The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor [Archive] - Page 3

frogbeastegg

04-17-2006, 19:31

A sleepy-eyed Fulk picked at his morning bread, balling up little lumps of the soft inside and dropping them onto the table.

Setting a good example with her own breakfast, Eleanor advised him, “I would not worry.”

With exquisite care he balanced his latest ball on top of several others. The squat tower collapsed as soon as he withdrew his hand, foundation balls rolling away and leaving the raised one to tumble down. “Wouldn’t worry?” he repeated sceptically.

“Certainly not.” Eleanor received her drink from Hawise, and sipped at it. “This King of Scots is playing at being great, as he has been doing since the beginning. Midnight announcements of a hunt for a white stag the next day are quite normal, for those obsessed with showing off and lording it and with an important guest to entertain.” It had been a scramble, but everyone had been in their proper place in reasonable time for the messenger to deliver the invitation to the hunt into her hands. The slight delay would easily pass as the time taken for her to make herself decent. Thank the saints for the antechamber, and the pair of trusted guardsmen always on duty there; without that Hawise would have been left to answer the door, or to fetch Fulk out, either as damning as the other.

“And by coincidence-”

“Yes. By coincidence. Which means nothing.” Nonetheless, he would now be staying firmly outside her door. A bread missile shaped by Eleanor’s own fair hand bounced off the front of Fulk’s tunic. It was childish, maybe, but so damned tempting. He was sober, he was awake, and she had waited more than long enough. “Anyway, after the way you all but announced an interest in Godit last night no one could be fool enough to think you might care for – or be cared for – anyone else who was present.” Her second attempt was hasty, the bread so misshapen it didn’t fly true. It did cling to his hair with a nice comical effect.

“Eleanor-” His words cut off as a piece of bread bounced off the end of his nose. Knocking the spent missile away, he said with strained humour, “I feel like a castle under siege.”

An illusion Eleanor was happy to aid. Her next lump was far larger.

He’d just got rid of that bit when another hit. That one disappeared inside his fist, crushed. “Do that again and you’ll regret it.”

Eleanor arced an eyebrow; he was grumpy this morning. She hefted her crust, and lobbed it. “I do think not.”

The previous bit of bread fell onto the table, imprinted into a cast of the space inside his fist. He started to get up, mouth opening, only to catch sight of Hawise fervently trying to be invisible and not notice a thing. He sat back down again.

Eleanor smiled at him, very nicely. And chucked the other half of her crust at him.

She knew he was fast, but that fast in application to herself combined with a flat start and no warning was not something Eleanor had considered. It was, she concluded, as he shot around to her side of the table and picked her up, a slight tactical error on her part, as was overestimating the protection Hawise’s presence offered. One knightly hand snared in the collar of her clothes and a knightly arm fastened firmly about her waist, Eleanor found herself hauled up off her seat and travelling towards her bedchamber before she could do much more than kick at thin air and order him to put her down.

“I wouldn’t make too much noise,” he told her with unmissable smugness. “Else you’ll have the other guards in, and then think of the trouble trying to explain.”

Tactical error number three. Eleanor constrained herself to a loud whisper, “Put me down, you complete and utter bastard!” Lashing out backwards with her heels she managed to catch him a few glancing blows but nothing useful. As she was ported to the door and twisted about so Fulk could depress the latch handle with his elbow, Eleanor caught sight of Hawise, heroically attempting her mistress’ rescue by … doing nothing. “Some help you are!”

Hawise said, “Looks like a private quarrel to me. I’ll try and keep you from being disturbed.”

Still sputtering at that, Eleanor was carted into the room and dropped back to her feet.

Fulk leaned his back on the closed door and folded his arms. “There’s definite advantages to a knight’s training, and being able to carry a princess with ease is one.”

“Carry off, more like!”

“That too.”

“You …!” Eleanor aimed a punch at a delicate part of his anatomy. Fast as she was, he’d been expecting it, so she got nowhere near. The hefty stomp on his foot, now that he hadn’t expected; as his toes flattened, Fulk winced.

“Used to be I thought God had made you so delicate-looking on a whim. Now I know it was to stop me harming you!” His voice was hard.

“I am not delicate!” Eleanor shouted as loud as she dared, which was not very. She leaned as much of her weight as possible on the foot trapping his, relying on his hold on her arm to keep her balance.

Fulk wriggled his trapped boot about, trying to free it. “Now, what’s that proverb? The one about sheep, hanging, and stealing?”

“What!?”

“Never mind; it’ll come.” When his quieter efforts to free his crushed foot didn’t work, he took hold of her and lifted her up enough that she could no longer apply much force. Rescue completed, he let her weight fall back and let her go.

A favour she returned by trying to slap him. She counted it a minor victory her fingertips managed to brush his cheek when he blocked; he’d had too much warning. “What in hell do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

“The other proverb I do remember. The one about so many stones breaking a man’s back.”

“Lady’s back,” she corrected in a growl. “Most definitely lady’s.”

He growled back, “You act like a spoiled child.”

“Because I do not turn a blind eye to your hounding after that slut? Again?”

“No! And I wasn’t hounding her.”

Eleanor whipped her arm downwards, twisting it in his grip. It came free easily enough. “You all but announced you have an interest in her, before everybody.”

“I saved her from a lout who picked a quarrel because she had the decency to help me. No more.”

“That is not what people will think.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” she cried.

“As it matters to me what people think of you. You know how opinion goes at present.”

“So you are trying to balance the score a little-”

“Don’t be foolish,” he snapped. He’d been glaring at her for a long time, watching her every move. Now the glare softened into a stare. “What a mess secrecy does make of us. Without it there’d be none of this. And you’re not cringing.” This last he observed with a miniscule raising of the corner of his mouth.

Thrown out of her stride, all Eleanor could do was gawk, “What?”

“You’re not cringing. You’re fighting.”

“Your brain is addled,” she informed him tartly. “And mine shall become so, if I try and make any sense of you.”

His smile was creeping wider. “Ah, yes; I remember that proverb now. ‘If you’re going to hang for a sheep, you may as well take the whole flock.’ I’ve stolen my sheep.”

“I am not a sheep, damn you!”

“Oh no. You’ve got fangs, to be sure.” Grinning, now, he was - grinning. “I believe I said some rather rash but heartfelt words about not throwing that bread at me.”

His mind was gone. That had to be it. The strain of rational thought had unhinged him. Eleanor began to creep away, one tiny part-step at a time, a certain feeling of foreboding building.

“Stone that breaks the man’s back. Funny how it’d be bread of all things, after potentially life-endangering disobedience and sleeping drugs.”

“You are beginning to worry me.”

Fulk crooked a finger. “Come here, oh gooseberry mine.” He started to advance, at the same slow pace. He made it seem ominous.

In what she hoped was a soothing voice Eleanor said, “Now, take a nice deep breath and try to stop thinking complex thoughts …”

“If you’ll fight me and forgive me after my bit of sheep-stealing – sorry, princess-stealing – then I imagine you’ll forgive a bit of justice. So long as it’s that.”

“Obviously all these years of helmet-wearing have taken their toll-”

“You never dared fight back against them, did you? Because you couldn’t trust them to be reasonable.”

“Er …” A wall, there was always a wall to back into eventually, and Eleanor’s back informed her she’d just found it.

“Whereas me, you argue, you struggle, you fight. Because you know you can. You know it’s safe.”

“Er …” Believed might be a more apt word, given the doubts she was having.

“Which it is. Because, unlike some, I’ve a very vested interest in your well-being, a kindly soul, a placid nature.” He halted, an arm’s length away. Smirking. “Also a certain duty-”

“Oh, bugger!” Eleanor made a dive for it.

Fulk stepped sideways and caught her, wrapping his arms around her in a friendly hug. A secure friendly hug. “And rather than hating or fearing me, it appears the worst that will happen is that I end up a mite bashed myself, which I can tolerate.”

“No,” Eleanor insisted loudly, trying to wriggle and not even managing that. “I shall hate you. A lot. For a very long time.” Even she didn’t believe it, but given the short notice and circumstances finding better reasons was not easy. There wasn’t much defence against ignoring his warning in the certainty he wouldn’t actually do anything. For good measure she added, “You will have to buy me some very expensive presents before I even speak to you!”

“No, or you’d have done so the moment I picked you up. Too late, oh disinclined one.”

Hawise tapped on the door. “If you have finished trying to murder each other, the hunt is beginning to form up.”

Saved!

Eleanor’s premature sigh of relief turned into a squeak when Fulk’s hand introduced itself to her rear with less gentleness than was customary.

“No more bread throwing, dearest, if you please.” He let her go.

Grumbling and rubbing her affronted backside, more for possible effect on his conscience and hope of sympathy than any actual hurt, Eleanor scowled at him. “Next time I shall hurl the soup.”

He laughed. “There wasn’t any, ‘loved.”

“Oh, so now I am not worth the effort of ‘beloved’, and must make do with an abbreviation.”

“I happen to like my creativity, ‘loved.” He advanced a tentative step. “Am I forgiven?”

“I suppose so,” she allowed grudgingly, grudging more the admission than the lack of ill-feeling. As expected he took this as a hint that a kiss might be acceptable. Eleanor looped an arm around his neck to pull him close, waited a few moments, then struck. Holding some important objects in one hand she had his full attention, reinforced by a light squeeze. He froze. He slowly drew his head back. He didn’t move any other muscles, not even a twitch.

Sweetly, Eleanor said, “But no more Godit incidents, if you please, my luflych little knight.”

Trempwick spurred his horse along the line, armour shining in the weak light of the early spring morning. As he passed men raised their weapons, or clashed them on their shields, or shouted, “A Trempwick!” or “The Queen!”. Now and then he raised his hand in acknowledgement.

He drew rein at what he felt was the middle of his centre.

It began.

Trempwick raised his arms. The noise died away. “This morning,” he shouted, his words slow and clear so they would carry as far as possible, “I rose from my empty bed. I dressed in my empty tent. I ate my breakfast alone. I said my prayers, alone. I had no farewell. No one prays for me. No one waits for me.”

He paused. Heard the babble of his own words being repeated. Many voices, throughout the army. The petty command, handing his speech on. Simple words. Simple ideas. Simple concepts. Simple, for simple people. Human … hounds. Not cattle, these. They had teeth. Simple to inspire. Inspired, they would stand. Standing, they would win. Victorious, they were useful. The nobles did not need inspiring. That had been done last night with much made of the Queen and the future she offered. Separate tastes, separate needs, seen to accordingly.

Filled his lungs with the frosty air. “I will return to that empty tent. Eat alone. Sleep alone. No one will be glad to see me. No one will celebrate my return. My squire will tend my wounds. Why?” He bellowed the question with all he had. Paused. Waited for the inevitable.

It came. An anonymous voice. So predictable. “Because you need a good whore!”

A grin would not carry. So he laughed. Because it was what they wanted. Soldiers. Scum. Simple minds. Simple pleasures. As if he would stoop to a whore. As if that would be a sound idea given his position.

His horse sidled, fidgeted. A destrier, one of his several waiting to be used this day. High-strung, eager, knowing what came in its animal way. Like these men. Shouted, “Why am I here, when I could be warm at home, seeing to my affairs and thinking of what celebrations to hold for Easter?” Pause. “Because my home is an empty.” Pause. “I am a husband without a wife.” Lower, more ragged tone, “And you know why.” So much truth in it. The space Nell had left, had occupied for so long … And he missed Elgiva, the total relaxation he had with her.

Men began to shout again, a muddled, disorganised din. Aimed against the Bastard. He let it go on for a time.

Trempwick held up his hands again. Noise faded. “I would storm the gates of heaven itself to get her back. Her, not her crown nor anything else. Just her.” Romantics always fell well. Simple minds, simple lusts, and a simple longing to believe their betters had more. “I press her rights, yes – what good husband wouldn’t? But let me tell you this, it would take a colder man than me to think of crowns when with his love.” This won the expected laughter.

Time given for the carrying back of his words to finish. “Today we do not storm heaven. Today we are the wall. Today we break them.” A touch to his stallion moved him a quarter-turn to the left. Trempwick flung out an arm to indicate the opposing force. A snake of sun reflections on metal. Of coloured liveries and clothes, mixed into a chaos. Of fluttering standards, banners, pennants. His scouts’ tally ran to three thousand; midlanders, some of the bastard’s close cronies, mercenaries, Marcher lords. More than the force he held here, a mere two thousand and not quite three hundred. “There is half the army the Bastard raised to deal with the west. They want to join up with the other half, some hundred-and-ten miles from here. We are in their way. I have put us in their way. They must go through us. Because the other part of our force is behind them, blocking their retreat. So they must come at us swift and carve their way through, or die. Or die minced between two forces, trapped. So all we must do is stand. Stand, and we win. Our reinforcements will be here before noon. Stand and hold them so long, and we win and they will be nothing but fragments scattered on the wind. Stand, and we strike a telling blow for our queen. Stand, and there will be an army’s worth of loot and ransoms; you will be rich men.”

Which always proved popular. Trempwick rode back to his chosen place to the sound of cheers.

A few hours in the saddle, ambling along at a relaxed pace near the front of the cavalcade which formed the hunt for the white stag, and Eleanor had to admit she was enjoying herself.

The day was clear, the sun out, the air blessed with a gentle chill, a few birds tentatively chirped in the bare trees – spring was here. If the sun hung too low and got in everyone’s eyes unless they kept their backs to it, and if the threat of intermittent and violent rain squalls overhung the day, well, it seemed a fair enough trade.

The whole court had turned out, almost, dressed in colourful finery sufficiently hardly to survive the day, mounted on a herd of fine horseflesh the cost of which could have financed a small war. No one had brought serious weaponry; there was no point in killing if the meat could not be eaten. The hunt was more an excuse to ramble about the countryside, following a trail laid down by the king’s huntsmen. Judging from the way the dogs shot about, and from the few times they had turned and doubled back, the trail was a complex one.

Eleanor ran a cautious knuckle over the soft feathers covering the belly of her falcon. The bird was still hooded; given their mutual unfamiliarity and her lack of handling practice, it had seemed prudent to limit the chance of them embarrassing each other. Armida was loaned from Hugh – along with the four hounds who padded along ahead of her, on leash and held a pair each by two handlers, the falconer himself, and much else – or perhaps more accurately from Constance, since the bird was a merlin, as was correct for a lady of rank, to cover for her own lack on occasions such as this. Eleanor was less happy about the name bestowed on the bird; Armida, Latin for ‘Little armed one’. True, yes, but ugly, and she didn’t like the reminder of that wicked beak and its threat to her fingers.

Riding along at Eleanor’s side with her own hawk resting on her gloved fist, Anne giggled. “She won’t bite, you know. Not while the hood is on.”

Eleanor tilted her head very slightly towards the king and his son, where they rode some twenty or more paces in front. “I wonder if the same could be said …?” Anne’s father had swapped his crown for a caped hood, to protect his long hair and beard. It was prevented from blowing back by a jewelled circlet.

“Ah. Probably no.” Anne fished a bit of meat out of the special pouch she wore and fed it to her bird; it was unhooded, watching the passing world through bright eyes. Smoothing the feathers ruffled by the bird’s stretching for the treat, Anne said quietly, “It is not easy, you know. Being of two families. If William were still here it would be easier; my first loyalty would have to be to him and his, and I would not be here anyway. But he is not.”

“I thought you wished to return to England.”

“I do.”

“And so there lies your answer, it seems to me.”

“I like you. I like Constance, and I like Hugh, and I liked England, and Waltham, and everything. I want to see Constance’s baby, and Hugh’s coronation, and Constance’s coronation, and peace, and summer, and the lands William left me, and your lands, and all the rest of England, and Normandy, and Brittany, and the other French lands, and Westminster again, and I want to see you settled and happy, and to see William again in whatever way I must even if it is just his funeral.” The girl’s rush ended, most like because she had insufficient wind for more. Eying her saddlebow, Anne admitted, “And I want justice for Trempwick. For Mariot, and William, and you, and everything else.”

“So no small list, then,” Eleanor said dryly.

Laughing, Anne asked, “Well, is yours any smaller?”

“That … is a good question.” Armida shuffled along Eleanor’s wrist, moving blindly towards her closed fist; she tried not to wince at the thought of those razor sharp talons and the single layer of thick leather which kept them off her skin. Hoping it would quiet the bird before it shuffled sufficiently far to drop off – surely the feathered bag had more sense than that? - Eleanor set about stroking it again.

“This tournament. You need not worry about Malcolm; he would not farm out his revenge, because then he would not enjoy it as much. Like when he executed the Dunning brothers.” Anne nudged her placid palfrey in closer to Eleanor’s. “I heard quite a lot about last night, from Malcolm. They did not let me go, you know, even though I wanted to and should have - they made me eat with grandmother in her rooms. He said that you had said …” From the way the girl turned pink Eleanor could guess precisely which bit of polite conversation she referred to. “Well, you know how he puts these things, and makes it all sound so horrible, and is so crude and nasty about it, and he was going on about it quite a lot really. He is so horrible! Grandmother tried to shut him up but he just started shouting and getting cruder.” Anne seemed to realise she was veering off on a tangent; she took a breath and the blush began to fade. “Well, anyway, they will make you prove it, now you have said it like that. They will, even though it is dishonourable and insulting, and the last thing they should ask of you. Not publicly, or anything,” Anne added quickly. “Just for them.”

This was beginning to sound faintly obscene, thanks to Anne’s poor choice of words. “They kept quoting Trempwick’s ‘proof’ at me. I had to counter. Little as I like it. I had hoped decency would keep them from asking for more. After all, they have not seen Trempwick’s either.”

Anne frowned, chewing her lip. “They are my family, and this is my country. Was my country. I hardly know any more which, likely both. But … well, I was Queen of England, and I was supposed to help bring peace between the two kingdoms – that was the whole point of the marriage, after all. And I do not like this. Malcolm is evil and my father is letting a lifetime of bitterness go to his head – he is normally a good man, I swear it.”

Acquainted with others in Anne’s company of good men, Eleanor felt a certain doubt as to whether this improved her opinion of the King of Scots any. It may in fact lower it.

“They will wring everything they can from you,” Anne said. “They will humiliate you, as much as they can. For years - for ever maybe - England has been bigger, richer, stronger, more powerful, more prestigious, with more and better lands, more men, more resources than we can ever hope for. We have always had to be careful, even when we have won battles and wars we have not had enough of an upper hand to feel safe. Except now …”

Eleanor summarised, “Now we have Hugh being Hugh, and Trempwick has firmly stuck his oar in the water.”

“Yes. Now they have the chance, they will make you and Hugh pay for everything, years and years of it, going back generations.”

“Then they may find themselves somewhat disappointed. Better to continue alone than to sell overmuch, and temporary disadvantages are only that.”

The centre held. The right flank slowly advanced. Too much! It may isolate itself. Trempwick held up a hand and one of his gallopers came to his side. “Tell Sir Geoffrey to hold his position. He advances too far.”

The rider already had his horse turning and moving away as he confirmed, “Lordship.”

The left held.

The land found for this battle was not of good value. The hill was small, more a gentle slope. No waters or land formations protected his force or provided anchoring points. But no trees interfered, no bogs, no quagmires, nothing to hamper his cavalry. Or the enemy cavalry. The small slope was sufficient to give his men the ease of the fighting. To allow his archers to see as they loosed over the heads of the infantry wall. To allow him to see over all, from his position with the reserve. Waiting. Commanding. Waiting.

Some held it that a general should lead from the front. Others, that he should hang back. Both could work, depending on skills, situations, lieutenants. But there was this, and Trempwick had always minded it well: when the general fell the battle was lost. So, sometimes, were entire wars lost.

The kneeling man spoke … and it made no sense. To call it gibberish Hugh knew to be unfair, though to his ears German may as well be precisely that. What he held no reservations about was the deliberateness of it, and thus the rudeness. The presumption that here, in this meeting, that tongue belonged to the superior and should be spoken by all of sufficient education!

Leashing his displeasure, Hugh answered in Anglo-French. “I am anxious to hear why my sister thought to send over a thousand men in arms to my kingdom.” He must tread with care despite provocation; an army of vengeful Germans ravaging Dover was the least of his present needs.

“Sire,” the man bowed again, “Her most magnificent Highness, The Empress, sends her regards to her brother of England-”

Hugh held up his hand. “I care only to hear why you are here, with these men under arms on my lands, unasked for, with no warning. I wish to know why I needed to lift the siege I was conducting and rush my army here, to guard my port from men who reason says should be friendly but appearances say clearly otherwise.”

“Sire.” The German bobbed again, and offered a sealed letter.

The letter proved to be from Matilda herself, dictated to a clerk with lavish handwriting and signed with her own hand. On reading it, it was all Hugh could do to prevent himself crumpling it in his fist and hurling it onto the brazier. Damn her arrogance! To be spoken to – dictated to! – in such terms! By his sister! A sister who had no place, no part in his realm and had held none for a decade and a half! A sister, he added blackly, who could not even manage a son, where he himself, whatever his other lacks, had managed. To be treated a beggar grovelling for scraps from the mighty, to claw back the hold he had bungled on his inheritance!

Through clenched teeth he said, “I asked her for nothing.”

“Sire, the Empress heard of your need, and sought to fill it. These men are paid from her own treasury, and many sworn to her service.”

“Is she so sure of our father’s death? Still word here is confused, with no proof either way.”

“Sire, before she began to raise troops the Empress declared her lord father must be dead. Else she would not have sent them you, but instead gifted them to him.”

“Does she have proof?” How could Matilda have proof when none here did? She could not, most assuredly.

“Sire, the Empress said it.”

The implication, therefore, that it was true, on that sole basis and with no judgement. By the cross, what conceit! And she dared bid him to take Eleanor firmly in hand and restore her to the righteous path, cull her pride and break her wilfulness! Hugh found himself most solidly in the belief that someone needed to do much the same with his sister the Empress, and with far sterner hand.

He needed the men. The most tragic, the most abjectly shaming aspect of this entire affair was that. He could not reject them. He had prayed morning, noon and night for aid in his plight, and here it had come. In its coming it humbled him, and demanded further abasing of his pride. Pride, which was a sin, and so to be hunted down and cleansed.

Except there was a thought which tickled at his mind, over and over and harder with the passing days. To be a king, how could a king be humble? Another of the unending parade of paradoxes, as if he did not have his fill of them already, a torment, a plague, a pestilence of them.

“I accept my sister’s kind offer of help.” He did not accept, however, the yoke she attempted to place on his shoulders. England’s links with the Empire would remain as they were, as they would find when his hold was steadied and they sought to utilise him to some end. Fight they would, on his terms. Foreigners, brought here to fight under his banner against his native people; to oppress and cast them down, to grow rich on their stolen chattels and ruin the honour of the women, it would be said.

No. Foreigners, brought here to fight under his banner, and die so his native men did not. They could have the danger, along with the mercenaries he had contracted. Then, at the end, his army would remain as strong as could be, and it would be others who were depleted. Others he would have to pay, or who may be used against him.

God forgive him.

Killing. Wounding. Maiming. Blood. Noise. The press of bodies. The grunts of men struggling for their very lives. The crush of horses. The smell of offal and sweat and blood and excrement.

Trempwick smashed a helmet with his mace; blood sprayed from the eyeslots and vents, began to seep from under the rim. The man fell from his horse, a ransom lost to death. Trempwick was already sending his destrier on at the next.

The right had stalled, as asked. Then it had begun to struggle. Pressed back. The enemy gaining heart at what they saw as his men tiring. With new heart they surged back to the attack. And began to win.

Battle. A gamble. The ultimate gamble. Good generals avoided it whenever possible. There was no dishonour in avoiding battle, none. Only a few young hotheads with eyes full of gain from ransom, loot, ‘glory’ thought otherwise. They were few enough. Sieges and pillaging and the control of castles and land – this was the good general’s war. But sometimes there was no other choice. And sometimes battle was good. This time it was – he had shaped it to be so.

But so unpredictable! This was the danger.

Unpredicted: his right advancing. Ordered: the stall. Mostly expected: the pressing back. And so he countered, to take advantage.

His cavalry reserve had the enemy left flank from the side, his right flank had them from the front. His presence gave heart. The cavalry gave heart.

And the enemy were dying.

Fulk felt like singing; he confined himself to whistling softly instead, so others wouldn’t think him cracked in the head. They’d think him that if they knew why, too. It was a beautiful day, he was pleased to be on a hunt for the first time since France, and in a very good mood after his fight with Eleanor. It had cleared the air a deal and - better yet - been damnably enjoyable. It was impossible to put into words the sense of comfort that gave him, that they could argue seriously and come to blows and still end well. So many couldn’t, and fell apart because of it.

Blows; try as he might, Fulk couldn’t restrain a bright grin. Poor Eleanor, if she knew he found her attempts to harm him amusing she’d really try to do him an injury. It was like wrestling with a puppy, if a puppy had a very nice body and could posses that ‘I’m going to kill you!’ look he adored. Whatever she might insist, she didn’t really want to hurt him, else he’d find himself brained with a chamberpot or stabbed; Eleanor knew very well she didn’t have the strength to better any trained man in a fair … mostly fair fight. He might be trying to cure her of the bad habits her family had taught her, but this tendency he’d leave well alone.

Godit asked, “And what on earth’s the matter with you?”

Fulk landed back on earth with a thump, to find his companions on the spread of cloth that served as a picnic blanket were all staring at him. That meant five pairs of eyes: Eleanor, Anne, Hawise, Adele, Godit. “It’s spring,” he replied affably. “I’m happy.”

“Spring,” remarked Eleanor. “It goes to the heads of all male creatures, and makes them quite demented.”

Godit covered her mouth with a hand, giggling and trying to swallow her food at the same time. “Oh, I don’t know if head is quite the right word.”

A chorus of very feminine amusement followed.

Then the natural order re-established itself and rivalry between princess and queen’s maid resumed. Godit said, “Still, if he were not kept so closely stabled …”

“He is not closely stabled at all. He is free to roam at will, so long as it does my name no harm.” Eleanor turned to him, so open and innocent butter would have frozen in her mouth, not just forborne to melt. “Is that not right?”

The memory of her hand threatening to crush his manhood was fresh, if not totally unpleasant. “Yes. Perfectly,” Fulk lied.

Godit bit into a piece of dried fruit. “He probably already loves someone. Someone who can’t see his worth and doesn’t care. He should forget her and find someone better.”

“Really?” Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. She leaned across Hawise and patted Fulk’s hand. “Poor Fulk. You should tell me who, and I shall do what I can to see she takes a bit of notice.”

“Oh, I think I’ll wait a bit. Bide my time. Make myself more obvious. Win honours in the field. Wear brighter clothes. Get a catapult and demolish her house. The usual.”

Hawise said gravely, “You’re very patient.”

