had run out and not been found again when the decision had been made to build the place anew in more permanent material. The keep was stone, circular, a design less vulnerable than a tower. Small, unremarkable, several days march from his first target, and the next nail in the net he was hammering down.

The second catapult launched.

The castellan’s only response to his terms had been an offer to surrender if help did not arrive within thirty days. A respectable form of agreement, and one frequently made between attacker and defender. London could be on him within ten days. It was an insult, to think him such a fool he would not know. He would take this place within two days.

The third.

As the garrison had not asked for permission to send out the non-combatants there had been no provision for them. There would be none.

The trebuchet’s great arm swung in a lazy arc as the release was pulled and the counterweight fell, the sling whipping up and over to hurl its boulder with the exaggerated motion of a boy throwing a rock overarm.

And the first missile went high, smashing on the inside of the far wall’s single stone tower.

The second landed as it should, on the thatch of a building just visible from their position. The pot was filled with Greek fire, a hazardous weapon he misliked for its treacherous nature; an expensive weapon requiring skilled men for its manufacture, transport and handling. A most royal weapon, in that sense.

The third went low, breaking on the front wall to burn as uselessly as the first.

The trebuchet’s missile crashed into a section of stone rampart, clipping the crenulations and showering stone chips on those who had crowded up onto the walls to watch their lord shout his latest abuse at the royal messenger.

Greasy black smoke began to drift up from the thatch; people began to rush for the wall stairs and the cover of the keep.

And so now there would be no quarter.

Let them call him bastard now, for there would be some truth in it – the truth of those cursing their tormenter. They had not believed he had Greek fire.






“So you see why my husband wasn’t able to attend the king.” For the first time since he’d arrived at Saumur Selova raised her eyes to meet his, sending a jolt through him. A second later she deliberately lowered them again, masking the move in a flutter of long eyelashes.

Keeping his voice neutral Jocelyn replied, “Being dead does slow a man down a bit.”

A smile, he discovered, suited those lips well, even one so brief and slight as the one he’d just seen.

“However,” he continued in the same tone, “I don’t see why this prevented you from sending word.”

“I did.”

She lied. “None arrived.”

“The roads are dangerous.”

“No more than ever. Perhaps the opposite, since the King’s near.”

Now her lower lip distorted as she bit the inside. “Our son is only a child, not yet seven,” she confessed.

Jocelyn snorted. “Lady, kindly watch your wording, or I’ll think you’re trying to name me as father to the lad, and that’s damned impossible.” He’d never met the bloody woman until half an hour ago. Not that it was a revolting prospect. Far from it. The idea – and the rest of it, by a sainted something-or-other! The idea was being helped along by a language dear Tildis probably didn’t know existed - made it necessary for him to shift a bit to make himself more comfortable. She looked about an age to him, though he’d heard she was approaching thirty, maturing looking, but not old or fading. Not beautiful, pretty, or striking, just ordinary. An ordinary with some interesting possessions, best being a right good arse.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it so.” Again her eyes flicked up to meet his.

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Jocelyn dropped his right arm to rest across his thighs, his left still busy with the goblet of wine given him to wash away the dust from the road.

“I wanted to do all I could to set my son in place before others had chance to swoop in and take advantage.” Selova’s arm came to rest in a mirror image of his, done as part of an open-handed gesture. “We have men at arms, but they were away. I wished them returned before I announced my lord’s death.”

“The tenantship’s not hereditary. It’s for the King to choose a new man.”

“Or for the man he sends in his place.” Those eyes darted to him and away, fast as fish and clear as a river. “It’s rare for our lord not to allow a thing to pass to the heir; unless there’s clearly shown incompetence the heir has bestowed upon him what his predecessor had. I had no reason to think differently with my son. Should I?”

“No. Or not from me.” It was too much bloody fuss to pull down one woman and child here and stick someone else up to replace them, all trouble and scant damned gain for him.

She reached across and touched the back of his hand lightly. “You have my thanks, sir.”

Jocelyn turned his hand to catch hers and raised it to his lips in one of those fancy courtly kisses. In the last possible moment before the kiss landed she slipped her hand away.

“If I might beg a favour …?”

“You can always ask,” he told her. “It’s the being granted that’s always the chancy bit.”

“It’d be of great help and protection to us if you and your men rode about the lands for our neighbours to see before you leave. So they know the King is aware of us, and that he’s got more than clerks to send me here. You’re a very … noticeable man, and I bet you’re skilled with your sword.”

“It’s been said. Very well; I’ll do it.” He’d look a right tit, returning to court in triumph, declaring Pax Jocelynius - Jocelynian? Bah! Latin was for priests and clerks, and others with the time to faff about declaiming like ancient long-dead ponces in indecently short dresses – was in effect, only for a small war to break out.

Selova placed her hand on his again. “Thank you.”

Jocelyn picked her wrist up between thumb and forefinger and carefully dropped it back on her own lap. “When it comes to bribery I prefer money – it’s more bloody use. Same for rewards. That or land.”

He thought he’d made a bit of a mistake, as he sat up in his room that night, waiting. Only a small one, but a damned mistake which left him with nothing. “Huh,” he muttered. If Tildis could see him now the miserable bitch would be laughing so hard her sides split, assuming she could spare the time from her whinging at him. “Bloody women.” Yes, well, sod her! If she wanted to play by those stupid rules then he wasn’t interested. Women who knew what they wanted and went out and got it he could respect deeply. Ones who wanted him and also expected him to pay in some form for their getting what they wanted, well they could play on their own.

So in the end when she did show up he was damned relieved.

“You robbed me of all decent excuse,” Selova complained.

At which point his evening could finally be said to be attention-grabbing. Very attention-grabbing.

She was the first to speak, afterwards, and it took a long time before she did. Thank God – he’d never been able to stand chatterers. “You’re quite considerate.”

“I wouldn’t want to leave you in a difficult position.” Or so went the hope. He’d done the same many times, tarnished his soul and his pleasure and pulled out to spill his seed safely, only to find once later he needn’t have bothered. That once was now known as little Jocelyn, named after his proud and completely stunned father. All bloody well to know nothing was infallible, but for a sacrifice like that a chap really deserved a bit better than a proverbial kick to the balls.

Taking his deadened arm back from her shoulders, Jocelyn stretched so comprehensively his toes splayed out and he nearly broke his fist on the headboard. He settled back with a sigh of deep satisfaction.

“Your wife’s lucky.”

“Oh?”

Selova laughed, almost a purr. “I’d say very lucky, but you wander. That’s intolerable in any man you’re keeping.”

Jocelyn worked his numb arm a bit, bending and flexing it loosely to encourage circulation to return. “Or woman.”

“True,” she said graciously. Selova rolled onto one side and started to stroke his stomach. “You really are a fascinating man.”

“Doubt that.”

“Really. You … throw everything into what you’re doing, you don’t hold any part of yourself back.”

“Huh.”

“Ah,” she teased, tweaking his beard. “And now you’ve gone all closed up. Don’t like the reminder you’re not my first?”

Jocelyn smoothed the short hairs of his beard back down again with the palm of a hand. “If I was then I wouldn’t be, if you follow my meaning.”

“But men are supposed to love virgins,” she exclaimed, still teasing in part.

“Only some, and I’ve always supposed it’s because the poor girl can’t tell how badly they’re doing.” The old answer tripped off his tongue perfectly, so practiced you could never tell it was anything but natural. The truth was that, contrary to everyone’s assumptions, he’d only ever had one virgin. It had been the worst night of his life, and not solely because it had sealed him permanently to dear, warm, friendly, loving Richildis.

“Hmmm …” she said, hand tickling lower.

And why in the name of sweet lord Jesù was he thinking about his miserable wife anyway!? If he had to be thinking about anything why not the recent memory of Selova’s legs wound around him, her ankles locked together at the small of his back as she writhed and moaned. That was success, and that he’d seen, caused, created a hundred times and more with all sorts of women. He was a damned good lover.

Except this time she was the one on top of him. Tildis refused to even contemplate such unusual positions.

The next morning he’d gotten about half a mile out from the manor when his party spotted the messenger working down the road at a speedy pace. The very instant Jocelyn was close enough to see the man properly he swore: the messenger was wearing royal livery. As if the curse attracted him the rider adjusted course to head very definitely for Jocelyn’s party, no longer aiming to ride on by.

As the gasping man and animal stopped alongside them, the man pulled out a letter and held it to Jocelyn. “My lord. From the King. Most urgent, I was to say.”

“Oh …” Jocelyn didn’t finish that, it didn’t seem prudent to swear vehemently on receiving a message from his sovereign lord. Leastways, not in front of the messenger, who might report it back.

Jocelyn broke the seal and rolled the message out, lips moving silently as he laboured to read. The missive was short, a simple order, only a couple of the words actually necessary to understand what was wanted. Just as well – the damned clerk had filled it with a few long words he didn’t know. He was to return to court at once, with all possible speed.






Men boiled from the surrounding cover and hurled themselves on the vanguard, shrieking warcries like none Fulk had ever heard. Dressed in earthy colours and scraps of armour, the few bits of metal painted to keep them from casting reflections, they’d blended in well with the shrubs and long grass they’d been hiding in. The soldiers in the vanguard hardly had time to react, strung out into a marching column, all mounted for the trip. Perhaps sixteen of them could fight decently on horseback, sixteen if Sir Miles could be included. The other forty were men at arms, footsoldiers mounted now for speed.

Most men managed to tumble off their horses, thrusting the reins into the hands of the linkmen. Many managed to ready weapons and shields as they ran towards others to form up. Some of the archers were able to put an arrow into the oncoming mob. Orders were being shouted, by several voices. Sir Miles was down off his horse and running to the largest congregation of men, his cavalry splitting, half dismounting to follow him, the remainder galloping back towards the middle of the party where Fulk watched.

The charge hit. Chaos became pandemonium. Horses panicked, some bolted, others danced about getting in the way and spreading their nervousness as their handlers fought to keep them under control. The men who hadn’t managed to reach friends were cut down as they tried to reach safety. The knots of men formed up into ragged little circles became islands in an ocean, pressed hard on all sides and cut off from one another.

Fulk’s mind was working quickly from the first. Miles isolated: that left him as nominal commander for the remainder of this force. It wasn’t so simple. The soldiers were drawn from numerous sources: Eleanor’s force, Sir Mile’s own force, some men leant by Hugh, and the contingent of Scots Anne had brought with her to England. The first would obey, the rest had been told to and should, but the Scots were lead by one knight and several more served, all of whom were far superior to him and like to be touchy on their pride. Most of Sir Miles’ men were in the vanguard. The body of the column, formed around Eleanor and the other ladies, contained all of Eleanor’s men, part of Anne’s, some of Hugh’s, and the remainder of Sir Miles’, a stupid mixture that ensured no one party was slighted.

With a quick prayer to God for his beloved’s safety, Fulk shouted for messengers, his voice competing with the din carrying up from the front. He gave his orders, and sent them galloping off. Making his way to Eleanor’s side he pulled up his coif and laced the aventail, Luke at his side leaving Sueta, ready with shield, great helm and lance.

“Highness,” he said, before any of the ladies could speak and slow him, “stay put! I’ve detailed men to guard you – all of you.” He glared about the group, at Anne, at Hawise, Godit, Mariot, at Adele. “Stay put. If necessary you’ll be taken away to safety, but don’t move until told.”

“And you?” asked Eleanor. She was pale, but he loved her for how calm she was. May it help keep the others from running frantic.

Fulk swung up onto his destrier’s back. “I’m going to help Sir Miles.”

“God be with you. Fight well.”

Before his world was reduced to the little he could see through the two slits in his great helm, Fulk saw Sir James of Kilmartin galloping up with half his men, ready to form up about the ladies as Fulk had ordered. Except his orders couldn’t have reached the man before he gave his own commands and set out. The knight led his men close, ordering them to dismount and take up a close circle formation.

“Off you go.” The Scottish knight was wearing a helmet with a facemask, his voice was distorted by it so inflection was hard to grasp. Still, Fulk thought he sounded dismissive.

Fulk had chosen to take the men from Eleanor’s force who could fight mounted, roughly half the small number; he’d practiced with them often. Also the remainder of Sir Miles’ men, and Hugh’s, giving him about sixty men mixed mounted and foot. Anne’s men could be trusted to guard her life, and thus Eleanor’s, because if one were taken the other would be lost. They were ready now, the infantry dismounted and formed up, the cavalry formed up and waiting for him to take his place amongst them.

Another collection of inhuman shrieks made Fulk turn, cursing his limited vision. He could just see more men launching a second attack on the rear. He’d expected as much. Now all was needed was the cavalry, waiting for most of the escort forces to be tied up in battle so they could ride in, do a bit of quick butchery, and make off with their prize. While arrows, slingstones and javelins might be used against the two ambushed parties they would never be risked on the group containing the ladies, for fear of hitting one with a stray shot. As long as a wall of formed up infantry remained between her and the attackers Eleanor was perfectly safe. The cavalry would wait forever, running away unblooded when they saw the disaster.

“Stay with the ladies,” bellowed Fulk, reinforcing his order. “No matter what. Stay with them.” He turned to Sir James, “No rescues, no matter how easy it may look.”

“I know my craft.”

“Good.” Resting the butt of his lance on his stirrup Fulk rode to the far right of his conroi, joining the line. Luke fell into his own place, with the couple of messengers forming a loose line behind him, ready to follow and keep out of the fighting unless he required them.

Fulk raised the lance once, dipping the steel head a fraction at the infantry. “Move out.” The signaller in the group blew his horn, a single long blast followed by a short one.

The men at arms began to march, jogging in formation. They moved at a slight angle, leaving the road and going onto the scrubby cleared land.

Fulk raised his land again, the point remaining upright. “Move out.” He touched his spurs to Sueta’s side. His cavalry began to advance at the walk, men moving in tighter, closer as they went, until their knees touched their neighbour’s knees on either side. Shields were angled forwards, lances held ready to couch. They took the direct course, walking right at the enemy.

As they began to charge, lances swinging down with the shaft tucked under the rider’s armpit and the point aimed at the level to strike infantry, Fulk heard one of the other signal horns, the one for the rearguard, calling for assistance. If he didn’t answer it, no one would, and so no one would until the front had been saved.

His lance punched through his target’s shield, sending the infantryman flying backwards to be trampled by the wall of hooves. Fulk dropped the point of the weapon low, pulling and turning as he rode past to free the weapon without snapping the shaft, grinning with elation in the privacy of his helm. Such a difficult manoeuvre, and he’d managed it! Many of hours of training he’d put into this in the last two months, and years worth as a boy, but that was nothing to a lifetime’s worth.

The charge carried on with its momentum, men slowing their horses for more precise work, some swapping to swords and maces where lances had been lost, others, like him, trying to get a little more use from the long weapon before it must be discarded as a liability. Standing in his stirrups Fulk stabbed downwards at the face of a man, lance point scoring a deep rut on the leather facing on the man’s shield as Sueta shifted to bite and kick at some unfortunate. His second thrust went home and Fulk let the weapon go, ripping his sword from its sheath.

Spurring Sueta on, he rode over a man to reach a few engaged with one of the clusters of survivors, downing one with a cut to the shoulder and stabbing another in the back before they realised the threat to their rears. Trapped between knight and footsoldiers, the ambushers died quickly.

A series of quick, close-paced horn blasts were heard, understood and absorbed without thought as he worked his way to another cluster of men, the ones he’d just rescued following behind him, tired but exultant, drunk on being alive. It was as good as over now – that horn was the charge being sounded for his infantry. He’d commanded them to work their way around to one side so his charge wouldn’t be blocked by friendly backs.

He fought, and killed, and kept on fighting and killing, mind cool and detached. He warmed to his task, his fighting improving as it did after he’d been on the training ground for a while; mounted combat was still part a forgotten reflex, part a newly learned and heavily practiced skill, not yet instinct and trained so deeply it was part of bone and muscle as with foot combat.

“Take the princess!” The shout resolved the doubt Fulk had felt over who was the target: Eleanor. Not that there had been much doubt. As a widow Anne made a prize worth taking, but her family was close, unlike Eleanor’s they could and undoubtably would take revenge for her, a revenge so deadly seizing Anne was also seizing one’s painful death and destruction of one’s kin.

They were after Eleanor. They didn’t call her ‘Queen’. That mean they were not here for Trempwick. Thinking on what this meant anger flowed through Fulk’s veins, banishing tiredness. His fighting redoubled, he showed quarter to none.

The enemy couldn’t stand. Those who could ran away, throwing down their weapons and tearing off what they could of their light hodgepodge of armour when they saw Fulk’s men still pursued them.

Fulk reined in next to the group he thought he’d seen Miles join. “Where’s Sir Miles?”

“Here, sir. Wounded.”

“Get him to the princess’ group. Take whatever of the wounded you can, but don’t be long about it and leave them if needful. Join your forces to those protecting the princess.”

Luke had retrieved Fulk’s lance, now he rode over to his master and offered it with a broad grin. “Nice work, sir. Right nice work.”

“Get my men formed back up, now. There’s still the rear to save.”

This time he didn’t bother with anything fancy; his men were tired, some of them hurt, numbers had shrunk thanks to dead and wounded. He drove his conroi into the enemy in a charge as before, this time letting his infantry follow a distance behind them and pour into the gap they had created, capitalising on the chaos and fear.

When it was over Fulk rode on a little ahead of the infantry, anxious to see with his eyes what he knew must surely be true. Eleanor was safe, but doused in blood, kneeling on the ground. The blood wasn’t hers. Sir Miles lay on the ground, blood pouring from his side from under a wad of cloth Eleanor held in place with both hands. He hadn’t been wearing his armour. There’d been no need to; a party with such a large armed escort, and plenty of other men to do the fighting in the place of this portly old man.

Fulk tumbled down from his sweating, blood covered mount and rushed to her side, some part of his mind pointing out that it was a good thing he hadn’t liked that pale green gown she’d been wearing today, because it was another casualty of Eleanor’s complete inability not to get covered in blood every time you blinked.

Miles waved Eleanor’s hands away. “No point,” he gasped. Blood stained his lips, and dribbled out as his head fell back again, slack, his lips slightly parted.

Many would have ignored the dying man, for what small good or bad it would have done. Eleanor hesitated, then removed the cloths. The wound was so small but very deep, a hole in his ribs leaking blood which bubbled with each breath he took.

“In the next life I’ll be slim again.” The words were hideous, gasped out with not quite enough air, filled with pain. No one laughed. “Probably supposed to say something meaningful.”

Eleanor clasped his hand, holding it tightly between both of hers. “Or memorable,” she told him, a slight twist to her voice. “Or at least instructional, so we all know how a knight and lord should die.”

“Ah …” Miles face brightened, if anything so pale could be said to brighten. “Yes. Died in battle. For a princess. And a Queen.”

“I am certain someone will make a song of it,” said Eleanor dryly. “You will be remembered as killing a hundred with your bare hands, only to fall stabbed in the back while taking a drink.”

Miles stopped laughing when he died.

Eleanor took a deep breath, then pushed herself up from the ground. “He fell right at the start, one of the first to go down.”

He’d been a long time dying then. Fulk wondered if Miles had had chance to pass on anything Eleanor might need. With Hugh’s spy network decapitated she would be the one to try and pick up the pieces, and with hardly any time at all as the man’s apprentice. He worried for her, knowing that in addition to the loss of a friend she would see this as more people dying for her. Which, in truth, it was. Her grief couldn’t be indulged; he was pleased to see she gave no signs of doing so, pleased even more because he knew how much she would hate breaking down in front of strangers and from that would gain new rage to lash herself with.

He said, “We must find a place to stay overnight. We’ve driven them off the once, but they could be back with the dark and more numbers. We cannot camp out as planned.”

“Yes.” Eleanor turned to Anne, who stood off to one side of the corpse, crying noiselessly. “Any suggestions? It is too late in the day to turn back.”

The girl collected herself with visible effort, wiping her cheeks dry with her hands. “Dunning is probably the closest.”

“Dunning?” asked Eleanor.

“It is a small fortified manor, a tower house. A single great fat tower made of stone, and a little courtyard walled in with outbuildings in it.”

Fulk tapped his fingers on the hilt of his cleaned, sheathed sword. “I’ve heard of these tower houses, a type of fortification we’ve not adopted saved in the borderlands. They can be held by a small number well, but for a larger party like ours?”

“Not really,” admitted Anne.

Godit said, “But you’ll find the same problem anywhere you go, save for the big castles and towns. You’d find the same in England. Most of the soldiers will have to camp outside.”

“There’s always Glenrothes,” suggested Mariot.

Anne rounded on her, “But Malcolm is there!”

“Whatever else your brother may be, he’d see us safe.”

Anne pointed at Eleanor, still speaking to her former nurse. “What do you think he would do with her? Just because he would not kill us does not mean he would not be nice to Eleanor. When he’s not going on about war with England so he can show everyone what a warrior and a man he is, he is going on about uniting the two crowns, and one way to do that is by marriage to her. He would not accept a refusal, and she would have no escape, and he could get away with it, and cares nothing about the church if it decides to condemn him for marrying someone whom no one is certain whether she is available or not. Even if he does not marry her he might be nasty just because of who she is, or to start that war.”

“Not Glenrothes,” said Eleanor firmly.

Godit shrugged, turning to Mariot. “We’re certain of a good welcome at Dunning, aren’t we. It’s your family who owns the place.”

“Only distantly,” Mariot answered. “Very distantly. Hardly what I would term family at all. But it is true one of my cousins married the lord of the place. Being as it is such a small lordship you may gather how distant the cousin is to me, to have such lowly status.”

Council completed Eleanor went to her men, wishing to thank them and find how they fared personally. Very softly, for Fulk’s ears only, she said, “They were trying to abduct me. But not for Trempwick. It seems someone is fool enough to wish to marry me, despite it all. I am afraid. I think I would be insane not to be.”

So aware of all the people around them, Fulk swore gently, “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Stay wary. I do not like this.”

“No. Me either.” The attack had sapped their numbers badly, which was about all that could have been expected of it, unless they had been stupid enough to leave Eleanor thinly protected. No badges or livery had been found on their attackers, no way to tell who had commanded it. Sir James had said they were locals, and their warcries had been in Gaelic. The men would usually be armed and fighting like any other men at arms, except bolder on the charge and speaking their native tongue. This whole thing stank of hasty planning and execution, as if those behind it had short noticed and feared the opportunity may be lost, never to be presented again. If Anne’s brother was so eager for an English bride and war then maybe …









Weee! A frog-sized episode again at long last! Alright, a small frogs-sized episodes, but still a frog-sized episode.

I think you all begin to understand why I was so eager to begin the trip to Scotland. Right from the day Nell leaves Waltham plenty of good stuff is happening in all POVs.

Thanks for all the health wishes. I’m feeling a lot better; still weak and worn out, still coughing a bit, still hardly eating (gah! I hate it when you are really ill for a while, only to find that when you recover your appetite is gone because your body is now used to doing without meals), but better.