Fulk shrugged. “Well, I suppose I could pick up my damsel, carry her off, argue with her and beat her into submission, then ravish her.” He very carefully did not look in Eleanor’s direction at all. Pity there hadn’t been a bit more time this morning. He reached for an eel chewette, tossed it from the claiming right hand to his left and back again, to say with a flourish, “But have you any idea how embarrassing it is when you get started on that ravishing, only for her to say thanks but no thanks, as she prefers the squinty-eyed clerk who does the household accounts?”

This won him a nice round of laughter.

Godit indicated Hawise, herself and Adele with a gesture. “Well, here’s three you can kidnap at any time.”

“Not me,” protested Hawise at once. “He’s too silly. I couldn’t put up with it.”

“Nor me,” said Adele. “I’m betrothed and I like him, even if he does obediently trot off on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land with his father instead of staying here and marrying me. He had best bring me back some very good gifts.”

The bite Eleanor had raised to her lips lowered again. “Pilgrimage?”

And so the conversation turned safely away from him. Fulk ate his fill, and lay down on his back, one arm flung across his forehead to shade his eyes from the sun, listening with one ear to the chatter and watching through slitted eyes a certain lady in blue. She wasn’t wearing her crown today, which he liked.

His heart felt full to bursting. Such a simple thing, her not being afraid earlier, and yet it made the whole day seem much brighter. Always she’d cowered before, no matter how careful he’d been. Typical Eleanor that she’d finally overcome ingrained habit when he’d been more angry then before, all previous grudges and unhealed wounds boiling together with a hangover, a bad night and a very bad scare. And to the great ease of his mind, she was taking his playful smack very well.

The rest of the hunt was scattered about the grass on similar blankets, grouped by friendship rather than rank. The servants, having done their part in setting up the individual dining parties, had withdrawn to eat their own meal. The beast handlers had gone to a separate edge, like to like, with dog handlers in one place, falconers in another, grooms again slightly separate.

When Eleanor finished eating she moved to the perch where her borrowed merlin rested, picking up the falconer’s gauntlet and drawing it on. Taking the jesses in her gloved fingers she encouraged the bird to transfer onto her fist and came to sit by Fulk’s head. “This,” she said companionably, at a normal pitch so others could overhear, “is Armida.” Armida sat there as if she didn’t care two dead mice for introductions to minor barons, no matter how beloved.

Fulk moved his arm back a bit and opened his eyes properly. “Very nice. Suitably snooty for a royal bird.” Nice? The bird was as lovely as its perch!

“I have an impression you know something about hawks.”

“A bit.” Fulk sat up, combing his hair back into order with his fingers. “I had a hawk when I was a boy, like any legitimate son would have, and while I was with Aidney I’d the loan of a bird if he hawked or a set of spears if he hunted.”

“Good.” Eleanor dropped the bait pouch into his lap. “Because she should probably be fed at some point.” With a delicately exaggerated shiver she said, “I have visions of her falling off my fist in a faint.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose, smiling. “Simple enough; take her hood off, then offer a bit of meat. Easy.”

“I value my fingers.”

“Hold the food at the end, then let go as she takes the last bite.” He waited, and so did she. “Well, go on then,” he encouraged.

Pulling a face, Eleanor gingerly unlaced the hood and pulled it off. Armida blinked a few times and tossed her head, fluffed her feathers, and settled back down.

Chin minutely tucked in, eyes intent and on the bird, lips slightly apart Eleanor looked as if she expected it to explode into a shower of feathers.

Fulk unfastened the pouch and offered it to her. She took one of the little bits of dried meat with her bare hand, holding the very tip of the strip between the lowermost parts of her thumb and forefinger. Slowly she brought the bit around so it dangled above the merlin’s head and began to lower it.

Fulk found himself laughing; when the bird took its first bite the strip pulled free of Eleanor’s pathetic hold and hit it on the head, both falcon and princess squawking in surprise. Charitably he explained the obvious, “You have to hold it better.”

Her eyes flashed, bringing back pleasant memories of this morning. Picking the meat back up Eleanor looked set to cram it down the bird’s beak and damn the hazards. “Thank you, I think I may perhaps have noticed that.”

This time it all went smoothly, and by the third bit of meat she was as relaxed about it as the falcon. Running a finger over Armida’s feathers with a tenderness which made Fulk feel quite jealous, she said, “When I was, oh, ten, I begged Trempwick every day for more than a week for a hawk, I wanted one so badly. In the end he sat me down, told me that the creature would eat his messenger birds, and … encouraged me never to so much as consider asking again.” He heard the slight emphasis on ‘encouraged’ and tilted his head in askance. She explained, “I had been pestering him very badly, I suppose, looking back, and I definitely should have known better than to press after the first day’s first refusal.”

Fulk elected not to comment on her excusing Trempwick refusing her something she should have had by simple fact of birth. He choose to share his happy remembrances of his own bird, and tried not to feel that in this, as in so many other areas, his childhood had been far richer than hers. “I called mine Hector; he was only a goshawk, fitting to my place as a squire. Had him for years. My father taught me to fly him, instead of leaving it to the falconer. When I’d the knack of it we went out to hawk together at least once a week.”

A piercing shriek rang about the area, followed by another.

Fulk was on his feet, hand on his sword and searching for threats. “Stay down,” he commanded when Eleanor started to rise. She obeyed decently enough and transferred her hawk back to its perch unhooded, fastening its jesses to the woodwork so it could not escape. Now he felt justified in wearing his sword instead of a borrowed hunting knife.

Other men across the sprawling picnic had done as Fulk had, not as many as he’d expect or think warranted. Something was off here.

The source of the screams came into view, a young woman in bright green supported on either side by squires in the king’s livery. “The Black Knight has kidnapped my sister!” she wailed.

Fulk made a noise of complete disgust and sat back down. “A game.”

Anne said, “He likes to imitate the deeds of King Arthur and his court. Like this hunt for the White Stag. The Christmas before last I got to be kidnapped by a giant, which was fun.”

Fumbling her falcon’s hood back on, Eleanor commented, “Someone should tell him King Arthur was English.”

The call to the rescue had gone out, and the hunt was scrambling to its feet, men and ladies alike. Grooms rushed horses over to their owners, servants came in to tidy up and load the remains of the picnic onto the sumpter horses, and the maiden in green sobbed and shook in a convincing manner. There was no question of any lingering back; the chaos resolved into a hunt formed up as it had been before it stopped to eat.

The Black Knight’s camp was a convenient distance west, ten minutes ride at a walk. It had a nice black tent, a jolly campfire with a pot hanging over it, and a black warhorse hobbled and cropping at the scanty grass. A plain black shield hung from the branch of a tree, ready for challengers to strike it.

The hunt arranged itself in a crescent so everyone could see, the king and his foul son - and their pet screaming girl - at the centre and slightly forward.

Reining his horse about, the King of Scots addressed his court. “Who will challenge the Black Knight to rescue the fair and gentle lady Muriel?”

Fulk sighed, echoing Eleanor.

A clamour of names and volunteering shouts replied, so many and so muddled none could be understood.

Right on cue the Black Knight emerged from his tent, ‘dragging’ a fair young thing in white along behind him. He let her go a few paces out from the tent’s mouth, helmet bobbing as he snarled at her to stay put.

In an undertone Eleanor said, “If I were her I would run. Not tied or hampered in any way, and he would never catch up in full armour.”

Anne and Hawise giggled. Adele was scandalised. “But you are supposed to be rescued!”

The Black Knight was speaking again, voice raised and rumbling in an earnest effort to sound villainous. “One shall challenge me. One! I care not to waste all day on children. Defeat me and you may have her back, and my horse and arms as ransom. If I win then lady Muriel becomes my wife, and I shall take her away to my fortress.”

“Huh,” muttered Eleanor. “Sounds like a cheap wedding to me. Her family should be pleased; a landholder, rich, and not costing them a penny.”

“Then,” the King of Scots said loudly, “we must send the best of our company.”

Fulk rolled his eyes and sank down unobtrusively in his saddle. He had a bad feeling about this.

Prince Malcolm spurred his horse forward to cut before his father’s. “I will go.”

“No!”

“I can win! I know I will-”

“You are not a knight.”

The prince’s face screwed up; his grip on the reins vicious enough that his horse had to rear its head back to reduce the pressure on its mouth. “Then you go, old man, if you think you can do better. Go on – see if you can remember how to draw your bloody sword. Then see if you can’t manage not to bungle it.”

The only movement about the older Malcolm was his tunic, rippling in the light breeze. “The king does not fight.”

“Not this one, no.”

“Clear the way, Malcolm. Or we shall order you from our presence, to languish far from us until you recall your manners and come to plead for forgiveness.”

The boy leaned in close to his father. “I have my own household, my own lands, my own court, and believe me I wouldn’t be bloody languishing,” he growled. “But I’m not about to leave you to piss up my inheritance.” With that he wrenched his horse out of the way.

Fulk heard Anne comment softly to Eleanor, “He is never sent away. He always pushes just a tiny bit too little.”

One of the lords near the king spoke up, “Perhaps we should let our guest have the honour?”

As heads turned towards Fulk he tried to wish himself invisible.

The King was delighted. “Yes. A knight of whom we have heard very much, who has proven himself an honourable man and a great rescuer of beleaguered ladies.” A polite titter ran about the gathering. “Well? How does this suit?”

Fulk bowed in his saddle, knowing that he had been selected when this stupid game was set up. But why – that worried him. “Sire, you do me far to much honour. I’m not worthy. There are many here better than I.” With sudden inspiration he tried to turn the focus away from himself. “Let your son prove his valour.”

Briefly – oh so very briefly – Malcolm looked surprised. Then his face twisted into a sneer and he laughed his crudely raucous laugh … which might have had an edge of bitterness. “What damsel wants to be rescued by me?”

Fulk found himself being cheered for by most of the court, demanding he act as champion. They were following the King’s clearly expressed will. There was no way out. Slowly he dismounted, handing Tace’s reins to Hawise, trying all the while to see what the trap was. That depended on the King’s aim. He was completely unarmoured; his opponent was covered from head to toe in mail and wearing a full helm, not a single bit of skin showing. But if he were killed or wounded in this game it would discredit his hosts considerably. Then what? The damsel? They might try to marry him off to tie him to this court. He dearly hoped that was it; it’d be simpler and safer to slip from that snare.

A pair of swords and shields were brought out by the Black Knight’s page, real shields and wooden swords painted to look like metal. As the challenger Fulk was offered first choice; he examined the selection very closely, looking for signs they were otherwise than they should have been. Nothing; as far as he could tell they were all sound. He picked at random and moved to the clear patch of grass set aside for the duel.

Making practice cuts to warm up it occurred to Fulk that this might be nothing more than a chance for the Scots to see how he fought in earnest, outside of the training ground. What they learned they might use against him. Unlikely. All the same he resolved to mislead if he could.

The girl he was supposed to be rescuing came to give him her favour, a veil she wrapped several times about his bicep and tied on his shield arm.

The Black Knight took up a ready stance. “First contact wins. To battle!” he roared, snapping his shield up and speeding towards Fulk.

Shield held loosely out on front, Fulk paced quickly to meet him, sidestepping at the last to get into the large blind area made by the bucket-like helm. His backhand slice was already gathering as he began the dodge; it slapped the Black Knight on the back.

The court were so delayed in recognising that the brief fight was over that they only began cheering as the Black Knight cast down his sword and cursed vehemently.

Fulk prised the grateful prisoner off himself, returned her veil, and went to bow to the man who’d organised this. “Sire.”

“Excellent!” The king clapped his gloved hands in the same shower of sparkling reflections he managed the previous day in his regalia; the gloves were sewn with gold thread and set here and there with stones in imitation of rings. “Truly excellent. We have never seen the like. A man born of a most excellent father indeed.”

It had been a lousy match – the Black Knight had fought like a fool and been constrained by the game to arm to a disadvantage in foot combat. Anyone with a fraction of understanding could see it. “You are too kind, Sire.”

“We do grant you your prize with good heart, and do add to it this.” He raised a finger, and a page came forward with a bulging purse.

Fulk accepted the money and bowed again. “Thank you for your generosity, Sire.” A bribe? It was a heavy purse and added to the rest it made him considerably richer.

Dismissed Fulk thought it best to show a token interest in his other prizes. He grabbed a squire and made arrangements for the destrier and armour to be collected up and returned to the palace, the horse to be stabled with his and the armour to be given to Luke for inspection.

He rejoined Eleanor’s group, mounted up, and shortly after the hunt moved out, once more searching for the White Stag they would not find.

Eleanor dropped back to ride at his side instead of Anne’s. “Whatever we are hunting, it is not a stag, white or otherwise. I think he just won something.”

“Yes. But what?” Fulk asked, his words as soft as hers had been.

His work on the right flank had not taken long. As soon as it was stabilised he had pulled back. The reserve was a reserve. And he was the general. His infantry would do their job now; killing while holding a weakened foe.

His centre worried more. The line was thinning, growing weary. It had been bearing the brunt for too long. Half the infantry reserve had been sent in, some half hour(?) ago. They had shored it up, but they were too few to ensure its survival.

If the centre went, all went. The two flanks would be isolated and shredded.

Temptation: Take his cavalry and smash an enemy flank, so extra men could be committed to the centre. Too dangerous. If the reserve should be needed in the centre … If the left flank should press too far forward … If his men should break and pursue the routers …

He did not have the men. The smaller force must hold together. The line must hold. The formation must hold.

He could dismount and fight on foot with his bodyguard in the centre. Boost morale, add fresh bodies with the best training and equipment …

So he did. His banner flying over his head, his sword red in his hand, Mauger at his left shielding the lord he’d trained.

“Oh, God’s bones!” Jocelyn crawled back into his bunk on the ship, the stench of the pot and the vomit sloshing about in it still filling his nostrils. Filling the whole damned poky cabin, actually – bloody thing slid about scattering its foul perfume like an incense pot waved in a procession. The deck heaved, and so did his stomach. “Squall?” he raved, voice harsh from a raw throat and green belly. “Bloody storm, more like. Holy Jesù!”

From the corner where he huddled, Alain raised his pale face to look at his lord. “At least. At least. God save us all!”

Serious travel, Jocelyn decided and not for the first time in his twenty-eight years, was terrible. You rode hard for miles, day after day, each night pitching up in whatever lodgings you could find, mud splattered and weary. You paid too much for bad food. If you couldn’t find a noble household or abbey to claim hospitality at you made do with a good inn, and if you couldn’t find something decent you ended in a damned flea infested rat-house. Then you finally reached the coast, paid too much to board a tiny little flimsy wooden thing, and got stuck in a big storm, which the God damned crew cheerfully told you was just a little squall and nothing to worry about. Burn them in hell, bastards! He’d been across the Narrow sea a few times before, and it’d never been like this. Damn it, he’d hardly even gotten queasy back then.

“Oh, Jesù!” groaned Alain, diving for the pot.

The sound of him throwing up made Jocelyn feel like another go himself. He clenched his teeth on the urge and repeated inside this head a little mantra dear Tildis had imparted before he left, with the assurance it would help with seasickness. “I’m not going to be sick. I’m not going to be sick. I’m not going to be sick.”

Next thing he knew was he was shoving his squire out of the way in his haste to get to the pot. Yes, well, not even an hour later the bitch had gone and announced so his everyone could hear that he was a crap lover; of course her damned advice was poison, damn her! By now she would be all warm and cosy back in Saint Maur with the children. Lucky cow.

“Do you think we’ll sink?” asked Alain, when they had both wiped their mouths and settled back into their misery.

“No,” replied Jocelyn shortly. To make sure of it he rattled through a few good prayers and promised to pay for a pilgrim to go the Holy Land in his name if he survived. Not that he thought you could bribe the Almighty, of course. No, perish the thought! Just to be on the safe side he said a few Hail Marys in penance for even accidentally thinking that word. And a few more for the whore last night. Then a few for the woman the night before. And some for all the others on the trip. The noisy one he said more than a few for, just to be really very safe about things; four times in one night had nearly killed him then and it’d be a shame if it killed him now.

The ship rolled, kept on rolling, kept on dipping Jocelyn backwards, backwards, still backwards. He whimpered and drew a cross over his breast; they were going to capsize!

Or not; the ship righted itself a good deal faster than it had leaned over.

Taking the hint Jocelyn dropped to his knees and clasped his hands before him, closing his eyes. In a rapid mutter he managed a rather confused and repetitive mishmash, “Oh Lord, forgive me, a sinner. Mary, Gentle Lady, full of grace, forgive me and help me. Blessed Jesù, look on me kindly. Forgive my weakness. Forgive my mistakes. Forgive me for my language, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my blasphemy, and help me to mend. Forgive me for straying, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my unkind thoughts, and help me to mend. Forgive me that I kill, and help me to mend. Forgive me for not being a better husband, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my drunkenness, especially last Tuesday, and help me to mend. Forgive me my pride, and help me to mend. I shall confess and do penance as soon I hit land. I repent all, with all my heart. I’ll do pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Edward the Confessor while in England. I commend my soul to you, oh Lord.” Crossing himself he levered himself back into his bunk. On the floor Alain was praying likewise, lips moving and words lost to Jocelyn’s ears.

It was all Richildis’ fault anyway, damn her! If she hadn’t said what she did he wouldn’t have needed to go to such lengths to prove her wrong, thereby imperilling his soul to stop those knowing little sidelong looks he suspected his men kept giving him when they thought he wasn’t watching. And it was her fault he’d nearly crippled himself with that damned noisy bitch and all. Four bloody times, and all that din had given him a headache, as well as a worn out cock and a painful lack of sleep which made the next day on the road hell, and his men had all been tired and glaring at him for being the cause of the disturbance. Huh, so had the other damned inn patrons, for that matter. Well, if they hadn’t probably kept looking at him like that in the first place then he wouldn’t have needed to, so it was their own fault. Not that he was trying to prove anything anyway, damn it! The stupid woman’s lies didn’t deserve even that little recognition!

Actually … Jocelyn’s eyes went heavenwards. They came back to earth, slowly. The ship pitched again, as it had been doing all too damned much since they left port.

He was back on his knees so fast they bruised, crossing himself and muttering away again.

Problem with God was that He knew everything, including - especially – the bits you didn’t want Him to. Wasn’t even safe to complain about your own damned wife, bless her soul!

One of the men he’d left to watch carried the message to him. Trempwick shouted the news aloud, battlefield bellow hushed by bone-deep weariness. Heard it carried on in breathless voices.

His bodyguard closed about him, Trempwick continued to fight. Fight an enemy with no heart, also hearing the news.

His reinforcements were here.

The enemy army was ground to weeping red pieces, trapped between his two forces.

The hunt was out all day, returning a little before dusk to a light supper, a meal so small couldn’t be called a meal at all, and so it didn’t break the fast.

Seated again in the queen’s place Eleanor picked at her food and wracked her brains. What had the hairy fusspot next to her gained with his game? What could he possibly have won from it? Something, that much she felt certain of.

Abruptly, Anne’s father spoke. “We have given much thought, and we find this fair and reasonable. We shall be most pleased to be your brother’s close friend and ally, as we were to your father before him.”

Hope that Anne had been wrong shot through Eleanor, made greater by the pause. The pause was so slight she could not have gotten a word into it if she had tried, which she did not, not trusting and expecting even in hope that she was not about to hear reasonable terms.

“The bond of blood shall be renewed; you shall marry Malcolm. The Archbishop of Glasgow himself shall annul the impediment and bless the union. You will bring with you as dower Alnwick and Carlisle, and all the lands between them, and all the lands south for sixty miles, and fifty thousand marks. Our army shall keep all it captures, be it of no value or great. However, we do allow that you may buy back certain items if they be of great import. In friendship we do ask that you supply another ten thousand marks to pay our troops, for it is well known England is by far the richer of our two realms and, however willing our spirit, our army does march as any other and have the same needs.” A hand – rings restored – rose to stroke that beard.

Eleanor waited to be sure he was done. Then she answered, gravely and with due thought and as much diplomacy as she could muster. She laughed. “A good joke; it rounds out the day’s entertainments well indeed.” So he wanted a tame extraordinary claim to the English throne he and future generations could produce at will, half the north, obscene amounts of money which amounted to several years of revenues for the crown, a bride for his disgusting son, and a chance to go to war to extend his ill-gotten lands still further while being paid so much that he would have money left over when the war was done. “I would suggest that you forgot to ask for the one true cross, restored to one piece from its fragments. However, I do find myself distressed you would make a joke of such a serious matter while showing reluctance to speak of it properly.” Time to try and put an end to his avoidance by being honest. “I shall not remain here forever; if I judge my mission here to be a failure I will go and put my resources to something which may be of good.”

The hand stroking the beard began making longer strokes, from chin to ends of the hairs. The edges of his mouth rose fractionally, Eleanor thought, though the flowing moustache made it hard to be sure. “We shall speak in due time.”

Alone in his empty tent, Trempwick sat on his folding chair and sipped a goblet of ice wine. His squire had cleaned the few gashes, put balm on his many bruises. Then left. His meal was for one. His drink was for one.

Outside the camp was noisy. Celebrating. Men at arms and poor knights gathered around fires, laughing, drinking, eating, reliving their victory blow by blow. The better sort splintered off into friendship groups doing the same, in better style. The inevitable whores would be in fine profit tonight. The same could not be said of the women captured from the other army.

In a while Trempwick threw off his outer layers and climbed into his empty bed. He slept with cold sheets and his hurts for company.

Phew! 17 pages!! 17 pages before spacing! 23 after! That is a frog-sized episode and a half! What a gamut it does run. Hmmm :squints at it all dubiously: It didn’t come out as planned. It was supposed to run about the thread of Trempy’s battle, with the others flashing in as brief but important scenes to contrast. Except Nell and Fulk on are fine form, relaxed, teasing and happy as they haven’t been in a long time (er, barring that wee tiff at the start), and … at least now it feels like that is needed. It feels right that there is some of their ‘fun’ stuff here; it balances things out, here and on an overall scale. I think. :scratches head:

Not perfect though. The humour is the thing which feels perfect here, and the Fulk/Nell bits. Trempy’s bits are mostly just right. The rest … varies.

If anyone cares to know what Fulk looks like to me, find a good version of Titian’s ‘portrait of a young man’. I had never seen the picture before in my life, yet the similarity is uncanny. All he needs is the crooked nose, hair which is more chestnut brown, and the correct clothing. Here’s a rubbishly tiny version (http://images.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://news.bbc.co.uk/media/images/38841000/jpg/_38841575_titian2_150.jpg&imgrefurl=http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/arts/2777355.stm&h=180&w=150&sz=8&tbnid=GMkFzm-5Hktv9M:&tbnh=96&tbnw=80&hl=en&start=4&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtitian%2Bportrait%2Bof%2Ba%2Byoung%2Bman%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26lr%3D%26sa%3DG) (scroll down a bit; he’s the portrait, not the big scene ;p Alas, there is no good-sized image on the web; this is the best I could find) It just doesn’t look right unless it’s very large; the one I saw was A4 sized, in a new book we are stocking. Imagine my shock as I flicked through to see what was in the book, only to come face to face with Fulk. There’s a whole load of detail in the portrait, you see, and it is what gives the bone structure, the tiny laugh and frown lines on his face, the mellowness of those brown eyes, and the fineness of the overall features. On the small image versions he doesn't look quite right. I brought the book, in the end, because I couldn’t find another good copy.

Thanks for the assorted well wishes. I’m feeling a lot better now. ~:)

Edyzmedieval: When it’s done and edited, I shall likely try. ~:)

Vladimir: Yes, it was definitely the sandwich – I found some of the lettuce was frozen when I was around the middle of it. God knows how that happened – it was a freshly made baguette from a reputable small bakery chain, and stored at room temperature. Which means the ham could have turned as well … :begins to feel ill just thinking about it:

Book allergy? :horrible screams of pure, abject horror are heard to echo around the org for a good few minutes:

edyzmedieval

04-17-2006, 20:51

Edyzmedieval: When it’s done and edited, I shall likely try. ~:)

Book allergy? :horrible screams of pure, abject horror are heard to echo around the org for a good few minutes:

Tell me, when are you going to finish it? All the chapters will surely fill about 1000 pages.... :juggle2:

Vladimir

04-17-2006, 21:12

I'm just...wow. What a huge section, I thought you weren't feeling well. And shame on you for posting it when I don't have time to read it. Grrrrrr. ~;)

Edit: Read it (hah! I should be a poet). So that's what you think Fulk looks like? I always thought he looked more like me...huh. Really good section, although I don't get why Jocelyn is talking about abusing poultry. Do you think he's talking about a capon (http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=capon)?

I did have a problem with Trempy's "War Speech". It sounded a lot like:

:bigcry:

So the Germans are back in England huh? Why am I getting flashbacks to Macbeth?

Ciaran

04-21-2006, 10:16

Wow, now that was one episode. Let´s see, a Fulk-Eleanor scene, a battle (complete with the obligatory speech), Jocelyn at sea, a falcon hunt, another hunt, the Black Knight, the Scottish King proposing marriage, Hugh and the German, well, "auxilliaries" is the best word I can come up with... Anything I missed? I don´t recall ever having so much happening i one update. And all that written by a poisoned Frog...
Hm, maybe we should get you poisoned more often, if it makes for such big updates... on second thoughts, rather not, lest someone bungles it and then there´d be no updates at all anymore.
Back to serious, I hope you´ll get better.

frogbeastegg

04-25-2006, 20:17

“Whenever you are ready, your Highness.”

By Eleanor’s preference, that would be never. By preference she would have had no part in this stupid game of slight and counter slight. The King of Scot’s amusement would only be increased by her dragging her heels; he’d be the victor if she showed how deeply this humiliated her. One hand resting lightly on her skirts so her rapid motion wouldn’t disrupt the flow of the material too badly, Eleanor took a decisive step forward, and kept on going until she was alone with Anne’s grandmother in the space curtained off from the eyes of the witnesses. Let him think she barely cared. Total nonchalance was impossible, and would be damaging in itself if they thought her so lacking in modesty as to be unaffected.

So much for her promise to herself never to endure this again. If anything the testing was worse this time. The Queen Mother had cold hands, and there was the – justified - fear she might prod too hard and destroy the proof she was examining, leaving Eleanor in a position that could only be described as lousy in the extreme. Her demand for friendly witnesses hadn’t only been another of her return strikes against the king; if the worst happened she could call out and they would come and see the blood, and could then swear in her support. Strangely dislocated pain flared, seeming to come from nothing, a void where there was no feeling normally. And ended, before the sensation of unpleasant pressure could turn to one of tearing.

“She is honest,” Anne’s grandmother pronounced. Eleanor didn’t care much for the double meaning of the words.

Scrambling upright and off the bench, Eleanor righted her clothes, trying and failing miserably not to appear in a hurry.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Malcolm. For once his voice didn’t swing high when it cracked, instead diving very low. “But she’s so old! What the fuck is she – some sort of nun!?”

Knowing her face was flaming and equally aware that she could do nothing about it, Eleanor rejoined her witnesses. Anne and Hawise gave her sympathetic looks which only made her shame burn brighter. The Archbishop of Glasgow was – praise be! – too intent on the young prince to take any notice of her.

“She is unmarried,” the archbishop said, “as she has proven. So all is as it should be.”

The prince snorted. “There’s a world outside the cloisters, you know. A real one. Not some boring version dreamed up by a prudish old man who never even got so much as a damned kiss in his life because he was too arse-ugly to earn one and too weak to force one. Hell, even nuns have more fun than my cousin of England, it appears.”

“Impious brat!” The Archbishop’s hand rose to his heavy crucifix.

“Ah, well, I am the Nefastus. Devil spawned, red-haired, and all that.”

“When you roast in hell you will learn the error of your ways.” With a bow the churchman departed.

The boy muttered, “And when I’m king he’ll learn the meaning of poverty.” His roving eyes lit on Eleanor; he propped a hand on one skinny hip near his dagger hilt. “Well, just goes to show those stupid little tarts who sob they lost their maidenhead while doing something harmless like riding are lying little sluts after all. Or riding in an unorthodox manner. Or riding the groom.”

Anne’s hand shot to her mouth. “Malcolm!”

“It’s true. Or she’d,” he jerked his head at Eleanor, “be about to be shipped back to that Trempwick man. After all she’s supposed to have endured surely her maidenhead would have broken on its own if such things were actually possible.”

“It is possible,” stated the grandmother calmly. “Some are more fragile than others. However, if the majority broke on their own we would not consider them to be the proof of a virgin.”

“Really?” Malcolm tapped his fingers on his gold encrusted belt, affecting a pose of deep and philosophical thought. “How very fascinating. I should do a survey. How many maidens do you think I’d need for respectable results? Fifty? More? And, just as importantly, how am I going to measure how tough the barrier is-”

“Enough, Malcolm.”

The boy took not a blind bit of notice of his father. “I mean, I can’t just scribble down that number six took a lot of effort to get into, but number eleven was easy, can I now?”

In a roar far more respectable than Eleanor had expected of him, the King of Scots ordered, “Enough, Malcolm!”

“Enough?” The boy gestured at Eleanor, the motion jerky with anger. “Enough? We bloody well went far past enough long ago, like I said to you before you started this. Don’t like where this disgusting spectacle has gone? Blame yourself, you wretched old fool! Her sworn word should have been bloody more than enough.” The boy’s nostrils flared; all the air he sucked in was expelled in a single vehement sentence. “She’s fucking royalty, you bloody shit of a honourless whoreson!”

The king matched his son’s noisy intake of breath. Unlike his son he didn’t need it to refill his lungs. “One more word and I shall have someone thrash you until you cannot stand for a week.”

Malcolm spat at his father’s feet. “Someone. Never do your own work, do you?”

“Considerably more than one word, Malcolm.”

Lips contorted and peeled back from his teeth in what might loosely be termed a furious grin, Malcolm spat again. “You’re making one fat mistake after another, aiming for the wrong damned target. I’ve told you, we should-”

“You will leave now, or you shall be dragged.”

Anne leaned close to Eleanor and whispered, “Happened before now.”

Fists clenched, right hand hovering midway to his dagger’s hilt, Malcolm spat a third time, turned on his heel and stalked away.

On returning to her own suite of rooms Eleanor found unwelcome news. One of the guards posted in the antechamber tugged his forelock. “Prince Malcolm’s waiting within, your Highness. Wants to talk with you, he says, but no more would he say.”

Fulk was away; she’d timed this debacle to take place while he was engaged in one of his thrice-weekly training sessions. What he didn’t know he couldn’t get upset over.

“Stay alert,” she commanded. “Enter if you hear anything … unusual.”

Anne said, “I doubt he would do anything dreadful here.” After a pause she added, “Probably. Anyway, I will stay with you, and Hawise.”

Feeling considerably less reassured than she had half a minute ago, Eleanor went through into the solar.

Malcolm sprawled in the best fireside chair, one of her borrowed books spread on his lap. He looked up at her appearance. “Ah. About bloody time.” He shut the cover of the book with a clap and dropped it onto the floor; the thud made Eleanor wince and wonder how she could explain any dents to the owner.

Standing tight in at Eleanor’s right hand side Anne glared at her brother. “Aren’t you supposed to be off being beaten or something?”

Malcolm waved a careless hand. “I’m the future king. Alwin and I’ve got an understanding. He likes having a future.” Pulling himself upright with the arms of the chair, the boy focused on Eleanor, quite seriously. “There’s how out of it the old man is. Doesn’t know. Like he doesn’t know that wife he hates likes him about equally, and has a lover. He doesn’t know loads of things.”

Or he might, and find it judicious to allow things to remain as they were so long as all was discreet, thus preserving the status quo and avoiding public embarrassment. By his own declaration the king had not the least interest in getting children from the woman and preferred to have nothing to do with her.

Malcolm’s hand rose, one finger aimed at Hawise. “She can piss off. What I’ve to say is for the right ears only. Anne can stay, I suppose. To protect you from the evil princeling.” He parroted the last bit in a stupid imitation of a child’s whining.

Eleanor nodded at Hawise; the maid departed.

Eleanor seated herself in one of the window seats, some distance from Malcolm and between him and the door. “What do you want?”

“Oh, quite a lot, actually.” The boy ticked off points on the fingers of one hand. “The old man dead and myself in his place, my enemies lying slain in pools of their own blood, a few hundred women to play with, endless riches, Scotland made into the greatest kingdom in Christendom … And if you want more unusual and personal wishes,” Swapping to his other hand he counted, “A fine fully grown man’s body instead of this gawky thing, an end to this cursed bloody voice breaking, a proper beard just so I can shave the bloody thing off and make a fashion of not looking like a sleepy goat, a war in which to prove my valour and skill at arms and chance to do so without the old man holding me back and whining because he knows I’ll do better than he ever could.” The slender shoulders rose and fell. “There’s a load more, but I won’t bore you. No. I’m far more interested in sorting out this bloody disaster.”

Anne said, “I did not think you did works of charity.” From the way the girl clung to Eleanor’s side she couldn’t tell if she were offering protection from her brother or seeking it.

“I don’t.” Malcolm frowned, hammered at his chest with a fist, and belched loudly. “God damned bloody fish. Gives me wind. A plague on Lent, the church, God, and the whole fucking lot! But anyway, all this toying about my father’s doing serves no one, not even him, if he’d the brains to see it. It disgraces us, disgraces you, makes me sick right to my bloody core. And he’s going to keep at it as long as he can.”

The King of Scots had made another ridiculous attempt at a treaty again after Malcolm had left. Eleanor had rejected it and countered with one of her own, demanding he do homage to Hugh as her brother’s vassal and make Scotland a client kingdom paying a punishing yearly tribute. This, predictably, had been refused, and the king had repeated a phrase Eleanor was beginning to loathe: that they would talk at the proper time. “I had thought that obvious.”

“He won’t go to war,” Malcolm said bluntly. “Not personally, and not happily otherwise. He’s a craven. Lost what little heart he had back when your father defeated him and scarred his face. So you’re wasting your time. Me? I’ll go, and men will follow. My father won’t be able to stop me, not when half the lords support me, and they will, for they’re as sick of his cowardice as I. Given the chance of glory, battle and spoils they’ll come. You’ll have your army, and your ally. Hell, I’ll even swear to peace between us afterwards – I’ve other scores I can be settling. Denmark, for example; see how they like being pillaged. The piddly little islands which have fragmented away from our control. I could conquer some of Ireland. And I’ll bring down that Trempwick too; damned man needs to die for what he’s claimed about you. Except there’s this: I won’t do shit to help your bastard half-brother. I’m not helping some creature crawl where he doesn’t belong. Claim your rightful inheritance.”

“The crown is Hugh’s by right. I will not take it from him.”

“Damn you!” Malcolm pounded a fist on the chair’s arm. “Mouthing the same old dutiful crap! He’s a bastard, you’re the only one of your family around and suitable, so it’s yours. Take it! Hell, even if you don’t want to deal with me you’ll have a damned sight better time of it dealing with the old man if you’re his equal. He wouldn’t piss the Queen of England about like this. No. He’d be out to scramble for what he could, realistically, not stupidly like he is now.”

“I have given him a week. At the end of that time I am leaving. He will not allow this chance to slip past him; whatever weakness England has now is but passing, and when all is right we shall remember Scotland scorned us.”

Malcolm stood, pushing his hair out of his eyes with both hands. “So you’re still being stupid. Seems I’m surrounded by idiots. No matter. Maybe in a few days you’ll be ready to see sense. Because you need us. Oh, you might manage without us, but only if you want a civil war which drags on for ages and does damage it’ll take years and more to recover from. And then that’s before you consider the outcome; might be that the wrong party wins, mightn’t it now?”

Such a delightful young man :dizzy:

Edyzmedieval: Well … I don’t exactly think of it as chapters, since it isn’t arranged into them yet (would be the last thing I do with an edited, final draft, assuming I felt chapters were the right thing to have.). I post by conveniently sized chunks which are relatively self contained where possible, and can be written in a reasonable timescale. Estimates at page counts go wildly awry, based on all my past efforts. Instead I view the story by events.

So, from my present point of view we have left:
[stuff with all the bits I can’t mention because of spoilers but we are midway through this part now] [BANG!] [stuff on the way to (spoiler)] [BANG!] [Aftermath] [the end]

I realise this is absolutely no help at all. Sorry. But yes, I do expect it to be about 1,000 pages or more when done. That’s only another 142 pages from now. Probably more than 1,000 pages. :yes:

Vladimir: I also don’t get what Jocelyn means by cruelty to poultry – as far as I can find (and remember) he said no such thing recently. Quote me the bit in question and I’ll explain ~:)

Trempy’s speech is supposed to sound like ~:mecry:. Doing otherwise would sound more like “I wanna be king!” Remember, it all rests on Nell and his doing the very decent and honourable thing by the wife he loves. There’s not support for a King Raoul I, and it’s not exactly what he wants.

:froggy looks at Ciaran in a suspicious manner. Then looks the same at her drink of tea. Then back at Ciaran. Froggy puts her tea down and pushes the mug away.: I’ll hire a food taster!

More seriously, I was writing after the food poisoning itself had passed, when all I was left with was the weakness and dizziness of effectively not having eaten or drunk for several days. It all wrote very quickly, because I had clear ideas for all of it and none of the scenes were troublesome or difficult. So you should lobby to get the frog many more days off with pay. Then she can sit down and write furiously again :gring:

Vladimir

04-25-2006, 21:56

Vladimir: I also don’t get what Jocelyn means by cruelty to poultry – as far as I can find (and remember) he said no such thing recently. Quote me the bit in question and I’ll explain ~:)

Umm, well the part I was referring to didn't *specifically* mention anything with feathers (at least I hope not) but the word used was synonymous with a, hmmm, male chicken.

Nice little section here. It read very well and I'm dying to see Malcolm get :girlslap: .

frogbeastegg

04-26-2006, 09:15

Ah. Not cruelty per say. More like this particular ... chicken is worn out and a bit chafed from overuse with a paid professional whose only talent was making sufficient noise the whole inn could hear. :sweatdrop:

Jocelyn is busy trying to prove to the world that Tildis' comment on his ahem, abilities, was wrong. :dizzy2:

frogbeastegg

05-02-2006, 20:40

“We have hardly had two minutes together all day, even in company.”

Fulk snuffed out the candle and turned from the wall. The solar was already mostly dark, shadows dancing with the pools of weak light around the banked-down fire and remaining few candles. The outer door was firmly barred, and Hawise had gone through to prepare Eleanor’s bed. He stood, waiting, uncertain as to what she had in mind.

Eleanor took the end of her braid in her hand and started to toy with the ends of the ribbon. “There was an entire month were I did not see you, and then for weeks after that we had perhaps half of each day in each other’s sight, always with company. I was grateful for minutes then. Not now, not after entire days together, alone.”

“We’re getting greedy. Always goes one of two ways; either you’re increasingly desperate for more, no matter how slight the scraps. Or you lose interest.” Greed led to foolhardiness. Foolhardiness led to mistakes. Tongues wagged in Perth’s palace already; they’d been on display far more than they had been in Waltham, pressed into situations where it was harder to hide what they should, and with people paying more attention. The knight was said by some to love his princess, purely in a suitably chivalrous way; the tale found favour, being so close to the romance stories so deeply in fashion. What the princess might think of her knight fewer seemed willing to speculate.

With care not to make too much noise, Fulk shifted a bench to a comfortable spot before the fire, collected his cup of ale, sat, and patted the space at his side. Eleanor came to his side, head leaning on his shoulder and body loosely moulded to his. His spare arm about her waist, Fulk rested his cheek on her head.

“Your training went well?” she asked.

“Yes. We’re as ready as we can be for tomorrow, not yet knowing how the teams are formed. Your men will bring you honour, whichever team they are on.”

“And my knight?”

“He’ll do his all to bring you victory.” Fulk sipped his ale. They didn’t repeat their suspicions about the tournament. It was arranged, it was unavoidable, the purpose was obscure, and all that could be done was to remain alert and hope for the best. “Your own day?”

“Oh … quiet.”

“Really? What did you do?”

“Nothing interesting,” she demurred.

“Only, I heard my scholarly princess was involved in a debate on the nature and duties of kingship.”

“Yes. It was not terribly exciting. It is an old debate, the positions defined and all the sides long since argued to tedium. I did not start it.”

“Heart of my heart, I admit to being curious. For instance, I’d be gratified and in your debt if you could explain why there was muttering into the soup about the English princess calling the King of Scots a weak ruler, in a roundabout and very polite way.” Fulk gave the end of Eleanor’s plait a gentle tug. “You’ve been gooseberrying people again, haven’t you?”

“If you wish to put it that way, yes, and for what must be the first time in my life I feel my father would have been proud. As diplomatic slaps go, it was a damned good one.” There was no mistaking the emotion in her voice – pride. “They thought to go on about how shabby and poverty-stricken England appears next to their lord’s splendour. Instead they were reminded of what they surely must know.”

“Oh sour one, explain, please, and no trying to wiggle things so you look heroic while causing a riot.”

“Explain?” Eleanor lifted her head from his shoulder and stared at him, blue eyes puzzled “You do not see it?”

Fulk baked in a feeling he’d been more familiar with as a boy, the mortification of being caught ignorant of one of those adult things everyone who wasn’t a stupid baby was supposed to know. “No, heartling, I don’t.” That same inner child made him hedge, “Or if I do I don’t know it for the same thing you speak of.”

“I had thought you would see all of this pomp for what it was from the start.”

“Something to do with preference, I suppose.”

“Yes, in part it is. Some do like showing off. But that is not the greater part. Really it is simple. The way this king behaves is the equivalent of you wearing full armour at all times, and having your squire follow you about leading your destrier, lest people not know you for what you are. The more a person must reinforce their status with such tricks, the weaker their position. My father was King of England; everyone knew that, everyone remembered that, and seldom did he need to rely on ceremony to reinforce that. Because he had the power; his hold was secure and his vassals obeyed. He did not need to make men grovel each time they met his eye to remind them he was their lord. We could be plain because our position was so strong, so stable.” Her head sank, she studied the toes of her shoes. “Or so it was. Our prestige has fallen somewhat.” She spitted him on a glare, as though she suspected him of thinking something she didn’t like one bit. “It will rise again. A year or two into his reign and Hugh will have no need of playacting. It started the same for my father, and my grandsire, and for all those who came before – there is always a time at the start when they must prove themselves and secure their hold. Hugh has a rougher time of it than they, but the end will be the same.”

Fulk bit his tongue on his instinctive reply that Hugh was never going to be a match for the previous king. She knew it.

Eleanor said, “I expect matters here will change when Nefastus is crowned. He will either catch his lords in his fist, or be torn to bits by them and left to rot without even a grave. This current king, he is sorely lacking in one of his prime roles – he is not a warrior, or a general, and he does his all to force his people to peace. Which suits many, and does good, but many of those with skill at arms are bored and restless, denied chance to win glory and spoils. There is a lot of private warfare here, neighbour against neighbour, and the usual raiding across our border. And he does not punish the troublemakers severely enough, either because he is too weak to press like that, or because he does not have the sense to. It is Nefastus who prosecutes harshly, which weakens the king’s authority yet further.”

None of which Fulk really wanted to be hearing at bedtime on the night before a tournament. “Thank you. I think I see it now.”

Eleanor nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. “And I did not cause a riot!”

“Then you must be losing your touch, beloved mine.”

She looked down her nose at him. “I hereby give you permission to grovel abjectly in apology, and then to kiss me.”

Fulk bypassed the first and went straight to the second.

Afterwards, she said, “I have been thinking …”

Fulk let exaggerated horror cross his features. “Oh no! Not again!”

“We could journey back overland. I could plant my banner and recruit on the way. Not all of the North will by loyal to Trempwick, and mayhap some of those loyal to me could be turned to use instead of fighting against me.”

Fulk stared into the low fire, considering. He tossed off the rest of his drink, set the cup aside. “Who would lead this army? You can’t, not in the field. I can’t – even assuming nobles and lords would follow me – which they would not - I know only small forces and skirmishes. There is no one else. And think of the risk; your guard are good, and there are more of them now, but they are not enough to guarantee your safety in a wasp’s nest.”

“You are right,” she admitted glumly. “There must be something. This cannot be a waste of time.”

“It will not be.” A change of subject was in order; tomorrow might bring anything, and Fulk didn’t want to spend his night in gloom. “You’ll never guess what I saw today. A group of children were playing one of the usual knights and damsels games. Only, the lead damsel was taking the part of a certain princess Eleanor, beset by evil bandits trying to abduct her.”

“What!?” There, mixed in with the surprise, was a tiny kernel of delight.

“Oh yes. And the lead knight was calling himself Sir Fulk. Here’s the best bit, oh ‘loved mine. The ‘princess’ got tired of waiting for her knight, so she hit one of the bandits with her crown, pushed another one over, and ran off, leaving poor ‘Fulk’ surrounded by angry villains.”

When their soft laughter died down they sat, doing nothing but savouring their time together.

Eventually Fulk took his arm back. “Come on, off with you. We’ll both need our sleep for tomorrow, and my pallet’s not big enough for two, even assuming it were fit for a gooseberry, which it’s not – the straw seems to have been chosen specially for its itchiness. Damned devious bit of economy; makes the bedding for the lowly cheaper, and discourages them from sleeping overlong or entertaining company.”

Eleanor stood, and waited, eyes cast downwards. “Tomorrow,” she said abruptly. “I would like you to carry my favour.”

Fulk gave a courtly bow. “I would be honoured. I’ll wear it next to my skin so none see-”

“No. I meant an open favour.” She placed a hand on his arm and looked up at him. “You are my knight, and my champion in this. No one will think it amiss.”

Fulk bowed again, his heart swelling. “I would be most honoured.”

I’m depressed. A massive delivery of books today, and not a single one is any good! :grumble: Usually when we get a massive batch of mixed books like this there are at least a couple of nice ones. But oh no, not this time. This time we get a load of yoga, gardening, repeats of books we already have which didn’t sell, repeats of boring and rubbish books we have already had which did (amazingly) sell, books based on TV history series and therefore full of dodgy ‘history’. Oh – and volumes 2, 4, and 12 of the Poldark saga, a series we stock no others of. Humph!

[frog rant on sagas]
Oh, I am so sick of these books! They all follow some insipid brat from Liverpool/Newcastle/some other nasty British city on her crap journey through life, inevitably involving an abusive father/mother/sibling/aunt, a first marriage which goes horribly wrong/an affair which leaves her pregnant and alone, and a drippy dream man who is entirely unreal and reads like a bad mishmash of ‘ideal’ man traits put together by a bunch of 75 year old spinsters after too much rum and rich tea biscuits, to whom the heroine gets married and lives happily ever after with after a lot of crap and forced so called obstructions. Oh – and the heroine usually has one of those names, like Lizzie, or Rose, or Annie, or Maisie, and in personality she is a cross between the stereotypical image of Julie Andrews on prozak and a piece of damp paper. And the cover art makes you cringe, featuring a bad painting of some random blank-eyed not quite human looking girl holding a prop, frequently a hat or a basket with flowers. Don’t get me started on the titles! If it’s not the heroine’s name (i.e. ‘Rosie’, or ‘Lizzie’) then it’s something ‘exciting’ sounding (‘A Mersey Duet’, or ‘Dancing in the Dark’), something quaint and hopeful (‘A silver joey’ (joey being slang for a sixpence, or so the cover claims)), or unholy combination of the name with something else (‘Lizzie’s song’, ‘Annie’s Wish’).

Gah!

[frog rant on sagas]

Ciaran

05-03-2006, 10:36

So, Eleanor already made it to children´s games. Well, at least they kept true to character :laugh4:

By the way, today is the 537th birthday of your story´s namesake and I´m not talking about the princess, though the both might have got on well with each other.

Vladimir

05-03-2006, 13:18

Well that's strange; I thought a joey was a baby kangaroo. Huh. Anyway, good buildup to the tournament. I didn't think much of it before but now you've made me more than a little excited about it. I keep thinking: "Poor Fulk, my self control would have broken months ago." I look forward to the curling tournament, or whatever it is.

frogbeastegg

05-07-2006, 21:15

Jocelyn raised a hand to cover his mouth as he yawned. Damned merchants! Alright, so it was more than decent of this Edward fellow to give him hospitality – generous hospitality at that - for the night simply because he turned up on the recommendation of a mutual friend in Normandy, yet there was this: it was only just barely dawn. Not only that but Jocelyn had arrived in Dover late last night, after a day of puking his guts out, after days of rushing about as fast as his horse could carry him. Breakfast was not what he wanted right now. Another four days solid sleep would be good. Damned merchants and their ungodly hours, bent of grubbing every last profit from the day!

He reached for something to start eating, hand floating indecisively as he surveyed the embarrassment of riches spread on the table. Cold, all of it, naturally, and considerably more than a bit of bread and a cup of small ale or small beer. Bloody pretentious, honestly!

His host smiled, spreading his own hands to indicate the table. “Do help self. Take what like.”

What Jocelyn liked was a nice large chunk of cold fish pie, so he could bite it instead of betraying his thoughts as to his host’s ability to speak French. Damned lack, more like – his command of the language was wobbly, which, to judge by the man’s damned endless beaming and attempts to talk with his guest, no one had seen fit to tell him. Still, could be worse. Jocelyn had borrowed a monk from Caen, to play translator. There was good reason for this. England: God-benighted rainy dump of a county, was filled with people who couldn’t speak right.

As if to demonstrate Jocelyn’s black thoughts, Edward waved one of his servants over and began giving quiet orders in Anglo-French. Anglo-French: so called, Jocelyn had long since decided, because the garbled mess was the old Saxon’s last revenge on their Norman conquerors, a revenge made all the more successful because the nobility didn’t realise what had bloody well happened, and thought it their own doing. Several generations ago this had been the same langue d’oil spoken in half of France. Somewhere in those generations the accent had changed, drastically. Half the words were altered. New ones were added. Meanings had altered. It was now almost as unintelligible as any other foreign language, and a standing joke in France itself, so bastardised had it become.

Bastard – which reminded him. “You said last night prince Hugh was nearby?”

“Yes.” A bit more Anglo-French to his servant – look, the man was just plain showing off! Alright, many of the people here spoke English and Anglo-French, but the latter was supposed to be the tongue of the nobility and gently born, not jumped up damned merchants and their doubly damned servants! Christ’s sweet bones! Did the man think he didn’t know that? Did he think he couldn’t see he was pretending to be a damned sight more important than he was?! – and the underling departed, and the man turned his attention to food and guest. “He leave yesterday. You go fast, you catch him if want.”

God’s fingernails, where was that God damned monk!? Jocelyn wondered if it would be rude to fetch the tonsured slugabed down here to cease this torture of his native tongue. He surmised it would be. He wondered if he cared …

“You have word for him?”

Jocelyn bit off another mouthful of pie, chewed, swallowed, wasted a bit of time brushing a crumb off his sleeve, then finally deigned to respond. “I’m the Count of Tourraine. My lord has died; his heir is in this country. Why do you think I am here? To do homage, before it’s decided another man should have what’s mine, recently bestowed as it is. What’s going on in this country anyway? All I hear is trouble.”

“Ah.” Edward’s eating knife returned to the table; he clasped his hands before him on the surface. “War. Fighting. Such troubles! No trouble here, only elsewhere. London. Wales. Other places.”

“Fighting?”

The wool merchant made a dismissive gesture. “Far off. Not here. None of ours there.”

“But where? Between who? What numbers? What losses?”

A shrug. “Wales. Nearer London. I care not – no business mine. I and family safe, I still sell cloth and make money, and in end I be ruled by whichever God want. Business for grand men, not merchants.”

A medium sized and potent curse on the small-mindedness of bloody tradesmen! When they weren’t getting above themselves and demanding things and trying to squirm their way into the nobility they were being damned ignorant! Same the world over: profit, profit, profit, and sod the world. “But surely you must have some thoughts on it?”

“For grand men,” Edward repeated. “Like you. Not me. I no fight, not hold land, not rule men. God will decide. Much same end for me, king or queen.”

The door into the solar opened, and the servant returned with a large tray set with covered dishes. He placed it on the cleared edge of the table and set the dishes down amid the existing ones, taking the covers off each in turn. Hot food, steaming.

Edward cut a portion from a large grilled fish and placed it on Jocelyn’s trencher, giving him the best. “I have deal with cook shop. They give hot food for breakfast each day; have person to be up extra early to cook it.”

Well, there was some relief – Jocelyn had almost expected the beaming merchant to proudly announce he had his own kitchen, and didn’t need to buy most of his hot food from the cook shops like nearly everyone else in any town on God’s pleasant earth. Managing a smile which was only partly grimace Jocelyn tucked in to his fish. For a pretentious extravagance it was very tasty.

As he ate his mind turned and turned again, many subjects passing through it. One recurred an awful lot: a wish that Tildis was here to see this. Might shut her moaning up. Better to be a proper noble, if a little rough about the edges in a charmingly manly way, than to be a commoner with too much money and a desire to emulate his betters matched with scant clue as to how to do it. Damned woman would have to agree there, contrary bitch that she was. Huh, and she could damned well shut up about her books and all in future – Edward had learned his manners and all from them, that was bloody obvious, being as he’d missed the little important bits here and there which no waffling load of text could teach. No, practical experience, there was the thing, learning from one’s elders.