Vladimir: There were some links with the older scenes involving Anne and mentions of her family I wanted to build on. In the early scenes I did a lot of setting up, including a few scenes which get their point now, such as the scene where Anne took Granny’s letter to Eleanor to ask for help. Oh well; draft 2 before I can really use most of that, I think.

Ludens: Forget the fruit basket, you made a frog smile and laugh a bit.

Littlelostboy: Alas, one of the problems with the format I’m working with is that readers (very understandably) forget small details. Fulk already knew about the ring; his POV is where we first see she is wearing it. He’s remarked on it a few times since then, but infrequently and in small asides.

[furball]

Very good read, froggy! I thought you did just *fine* with Selova in bed there, given your earlier remark about a certain lack of experience in that area. :)

And
“In the next life I’ll be slim again.” The words were hideous, gasped out with not quite enough air, filled with pain. No one laughed. “Probably supposed to say something meaningful.”

given it's position in the narrative and change of tone, was another of those great froggy moments.

As mentioned before, I'm a big fan of your writing. I don't mention it too often to avoid sounding sycophantic. :)

Thanks!

[Vladimir]

A good section; another lillypad in the pond (it's an amphibian joke, she's a frog you see :frog:). I liked the battle but I had a little trouble visualizing it. I do like the detailed description of Fulk's charge however, no problems with that part. I see the bastard is learning how to lead men quite effectively, he might even make a good king some day (~:idea: ), which I hope is where he's going.

Interesting section with Hugh; I wonder if he's going to enjoy this war a little too much.

[furball]

Are inebriated messages allowed here? (Those are the ones I usually delete.)

I notice that the latest chapter starts slowly with the calculating Hugh. Then we get right in bed with Jocelyn in mid-conversation - though it's a warm and comfortable conversation.

Finally, the enemy just "boils" suddenly at Fulk and Eleanor's party for the swift, bloody fight.

Nice pacing, froggy! I enjoy your characters and turns-of-phrase. And the plot. But I also am often impressed and delighted with how you carry on the narrative, paragraph-after-paragraph, scene-after-scene. Like the characters, the story itself needs its ups and downs in style and pacing. . . those little sly hidden things and the in-your-face THIS IS REAL stuff.

Froggy, you've made it clear you have your own vision of where you're going with this epic. I wouldn't change your direction or style for the world. When I said I'd like to edit, it was for spelling, grammar and, admittedly, sometimes for pace. But I say that cause I'd love to be part of your vision, not because I think I could better it.

I'm *very* impressed that you have not only all these plot lines in your head, but that you are bringing them out in a methodical, yet compelling, manner.

To me, Fulk and Eleanor might have the basically same conversation once too often, or Trempwick might have had the same internal conversation in more than one chapter, or Eleanor got smacked more than we needed to know. But you're writing your vision. It's very clear, it's well-written and it makes us want to read more.

What more could a writer ask?

Personally, I'm pleased and even feel privileged to see a writer working and blossoming this way. A great plot is one thing. Style is another. I'm *very* impressed, froggy.

Again, what do I know? Count me a fan.

[frogbeastegg]

“You’ll wear a rut in the floor.”

Eleanor fixed her knight with a vicious look without even breaking her stride.

When her circuit of the room took her on past him, Fulk spoke again, “Well, I suppose if you do we’re that bit closer to escape. Keep on pacing, oh gooseberry mine.”

Eleanor growled, “Shut up.” The red fringes of a complete loss of temper threatened – beckoned enough without his aid. “I will make them weep for this,” she vowed, needing to give vent to some of the fury before it overwhelmed her. She couldn’t see how she could keep that promise.

It had all been so damnably neat! She had walked into the noose like a willing sheep to the slaughter. Aside from Fulk and his squire only a handful of sound men were inside the walls, the limited space she had allocated to her wounded. They had waited until she entered this, her ‘guest room’, before declaring their loyalty and swearing allegiance to her and her cause.

Suddenly flinging herself at the door, pounding and screaming her outrage didn’t seem so inappropriate. The impulse was mastered before she did more than clench her fists; Trempwick would have been proud. Trempwick! The bastard!

“Beloved-”

“Be silent! You begin to make me regret all my effort in having you returned to me.” Fulk still had sword and dagger, which had been unexpected, but in hindsight there was no reason for her captors to deprive him of his weapons and break the illusion of her being an honoured guest. He’d stripped off his bloodied armour and given it to Luke to clean, unknowing. As if it mattered - he was outnumbered tens to his one.

Several circuits later Hawise dared to venture, “At least they won’t hurt us.”

“Hurt us?” Eleanor laughed, and didn’t like the sound of it. Her walking grew faster. “What a delightfully benign way to put rape, torture and murder. No, I do not suppose you need to concern yourself about such things. My influence will protect you.”

“You don’t either. Your rank protects you. If they hope to profit-”

“They will have to return me to my dear ‘husband’ in immaculate condition.” It was Trempwick she worried about. He would not be pleased with her, and that was a tidy understatement. The fact he needed her didn’t reassure. He’d always needed her, and above all he needed her to dance consistently to his tune. It would be all she could do to protect Fulk. Perhaps more than she could manage. Probably more than she could manage. He would never be allowed to remain close to her, and once away he could be killed without her ever finding out. Luck had helped her once, luck and the sheer unexpectedness of what she had done. Never again. With him alert, mistrustful, his creatures surrounding her to the exclusion of any who might be loyal to her alone, she would be caged, the crown only another shackle holding her in place.

As she paced her next loop of her prison Eleanor looked hard, searching for anything she might have missed. A circular room at the top of the tower house with a chip taken out for the staircase and door leading to it. Windows looking out in all four major directions, slits so narrow and in walls so thick it would be hard to stick her arm out any further than her elbow, presently closed over with wooden shutters. One bed, one trestle table, one backless chair. That was it. Not even tapestries to decorate the whitewashed walls. It was not a room fit for a queen. Her baggage had been placed in a pile near the bed.

Sir Miles rested in the tiny chapel. May his soul find the peace so lacking in this mundane world. Now she wished she had called him master a time or two, it would have given him some joy and he wouldn’t have known it felt like blasphemy. The dress stained with his blood had been sent to the washerwomen.

The gravity of their situation appeared to have unhinged Hawise’s sensibleness, because she encroached yet again on her mistress’ thoughts. “I wonder if Anne and the others are alright?”

“It would be madness to harm them,” Eleanor replied curtly. “They will be freed when we are safely gone, I expect.” Anne and her maids were in a room on the floor below, the guest quarters where Eleanor had the lord’s own room. Anne, her maids, and the wretch responsible for this trap. There was another debt to pay in blood. New direction applied to her thoughts, Eleanor’s mind hared off like an unruly dog, once again after the spy’s identity, a subject she had exhausted already this evening. Without more to work with her verdict was as final as it could be and an impasse reached: she could not act and would not delay to discover more.

Some time later someone rapped on the door. They did wait until she called for them to enter; Eleanor bid them do so in a passionless voice. The game must be played, as tempting as complete surrender felt. It would be like drowning: supposedly a peaceful way to die, but still death. She drew herself up opposite the door, erect, relaxed, regal. It was something to be grateful for, that she’d had the wits to play queen on finding herself trapped in a room with people bowing and calling her ‘Your Majesty’. Doing otherwise would only have harmed her position.

Two men entered, a pair of page boys trailing at their heels. Her captors, the Lord of Dunning and his landless brother. The gloom on the stairs combined with the narrow doorway to hide the soldiers she knew must be there.

Both men bent knee, the page boys bowed, one balancing his heavily laden tray through the motion with commendable skill, the other having more difficulty with the bowl, towel and ewer.

“Your Majesty,” said the Lord of Dunning. “Forgive our slowness in offering you food.”

Eleanor dismissed this with a wave of a hand. “I arrived late.”

As the page set his tray down on the table the Dunning continued, “I pray you’ll also forgive our plain fare. We hadn’t expected to have opportunity to do you such service.”

“It is forgiven.” Another gesture ordered the men back to their feet. “You may do me a small service.”

The brother bowed. “Anything, your Majesty. Only name it.”

Let me go! “I wish to know when we depart.”

“Your Majesty need not concern herself with such things,” said Dunning smoothly. “We’ll see to all arrangements. You’ll be safely with your husband in no time.”

“So we leave tomorrow morning, then.” In the space she left they gave neither confirmation or denial, not even the small signs which unconsciously betrayed a person’s feelings. “My men had best be given the necessary orders.”

“Already seen to, your Majesty.”

“I see.” Likely, then, that they would leave at the crack of dawn, this façade upheld, her captor’s troops mixed in amongst her own so they could cut the unwary men to pieces effortlessly if she tried to call of them. The border was only a couple of days’ hard riding away, once across, possibly even before then, more of Trempwick’s supporters would add themselves to her escort. No one even knew she might be in trouble.

Dunning stepped to the table. “If I may, with your Majesty’s permission? We have no taster, so my brother and I will do the duty.”

Eleanor assented with a nod.

The men washed their hands, holding them over the bowl as the page poured water from the elaborate ewer. The boy’s pouring and offering of the towel didn’t quite come up to the standard of elegance Eleanor expected. Rustic lordlings …

Dunning picked up a spoon and held it poised over the dish of herring.

Eleanor plucked up another spoon at random. Sometimes the substance was on the eating implements, not in the food. Sleeping potions were the worst she could expect, and they could destroy whatever chance she had of escape. Her dignity wouldn’t emerge in too healthy a state either. “You will use this spoon.”

“Majesty.”

When Dunning put the original spoon back Eleanor commanded, “Your brother will use that one.” In her first year with Trempwick Eleanor had learned all the simple tricks to fool a person into choosing of their own will the object you wanted them to. The third and final spoon she allocated to the page who had carried the tray. That raised eyebrows. Looking down her nose at the brothers Eleanor said, “Already attempts on me with poison have been made.”

The landless brother bowed his greying head. “We’re your Majesty’s loyal subjects.”

“Then eat. And drink. Be sure you all have some of everything, and use all the utensils.”

The contents of the tray proved harmless. Eleanor made the trio stand about for a good length of time, just to be sure.

When she washed her hands the idiot page poured too much, and soaked the cuffs of her dress. Eleanor pretended not to notice, all the while thinking that at court he would have been beaten and that might have been no bad thing.

As there was food for all three of them and only the one seat they had to use the bed as a table, and cluster about the tray. The used implements Hawise cleaned on Eleanor’s discarded veil.

Bread, pottage with dried beans in it, salted herring done in some wine based sauce, goopy cheese made even worse by having some chopped herbs mixed in it. By the time she had finished Eleanor’s mood was blacker than ever.






If Eleanor had been sleeping the din would have awakened her. Raised voices outside the tower, closely followed by a cry that had grown too familiar over these last months: a man in agony. The thud was subdued, so quiet she almost missed it. More shouting, now with a different, alarmed quality.

Fulk was at the window, unbolting the shutters, before she could do more than stand. “Nothing this way,” he declared after surveying what small view the slit offered.

Eleanor rushed to the window nearest her.

It was the third window, the one which overlooked the gatehouse, which revealed a poor sight of the source. It was the middle of the night, the moon only a narrow crescent party hidden behind the clouds which obscured the few stars which were out. There was a party outside, wanting to come in. A banner flew over the group, at the thickest cluster of men; it was too dark to make out the design on it. In the midst of that group a shortish figure held a bow, arrow notched, ready to draw.

“Let me repeat what I said. I want to come in.” The voice was boyish, high if not quite as pure as it would have been before it began to break, sloppy in its pronunciation.

One of her captures called back, “Our lord-”

“Fuck him! Your lord’s nothing to me.” The youth brought his bow up, pulling the arrow back to his chin in the same fluid motion. “Open up, or I’ll amuse myself with you.”

A couple of heartbeats the tableau remained frozen. Then the boy loosed. The arrow skimmed past one of the gatehouse guards.

Men ran about, rushing to open the gates.

The boy handed his bow off to an attendant and remounted.

The hairs at the back of Eleanor’s neck rose. She had a suspicion, and she didn’t like it one bit.

Torches were brought. Grooms and stablehands tumbled out from wherever they had been sleeping, groggy with sleep and despairing of where to keep these latest animals. The bannerbearer rode into the puddle of light, the device he bore becoming visible. Black background with a golden serpent.

Eleanor whispered, “Oh Jesù.”

“Prince Malcolm Nefastus,” Fulk said, his tone dead.

Boiling anger washed away the blankness that banner had brought. Eleanor pounded a fist on the stonework. “No! I have not come so far to end in the hands of a pimply little rat!” A second punch left the side of her hand stinging and throbbing. Fulk caught her wrist before she could do it a third time.

“Calm,” he implored. “Now if ever.”

“Calm?” she spat, fighting with all her might to free herself. “Calm? Are you deranged, expecting that?”

“Eleanor-”

“Or mayhap you think I am. Who in their right mind would be calm!?” She would not marry him willingly. If – when, very probably when - he tried to rape her she would fight. She still had her knives and he would not expect it. She would kill him. Then his father would destroy her. If she failed then she would not be a quiet victim, and if he turned it into a forced marriage she would go to her grave decrying it. Except that would make her shame public, and she would be ruined, and she could never bear that. Better to be dead. People would laugh. They would say someone finally tamed her. They would say she deserved it, asked for it. They would say she was a slut. They already said that. Her brother would disown her. She’d kill him. At the first sign of any aggression, she would kill him. Maybe she could flee afterwards. There was nowhere to go.

Fulk caught her chin in his spare hand and forced her to look him in the eye. “I’ll guard you. Boy, prince, or God Himself, it makes no difference, save that boys and princelings are easier to beat. Now, calm. You’ll need your wits.”

“Then you will die.” Maybe if she didn’t fight Fulk would live. She wouldn’t, for his sake. No – he’d die to defend her, no matter what she told him to do. Oh Jesù! Maybe she could get to her men somehow, and then to her army outside. Her followers far outnumbered his. The prince was between her and them.

Hawise said, “Maybe he isn’t so bad. You’re not much like people say.” The damned girl was exhibiting all the composure Eleanor was not. But she was the safest person in the room.

“Anne said he was.”

The maid shrugged and smiled, both tiny little gestures. “Hugh would say the same of you.”

Someone was on the stairs, nearing her room. They were running, the footfalls echoing in the enclosed stone shaft.

Fulk let her go, whirling to stand at her shoulder.

Calm came easily, along with pounding heart and readiness for battle. It was always so when the waiting ended.

The door burst open.

As it turned out prince Malcolm Nefastus did indeed have a slight pimple problem.

The boy skidded to a halt, palms resting on his thighs as he laughed and caught his breath. “They were right,” he exulted. “They were. By God’s shrivelled up and wasted balls!” He straightened, expression flowing into a suspicious frown. “You are who I think?”

“Princess Eleanor of England, yes.” The boy was nearly as tall as her; it was easy to look him squarely instead of lowering her eyes as she should.

“Well, well, bloody well.” Malcolm returned to the door, holding the handle as he issued orders to the guards Eleanor could clearly see. “Tidy up. I want the brothers, unharmed. Find my sister, and treat her nicely. Don’t harm my dear guest’s lot, but don’t let them make a nuisance. And I don’t want to be disturbed.” He slammed the door and moved back towards Eleanor, saying, “I killed a man for you, right above the gates. I shot him, in the dark and with a hunting bow, not a war bow. Got him on my first go, too.” Most boys strutted like cockerels when swelled with pride and boasting, but this one had it to a fine art.

“You must be a fine archer.”

Malcolm grinned. “He fell off the wall.” One fist pounded into his open hand. “Splat!”

Which explained the thud. “How did you know I was here?”

“One of my huntsmen saw that ambush while out tracking a stag for me. He recognised a wretch or two as Dunning’s. If he couldn’t recognise you and my sister from your banners then I’d have to get rid of him for being bloody useless. I only employ the best. So off I set. Didn’t know for sure you’d come here, but we tracked you and found you, and here we are.” The prince’s skinny chest puffed up with pride. “I took this place with just twenty-seven men! A hunting party, and a few soldiers. Even my knights are done up for hunting and not battle.”

“That is most impressive.”

Malcolm raked his fingers through his long hair, realising belatedly that his exertions had mussed up the fiery locks. “I’m not a knight yet, but in a couple of years I will be sixteen and a man, and then I’ll be made knight. I’m going to be the best that ever was. A warrior king. My foes will tremble before me. They do already, else I’d still be outside.” His attention turned to Fulk. “I’ve heard about you. You’re supposed to be really good. My man did nothing but sing your praises from what he’d seen. I want to see myself, some day.”

Fulk bowed. “Thank you, your Highness.”

“So.” Malcolm returned his attention to Eleanor, closing the gap between them by another step. He smoothed his tunic, another casualty of his haste. “Here we are. Me, heir to my kingdom, you with a damned good claim to yours. Two greats in a world of nothings and fools. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Eleanor’s smile felt stiff. “And I you.” This was leading to a proposal, she would wager her crown on it.

“I could beat your bastard brother. No more than he deserves, either. Bloody half breeds should know their place, like he does.” The prince jerked his head at Fulk.

“Hugh is not a bastard.”

“Fuck that,” said Malcolm. “You’d make a better king than him, and you’re female, so you can’t be a king. It’s in the blood, and he’s not got the blood.”

“I would not wish to be king, or rather queen.”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “No? You lie, and I don’t take kindly to people lying to me.” He exclaimed, “How could you not? God, after all I’ve heard about you! How could you not want it? Them that’s mocked you would never do so again, and them that’s hurt you would shit themselves in fear. You’d rule all, and be ruled by none. Make your own choices. You’d prove yourself once and for all to everyone. You’d never be a victim again; you could have revenge!” The boy’s green eyes blazed with the passion of his words.

“I do not want that.” Part of her did; Eleanor was not fool enough to deny that.

The princeling clearly didn’t believe her. He rested his left hand on the hilt of his long hunting knife and stood with his feet apart, a manly pose which only showed to better advantage how gangly he was, emerging from one growth spurt and needing to put on bulk and muscle to match his new height. “United, England and Scotland would be one of the greatest powers in Christendom.”

As proposals went it was very cautious, like he half expected to be scorned and abused. “It is not possible for me to marry.”

Malcolm’s face flushed as red as his hair, the ends of his mouth dragged down as he took a furious breath. “Marry?” he spat. “I don’t take another man’s leavings. If I wanted a leftover I’d go to a brothel, doubtless I’d find many less used than you, and truer, and more faithful. Probably less diseased too. If I must marry a whore I’ll take a pretty one over a thing like you! You’re bloody ugly as it is, and if rumour’s true you’re so scarred you’d make a hardened man vomit.”

Fulk’s left hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword, an echo of the prince’s own stance. The contrast between them was sharp, man and boy. On Fulk the pose looked natural, easy, and the slightest bit menacing. Where the boy was scrawny Fulk was lean, the boy skinny Fulk toned, the older man broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist and the boy simply bony.

The prince’s right hand flew to the hilt of his weapon. “You dare? You’re nothing!” He spat on the floor at Eleanor’s feet, and contemptuously told the knight, “You’re less than that – it’s royal, and you’re a bastard nothing, born of some slut peasant and some pointless nothing noble.”

Didn’t the boy take rejection well? Eleanor’s father might be dead, but it seemed the tradition of shouting, threats and unpleasantness on her rejecting a suitor had survived him, passed like a torch from parent to potential groom.

Malcolm took half a step towards Eleanor, sneering, “Oh look, your lover’s angry. Doesn’t like to hear the truth, does he? If you bed with the likes of him then you’ll take anything, even some peasant who stinks of shit. I need true born heirs. I’d have to lock you up to ensure that, even assuming I’d stoop so very, very far as to go where such creatures had been before me. Which I wouldn’t. Most whores are more discerning than you.”

“I have noticed,” Eleanor said, “a certain trend in rejected men. They always impugn my honour and accuse me of base things. Which makes no sense, for if it were true I would not have refused them.” Her voice not quite steady, and not from upset alone. With no outlet for her earlier rage she had buried it, and now it burned brightly once again, fed by new fuel. Her tongue running further away with her was the last thing this volatile situation needed.

The boy was fast; his slap landed before Fulk could do more than begin to move his right hand. Rapidly, even before she had her head back up again, Eleanor ordered Fulk, “No!” He obeyed, if he’d planned to do otherwise than stand there at her side.

“Oh look,” crowed Malcolm. “She orders and the dog obeys.” He poked Fulk in the chest once, hard. When he got no reaction the boy did it again harder still, grinning. “Stupid dog. I’m a prince. Heir to a kingdom. Touch me and you’ll be torn apart while still living. Kill me and you’ll die a traitor’s death. If I so much as say you harmed me then you’ll die. You’ve no family to speak for you, protect you.” With both hands the boy shoved Fulk, making him rock back on his feet. “You’ll get out of my way, keep out of my way, and if you don’t I’ll kill you like the dog you are.”

Abandoning Fulk the princeling turned back to Eleanor, standing with his fists on his hips, feet planted and chest puffed up in yet another attempt to look imposing. “Marry you,” he scoffed. “You’re old! And you’ll make an appalling breeder. I won’t have a wife I have to break either; I want a decently trained one from the start, and you’re known for being bloody wild. Your blood’s tainted anyhow, not so bad as your bastard brother, but still you’re half your mother’s child, and she was an unfaithful slut, as ‘prince’ Hugh proves. Blood runs true. It’s showing in you, and in that sister of yours, the one in Spain. I won’t have my children contaminated. What I want, I take, and I’ll take your bastard brother’s crown, or yours, or whoever else ends up wearing it.” He tapped his breastbone with a finger. “I’ll take it. Not my weak father. As soon as I get my crown, look to yours.” Leering, the boy looked her up and down, chuckling. “You’re not even worth raping. I’d rather have your maid – your plain, miserable, serious looking piece of shit of a maid. She’s better looking and likely more fun. But I can do far better, and so I shall.”

Malcolm spun on his heel and stalked towards the door, hand still on his hunting knife. In the sudden quiet it became possible to hear a commotion outside, a girl’s voice and some men, muffled by the thick stonework and door. It sounded like Anne.

Flinging the door open Malcolm bellowed, “What the fuck is going on?” In a very different voice he said, “Anne? I heard you were back. Good. Back where you belong.” At his guards he snapped, “You’d better not have been bothering her. She’s my sister; an insult to her is an insult to me.”

“They would not let me in,” Anne said in a small voice.

The guard protested, “You ordered it, your Highness. No interruptions, you said.”

“True.” Malcolm caught his sister’s hand; she shied away. Malcolm’s jaw clenched, and he tightened his grip, pulling her into the room. “Well, now we’ll have a nice reunion. And I don’t want that disturbed either. Someone go see if the brothers have been caught; I want a decent report on what’s going on.” Addressing Anne’s trio of maids he nodded at the room. “You lot get inside as well. Can’t leave you wandering about pointlessly, can I now. Not when you’re all clustered together for protection.”

Malcolm booted the door shut. The maids joined Eleanor’s little group standing in the middle of the room, Mariot lingering on the fringes of the group closest to Anne.

He said to Anne, “So you’re back, and free from that foul old man. Best news I’ve heard in ages. You should have had better, far better.”

“He was not!”

“Bedded you as fast as he could, didn’t he? Rushed the match along, from proposal to church as fast as he could.” Malcolm spat on the floor. “Perverted old git. Supposed to wait until you were fourteen, I was told, no matter that you’re already a year past beddable age by law.”

“I loved him.”

Malcolm’s back stiffened, he flung his sister’s hand down. “I loved him,” he parroted, his voice cracking to swing low as he tried to force it to the higher ranges. “Doesn’t take much to win your love, does it? Man beds you once and you’re in love. Did you like it? Did you?”

Anne shrank back, away from him and towards the others. “No. It hurt and was all messy and I hated it. But he was a good man-”

“Except it wasn’t once, was it?” shouted Malcolm. “He was always after you. I heard all about how he couldn’t keep his hands off you. And all dear father could do was fuss about how soon you’d start breeding, Grandmother too. I’ll find you your next husband, and this one will be worthy, a proper good man.”

“William might not be dead.”

“He is, and even if he isn’t I’m not having you going back to him. That’s an end to it; don’t waste my time arguing. You lot are all going back to Perth first thing in the morning, and I’m going back to my hunting, at long bloody last.”

Anne finally reached Eleanor’s side. In a whisper she asked, “You are alright?”

She hadn’t been quiet enough. Malcolm exploded into laughter. “I killed her, can’t you tell? I won’t tell you all the other things I did first, they’d make you sick, dearest sister. Besides, you’ve heard it all before from others, so repeating would bore you. Now, I’d best be off. I’ve a church to burn, and some suckling babes to spit on spears ready to roast for my dinner. They take so long to cook. I’d best throw some innocents on a pyre too; it’s been a whole week since my offering to the Dark Lord.” He swaggered from the room.

Anne said, “I hate him.”






Standing where the boy had driven him, near the open window overlooking the courtyard, Fulk moved to look out when he heard the latest lot of shouting. Malcolm was standing in the pool of torchlight, surrounded by his men. Two others were on their knees before him, hands bound and armed men at their backs. The prince’s voice carried up; the room gradually fell silent as Anne and her women heard it.

“You attacked my father’s guests and my sister,” the boy was saying. “You broke his peace. You dabbled where you should not. You treated with our enemies. You refused to open your gates to me at my first order, and I’ve had no hospitality from you. You dishonoured our house, and our word!” That last he shouted; it rang about the walled complex.

One of the men reached out with his bound hands. The boy kicked them away, making the man cry out.

“I sentence you. I sentence you,” Malcolm repeated, louder. “Death. Nothing else begins to repay.” He held a hand out to the soldier at his right. The man drew his sword and offered it to the prince hilt first.

Malcolm took it in a two-handed grip. He stepped behind the first of the men, raising the blade above his head as the two guards seized the prisoner and forced him to hold still, bent over with his neck thrust out. The blade came down, blood spurted, and the head rolled free; it was all very skilfully done, he’d give the boy that, and credit for doing his own dirty work. The motive likely wasn’t pure, execution giving chance to hurt and kill without condemnation.

The second man took two strokes.

Handing the dripping weapon back to its owner, Malcolm declared, “Put the heads on spikes above the gate. Drive off all their men at arms; I want them scattered. I’ll not have a small army of brigands roaming. This land’s reverted to the crown. The servants are to stay and maintain it, until such time as my father makes some decision as to what’s happening with it. And if they don’t do a good job I’ll kill them too.”

Within minutes the prince’s group had all mounted and ridden away, back out into the night.





The tail end of the night saw Eleanor again in her room with just Fulk and Hawise for company. The tower house was filled with her own people now, its walls patrolled heavily. Anne and her maids had returned to their room, to get what sleep they could before dawn.

After all that had happened Eleanor wanted only to curl up in Fulk’s arms and let the poison of the last day and night slowly bleed away, a comfort denied her. She still had one task left to do.

Hawise dropped to the floor, sitting leaning against the wall. “Never in my life have I been so terrified. Not even when they tried to abduct you at Waltham.”

“You did not look it,” Eleanor told her.

“Everyone always says that.”

Fulk teased, “It probably comes from being too sensible.”

There was some wine left over in the pitcher from dinner. Eleanor poured them all a cup, handing Hawise hers first. It was the work of a turned back, a trained gesture, and a fraction of a second to dose Fulk’s wine with a substance she’d retrieved form her baggage while ostensibly checking to see if any of her jewellery had been stolen.

Handing the cup to Fulk with a smile, Eleanor raised her own and said, “To your gallant deeds today.” Drinking a good few mouthfuls she watched as he did the same.

Fulk stared into the contents of his cup. “It’s a bit sweet.”

“Yes. But we should not expect good wine in a place such as this.”

He drank the wine, all but the dregs.

Hawise lay down to sleep. Fulk drew the curtains on the bed, and they sat together, his arm about her shoulders and hers around his waist, their free hands linked on their laps. They said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak first, and she knew now was not the time. Healing was lacking, comfort was not, and poignancy from knowing what she had done to him.

His head began to droop against hers, his muscles relax until he was leaning on her. “I’m tired.”

She brushed his temple with her lips. “I am not surprised. A day’s travel, a battle, and then all this fuss tonight – it is enough to make anyone weary.”

“But not you.”

There was a pause before her reply. “But not me. I am not accustomed to seeing others die for me. I expect I shall grow used to it, as I did with killing.” The prospect gave her no cheer; how many would she have to lose before her heart hardened, and to what degree?

“Beloved, your caring is what you owe those men. They give their lives; you see them buried decently if possible, remember them and have masses said for them, and ensure their sacrifice is worthwhile. It’s one of the oldest bargains. Break it and you’re not worth serving.”

Gradually Fulk drowsed, and sank into a deeper sleep. She laid him out, folding his hands on his chest and turning his head to one side in case he choked. Eleanor stroked his cheek with the tip of a finger. “Sleep well, my luflych little knight. Some things you are not made to be part of.”

She rose, to begin her work.






This is what is known as a frog working a 46 hour week with just 1 day off, that being today, the last day of the week in question. The part is a bit rough (I sat down and wrote all this in one morning and part of an afternoon), and I’d like to refine it, polish it, hone it, and get the tension which should be there in place. But it simply isn’t possible. I’m tired, and I’m not entirely certain what hours I’m working next week, so if I delay it could be another week. Gah! to other branches stealing parts of our workforce. Oh well, it does mean I’ve made up for the pay I missed while sick.

:squints up at this parts, and the events therein: This bit bothers me because it feels so damned convenient. Shock, horror! Nell is captured! Oh no, she is freed! By the evil brother! Who doesn’t harm her! And now she is back in control again! :rolls eyes: Blergh.



Furball: Thanks. The lack of experience with characters like Selova continues, only slightly reduced, though my experience with such scenes is a fraction better than it once.

Actually, to be honest I am amazed I mange to keep it all straight in my head too. I have more plotlines and far more information stuffed in my head than you see in the story. Background, the future, things which aren’t important enough to feature. The story itself is 810 pages long now. Heh, I can manage all this, and yet historical dates, and frequently names, go right out of my head.

Editing for spelling and grammar would be nice. Save me the bother of leaving the work to sit for several months so I can actually read it instead of recalling form memory what I had written, thus blinding myself to any mistakes.

Vladimir: Hugh is probably too boring to do something like enjoy a war. He probably enjoys things like collecting unusually shaped bits of dust. Oh, the thrills!

Battle scenes are the type aside from so called love scene which I need to practice; I’ve hardly done any. Maybe four scenes in addition to those in this story.

[furball]

No! Froggy! Granted SO much plot and Malcolm, etc. But take one moment. Read the post before this one, and then the beginning of this last post. It is TOO obscure.

The tone and how you're exposing what is going on is. . . again, too obscure. Granted, you have a grand vision, but if you leave the readers behind, what good does that do?

Once Malcolm shows up, well, ok. Although, if he's THAT harsh and confident, why didn't he just kill Ful right there? What does he have to lose?

As the chapters draw to a close, we see the usual themes settle in, Hawise, Fulk, etc. But, the START of your entire last post doesn't fit. ALTHOUGH, if you read it BY ITSELF from top to bottom, it sort of does. To write all that at once, I can't fault you for plot and advancement at all. But the segue from last post to this does not work.

Darn. Sounds like I'm complaining. Your paragraphs of love and interpersonal stuff amongst all the characters work. But the narrative got a rude bump here and I don't think it was necessary. I HATE to criticize.

Just keep writing. You're on a roll and a better editor than me (yes, me is the right part of speech) will hopefully help.

Plot-wise, though, one wonders why Malcolm just didn't take Fulk's head.

[frogbeastegg]

Why not? The oldest of reasons - because he can't. Look at Nell's comparison of the two, and the way he's described. Malcolm can threaten, he can browbeat, but Fulk would defeat him easily if it came to a fight. He also knows he's facing a man who will rip him to bits if he tries to seriously harm Nell; he knows that because of Fulk's reaction to the insults aimed at Nell, and their joint reaction to that slap.

Another thing Malcolm can't do is accept a setback quietly. He must salvage his pride and come out looking strong.

[furball]

Did I terribly misunderstand something? I thought the only reason Fulk let Malcolm carry on as he did was because Nell and Fulk are Malcolm's prisoners. So I imagine Malcolm has at leasty dozens, if not hundreds, of armed guys right outside the door. If that's the case, Malcolm certainly seems like the sort to say, "You big guys! Come here and kill this big guy for me!" (Or words to that effect.)

[Lord Winter]

finally caught up

I agree with furball the transition is a little rough, but like usual it was a good read

[frogbeastegg]

Simple again. Remember in the last post, during the attack, Fulk gave some rough numbers for Eleanor's soldiers? Tot them up and it comes to over 100 men. Granted there are losses, dead and wounded. They are all properly equipped for battle. Malcolm admits to having 27, equipped for hunting and lesiure, not war. He's not even got a sword, just that hunting knife he keeps on playing with; he is mentioned as dropping his left hand to rest on it, his right over to draw it, and for threatening he'd use a sword if he had it. No one knows Malcolm is here; he can't expect support or rescue.

Next you'll ask why Malcolm fears the army and the Dunning brothers didn't. :winkg: Yet again, simple. The Dunnings were prepared for the situation - they had more men than Malcolm, equipped and ready to fight if need be, and were on familiar ground with help promised.

:shrug: Maybe I should have 'spoonfed' a bit more in this case. This is why having more time to write is a Good Thing.

[furball]

No, froggy, in my haste, I just missed those details. My apologies. Of course, this makes Malcolm even more of a jerk in my eyes. :)

On a different note. I just finished and recommend The Rivers of War by Eric Flint. It is described as an alternate history of the American frontier; deals with the War of 1812. I know you're busy and don't suggest you run out and buy it, but keep an eye out for it. It took me awhile to get "into" it, but I finished the last 4/5 of it non-stop. In pace and characterization it reminded me of your work and I enjoyed it.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor selected Alfred to stand at her shoulder in this. When she explained her need he didn’t baulk, he didn’t question. Of her handful of proven men he had the most cause to welcome her work this night; stating her intent was enough for him. Evidence, explanations, details – not a one of them mattered to him, not in this. He had lost his brother in the abduction attempt at Waltham.

Gaining entrance to Anne’s room was easy; none of the occupants had gone to sleep. When Godit opened the door her eyes widened at the sight of Alfred. “Where’s Fulk?”

The cheek of the girl! Demanding answers about a man she kept trying to poach from the very princess she tried to steal from. “Sleeping. As he deserves to.”

Anne was sat on her bed; she had been listening to Mariot reciting a story from memory. From the bit Eleanor heard before the telling ceased it sounded like a romance, some knight being struck by the perfection of his lord’s betrothed on their first meeting. From that it could be one of a score of stories, each as boring as the rest. Adele was fussing over her mistress’ riding clothes, seeing how well the mud had sponged off and what good the fire’s warmth was doing them. It was a task she didn’t let the visitors interrupt. Whatever Godit had been doing was a mystery, and Eleanor was content to leave it so.

Anne said, “You had better tell him to be really careful. Malcolm holds grudges, and poor Fulk got in his way really quite badly. You had better be just as careful too. You had an army this time, but next time maybe you will not, or maybe he will have one too, so he will not fear.”

As he’d been instructed beforehand, Alfred closed the door and stood in front of it, thumbs looped in either side of his belt, a touch of his own which allowed him to keep his hands near sword and dagger hilts. Threatening, and Eleanor had not asked for that.

The former queen watched the man at arms, biting her underlip. “Why are you here?” she asked Eleanor, not taking her attention off the soldier. “Not that I am unhappy to see you, or anything.”

Eleanor swallowed her reservations – threatening was good, threatening was all to the better. “I am here to claim a debt.”

Anne’s brow wrinkled. “What debt?”

But Eleanor ignored the girl. “Seize her,” she commanded Alfred. His target had been named beforehand, so as to keep the spy from gaining even a moment’s slight warning.

The man at arms bulled his way across the room, barging past Adele to catch hold of his designated target, wrenching her arms around behind her back and locking them in a large fist, his other hand pulling a length of rope from his scrip. Only when he began to bind her hands did his prisoner begin to struggle, futilely.

“I am owed,” Eleanor said as he struck, as calm as if she did this every day, “a life.”

The commotion was tiresome. Eleanor raised her voice to cut across the four’s noise, “I am owed a life, and I claim it, and I will have it. She is Trempwick’s creature.”

“But you are wrong,” wailed Anne. She stood close to the prisoner, looking back and forth between Eleanor and her man at arms and his prisoner, eyes bright with building tears. “You are wrong!”

“No.” There might have been some gentleness in that word if Eleanor had not hacked it out. It could not be afforded. It would be counterproductive.

“It’s not her!” Tears were flowing now, well and truly. “It can’t be. You are wrong.” Anne reached out, hand trembling, and nearly touched Mariot’s shoulder. A glare from Alfred discouraged her. Almost begging, Anne sobbed, “She’s like my mother.”

As Trempwick was almost Eleanor’s father. Eleanor hardened her heart. She must be seen to be merciless. “I will see her hang. I would have her die the traitor’s death she deserves, but there is no one with the required skills here, and I will not suffer her to live even an hour longer than I can help.”

“She’s been with me all my life.”

Godit wrapped her arms around Anne and pulled her away from Mariot and Alfred, spitting Eleanor on a glare which was far from pleasant. “Yes. She’s the most loyal of us all.”

Now her hands were securely bound Alfred let Mariot go, backing away a step or so and drawing his sword. At the rasp of steel on scabbard Mariot turned to face the man at arms; mouth dropping open at what she saw she stumbled back a few steps. Her three friends all rushed to get in the way. Adele was the first, not entangled with another person as Anne and Godit were.

Standing between captive and soldier Adele spread her arms out to make it harder for the man to dodge past her. Which he wouldn’t, Eleanor had been specific on a few points. “This is nonsense,” the English maid said. “Her connection to the Dunnings was weak, and even close family can be found on opposite sides of anything.”

Anne and Godit joined the human barrier, one to each side of Adele. Alfred dropped his sword point to the floor and clasped both hands on the weapon’s pommel.

“True,” Eleanor allowed. “That has no place in my reckoning.”

For the first time Mariot spoke, addressing her words to Anne’s back. “I’ve been in Scotland all my life, until you brought me to England. The few times I’ve seen Trempwick you’ve all been with me. I would never betray you.”

Eleanor folded her arms. “I did not say you betrayed Anne, though men sworn to her died yesterday because of your work. No, you sold me to my enemy.”

Godit turned from Alfred to Eleanor, creating a vulnerability in the line which the man at arms could have used if he had been so tasked. “If you’ve some proof you’d better present it, or apologise and leave.”

“I have proof,” Eleanor said evenly. “It is all subtle work, but in the end there is too much of it to doubt. I set a trap.” Cultivating an air of self-assurance Eleanor seated herself on the stool Mariot had formerly occupied. Being of lesser stature than the other was a disadvantage, Trempwick had taught her, before teaching her ways to use it and turn it to an advantage. Back straight, head held as though she wore her crown, hands folded in her lap, and all cool poise. “You should have let Trempwick’s men attack and discover me missing, rather than warning them I was not there. You were the only one of three who had opportunity. One of three where a spy was certain, to the point where Trempwick himself admitted it to me and shared a few snippets of the information you fed him.”

“I was ill. It was seen.” She was sure, too sure. She believed – not unreasonably – that Eleanor would never dare breach the codes of behaviour and harm her without Anne’s permission, and the girl would not give it.

“If I dosed myself with an emetic and purgative I would be as sick as you were, and so would any other. Easy to obtain, and no one would ask questions about such common medicine.”

“Why didn’t you seize her before now?”

“Stupidity,” said Eleanor succinctly. “I doubted. It was not quite enough to be certain; I had expected to catch another. So I asked Sir Miles for advice. If he were still alive I think he would agree that he was rather spectacularly wrong.” Eleanor did not think the old man would be proud to know his last, most enduring lesson to her was to never again take anyone’s advice above her own if there was a serious conflict between the two. Age and experience had failed. They had left her staring defeat in the face, locked away with no hope. In future, if nothing else, the mistake would be her own instead of another’s. By the time she had been left once again to stand alone there had been nothing left to do but follow on and try to limit the damage while choosing between likely trap and likely trap again. “Wrong about Mariot, wrong when he said a force sufficient to do so much harm to my own could not be raised so quickly and without betraying itself, and wrong when he said we could travel the major roads safely. But from this I did gain more evidence. Why did I leave Perth? Because waiting sounded intolerable. Who started telling me about the ‘delights’ I could expect to endure, sparking the larger conversation? Who had the long reminisces of past court events? Mariot. When we proved slow to settle on coming here to Dunning, who mentioned Glenrothes as an alternative? Mariot. It would have been obvious you would not go there, Anne, and so the rest of us could not. She did it on other occasions also; subtle influence.”

A signal to Alfred, and he caught up his sword, pressing through the distracted line to regain hold of Mariot.

Eleanor told Mariot, “You have but two choices. Remain silent and hang, or tell me something useful and I shall have you imprisoned for life. Let us start with why.”

Mariot said nothing.

She gave the next prearranged signal having left a pause of only a few heartbeats, not allowing herself to think on what it ordered.

Alfred twisted Mariot’s little finger, juggling the sword hilt he still grasped. The bone broke. The maid groaned and bit through her lip. Sweat sprang out on her skin and began to mingle with the trickle of blood running down her chin. All in all it was by far the preferable reaction – Anne and her remaining maids set up a shrieking, Alfred looked entirely too satisfied, and Eleanor began to feel sick.

Christ, Anne was looking at her like a lamb which had been hand raised and treated as the most worthy pet, only to one day find the hand which fed it holding a large clever which was about to mate with its skull.

Godit made to attempt to wrench Alfred’s large hand off her friend, only to be discouraged by a sword point raised at precisely the right level for her to slice her own heart in two if she took another step.

Adele was praying, to what end and result Eleanor could not say..

She had to reach for the dignity now, work to maintain it, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat. “I believe the saying is, once deep enough there is no turning back, and that applies to us both now.” She repeated the signal, and Alfred broke another finger.

Mariot went very pale, sobbing.

“You have three fingers left before I give up and have you hanged.”

As Alfred gripped her next finger and began to twist Mariot’s resolve broke. “Because of Anne.”

Eleanor used the last of her preset signals, giving the finger a temporary reprieve.

Across the room the kafuffle stopped. The maid had condemned herself from her own mouth; she was no longer worth protecting.

“She’s all I have left. He promised to protect her from her husband, and he did. When the old king died Trempwick offered me help in getting Anne safely back to Scotland, though the bastard princeling didn’t want to let her go. All I had to do was help him get his wife back. And he kept his word there too, for look where we are.”






Dawn. Eleanor knelt in vigil next to Miles’ body in the tiny chapel. He had been washed and dressed in clean clothes, and lay before the altar on a pallet covered in white linen. He had been treated with respect, whatever else could be said of her erstwhile captors they had treated the dead lord with respect.

She had not learned much from Mariot. She had not expected to. Mariot had been proven guilty, and that had been her intent. Now the woman was bound more securely, guarded at all times by two of Eleanor’s trusted men. Her broken fingers had been splinted, the remainder of her life would be spent in the most desolate convent Eleanor could find, a prisoner and not a nun. To Eleanor’s way of thinking a sword to the neck would have been closer to mercy than this, an opinion which she was alone in.

What use had she for compassion anyway? Compassion had found her trapped in a castle with wounded men while the sound bodies she needed camped outside. Eleanor sighed, her breath making the flame of the candle she had lit for his soul bow backwards. As if she would have been allowed to bring enough able-bodied fighters within these walls to make a difference. As if she had wanted to risk more of her men being butchered, for posing too much of a threat. Compassion had served well enough.

This way may be more merciful for Anne. She would not have to see her mother in all but blood die, or live knowing she had died so horribly. The girl was in shock, but accepted that there had been no other option. Her blame had been directed mostly at Trempwick.

Sir Miles’ hands were folded on his chest, his right hand worked about the hilt of the sword he’d worn as ornament, his left clasping it to make firm the lifeless grip. Eleanor rested her own hand above his two, her right hand, as custom required. “Never again.” The oath was doubly binding, sworn to a dead man and on the crucifix formed by the hilt of the sword. Two little words, one simple vow, and what a lot it did mean. So many things.

Eleanor mediated on that vow, it seemed a fitting way to mourn Miles’ passing.

The candles burned low by the time footsteps sounded on the flagstones leading into the chapel. Her visitor would be no cause for concern; she had a guard posted on the other side of the open doorway.

Hawise made her reverence to the altar, and came to kneel at her lady’s side. “He’s awake,” she said, voice hardly more than a whisper.

Eleanor glanced sideways, neck stiff from holding the same position for so long. The maid’s expression said the wakeful Fulk was every bit as happy as Eleanor had expected, if not more so. “I did not ask you to come and tell me when he woke.”

“No. He told me to find you and give you a message. He said that you should show your face immediately, if not sooner, else he’ll come and drag you up by the scruff of your neck to answer a few gentle questions.”

Yes, Eleanor could well imagine a certain knight saying that. “I wonder if I should discover a pressing need to do something several miles away from him.”

Hawise’s face lit up in one of her rare smiles. “He’d be off after you like hound after hare, shouting and cursing the whole way.”

“True enough. Oh well, best see what a coil he has worked himself into.”

As she opened the door to her room Fulk bolted up into sitting position, only just waiting for the room to be enclosed again before accusing in an irate undertone, “You poisoned me!”

“I did no such thing,” protested Eleanor. “I drugged you, which is different.”

Fulk pushed up from the bed and took a step towards her, fist clenched. “My treacherous little gooseberry, it makes very little difference.”

Eleanor stood her ground, glad Hawise was outside. She wouldn’t blame Fulk if he hit her, and would even go so far as to admit she probably deserved it, but she did not want it seen.