When the table was a deal emptier, Jocelyn asked, “Do you know much about the prince? Or the princess, for that matter?”

“Not seen her. Seen him, once, from distance. Was golden, that made impression most. Good stature; carried himself like prince, yes. Not been closer. Heard he … reserved. Bit distant. Pompous, some say. But done well enough in things. Not great, not bad. Has potential, many say, though I no judge and am repeating only what I hear, remember. Has a child on way also, which is good. Is chosen heir, eldest living son, has been in line and known to be so for years. Hear also some other things. Things like he stop sister’s wedding to suit him, against father’s and her wishes, or against father’s wishes definitely. Say he rude to father’s old friend, who is trusty, and also same man who meant to marry Eleanor. Say he try to take her in hand, fight her wildness, or maybe just crush her, I cannot say; from what I hear is both – she rude, he too strict, and fighting like children except they grown and it more vicious and able to be more than hair-pulling and harmless stuff.” Edward shrugged again. “But this I know: King William, bless him and rest in peace, left prince Hugh as regent for us while he across the Narrow Sea. Trusted him, his ability, wanted to be seen to favour him. Chose him.”

“And Eleanor?”

Edward took a quick drink to wet this throat. “She, confusing.” Edward reached for a bit of bread, picked it up and set it back down, untouched. “Hidden, yes? Much of her life. Not seen much, not said much of. Contradictory. One she is a hellion, then she is prisoner, then she is good, then she is bad, then she a fool, then skilled and smart. She is overproud and wild, then she is cruelty mistreated and victimised, then she is but standing up for what is hers and trying to hold on. She in almost exile, she in training to rule, quiet, so bastard brother not kill her or something and can be sorted when she is strong and ready. She hated by father, she loved as best of all. She fight to avoid betrothal, then is announced as married to same man, in secret. One thing is solid – she poor, not have much lands, and them only new, which is very odd. Even where agree stories differ much. Example, she is beaten badly for that refusal to marry Lord Trempwick, very badly indeed, is brave as any knight and firm in her cause to avoid unwanted man, and go to church ready to fall down, so hard did she fight even though she lose and yet in defeat still refuse to give completely, so her being there and trying to be normal when fitter for bed and rest. Or, other story, she is hardly touched, and gives easily, because she soft and lacks heart to go with her bold words.” He chuckled ruefully. “You see why I glad God sort? Drive me mad to try! Good, bad, right, wrong – I sure neither is like I just say of them, but different again, making confusion more.”

“Yes, agreed Jocelyn bleakly. He’d have to hope God gave him a hint or two somewhere in this … not that he was going to go against his dying lord’s express wishes, heavens no! Not unless it was God’s will, which it very well might be; one could never know the workings of the Almighty’s plan.

By the time the food was cleared from the table Jocelyn’s party was formed up and ready to mount. Feeling highly stuffed, Jocelyn paid his courtesies to the lady of the house, and his host’s fifteen year old daughter. Thank God she’d been kept safely penned up away from him – it’d been nice to get a full night’s sleep. Not that he’d have been so uncouth as to allow her to seduce him, of course.

Passing through the large front room which served as the shop on his way to the street Jocelyn saw a journeyman returning a roll of cloth to its place on the shelves. The colour, a delicate orangey-gold, drew him. Fingering the cloth revealed it to be a fine wool, light and perfect for summer wear.

A spot of haggling later and a length of the cloth sufficient to make a dress was loaded onto the sumpter horse, and he was on his way, whistling a happy tune as he set out in pursuit of prince Hugh. Whatever he was, the man deserved to hear about the old king’s death, since it looked likely the silence which had muffled specific news from England coming to France had applied here also. Richildis would be pleased with his purchase. Not that he’d got it for her, or had any intention of so much as thinking of possibly trying to make the bitch happy, and it certainly wasn’t a peace offering, by thunder! No. If he wanted to dress her up so she looked nice so he could stare at her and appreciate her charms in a purely selfish way, that was entirely his right and privilege. Not that he wanted to stare at her, no matter how fine-looking she might be in any state of dress … or undress. He didn’t want to look at her at all, damned miserable creature that she was. Not when there were so many equally nice – better! – looking women in this world, all of whom were more than happy to smile at him and not whinge, and didn’t damned well complain about damned fake headaches every time he felt even slightly in the damned mood for a bit of fun, thank you very much! And anyway, it had been necessary to give his host something in return for his hospitality, which had been splendid, language problems and social climbing aside.

Jocelyn’s whistling skipped a beat and went a little off-key. Now he’d have to get something for the children …

One busy week over, another to begin. The next bit will probably take a while to write; tournaments and so on are busy, and I’m not quite sure how I’m going to do it … there might be a lot there I want to cut out after writing it, and I’m not going to have much time to play until the end of the week.

Also, I have the idea for another story forming, and it’s damned distracting, like trying to write and talk at the same time – you end up with both blended together, one intruding on the other into a mishmash of a mess. Something very different to the other ideas I have, set in Saxon Britain, but not anything to do with the usual Vikings/Normans/Romano-British/Pagan versus Christian/some famous historical figure’s fictionalised life stuff such settings usually attract. Not sure what it is yet; I have flashes of some things, and some loose ideas … a strong fort, on a hill, with wooden walls and several large timber and thatch halls. The inside of a hall, smoky and busy. A man, holding a spear and wearing a sword and a mail shirt, and one of those distinctly Saxon helmets with a boar as a crest, a plain man with a scar on his upper lip – he’s the protagonist, and not entirely a pleasant chappy. Don’t even know his name yet. The fragmented Saxon kingdoms, not yet united into one. And a … feeling. Well, shall just have to try and develop it in a controlled manner, so it doesn’t stunt and die, but doesn’t take over and demand to be written NOW. :sigh: As if I don’t have enough ideas already, enough stories and characters demanding varying degrees of attention I can’t yet give. If I’d known how dangerous reading that biography of Aethelred II ‘The Unready’ would be I’d have … read it anyway, and probably sooner. For all the troubles stories other than the one I am writing (Eleanor!) present I wouldn’t be without them for the world. It gives me hope that when this one is done I can indeed manage something else; I’m not a one story frog, and I can go on to something else without it being a pale echo of what I have already done.

Ciaran: Hehe, yes! The Nell/Fulk game is but one of the many tiny and unimportant things I have been seeing for ages in this story, and have finally reached the time to use. Like the Fulk song. You can have no idea how exhilarating it is for me to finally pen something I have been seeing for – in some cases - nearly two years. Course, I’ve used many such bits already, but with the ones remaining, well, some are amongst my favourites and overall the thrill is made keener because I know that in its way the end approaches, i.e. the parts I most want to see people react to, the scenes, the ideas, the payoff. The final challenge, and the hardest. To get it right will require a whole host of things going near perfectly, and every shred of ability I’ve got, and even then it might not quite work. We shall have to see.

Gosh – I am in a rambling mood tonight. No more! Not got time – got a book to finish, and work tomorrow :takes firm control of herself:

Vladimir: me too, but that’s what the book cover says.

I am almost tempted to ask which particular strand of self control, as Fulk’s got quite a collection :gring:

frogbeastegg

05-07-2006, 21:49

May as well carry over a question/offer I just found myself making on the other forum, where malcolm is proving popular and sparking off discussion.

I want to know what people think about Malcolm, to see whether he is working as I want him to. He's actually got enough to him that he could support his own POV, though not in this story (nothing really for him to do, except show the inside of himself and a bit of behind the scenes Scottish plotting which really is better off not shown to you until/unless it appears in one of the established POVs), but in his own. Yes, Malcolm has depth enough that he is the centre of one of those many story ideas I spoke of a bit ago.

If I knew that it wouldn’t harm anything (i.e. if people already had the right ideas) I might be persuaded to do a single Malcolm scene, outside of the story, basically his POV of one of the scenes which has already passed, likely the one where he meets Nell and Fulk for the first time. If it wouldn’t harm anything, and if people wanted to read it.

Ciaran

05-08-2006, 12:06

Well, that was one nice Jocelyn scene, even despite the Merchant´s horrible language skill. One would expect merchants to be more interested in politics, but I suppose not all of them were William de la Poles back then.

Malcolm, now he´s interesting. It´s hard to describe, really, but he doesn´t seem to only be the devil incarnate he pretends to be. There´s something more about him, but I can´t really place my finger on it. In a way, he´s similar to Eleanor, or at least that´s how it seems to me.

KukriKhan

05-08-2006, 22:33

If it wouldn’t harm anything, and if people wanted to read it.

:polishes eyeballs: ready here!. :)

Vladimir

05-10-2006, 17:59

Well I think Malcolm should have been William's first son :skull: . Except for the last scene with Nell I don't take him seriously. I know he's 14 year old royalty but I can't see why he's so crazy and outright disobedient. I can't imagine a king sitting idly by as the King of Scots has done while his own son constantly challenges his authority and insults him. His passiveness will lead to civil war!

Yes I would be interested in reading a Malcolm section but I don't know if I'd like it. I'm sure I'd like the story but I wouldn't like him. I would like to see more plotting on his part and less antagonizing. He knows his father is weak and should be seeking to overthrow him in a few years, or sooner, depending on the results of England's war.

Peasant Phill

05-12-2006, 10:16

Finally, after weeks of of reading a bit at a time I caught up. I'm quite relieved as my exams and my thesis ( turnpaper or whatever a research in order to graduate from university is called) won't suffer as much as they did now.
I discovered something strange and perhaps unsettling while reading this. It seems that while I can't stand mushy stuff in movies, I endure it quite well when it's written (in comics to). Ah well, it must be the accompaning music.

I actually like Malcolm. He's just rebelling as a teenager of his age should be. And what better way to pester your poor old father than doing the opposite of everything that he does. The God and angels against devil and snakes, merchant against warrior, ... I think he would do Scotland good when he ascends to the throne once he matures a bit.
I hereby found the Malcolm fanclub, Threefold hoorah. And Beëlzebub himself may take your soul if you don't buy a membership card.

Peasant Phill

05-15-2006, 15:19

I'm experiencing a bit of 'cold turkey' now that I have to wait for the next part of the story. Please don't wait to long with a new chapter lady Frog, You have yet another addict on your conscience

frogbeastegg

05-15-2006, 21:33

In his dreams it had always been sunny, a bright and clear day. In his dreams he had always been a great knight, wealthy and powerful, well-known and well-loved, skilled and the best of all, invincible. In his dreams his parents had been there, watching proudly. In his dreams his lady had been the most beautiful in Christendom, golden and fair and the epitome of nobility.

Fulk had stopped dreaming long ago.

His heart was pounding, his hands shaking. He touched his spurs to Sueta’s flanks and began his advance up to the stand where the royal party seat, passing one of the pair of lower stands and the nobles in them.

Eleanor was wearing deep red matched with white. He loved her and that made her more beautiful than any, and he was amazed even that much of the dream had come true.

Over the years he’d practiced many sets of words, clinging to one set and then discarding them as the age he gained made them seem clumsy or uncouth, or simply plain. He’d had the perfect speech planned out by his seventh year, and changed it on average every month for the next seven. A portion of the previous night had been lost to that same speech, worried away on words instead of dangers. Words were important; he’d known it then and the knowledge had grown keener with the years.

As he passed ladies watched, heads turning to track him, hope flickering in their eyes, only to dash into disappointment as he rode on past, not stopping to ask for their favour. That, too, had been a part of the dream, a disassociated part come from knowing that simply was what proper ladies and knights did.

Before the royal box he stopped. Before Eleanor. In his dreams he’d never felt sick. In his dreams he hadn’t been reaching so impossibly far; it had all been a mistake - he wasn’t really a bastard, and his father was important and the king’s friend, and his mother a great noble lady, and his father’s wife was actually an evil witch who had cast a spell on them all and made them live a lie.

Words. His tongue was frozen, his mind empty. His prepared speech was lost. The enormity of what he was doing was overwhelming.

Fulk raised his eyes, slowly, following up the drapes of crimson fabric decorating the front of the stand. He saw a pair of arms, the upper half of a torso. A slender white neck. A chin. A nose. Then those eyes. He found his words, and didn’t say them: I love you; let me show the world.

“Your Highness.” Fulk bowed in the saddle; his voice came louder on his next effort. “Your Highness, I fight as your champion. I beg you, do me the honour of granting me your favour.”

Prince Malcolm muttered, “Sayth the worm to the lioness …”

Eleanor rose. If there hadn’t been a gap of more than an arm’s length between each of the three royal seats Fulk suspected she might have contrived a way to stand on the prince’s foot, or similar. She removed her crown, her veil came free in her hand. Fulk nudged his destrier about so he could present his left arm to her without need for her to lean dangerously far over the waist high front of the stand.

When the silk formed a white band about his bicep, Eleanor said, “Bring me victory.”

“I will do my all.” Fulk started to ride back.

Sueta had taken perhaps three steps when the first cheer went up. Soon the exuberance had spread to much of the audience, nobles and commons alike. That also had been part of the dream, and because of it Fulk understood the cause: here was a story come to life. For everyone’s amusement, a game played out with nothing serious behind it, like the Hunt, and the Black Knight, and so much else.

When he regained his place with those of Eleanor’s men who were taking part in this tournament, one of the Scottish knights, the perpetually serious one called Waltheof, told him softly, “That was ill done, and dangerous. Any can see she’s marked for the prince, Christ pity her. He won’t stand so much as the thought of a shadow of competition.”

Fulk continued to look in the direction he had been. “What competition could I be for a prince? None, for I am nothing. If her champion won’t bear her colours then none here will; she won’t grant them to another because of the significance it would be given. Many of lesser status than she will have their tokens out on the field; it would be shaming for her to be left out, and imply that she’s so much less than those others. It is my duty to guard her honour.”

“As you say. And as I say.”

When all was ready to begin, the King of Scotland stood. He held his hands in the air, an unnecessary gesture for silence; hush has begun to fall at his first movement.

“We have heard the desires of our people, and have found it good to grant them. We do now decree that the two teams shall be national, and not chosen by lot. Forty per side as was previous, now to be chosen by the two leaders. In addition, in honour of their great and recognised skill, we do declare that the ransom of each leader shall be nine marks.” Malcolm the Elder planted his rear back on his flashy throne.

Desires of his people? If he thought to fool her then he had failed – Eleanor knew there had been little such wish. This had been planned from the start. Now nothing could be done. In all honesty, Eleanor had to admit there was little more that could have been done –a bodyguard of the most trusted had been formed to guard Fulk’s back at all times; men in possession of appropriate skill and equipment from the force Hugh had loaned her, and what remained of Sir Miles’ tattered force had been used to make up the forty required, keeping the number of Scots to the minimum; those taking part had been trained rigorously. She had made it clear that her coffers – Hugh’s, in truth, since she’d use the money he’d granted to pay for expenses - would provide the ransom of any man taken when he could not avoid it, and that any captured after anything less than their full efforts to resist would pay their own ransom and depart her service.

Nine marks. Fulk would be a very choice target; the sum was enough to tempt even the wealthy. Nine marks! Eleanor did some quick calculations. The potential strain of her other men’s costs was enough alone to make her worry sufficiently that she had laid claim to a fifth of all ransoms her men took; it was her right, and custom, and she’d taken it with thought only for the revenue, not for her rights or because it was fitting.

Nothing remained except one thing so small as to nearly be a waste of time, a light alteration of something she had planned anyway. Eleanor kept a tight rein on her fury, and said to her host, “It does not suit me to find a new bodyguard at present. Less still when my present has proven himself efficient. I must hold faith in your belief that your men will not fall prey to the same base urges which have turned many tournaments of peace into small wars.” She produced a smile, self-mocking. “The fears of a woman! I confess, I should know better than to seek out disaster where none can happen. Your people will not dare disobey your wishes for a tourney of peace, or do the least thing which may bring shame on your name and reputation as a host.”

Malcolm the Younger rolled his eyes. “What our cousin of England’s politely saying, old man, is that you’d better not be about to do something bloody stupid. And I’ll agree with her. I’ll not be known as the son of a man who didn’t respect the laws of hospitality.”

If the King of Scots paid a whit of attention to either it didn’t show.

It’s a beginning. The rest I want to keep together, but this works well enough alone. The rest I’m not likely to start writing seriously until gone Thursday. I know how I’m going to do it now.

Thanks, all. One Malcolm scene will follow. Not sure when; matters of time aside, writing a new POV is hard at first, it takes a few scenes to begin to settle. Which, of course, I won’t have. I’m also going to be attempting something I have never tried before …

Ciaran: Good, good; you said one of the things I was hoping to hear. Hmm, two, if you split it up.

Kukri! Well, on reflection that makes a comment or two of yours make more sense. How long have you been reading?

Vladimir: Hehe, perhaps because he is a 14 year old boy? :winkg: No, it’s deeper than that but this does play a solid part.

The KoS could be sitting for a variety of reasons. Because he can’t quash his son effectively. Because he doesn’t feel threatened, and so doesn’t see the need. Because he doesn’t want to. Because he has some sort of plan which calls for Malcolm to hang himself. Because …

Welcome, Peasant Phill. Have some eyedrops :hands out the traditional eyedrops: I am afraid some waiting is necessary, unless someone makes it so a frog can write full time and still make money. The good news is that I start to feel very guilty after 5-6 days have passed without an update; I believe I owe my readers that much at the least. I also can’t go for many days without writing something; it’s a need and an addiction rolled into one.

Fanclub updates:
Trempy: 3 members
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 6 members (wishing he were in one of those worlds with magical protection, healing and resurrection spells …)
Nell: 6 members (wishing she could ride in on her white palfrey, rescue her knight, drape him over her saddlebow, and ride off into the sunset)
Godit: 5 members
Constance: 2 members
Hugh: 2 members
Jocelyn: 5 members
Richildis: 1 member
Miles: 2 members (still engaged in being dead)
Hawise: 2 members
Mahaut: 1 member
Malcolm Nefastus: 3 members (picking at his nails and waiting for the fighting to start)
Anti-Trempy: 3 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member
Anti-Hugh: 1 member

Avicenna

05-15-2006, 21:58

I'm only on page five, but I've got to say, great stuff froggie! When's the book going to come out?

KukriKhan

05-16-2006, 02:06

Kukri! Well, on reflection that makes a comment or two of yours make more sense. How long have you been reading?

Ummm... July 2004, I guess. Sorry if any of my comments seemed senseless. :) (They often do to me as well, looking back). At the risk of appearing to gush, I'm a big fan of your style.

Vladimir

05-16-2006, 22:38

A Start? Nay, a tease (Ren fair is coming up! :knight: )
Hmm, Waltheof the Spy...I'll be watching him :rifle: .

Damn, that Fulk scene made me kind of emotional. What's happening to me? ~:mecry:

This groupie craves MORE!

Ciaran

05-17-2006, 10:16

Slowly getting there, you certainly know how to keep up the tension. For how long do we know there´s going to be a tournament? A month? Two?

I said something you hoped to hear? Must have been an accident ~;)

frogbeastegg

05-21-2006, 20:58

The trumpet blew; Fulk dug his spurs in, sending himself at a trot into whatever trap the King of Scots had prepared. His unit followed flawlessly, two men to either side of him, and Luke behind to guard their backs. Preserving the battle line, the other units matched his speed and direction. Or so he assumed – the lack of peripheral vision his great helm gifted him meant he could only see ahead.

Distance closed. Fulk chose his target, a knight in burgundy and white with a griffin on his shield. Close now. Raising his battlecry, he dug his spurs in again and launched into the charge, bringing his lance down when a few heartbeats were all that remained before contact. The blunt tri-pointed tip of his lance rammed into the painted hide covering his opponent’s shield, slid, gripped; in the instant available before momentum took him on too far, Fulk flung his weight forward and heaved upwards with the lance, popping the other man out of his saddle. He’d thundered by before the other had lost his seat completely, turning Sueta and searching out another target for his lance.

Alfred’s lance had splintered on contact; he was struggling to keep his seat and gain one of his auxiliary weapons as his luckier foe jabbed and pressed at him. Fulk lowered his lance again, commanding a burst of speed from Sueta. The coronal point smashed into the man’s back and flung him forward in the saddle. Tournaments à plaisance differed from battle and tournaments à outrance by virtue of having blunted weaponry, and a ban on killing deliberately and aiming at horses or unhelmed men. Striking from behind, ganging up – there was no dishonour in good tactics.

Alfred drew his blunt, round-tipped sword as Fulk cast away his lance – it was too close for the long weapon to be anything but a hindrance now – and together they finished the task of felling their victim, leaving him for Luke to round up and add to the first prisoner.

Together they turned and helped Thomas, who was under pressure from two Scots.

Teamwork. Teamwork won tourneys. The side which grouped together and stayed together best always carried the day. On the intimate level, each unit had to work in unison, clinging together and supporting each other; the isolated or outnumbered man nearly always went down. On the wider level, the units must again support each other. With a limit of forty per team, Fulk had split his side into seven units, two possessing five men and the rest with six. The two smaller units were placed on the flanks, with stern orders to act opportunistically, swooping in to batter at enemy already engaged with the larger units, present a danger to the enemy flanks, and so on.

Warned by a cry, Fulk brought his shield up and made Sueta sidle right. Mace met shield at a level with his ear. Twisting about to meet his attacker, Fulk continued to ward off blows with his shield. His bodyguard were all engaged, protecting the prisoners and swept up in the attack by a new enemy group come to lend assistance to what remained of the division devastated by his first charge. He dug his knee into his stallion’s flank, driving it around.

Facing his attacker properly now, Fulk traded blows, warding with his shield and making conservative, controlled slashes with his sword.

Fulk raked his spurs along Sueta’s flanks, driving the stallion into a sudden forward burst. Horse barged into horse, rocking the passive animal. As the mounts pushed and bit at each other, the men traded their strikes for punches with weapon hilts and shields.

Whatever the King of Scots sought from this there was but one thing Fulk could do: fight. He was good at fighting. He did not envy Eleanor her place watching, waiting, wondering, helpless and unable to prevent what occurred before her eyes.

Hands clasped in her lap, fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles ached, Eleanor watched as the melee rolled on. Her gaze never left Fulk, for fear that if she looked away for an instant she would lose him in the press of men and horses, all so similar in mail and coloured surcoats, arms painted on shields not always visible. Or that he would fall and she would not see. At every blow he took her grip tightened. At his every triumph her heart sped. She could be a widow by sunset. Tourneys were dangerous, and accidental death was not uncommon when the motives of all involved were as pure as fresh snow.

The luxury of the royal box infuriated her, that she was so comfortably safe while he risked so much. She had a high-backed chair plump with cushions, the floor covered in carpets, an embarrassment of food and drink set out on a table at the rear ready for the three occupants to help themselves. She would be sipping cool wine as Fulk broiled in his armour, overheated by his exertions.

A knight made his way to the safe zone ran about the borders of the fenced-in field, sagging in his saddle and weapon lost. Mounted men swooped down on him, beat aside his feeble defence and hammered at him until he surrendered. It did not take long; the man’s sword arm was broken.

The King of Scots looked on, impassive.

The third occupant of the box punched his thigh. “Bloody fool!” Malcolm cursed. “Wandering off on his own, wounded and unable to fight. Twat got what he deserved. Teams! It’s all about the teams!”

The elder Malcolm replied, “As are most things.” He turned to Eleanor with a faint smile. “Is this not so? Teams in tourneys, and teams in battles, and teams on the stage of the world. Those who band together and do battle side by side defeat those who do not. Is this not so?”

“It is,” Eleanor said.

“Teams must be chosen wisely. There can be no weak links to hold the overall back. The individuals must compliment each other, and work to make a greater whole comprised of all individual talents. Incorrect decisions as to members can cost the overall; ransoms paid out detract from those gained. Leadership is vital. The most experienced should lead, and the younger and less skilled should endeavour to learn from him. In return for his wisdom and teaching, the followers grant him part of what is theirs.” The king lowered his hand from his beard, flicking away the split strands of hair which stuck to his fingertips. Placing his palms flat on the arms of his throne, he focused on the field once more. “Thus, you will render to me the castles between Alnwick and Carlisle, and the land for fifty miles to the south, and quit all claim to them in perpetuity. To seal the peace between our families, you shall marry my son-”

“No,” interrupted Eleanor. “Again and again you set out the same nonsense, altering it a little here and there and placing it in a different order. I wonder at your seeming inability to put forth even one rational suggestion. Any would think you do not see the benefits the renewal of the alliance would bring you.”

Malcolm the Elder curled his fingers about the ends of the arms of his seat. “As you will. We shall speak further when time suits.”

A blade slapped Fulk across the shoulders, coat of plates reducing the stinging force, mail driving at his flesh to lend it a distinctive spice, gambeson taking away the many-toothed bite of the mail and soaking a part of the bruising energy.

Sueta lunged and bit the neck of the destrier in front of him; the horse squealed in outrage and tore free, blood gushing. Fulk stabbed at the rider, catching him in the stomach just above the front of his saddle. Unable to help himself, the man doubled over, the sound of retching coming muffled from his helm. Fulk delivered a hit to the back of the unfortunate’s head, causing him to slump in his saddle, droop, and nearly fall.

Fulk’s own helm rang with a strike to his head from the same one who’d struck his shoulders. Luke was busy fighting for his own skin, unable to claim the stricken man’s ransom. Commanding Sueta to kick out with his hind legs to ward off the one behind him, Fulk hit the failing knight again. “Yield!” He got no reply.

Sueta landed back on all fours. Fulk rocked forward in the saddle, struck once more from behind, this time the pain burning a slanted line across his spine. Left no option, Fulk kneed his mount around to face his assailant, a man at arms wearing an outdated helm with just a simple bar to guard the nose. Turning, he saw the next blow coming, and flung up his shield. The defence didn’t come into place fast enough, and buckled backwards as the sword smashed down on the upper rim. The rap to his left shoulder sent tingles up and down Fulk’s arm. Seeking time to recover full use of the limb, he went on the offensive, raining cuts down one after another in a never-ending barrage that came from every direction.

And then one blow got through, nearly spent and glancing. A few more attacks and the weakening guard failed again, and the hit to the man’s sword arm was more resounding. Outmatched, each little failure steadily cost the man at arms his nerve, until Fulk was easily dominating him. Hit after hit slammed into mail.

“Yield!” shouted Fulk, anxious to be done with this one and return to his previous target before he recovered or was claimed by another. By arrangement each unit would share their prize money amongst them, but only to half the value, the other half remaining with the one who made the capture. He brought his sword down on the other’s right hand, sending his weapon flying. “Yield!” he demanded again.

“I yield,” came the reply, yelped as Fulk raised his sword a third time.