Scowl deepening, Fulk hid his fist behind his back. “Since the least sign of ill temper makes you start cringing, I’ll leave, as I usually do, so you don’t have to cower and I don’t start wishing I could settle a debt with those who’ve mishandled you so badly. But first you will tell me why.”

“I disposed of Trempwick’s spy amongst Anne’s maids, Mariot. It was not pretty. You are not the kind to torture, especially not with a weeping audience and a victim you know. You would go, you would do it, and it would rot in your soul.” A sleepless night and her long time in the chapel had done a lot to dampen down Eleanor’s temper, now the torch was shoved back into the logs. Eleanor took a furious breath. “And I do not cower!”

“You do. It’s no fault of yours, I know, but you do.” Fulk scrubbed his face with his hands. “Oh beloved mine, you have this the wrong way about. I am the one who is supposed to be angry. You are the one doing the apologising. You cower; that is the truth, and after what you have survived there is no shame in it.”

As a gesture of goodwill Eleanor refrained from bestowing upon him a choice selection of highly unregal words.

It wasn’t enough. After a bit Fulk hitched his shoulders. “Well, I’m leaving.”

The way he looked at her turned her temper to ashes, and his hurt scattered those ashes on the wind. She took a quick step towards him. “No. Mea culpa. I am not … I am overly tetchy. I apologise, for that and for drugging you. I could see no other way.”

“So you did it to protect me?” He was inscrutable, there was no hint as to which answer he wanted, only the promise that if she chose the wrong one she would be in a cauldron of hot water over a generous fire.

“Yes. And for myself. You are my haven, but only so long as you are not part of the things I am escaping.”

He chewed that overt for a time, and all the while there was not the least indication of what was going through his mind. “I shall bestow upon you the kiss of peace, then.” He did, except he got the concept wrong and it was far from the chaste and publicly acceptable brush of lips it was meant to be. “I’ve no choice but to forgive you as I would do some fairly unscrupulous things myself to keep you safe.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“If I told you then you would be wary of them, heartling.” He tapped the tip of her nose with a finger, not hard but sufficient to make it smart. “However I find it meet and fitting to say that you will never do anything of the sort to me again. Else I won’t be a happy knight, and then you will be far from a happy princess.”

Ordinarily she would have dismissed that as an empty threat. Now she found she had visions of an apocalyptic knight striding through the devastation he had caused, bellowing her name with a certain meaningful gleam in his eye which promised she would shortly be feeling quite unwell. “I promise.”

“Good. Now I don’t need to turn my squire into my taster. I know you used to keep threatening to dose my food, but I thought you had grown out of it.” Fulk frowned thoughtfully. “Your toast … Knocked out by my own gallant deeds. I wonder if there is any omen in that?”

Eleanor hit him in the stomach lightly with the back of one hand. “Idiot.”









A quick survey, for the purposes of amphibian education. How many people got Mariot as the spy, and, if not, who did you suspect?

:sigh: It’s a sad, sad thing to finally reach the big denouement of your mystery subplot only to realise a rather soul destroying fact. Namely that by now it’s been half a year since the first clues began to appear, and even several weeks since the last big fat almost-in-flashing-neon-lights giveaway clues. So hardly anyone will remember them. Which is probably why I found a scene I had been anticipating for months ended up being the closest thing to a struggle to write that I have had. Huh, writing it in 1/3 page fragments across too many interrupted evenings does not help either :sigh: I need to be able to edit the story together to make this subplot good, but more still do I need to be away from this format. :(


Fan club listings, updated for the other forum:
Trempy: 3 members (inspecting his fingernails for rough patches, and waiting for his next appearance)
Anne: 2 members (Not happy. Brothers, foster mothers, Eleanors – it’s all too much for a young queen to cope with)
Fulk: 6 members (Smouldering, secretly (ssshh! Don’t tell anyone!))
Nell: 6 members (looking at the taglines above and below and beginning to worry …)
Godit: 5 members (hating Nell. Intensely.)
Constance: 2 members
Hugh: 2 members
Jocelyn: 5 members
Richildis: 1 member
Miles: 2 members (currently engaged in being dead)
Hawise: 2 members
Mahaut: 1 member
Malcolm Nefastus: 2 member (already better than the dead fat guy!)
Anti-Trempy: 3 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member
Anti-Hugh: 1 member

I shall add it to my list of books to investigate and/or buy, furball.


edit: Oh yes - now you see why I was grinning earlier, Ludens. Got to say that comment about Godit being the spy made my day a fair bit brighter. :)

[Lord Winter]

Another great chapter I thought the spy was godit, in fact i thought Mariot was the least likely of the 3 maids to work for Trempwick. I eagerly await your next chapter,
DoH

[furball]

<raises hand suspecting Mariot> Godit was just too obvious and there *were* clues to Mariot, though - except for being suspicious of the poisoning and maybe a glance or something when she offered advice - it's been too long to re member them.

[Vladimir]

Well Mariot was the one I least trusted, but I was far from convicting her. Again, I'm just here for the ride :2thumbsup: . I'm not a big fan of the Malcolm post but this one was classic froggy style bumped up a notch (yet again). My God, I think reading Fulk's lines might make a gentleman out of me yet!

[frogbeastegg]

“Are you loyal?”

There was only one sort of reasonable answer for that sort of question, Jocelyn knew, and that was to run away very quickly indeed to hide until it all blew over. Except king’s generally had long reaches, and he was entirely too smart and too handsome to end up like Yves. “Yes, Sire.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, Sire.” What a bloody stupid question! As if he were likely to change his mind and say, “Actually, on second thoughts, no. Sorry.”

“Then it follows that if I command you to go and beat your wife for making my life insufferable you will do so.”

If he could have got away with it Jocelyn would have sighed. Bloody kings! Always asking, tricking, and trapping, and now he’d gone and stuck his foot squarely in a deep pile of dung. If commanded he would, with the minor modification of thumping Richildis for sticking him in this bloody awful situation in the first place, causing him to toss away his authority and honour to let another man interfere in his marriage. Except no damned king had a right to expect that, no matter how powerful. So it had to be a test of some sort. Bloody kings! Jocelyn’s hand closed about the crucifix he wore about his neck as he thought, then, praying he had it right, he answered. “No, Sire, I wouldn’t. Because you wouldn’t ask it, being an honourable man.”

“Ah. About as I expected.” The man in the bed raised a hand to point at a pile of weapons in the corner of the room. “Pass me my dagger.”

Jocelyn hesitated. How God damned embarrassing would it be to pass this sick old man a weapon, only for him to bestow it back as a gift by ramming it through his vitals?

“Do it,” the king ordered, more steel in his voice than in the dagger itself.

So Jocelyn did. He needed to come closer to hand the scabbard weapon to his lord than he’d been before, and up close it was obvious there was even more truth in the rumours he’d been hearing on his rush back. The man was sick, badly so.

As Jocelyn made to step back again the king crooked a finger, calling him close again. Softly the king said, “I have a task for you.”

“Sire?” Not murder, oh please for the sake of a Saint and a dancing nun let it not be murder.

“You will be well rewarded.”

Oh sod it, it was murder. There’s why the king had been so damned eager to be rid of his physician, so he could speak to Jocelyn alone.

“They are killing me.”

“Sire?”

“Yes. One of them, some of them, all of them – I know not. It … matters not.” The king let out a great sigh, his breath was stale. Jocelyn manfully didn’t wrinkle his nose and turn his head. “He has ordered my death.”

None of this was making any damned sense. “Sire, I don’t understand.”

The king caught his wrist, pulling Jocelyn so he had to lean down. “Listen well. Remember what I told you before. Regardless of which is the truth, Trempwick wants me dead. They are poisoning me – my own household.”

“Then get a new taster, have new people bring your food, get a new physician-”

“No.” The king’s voice dipped back down to hushed levels. “No. It would be worthless. Do you not see? He could have brought any of them, or all of them; I can trust none, excepting perhaps you. You he has not had chance to buy, I hope. To be safe I would have to set you to buy my food, cook it, bring it to me, feed me, and still then there would be chance for something extra to be slipped in, or for the food to be tainted before you got to it, or for the poison to be put in something else. Or for a less subtle method to be used. It is over.” That last was pronounced with finality. Yet for a man staring death in the face, betrayed by his friend, family and household, the king burned still. Now he aimed the dagger at Jocelyn, hilt first. “You will be my vengeance.”

That didn’t sound good. “You wish me to kill the poisoner, Sire?”

“No,” the man snapped. “Do not play the fool, for I know you are none. I want the cause, the hand behind all this. I want Trempwick sent to meet me in the hereafter.”

Oh … shit. “Sire-”

“No!” The king’s grip tightened, his fingernails digging in. “Listen. Hear me out. I will make a deed for you, granting you lands and honours in England, and my heir will honour that. They will have to. As a grant from me it will predate anything of theirs, and be valid in any court of law. If they deny it you know what will happen.”

The new king would look a right dishonourable thief, out to grab whatever he could and dismiss the laws and charters of his realm. Meaning disaster, resentment, mistrust, and a right old stewing mess of potential future rebellion. Just the sort of thing Jocelyn liked to play with for a bit of quiet relaxation of an evening.

“Regardless of what has happened, while he lives my heir will not be free. He will rule. This known traitor will rule, and he will tip all to his own advantage.”

Uneasy, Jocelyn said, “Sire-”

“Please. If not that, then at least the lesser task.” The king released him, to drop the dagger and tug at the uppermost ring he wore on the third finger of his left hand. Wedding ring removed he set to work on ring worn under it. Worn since his coronation the great ring would not come free easily, even with his hands made artificially slender by illness. He worked at it, twisting and turning it, working it over his knuckle fraction by fraction. “This must go to my heir. They must have it; it is as much a part of the authority as the crown and sceptres. I dare not leave it here. I have heard too many stories of dead kings not to think it would not be stolen, along with all else. Take it, deliver it, and they will be grateful. Then judge for yourself whether you will do the other. Please, I beg you.”

Toying with his crucifix Jocelyn again – a bit of a hint would be nice! - thought on it. This sounded a deal better. A simple, short trip, matched with a deed which would surely put him in the new king’s favours. Or queen’s, for that matter. He’d be able to assess things and pick the side looking most likely to win. If this wasn’t a sign of divine favour then nothing in his life had been. For this he would look into giving some land over to the building of an abbey on his lands. “Sire, this much I shall do. I shall deliver your ring to prince Hugh.”

One final yank had the thick gold band free. The king did not hand it over, examining it as if the sight was a novelty. Jocelyn supposed it likely was, being as he’d worn the thing for so long he’d probably forgotten how it looked off. A sapphire was set at the centre of the ring, St Edward the Confessor had willed it so when the ring had been made for his own coronation. Truth, sincerity, faithfulness, and divine favour - that was the meaning of a sapphire. Later monarchs had added their own touches, and now the blue stone was surrounded by a halo of alternating tiny little rubies, for wise decisions, and emeralds, for prosperity. The gold itself stood for gold, and therefore for being a bit rich. Quite a vocal ring.

The king murmured, “I thought I understood what they meant when they spoke of the tragedy of kings. I did not, not completely. Until now. They do not even seek to see if I am alive, or to search out my body.”

Jocelyn didn’t think the words were aimed at him, so he didn’t bother replying. Truth be told it rather seemed the king had forgotten he was here. Many people went a bit … odd at the end, even when they still had a few days to go.

“I wed three times. My first wife I loved, and she died. My second I cared for, and leave a widow in difficult circumstances. My third is a faithless whore, already off after a fresh young body, having sucked all she can from me and made me do things I would never have dreamed …” The hand holding the ring dropped down onto the blanket covered chest, fingers curling possessively about the metal and jewels. Those deep blue eyes closed. “Oh, my belly aches. Like a great knot tied in my guts. Nothing helps, nothing helps.” The eyes opened again, slowly, filled with pain. They focused on Jocelyn. “I will not be remembered kindly.”

“Sire, I doubt that’s so. They’ll say you were a hard king, but an effective one.”

“You mean the chronicles. I speak of others.” The king clenched his fist about the ring, took a deep breath … and let it go. Another, and other still. Then. “Hard, perhaps too damned hard to do.” The ribs rose again, and again. “Ask her to forgive me,” the king blurted. “Eleanor. Ask her. Beg her. For the good of my soul, both our souls. Please. And then give her this.” The clenched hand fell open, offering the ring to Jocelyn.

Bloody! Hell! “Sire, you don’t mean-”

“Yes. I name her my heir. I will be followed by one undoubtably of my own blood.”

“Christ’s wounds!” Jocelyn swore.

Unexpectedly the king bared his teeth in a ferocious grin. “Either she will keep her seat and wear the kingdom down until she rides it like a man born to it, or they will buck her off and trample her in the dirt. Either way I am avenged, I think, for those who go down with her put me here, and if she rides then she will shed them like so much dust. You will help her there, by disposing of Trempwick.” Jocelyn jerked back at the first bark of laughter like a startled sheep. “If I know my Eleanor she will win, and thrive, which is more than Hugh could do. That much he has proven already. What kind of man allows a known incompetent to follow him, when there is an alternative, no matter how drastic?”

Jocelyn didn’t take the ring, too stunned, mostly expecting this man to change his mind and reveal it all as a joke. A queen!?

The king held his pose patiently, as if he expected Jocelyn to take a time to come to terms with what he had been asked to do. “Faithless … Not much of a recommendation for a husband, is it? But I have a feeling she will like this one far better than any other I have suggested to her.”

He was serious. Oh bloody hell and a pope made of sugar! The man was actually serious!

And yet … a queen would need men to stand at her side far more than any king. There would be more honours and posts available than under a king. She was subject to the usual lot of feminine foibles and weaknesses then most could be countered, but a strong male hand could sort that decently enough – if it couldn’t the world would be full of wives running amok, making it entirely unfit to be lived in, damn it. As the man who dropped off her ring and news of her official status as heir ….

Jocelyn’s plucked the ring from the king’s palm. “Sire, it shall be done.”







There was no tree within good distance. The ropes which began around the necks of the condemned men ended on the tattered stone parapets of the gatehouse, each looped about a merlon. There were three in all. Three.

Hugh bit down, clenching his teeth and willing himself to impassiveness. Three who thought him weak, who thought to defy him, to make mock of his word, his power. Of him.

The herald read each man’s crimes and sentence, shouting so as many as possible of the assembled army could hear. Where his voice began to fail men passed the word in a murmur to those behind, and in this way all were told.

The man in the centre to the group was staring at him. Judging him. Daring to judge his lord and king! Hugh did not break his eyes free, he returned look for look. To do otherwise would be to admit weakness, or perhaps a form of guilt; it would be subservient.

Having finished with the man on the right, the man who had closed the gates of this castle against him in Eleanor’s name, the herald reached Hugh’s adversary. Internally Hugh stated each word of the herald’s monologue, in perfect timing, each word a heavy condemnation of the knight. Sir Drogo the Tall, knight in the King of England’s service, charged and found guilty of rape, contrary to his lord’s orders, and therein harming a lady of gentle birth to the degree she committed the mortal sin of self destruction rather than live with her dishonour. Condemned to death by hanging, his goods and all to be confiscated by the crown.

He was not afraid; the knight was to die as a common criminal and he did not fear. Only scathing contempt did Hugh find from him. It required will not to become the craven and turn away. Each moment cost more, each moment saw a greater weight pressing on his shoulders. He had failed; he knew it and in knowing it was undone. Thus the rigour eluded him, and he must struggle to regain righteousness in the face of his failure, as the cost of his inability displayed itself most vividly before his very eyes.

As a general he had failed to adequately control his men.

As a king he had failed to guard his subjects.

As a Christian knight he had failed to guard the innocent.

He had navigated the contrary necessities of a castle taken by storm, sifting examples and rules of conduct until he had felt sure the correct line had been found. The balance had worked favourably for him in the past, and there had been no reason to anticipate differently this time. There would be no quarter for the combatants, and the castellan would die. The goods of the castle were open to plunder. This had been inexorable, from the very moment he gave the command for the catapults to begin their work. He had presented opportunity for the castle’s surrender, honest terms, and had been rejected. A harsh penalty was obligatory, to encourage other places to surrender easily.

The only stipulations had been bowing to his greater duty as knight, king, and Christian. No ladies of noble rank were to be harmed or threatened. Those who did not bear arms were not to be killed.

A bead of sweat ran down Hugh’s temple, tracking the curve of his cheek.

Well to say that such things always happened. Well to cite the many examples of this, and far worse. Well again to say he was but human, and thus as flawed as any of God’s creatures. Well if one dealt in excuses, and did not seek to follow the great and the good, rather than the shabby and the mundane. Well if one was not a king, and needing to be worthy of that. When he had been but a prince his orders in this regard had been obeyed. Was he to garner less obedience, now he deserved more?

The herald was done, asking the condemned men if they had any last words.

The castellan spoke bravely of his allegiance to his queen, voice filled with tremors now the moment approached.

The murderer said nothing, struck as dumb as the cook’s apprentice he had killed.

The knight called out, “Yes - she wasn’t worth it.” It was a traditional claim, for those in his place and with the courage left over to find a voice. Still he gazed at his king.

Hugh blinked, eyes holding shut a fraction longer than needful. Reopening them he found still nothing had altered.

He was not a craven, or weak. He was here, watching this grisly spectacle of justice. He would witness it all, to every last detail. Hugh straightened his shoulders with a jerk, chiding himself for allowing them to round. He allowed the cause for this lapse may be exhaustion from the fighting to take the castle this morning. Still it was inexcusable.

In the end it was the jerk of the rope as the support under his feet was kicked out that broke Drogo’s unrelenting stare.

King. By what right did he call himself thus? He had not been crowned or anointed. Some rumour even had it that his father was yet alive. Alas, he could find no confirmation of those rumours. His messengers to the continent had not returned, no official word had come through, nothing but gossip. Gossip which told of many unbelievable things, including one tale in which his father faced down a demon in the shape of a stag with red glowing eyes, slaying it with only his bare hands and a prayer, only to be fatally poisoned by the black blood pouring from the carcass.

King. He called himself thusly because in truth he was. He must be.

Counting in his head as he had been taught as a boy, Hugh allowed some ten minutes to pass. Then he gave permission for men to drag at the heels of the criminals, to speed their passing.






William, sixth of that name, by the Grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, and Count of Anjou died in the night of the second day after Jocelyn’s return.

It was bad. Worse than bad - the least pleasant situation Jocelyn had ever had the misfortune to be in. As soon as the announcement was made a human tide began flowing away from the dead man. Running away, off to find a new master and escape to a safer place. This tide Jocelyn joined, gathering up his family and retainers, bundling all their belongings and setting out straight for their horses. The ring, and the letters he had been given along with it, were stowed safely in his belt pouch, where they’d lain since before he left the king’s side after being given them. A few other bits the king hadn’t wanted stolen, including his wedding ring, were stuffed in with Jocelyn’s clothes.

Things had gone so far that his men had to lay out with shield and sword flats to batter a way through the seething mass. Richildis carried Mahaut, and the child’s sobbing joined with Jean’s wailing. The racket they made hardly dented the row made by the drunken fools who had decided to empty the cellars and stores in an orgy of gluttony.

They passed dead, dying, hurt, insensible. Not only the king was robbed, but any who fell foul of those with dreams of gain and the means to take.

When he saw a drunken fool he recognised as the king’s falconer capering about in the king’s lesser crown something in Jocelyn broke. He stuffed his sword right through the man’s middle. As he wrenched the blade free he snarled, “You’re supposed to mourn him or something, damn it!” He added the crown to the load his people carried.

Not until they had ridden a few miles from the royal manor did Jocelyn allow them to stop, even when they’d passed through the large camp outside the manor to pick up the soldiers he’d got there they had kept on moving. He’d had them head in the direction of home, Tourraine.

“What now?” Richildis asked him steadily. She had a good idea; he’d told her what was in his mind when he’d come back from that audience with the king.

“You and the children are going home. I’m giving you half the men as escort. Ride hard, and don’t stop till you’re safely behind Saint Maur’s walls. I know you’ll take care of things.”

“So you’re off to England.”

“I won’t be gone long, a month at most.”

She nudged her horse closer to his, so her feet touched his leg. “Be careful. And remember your promise.”

“I will.” Like he’d bloody forget. Only Tildis would think he was off to England to seduce the new queen in an effort to get power. Bloody woman was mad! But if this Eleanor happened to look his way, well, what could a polite knight do if not do his best to please? Chivalry practically demanded it, and Tildis was always going on about how he should be more chivalrous.

Richildis leaned in to hiss, “No more bastards, no mistresses, no more passing encounters, and if I hear you’ve taken up with this Eleanor I will geld you. No one but me.”

Except she wasn’t going to be there, and wasn’t interested when she was. Women!

When she kissed him Jocelyn was so shocked he nearly fell of his damned horse. Feeling encouraged – and reckoning that if it went awry he’d be hundreds of miles away from her for at least a few weeks – he gave it a go himself. The result, while not stunning, was half decent at least, and she didn’t do her usual imitation of a bit of wood.

So only she could hear he muttered, “Now why’d you have to get friendly at a time when it’s damned hard to do anything much about it?”

Richildis gave him a dazzling smile. “Tactics. Now you’ve some reason to remember I exist, and some reward for your efforts and improvement.” The smile picked up a dangerous quality. “It also serves you right for that Selova slut. Don’t think I didn’t know.” Riding away from him she called back over her shoulder loud enough for everyone to hear clearly, “Besides, it’s easier to relax and feel friendly, as you put it, when I know you can’t touch me.”

Suddenly it felt like every damned pair of eyes in the entire area was on him, bloody owners laughing away. Damn her! And he couldn’t do a damned thing about it, damn it, not unless he cared to chase off after her, drag her off that damned horse and tell her what for with everyone, including the children, watching. Women! And that woman in particular!

Jocelyn put his spurs to the horse and headed for Normandy.





And so dies the first POV character. The king is dead! Long live the …?

Bit of a sad end for William, but if there is one thing history shows it is that kings tend to have rather sad, lonely deaths, usually involving watching the crumbling of their work and/or the next generation stepping in to take their birthright early. Amazing how many of them ended up robbed and abandoned with only a handful of loyal servants left to bury them.

It would have been nice for him to come back and reclaim his kingdom, and to greet his dear friend Trempwick, and to meet Eleanor again and act on those regrets and second thoughts he has been having, perhaps even regaining a hint of the love he once had for her and her gaining some understanding of him. But frogs don’t do nice. That would be lame, contrived even. It would rob William of half his significance. He’s a lonely, sad character, despite it all, and that is what he is meant to be. I find it easier to forgive him what he does to Nell than I do Hugh, even though what he does is worse. Because it is born of passion rather than a cold decision, and done in a passion rather than in a cold calm.


:takes stock of the general response to Mariot: Ah, at least a decent success rate then. Where she was caught it was because of the clues, rather than because she looks obviously suspicious. Wee! Not bad for a first go.

[furball]

"...if it couldn’t the world would be full of wives running amok, making it entirely unfit to be lived in, damn it."

You're a joy to read, froggy!

[Vladimir]

Nooooo! :shocked2: Jocelyn as the Knight Protector of England? Please say it isn't so. All those poor English women :sad:. Jocelyn as the rising...star(?) of the...queendom? There's only one response to that:

Oh bloody hell and a pope made of sugar!:laugh4:

[frogbeastegg]

The click of ivory on wood hastened Fulk’s reading; it was now his turn and he wanted to get to a decent place to halt. Tactitus’ ‘The Annals’ he had not read before, and the book was one of many such he now had access to. Eleanor had gone on one of her little sprees; ever since their return to Perth – no, since before. She had pestered him with questions about soldiers and soldiering all the way back - she had been attempting to learn everything about anything remotely relevant to being a princess, noble, general, or learned person. She had even asked him to play chess, to improve her patience, planning, and strategy, she said. Admittedly much of this was building on what Trempwick had taught, clarifying things she had not cared to listen to decently in the past and further considering concepts she had not previously taken so far. It has lasted for days with no sign of a loss of interest, sun up to sun down and long after. Now she had time to forge a reputation here in the Scottish court, and an unexpected one it was: princess Eleanor, the scholar. The scholar – his gooseberry, the scholar!

Not entirely though. When he’d commented on her new-found passion for reading she had soon disillusioned him, retorting that as she lacked access to authorities on the relevant subjects she would have to make do with books, which, lacking any other good merits, gave her ideas for new questions to ask when she did find someone. As good as her word, each time she cornered someone who might venture a view worth hearing she engaged them and drained them as dry as she could. Not taking a passive role she questioned, countered and debated. On occasion she played tafl too; unlike chess she would take on others apart from Fulk, and in places less private than her solar, able to claim it as a relatively new discovery as opposed to a game she should have been mastering since early childhood. Her victories and her losses came about equally, with more victories coming of late as she learned.

By merit of this, and her rank, Eleanor had gained access to several private libraries, and where she went, as ever, so did he, and he’d no intention of wasting the opportunity.

“Check,” said Eleanor calmly.

Fulk looked up so quickly he nearly snapped his own neck. A quick examination of the state of play revealed she wasn’t joking. He stuck a finger in the book to mark his place as he closed it, shifted to face the table properly, and settled down to find a way out. Eleanor picked up her own reading.

The book he laid aside when his finger began to feel crushed and half dislocated.

His back began to grumble; he moved to sit with his elbows propped on his knees to get a better view and ease the ache.

He scratched his nose.

Restless a time later, he shifted again, crossing his legs.

He drummed his fingers on the polished oak.

She was watching him over the tops of the pages …

Uppermost leg feeling tingly with reduced blood supply he swapped over so the other was on top.

Fulk rubbed at his chin, slowly sitting back. “Well, well, and well again.”

Eleanor toppled Fulk’s king, flicking the top of his crown with a fingertip. “Checkmate.” She reached for her cup, sipping daintily and hiding her smile.

Already indulgent from pride in her, the restraint made Fulk prompt, “Go on, gloat. I don’t mind.”

She lit up in a way he hadn’t seen in … months, it seemed, not since their days back in Woburn. “I won! My first ever victory.” She ducked her head, almost shy as she said, “And you are a very good player, too.”

He longed to kiss her, to take her by the hand and run away from all this, to go and do something wonderfully stupid like frolic outside, and to keep on kissing her, to keep a hold on the … girl, and the gooseberry, losing the princess, the scholar, the schemer, the pawn. “So now you’re ready to terrorise the entire court, or will be if you can repeat that a few times.” Fulk stood, reached for the pitcher and refilled his cup, which he raised to her. “To your glorious deeds.” He’d have added something more personal if Hawise hadn’t been present.

The ripple which spread across the surface of Eleanor’s drink was the only visible trace of her reaction, yet somehow the girl died. “Yes. To my glorious deeds.” She drank, a mouthful larger than she usually took when drinking this sweet white wine. Belatedly he saw the resemblance between the wording of his toast and the one she’d used to drug him.

Not for the first time he thought he’d done her no kindness in forgiving her so easily; if he’d put a more decisive end to it she wouldn’t be fearing digs and slights. Now, as it had then, it seemed chronically unfair to be harsh with her to cover his own cowardice, his breathless relief at not needing to follow her into something so repugnant. He could not have remained behind, if he’d known she was to go. He would have followed, and helped, and hated himself and seen a side of her he didn’t want to. Seeing always made things … real. The hardest side of her he wanted to see no more than he thought she wanted to see the side of him which exulted in battle as the ultimate test of his skill at arms and rejoiced each time he drew blood, with each kill, as proof of his ability. It was there, and from the outside she’d seen it, as he’d seen her own worst from the outside. From the outside it was safe, manageable.

He should have been stern and exacted some sort of reckoning, even she would likely admit it deserved, though perhaps it would take a bit of a tussle before honest won. In good conscience he simply couldn’t manage it, and if he couldn’t tweak a hair on her head in very good conscience then he wouldn’t do it. Else he’d start squinting at the mirror and wondering if he was growing a crown. And she had been cringing already, without him raising a hand or every having done so.

Eleanor moved from the backless chair at the chess board to one of the window seats, plumping the cushions until she was comfortable. “You may explain to me why you think it a good idea to pay soldiers a few days late, never too late, very seldom on time, and almost never even a half day early.”








I felt like an evening of writing, and managed a whole hour. Wow! By preference I’d pair it with another scene, but I don’t have the time now, and to be honest I’m unsure as to which POV to use. Both Nell and Fulk are available for it, and both show interesting things …

Furball: thanks. :gring:

Vladimir: As to whether it is so or not, you’ll have to wait and see.

[Vladimir]

And I look forward to seeing. I'm just concerned about your fictional ancestors. Oh the horror!

[Ciaran]

:jawdrop: I´m speechless.
I know, it´s been a time since I last reviewed, and truth be told it wasn´t until yesterday evening that I read up from, I think about the time Fulk and Nell were escaping from the inn battle. Oh, no it was Hugh theorizing why it ould be proper to have a mistress while in the field :dizzy2:
That got it´s bright side, though, it made for a heck of a lot to read, which is good.
And it´s been quite the development, let´s see: we meet Granny (why have one angel where there´s room for plenty), Miles gets killed (in a very nice battle scene, by the way), Prince "No time, I´ve got a church to burn" Malcolm makes his appearance and is generally refreshening different from Prince Proper Hugh, a traitor´s exposed (and no, I didn´t suspect Mariot. Stupid me), the king dies and a lot scenes with Jocelyn ("Pax Jocelynius", I liked that one), who´s about to play King-maker (theoretically he could give the ring to Hugh, or even the French king, for that matter. After all, no one knows what ol´Willie told him...). I´m really looking forward to when Jocely and Eleanor meet, that´s bound to be... interesting, to say the least.

[furball]

"It has lasted for days with no sign of a loss of interest, sun up to sun down and long after. Now she had time to forge a reputation here in the Scottish court, and an unexpected one it was: princess Eleanor, the scholar. The scholar – his gooseberry, the scholar!"

As an editor, I'd gripe about the change of tense. As a reader, Magnificent!

The whole thing might be a tad too long, but I get it, as a reader of 2 things a week.

Froggy, go with your flow. You're saying it well and an editor MIGHT cut it back some, but he (she) can't write what you do. GO! That change of tone from the death of the King to what Ellie and Fulk are doing is GREAT! Very inspired.

(And Pax Joceylynius? WOW! I hope Jocelyn stays simple and blatent, but that's just me. YOU have set up a wonderful expectation, and I bow once again to you.)

Froggy, you have an "ear" for tempo and story. WOW!

Wow!

[Kommodus]

The assassination of Trempwick ordered? Eleanor named heir to the throne? The death of William at his spymaster's hands? Eleanor beating Fulk at chess? This can only mean one thing... the end is near!

The end of the story, that is. I just wonder how Hugh will take the news... if he lives, that is. I always knew Eleanor would be queen in the end.

Ms. Frog, are you a chess player yourself?

[frogbeastegg]

The willow hoop dancing in the day’s strong winds at the end of a rope was a difficult target; there was no shame in even a highly skilled man missing a pass or two. Fulk had stipulated that only one pass out of the permitted five could fail. Only the best, that was what Eleanor had asked of him and he’d have found it her if she’d spoken not a word. Enough new men to make good the loses they had taken, and more to bolster numbers if that could be managed, but not enough to make people cry out that she brought foreigners to terrorise and oppress her people, as she’d put it. This was the final test for the cavalry, ability to work in formation, skill with sword and auxiliary weapons, and horsemanship being the first things he’d looked at. His thoughts on what he’d seen there he’d kept to himself.

The knight’s lance clipped the outer edge of the ring, adding a wild spin to the dancing. With an oath the man flung down his weapon, dragging his horse’s head about to the sidelines. His last run and his second miss. Fulk would not have taken the man even if that had been his first and only miss, even if he’d proven a rare talent with blade and horse; his temperament was unsuitable.

The next applicant’s name was shouted, and he started his first run. It was a near thing: the hoop stuck on the lance point and the rope broke. An attendant ran out to replace the target as soon as it was safe.

So far three had passed: a knight with grey in his hair whose lord had died and had lost his place in the household because the heir wanted younger men; a youngster who had the sole distinction of being a third son trained, dubbed, gifted a set of decent equipment and then thrown out by his family to make his own life, as was the way of the world; and a slightly older man of much the same circumstances, whose armour surely once belonged to his grandsire. Thus far the few of good birth and standing who had applied had failed the test, for which Fulk was grateful, much as he’d like to see Eleanor gain from the prestige and self-support landed and important knights brought with them. Landless knights were below him; ones with good blood and a scrap or two of land were not, and experience told that for every one who content to be his equal or less there was another who was not.

Eleanor watched, seated on a portable chair placed atop of a large square of material so her trailing skirts would not be fouled by dirt. She wore her crown too; he’d seen more of that wretched circle of gold in these last days than he’d seen in the half-year previous. Hawise and one of the three pages Hugh had lend her stood by to meet any needs she might have. A few men stood about her, important people all, giving advice and answering her questions. Or so he assumed; he could only actually hear when the wind blew right. If not for them he could have been at her shoulder, discussing the recruiting with her.

Luck or skill, one or the other failed and the latest applicant missed the hoop, his first error and his third run. He recovered well, and the end of his fifth run saw him joining the other successful candidates. He’d do well enough, not a knight but another like Fulk had once been, trained and equipped to fight like one and lacking only the dubbing.

The next two failed. The third passed. No others did. Training ground cleared Fulk had the infantry split into two groups and set against each other in mock battle.

Long minutes later Fulk’s eyes wandered from the melee to the stands, wanting a break from the teeming confusion and dust. A quick headcount – wimple count? – revealed that he’d gained another six female watchers since yesterday. It hadn’t taken days for a following to build as it always had in the past; word of the attempt on Eleanor had reached Perth before they had. His face spoke for itself. By the time people began gossiping about his other doings in England he had already been the handsome, brave knight who’d rescued the princess, destroyed his foe, and been so in the thick of the fighting it had been sworn there were three of him. His older exploits had only polished the shine. A steady collection of trinkets was building in the hand-sided bag he’d had to set aside for the purpose: rings, brooches, semi-precious stones, and suchlike, given to his squire or the pages to bring to him with a name and sometimes a message. He’d keep the lot – it was a far easier way to carry his wealth than in coin, and when future need struck he wouldn’t care a bit if he sold or pawned the bits and bobs. It was nice while it lasted; such fame was usually dead within a month, unless new deeds bolstered it. It was nice, too, not to have people muttering that he preferred boys or men, or joining his name with countless others in a search for his unobtainable lady.

His reputation and the fuss over the battle had done some good in a wider sense also: more than he’d expected to had turned up to try and win a place in Eleanor’s little army. Double-edged sword too – in addition to the usual few landed knights who wanted the honour of serving a princess there were some who thought to take his place and bask in the reflected glory of having such a knight under their command.

The same wind which had toyed with the willow ring now amused itself by pushing his hair into his eyes, tugging at his tunic and cloak, and cutting right through the layers of thick wool and linen to chill his bones. He wished he’d worn a second under-tunic, even at the risk of four layers of ordinary clothing making him look stouter than was flattering. Drawing the heavy folds of his cloak back into position to warm his windward side, Fulk crossed to where Eleanor sat. He’d make his report and let her have a say, mob of lords or no.

He bowed to her like a good courtly knight. “Your Highness. I thought to take only four of the five who managed the passes at the ring. Does this agree with you? The fifth being Stephan of the Lakes, him with the gold and blue. He’s too vicious with his horse; he’ll ruin whatever beast he’s given, and all the rest after. Too costly.”

“It will do.” Tightly snuggled up inside her blue mantle Eleanor looked frozen. The terse words and clamped jaw came from an effort to prevent her teeth from chattering, he assumed.

With another bow Fulk went and stood a few paces away, attention once again on the melee.

The conversation picked up again. One of the Scots picked up from where he’d left off at Fulk’s appearance. “Yes, a proper commander. Someone of good blood. That is what you need - require, even, by virtue of your rank. I understand this has been … difficult until late? As has been raising your force in the first place? This is no longer the case. I am sure your husband will help you choose someone suitable.”

Perhaps the clenched jaw wasn’t due to the weather.

Eleanor stated, “I have no husband.”

The lie made Fulk’s guts twist. Never before had she denied him; she had always skirted her way around doing so.

Another voice Fulk didn’t know the owner of broke in. “You were betrothed to this Trempwick publicly; it is known.

“I did so in fear of my safety.”

“Yet you name it as a betrothal, and name him as your betrothed, and so you agree to the arrangement.”

This voice had to belong to a clerk, or a lawyer. Or both. Such unholy combinations did exist.

“Now,” the Scot continued, “he has claimed you, as is his right. You are his, however deplorable his manner in making that claim may have been.”

“I am not,” stated Eleanor. “I am not his, and he is nothing of mine. Except a headache.”

“Live apart if you must, but stop this folly. He has presented his proof-”

“Proof?” Eleanor snorted. “Look to some poor dead chicken, or some unimportant girl whose dishonour means nothing to anyone save perhaps a bit of money for her in compensation. I will not be blamed for the misdeeds of others.”

“Your highness, when King Cnut the Great stood against the tide and ordered it to halt he got his feet wet.”

“I am not Cnut.”

“No, you are not.”

The lawyer/clerk seemed content to leave it at that. Sadly they couldn’t mark him down as a Trempwick supporter, not when every second person was saying the same, in England, in Scotland and in wherever else the news had reached.

Fulk allowed the mock battle to run until one side emerged victorious. His chosen men came roughly equally from the two sides, victor and vanquished, nineteen in total, skilled and equipped decently at the very least.

The men formed a single-file line, the knights at the front and the men at arms at the rear, ready to pledge loyalty. Now for the unusual part.

Two attendants brought forward a box which had sat idly behind Eleanor under a canvas cover. They set it on a table a third rushed into place at the edge of the cloth carpet, reverently removed the cover and stepped back. The reliquary was a small box, oblong in shape and with a lid shaped like a house’s roof. Gold leaf and gems gleamed on all much of the exposed surface, and plates of etched gold bore scenes of the Virgin and Child; the relic was a scrap of cloth which had wrapped the baby Christ after his birth. It had been borrowed from the palace’s private chapel.

Eleanor said, “Make your oaths, on your soul, hope of salvation, and on the relic. Or leave.”

Muttering ensued. It was the most binding oath possible, rare even for vassals swearing to their liege. Lesser oaths might be casually tossed aside. This one seldom was.

The first knight stepped forward hesitantly, kneeling at her feet. He laid one hand on the reliquary. “I pledge you my loyalty, to be your true man always, on my soul and by my hope of salvation.”

Standing a little off to the side Fulk watched it all, soldiers and princess. The way she sat all but enthroned in a cold-weather version of her glory, the crown, the kneeling men pledging their fealty, the mere fact she had compelled them to do her will in a way different to tradition …. A goose flew over his grave with convenient timing, or perhaps he looked at the future and recognised it; an involuntary shudder ran through him.

When the last of the new men had sworn all of her existing soldiers were required to repeat the oath, replacing their original one. Only Fulk was exempt; his own oath and the manner in which he’d given it was still a subject of idle conversation.

Eleanor’s army was to be divided, though the men should never know it. First came those who had been there to save her from Trempwick’s attempted abduction, precious few, their loyalty proven in that one night … or their lack of loyalty to Trempwick. Next came all those who had fought for her since, including at the battle four days ago. This was a lesser trust; they had not overtly gone against Trempwick’s needs, and may indeed have been helping them. Then came the untried. The hope was that men would move up from one class to the next, with the trusted faces having the minor officers’ positions.

Eleanor was shivering by the time it was all done. The suggestion to retire inside was accepted with barely seemly haste.









Since most will have forgotten it, a reminder of Fulk’s (second) oath to Eleanor:

Fulk appeared before ten minutes had passed. Unlike the boy he didn’t run, but he didn’t amble as de Clare had done. As he walked briskly down the hall he looked neither left nor right, and demonstrated none of the nervousness that might be expected from a minor baron summoned by the heir to the throne. Well groomed, dressed simply in fawn brown, light blue and white with his plain old sword belted at his waist he visibly claimed no ambition or rivalry with his superiors, but at the same time looked fit for a baron in the king’s personal service. The sizeable audience in the hall watched the latest player in this unanticipated drama mostly with ambivalence. Before the dais Fulk dropped smoothly to one knee and waited with bowed head.

“You are required to resume your service as bodyguard to my sister. Her life is your life, what happens to her happens to you tenfold if you do not prevent it; if she is even scratched and you yet live I will wish to know why, and you will pay dearly for your ineptitude. Your wage will now be four shillings per day; otherwise your existing contract still stands. Take your oath now, upon your soul.”

Fulk drew his sword slowly, so none could take it as a threat, and offered it hilt first to Eleanor. She held the weapon out before her with the flat of the blade resting on her palms. Fulk knelt at her feet and put his right hand on the sword in the middle of the space defined by Eleanor’s hands; he looked into her eyes with a solemnity which made Eleanor’s heart ache and at the same time made her want to laugh. “Your life is my life, your path is my path, my sword to guard you, my shield to shelter you, now and always, come what may, this I do swear upon my soul, so help me God.” It was a very powerful oath, also a very old one, perhaps even pagan in origin and adapted to Christian usage.

A wave of chatter flowed around the hall; Eleanor could catch not a word of it, but the tone was generally a favourable one. Amongst all but the highest nobility a bit of drama and some pretty words well spoken often met a good reception, in many parts of the higher nobility too. This was the embellishment which turned some remarkable events into a good story in the eyes of the general public. A knight swearing poetical allegiance and protection to a princess who had narrowly escaped death thanks to two of her faithful companions was splendidly close to a troubadour’s tale; the dream of life instead of the reality. Tales to this day’s work would spread throughout the kingdom, becoming more and more embellished with each telling. Eleanor could not have hoped for much better. From this day on people would expect to see Fulk following her at all times, and Trempwick would have numerous matching accounts of how she had been ‘forced’ by her brother’s concern for her life to take back her bodyguard.

Fulk stood up and took his sword back. He slid the weapon into its sheath at his hip, then bowed and kissed the ring he had given her months ago, a customary pledge of fealty with their own private meaning. Ceremony complete he joined Hawise in standing behind Eleanor. Eleanor glanced sidelong at her brother; his face was inscrutable.




I was supposed to have 3 days off last week. I was talked out of two of them. Far from the first time this has happened. Nell promises me a copy of her forthcoming book ‘How to say “NO!” and live: an instructive manual for dealing with all types, up to and including raging kings.’ It turns out it is entirely possible for a bookshop to have too many books. So many that I have given up trying to keep pace with all the important and popular ones. I’m still slogging on at a killer pace. As in a 640 page book and a 740 page book plus a few hundred pages of another on my last day off type of killer pace. Plus side is that I am reading more of my own choice of books these days …

Vladimir: Jocelyn says you are in league with his damned wife, and he’s going to ignore you. :tongueg:

Ciaran: Yes, we are way past the quieter sections and into a more action prone part again. It’s a very busy time for the story, where all the setting up pays off … hopefully.

Funny how so many on the two forums like the Pax Jocelynius joke. I nearly left that out, and only allowed it in because it was so whimsically Jocelyn.

Furball: The editor would be right – it’s a typo. Oops. Should have been ‘had’, not ‘has’.

I shall indeed “Go!” Inspired :blushes:

Kommodus: Yes, the end begins to approach … in a distant sort of way.

I did play chess quite a bit for a few years around the age of 11 – 13/14. Then I had no one to play against, and the chess programme I used to use stopped working thanks to the disappearance of MS DOS. I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t terrible either. I just didn’t have any good human opponents, or even any human opponents, to be honest. So for 10 years I didn’t play. Now I’ve got chessmaster 10, and I’m trying to settle back into my game. Problem is I find it frustrating, being crap at a game I used to be good at, and if I’m sat at my PC then I find myself gravitating to writing, whether that was my intent or not. So it’s not going terribly well.

I play tafl as well. Not great, because I only have one person to play against, my boyfriend, whom I taught to play myself. I did have a computer version of that too, but it also expired with Windows 95 and I’ve never found another. Playing against myself is something I’ve never been able to do.

Used to be reasonable at draughts too, but I’ve had no one to play against and … you get the picture. Ditto Chinese checkers, and a few other strategy type board games.

[Vladimir]

A competition of arms, how appropriate! This recent spring like weather here has made me think of outdoor fun, like the Renaissance Fair/Festival and a variety of outdoor activities. I just kinda ignored your references to the cold and thought of here. I did remember a bit of Fulk’s vow. Even though he speaks French I picture him as almost a pre-Norman man-at-arms based on the armor we first find him in and the vow. In a way he’s more of a throw back than the future “Most Humble” Knight Protector of the Realm. :knight:

[Avicenna]

“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!”

You mean Jesus Christ?

Tiberius

[Avicenna]

post 47:


but otherwise as a king he disappointing.

Missed out a was there froggy ;)

[Ciaran]

Interesting recruiting scene.


Nell promises me a copy of her forthcoming book ‘How to say “NO!” and live: an instructive manual for dealing with all types, up to and including raging kings.’
:laugh4: Make sure you send me a copy as well. God knows I need it, sadly he´s the only one.

[frogbeastegg]

On the ramparts of the outer gatehouse a man raised his arms directly up as if stretching. The pose was held for the count of three, then he lowered his arms to his sides. The signal.

Trempwick drew his sword. “Forward.” And he was off with his chosen men, moving through the dark towards White Castle. Stealthily.

Why bother with all the fuss of a siege when an alternative could be found? A spymaster’s alternative. Few would call this dishonourable. Prudent, cunning, able to save his men’s lives and accomplish his aims with surety – a general should be these things. Pitched battle and castles attacked by storm may be glorified. The very pinnacle of knightly warfare. But they belonged in songs, and only but rarely in reality. Even blood-hungry fools acknowledged this.