Prince Malcolm departed, crudely declaring a need for the privy.
“He is not such a bad boy,” said his father. “A strong hand will do much for him. Someone to steady him, spend much time with him and educate him, and encourage him to a more refined path.”

Eleanor refrained from saying that had been needful long before now, self-consciously aware that the same had been said of her frequently enough.

“Given that firm hand he will be a fine man, and a fine king.” His eyes darted to check Eleanor was taking this in. “A fine husband.”

Probably not. “For someone. Perhaps.” On the field Fulk was rallying his unit; Eleanor could hear him shouting “A FitzWilliam!” over and over. His men were close by, so close Eleanor knew it must be in preparation for an order.

“You are older than he, five years, and of matching import, possessing spirit sufficient that you will not wilt before him. You could be that steadying hand, with success.”

A delicate shiver trod a path down Eleanor’s spine. This idea needed killing until by comparison it made Julius Caesar seem a picture of rude health, and politeness had failed to do that. “There is no way on this earth, in heaven or in hell I will wed that vile little wretch. I would sooner kill myself, and do not doubt it would be the kinder fate, eternal damnation for suicide included.”

The King of Scots reached over and pulled one of her hands from her lap, clinging to it. “Do not be fooled by what you have seen. The potential is there, and you could shape him. Imagine what it could mean – how many wives have the opportunity to mould their husbands so?”

A sarcastic voice from behind them commented, “Lots, if you listen to the mad bitches. None, if you listen to their bloody husbands.”

Eleanor was not surprised by the prince’s unheralded reappearance. It had been an elementary mistake on his father’s part; the din of the melee was such that someone in a pair of wooden clogs could make their way up the stairs of the box without them hearing. What she did wonder was how much he had heard – to be back so soon he must have acted like a particularly unsavoury drunk at a banquet and relieved himself on the outside wall. He may have been in time to hear her refuse him once again.

Moving forward, Malcolm stared down at their clasped hands. His right hand clenched about the hilt of the sword he wore today in place of his more usual long dagger.

The King of Scots said, “That was quick.”

“I don’t make a damned ceremony out of pissing, unlike some.” Advancing another step, Malcolm seized his father’s hand and wrenched it away from Eleanor’s. Then he sat back down, hooking one leg over the arm of his chair so he could slump facing princess and king. A moment later he shifted to sit properly, pointing at the battle. “Look!”

Eleanor looked again to the field, where Fulk fought perhaps for his very life. One armoured figure in white was half in half out of his saddle, weapon lost and shield awry as he clung on; another in a green surcoat pounced and started to herd him away to join the other prisoner her side guarded. When sufficient men had been captured to make the risky trip worthwhile they would be escorted to the recet and their name and the name of the captor recorded, the prisoner’s signature or mark made next to their name to bind them to it. Assuming they weren’t rescued before that – some would hold to their honour and admit the debt, many would not. Since they had just captured the captain of the Scottish team Eleanor doubted they would delay the trip for long.

Fresh from defeating Sir James, Fulk wheeled his destrier about and crashed into another one of her men was engaged with. Two quick blows from him combined with the collision and the attacks from the other, and this man too went down – literally: he lost his seat and fell into the churning mass of hooves. The melee wrenched apart, men struggling to get their horses clear before they trampled the unfortunate. Eleanor started breathing again when a hand reached up to grasp the saddle of the riderless animal. One foot in the stirrup, body draped over the saddle, the man was escorted away.

Eleanor expected Fulk’s unit to form up about the prisoners and take them to the recet now; always before three had been the designated number before guarding them became too much of a drain on manpower, and never before had they caught the eight marks of a leader. But Fulk was already laying into another fighter, battering him about the head relentlessly.

“Jesù Christ!” whispered Malcolm. “He’s going to …”

And the man yielded, helm twisted about so the vision slits no longer sat before his eyes.

“Three!” The princeling’s face glowed. “Three in what can’t have been much more than a bloody minute! Including Sir James, who’s normally damned good.” He shook his head. “Bloody hell!”

Royal beard suffered at royal hand. “Yes. He does have talent, does he not?”

Fulk pulled off his helm and sucked in cold, clean air, nearly sobbing in his urgency to fill his lungs. However many air holes were punched into metal the great bucket-like helms never had enough for comfort. He held out a hand, a costrel of water was passed by one of Eleanor’s men who didn’t have the skills to fight with him and served instead in the recet, the safe boundary between inner and outer fences, waiting to refresh the weary and aid the wounded. Fulk swilled his mouth out with the first gulp, spitting out a stream of dust-filled liquid. He drained the costrel without pausing for breath, sword arm so tired it trembled and spilled trickles of water down his chin to mix with sweat.

Handing away the empty vessel, he took stock of his unit. A change of horses, a drink, some air, and a few minutes of rest would do enough for the five of them to return to the field and fight on. Adam had been captured and they hadn’t been able to rescue him in time; now he sat on the other side of the second fence, out of the battle for good.

Change of horses; Fulk dismounted, and allowed Sueta to be led away. Now he would have to use the mount he’d won from the Black Knight. If he’d thought the animal was like to be unfit or a liability he’d not use it, yet still the many hours of familiarity he had with Sueta weren’t there with Hengist.

A quick glance at the royal stand revealed nothing; the three occupants sat as they had before, all seemingly at peace.

Fulk’s breathing slowly returned to normal, the trembling left his limbs. His next lot of water he sipped, mixing it with a fistful of wastrelbread stuffed with a stewed mixture of chopped prawn, fish, vegetables and herbs.

“How are we doing?” he asked the nearest non-combatant in Eleanor’s livery. It must be well, it must – he hadn’t been taken for ransom himself, narrowly skinning his way through several close calls. Others had been taken, including the one man from his own unit, yet by his count, from what he himself had witnessed, they had captured a few more than they had lost. It would be the last team standing which won, or the team with the highest winnings when the trumpet blew a second time if the battle were too prolonged.

“By our count you’re ahead, slightly. You’re down three men to injury and eight to capture, to their two and eleven respectively. Then you’ve taken their leader …”

Fulk nodded slowly, thinking.

Jocelyn looked up from under his lashes at the golden man he knelt before. He was past his initial shock at discovering the would-be king had beard and hair cut nearly identically to himself; most Englishmen went clean shaven, and shorter hair had been the dominant fashion, thanks to the old king. The man had dressed carefully, down to the last and least detail everything matched his colouring, build, rank, and care too had been extended to ensure that while he was undoubtably princely he was not overstated. Getting that balance right must have taken plenty of faffing about, more than either under or over doing it.

Hugh spoke. In bloody Anglo-French.

Jocelyn made his reply in proper langue d’oil, like a civilised man. “Forgive me, sire, but I do not understand.” No harm in buttering the man up by calling him that, even if he was just a bastard, not the chosen heir and certainly not an anointed king.

As it turned out Hugh did speak langue d’oil. He just didn’t seem to grasp the use of speaking it when confronted with a man likely to speak it and it alone. Maybe he was too damned prideful to be the one to bend first, preferring others to demonstrate their damned lacks? The old king had always fitted his language to his listeners. “I said, you may rise.”

Jocelyn came smoothly to his feet, and found himself a good inch or so shorter than the man. “Thank you, sire.”

Hugh’s eyes might be hazel – what colour had his mother’s been? His supposed grandparents? Could they only have come from bastardised blood? – yet they were nearly as unsettling as the old king’s famous deep blue. Probably because the man was staring, brows dragged in and down in a slight frown which caused a vertical line to appear above his nose. “You were the one to send the message informing us of my lord father’s accident.”

“Yes, sire. Also the following ones, reporting his improvement.”

“Improvement?” The word was so sharp it could cut, and mayhap it did, since the blood drained from Hugh’s face. “He is alive?”

“No, God rest his soul. He died eleven days ago.”

The … prince/king/usurper/whatever he was crossed himself. “God rest his soul.” Colour was returning, as well it might when a guilty conscience discovered it wasn’t about to be flayed for treason. “We heard naught after that initial missive, saving rumours, and they were contradictory, scores of which were entirely improbable. We sent messengers to discover the truth of my father’s fate, and not a single one returned. The doings of Trempwick, I fear. My father’s mistaken trust allowed him to build a comprehensive set of connections, which he has now placed at work against me.”

Which did match what the old king had said on hearing … mostly. “We heard of events here on a tide of rumour.”

The crease above Hugh’s nose deepened. His chin went down a notch, he turned half away from Jocelyn with a hesitant movement which brought his weight to rest on the foot he’d moved back. Picking up fluidity, the movement completed, bringing the man about to sit in the folding chair set in the middle of the hastily erected tent. “You claimed to have news of great import, hence this.” A hand indicated the tent, and, outside it, the army which had halted its march. The man made overmuch of it; Jocelyn had caught them when they were stopping for a brief rest and midday meal. “I would then presume this word is that news?”

What was he meant to say, that the dead man had shunted this son aside at the end? Sixteen angels and a rancid turbot, there was a dangerous thing to say in the midst of an army! “Yes, sire, for the main.”

“Then you will oblige me by telling all, now I am satisfied no more pressing matters demand my attention.”

More pressing matters? Bloody hell! If his sons greeted word of his death so coldly Jocelyn would be back out of that grave in an instant to teach them some family love. “He made a recovery few thought him capable of, and if he had but rested for a month or so more then he may have lived. As it was he drove himself relentlessly, further than his body could handle.” Alright, so it was a lie, and a fairly fat one at that. Thing was, telling this man his father had been poisoned would be a pretty stupid move because it was highly possible he had ordered it. Make Hugh innocent and still it wasn’t a smart thing to mention – not when Jocelyn had been a close presence throughout the illness, recovery and final days, all of which had begun shortly after the old king met him.

Hugh stared directly ahead for a long moment. Then he looked up, curiously vulnerable. “Did he leave a message for me? Anything?”

Jocelyn nearly said no, but saw in time how odd that would look. The truth was impossible. And there was that vulnerability; Jocelyn remembered when his own father had died, how those final few words of approval from a father to his son had been so important. He’d been a boy then, elbow high to a grown man.

As he searched for kind lies, Hugh said, “He had the coronation ring.”

Christ on the cross and all His sufferings! “I don’t know what happened to it,” Jocelyn lied coldly. “There was looting, order broke down. It was all I could do to get my family to safety.”

“Oh.” A pause. “You made hint of other business.”

“Before his accident, the king your father made me the Count of Tourraine.” Jocelyn reached into the waterproofed bag he carried and produced the charter granting him the title, lands and rights, sealed and signed by good old King William of England, sixth of his name and damned unfortunate in his sons. “Also, there was a gift of lands in England, in return for my services against his enemies. I believe they are in the north.” He passed the pair of documents over.

The callous bastard examined them. “Then you may do me homage for these lands. You are correct, the English manors are in the north, and are presently controlled by Trempwick.” The charters lowered to rest on Hugh’s knee, and Jocelyn found himself on the receiving end of a very intent expression. “I regret that at present I may lend you no aid in recovering them. However I do grant you my permission to bring your own resources to bear, and will consider any action you take against this man to be done for my good, and thus I shall judge it loyal in place of lawless. I do not overlook those who have been loyal.”

The charters passed back to Jocelyn. Witnesses were summoned, important men. Jocelyn knelt, placed his hands in Hugh’s, and swore his oath. He hadn’t expected it to be this easy, or to gain as much. He’d expected to pay heavily for his privileges, and to have a lot of trouble over the English lands, the kind of trouble which dragged on for months, years, with no guarantee of success. Time had been spent preparing excuses not to serve in the royal army. No, he hadn’t expected the man to respect his father’s word so honourably; it was like some lord out of one of Tildis’ damned stories. Besides, everyone knew oaths taken under duress weren’t binding, and anyway there was no treason or dishonour in supporting the rightful heir if it came to that.

When he stood, Jocelyn bowed. “Sire, your father bade me also to carry a message to your sister. He wished to ask her forgiveness for the sake of his soul. So, with your permission …?”

“As doubtless you will have heard, my sister is in Scotland, on a matter of import for me.”

“Sire, it was his wish.”

The focus was unwavering; Jocelyn fought the need to fidget or something, anything to break the man’s scrutiny. At last Hugh said, “Then it is none of my place to stop you.”

Foamy droplets of equine sweat scattered on the air behind the horses, scattering like faint snow; clods of churned mud rose from their hooves. Eleanor watched as Fulk’s tired unit enveloped two men who had allowed themselves to become isolated, four men easily overcoming them and taking them to the sidelines.

Malcolm had shifted his chair so far forward he was able to fold his forearms on the front of the box. “Seven,” he said. He’d been keeping count of the ransoms Fulk took personally.

It was an awe inspiring tally.

The king asked, “He has been in your service how long?”

“Around eight months,” Eleanor answered, not taking her attention from the little figure in blue who was Fulk.

“And before that he was in France?”

“Yes, with the Count of Nantes.”

“Might I then enquire as to how you discovered him?”

“When his lord died he returned to England. Trempwick hired him to be my guard; I believe it was also his hope that Fulk would spy on me.” Which was a mostly accurate sketch of events; lies were best kept simple, complex webs snared their weavers. This burst of interest was understandable; it made Eleanor nervous. Ay yet no trap had sprung …

“His family? What stock has sprung such a warrior?”

“I know very little, only that his farther was a minor noble and his mother a peasant on his estate.”

Malcolm tossed a glance over his shoulder at her. “He’s good looking, isn’t he?”

“He would be, were it not for that nose.” Which again was true enough; without the nose Fulk would merely be very good looking.

Malcolm’s chin came down on his folded arms again. He sounded quite melancholy as he said, “And brave, and loyal, and mannerly, in addition to being such a fighter. Every girl’s dream, I’m sure, and every boy wants to be like him.” The boy’s body rocked as he violently expelled his breath in what might have been a sigh or an expression of disgust. “He’s perfect.”

Eleanor suppressed a smirk; she could have added more traits to gild Fulk’s halo - and a few to knock it right off.

This time it was easy to identify the boy’s expulsion of air as a sigh. “We’re losing. The fools let themselves get slowly scattered; they’re picked off, and many of their prisoners are bloody-well rescued. I told you I should have led, old man. It’s as good as over now.”

The King of Scots clicked his fingers at his son. “Fetch me a drink.”

Malcolm’s back went rigid. “What did your last slave die of?”

“If that was your idea of sense, then pouring drinks is all you are good for. Your presence would have made no difference, save that you would be nursing bruises, same as all down there.”

Very slowly Malcolm sat up. His lower lip trembled until he pressed his mouth into a flat line, staring at his father. Emotions warred across his face. “I’m not afraid of bruises.”

Once again Fulk found himself heading to the royal box. He felt sick this time too, sick with fatigue, sick with relief – there had been no trap. This time he was required to dismount and make the final approach on foot; he did so stiffly, favouring his right knee. A shield had caught it and now the joint wouldn’t bend freely; it was swelling, the pain was beginning to make itself felt.

He crossed the remaining distance, unable to hide his limp. Eleanor would be worried.

When he knelt it was his left knee he lowered to the ground, going down slowly as his other bruises howled their discomfort. As he’d tell Eleanor as soon as he could, he was not badly hurt; in this kind of combat armour protected effectively against everything but bruises, breaks and freak accidents. Jesù, but there were always some spectacular bruises!

The King of Scots deigned to stand, stepping forward to the very front of the box. “We do congratulate you on your victory, Sir Fulk, and express our heartfelt admiration for your talents which, to us, seemed something from legend. Truly indeed must you be the son of a great man.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“As leader of the victorious side, we do grant you space at our table tonight. We look forward to it very much. Yet now we shall allow you to retire, to tend your pains and make yourself ready.”

“Thank you, sire.” Fulk needed to give himself a push from the ground with a hand before he could stand, as the heat of battle faded and left him with naught but fatigue and aching muscles; he managed it as attendants started to come forward to help.

He limped from the field, past the first fence and into the recet. There he found a reception party, grinning and jostling. He didn’t walk another step; two of Eleanor’s archers tugged their forelocks at him, called him “My lord” instead of the lesser “Sir” for the first time ever, hefted him up onto their shoulders and carried him armour and all in a feat of strength, the others forming up into a draggling procession. A flask of mead was thrust into his hand. Someone had retrieved his shield and bore it ceremonially before him, displaying the scarred arms to the growing throng. Another paced ahead of the shield, shouting over and over, “Make way! Make way for my lord the FitzWilliam!”

And so, amidst singing and celebration he left the tourney grounds, passed through Perth and returned to the palace.

Insight came with all the warning of a slap. Understanding, that vital element was missing. When she saw Fulk being toasted as the champion of the day, Eleanor saw. There had been no trap – the point had been Fulk. As with the hunt. But why? What possible reason could Anne’s father have for making Fulk into an object of attention? Eleanor could see only a repeat of the hope John had once had, of stealing Fulk out from under her nose. The theft of a prestigious hero would sting much more, and reflect well on the king and poorly on her, who had been unable to hold him. Newly cautious of the King of Scots, Eleanor would not place any water in that theory.

The meal was miserable. She knew she should be glad for his sake, as he was being fêted in splendid style. He had longed for such treatment, once, and given it up in disillusionment, accepting it as the unachievable it should have been, would have been if he hadn’t ended up in her wake in this incredible here and now.

And yet. Fulk was seated two places lower on her left side, Anne between them. She could hardly see his hands, let alone the rest of him. She couldn’t talk to him, and hadn’t since she had bestowed her favour on him this morning. She was partnered with Malcolm the Elder, and he with Anne. She had no knowledge of how badly he was injured, saving that he limped and had lost a portion of his usual grace. And all the while the king droned on, reprising once again his tactless attempt to foist his brat of a son on her.

I had wanted another pair of scenes to finish this off, but the heavens are against it. Literally – it started to thunder with no warning when I started to write them, causing my PC to reboot and lose me the sentence I’d written. Now, an hour later, it’s started to fling it down with heavy rain as if it’s about to thunder again, beginning as soon as I returned to the first of the pair. Oh well, I have lost the frame of mind required for that pair of scenes. It’ll have to wait.

Looking back over all this I find I want it to be ‘wow!’ when at present it reads more like ‘quite good’. How to upgrade it from that to the desired I can’t see. :( I can think of plenty to add, which all is very nice ... until you read the whole and realise the extra bogs it down and ruins it.

Tiberius: When it is finished, edited, refined, and in possession of a publisher, should such a miracle ever come to pass.

Kukri: The comments did make sense; they make much more when thought of in terms of fiction rather than guides.

Vladimir: Me too. In my case it’s the glimpse it shows of Fulk as a young boy, dreaming with that odd mix of idealism and self-centred arrogance children have. Poor little Fulkin, longing for a normal family and future.

Ciaran: Try months, and you are getting there. It has been so long that most of the original readers who saw the mention are long gone; I find that quite sad. Makes me feel as if I did something wrong somewhere, be it making this too long or not posting it all fast enough, or something else entirely.

Peasant Phill

05-22-2006, 09:49

I really was expecting a trap of some sort, but it isn't over yet. I don't think that Malcolm the elder wants Fulk for himself. Fame is fleeing and it'll definitely harm the diplomatic relationship with the possible monarch of his stronger neighbor.
I think he has a supposition about the relationship between Fulk and Eleanor and will exploit it. If he can 'prove' that Fulk and Eleanor are married, he could threaten to make it public with all the consequences as a result. This could be grounds enough to accept the demands for alliance (or even more) that the Scottish king relentlessly repeats.
Why all this charade when pressuring Anne could be enough? I think he wants a basis so enough people would believe the marriage if they would hear about it. Otherwise his threat (and I believe it would only be a threat as long as he can't use it to another purpose) would be an empty one.

Vladimir

05-22-2006, 13:19

So, who won? When is that grungy king of the Scots going to “adopt” Fulk so that he can marry Nelly with honor? Because we all know that it would be a real shame if something happened to his son.

furball

05-22-2006, 21:42

'"Imagine what it could mean – how many wives have the opportunity to mould their husbands so?”

A sarcastic voice from behind them commented, “Lots, if you listen to the mad bitches. None, if you listen to their bloody husbands.” '

hehehehe

Wonderful scenes!

Ciaran

05-24-2006, 12:28

Now that was really cool. Though I didn´t expect the tournament to be actually a battle, for all intents and purpose. I suppose tournaments like that could turn out deadly easy enough. Must be quite the spectacle to watch, too. Perhaps we should re-institute something like that again, it would be more fun than the dreaded football championship coming :skull:

And I loved Jocelyn worming his way through his meeting with Hugh, he may not be the most sophisticated one, but he´s some crafty bugger.

frogbeastegg

05-26-2006, 20:17

Hugh was aware Alice was watching him, lying in bed and not asleep. She thought him brooding, and he must own there was a deal of precision in that.

Confirmation had arrived. His father was dead. What had he felt? This new uncertainty burdened Hugh’s heart as had the old one. Grief, yes, in part, but not as much as he should have felt. He should be overwhelmed by sorrow. There were sentiments he could not quite classify, others which seemed close to one he knew but surely could not, could not be so. Relief. Guilt. And overall it was too quiet; his heart was too still.

It was all most troubling. In addition, for a time he had allowed this mixture of sentiment to overrule duty, leading him to enquire about a purely personal interest instead of focusing on the details which affected the realm. Even now, with distance and time to cool him, he found that wrong part of him cared more for last words than for the ring which bound ruler to nation.

“Will you sit there all night?”

“I did mourn him,” Hugh murmured. “For more than a month now.”

“Pardon, my lord?”

Constance he need not have hushed himself to inaudibility with. At this moment her absence grew to an ache in his heart, a weak, shameful ache of a feeble heart for its balm … or of a half wanting the other part God had given it.

Desired or not, Constance was not present and very definitely should not be. Her place was not with an army. He had a duty to Alice; it would be churlish to neglect it. Standing, managing a smile for her, he said, “It does not matter. I apologise. I did not realise time had passed so much.” It would be poor of him indeed to put her aside now, tired of her though he might be, or, indeed, to give any public sign that she was anything less than a cherished mistress. To thrust her into public attention when it was not of her choosing, to make her an adulteress and potential mother of a royal bastard, and then to discard her as unworthy of more than a few nights, that would be a most cruel disservice to a lady whose only fault he could see lay in being passive. It was always for him to start everything, in bed and out; her opinions for the main reluctantly given and carefully edited to obliterate anything he may disapprove of. It would be cruel to her on a personal level also to give any hint of anything but gentlemanly behaviour and good feeling towards her.

A small internal debate raged as to whether he should call his squire to help him undress or whether he should let her do it. The latter was the correct action for a man close to his lady, yet it seemed grossly unkind to drag her from the warmth of the bed. In the end he took a middling course, undressing at the bedside so she could lend some token aid without rising.

It struck him as most symbolic, that with his mistress he had naught but duty, yet with his wife more. He could not even follow tradition in that one simple matter, but needs must reverse it, making of himself an oddity. It was hard to lament.

Settled in at Alice’s side, Hugh found he would be content to spend the night like this, with her drawn into the circle of his arms. Duty be damned. For one night let duty be damned. She was supposed to be here for his comfort; Hugh applied a savage twist to that concept in his mind, using it to crush down the parallel voice which pointed out that damning his duty meant he was derelicting it. She was here for his comfort and his comfort at present was to sleep with a companion nearby.

Would it be too naive to hope that the Count of Tourraine had lied, and that his father yet lived? Hugh concluded once more that it would. From the injuries reported, from the silence of any one dominant rumour of a living king, even from Jocelyn’s presence here itself, nothing pointed to that hope being more than wishful thinking. To bend knee to one man while the former liege still lived was a base betrayal which would besmirch the betrayer’s honour for life and on into the next generation; a fool’s self-harming manoeuvre. This before the false announcement of a king’s death was added to the consideration.

“You saw the Count of Tourraine?”

“Briefly, my lord.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I hardly saw him, my lord. I would not know what to think.”

“I desire a proper answer else I should not have asked. You have a mind; I require you use it.” Aware of how harsh he had sounded in his regrettable exasperation at her timidness, Hugh added more softly, “I will not be angered whatever you say, and it may be that you see something I do not. I ask for your help.”

“He struck me as a little arrogant, moreso than is usual. Certain of himself. He’s handsome, and I’m sure he knows it.”

Hugh grunted his agreement. To that he would have added slippery, out for gain; he had not missed the signs of things kept back, of lies, and the way his generosity in honouring swiftly his father’s pledges – it would be disgraceful in the extreme to do otherwise – had both surprised and made the man’s eyes light. Intelligence also, or so Hugh hoped. Intellect sufficient to recognise the noose newly placed about his neck and cause him to act accordingly. To break faith with his sworn lord, who had only treated him with exceptional generosity … If it did come to such a low level then he would serve as an expedient example to all others, no great loss as all had previously functioned without him at the higher levels, lacking friends in places sufficiently powerful to cause difficulty over his disposal.

As for his message to Eleanor, it were as declared then God speed him and protect him on his way. If not, Sir Miles stood ready to ensure matters if Eleanor’s loyalty wavered. Time spent getting to know his new Count and forming a personal bond would have been advantageous, as would the addition of his entourage to the royal army. Yet who was Hugh to stand in the way of a request which could do his father’s soul some ease? For in truth that soul needed forgiveness. And what better way to let a traitor reveal himself than letting him run at will where the damage would be limited?

Sat on a folding chair with his injured leg thrust stiffly out in front of him Fulk felt every bit the grizzled old commander as he watched Eleanor’s men train. Hardly how he wished to see himself for another score of years, minimum. He wouldn’t be joining them for a week or more; there was no serious or lasting damage, only enough to make him solidly uncomfortable, slowed, lacking suppleness. Eleanor had tried to insist he stay in bed, or rather in the pallet she had arranged on a pair of benches pushed together in the solar so he wouldn’t have to get down to floor level and back up again. He’d told her that doing so was not an option after his having witnessed her up and about in far worse condition.

Ego only had a small part in it, praise be; Fulk didn’t like the idea of his maturity sinking so low that he’d be so petulant. Tomorrow they would set out for home, if the King of Scots did not offer something of worth for them to stay for. Lingering in bed may have offered some protection against whatever scheme the king had for him, or it may only have made him a plumper target, unable to react or anticipate as he would be.

Some of those who had participated in the tourney were not in a condition to join the morning’s training. Those who were showed the signs of bruises, strains and tired muscles.

A group crossed the ground headed in his direction. Malcolm and cronies, armed for practice.

To Fulk’s surprise the prince waved his men to stay back and came to speak to Fulk alone. “You can send your bodyguards away. If I wanted you dead they’d do you no damned good anyway. Men should be able to speak alone, without a herd of ears prying in.”

With a flick of his hand Fulk complied. “What can I do for you, your Highness?”

The boy fiddled with the thong gathering his hair at the nape of his neck, making a pretence of tightening it. “Watch me fight. Then give your opinion.”