White Castle. One of the so-called Three Castles which controlled a part of the lower Welsh March. A part which hadn’t sided with him. A strong castle. Outer walls and earthworks, inner walls and more earthworks, a keep. Hard to take by siege. Starvation would be the key.

Except he had a person here, a person there …

And so the outer gatehouse was open for him tonight. The inner gatehouse also. Guarded by his handful while the castle slept on oblivious. Now only a case of reinforcing those gatehouses, sending men along the walls to take the towers, and entering the keep in the confusion.

He and his thirty entered the first gatehouse. They climbed the stairs. No resistance. No people at all. On the ramparts above the gates waited his bought sentries. The thirty Trempwick split: ten to go to the left, ten to the right, and ten to stay. They would sweep the walls clean.

The second party was following a count of two hundred behind his. Trempwick went down to meet them. This party was larger, a hundred men at arms.

As he led them towards the second gatehouse the still of the night was broken. The fighting had begun. Expected – it would have begun at some point. But now the garrison would begin to look for the cause. Wake. Spring into action. Trempwick began to jog, breathing evenly behind the faceplate of his helm. Wake and spring into action, minds fugged by slumber. Hardly even dressed, let alone armoured. Confused.

On the towers of the inner wall a few archers started to shoot at the advancing force.

There was a lot of ground between inner and outer gatehouses. Enough that it took time to cross. Time which allowed a few fools to come down and try to close the inner gates. Fools his brought men fought.

They still fought when Trempwick came to the right distance. More people were appearing here and there, clutching weapons and shouting in alarm at what they saw. Too late.

Formalities. Let none say he had not observed them, where others might not. “A Trempwick!” he shouted. “A Trempwick for the Queen!”

His men echoed, “For the Queen!”

Then it was fighting. Slash. Stab. Parry. Block. Dodge. Kill. Blood. Noise. Same few things, repeated over in many variations. Until there was no one left.

Trempwick sent half his force storming on towards the keep. The rest he took up onto the inner gatehouse. Most he sent on, left and right as before. The rest formed his bodyguard.

He surveyed his battle.

More of his men were pouring into the outer parts of the castle. The towers and ramparts of the outer wall were cleared where archers might threaten his advance. The further stretches were still contested. On the inner wall his men had disappeared into the two towers flanking the gatehouse. Down below soldiers raced up the stairs to the door of the keep. It had been closed. The garrison had not managed to burn the wooden stairs leading to it. And so it was vulnerable. A stout wooden beam was being brought up to act as a battering ram.

Trempwick paced back and forth of the gatehouse. Obvious. A target. Arrows and bolts homed in on him, clattering on the stonework and occasionally hitting one of his bodyguards. A pitiful shower, the work of but a handful of men. A general must be obvious. He must not be seen to cower in safety.

Time passed and people died.

When the outer wall was all but entirely his, when the inner wall was mostly his, when the last of his designated forces had entered the castle, then the door to the keep gave way.

The sun rose on a castle that was entirely his. Bodies were being cleared for burial. The prisoners were clustered in a guarded herd. The money and valuables of the place were piled before him. The flags fluttering in the light breeze to be found at the top of the high places of the castle bore his fox married with Nell’s gooseberry and crown.

It was done. And in far less time than others had said it would take them to do for him.






Eleanor joined the polite applause when the minstrel finished his latest song. Alas, he began another after making his bows. Yet another. The tables had been cleared of the last course of food long ago, and still she must sit here and listen to a repertoire which had surely been chosen to please Anne. Love song after love song, with only a few about famous battles and suchlike to break it up and keep the men happy.

What a waste of time. If not for Anne’s grandmother sitting there and blatantly enjoying the singer’s efforts she could have politely left and gone and done something useful. Now it would be rude to leave.

Fixing her expression of engagement in place and leaving one ear cocked for anything she needed to respond to, Eleanor stopped her grumbling and turned to something more important. The future. With eight knights – lowly ones, excepting Fulk – and forty-four men at arms behind her she had a force larger than strictly required … assuming it was a time of peace. Larger than she could afford to pay, too. She had dipped into the money Hugh had provided for this mission to pay the initial bounties and buy the liveries for her new soldiers. Hugh might not like that, but surely even in his stuffiest of moods he would agree that it was preferable to her being carted off by the next one to try his hand at kidnapping her. If he didn’t, well tough.

Whereupon came her next main concern: her household. She needed one, a proper one. Assuming a trim household in the style of the lower nobility, she needed at least one more maid, a clerk, a steward, a chamberlain, a marshal, a cook, a few pages, at least one messenger, and a priest. She needed trusted bailiffs at each of her manors, men loyal to her who could be relied upon run them in her absence without cheating her. The other lower servants and runabouts could be supplied by wherever she was in residence, as was generally the custom.

With that she would be independent, except in finances.

Whereupon came the third. With an army and a household she could remain free of Hugh, with care. Then she could take control of her lands, and become Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Ketton, and Barrowden in fact as well as name. Then she would have the money, and if she reduced her army she would be fully independent, so long as she stepped carefully in all aspects, and spent not a penny more than she had to.

It couldn’t be as easy as it sounded. That would be too good. Hugh had know he was letting her from her cage when he gave his grudging permission for her to come to Scotland. If he had any sense he’d have already thought of a way to put her back in his hand, with a grip every bit as tight as before. If not tighter.

The ear she’d left cocked alerted her to the end of the current batch of musical inanity. Eleanor clapped and made all the right noises, yet again.

This time instead of launching into his next song the minstrel stood. “Your Majesties,” he bowed to Anne and her grandmother, “your Highness,” he bowed to Eleanor, “and my most noble lords and ladies, I crave leave to depart from tradition for my next piece, to present one of my own making.”

Tradition; Eleanor nearly rolled her eyes. Where was the point in having a pet minstrel if he didn’t make new pieces to the glory of his patron?

Anne’s grandmother inclined her head. “You have our leave.”

The minstrel seated himself again, settling his harp on his knee. “I sing of battle, and of deeds of heroism. I sing of the battle of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam in defence of his most noble princess.”

If not for Trempwick’s training Eleanor’s jaw would have hit the ground so hard the bone would have cracked.

Anne leaned over and whispered, “Thought you might like it.”

“You commissioned this?” It was intended as a question but came out as an accusation, which perhaps was far more honest.

“Yes. The better known he is the harder it is for anyone to … step on him.”

Eleanor didn’t think the girl meant Hugh, Trempwick, or any of the others in the queue waiting to put boot to knight. She was most likely thinking of her brother.

The minstrel was quite skilled, Eleanor had to admit that much. He could sing, he could play, and his wording was good. His accuracy was dubious, yet the image of Fulk, sun reflecting off his bright armour and blinding his foe, bearing down on her attackers – on a fiery charger, no less – and making the earth quake with his battlecry of, “A FitzWilliam for the Gooseberry!” was … enduring. She was less fond of the part which had her trembling and crying piteously to God for help like a good damsel. Sir Miles won a few lines also, described as falling nobly in a pile of his enemies, failing only because he was lacking armour.

When he finished the usual applause was more enthusiastic than it had been for any other song.

Down on the lower tables Fulk had gone a nice crimson, surrounded by people congratulating him yet again. One girl has the audacity to kiss him on the cheek!

In the back of the massive hall a figure pushed off from slouching against the wall and advanced to the clear space in the centre, clapping sardonically. People scrambled from his path as soon as they saw him, bowing. Behind his back a few surreptitiously made the sign of the cross.

“Oh, very good,” said Malcolm.

Now when had he arrived, Eleanor wondered.

Anne’s grandmother gripped the edge of the table. “What do you do here, boy?”

Malcolm kept his peace until he reached the dais. He stood before the high table. “A pleasure to see you too, granny. My travel was tolerable, rushed and the weather inclement, but tolerable. My people are seeing about food and a bath, and my other comforts. Since you ask.”

“I do not know how you dare to show your face here, if what I have heard is true.”

“Of course it’s true – you heard it, so it must be. But tell me, which particular outrage are we talking about?”

“You threw the Bishop of Dunblane into his own carp pond!”

Malcolm laughed, face lighting up with glee. “Oh yes! What a fine sight it was.” Sobering, the boy proclaimed in a voice which carried about the hall, “If the Nefastus can suffer eat shit during Lent then so too can everyone else. I tossed his roast hog in after him, and his goose, and his bevy of chickens, and his saddle of venison. Bastard can choke down his salted herring and endless fish dishes with the rest of us.”

“You shame our name-”

“More than he did?” he shot back. Malcolm shifted his feet so his shoulder was to his grandmother and his front to Anne and Eleanor. “Good to see you got here safely. I don’t like having to rescue people twice.” A lazy grin spread across the boy’s face as he regarded Eleanor. “A question, your Highness, if I may?”

“Go on.”

“How’d you get that scar under your eye?”

Assuming he meant to shame her Eleanor answered baldly in a level tone, “I said something to displease my lord father. His ring cut me.”

“I’ve been hearing a story about it. Perhaps you’ll tell me if it’s true or not. I heard it was Saint Edward the Confessor’s sapphire that made the cut, leaving you marked by England’s coronation ring and - not only that - by the oldest and best part of it.”

Of course, now the arse in the crown was dead Trempwick could spread rumours about things known only to the three of them. “No,” Eleanor lied. “It was his signet ring. My lord father wore the coronation ring on his left, and he was right-handed, as are most.” Except when it suited him to backhand with his left, as it had on the day he’d handed her over to Trempwick’s care.




Vladimir: Spring? Yes, I suppose it is spring here too. It’s been snowing a bit, and raining sleet, and generally freezing cold. Huh, good thing frogs prefer cold weather over hot.

Tiberius: No, I mean Christ Jesus ~:) It’s a very old usage which is no longer used, rather like Jes&#249;, Kristus/Christus, and some others. Thanks for the other, I shall edit it into place in my manuscript.

Ciaran: Nell says she shall get her clerk to make a few copies for general sale. At only four marks and five pence per copy (signed, and with decorative cover, high quality parchment, and an illustration of the author (i.e. her!) at the front) these volumes will be high-value collector's editions. Myself, I'm glad of the free copy - that is one expensive book!

[Vladimir]

At only four marks and five pence per copy

That picture better be of her with nothing more than that infamous towel! I'd need to extort every Jew in the kingdom before I'd be able to afford that sum. It does sound like a quality book though so I guess I’ll consider it.

[Vladimir]

Gah!

[furball]

I'm not sure what to say. Trempwick does the text-book sneak attack on a well-built castle. You describe the castle and its defenders well.

Meanwhile, Fulk trains a few guys well and you show us these aren't the hundred-thousand man armies of Napoleanic times. They are closer and more personal.

THEN you bring it down and personal with Malcolm asking about the scar.

It's all I can do to keep from putting a hand on each of your rear cheeks and lifting you up and saying, "Yay!" Not for where the plot is going. You lost me several times. Not even for some of the character stuff. . . I LIKED Selova, or whatever her name was, and - to me - Hugh and Trempwick are way overstated.

But Froggy, you consistently change the mood and tell a story that is both "consistent" with historical fact (as we know it), and compelling as a narrative of people - in love, at odds, fighting for "royalty" and etc.

Hawise and the other hand-maidens are a GEM! Of course, Eleanor and Fulk and the King are boffo, Hugh and his wife are another gem. But Anne, her family and Jocelyn are GOLD. Trempwick must then be platinum.

Of course I'm looking forward to the story here. But you DO have a story that could be really published.

I'm amazed, obviously. Keep writing.

[Vladimir]

I like your thoughts on the characters. The one that feels the most "alive" to me is Fulk while the least realistic is Trempwick; he just seems too uber spymaster but I like how creepy he can get. Overall I do enjoy the wondrous variety of characters so keep it up Queen Froggy!

[frogbeastegg]

It was only chance which saw Eleanor entering her bedchamber after watching the first half of her little army’s early morning training session. She had in fact planned to defrost next to the solar fireplace while battering her way through more of William of Chieti’s wearisome treatise on church law.

So it was only chance that she came across the letter lying on her pillow so early in the day.

Eleanor snatched it up, heart racing. The beats picked up speed when she saw the seal: plain green wax with a simple fox’s face stamped into it.

How many times across the years had she received such a letter? She could count the occasions on the fingers of both hands, and had no need ever to pause and recall. Eight. Eight such letters in fourteen years, with no pattern to them saving that there had been none at all in those first few years. No pattern, if you looked only at timing. The rest was … traditional.

Letter still in hand Eleanor went to the doorway and called out to Fulk and Hawise, “I do not wish to be disturbed, for anything. If anyone asks I have a headache brought on by the cold while watching the training.” She closed the door on their questions, and slid the simple bolt home.

Parchment and writing equipment was easy to find, the whole of her three room suite being as littered with them as with books. It was the work of moments to stuff spare hair ribbons and comb back into the small box which stored them, and then to move box and mirror from her dressing table.

Eleanor paused to take a breath. The racing of her heart slowed. Methodical. She spread the parchment out ready for use, set the quill in the ink pot, and left clear space at the left hand side of the table where the letter would be easy to see while working. Only then did she draw one of her knives, and crouch next to the fire. Eleanor held the steel blade in the tip of the highest flame just long enough for it to heat.

It was possible to slice a wax seal free of a document without damaging anything, so long as the blade used was hot and the hand practiced. Hers was. If asked Eleanor could reattach the seal so no one could tell it had been tampered with. That would not be needful this time. The seal was only sliced from tradition, because that was a part of what these letters were.

When the seal came free Eleanor placed it fox down on the table so the melted wax could solidify without bonding to the woodwork. The knife she also set aside to cool.

She unfolded the letter. She could not read it; it was encoded. They always were.

Eleanor had learned this code years ago, so it did not take too long to transcribe the letter into the translation. Except this too was another code. She began to decipher from that one.





Trempwick’s favoured code was the final one, reached late that day. It resolved into plain language. Eleanor did not translate that one, as she could read the code with only a little more effort and care than the ordinary languages. And read it she did, clear through once, and again, and one more time. Then she set it aside and thought. Then picked it up and read again, committing the words to memory.

Long enough that it took a while to read, short enough that it was manageable, this letter would provide material for hard thought for a long time to come. They always did. It was much of their purpose. They were … all the things Trempwick could not say to her face. All the advice he could give her. All the things he wanted her to think about. Always honest, always, even where it did him no credit – she had hunted long and hard for the smallest trace of a lie since that first letter and never found one. They were the man himself speaking, not the spymaster or any of his other facades, and so they were never spoken of.

I find myself so proud of you, even as I curse my own stupidity and wonder how and when I became so blind.

Eleanor hugged the letter to her chest, abruptly so homesick her vision misted.

So many mistakes.

Someone tapped on her door. It would be Fulk. He had been doing that periodically all day. “Eleanor?”

I looked, as of course I had to. I found nothing to ease my mind. Quite the contrary. A betrothed dishonoured and dropped, a trail of women dallied with and dropped, more than one angry husband. So I tried to guide you away. It didn’t fit my plans, it was wildly unsuitable, it was dangerous, and I had no wish to see you hurt. You have always been more stubborn than a mule. Trempwick had not mentioned anything Fulk had not already told her; she understood his fear even if she did not share it.

“Are you alright?”

“As I keep telling you, I am perfectly fine. I am trying to think.”

“I’ve brought you some food. Since you told me to drown my head when I asked if you’d come out for dinner.”

Eleanor flushed. She had told him just that, and now it seemed rather too much, even if she had grown sick of his pestering and had lost her train of thought on the interruption.

“If you don’t open the door this time I’m forcing the lock.”

“You will break your shoulder first,” she called, just to see what he would make of it.

“I have two, and there’s a bench I can use as a battering ram. If not for consideration for our hosts I’d fetch an axe.”

Standing, Eleanor said, “Dear, dear. You are persistent, aren’t you? I wonder if it is a bad habit I should cure you of, or one I should seek only to moderate so it appears at suitable times.” Now she was moving Eleanor found herself reminded of the fact she had only broken her work a few times, to light some candles when the light began to fail and other such short things. Her neck ached, her back ached, her legs were stiff, her shoulders ached, exactly like the character in the scribe’s lament.

Once the original letter and its seal were safely concealed under the mattress of her bed she drew back the bolt and opened the door, to find him standing there without the promised meal. He put on an exaggerated smile. “Ah! At last I set eyes on the fabled hermit princess.”

“Idiot. Liar too – where is my food?” Eleanor leaned forward and peered to either side of the doorway hopefully, searching for a hint of something edible. Until the accursed man had mentioned food she hadn’t realised she was hungry.

“In a place of safety. I didn’t want to overset the tray while knocking the door down.”

From the depths of the room where Fulk’s body blocked Eleanor’s view Hawise’s voice came, “I placed it next to the fire so it would keep warm, in case it took him a while to coax you out. He’d have left it on the table to grow cold.”

Fulk turned and took the tray from the maid, heaving a very large sigh as he did so. “I feel so put upon. Beset on all sides. Good thing I’ve the patience of a saint and a thick skin-”

Eleanor corrected, “Thick head.”

There wasn’t the slightest hesitation before his cheery reply, “Yes. Comes in handy when you start hitting me, oh gooseberry mine.” He rapped his fingernails on the underside of tray he was holding. “You’ve no idea the fuss we went through to get this, so if you don’t eat the lot I’m cramming it down your throat.”

Fuss indeed; one of the very many downsides to Lent was the limitation of just one meal per day, a restriction neatly dodged about by small handfuls of food here and there eaten at the usual times for the missing meals. What Fulk held was not a handful. They must have made a great deal of her being ‘ill’, as only the ill, the very young or old and the pregnant were granted any exemption, and she could hardly see them claiming her to be any of the others. Not if they wished to live.

He needn’t have worried; miserable as the palace kitchen’s strict observance – no cheese and other forbidden delights would surface within these expensive walls, sadly. There was entirely too many people to notice the lack of suitable devotion, and this King of Scots were very jealous of his reputation and all which touched upon it – was, the contents of the tray smelled divine.

Eleanor’s stomach let her down by growling. “Stop standing there like a human table and bring that in.” She cleared the doorway and returned to sitting at her little table, piling up her sheaf of decoded letters with the one she could read at the top; she’d keep reading while she ate.

Fulk set the tray down in the space she had made, and failed to depart. He shut the door and sat himself down on her bed.

Eleanor whipped the cloth covering the tray off, and took stock of what they had found for her. Overall it was fairly good: pottage, lamprey pie, a handful of assorted dried fruits, a chunk of fine white bread, a bit of marzipan with raisins in it, a mess of stewed vegetables, and a small flagon of wine which smelled as if it has been spiced. She started spooning up the pottage.

He asked, “So, what held your attention so firmly today?”

Eleanor didn’t let him interrupt her carving out a spoonful of the pie and consuming it, reckoning he’d done more than enough interrupting for one day. As she chewed she tapped the spoon on the pie crust, something she kept doing long after she’d swallowed. “What,” she answered in the end, “do you do when you find your cause is a lie?”

That got his attention; she heard the bed creak as he stopped lounging and bolted upright. “What do you mean?”

I betrayed my king – my friend, but years ago. Before you were born. My defence … I could see no other way, save to hurt my friend badly and cause so much trouble. I thought there was no reason. When I found I was wrong it was too late. What a disaster I made with that sentimental decision.

“It seems likely that Hugh is a bastard.”

The child, when finally the pregnancy was announced, could have belonged to either. I should have seen to it that there was a good gap between Enguerrand leaving and William’s return. I again failed my friend by saying nothing.

“He has no right to the throne.”

Neglected, but still he cared for her. He was so proud of what he had: a family, a dutiful wife, a hold on his crown which went from strength to strength. It all seemed so bright. I couldn’t tell him that was half a lie. For her also; I pitied her, admired her, and before she shattered my illusions my soft young heart held affection for her. I had no wish to see her fall, even when she proved less wise, less … great than I had thought.

“My mother was faithless. Like my sister.”

I hoped, so much did I hope. My first disappointment came when the child was a boy. My second, as the boy grew it became obvious he had nothing from William. There was still Stephan, the firstborn and of true blood, so it was not of critical import. Then what happened there happened, and I could not stop it.

“I am on the wrong side.”

I despaired. What could I do with this mess I had helped make? To tell William now was unthinkable. It would do no good. And John, true blood he may have been, but so unsuitable, even at that age. The elder sister with her next best claim, she was gone to her foreign marriage where she would quickly become too alien to rule here. The remaining sisters had their fates arranged similarly, all except one.

“I am not on the just side. I am not upholding tradition and law.”

Then, by pure chance, I met the youngest one of the family, whom I had heard so many interesting things about.

“I am ensuring that the last of our blood to rule is my father, ending an unbroken line which has lasted for hundreds of years.”

And I saw … potential.

“Those I took to be traitors are not.”

I doubted. I admit it. It would be far from easy, or sure. And you were so young, it was hard to be certain of what you were, whether you would survive long enough, or be old enough when the time came. Then why? To amend my error. To give England a ruler of some skill to follow your father. To safeguard my own place in the future also - this too I admit. To undertake a challenge the like of which is incredible. To see if I could. Because, after a time, it seemed right, and it still does.

“Instead of upholding my brother’s rights I am denying Matilda hers.”

But do not think I took you solely because of this. Even with none of it, you would have proved sufficiently interesting. My soul would have cried out against wasting you as William was intent on doing. You are not one of the nothings, to fit into their mundane world and live a pointless life.

“I have stepped into a mess some twenty-four years old, or more, knowing far less than I thought.”

So now you must see why I always said softness was for fools, dangerous, dangerous beyond belief.

Eleanor nibbled at a dried fig. When the world turned upside down you still needed to eat..

Fulk asked, “What makes you think this?”

“A letter, from Trempwick.”

“And you’re fool enough to believe it?” he exploded. “That lying, manipulative bastard wants nothing more than to put you on the throne and rule through you, and you believe it?”

“Given how unflattering it all is, yes. Given that he has never lied to me in such letters, yes. Given that he goes into great detail of how it all happened, yes. Given that he admits that, and much else, yes.”

It was a marriage of practicality, nothing unusual there. They got on well enough, but with no great affection, no matter how William may have liked to remember it in his last days. He neglected her, so badly. Out of a year he spent perhaps three months in her company. Year after year. He left too many things to her alone, giving her no aid or appearing intermittently to try his hand and disrupt what she had done. In his defence I can say he was never consciously cruel to her. That seems to have been reserved mostly for you, because you were his favourite and disappointed him, fool that he was in not seeing. You are so much like him; out of all his children you are the closest match. You were, in very many ways, what he wanted from his heir. Or perhaps he did see, and hated you for being a girl and the youngest, and for being like him enough to stand up to him. So very few dared that in his last years, and then this slip of a girl had the audacity to do it repeatedly. Ah, but I stray. Joanna endured years of this, years made worse by knowing that while she was alone he was not. Not, I must add, that he flaunted his mistresses. She gave no sign of doing anything but continuing to endure, and no hint that her endurance was other than simple contentment. Then a young knight called Enguerrand came to court …

Fulk snorted, plainly still unconvinced. He was content to leave it at that, and advance on to the more important question here, reminding her yet again of why she was so fond of making use of his brain. “So what will you do?”