“Highness …” Fulk lapsed, wondering what he could possibly say without getting his head taken off.

“Please.” From the way it sounded and the way the boy’s mouth twisted about it, the word was not one given easily.

Fulk rubbed at his knee to ease the soreness of it, every bit as much a pretence as the boy’s tightening of his hair lace had been. His rapid thought found ways in which refusing could endanger himself or Eleanor and few where agreeing would do the same. “As your Highness wills.”

So he watched the boy go through his paces. He took the trainer’s position behind the solid quintain as Malcolm ran several passes with a lance, peering through the protected slit beneath the target to watch form the best possible position every aspect of the charges. He sat by as the boy fought a succession of his men in foot combat with sword, axe and mace. Finally he watched the prince in a single round of mounted melee combat against one opponent.

Malcolm was drenched in sweat, breathing hard and red in the face by the time it was done. He came to stand by Fulk again, keeping others back so their words would be private. “Well?” he demanded eagerly.

“On the whole, good, very, considering your years.” It was a diplomatic statement, truth insofar as the concluding comments were missing.

“And?”

“You will go on to do well.”

“So I’m perfect?” Malcolm made a sound of absolute disgust. “I thought you might have had the balls to tell me a bit of honest truth.” The boy crossed his arms before his chest, a gesture Fulk saw as defensive which tried to be bravo. “Ah. But you’ll know that I’ll blind you or some such for saying anything bad of me. Huh. Alright, then I’ll swear that I won’t harm you for it. Except the Nefastus’ word’s bloody worthless.”

Fulk studied the boy. He had to look up to do so, the difference in standing and seated heights sufficient to require that. Yet it wasn’t Fulk who fidgeted, ill at ease. “The way you fight,” Fulk eventually said, thoughtfulness slowing the speed the words formed at, “is …” The prince was aggressive, flinging himself into the attack, using his strength and speed to batter at his foe with hardly a thought for defence or tiring himself. When he came to his full growth and strength he would leave a wave of lopped limbs, cleaved skulls and bodies near cut clean through behind him on the field. “It is the way a man fights when something he values more than life and limb is at risk and in more danger with each passing second the enemy is not defeated. Or the way a man fights when he hates his foe to the very bone. Or the way he fights when no longer cares if he lives or dies, only that he take as many with him as possible in what would be called a glorious passing. Which is it with you, I wonder?”

The boy’s eyes flinched away from Fulk’s; he averted his face to the beaten earth of the ground. “The way you fought when your princess was in danger?” he retorted. It had heat but lacked sting.

There was no point in denying something which had several verses of a song devoted to it. “Yes.”

With a small jerk of his shoulders Malcolm’s head came back up; this time he stared over Fulk’s head. He looped a thumb through his sword belt near the hilt. “Yeah, well so what? What does it matter why I fight like I do? And so what if you think it’s from rubbish like that – it’s not. What matters is that I’ll lead my armies to glory.”

Something underlying the words, something in the defiance flung at the world struck Fulk as familiar. It came clear without much work; he saw a trace of himself as he used to be in the lad, back when he’d wanted to drown out his bastardy in a blaze of glory and make for himself the life he would have been born to had his mother only been of good birth and married to his father. “You’ll die,” he told Malcolm bluntly.

“I won’t!”

“Battle and real fighting is a more conservative art. You’ll tire yourself, or make mistakes, or leave yourself open at the wrong instant. That kind of fighting can’t be sustained at that level forever. Then too you’re arrogant, overconfident. Listen, your Highness, when I say that you’ll go one of three ways. You’ll die before learning. You’ll learn the hard way, perhaps from something small, perhaps from losing a limb or more. Or you’ll learn before you set foot on the field, while there’s still time.”

The prince chewed his lower lip in the same way Anne frequently did when thinking seriously. He lowered himself to rest at Fulk’s side with both knees touching the ground and his heels providing an impromptu seat. “Which was it for you?”

The boy’s insight surprised Fulk, and faintly pleased him. The acceptance of the point pleased more. “The second.”

“What did you lose?”

“Everything, saving my life and health, though it was a near thing and I took months to recover fully.”

After a lengthy pause which Fulk took to mean the prince was giving his advice due thought, the boy said, “You were bloody amazing yesterday. Incredible. Not just fighting, but you had the strategy, the control over your men. The courage. Like some … Lancelot, or whoever. I’m sure there’ll be another song about it all.”

“Thank you, your Highness.”

“Anything else you saw?”

“You close your eyes just before impact at the tilt. Most do. The best don’t. It’s instinct, hard to override. But splinters from shattered lances will tear through your eyelids if they’re going to hit your eye, so you gain naught by it and lose the last instant where you can aim and be sure your point is set true.”

Sounding dejected the boy said, “They don’t tell me these things any more. They just say over and over how wonderful I am. Been that way since I got good; I know I’m that.” Malcolm drew a pattern in the dust at his feet with the tip of a forefinger. “I’ll give you twenty pounds a year if you’ll become my master at arms. You’ve a manor in England? I’ll replace it with one here, find you a nice heiress to marry too. Only agree to stay for long enough to train me.”

Fulk shook his head. “Your Highness, I thank you for the offer but my word is given. I can’t.”

“I’ll give you anything you want, within reason. You’ll be rich, powerful even – you’ll be close to me and have the ear of the future king, the honour of training the heir to a crown. You won’t get an offer like this ever again. You’ll be best off taking it.”

“I’m sorry; I can’t.”

Malcolm sprang to his feet, staggering as tired muscles battled the weight of his armour and the cramp induced by the way he’d been crouched. “You bloody stupid bloody jumped up fucking half-blood peasant shit of a nothing! Damn you! Blind bloody idiot! Fine. Stay with your whore of a princess – that’s what she is, maiden or no; I know there are ways. Drift about hoping she notices you if you want, spend the rest of your bloody life waiting and hoping she’ll let you near her bed – she won’t! No matter how bloody desperate she is she won’t stoop to something as low down as you! Only when she’s shut away in a nunnery and you’re begging your bread on the streets, remember this, and remember what you turned down. And remember it when I come to burn your fucking tiny little lands to ash!”

With difficulty Fulk quashed his disgust, refrained from wrapping his fingers about the boy’s neck until he wrung out an apology, and sat as impassive as he could manage.

“ I didn’t really want you anyway! I don’t care two shits for your useless advice!” Breathing heavily in ineffective fury, Malcolm stood glaring at Fulk. “Damn you!” he shrieked, and brought the back of one clenched fist across Fulk’s face.

Fulk’s head whipped around with the blow, taking some of the force from it. Slowly he turned back, equally as slowly he rose. He towered several inches above the boy, several inches broader, in possession of the growth and muscle the prince lacked. “I don’t care if you’re a prince. Half this yard heard what you said, more saw what you just did. I’d be more than within my rights if I avenged myself, and doing my duty by my slandered lady.”

As the colour fled the brat’s face he retreated a step. “You wouldn’t dare. You wouldn’t dare fight me.”

“No,” confirmed Fulk. “That’s reserved for men. Children and women who give offence like that get beaten; way the world works, and you should know it. There is this small thing called ‘fame’. Presently I’ve got a lot of it. Which means I won’t be left a hapless victim to your tantrums. Not everyone now will turn a blind eye, and lie on your behalf.”

“Whoreson bastard!”

“Boy, you’re years too late to touch me with that. I suggest you leave, before I’m pushed too far.”

Rather to Fulk’s surprise – and his immense relief – that advice was heeded, though not in any quiet style; Malcolm spat at his feet and stormed off, shouting abuse.

Fulk sat back down; he was shaking like a leaf in a gale. “Jesù,” he muttered. How he was going to explain this piece of suicidal stupidity to Eleanor he didn’t know.

The two scenes I would by preference have had at the end of the last part.

Yay for Fulk! Poor Malcolm, rejected by his hero like that. :sigh: I do hate it when I don’t know which side to support.

Peasant Phill: You must do some serious thinking while watching those oats grow. That’s a very underhand plot you’ve put together. :gring:

Vladimir: That would be ancient Rome, not medieval England. Shame.

Furball: thanks.

Ciaran: The evolution to what is now generally thought of as a tournament (two men jousting in plate armour) was a slow one, shifting from battle training to a more showy, safe event where training for real combat became a secondary objective. I do agree completely – bring back tournaments! Dump football! Yay for men in nice armour! Boo idiots with bad haircuts!

furball

05-26-2006, 21:38

Good character studies! There's Hugh, worrying about what's "expected" of him, and Malcolm, showing his better and worse qualities. I *think* Malcolm's too insightful to let things end like that between Fulk and himself. Then again, it's sometimes easy to forget just how young he really is.

Peasant Phill

05-27-2006, 12:39

Not much happened in this shot (as I'm an addict to this story I also refer to it in those terms) but it supposed to go with the previous chapter so it's alright. It is no doubt the build-up to something more.

Lady Frog: I've frequently failed to see an event coming that I've become somewhat paranoid. After every sentence I seek a double meaning or a hint to events to come.

I agree with Furball that this isn't the end between Malcolm and Fulk. Fulk may have many things that Malcolm despises (bastard birth, Eleanors love, ...), he is the man that Malcolm wants to be (brave, skilled with arms, respected,... a knight). I suspect Malcolm sees Fulk as a sort of role model, the father he didn't have. Although he won't admit it, not even to himself, he seeks Fulks approval. Do I sound like doctor Phill or what?
This search for approval can however suddenly change in hatred and despise when it isn't given. Malcolm as supporter or as enemy of Eleanors quest what will it be and what effect will it have?

Ciaran

05-28-2006, 12:26

It struck him as most symbolic, that with his mistress he had naught but duty, yet with his wife more. He could not even follow tradition in that one simple matter, but needs must reverse it, making of himself an oddity.

:wall: Now this is Hugh to the life, everything is done by the book. Every king before him (even though he isn´t king and, provided Jocelyn makes his way to Eleanor without getting killed by some cuckold husband, he won´t be one) had a mistress, ergo he´s got to get one for himself, whether he enjoys it or not :dizzy2:

As for Malcolm, he had it coming. Despite everything, he acts precisely like the spoilt brat.

frogbeastegg

05-29-2006, 09:48

The simple melody of the monks’ singing rose and filled the chapel, flying up to heaven on wings aided by architecture. One choir, one collective voice raised in plainsong.

The King of Scots said, “The newer polyphonic chants are glorious to the ears and to God, yet I find that single-line melody sung in unison by all has a certain soothing quality. All joined to one, working to one collective purpose; ordered. It is an encapsulation of perfection.”

This was his latest game. He had commanded monks to sing their hymns for the good of his soul; he had ‘invited’ Eleanor to sit with him in the balcony overlooking the chapel’s altar and listen. Hawise, one of Eleanor’s men, and a page waited in view at the stairs which went back down to ground level, in sight for the sake of propriety and deaf to all that happened, another side effect of the singing. This was her last day here; knowing that he must come to terms now or not at all put her in a state of anticipation, and of fear – what would he demand, and what if he did not? Negotiation itself could only begin from a reasonable start.

“Myself I have always had a preference for the polyphonic; I relish the complexity. The things two halves of a choir can do with a ‘glory halleluiah’ is quite astounding.”

The king beckoned to his page; the boy came running. As he knelt the king leaned down and whispered something in his ear. The boy bowed, and shot off, disappearing down the stairs.

Shortly thereafter the hymn branched off into a polyphonic version, one group singing the main line, another carrying an underlying melody, a third, softer set lending a supporting voice, the same tender words of reverence now possessing a rich depth.

Eleanor closed her eyes. “That is more worthy of being called soothing. You could lose yourself in it, if you but closed your eyes and let yourself drift.” Not that she disliked plainsong, or did not understand why some preferred it. With a rueful smile, knowing what choirs could and often did with this style of singing, Eleanor added, “Well, unless they move on to vigour, power and glory, or cheerful.”

They listened for a while. She kept her eyes closed, easier to let him think her mind wandered, and easier to think. Near-seamlessly the monks moved from the end of one song to the start of the next.

The sound of a throat being cleared reopened Eleanor’s eyes, in time to see the king’s hand reaching out to her a little before it came to rest on her arm. “You were not to have been the negotiator, I know this. You were to stand at this dead Miles’ shoulder and lend the weight of your blood to proceedings, watch and learn, and to be bartered away if it came to that.” Eleanor opened her mouth to correct him as to that last; he held up his other hand to forestall her. “No, whether you were informed or no, it is so. That apparently you were not informed and did not agree I find unsurprising, I must admit, and a sad abuse of you. It says much. I fear there is much in your male relations I do not appreciate, for all that I married my daughter to one.”

“And that in turn says much of you.”

Anne’s father removed his hand from her arm to smooth his moustache. “Doubtless.” The hand settled back on her arm, nearer her hand this time. Under two layers of wool Eleanor’s flesh crawled. “In recognition of all this, and of your intellect, I shall speak as plainly as the merchant my son accuses me of being. To support your bother – half brother? – I want much. I want the border, I want land, and I want money. I want the security of a bond of blood; you shall marry my son. This last is not negotiable.”

Eleanor tweaked her arm out from under his hand, conquering a grimace. “None of it is negotiable – it is a nonsense, oft repeated and always refused. It is unreasonable, and I shall not yoke myself to that monster of yours, and, as you appear to forget, it is judged by many that I already have a husband.”

The king took his hand back, expression wounded. “Someone needs must yoke the boy, lest he run wild.”

“You are his father, and it should have been done long ago.”

He chuckled, raised a hand to waggle a finger at her. “Yes, we have heard a considerable deal of your family’s opinions in such, and of its deeds in that sphere.”

“And again it says much of you that you would press your daughter to marry into that.”

“Ah,” the king mused. “My Anne did warn me of your claws. Consider this, though: you are but a kitten as yet.”

“I grow.”

“I do not doubt that you do. Truthfully, it is growth I am concerned with, desiring to nurture, if you will.” He indicated her brow. “Where is your crown?”

“I do not see a need to wear it presently.” Because she was not an insecure showy ponce, she added silently.

“No, not that cheap bauble,” he said impatiently, “your true crown. Where is it? Let me tell you. It is in England, with a thief’s fingers closing over to grasp it and take it from you. You refuse to stake your claim; your bastard brother runs loose, your supporters lack you, and all over there are many who take no side, waiting for something to push them one way or another. Here you are, asking for my help for that thief. Why, I do wonder, and the only answer I find is that you are too afraid.”

“Hugh is the rightful heir. He was named, groomed, and he is the only surviving son. He was declared regent in England during our father’s absence. My father’s intent as to the succession can be no clearer.”

“The first step is the hardest. From there all becomes easier. I too was once afraid; I believe near all of us who come to a crown fear at the very start, all except the Neros of the world. It is a great responsibility, a very great burden. But a rewarding one! To shape one’s people, to guide the ship of state, to have one’s decisions followed and bring sweet fruits. To see the mighty drop to their knees before you because they caught your eye …”

“The plots against you,” Eleanor picked up, in the same near-bland tone as he had used, “the threats to life and all those held dear, the endless struggles to hold the powerful in their place, the fighting. The responsibility for peace and the greater course of the realm, things so crushingly big-”

“That to deal with them is invigorating, the mark of one’s true worth, as ordained by God and confirmed in holy oil at the anointing. To be above all others-”

“And apart from all others, forever alone and never again wholly human.”

“To be something more.”

“And something less. To be a prisoner of a gilded cage. To needs must always be on the move, on progress over an entire realm, not a mere collection of holdings. To have to listen whenever someone wishes to speak with you; to have to give judgements, and ones which are approved of as well as just. To have to provide for the succession, and to endlessly have people eying you expectantly for the least hint of a child, to have them blame you for each daughter, for each miscarriage, for each stillbirth, for each hope which was raised and dashed by the lack of an heir.” Eleanor had watched Hugh suffer under it for a long time now, and Constance alongside him.

“To know that whatever the matter, whatever the circumstance, one’s will shall affect matters, not glance off or go unheeded.”

“To know that when disaster comes it rests on your shoulders, and happened because somewhere, somehow you chose poorly. That every death, every life shattered lies at your feet. That, ultimately, you will seldom be the one to suffer for your mistakes; others will bleed and die for it, not you.”

“To hold a place of import in the world.”

“To know that in holding that place I have destroyed hundreds of years of tradition. It is no light thing to break ‘what is, was, and shall always be’. People set their faith in it. May as well have the sun rise in the west; the change could be survived, yet the harm it would do. Things would never be the same again.”

“Almost you make rulership sound a chore.”

“It is. Like unto the little man who bails out a boat in a storm is a king.”

“Again, Anne had warned me.” The king tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, giving the appearance of thought. “You will not consider it? My terms for supporting you are far more reasonable, as you would put it.”

“I have, many times over. I will not usurp my brother’s throne. I have been bred to support my brother, not supplant him; I lack the skills and the inclination. A woman on the throne would be a disaster; the nobles would use every opportunity to try their strength, taught as they are that it is a man’s place to rule over women. Then too there is the matter of trust; who could I give my army to? The necessity of having men fill roles belonging to the ruler too would be troublesome, taking power from the crown and giving it to men who already possess an abundance of it, putting them in a better position to try their hand at rebellion and thus making them more likely to do so.”

“One with the correct skills, and support, could overcome this and go on to great things.”

“Yes,” agreed Eleanor. “But I have neither, and I have a brother.”

“Then it falls to my third and final offer. This one I feel will be more to your liking, centring primarily as it does on renewing an existing arrangement …”

The product of a tired frog writing late into the night instead of sleeping like a sensible amphibian :yawns: There’s the problem with finally reaching the start of the sequence which contains loads of those scenes which pester frogs over and over, demanding to be written.

Furball: Indeed. Question is, would Malcolm come back in his better vein or his worse one?

Peasant Phill: Yay! I made you paranoid! :gring:

Dr Phill isn’t a quack.

Ciaran: Mmmm, and that’s the kind of reasoning which is really very difficult to explain to the wife. It is funny though, Hugh can be so daft it is funny.

Peasant Phill

05-29-2006, 11:49

Well, Lady Frog, you know how to keep people interested in this epic tale. Stopping with a cliffhanger, how dare you:laugh4: .

So the king of Scots wants to support Eleanor, but at a price. I hope it'll be a stroke of genius on his part as he has been working towards this for as long as Eleanor is in Scotland. Otherwise I would be very disappointed :shame: .

What has he done to work up to this:
1) letting her wait for him (I think it was deliberate)
2)perhaps he instigated the attack on her (I told you I went paranoid) in order to get rid of ... and give Malcolm the chance to show off and save the day
3) Nipping every attempt at diplomacy in the butt by postponing or making impossible demands
4) giving Fulk the chance to gather fame (why? I'm not sure but it will all be clear soon enough)
5) waiting for the last possible moment to make his real demands (for dramatic effect or to get abetter deal)

As I'm just mildly high intelligent :laugh4: I can't exactly work out what the deal will be but marrying of Malcolm would be a top priority i think (even though Eleanor would never accept it).

furball

05-30-2006, 04:19

Tempo:

Not counting the King's line, “Almost you make rulership sound a chore,” there are 5 "back-and-forths" between him and Eleanor about what it means to be a ruler. *I* think 3 would be plenty. All the points made were good, but for tempo, 3 is plenty. Ideally, the points in each "back-and-forth" should escalate. Some individual points might need to be dropped and others rearranged for dramatic effect. No, I won't presume to rewrite it - I am no frog!

Froggy, I know you think carefully about each scene, but - if you have the time - let another day go by and then reread that installment with as fresh an eye as you can. We may disagree, but to me that installment illustrates a point: tempo and economy of phrase could be well-served with editing the 5 back-and-forths down.

My apologies for sounding nit-picky. I wouldn't even presume, if the whole enterprise wasn't done with such skill and clarity.

Vladimir

05-30-2006, 15:01

“Then it falls to my third and final offer. This one I feel will be more to your liking, centring primarily as it does on renewing an existing arrangement …”

They're going to kill Hugh!!! Then she wouldn't have a choice. Although why Trempy the super spy hasn't managed to do it yet I don't know. I imagine she's going to lead him into a trap and he's going to dutifully loose his head. Gah! Duty in bed? Sounds rather, anti-climatic. :eyebrows:

Peasant Phill

05-31-2006, 08:39

Is an assassination attempt on Hugh worth the risk?
Problem 1: Is it feasible? Does Scotland have the resources to pull this off?
Problem 2: What if the attempt fails? both Hugh (for obvious reasons) as Trempwick (He apparently wants to win 'in plain view') would hold a grudge.
Problem 3: What's in it for Scotland? Without a hold on Eleanor the gain would be minimal or even no gain at all. Yes, a women on the throne would weaken the power of England a certain degree (although this is not necessarily so), it also would unite England again instead of the state of civil war it is in now.

The hold on Eleanor this will be the most important part for the offer. I can't wait to know what it'll be.

Vladimir

05-31-2006, 12:49

Well anyone with a knife can kill a king, providing he's vulnerable. Trempy holds more than a grudge already because he's leading a civil war! Plus if you look at the Scot King's insistence that she marry that pimple faced, impotent, whelp of a son I'm sure he thinks he would very much benefit by having her on the throne. Most likely however, once she gets the ring Hugh's drab sense of duty will eventually convince him to join forces with her, Malcolm, and all the Trempy defectors against the eeeeeevil welsh and German holdouts.

Peasant Phill

05-31-2006, 13:48

@Vladimir

I agree that the actual killing isn't hard. The problem lies with covering up the tracks. Their would be war if the English find out that they killed Hugh. If not immediately then after the civil war.

With the grudge of Trempwick I meant a grudge against Scotland.

Don't call Malcolm that as far as your concerned he's in his sexual prime (just has to find a willing girl first) and about the pimples: he's not to blame that cleracil hasn't been invented yet. The old Malcolm will have to find some damn good reason for Eleanor to marry his pimpled highness (that's the genius part of the plan I'm hoping for).

Vladimir

05-31-2006, 15:00

Well, we'll have to see if your plan turns out to be correct. I think it'd be pretty funny to see Fulk as a concubine. :idea2:

frogbeastegg

06-08-2006, 18:59

Eleanor looked up when Hawise reappeared with Fulk.

To her bemusement the knight struggled down to one knee in the middle of the solar and bent his head, but not before she spotted a purpling bruise on his cheekbone the size of a knuckle. “I’m sorry. You’ve troubles enough without me adding to them, and dangers enough. I shouldn’t have let him goad me.”

When had she last seen him play knight to her princess in private? Not for a long time. What had he done?! “If I admit I have no idea what you are talking about,” Eleanor asked, “will you think me ignorant, or merely a little behind? And do stop that kneeling, you will do your knee no good at all.”

When Fulk had regained his feet she was treated to a brief story of Malcolm being his usual charming self. “It’s not so bad,” Fulk added once the telling was done. “There was no other response I could make, not in public. A knight can’t stand such treatment without answer, and he can’t let his lady be slandered. If he does then he is no knight, instead a craven. The damage done to both our reputations would have been greater then.”

Reputation: what a thing to think of when the sadistic little rat had a new grudge. “Very pretty. How long did it take for you to think of that?”

“It came to me about the time I saw Hawise descending on me with grim purpose,” he admitted ruefully. He limped over to the bench she sat on, and plonked himself down at her side. Taking her chin in his hand he turned her face this way and that, peering at her. “Hmm. I was right. You’re not getting enough sleep; you’re getting dark smudges under your eyes.”

Eleanor jerked her chin from his light grip. “Charming. Next you shall tell me I have lines appearing, caused by stress.”

“Actually …” He smoothed the outer corner of her right eye. “But they should go without trace if you only stop fretting.”

Eleanor caught his hand, straightened the fingers out flat with her other, and placed it on his leg. A pat to make sure it stayed in place when her hands left it, and she said sternly, “I believe I called for the leader of my bodyguard, not my fool. I have summoned my council, such as remains of it.”

“Only Miles died,” Hawise pointed out.

Eleanor waved at the maid to sit somewhere. “The councillors Hugh gave me will be of no use; I can guess their answers, and those answers are detached from my goals. Of Anne the least said the better. She no longer has a place here.”

“What has she done?”

“Betrayed me,” Eleanor replied succinctly. Coming from such an unexpected quarter it had got in under her guard, and hurt. There was a chance the girl had meant well, a chance which relied on Anne being idiotically naïve and as brainless as a feather pillow.

Hawise sat down like her knees had buckled. “Never! She looks up to you-”

“Nonetheless.”

Fulk had become a duplicate of a statue of a knight on a tomb: motionless, expressionless, and in some way empty of the spark which made a thing look alive. He understood. He saw his own grave yawning at his feet.

“They do say like father like daughter, and we may only hope that I can exhibit a little of that. My beloved regal ancestor nearly always managed to twist gain from anything, including his own disadvantage.”

Fulk murmured, “She was our witness.” The only person they had trusted with the secret of their marriage.

Flooded with feeling for him Eleanor put a hand on his shoulder. “It is not over yet. We do have choices still, and if I have the temper and eyes then I must have the ability to twist also.”

His own hand came up to clasp hers like a lifeline. “I hope to God you do.”

“The King of Scots has made this offer. I can refuse it, and already I have driven his terms down to something more bearable. It is …” To describe in blunt words what it was would be pitiless, to use kinder ones understate the hideousness of the situation. Whatever she longed for, whatever she felt, she couldn’t think of it otherwise. That would be to blind herself and claim grass was blue, and then wonder at the green stains it left and be dismayed that no other saw it as anything less than green.

Eleanor removed her hand from him; if things went one way he would spend the span of his days hearing such things. Better for him to make his decision without being sheltered. “It is obscene. I have never heard of the like, never. It is unprecedented. Not only will it ruin me utterly but it will taint my entire family, for generations to come. Taint?” She produced a bitter, bitten off laugh. “Coat in dung would be a more apt term, save that it is still much too mild.”

Fulk’s stillness shattered. He caught her arms in his hands, holding on with a death grip. His expressionless face didn’t alter. “What did he offer?”

“For Alnwick, Rothby and Rochester, and the lands five miles to the south of those strongholds, eight hundred marks paid within a month of the treaty being signed and a further ten thousand to be paid in instalments over three years, and my marriage to his named man he is willing to renew the alliance and aid Hugh. The lands gained will be combined into a new earldom, and the holder of it shall be titled the Earl of Alnwick. The title shall be conferred onto the man he has chosen before our match is announced. Should I agree.”

He was strong, Eleanor’s arms ached at his grip. “Who is this man?”

“You.”

His hands spasmed, loosing and clamping back with more pressure than before, then dropped away. Colour fled from his face. Through numbed lips he said, “I don’t think I heard that correctly.”

“We do not have to, we do have the choice. We can refuse. If desired our existing marriage can be dissolved without difficulty or blame, unconsummated as it is.”