“Really, what is there for me to do?” Eleanor broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it in the sauce seeping from the lamprey pie. “It is easier to watch another and guard against their mistakes than it is to do the same for oneself, as I think Trempwick found. I could not rule. Poor as he may sometimes be, Hugh is prepared for it, and supported well he will do well enough. My father named him heir. Me? Look at the mess I have managed thus far.” Casting down her spoon Eleanor turned to sit the other way around in her backless chair, facing towards Fulk and with her dinner behind her. “The bloodline on the throne ends, with my father or with me, yet with Hugh it lives on in name and illusion instead of visibly failing. Whichever of the two of us accedes, we do wrong by law; Matilda is heir under law without express command by the arse in the crown that it should be otherwise. Whoever, there is upheaval, excepting that in my case the damage is wider and more obvious – customs once shattered and bent are hard to repair. For the future, he provides the chance of a secure succession. He is the named heir,” she repeated. “He was chosen, named, and so he is the heir, whatever he may be.”

Fulk gazed into space, more than likely thinking on what she had just said. He shook himself. “Eat your dinner,” he scolded.

“And there is another reason – it is quite impossible to be a queen when you allow a baseborn nothing of a man at arms you made into a knight to order you about.” She winked at him, and returned to her food like a good obedient wife.

The contents of the tray vanished in short order under her onslaught.

As she sipped at her wine, Eleanor found herself wondering where that faint sympathy she had had for her mother had gone. It had been there so long, barely noticed, rarely thought of. Until now it was gone.

Dear Lord, what else had she inherited along with the colour of her hair and a penchant for deeply unsuitable knights!?

Fulk moved to her side, and extended a hand to pick up the uppermost translation of Trempwick’s letter, pausing so she had time to bat him away or snatch the letter to safety if she didn’t want him to touch it. He read it, or tried. “It’s all in gibberish.”

Eleanor corrected, “Code. The last of many, and one I can read without translation.”

“What does it say?”

Eleanor pulled the sheet of parchment from his hand. Then she picked up another from the pile, and another. Collection complete she waved the bundle at him. “It is rather too long to read aloud.” Assuming she were so inclined, which she was not. There was much there she did not wish to share, for various reasons.

Fulk took the sheaf from her unresisting hand. He looked at the top sheet, and the next, and the last. “Great chunks of text, gaps, and loads of little lines scattered on their lonesome.”

“Chunks of history or explanation, gaps to break up sections, and loads of little thoughts and things for me to think on. Standard enough presentation, if it is only in something you can read.”

“And all on the same subject. That man can certainly go on when he’s got a reason to, whatever a person might think from meeting him.”

“All on many subjects,” Eleanor corrected, taking her work back. “It is a … lesson, I suppose.”

Fulk leaned over her shoulder and tapped a bit of text at random. “What does this bit say? If you don’t mind.”

Eleanor read the line, and smiled faintly. “A scar is just a scar, no matter the source of the cut. But it can be made to be otherwise.”

Fulk’s eyebrows inched up, and his eyes slid over to look at her cheek. “Marked out for the throne,” he muttered.

Eleanor’s smile didn’t change. That was one meaning. As usual, there were others, and her puzzling them out was Trempwick’s intent. To get the best of his advice you must work, and prove yourself worthy of it.

Fulk’s finger came to rest on a brief line at the very end of the first sheet. “And this?”

“A puppet can have control over the master.” That was all he said, the rest was for her to discover. Presently her main thought was that it was a caution against setting herself up as controller of Hugh.

Looking as though he had a foul taste in his mouth, Fulk moved to the second page and chose a new section. “This?”

“It is a wonder I did not turn grey, so much did you worry me over our years.” There was more, and Fulk would not get it.

“This?”

“I would really rather not say.” The scattered, mortifying comparisons between herself and her beloved regal ancestor could stay known to herself and Trempwick alone.

“And this bit?”

“It’s about how I learned to swim.” She hadn’t wanted to, not after how Stephan died. Trempwick had given her no choice; sink or swim was more than a turn of phrase.

His next choice came right at the top of the second page, a medium-sized paragraph. “This?”

“It is a description of Hugh’s father. I will not say more.” Let this dead Enguerrand rot, forgotten, to make some recompense for the mess he had helped make.

“This one?”

And he accused her of being incurably curious! At this rate he would have her read the whole thing, only out of order. “Softness is ruin. Hardness is ruin.” An isolated thought, one she thought had to do with his lectures on being so hard one became brittle and inflexible, and on the dangers of being too soft in any of the possible ways.

Frowning, Fulk took a bit longer to choose his next section. “There?”

“Expend the lesser to serve the greater, in all things and all ways.”

Fulk’s interpretation of that made him wrinkle his nose. “What about this?” The section he had chosen was long, the part detailing her mother and Enguerrand.

“The details of my mother’s shame will not be shared.”

“Here?”

“I should have drowned your pet at the start, attachment or no. The dangers of being soft. And of dismissing the tiny and trivial.”

Fulk pointed at another line. “And this bit?”

“Pain is a lesson. Have you learned it?”

Fulk snatched his hand away as if the words might contaminate him. “Burn the filthy thing. Burn it, and forget it. Lies, more lies, twisting, and filth.”

Eleanor formed the sheets up into a neat gathering again and set them atop the pile, smoothing the top sheet with the palm of her hand. “No. And that is a hasty judgement, considering you have heard perhaps a thirtieth of the whole.”

He snorted, sounding uncannily like his horse. “Don’t let him twist you to playing his game.”

“I thought you were a knight, not a paranoid mother hen,” grumbled Eleanor.

“Oh, I try to be the best of both.”






And lo, the king did come. And how he did come! Fulk felt disloyal for thinking it, but he could not help it. Eleanor’s father had been a complete disappointment, nothing like a king should be. All Hugh’s attempts to be princely or kingly fell flat, correct in the form and lacking thanks to his stiffness. John had been an indulgent moron, and as princely as a squashed hedgehog. Eleanor - as deeply as he loved her and wished her to be other than what she was born to be - was little better, held back badly by family and funds, and disinterested.

Perth had turned out to give its king a ceremonial welcome. Minstrels played outside the gate, where the King of Scots sat in state to receive the mayor and other city notables. Those men did reverence on behalf of their city, and – Fulk had heard - presented a chalice of solid gold, studded with rubies and worked with the king’s own badge of a swan. Gossip couldn’t settle on how much it had cost, but there was one certainty – it was expensive, a gift befitting a rich trade city and the realm’s capital.

The walls were lined with soldiers, all in brightly polished armour and clean livery. Above every tower, every gate, the king’s banner flew, a red lion rearing up on a gold background. Along the route the king would take, people had crowded out to cheer him by. They were cheering already; the mixed voices drifted back to the palace balcony where Fulk stood, playing bodyguard at Eleanor’s side. More soldiers stood by to keep the common folk under control; from Fulk’s vantage point they formed a lining of yellow and red running along each side of the streets between the gate and the palace.

Money would be dispersed by liveried servants riding behind the king on his progress through the city. Food would be given to the poor. Tonight would be a feast – for this day only the Lenten fast was banished for all, for the arrival of a king was a thing to be celebrated with cheer. Eleanor had been more cynical; she’d only said that Anne’s father was demonstrating his power over the church by waiving the restrictions himself, as he wished, to suit himself. To help the common party along twenty barrels of ale were to be granted to the city from the king’s own stores. Eleanor had been equally sceptical on that, this time claiming that the ale would be poor quality and brought specially for this purpose.

Anne, her grandmother and Malcolm reached the gateways, disappearing from Fulk’s view. He could have been with them on their ride out to meet the King of Scots, if only Eleanor had not refused to go. “Am I now his wife, to go running out to meet him?” she’d said in response to Anne’s query. “I shall be received as is fitting to my dignity, my rank, and my purpose in coming here. I shall not jump for him, or crawl.” So here she was, stood on a balcony with a view, dressed up in some of those fancy new clothes they’d arranged for her, crowned and dignified yet again.

Anne and her two relations emerged on the other side of the gate. They advanced along the carpet laid in a strip leading to the dais, Malcolm in the middle and leading by a few paces, flanked by his sister and grandmother. The sour princeling knelt at his father’s in a smooth motion, Anne and the grandmother dipping into curtseys so deep Fulk wondered they didn’t fall.

The King of Scots made a gesture. He must have said something, because another bout of cheering erupted. The three stood straight again. Malcolm advanced to kiss his father’s ring, then stood to his right. Anne did the same, moving to his left and positioning herself further back than her brother. When the grandmother went to kiss her son’s ring the King of Scots stopped her, rose, and clasped her to him in an embrace which could have belonged to any son reunited with a much-beloved mother. More cheering ensued.

Fulk whistled. “If I’d ever tried that my mother would have whacked me on the head for playing silly games so others think I’m better than I am.”

“Heaven knows what mine would have done.”

He looked sharply at Eleanor, hearing a trace of melancholy in her words. She ignored him.

The king and his family mounted up, the musicians forming into a block at the very front of the column, soldiers marching in a block after them, then some mounted knights, then the king, behind him Malcolm, then Anne and her grandmother, more knights, then the coin throwers, and finally another block of soldiers. The rest of the party the king had arrived with would make their own way to the palace, separate from this parade.

To the beat of the sounds of drums and flutes the King of Scots made his entrance into the city of Perth, from time to time raising a hand to acknowledge his subject’s cheers. As the liveried servants reached the area where the crowd began – a good minute behind the king, thanks to the length of his procession – the sparkle of coins being thrown through the air in handfuls lit the morning.

Eleanor muttered, “What a show off.”








Weee! A frog-sized episode, at long last. Albeit a small frog-sized episode.

Question: Why is a frog like a moulting parrot?
Answer: Both shed at an alarming rate, one losing feathers, the other losing days off.

Eleanor is not only promising me a copy of her book, but she is threatening her scribe in an effort to get him to transcribe my copy faster. So many days of planned writing, so many disappointments. :sigh:

Vladimir: Nope, it is a picture in the standard mould of medieval dedicational pictures: Eleanor in all her crowned glory being presented her book by the scribe who wrote it. Fulk says he will refrain from looking for his biggest sword only because you say he is your favourite. But he would like to make it clear that if anyone is going to have the privilege of gazing at the gooseberry in a towel it will be him.

If you think Trempy is good, go and read the Empire trilogy (daughter of the empire, servant of the empire, mistress of the empire.) by Raymond Feist and Janny Wurts. The character Arakasi makes Trempy look incompetent.

Furball: If I say I don’t actually notice I am doing these things until someone points them out, will I lose some of my frogsomeness? Because I honestly do not know it, not until it is pointed out. I just write this as it needs to be, as it feels right. Sometimes when it is pointed out I can see why a particular order of scenes or way of writing a thing works so well, so please do keep it up.

Trempwick and Hugh are way overstated how? :is in curious frog mode, well and truly now:

Edit: D'oh! I missed out the entire first scene when posting this! I'm a tired froggy ...

[furball]

Tres interessant!

[Vladimir]

I chuckled at the Malcolm in the middle line. I haven't seen that show in years but it was kinda funny. I got a little excited as she was reading Trampwick’s letter thinking about the item Jocelyn is carrying. I imagine he’ll take the most direct route possible to get to her. That is, the most direct route from brothel to brothel “just in case she may have fallen on hard times”.

[furball]

When I say Tremp and Hugh are overstated, I mean that there were more scenes showing one or another of their character traits than were necessary; i.e., it seemed some scenese seemed repetitive. Wish I'd made a not of them at the time. I'd need to go back and reread most everything to find those points in the exposition now.

[frogbeastegg]

The King of Scots finished his showing off outside, did a bit of showing off inside his palace, and the came to rest in his main hall, still showing off. He sat on his throne at the dais, his court gathered about him – that much was a familiar sight to Eleanor. It was the way the man did it that was so obnoxious. Take his crown, for example. He wore his full state crown instead of his lesser one: gold, more gold, gems, more gems, some more gold, some more gems – it had chinstraps like a helmet so it could be secured to his royal little head. England’s crown had never needed that, because it was tasteful, balanced, and did not contain enough gold and stones to fund three sizeable castles. According to Anne he had had it made specially, replacing the original crown, which, apparently, he had found too mundane for his grand majesty.

Eleanor wished she had not worn her own crown. The simple band of plain gold was cast into pall, and it seemed likely people would see it as cheap rather than discerning. It hadn’t been her choice or design anyway! She’d just been given the thing and told to say thank you. The crown she’d had as a child hadn’t been any different, just smaller and, in the end, when it had been let out too many times, melted down and added to the metal required to make this one.

Malcolm lounged at his father’s right, on a throne smaller and lower than his father’s. Dressed from head to toe in black with only the white of his shirt at his throat and the colour of the decorative bands at neck and hem to provide variety, crowned with a band of gold with a few gemstone and fleurons rising at front, back and sides, he presented a sight quite in contrast to his father.

The thump of a staff on the tiled floor told her it was time. Three ponderous thumps and the king’s herald announced, “Her royal Highness, Princess Eleanor of England, lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Ketton, and Barrowden.”

As announcements went it was not to Eleanor’s liking; better if they had left out her meagre possessions.

Alone she proceeded down the central space of the hall. She dropped her curtsey before the dais, not a fraction deeper than necessary. She did not wait for him to give her leave to straighten; she was not his underling, and only marginally his lesser … sort of.

Anne’s father was not precisely the sort of man you’d expect to find under a crown like that. Or perhaps then again he was. In appearance he was entirely unremarkable. The most remarkable thing about him was the beard, a long thing of straight hair, tortured into curls at the tips to match his equally tortured long hair, a style England had abandoned when William Rufus collected an unexpected arrow to the chest in the New Forest. The tip of a scar poked out onto his cheek above where the hair stopped growing, and likely provided the reason the beard had been grown. “Ah. Our cousin of England. We are most pleased to receive you.”

Forewarned, Eleanor managed to keep her face set into pleased graciousness without trouble. King Malcolm was one of those who believed he spoke for all, and so pluralized. Cousin was more interesting. Reigning monarchs were ‘cousins’, usually, a convenient term which had everything to do with being one of God’s anointed and very little to do with the tangled web of marriages; cousin by role and not by blood. Yet very occasionally the term was applied to all royalty, extending the ‘family’. “Thank you,” said Eleanor.

“We were most saddened to hear of your father’s demise. We mourn him for himself, as well as for our daughter’s sake. A great man, and one we found respect for, and liking, though we had cause to do otherwise.” With an ironic smile the king touched the scar on his cheek; he had collected it in the only major battle fought between the two realm in his rule, a battle which had been a sound defeat for the Scots. “We are told you wish to renew the alliance between our holdings.”

“I am here to do so on my brother’s behalf, yes.”

“Business is a thing for later. For now we do celebrate our return to our beloved capital, and this meeting with our guests.” One beringed hand rose to rest on the arm of the chair next to his. “Pray you, be seated.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor sat, not liking where she was positioned. She was in his wife’s place.

The other ranking members of her party were announced and came forward for their brief introductions. Without Sir Miles the party lacked in prestige, made up now of people who, while important and holding land, were primarily royal servants, such as the chief clerk.

When Fulk’s turn came king Malcolm’s eyes lit up. “Ah. We have heard much of you. We find you must be the son of a great man.”

Still on bent knee, Fulk looked up. “Sire, I would hope any son who has had a good father would say so.”

“Yes.” The word dragged out. The had which had been stroking the royal beard extended to Fulk in an invitation to kiss the royal ring. “We do name you our friend.”

Eleanor tried not to let the sight of Fulk doing what looked very like homage to the King of Scots annoy her. It was an empty action, and if the man thought he could gain advantage by making her party seem shabby and claiming her famous knight, well she would find a way to make use of it and prove him wrong. Somehow. If only Miles were here – he had been intended to lead, and she to follow and learn. Diplomacy and its sort were learned one quarter in theory and instruction and three quarters in witnessing and doing, and one quarter as natural talent, bringing it to a total of five which, Trempwick had always said, made about as much sense as most of the mandatory compliments.

When he’d finished kissing the ring Fulk was given leave to remain standing. King Malcolm said, “We have given thought to a tournament, and would greatly like this, and find it a diversion and entertainment fitting to honour our cousin of England. A tournament of peace, in the most gentle manner. We shall require the two teams be mixed, that it not be said our two nations are pitted against one another. It is our wish that you lead one team, as foremost of your lady’s knights.”

Fulk’s face turned incrementally, to look at Eleanor. She gave the slightest of nods. What other option was there, except to demand he refuse the honour, and with no grounds to do so?

As soon as the word ‘tournament’ had been mentioned, the younger Malcolm had stopped lolling and started to pay attention. Now, eagerly, he said, “With your permission, my lord, I shall lead the other.”

It seemed the older Malcolm heard Eleanor’s prayers, for he turned on his son. “No.”

“I would be quite safe, and acquit myself with honour. I am a belted squire.” One of the boy’s hands came to rest below the mouth of his sword scabbard, the other on his opposite hip where the slanting sword belt joined his waist belt.

Softly, the king promised, “Not nearly as belted as you can become.”

The boy blanched. His hands tightened their grip, knuckles going as white as his face. “Any other father,” he said in a low, controlled voice, “would be proud for his son to lead. He would not try to hold him back, and coddle him like a girl.”

“You may leave, Malcolm.”

Flinging himself from his chair a rosy flush spread over Malcolm’s pale features. “How’s it feel, to know that at not even half your age I’ve more guts and balls than you’ll ever manage to dream of, old man?” The resounding silence said a lot about a court which was forced to a split, fearing the future king and having a duty to the current one which could not yet be passed over.

“My son, I do find you most amusing.”

“’We’, father, not ‘I’. You forgot your bloody plural. You’re still poncing about before the court, not in private.” The boy caught his crown from his head and swept a bow, the arm with the crown arm extended in a flourish which nearly touched the ground, so low did he dip. He marched out; it impossible to see how any could think to call him ‘The Lame’ unless it were an paradoxical acknowledgement of his grace.

For Eleanor’s ears alone the king said, “Sometimes I find it a great pity it is beneath both of our dignities to have that boy scourged. But royal blood is precious, and none of decency should be marked like scum.”

Marked like the very worst scum and known to be so, Eleanor said nothing, suspecting a dual purpose to her companion’s words: truthful comment, and dig at his dead rival.

Malcolm the elder began to stroke his beard again, hand gliding down the hair and catching the end of the strands between his nails to give them a brief a brief tug. “Well, we shall see when his brother has a few more years. Then we shall see. But for now I shall have him thrashed, methinks.”






I recall that about a year ago I promised there would be a tournament, Finally it approaches. :gring:

Fleuron = one of those little flower shaped thingies that appear on the top edge of some crowns. As opposed to a trefoil, which is simply a three-pointed/leafed shaped thing which appears on the top edge of some crowns.

“I am a belted squire.” […] “Not nearly as belted as you can become.” Excuse me while I grin evilly, because I do like that, nasty as it is. Also loving Trempy’s comment on diplomacy.


Furball: I thought you meant that, but as there is a second possible meaning (that they are both larger than life) I thought I would check. Hugh and Trempy are in the most danger of being called exaggerated, IMO … except Jocelyn. I don’t want them to be.

Vladimir: Now you have inadvertently planted the thought of ‘Jocelyn de Ardentes guide to travelling: how to have a good time and not lose all your cash. For all travellers of discerning taste.’ in my mind. :Shivers:

[Vladimir]

Vladimir: Now you have inadvertently planted the thought of ‘Jocelyn de Ardentes guide to travelling: how to have a good time and not lose all your cash. For all travellers of discerning taste.’ in my mind. :Shivers:

Now THAT is a book I'd gladly pay a royal dowry for! I think I'll wait until Eleanor's book comes out in paperback.

[Braden]

Well....what can be said about this seminal piece that hasn't already been said? Its epic, exceptionally well written and utterly absorbing!

I've taken the liberty of converting the whole thing so far into Word, for ease of reading and at Verdana 10pt I've got...

978 pages! Nine HUNDRED and Seventy Eight pages of A4!! I'm sure with a little work I could estimate how many normal paperback books that would be.

Anyway, I'm glad in a way that I've come late to this I now have the pleasure of reading a transcript of great length without having to wait for further updates until much further down the line.

I'm personally only on page 192 of my Word conversion :book: and that's taken a good week...

I personally can't see how you'll ever actually "end" this story. Such a full, living world almost deserves to continue ad infinitum but obviously can't so it will be strange when it does actually draw to a close.

This is certainly of publishable quality so perhaps there is a future for our good friend Eleanor? :sweatdrop:

[Vladimir]

I personally can't see how you'll ever actually "end" this story. Such a full, living world almost deserves to continue ad infinitum but obviously can't so it will be strange when it does actually draw to a close.


You forgot that the Black Death is coming. :skull:

[Braden]

I really hope that it doesn't end like that!

[frogbeastegg]

“Perhaps you might inform us as to what is occurring in England,” the elder Malcolm asked Eleanor. “All we hear is … muddled.”

The audience had continued until it was time for dinner to be served. Then, and only then, had the King of Scots condescended to set aside his crown – Jesù! The thing rested on a shelf built into his throne, still hovering above his head – and relax the formality of the hall. Not that the meal had been without its disturbing aspects; Eleanor had found herself once again occupying the place of the king’s absent wife, seated as his dining partner. At least that had put the father between herself and Malcolm the younger; the prince had reappeared in good time to lounge into the second most honourable seat at the high table.

The meal had passed, a feast in truth, and yet another display of royal power and wealth. With not even a day’s warning the kitchen had assembled a lavish banquet, a good part of it from animals still alive that very morning. Eleanor decided the king must have decided to hold this feast on his way here and given some very secretive orders; it might amaze the naive but she was well acquainted with the many tricks used to impress.

The tables had been cleared, the hall broken up into the serious business of enjoying a good party. The two Malcolms and Eleanor remained alone on the dais, a lengthy gap between the foot of the platform and the start of the people. Between the gap and the noise their words were as private as if they were spoken in a closed room.

Now, finally, it appeared the king was ready to discuss business.

“You will explain first,” the king continued, “about your husband.”

Down in the hall Eleanor’s husband was being dragged into a game of Hoodman Blind by a group of laughing young bloods, a goodly portion of them female. Not that Fulk was putting up much resistance; a girl hanging off each arm he smiled and laughed and tried to finish his drink before it spilled, allowing himself to be guided over to the playing area. Eleanor reminded herself that she had ordered him to enjoy himself tonight. He deserved it; if she hadn’t ordered it he’d have been keeping a careful eye on her all night again, watching what he drank, being watchful of everything he did in case it took him away from her or hampered his guard. He’d been doing that for months. It was not as if he had sought the women out, and there wasn’t anything in it to criticise even in a married man. The sinking feeling came from knowing that Fulk was considered single, and would be treated as such; all she could do was watch. Or try not to.