Hawise mouthed “Existing marriage!!” and gaped like a fish at them.

“We do have a choice,” Eleanor repeated. What she would do if he didn’t want her she didn’t know and hardly cared; very little would matter anymore. “He had this in mind from the beginning. He has been building for it. A false lineage would be announced for you; it is all carefully woven already. You would be the bastard son of William de la Bec, the Archbishop of York two men prior to our current. He died on his way to Rome to take up a post there. A very good family, now extinct.”

Hawise made her first contribution to the council. “It wouldn’t be believed.”

“It is not meant to be,” Eleanor replied. “If it were then it would reduce the damage. Our host wants his full pound of flesh. People would pay lip service to the idea here, in public, and for his aims that is all that is needed.” Pound of flesh? Damn it, the man had smiled as he told her that her father had ruined his face and now he would return the favour. As if her beloved regal ancestor had wielded the blade which cut the bearded git’s face personally! The attention to detail the wretched crowned ponce had shown was boggling, the slightest aspect turned to his favour, old traditions dug up, and all in the name of helping to disprove Trempwick’s claim on her and providing as much safety for them as possible.

Fulk leaned his elbows on his thighs and hunched down, staring at the floor. “Deny my father, who only ever loved me and wished me to be his heir. Slander my mother, assuming she’d still be that, by making her the five minute amusement of some unruly churchman. Go on, what else.”

“Married with full ceremony before hundreds of witnesses and the church as we will be, holding half the border as you will be, and possessing a rival claim as I am, Hugh would have to be constrained in his dealings with us. True, very few would follow me after this, but it would suit Scotland to have a laughingstock of a queen on their neighbour’s throne, one reliant on their support to keep her crown. Left with no other choice, I would have to raise my standard against Hugh. Pushed too far and you will go to Scotland for support. Imprisoned or murdered and Scotland will again have a legitimate reason to march; weak as Hugh’s position is he cannot afford that risk. Whether they will or not is not the point, the risk that they may is. But Hugh could never welcome us, assuming he wished to, which he will not. So he would always have cause to worry about our loyalty, and could never free himself of it, or of the scandal. He would always need to concern himself with a border which, until now, has been strong, secure from all but raids and the unlikely prospect of sieges where no relief can be provided from the rest of the country.”

Fulk’s head bobbed slowly as he thought all this through. “Jesù, we’d be exiles stuck in our own country. A pair of morbid curiosities. There’d be plenty who’d have nothing to do with us, others who …” He shrugged, a simple little rise and fall of his shoulders which spoke elegantly of what their life would be like. “They’d look on us the same way they would the criminal they’ve gone to watch executed.”

It would be bad. Eleanor knew that however often she tried to imagine the worst she would not cover a tenth of how it would be. It took other people’s inventive maliciousness to make a hell, a single mind could never manage the breadth of possibilities nor find its own unidentified sensitive points. Imagination could not tell how the endless parade of tiny little near-nothings could grind the spirit to dust. “We could not be sure of what Hugh would do, only that he would damn himself if harm came to us.” Eleanor added in a small voice, “But sometimes death is a mercy compared to life. And it would not be Hugh alone, but everyone.”

“I remember …” Fulk stood and began pacing about the room. His limp reduced as if he no longer cared about the pain his knee gave him. “I once asked my mother why she hadn’t wanted me. I was really young, but I knew that and I knew she adored me, and didn’t see how the two could be at the same time. She told me that she didn’t want to bear children who had no place in the world, who would have to win everything themselves or be stuck on the outside. That too I didn’t understand then.” He stopped, leaning one arm against the wall and letting his weight sag off his injured leg. “But which would it be, if we did this?”

Eleanor nearly answered that she did not know. “The outside, more than likely.”

He whirled, stumbling as his hurt leg took his burden and nearly failed. “How am I to hold half the north?” he cried. “How!? The nobles will have none of me, the common soldiers won’t be much better. I’m not trained for it – I’m no lord, no general.”

His answer came from the direction of his elbow, Hawise. “But you are becoming famous, and a skilled warrior. That, and money, would go some way with the men at arms, wouldn’t it?”

“A little way with some, not a long way with hundreds, and not when the nobles stand against me.”

“Fulk.” When he returned his attention to her, Eleanor said not unkindly, “Do not ask questions to which you already know the answers. How do you think you would hold it? With that.” She pointed at the sword he wore belted at his side. “How else could you? As for the rest, you will learn or you will die. No different to any other new-made lord taking land which does not want him. Yes, a far worse start. But the same path. More dangerous, harder, yes. The chance of success is slim. Yet it is there. At least your lady will be at your side, not wanting you dead so she can have her lands back and be free of your hated presence. I promise you that anything I can do to support you I shall. You will have my army, and support from the King of Scots; you shall have to talk warfare with him to determine what.”

“If I failed you’d be doomed along with me.” He limped over and dropped to his knees before her, taking her hands in his. “Beloved, oh ‘loved, you would be throwing away your future! Think of all that you would lose. You might not want the crown now, in the future you may. Even if all were to go as perfectly as possible you would still have lost your respectability, your chance at power, you’d still be reviled-”

“I know,” Eleanor said gently. “And I say again, we do not have to.”

He finished the thought for her. “But it is very probably our only chance.” He gazed at her hands, his thumb stroking the cheap twist of gold ring he had chosen for her more than half a year ago. “You would agree to it?” Fulk shook his head in dismissal of his words. “No, if you wouldn’t you would not have told me of the offer. Dearest, have you not thought of what it means?”

“It took me hours to call for you. From here the decision is yours.” It did require hard thought. Love, whatever storytellers said, did not frequently overcome insurmountable odds; it was a very great risk, and much of it dealt with unknowns which could only be bounded as not being to either extreme of the good/bad scale. Love died easily under the kinds of strains they would encounter if they accepted the deal. Continuing as they were they might preserve what they already had. And it was in no way certain that such sacrifices had to be made no matter how deeply one was in love, indeed it was possible to argue that from one point of view the most devoted thing to do would be to walk away and leave the other safe.

“I can’t ...” His protest died. Fulk licked his lips. “No, I’d have to, wouldn’t I? To try and play earl I’d have to make important choices, often. So if I can’t manage this first one …” He glowered at her from under his brows. “You’re a very underhand gooseberry.”

Eleanor glowered back. “I was thinking no such thing! I thought it unfair to decide your life for you, or to place you in such danger without it being of your own will. Which, to twist your own recent words, is why I would not make a good queen.”

“My God,” he breathed, “but we are in trouble.” He glanced at Hawise. “Anything sensible to say?”

The maid had recovered from her earlier shock sufficiently that she no longer resembled a halibut on market day. Now she was the perfect picture of serious calm. Eleanor envied her. The maid shook her head vigorously, and said a little louder than her usual softness, “No!” Perhaps the composure was not as extensive as it looked. “I don’t think sensible is possible in this, I really do not. He’s offered you what you want most and can’t get otherwise with the things he wants most attached so it’s all or nothing. There is no sensible in there; either way is its own folly. In any case, it is none of my decision to make. I’m her Highness’ maid, and will continue to be so as long as I’m wanted, whatever happens.”

Fulk worked his way back to his feet, giving himself a push up with Eleanor’s hand and the leg it rested upon. “I think I began to fall for you that evening when we first came to Woburn, when I found what you’d done to save my life. It’s been a very long drop, and I’m convinced you stuck out a foot to trip me as I innocently approached the precipice to look over and see what it was.” His crooked half smile died. “Seems a shame not to see what’s at the bottom.”

Eleanor’s stomach declined to cease its nervous fluttering, the world didn’t change, nothing happened. Which all went to prove that those stupid stories were entirely detached from reality - when people who might or might not be described as true loves condemned themselves to marriage they did not pause for a few minutes to engage in a bit of celebratory kissing, no angels appeared, the maid didn’t start exclaiming banal clichés of joy, and no mysterious strangers burst in to announce that someone was heir to a lost kingdom.

Hugh was going to kill her when he found out. Metaphorically speaking. So would Trempwick.

Eleanor tugged the hand Fulk still held, insisting he sat down to rest his knee. He would need to be in good fighting order as soon as possible. “You crept your way into my heart while I was not looking, and by the time I noticed you had set up a neat little fortified camp complete with archers in towers on the perimeter.” She sniffed. “It was hardly chivalrous.”

Yes, I know I said they couldn’t marry. Which is true – it requires something Incredibly Astoundingly Miraculously Extraordinary (but hopefully not something which feels like it is convenient or wouldn’t happen in reality), like a king bent on using them for his own freakish blend of revenge and power-gaining based on information gained from a chattering 13 year old dreamer.

You know, I admit I have absolutely no idea whatsoever what people will think of this development. None.

And the King of Scots said, “You must be the son of a very great man …” And the frog echoed his silent addition so that now the readers could hear, “Like a former Archbishop of York who was also one of the last de la Becs … or whoever else is opportune.” :gring:

Obviously there is loads more to say. Either I tell it now, or I show it as we go. The latter is by far preferable; one multi-page extra lengthy dull bit of exposition per 1,000 pages is more than enough, and that was used up back when Nell announced Trempy was a traitor. So a bit of patience when judging will be appreciated. I think I have this working in a believable way …

The being kept dangling for well over a week wasn’t intentional. Work. More work. Some more work. Seven days and no day off or proper half day. Gah! When I tried to write I either didn’t have time or was too tired. Look, I can sum up how bad a week it was if I simply say I read one (1) book in the entire time, rather than the usual 5 or so. It was horrible - to get to this part in the story at long last and to be unable to do anything at all!

Now, I shall depart! :froggy jumps on the horse she had standing by and rides at top speed to her secret frog castle, which has been newly strengthened with a second moat, a third curtain wall and a whole load of ballista towers. Hiding in the keep she settles down to eat, sleep and read (all three at once if possible, separately if not ;p), knowing she is safe from angry mobs trying to gut her if such should prove the case:

Hehe! I love the way that despite all his talking, posturing and so on, the readers’ verdict seems to be Malcolm=virgin. Hehe! Which would be correct. I also like the assumption that, again despite everything, the assumption is that he hasn’t quite got the makings of a rapist.

Peasant Phill: Cunning enough for you? And well done on spotting the KoS manoeuvring. I shall confirm that the Dunning Brothers attack on Nell was the work of Trempy, but otherwise you are entirely right.

Vladimir: The problem with assassinating your opposition in medieval England is that, unlike places like Italy, it was frowned on. Even the suspicion of kin or rival slaying and the person was not trusted or liked, and it made for a deal of unrest. I have been told by one person that this makes English history boring, but to them I say :sticks her tongue out and makes a noise commonly called a ‘raspberry’ hereabouts:

Furball: Entirely right ~:)

I do try to let a day or more go by, but aggravatingly chance to do that recently has been non-existent. :grumble: And at the time when I really need to be on top form too.

furball

06-09-2006, 02:40

Ok, first, thanks for the reminder that Anne had witnessed their marriage. I *had* forgotten. And your post-script about "'And the King of Scots said, “You must be the son of a very great man. . .'" was wonderfully ironic, though I didn't remember that. Sorry! :)

Now, to the offer and all the angst surrounding it:

It's well-written. (And the way you "threw in" the Anne stuff - the roundabout way of throwing it in was neat.) But I found myself thinking, "Can they really be this 'demoralized' or surprised?" I read the episode carefully twice, and some things still "get" me.

Fulk says, “Beloved, oh ‘loved, you would be throwing away your future! Think of all that you would lose. You might not want the crown now, in the future you may. Even if all were to go as perfectly as possible you would still have lost your respectability, your chance at power, you’d still be reviled-”
But if she'd be reviled for marrying Fulk, didn't they both accept that when she first DID marry him? My thought at that point was, "Well, when they married, maybe they had a small hope they'd be able to live quietly somewhere without public notice." I then I remembered that Trempy would always keep looking for them. But still, hadn't they already accepted what Fulk voices here when they married?

(I assume the revilement will be because of the COMING marriage to Fulk, not from the Scot king's revelation of the prior one. After all, he's already certified that she's 'Virgo Intacta' and wouldn't the gentry and peasantry easier believe that there was no prior marriage, than that two young married lovers had travelled for months without consumation?)

So, it seems to me their dismay at being publically married is a tad odd. Further, though, Eleanor says, "Not only will it ruin me utterly but it will taint my entire family, for generations to come. Taint?” She produced a bitter, bitten off laugh. “Coat in dung would be a more apt term, save that it is still much too mild.”

I sort of agree with Hawise here. Fulk is a knight, he's gonna be an Earl, SOME folks will believe the York lineage (even if it humbles Fulk to acknowledge it.) Is it the marriage itself that will "coat the family in dung" or is it the humiliation of having to rely on the Scots for protection?

Finally, the points made in the story *did* help me understand the precarious situation this puts them in, vis-a-vis Hugh. And the paragraph about "true loves condemned themselves to marriage " was a nice tangential addition, adding fullness to the scene.

So I think it was a *wonderful* episode. Things certainly look . . . *busy* . . . for Eleanor and Fulk in the future, but for us romantics, there's hope shining faintly at the end of what appears to be a long dark tunnel. :) (And I think you said once this story wouldn't have a happy all-storylines-pleasantly-concluded ending. That's ok. But giving romantics hope amidst all the realism, intrigue, etc., isn't a bad thing, even if short-lived. :) )

Yay, Ms. Frog!

Peasant Phill

06-09-2006, 09:12

Well Lady Frog (making a bow as deep that my nose touches my knees) I marvel at your wit (or I at least liked the demands a lot). I wonder if it's the romantic in you or your sadistic evil incarnation that came up with this.

I think it's believable. The KoS offers them what he knows they crave for and gets so much in return. KoS gets an English border that will be disorganized for quite some time with a lord that owes him a lot, the true heir to the English throne out of the picture, Hugh in a position dependant on the goodwill of Scotland and last but not least revenge on his old rival.
If it's workable is another question, Eleanor is still believed to be married to Trempwick. ah well I won't make anymore assumptions and just let the next installment sweep me of my feet again.

frogbeastegg

06-09-2006, 10:02

Yay! I'm at work a couple of hours later than usual. So I get to see the initial reaction instead of having to wait until evening.

Firstly, thanks. This is all very useful for me.

But if she'd be reviled for marrying Fulk, didn't they both accept that when she first DID marry him? My thought at that point was, "Well, when they married, maybe they had a small hope they'd be able to live quietly somewhere without public notice." I then I remembered that Trempy would always keep looking for them. But still, hadn't they already accepted what Fulk voices here when they married?
The nature of the thing is the difference. The first was secret, to be kept secret, and to be limited because of that. You've obviously seen how it has worked; overall it didn't change their lives much at all. If they wished to they could have dissolved the union since it was not consummated. To be honest even if it were they could have broken it as only the three people knew of it. Almost they were playing at being married.

The newly proposed one will be a proper marriage, and they will be trapped in it until death. There's no divorce at this time, and they will be unable to have it annulled on the grounds of consanguinity. The whole world will know of it.

(I assume the revilement will be because of the COMING marriage to Fulk, not from the Scot king's revelation of the prior one.
Oh yes.

I sort of agree with Hawise here. Fulk is a knight, he's gonna be an Earl, SOME folks will believe the York lineage (even if it humbles Fulk to acknowledge it.) Is it the marriage itself that will "coat the family in dung" or is it the humiliation of having to rely on the Scots for protection?
Being dependant on Scotland is humiliating, yes. Because of who Nell is, because of how much help they are going to need, and because they should, by rights and the way of things, turn to Nell’s family for support.

A knight doesn't mean huge amounts in this story. It's later on that being a knight has that glamour and status of being limited to the better parts of the nobility. Here the penniless fifth son of a minor noble house can be a knight, all he needs is some armour, a horse, and someone to dub him. A baseborn bastard son of a very minor noble can be a knight - Fulk was going to be knighted before he blew his life apart. This is why there was never any objection to Nell's knighting him.

As for the earl ... erm, well I haven't had chance to explain in the story too well yet. It's a bit of a joke. I'm wondering if and how I want to explain it now. If I keep it fairly limited and say that in terms of land he's got not even half a historical earldom that might help.

It's the blood which counts, something I have been trying to highlight the importance of throughout the story. Fulk could be a king, yet his mother was still a peasant and his father a minor noble. That matters tremendously. Historically it seems to have taken an average of three generations for a new family to be accepted as noble. If he holds that earldom and expands it, if his sons continue to do the same and grow richer, and if their sons do the same then they will nearly be classed as respectable, though their origins would be a matter of gossip.

Blood passes on qualities. Noble qualities are unique to noble blood. Peasant blood is rougher, and its qualities are cruder. Mix crude with quality and the end result is muddied, like adding muddied water to good wine. Once that mud is in there it is impossible to get the pure wine back again no matter what is done, the taint carries on. Or so it was seen. Many bastards were the result of such a blend, and it's one of the reasons they were not viewed in quite the same way as everyone else.

Then there's the simple fact the existing noble families do not want any new additions adding themselves to their level - it threatens them. It's a conservative world.

There's a religious aspect. God gave each man a place in the world. It's for them to accept, not try to alter.

There's the matter of respectability too. This still matters today, in a different way. When a millionaire marries someone who is poor is it considered a good match? No. The poorer one is a gold digger, the millionaire a lust struck fool. But if the two were to marry someone of similar status then all is well. A poverty stricken minor noble marrying a rich tradesman (not a peasant, a person who lives in a city and has plenty of rights, status etc) was considered as marrying beneath them. A princess and a baseborn bastard ...

Practicality too. Marriages are practical arrangements entered into to ensure future welfare, to preserve a name and bloodline, to join riches and lands, to bring families closer together. Fulk has no family. He has nothing, his forthcoming gains will have been taken from Nell’s own family. He doesn’t bring Hugh powerful allies. All he does is make Hugh’s life harder. Nell doesn’t bring much either, just herself and all that entails. Hugh won’t give her a dowry, she has hardly any lands and will probably have them taken from her, and her family is not going to do anything for Fulk which they do not have to.

Helpful?

Peasant Phill: Ah, the Trempy question. I think you shall appreciate the answer to that one, it's very elegant and downright cunning :gring:

Romantic or sadistic? Good question. Very good question. I have an unpleasant feeling it could be both.

Ciaran

06-09-2006, 10:07

Whatever I may have expected, that wasn´t it.

One thing, though, the "pound of flesh" seems a bit too... prescient, considering Shakespear won´t be around for a few hundred years. But then, how long was the "Tale of the Jew of Malta" (from which Shakespear took this particular part for the "Merchant of Venice") around. Never mind, it´s just that the Merchant of Venice is the piece I (had to) read - and pick apart - at school.

furball

06-10-2006, 22:58

*Very* helpful! Thanks, froggy.

Vladimir

06-15-2006, 22:58

Good info, I wasn’t sure just how Machiavellian this tale was going to be. I wouldn’t worry about being considered boring. All of those lies and treachery allowed the Germans to give them a pasting. Lately you folks have been doing a decent job against them.

About the development: I think I’ll have to read it again because I’m really not sure how to react. I’m quite sure that if it goes through that they can kiss their lands in France goodbye. Very interesting. Hopefully you’ve eased the “concerns” that this tale is drawing to a swift conclusion.

frogbeastegg

06-20-2006, 14:55

The stone ball sailed through the air. It hit the castle’s outer wall. The barely visible chip in the facing of the wall might have enlarged marginally. Or not – Trempwick couldn’t tell. His hand shaded his eyes from the sun. It did nothing for aiding detail over the long distance.

The trebuchet crew started to haul the throwing arm back down.

The second trebuchet launched its missile. The result was the same.

Chester castle was strong. One of the keys to the border and the seat of the Earl of Chester. The Earl was in residence. Letting his hand drop Trempwick made his decision.

Chip, chip, chip away. The castle would fall. Eventually. After a boring siege where his talents would be wasted. The bastard’s forces were severely weakened along the Marches. It would be time before – if – reinforcements could be sent them. The Welsh could handle this.

Nothing yet from Nell. He wondered if he would get a reply. Surmised possibly not. Not a written one, not a spoken one. Too many days had passed. He worried for her. His reply would come in deeds? He had spilled out his heart in a way he rarely did. He deserved some reply.

He would return to London. Make sure all was right there. Then do something.

When he entered the common room one of the English men at arms, seated facing the door, rapped his mug on the table and pointed. Heads turned, bodies shifted. Then faces broke into welcoming smiles. Two men seated at the high end of the long trestle table came to their feet so quickly that they knocked into each other; they retreated a couple of steps backwards, both offering their stools to Fulk with a light bow.

Fulk accepted the rightmost seat, conscious of the triumphant look the man whose place he’d taken gave the other as they went to find new places on one of the long benches. A drink was poured and handed up the table, placed in easy reach with a murmured, “My lord.” He drank, hiding his shock behind the earthenware rim. It grew, and every tiny growth never failed to surprise him. From welcomed as a man amongst men when the first men were recruited in England to … this, some sort of celebrity. More than that – he was respected.

Alfred asked, “Do we stay or leave, my lord?”

Fulk drained his cup before answering. “We stay. For now.”

Luke leaned forward. “So he’s finally put forth a decent offer?”

“I couldn’t say. But we’re staying, for now.”

At the middle of the higher end of the table Waltheof steepled his hands. “It was good to see someone stand up to the Nefastus, my lord.” The Scottish knight’s mouth hardened. “There is a bright point to my situation – I’ll perhaps not have to pledge fealty to him.” Waltheof was originally the second son of his family, sent to train for the clergy at seven and home again at twelve to train as a knight and heir, a change of career granted by his elder brother’s death. Then his father had died, his mother remarried; the lands had been held in jointure, Waltheof would only inherit when his mother also died. A new brother appeared in due course, and the stepfather had done his all to make his own son the heir. Waltheof had been thrown out with horse and armour the day after he was dubbed, that being done as soon as could be managed with decorousness. When his mother died he would have to appeal to royal justice for his lands, or return home with an army and chase his half-brother out. There was no certainty to either approach.

Someone barked with laughter. “The little runt fair near soiled himself!”

The room laughed or grinned, excepting Fulk.

Luke jumped up, hunched down to half his height and shook a fist up at an imaginary person. “Damn you! I’ll crush you! I’ll break you with my bare hands!” He hopped up and down a few times, miming trying to strangle someone far taller then he. “Damn you!”

The corner of Fulk’s mouth lifted. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Luke hopped once more, then stood up properly. “My lord, you didn’t see it.”

“Besides, the lad’s of good height for his years.”

Waltheof mused, “In truth that is so, and you are of no more than average height and build. Still, isn’t it said that a man’s stature comes from many things? And in the contrast between callow youth and experienced man such things would only further the gap, wouldn’t they?”

The room sat in a contemplative silence.

Waltheof’s neighbour gave him an amicable punch on the shoulder. “God damned escaped Scottish monk!”

Eleanor reviewed her letter to Hugh, skipping over the opening preliminaries, and felt newly grateful to Trempwick for insisting she learned to write, a menial task usually delegated to a clerk.

The missive was brief. It grovelled, and she hated it. Begged for his understanding, pleaded with him to wait for her personal explanation before forming judgement or acting, implored him to see the many advantages. It reminded him of his words to her before she left, that she give any marriage she were offered serious thought. It listed those advantages before Fulk was named, at the very end, as the husband she would take, and listed them in a servile way founded on Hugh’s own gain. No longer could she be seen as his rival for the throne. No longer could Trempwick claim her as his wife, and the claim would be proven as false before numerous witnesses of excellent birth. The rebellion would be gutted in a single stroke. The lands yielded to Scotland would as good as stay within English control; a good part of the money paid over to be granted to the new Earl of Alnwick, who would in turn give it back to the crown. The border would remain secure. Eleanor cast the document down, unable to read more. To see herself sum up her marriage without the barest mention of affection or happiness made her uncomfortable, as though the words might curse it.

It wouldn’t help. But better he heard it from her than another, and better she try and plant the speeds of gain in his mind than not. Constance might help nurture those seeds and calm the outrage; Eleanor prayed her sister-in-law would not abandon her completely or, failing that, would help prevent further damage for the sake of her husband and unborn child.

She took up her quill again, her hand wavered over the space at the end. Letter by letter she inscribed her plain signature at the end. The quill returned to the table; she scattered sand over the wet ink.

The letter was rolled, tied and about to be sealed when she changed her mind. Spreading the sheet back out she grabbed her quill and added five words beneath her name, feeling and her haste to get those words added lending her hand some character. “Brother, he is my soul.”

Hawise answered the knock on Eleanor’s bedchamber door. One of the two men assigned to guard duty in the antechamber stepped in with a deep bow. “Your Highness, princess Anne is here and requesting to see you.”

Eleanor had done all there was to do, waiting for the hour of None and the audience with the king that awaited. She may as well get this over with. “Send her in, then see we are not disturbed.” Soon she would be able to exempt Fulk from that without it looking very strange.

Anne hardly waited until the three of them were alone before she burst out, “It is wonderful, isn’t it?”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Is it?” She said to Hawise, “Let us have a third opinion, to break the tie. Is it?”

Anne sat down next to the maid and her embroidery. “Oh, of course it is! You get to marry him, and he becomes an earl, and the treaty is made again without either of my families paying too much, and so everyone is happy.”

The very many things Eleanor had planned to say to the girl evaporated before a flare of anger at her situation and how she’d ended up in it. Reduced to near incoherence she snapped, “Of all the ways to sink, done in by attempted help stemming from my kindness!”

Anne quailed, looking close to tears. “But you get to marry him, and this is the only way that you ever could, really.”

“Yes, I do, and yes, it is.”

“So you get what you wanted.”

“I wanted,” Eleanor gritted out, “a nice peaceful life with a knight with a crooked nose, living mostly forgotten but doing the odd bit of work to help Hugh and keep life from getting dull. Fat chance of that now. Did you ever think of what our lives will be like?”

“You will be together.”

“Which we already were. Granted, it might not have lasted, granted it was limited. And you promised us you would never say a word – now I cannot trust you with anything, one of my very few allies and only friend in Scotland as good as gone. Though I suppose it is only what I deserve for being idiot enough to trust someone so naive.” Eleanor massaged her temple, willing her temper to fade; being pitiless with Anne would only make her feel guilty later. “Oh, enough! For now I have had enough of trying to bail out the boat while a sea monster chomps at the hull and lightening toasts our sails. Set up the tafl board or something.”

The appointed hour came and Eleanor went to give the King of Scots her answer. With Fulk at her side.