“I have no husband,” Eleanor said. Sometimes it did feel that way. “Trempwick lies.”

“He has presented proof, and witnesses in good number.”

“Money will buy much, and village girls are free for those with the rank to take.”

The younger Malcolm chuckled, slouching down in his seat and sprawling his legs wider in what might have been a decent imitation of an obnoxiously virile man if only there were more to him than raw bones and skinniness. “Free for anyone, actually. They’re lacking in discretion and virtue both. Famous for it.” If his father had carried out his promise to have someone thrash the boy it didn’t show. Knowing how much a display of normality could cost in such circumstances, Eleanor hoped he was sitting very uncomfortably.

Anne’s father ignored his son; worrying away at his beard again. Close up it was possible to see that the russet of the hairs was peppered with tiny flecks of white where strands had split and broken, proving the habit a strong one. “Words; words alone against proof and witnesses. A contract, also. It seems most clear as to which way a court would decide, if the matter were taken to one.”

Fulk twisted away from the flailing hands of the blindfolded woman at the heart of the game, tugging at her hair and clothing and escaping her time after time. He was still laughing. Eleanor wished she could dodge as well in the game she played. “He lies, and I can prove it. I have consummated no marriage.”

The king grunted.

His son slid upwards in his chair to sit decently, insolent smirk melting from his features. “Fucking hell!”

“You claimed,” Malcolm the elder stated, blocking anything else his son might have said, “to be here on your brother’s part.”

“I am.”

“Whereupon it then follows the cause in your name …”

Eleanor finished the leading statement, “Is not mine, no.”

One of the men playing Hoodman Blind planted his hands in Fulk’s back and gave a shove, sending him crashing into the woman. She squealed, and lost no time in securing her grasp on his tunic, spare hand groping for his face. Once she found his crooked nose the woman must have known who he was, and that was likely why she extended her search for clues to cover as much of Fulk’s body as possible. He endured, laughing again now his voice wouldn’t give his identity away. The woman made her guess at who she had caught; the blindfold was pulled free and wrapped around Fulk’s eyes.

Spun around several times to disorient him, the knight was loosed and the game began again. Snatches of the song celebrating Fulk’s rescue of her made their way to Eleanor’s ears as some of the players shouted a line or two as they baited him, showing off with their risk-taking by increasing the likelihood Fulk would know them if his blind hands closed on a body. Not knowing many people here Fulk was at a tremendous disadvantage. Other hands, far from blind and very female, were closing on his body, some of them in locations far from seemly. Eleanor’s nails bit into her palms. This was a part of the game – it was much of the point. With the excuse of being blind, and of taunting the blind, one could do much that would normally lead to either a quick marriage or an irate spouse; it was a brief, harmless release from the demands of status. If she’d cared to play Eleanor could have joined in without the slightest reproach. Which helped nothing.

The king laid his hands on the arms of his throne; he leaned his head back to rest against the carved back. “We expect two teams of forty per side to be managed for our tournament. As it is to be a joyous event, not a serious one, it is in our mind to set the ransom for a captured knight at six marks, four for a man at arms. We will not have men lose horse and harness, and beggaring themselves when their swords may be of use.”

Six marks would beggar Eleanor’s new knights and her men at arms. Six marks would make Fulk struggle, assuming he received the rents of the lands he supposedly held, which was far from assured and one of the items on her list of things to apply her resources to on returning to England. Six marks was a trivial sum to any of better status than they.

He continued, “The teams shall be selected on the day, by lottery, all except the captains. The side not led by your knight will be led by Sir Fergus of Kilfinan, a man of honour and deeds.”

Whom Eleanor knew next to nothing about, other than that he was a experienced fighter who had stood long at his king’s side. Caring far less for this tournament than the purpose she had come here for, Eleanor ventured, “My brother is most eager to renew the alliance.”

“The time does not suit. Business is not for now.”

The prince’s lip curled, revealing a hint of incisor. “What you mean, old man, is that you haven’t decided which side to back yet.”

Being as the king was not yet thirty-seven and any visible signs of advancing age Eleanor found the boy’s liking for calling him old a sign of a stunted imagination.

The king’s gaze settled directly on Eleanor for the first time all evening, not looking past or to the side or above or anywhere else but truly at her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up; that gaze dismissed her as nothing, a curiosity, a thing. Majesty discarded, the man asked softly, “Are you Queen of England, do you make that claim?”

“I do not.”

Then she was freed, forgotten as the man spoke to his son. “You see?”

The boy’s reply was grave. “It does not matter. We are honour bound.” It seemed he could speak nicely when he chose; the words were as precisely formed as one might expect of a noble.

“You are young and rash, and delude yourself with notions honour instead of practicality, asking for what you want and calling it right as you hide the fact you want it.” One hand made a chopping motion, rings sparkling in the candlelight. “Enough. We will discuss this later.” The king inclined his head to Eleanor. “All of it. At the appropriate time.” He clapped his hands, and from the background two pages brought forth a small table and a gaming board. “I hear from my daughter you have taken up tafl, and are proving adept.”

Fulk captured another player, the second time he had done so; this time it was a man. Once again he failed to guess the player’s identity and was left to stumble on.

Board set up, Eleanor found herself given the attacker’s side. Anne’s father did not have himself set up as her opponent; he had Malcolm take that role. The boy sprawled at a better angle to study the board, yawning widely, eyes hooded and mouth drawn into a flat line.

Eleanor made her first move, a man at arms out to threaten one of Malcolm’s point men.

The boy reached out and shoved a piece over to stand next to hers, acting without deliberation.

Eleanor considered, countered, bringing out another piece so he could not capture hers and endeavouring to limit movement along two files of squares.

Again he moved as if by rote, slamming another carved soldier into position to harry her.

Fulk’s probing hands banged into a body; Eleanor smothered a scowl. What did it matter if her knight happened to paw a lady’s chest while completely unable to see what he was doing? Besides, since it was Godit it was likely her contrivance. She had joined the game but minutes ago, after Fulk had failed to win free the second time. The little slut couldn’t refrain from giggling as Fulk’s arms closed clumsily about her, which gave her away. Freed, Fulk reached up to untie the blindfold. Before he fastened it into place on Godit he bowed over her hand and kissed it.

Well, if he was going to be a fool then she would ignore him. It was all the broken-nosed, idiotic, lack-witted, rust-brained oaf deserved!

Several turns passed in their game of tafl. Malcolm never once paused to consider; Eleanor did so frequently, putting her patience to training.

The King of Scots said, “Our daughter is most insistent that she will return to England with you, that she may wait for her husband’s remains to be brought back. She will not hear otherwise. We shall allow it.”

“My father would have liked that. He was very fond of her.”

Malcolm demolished another of Eleanor’s pieces. Tossing the little carved figure from hand to hand he told his father, “Oh, shut the hell up, damn you. You’re ruining her concentration, and so the game.”

The unpleasantness Eleanor expected didn’t come. Malcolm the elder said evenly, “Then play.”

The remainder of the game was short, brutal. Malcolm stormed all over her, aggressive and daring in his tactics, sending his defending side at her in an onslaught which battered right through her formations and let the king piece escape to one of the marked corner squares.

“Not bad,” Malcolm declared. He picked up a cluster of her fallen warriors and started to juggle them, sending them flying about in a single loop. His voice swung up into a shrill midway through his words as he said, “If a man’s going to be a general then he needs to think strategy and the like. So I’ve made a study of it. All of it. Chess, this, and all the other games, even the shitty little children’s ones. And I’ve practiced on the field too. I’ve even led in a tournament, once.” Giving his father a pointed look, Malcolm missed his catch of one piece and it bounced across the table. “God’s bones!” he swore.

Eleanor caught the piece on its second bounce. With deliberate care she set the little man back down on a starting square on the board. With a flick of a hand she sent the piece airborne again, joined by two others. Unlike Malcolm she didn’t miss her catch; the three pieces were worked into a loop, one more grabbed and added as she juggled. The loop became two rows bouncing up and down from each hand. Smiling at her audience the pieces returned to a loop, two more snatched up and added. She increased the speed. This had been one of Trempwick’s early teachings; she could keep more complicated patterns going almost as well as a professional. It suddenly seemed important to make the point she was better at something than they, and something unexpected may make then consider her more carefully and worry what other talents she may be hiding.

A few more showy tricks and Eleanor ended the performance, catching all the pieces and dipping into a shallow, seated bow. Tempted as she was, Eleanor refrained from adding that her next trick would be to make a knight disappear, herself along with him.

A smattering of applause came from the hall, growing in strength when it was seen the king did not object.

Fulk, sat at a game of draughts, gave her a wink when she met his eye.

Hand busy on his beard the king muttered, “I could have married you, some years ago.”

As that would not have suited Trempwick’s plans, let alone her own, Eleanor very much doubted it. Painfully aware of whose place she was occupying, this reached a new high of disturbing.

The ends of several strands of hair splintered free in his fingers; Malcolm the elder brushed them on the floor and kept on worrying away. “Demark was judged more use. You will not have met my wife?”

Eleanor confirmed with a shake of the head.

“One wishes the same could be said of oneself. Ingleberd has the figure of a spear shaft, mated with the hips of a starved cow. Her face may be tolerable, but her voice is a high, nasal whine which cuts right through a man.” He shivered, the trembling of his flowing hair and beard making the motion seem far larger than it was. “With hindsight I fear I may have done better to go English.”

Malcolm the younger snorted. “Thing about hindsight, old man, is that it applies to the past. The done. The undoable. You chose her; you’re stuck with her. So enjoy. Or better yet, don’t – makes my position so much more secure.” Standing, he held out his hand to Eleanor. “I’m sick of this sitting about; I’m going to dance. Something decently modern too, not all this carole crap. Coming?”

Ye gods, what a bounty of wonders she had to choose from, between father and son! Since the son’s open antagonism was less disconcerting than the father’s … whatever it was, Eleanor chose him.

Hand clamped about hers Malcolm all but dragged her down to the floor of the hall, shouting, “Music! We wish a dance, and make sure it’s something decent.”

The court fairly tripped over itself in its hurry to oblige.

The dragging didn’t stop when the music started; Eleanor found herself tugged, flung, yanked and hauled through the opening steps of one of the new dances designed for couples. To observers they surely looked like a good pairing, going at it with youthful energy; it was either than or be sent spinning out of control to crash into one of the other couples.

The boy took advantage of one of the parts where he had to hold her close to say quietly, “Some advice from the devil, if you’ve the wit to heed it. There’s three sides here. Your half-brother’s. Yours. Trempwick’s.” Bounced away to arm’s length and spun through a slow circle Eleanor had to wait to hear the rest. “He’s a merchant’s heart, not a king’s. He’ll sell where there’s the best profit, and he’s a bloody craven.”

“You are telling me this because …?”

Malcolm’s grip tightened on her fingers, crunching them together into a painful bundle. “I’ve a damned sight better understanding of being a king and what it means than that old man, and of honour – real honour, not the bloody game usually called that. Let some bastard on your throne and it devalues my own. Let some grasping turd make off with royalty and it might happen to me and mine.” They separated for a few steps. He brought her back close with a savage yank. “I won’t have that.” As they launched into a series of rapid sidesteps the boy said, louder than the rest, loud enough for others to hear, “We’re family, cousin, by rank and through my sister. I look after my own. Always. A slight to you is one to me, and I don’t sit idly by when I’m slighted.”

When the dance called for it he dumped her on a new partner and took off with one of his own.

Three partners later the dance was over. It was either join the next one or return to the dais and the king; Eleanor caught her breath and grabbed the first nobleman to hand.

A couple more dances and Eleanor let the next one pass without her involvement, seeking a drink as a reason to avoid returning to the King of Scots. Thank heaven it appeared to be beneath his dignity to come down and mingle with ordinary mortals, unlike her beloved regal ancestor or Hugh.

Thinking it unsafe to linger at the sidelines, Eleanor rejoined the fray. She ended up passed on to Malcolm as the final partner of that dance, meaning she had to start the next one with him.

It was during the second dance that Eleanor found herself passed on to a most unexpected partner.

“You have no idea,” Fulk murmured, “how much planning this took, so it looks like coincidence.”

“Well done, crook-nose.”

They’d never partnered each other, thanks to the gulf in their status. It was enjoyable, in the way many things were if only you added a certain knight, even if it was short and unsafe to repeat.

The evening wore on. Eleanor grew sufficiently weary that she departed the floor in search of another means to avoid the king. She found it in a small group of nobles speaking with enthusiasm about the coming tournament. A few careful questions and a lot of listening won her a fair bit of information on what Fulk was likely to face.

Then one of the men pointed off to one of the alcoves. “Isn’t that your knight?”

It was, and he was in a fight. Over Godit. The bushy-faced hulk of a Scot Fulk faced drew his eating knife, shoving Anne’s maid away behind him and snarling something. Fulk drew his own knife, leaning away from the man’s first thrust. He parried the second, stepped away from the third, making no effort to counterattack.

Heart in her mouth, Eleanor locked her knees so she couldn’t run towards the group and locked her face so nothing would show.

A pair of royal guardsmen got there quickly, drawing swords and ordering the two men apart. Fulk obeyed immediately, replacing his knife in its sheath. The Scot was more reluctant; he was loud enough now the background noise had reduced she heard his indignant words, “That bastard’s meddling where he’s got no business! He’s impugned my honour.” A gentle prod from a sword tip persuaded him that whatever Fulk had done it didn’t actually necessitate killing him on the spot; the knife was put away.

“No business?” Fulk crossed his arms. “It’s any decent man’s business when another sets on a woman-”

“We’re practically betrothed,” roared the Scot.

“But not actually. So you’ve no right.”

Godit had crept around to shelter behind Fulk. “I won’t marry you, Angus! Never. I’ve told you that before. It’s none of your business what I do. And don’t get fool ideas – I’m under my mistress’ protection.”

Behind the fuzz of beard Angus went bright red. “And I wouldn’t have you! Not now. I want a wife I can trust.”

From the dais the king’s voice commanded, “Put him out. No one breaks my peace, and no one attacks one of my guests.”

Things returned to normal as the Scot was escorted from the hall.






It was late by the time Eleanor and her party returned to her rooms. In the solar, before they had had time to do much more than close the door, Hawise said to Fulk, “Waltheof knows a lot about the men likely to take part in the tournament. You should talk to him.”

Waltheof, one of the recently recruited young knights, and likely the same grave-faced man Eleanor had noticed Hawise in rapt conversation with several times during the evening.

Fulk nodded, a lot. “I will.”

Eleanor reached up and seized his ear between finger and thumb. She started to tow him towards her room. “If everyone else is finished playing with my knight, I should like a turn.” Playing with, trying to kill – whichever.

She didn’t get a chance to say a word – half a word! – due to the tiny little fact that as soon as they were alone she found herself crushed in his arms and being kissed with no small amount of enthusiasm. Which was nice, but not quite what she’d had in mind. Not just what she’d had in mind. He’d been drinking hippocras with a bit too much nutmeg for her liking; she could taste it. One of his hands crept up and removed her crown, sending it skimming onto the bed.

When there was opportunity for words he pinched it, starting to speak while she was still trying to recover. “I’ve been wanting to do that for hours. Loved your juggling, by the way.”

“Oh. Um …” Her musings on the best way to politely demand to know what the hell he had been doing with that Godit creature were trampled underfoot by more enthusiasm on his part.

Some time later he saw fit to pronounce, “I’ve missed you.”

“I would never have guessed.” Eleanor relented a little. “I missed you as well.”

He kissed her again, briefly. “It’d probably be chivalrous to warn you I’ve had a bit too much to drink and I’ve been sleeping alone for rather too long, and I’m still your smitten worshiper. So if you want to be rid of me any time soon, your best chance is five minutes ago.”

Eleanor sighed; some knights should probably not be allowed holidays, for the good of humanity. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Oh, not enough that you need worry. I can still use my sword.” For some reason he found this hilarious. He stopped laughing to smooth away her frown with a thumb. “Slightly too much. I just get very genial and friendly and a bit silly, but if I have a lot too much you can tell because I start falling over and singing. I did miss you.” Which served as an excuse for further enthusiasm.

With an expression that belonged on a puppy begging for scraps he said, “Can I stay? Please? Oh outstandingly majestic and highly kissable one?”

She was obviously going to get no sense out of him while he was like this. If she refused him he might go looking for someone else; heaven knew there was no shortage of interested parties, and he’d just spend the entire evening amidst that interest. Besides, he was her husband and he was not asking for anything she had a good reason to refuse.

A feeling of resignation settling in the pit of her stomach Eleanor pulled her braid over her shoulder and started to untie the ribbon.





He’d dozed for a bit; it couldn’t have been long, as the night candle was still more than half intact. The fug of wine was clearing from his head, along with the feeling half his wits had been stolen. The frustration, however, remained, so Fulk didn’t get back to sleep. He knew Eleanor was awake and equally unhappy; he doubted she’d gone to sleep at all.

She had been … dutiful. After dragging him in by his ear and making that comment about playing with him, and responding to his embrace and kisses, she’d gone dutiful. He clenched his teeth remembering it; so much for slowly winning her around. She had refused to part with her shift, as usual, so it got in the way, as usual. The things she normally liked had no effect, simply because she seemed set on having a miserable time. New tricks either met with stoical endurance or protests that they were annoying or not to her liking in some vague way, then finally the terse statement that she had liked what he did before well enough – the same damned things which were having no effect - and he could stick to that for now. Much as he’d yearned for a repeat of their mutually satisfactory encounter from that night he’d accidentally seen her back, he’d have given up entirely except for the strong suspicion she would have taken it as a sign he didn’t truly find her desirable. Afterwards he’d had the feeling she wanted him gone, but when he’d made to sit up she’d turned clingy, so he’d settled back down with his arm around her. This, at least, had turned out to be acceptable.

Fulk had no idea how long they lay there in the near-dark, motionless and wordless.

He’d a message to pass on to her. Except now wasn’t a good time; mention of Godit would be as much an intrusion as mention of Trempwick. In the morning, when they were up and about, he’d pass along her warning about the King of Scots being the dangerous one here, for all he didn’t look it. Fulk didn’t see it himself; it might mean more to Eleanor, and if it raised her guard then it could do no harm even if it were false aid.

Thinking about the message set Fulk thinking about the events which had led to it, cursing. He knew he’d been in demand all evening because of his fleeting fame, his treatment as an almost-equal and hero dependant on that fame and lasting only so long as it did. It had punched right through to the part of his heart which longed to be more than a baseborn bastard nothing, made more alluring precisely because it was temporary. There was a hangover from the boy he’d been that he hadn’t managed to purge. So he’d found himself playing a game, trying to identify people he didn’t know well enough, trapped an at the mercy of a gaggle of over-exited females and jealous men, until Godit threw the game and saved him. Hence the lordling her family had marked out for her having a jealous fit and attacking her when he’d no right to. Hence his rescuing her, that and an inability to do nothing when he knew that here and now he could act, that he did not have to turn his eyes away and let it pass. Eleanor would understand, she had to; she knew what it was to wish for someone to protect her. And so Godit had given him the message, as a brand of thanks which acknowledged the tie to Eleanor she deplored but knew he valued. That gave it considerable worth.








Yay! A frog-sized episode!

I have but one thing to say on the matter of stock takes: GAH!!

Vladimir: No Black Death, for which I am very glad. The date is taken from the fact this started out (in version 1; this is number 2) based on MTW’s high campaign. This story is set in/around 1200AD, in truth, going by fashions, customs, technology, and just about everything except the calendars. The Black Death is over a century away. :cough: I admit that if it were not I would bend, batter and break this world so it did not happen – it does not suit, not at all, and I will not allow it :does a heroically resolute froggy pose!:

Jocelyn being Jocelyn, that book won’t appear for years, if it ever does at all. He needs to research it all. Thoroughly. Then double-check the information. Then comes the actual writing bit, and we know how much he loves doing that, even with a clerk to do dictate to. Not forgetting his wife; Richildis would not be pleased if his guide contained anything other than ‘nice’ places.

Hehe! Paperback books before paper is invented! Methinks you will have to take the medieval edition or none. :winkg:

Braden: 192, now roughly where is that … :checks: Ah. You are around the point where things warm up. There’s a slow, seemingly pointless spell coming up (editing, badly in need of editing!) but bear with it and the reward is, I hope, more than worth it.

By my very rough workings, based on word counts for Eleanor and for a few other books I own and have seen word counts for, it’s about two 600 page books. I use Times New Roman 12 point, which makes it 847 pages total, including today’s bit. Funny thing is, I swapped this post into the same settings you use to see what causes such a difference, and there isn’t really any reason I can see. The mysteries of computers …

[Ciaran]

This story is set in/around 1200AD,
Not according to the very first post of this topic, where it says

England 1325: The royal palace at Waltham, Essex

However, that´s when Eleanor is about ten, so the major part of the story is more about the early/mid 1330s. There´s also the thing with the war in France, and though I´m by no means a historian my general education tells me the Hundred Years War started in 1337.


I use Times New Roman 12 point, which makes it 847 pages total, including today’s bit.
Huh? I use Verdana 10, and the whole text is as of today at 905 A4 pages. Plus the fact that I deleted anything beyond three empty lines between paragraphs.

[frogbeastegg]

No matter what date I stick at the front or mention in the progress of the tale, the world itself is very much at the start of the 13th century, even with the changes the fact it is an alternate world bring. I realised this after maybe 100 pages, but had to stick with the 'given' date for consistency. When I come to edit you can be sure all the dates will be rolled back to match. This is why I say the date is wrong. Else you end up with all kinds of crazy things, such as Nell's old fashioned clothes being 150 years(!!) out of date, not just a decade or so.


I don't have any spaces at all in my manuscript, except a single line betwen each scene. It's set out like a book, with indents of three spaces at the start of each of the bits I seperate out into paragraphs here.

[furball]

I know there is a lot going on in that episode, Froggy. But from,

"A feeling of resignation settling in the pit of her stomach Eleanor pulled her braid over her shoulder and started to untie the ribbon."

to the end of the episode you make an editorial faux-pas.

Up til then you have talked a LOT. Much exposition and talking about Fulk, etc., dancing in 3rd person, and kingly stuff.

From the moment she tosses her braid back and unties it, you need to let the story get more intimate. I'm not saying you have to get graphic, but the narrative fails at that point to pull the relationship or the story forward.

It's all just talking and fine words crafted into paragraphs. You've done that ALREADY for several paragraphs. The pacing and story NEEDS a change from the moment she releases her hair. Either she is still plotting, or she releases herself to Fulk. Either way, the long expository paragraphs need a break here.

It's YOUR story and you decide what to do. But from the moment Fulk admits he's tipsy, and E releases her hair (releasing her control?) you need a different style. Maybe you move to passion which (forgive me) you've said you don't know much about, or maybe you get terse and coy. Either way, the end of the chapter from her releasing her hair NEEDS to be different. Intimate, coy, silly, or just plain bare, the last few paragraphs need to be different in tone.

(My apology - you're writing is superb - but that's my thought.)