Fulk said, his voice – he hoped – filled with confidence and power, “The lands are not enough. You would offer me an earldom – I want an earldom. Not a few cast offs.” Jesù, he was split between terror and wonder and trying to bargain with a king who was offering him his heart’s desire. His heart’s desire had given him some very strict instructions; he saw the sense in them and his reeling wits had done their own work to add and alter. Having done much of what she called her part, Eleanor sat silently at his side; she said it was time for him to begin playing the lord. Together they had gone through everything and decided upon what they could and couldn’t offer, what they had to have, what they needed in varying degrees of import. They? Fulk had deferred to her judgment in all save the military aspects.

The King of Scots raised his eyebrows. “Cast offs? Three key holdings along the border.”

“Two keys and one useful minor castle. Three holdings on a tiny strip of land barely enough to support them, with one city and one town and miscellaneous other settlements in need of protection. I’d never be able to man and supply the three castles – let alone the rest - fully, nor live the life I’d been raised to, nor keep my wife in decent state.”

“So greedy, for one offered so very much.”

“Greedy?” Fulk cocked his head slightly to one side. “Because I refuse to enter a death trap? That’s what this would be – I’d be torn to bits. I’ll need men, supplies, well maintained walls, and the promise of such continuing well into the future. And I’ll never put Eleanor at risk.”

He got the impression the king was laughing at him and hiding it. “Is that so?”

Fulk set a hand on Eleanor’s arm, protective with a hint of claiming which made him giddy with elation – and with terror. He felt her muscles coil, his emotions echoed by her. After so long of hiding this first show of honesty was no small thing. “Yes. Married we face new dangers, it’s true. But if all is done right I can guard her from them, and from older ones I couldn’t do anything about before. You want things done rightly, it benefits you. If we die or fall then so it all ends; as we live so too does the effect we’ll have.” It was all so much posturing. Eleanor had told him – and Fulk could see it for himself – that much was left to be negotiated to the final terms. The lands named, the support offered, and much else, all of it needed thrashing over into something acceptable to both parties. It was their job to wring as much as they could from the king.

The King of Scots stroked his beard. “If more lands were yielded then we may be persuaded to assign them to the new earldom.”

“No.” Fulk set his right hand down on the tabletop, spread flat. Jesù in His blessed heaven! He was arguing with a king! “No. I will not have it said I came to my bride with nothing but lands taken from her. You would have me be your earl? Then give me something of yours also. You would remake the border? Then do so; don’t just nibble a bit away from the old one and partition it off as something separate.”

If Fulk had ever thought the transfers of land between kings and the creation of earldoms a glorious thing then this hammering out of his earldom relieved him of his belief. It was like bargaining for a new horse at a market, only far slower and with the fetlocks replaced with towns, the gait with people, the spirit with resources, and over all the eerie awareness that the lives and places they were speaking of were very much like those he’d grown up with and in. Once he could have been passed along to a new lord as easily as this.

The final result saw him set to gain lands seated within a rough circle, starting at Embleton on the north coast, arcing gently westwards and southwards to Rochester, south to Bellingham, and then eastwards to Ashington, once again on the north coast. The lands had been taken from both kingdoms, the contribution being around equal. It had roughly trebled his earldom’s size, something Fulk observed cynically. Thus inflated Alnwick could be no more than a third of the size of the existing earldoms in both kingdoms. A third of the size and destined for a great many more troubles.

The King of Scots said to Eleanor, “Your castellans will surrender to their new earl when requested?”

“They will. If I go in person.” The majority of the border lands in question were property of the English crown, overseen by castellans selected by the former king. Knowing that the handing over of some or all of them may be required, Hugh had endowed Eleanor with the power necessary to her role as figurehead for the mission, and sent orders to them to open their gates and hand over control if told to by her; a very specific set of key words and sentences were to be used to ensure the handover was in no way compelled by threat. The other lands were held by lords, many of them currently sided with Trempwick. As traitors they stood to lose their lands if Hugh did not show clemency. The faithful lords would be offered new lands elsewhere along with compensation. Then same combination of royal held lands and brought off lords applied on the Scottish side.

Fulk held little hope of it all going smoothly.

“You will do homage before the full hall for your lands.”

Fulk replied easily, “There is no problem with that.” All the better to have so many witnesses. Eleanor had told him to play things there so her little attempt at a twist was unforeseen.

Malcolm the elder stated, “I will loan you five hundred men, to help you assert yourself, and thence to march under your banner against Trempwick.”

Five hundred. Too many to make him anything other than this king’s creature, under his wing and standing close and therefore an enemy in the eyes of the English. Too many to make him popular with any of his new subjects; loyalty to either kingdom was generally more flexible here in the north, and many claimed themselves to be of the North rather than English or Scottish, yet an army was an army – the only time you wanted it near your home was when it was protecting you. Too few to be the aid Hugh wanted. Too few to seriously oppose Trempwick’s power in the North.

Five hundred men paid by and sworn to someone other than him, selected by that other, serving only as long as that other permitted.. Unreliable, in every sense of the word.

Fulk’s palms were slick with sweat; a trickle ran down his back. His mouth was so dry, his sips at the wine provided did nothing to alleviate this and he dared not risk fuddling his wits by the tiniest measure. Frequently he asked himself what he thought he was doing. “Your offer is generous, but I’m afraid I must instead ask you for money with which to raise my own force.”

“You will be my man; I support my own. I will not have it thought otherwise. I understand your desire to control your own and begin to build the retinue with which you will maintain your hold on your lands. Forty pounds, and four hundred men, and not otherwise.”

The haggling went on for … Fulk couldn’t hazard a guess, save that it was a long time and felt like more. He’d take two hundred and fifty men and ninety pounds. Too many men and not enough, too much money and not enough. A Scottish force of three thousand would raise rapidly and head into Northumberland to harry Trempwick.

The King of Scots refilled his goblet, hording the vessel of wine close so that if they wanted more they would have to ask his leave. “I must say I find you most disappointing, the pair of you. I hear all I hear, and find my mind strained to imagine such a depth of the attachment, and begin to find myself curiously eager to witness this manifestation of a Tristan and Iseult, or whomever. What do I see? Two people who might not care a jot for one another. No different from that which you ever were in my eyes.” He ran a finger around the rim of his gold cup, then flicked the rim with a fingernail, setting it ringing. “This will stop.”

Under the table Eleanor slipped her hand into Fulk’s. “If you are saying what I think-”

“I am saying that when the secret is revealed you will act like the pair of true loves you are meant to be. I will not be made to look a fool.”

With difficulty she kept tight rein on her temper. “And nor will we. We are not an exhibition. All will be as it should be, according to our choice. Not yours. That is not alterable.”

“I believe my point is made clear.”

The double doors flung open with such force that they rebounded off the wall and nearly hit Malcolm as he passed through. He took in the threesome gathered. “So it’s true,” he accused. “Anne was right. God, to think I said you wouldn’t sink so bloody low.”

The King of Scots rose. “Malcolm-”

“You lying bastard!” The boy advanced to stand toe to toe with his father. “You lied! You promised her to me!”

“If you cannot win your intended bride over-”

“Shut UP!” he bellowed. Malcolm jabbed his father in the chest with a finger. “Liar! It’s obvious you never intended her for me! Like you never did put that clause in Anne’s marriage contract. You bastard!” He gave the older man a hard shove with both hands. “You knew I’d never allow it, so you lied. You said that he couldn’t touch her until she was older, but you lied!” The king reeled back another step as his son lashed out again. “It wasn’t him who broke the contract – you never added the bloody clause!”

Fulk found himself restrained by Eleanor’s hand on his arm, clenched about his bicep and pulling him close to her. She must have seen him tense, ready to defend either of them if the prince turned in their direction and mistaken it for an intent to aid the king.

The older Malcolm drew himself up with remarkable dignity. “It is not for you to decide anything. I am king, and your father; you are subject to me.”

Malcolm spat in his face. “There aren’t words to describe such a creature as you!”

The king wiped the spittle away with the back of his hand, and cleaned that hand by hitting his son across the mouth. “Boy, if you had the sense to see then you would learn much from what I do.”

Malcolm stumbled back, face showing white above the hand he clapped to his mouth. “Finally dirtied your own hand? Bah! In a few more years your balls might even drop, and a few years from then you might be something worth calling a man.” He removed his hand, checked it for blood and dabbed at his mouth. “Oh, I see. I see that you’re mating royalty to shit, debasing all that we are by doing so, and helping a fool squander her chance at the crown, instead letting some bastard shit have it. I see that you’re giving the things you promised me to an English nothing, and I see you’ve deceived me for too bloody long!” He took another backwards pace, looking over his shoulder at Eleanor and Fulk. “And I see I can’t stop it. Not now. It’s too damned late. Jesus bloody Christ, but I’d stop it if I could, anything but let this fucking travesty go ahead!” And another step. He stood with his chin in the air, left hand holding the scabbard of his long dagger below where the hilt met the case. “I’m leaving. Going back to my own damned lands with my own court, back out from this pissing stuck up collection of lack-moraled bastards of yours. Don’t know why I bothered to come in the first place; it’s always the same, your honourless scuttering about makes me bloody sick to the very core. And I won’t have a part in your ‘war’, if you ever bloody well thought to let me, which you won’t have, being so damned set on holding me back and treating me like something weaker than a puling girl.” He pointed at his father. “Hear this, if nothing else goes through your bloody deaf ears: marry Anne off again like that before she’s old enough and I’ll raise my banner against you. I swear it. And don’t you fucking dare to harm my future any more than you already have; someone has to repair all that you’ve bloody been gone and done.”

The king said calmly, “Your rebellion would be crushed, Malcolm.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. At least I’d have tried. That’s what you’re too bloody afraid of – failing.” Malcolm stopped his walk out level with Eleanor, pausing with the table between them. “He’ll use you until there’s nothing left, then drop you. But I think you’re not stupid enough to be a passive victim. You or your future… husband.” He said the word as though it burned his tongue. “So. If you want an ally, I might be interested. Possibly. But you’re still so unbelievably God-damned fucking stupid for agreeing to this. But then it’s well known women let their emotions rule them and seldom think; bloody weak-minded.”

Some dreams went on and on, the dreamer aware and restive and unable to banish the scene that was drearily real and unsettlingly unreal at once. Usually it was the unpleasant dreams which did this, longevity in proportion to their disagreeableness. Being stuck in one while waking was a rare thing; Fulk couldn’t find a better way to describe this council, now drawing to its end. Hours had gone by, that much he could say with certainty, passed in a formless expanse measured only by the diminishing of the sun and the burning down of the lights lit thereafter.

Fulk found some cheer in the fact that his many dreams of marrying a gooseberry had never managed to be half as boring as this reality, or half as terrifying, or half as dangerous. Or half as wonderful.

The king rose, ending the meeting saying, “The alliance will be announced tomorrow morn, early. At the celebratory banquet I shall raise my earl, and set the marriage in motion, according to the design we have discussed. The muster of the two armies shall begin the day after.”

Blergh, I’m a very tired frog, and it appears amphibians in dire need of a holiday don’t write too well. Talk about your uphill (failed) struggle to add some pep into this thing. My eyes are so tired the screen makes them burn.

Those who have read the whole thing through recently and take notes on everything including the slightest detail (I don’t actually expect there to be anyone doing that!) will have noticed a short time ago that something wasn’t tallying between William’s, Anne’s, Malcolm’s and the King of Scots’ accounts of the Anne/William wedding and contract. There you go, the discrepancy is finally cleared up, and brought to the eyes of everyone else.

Now I’m going to go and try to catch up on my reading. Or, more likely, fall asleep with a book crushing my nose. Reading lying down might be more comfortable but it does have its downsides.

Ciaran: I thought the pound of flesh thing was biblical as well :oops: I’m not a religious frog, and it’s been half a lifetime since I last read the bible.

Vladimir: who can kiss their lands in France goodbye? Nell and Fulk don’t have any there, and Hugh should, in theory, be in a better position to guard those lands now he has help coming from the north. In theory.

Vladimir

06-20-2006, 21:22

Oops, I guess I should have carried through with that reading the last post again thing. I thought you were going to make Nell a contender (residue from that killing Hugh thing).

But...um, I don't get it. We know a civil war is basically being fought over this flippin bird (a little English lingo there) but she's just going to say no thanks, I think I'll marry some nobody instead? I think with a civil war the lands in France would already be in jeopardy but since she isn't going for the crown (yet), I guess there's no reason for the nobles on the continent to rebel (yet).

furball

06-20-2006, 23:36

A fun chapter. I noticed some of the explanatory background.

Ciaran

06-21-2006, 13:30

Now that was a very neat update, I see Fulk´s getting quite the backbone with his new position. Thinking about it, so does Nell, with her postscriptum in the letter to Hugh.

Also, for the first time in some time we´re taking a look back at Trempy (still doing some sieging). Chester, now what does that remind me of? Oh yes, Earl of Chester, Edward Plantagenet, the Black Prince, it looks like his personality had quite the influence on the character of Malcolm Nefastus, from what I know. The pound of flesh is biblical :oops: ? I wouldn´t know, I´ve never read the whole bible ever.

And Jocelyn is still on the way, I wonder what´ll come of him.

frogbeastegg

06-22-2006, 22:15

A raindrop splattered across the tip of Jocelyn’s nose. “God’s sword!” He wiped the solitary herald of approaching dampness away. “Does it never stop raining in this damned country?”

Alain pulled the folds of his cloak forward to protect his clothing from the weather. “It’s the first time it’s rained since we got here, my lord. You’re thinking of when we were going through Normandy; it rained for a couple of days then.”

Damn him if he wasn’t right, and damn him for being right. The youth crossed a rut in the unpaved street with a single stride; lacking his spindly long legs Jocelyn took a slight detour. He nearly collided with a townsman taking the same detour in the opposite direction. The man started to curse Jocelyn as a blind lout, until his mind worked out what the good clothing and sword meant. “Damn it,” Jocelyn grumbled once back at his squire’s side, “the people here have no manners.”

“They’ve no manners anywhere,” said the squire cheerfully.

“True, that. Bloody disgraceful.”

The raindrops picked up frequency; Jocelyn wrapped his own cloak about himself, ducked his head down and speeded up into something midway between a walk and a headlong charge.

A few streets further along and they found the tavern with the sign of a mermaid. The place was unadventurously called ‘The Mermaid’ by its owner; everyone else called it ‘The Fishy Lady’. He’d been told it was a reputable, clean place with good service and edible food; it was also where he’d find the captain of a merchant vassal set to sail on the morning tide for Perth.

The interior was dim, one of the serving women was beginning to light the torches slung in wall brackets to compensate for the greyness the rain was bringing with it. Several tables stood empty, the others filled with sailors, townsmen skiving off work, a few soldiers, and other miscellaneous common folk.

Jocelyn claimed the empty corner table, sitting with his sword arranged so it would be easy to draw. Alain did likewise. A woman hurried over, either the service was as good as claimed or – more likely – she saw their obvious status.

“Lordships.” Her curtsey went deep, and wobbled. Which set other assets wobbling too. God’s toe! Some things were meant to be small, neatly formed and pert, not flopping and jiggling about all over the place! The ideal of feminine beauty said small breasts were the most desirable, and it was something Jocelyn had never felt inclined to argue with. It was like seeing someone being hideously mutilated – he couldn’t look away, however much he wanted to. She noticed where he was looking and dimpled with a practised smile. Bloody hell again – this place was supposed to be nice, the sort of place you could take your wife into without fear. He’d wanted nice, he’d been hoping for nice, just for a change and a rest, and sod it if it made him an old man. “You’ll want some wine, not ale?” Her smile didn’t let up.

Wife – if Tildis could see him now she’d be going on for damned ages, saying his eyes were about to pop out and fall down the front of the woman’s dress, which plainly wasn’t true. To prove the miserable cow wrong he tore his gaze away. “Yes. Wine. Good wine.”

“Of course, only the best. And if there’s anything else you want …”

“Not at present.”

She left, after another animated curtsey, swaying across the floor in a way which, in the language of flirtation, meant he was on to something.

“Jesù!” said Alain in a hushed, excited whisper. “She was all …!” His hands made some very complex gestures, forming a rough outline of the barmaid’s figure. “Jesù!”

Jocelyn just grunted and reassessed what he knew of his squire’s taste in women: it was declining.

Their drinks were delivered with another smile and more of that walk; she departed with another smile and more of that walk. Jocelyn thought a whole lot of very bad words; now he’d practically have no choice but to fork out yet more money he didn’t want to spend on some woman he didn’t want simply because his men kept on almost definitely – the fact he hadn’t caught one doing it didn’t mean the sly bastards weren’t, damn their insolence! - giving him funny looks over what Richildis had said. Damn it, damn it, damn it! He was beginning to wonder if the general effect of eating too much of the same food applied to women too; he was certainly losing interest in them, just like that time he’d eaten salt beef every day for a month nearly during a siege. God, he hoped not – he still couldn’t eat salt beef without feeling ill afterwards.

Alain cleared his throat. “My lord.” The lad sounded embarrassed, maybe he was going to ask if he could indulge his rotten taste. “Er … look, I’m really not sure how to say this or even if I should, but I’m getting worried for you. Is something wrong? I mean, you didn’t used to be the type to buy company that much. Always preferred to let the women start the chase and come after you, unless you were looking to scratch an itch quickly and there were no better prospects on offer. No man’s as itchy as to go at it like you’ve been these past few weeks.”

Jocelyn stared at him. Bloody. Hell.

Alain tugged at the front of his tunic as if he thought it sat wrongly at the neck. “Er … well …. Look, you and the lady Richildis are always arguing. I’ve never seen it get to you like this.” He added very hastily, “If that’s what this is. Maybe it’s not. Could be something else. I’m only guessing, and I don’t mean offence.”

Jocelyn stared. The stare might have had some malice in it, hard to tell from his own point of view.

“Thing is, my lord … well.” The lad sighed and pushed his hands through his short hair. “Thing is women say all sorts of things like that when they’re upset and wanting to hurt. Kick to the proverbial balls. They know insulting our prowess in that area’s going to hit us hard. So they say things even if they aren’t true.”

Jocelyn stared. If Alain thought this maybe others did too …?

“You’re not going to find proof she’s wrong in the arms of some trollop you’ve brought.”

Jocelyn stared. If a divine hand wasn’t shielding him then he was a Muslim, and many thanks indeed to the kind owner of that hand, bless them. Aid through difficult times was always taken to mean things like battles and kings dropping dead while in your care, not things like your charming wife putting her foot firmly in your groin, proverbially speaking, while everyone watched, so he appreciated the attention immensely. It might be a good idea if he undertook that pilgrimage he’d promised to do after all … when it was convenient. Not that he didn’t want to go out of his way to pay his debt – far from it! More like it would be sinful to abandon the greater cause to attend to his own individual and highly personal affairs. “Yes,” he agreed. “They do say all sorts of things which they don’t mean, don’t they?” He wasn’t lying, he explained to his heavenly champion. Tildis did say things she didn’t mean. It might not have been the case this particular time, yet the precedent was there.

“Yes,” said Alain, sounding immensely relieved.

Perfect, so far as anything could be perfect after what that damned bitch said. Seems like everyone who heard it thought he’d taken a knock to the pride, not that it was Tildis’ real opinion. “It was so unexpected.” Aye – he’d have shut her up if he’d had warning. “And I’ve always put a lot of import on making sure she’s happy.” And he did, he indignantly told his heavenly benefactor. The amount of money he’d spent on presents for her so she’d stop complaining about this, that or the other!

“And I expect you’re missing her too.”

Miss her!? Never! Why, he never so much as thought about the damned woman. Time for a change of subject. “Anyway, get off with you and see if this captain we’re looking for is here.”

Oh, good grief! :laughs at Jocelyn: That man needs help!

Yes, contrary to what seems to be the modern idea, the medieval preference was for smaller breasts. Apple-sized seems to have been the general ideal, to go by the writing of the time.

:grumble: I had other plans fore the evening. Did Jocelyn care? No. :grumble: These characters have no consideration for the poor, weary frog who has been looking forward to an evening’s reading for days now. I wanted to read my nice new copy of the recently published ‘The Lies of Locke Lamora’, been hearing so many good things about it. :grumble: Now I might manage 100 pages at best, if I don’t doze off.

And I’ve got a load of classics to read, since we’re trying to get hold of a range of them for the shop and I feel incredibly ignorant if anyone asks me anything about any of the classics and I don’t know the answer. Heh, I haven’t actually read many of the classics, so maybe I should be more pleased at being able to answer any questions at all. I’ve got 21 of them to read, including the oh so brief and lightweight ‘War and Peace’, here split into three volumes so it doesn’t break the reader’s arms. I don’t even know which book to start with; there’s none which appeals to me more than the others, which is not to say that none of them interest me, just that none of them leap out at me.

Vladimir: Nell's been saying ever since the possibility appeared that she doesn't want the crown, and she's been saying why to the point of me fearing I was hammering it home with a mallet the size of Ireland. Conversely she's been in love with Fulk for far longer than that. Given that I don't see how her choice is anything but predictable.

Furball: Fun? That’s about the last word I’d have chosen to describe it. But that’s me – I wasn’t too happy with it. I suppose from a reader’s perspective it could be better, clearing up a few things as it does and featuring Fulk beginning to test his strength.

Ciaran: Actually, and I’m blushing to admit it (frogs don’t like not knowing everything :tongueg: ) I don’t know much about the Black Prince, save for the outline of the warrior prince whose carrier was cut short by illness which lasted most of his life, that he seems to have been a poor governor, and that he fathered Richard II. Most of my medieval reading is centred about the Norman and Angevin kings, with a reasonable bit around the Edward IV/Richard III part of the Wars of the Roses. Between that it’s hazier, with me knowing more about some parts than others and about some people than others. There’s a spike of knowledge about Edward II, for example.

It’s only been two days since Jocelyn left Hugh.

Pound of flesh: I did a quick google, and can’t find any reference for it saving the Shakespeare one. Looks like I was wrong. Oh well. Not read the bible in a bit over a decade, since I left primary school.

furball

06-23-2006, 15:50

I don't like to make spelling corrections, but this one is fairly important. Should . . . some trollop you’ve brought.” be some trollop you've bought." ?

AntiochusIII

06-24-2006, 02:46

Wow. It took me like forever to follow since the last time I've read this. :dizzy2:

BUT...it's all worth it. This is brilliant. Strangely I think I'm getting fond of Jocelyn's rough attitude more than Eleanor's dogged sharpness.

Oh yeah, and I've noticed this story is classified as an AAR of Crusader Kings over at Paradox. Huh? :inquisitive:

frogbeastegg

06-27-2006, 18:30

“If the lady wishes to leave the castle, yet will not surrender to me, then she may leap from the parapets.” Hugh spoke the hideous words as though he were giving his groom permission to unsaddle his horse. My the Lord forgive him. “If she survives the fall – and she will not – I will have my men scrape up whatsoever is left and bring it to me, as my prisoner.” The lady was Trempwick’s mother. She had chosen to meddle, leaving the safer position of Salcey to try and raise more men at arms for her son. Now she would pay the price

The castellan of Rochester already resembled an armour stand, so spear shaft straight with dislike did he carry himself on his mission. His not quite concealed scorn lifted, transmuting to not quite concealed consternation. “And what of the other women and the children?”

“The same path is open to them.” Hugh gave the enemy commander a second to absorb this. “You will surrender to me now, or the siege shall begin. Once it begins there will be no mercy. Taken by storm I shall turn the place over to my troops for sport; taken by surrender I shall execute you for a traitor, and seize anything within those walls worth more than a farthing. As,” he added softly, “is the convention of war.” They had thought him soft, in heart and in head, to ask for the mother, the women and the children to be let go. Fewer mouths to feed would allow the castle to hold out for longer; a lack of innocents to worry for would make defiance easier; there would be fewer voices counselling surrender, afeared of what would come if relief did not arrive, for Hugh had demonstrated his words were far from empty.

A king must be hard, save for when it profited him to be soft. Some must burn so others could be saved.

The castellan shook his head. “Our walls are strong, our cellars well stocked. My lord will come. I cannot be a traitor for supporting my queen, Sir Bastard, only for betraying her.”

“So be it. I shall hang you, when we meet next.”

The men parted, one riding back to his castle, the other to his army, each followed by the five attendants this conference midway between the forces had permitted.

Rochester was strong, very. It was one of the lynchpins of the area. Having cleared the surrounding area insofar as was possible, Hugh would now leave a detachment of his army here to fight a war of waiting while he led the other half to further action.

Holiday next week, holiday next week, holiday next week! Wee! An entire week off! Woo! Yay! And so on. :balloon2: No, seriously, I started this job not quite 11 months ago and haven’t had a single day of holiday in that time, just ordinary days off.

Furball: Your correction needs correcting :winkg: Both parts read the same, and they are the same as what I had written.

AntiochusIII: It’s classed as a CK AAR because if it wasn’t it would be dumped in off-topic. It’s got nothing at all to do with CK. It does, however, have the medieval setting.

Ciaran

06-27-2006, 19:23

A glimpse at what Hugh is doing? Well, at least this time that he does his stuff by the book it´s the time for it.

Holiday? Why, wouldn´t that be an excellent opportunity to sit down and write some more?

And as you mentioned classics to read a few posts above, I´m just wrestling myself through the Canterbury Tales. Worse than Shakespear, Chaucer is, though being German actually helps - his language structure has a lot more in common with German than modern-day English.

furball

06-27-2006, 23:49

Shouldn't it be b o u g h t

And since I've already wasted post space :) : in the latest episode, the first word of the 3rd sentence in the first paragraph should probably be m a y

(That's nit-picking, but bought *is* different than brought.

Peasant Phill

06-28-2006, 12:44

great some action (or at least the beginning of some action) again.

I'm somewhat confused about the postions/state/movement of the armies, castles and towns. I know it's a lot to ask but could you clarifie this with a map of some sorts. It would help me understand/follow the action going on in this kingdom.

Vladimir

06-28-2006, 17:23

Vladimir: Nell's been saying ever since the possibility appeared that she doesn't want the crown, and she's been saying why to the point of me fearing I was hammering it home with a mallet the size of Ireland. Conversely she's been in love with Fulk for far longer than that. Given that I don't see how her choice is anything but predictable.

Doesn't want or won't take? It seems clear that the final choice still awaits her. As the story progresses not only are you trying to legitimize Fulk but you’re also grooming her for the throne. Whether she intended to represent England or not is irrelevant because that’s how you wrote it.

I can just imagine it though: Jocelyn takes a boat to Perth only to find that Nell and Fulk are fighting against locals back in Northern England. I wonder if she’s ever going to get that ring.

Vladimir

07-03-2006, 05:11

Wow, long time no frog. Maybe she was visiting DC and got washed away in the flooding ~:eek: .

O.T.: .org slllooooooowwww

frogbeastegg

07-04-2006, 17:47

On the day Fulk gained the biggest honour of his life he found he was most appreciative of small things: being seated with Hawise, the only dining partner he could have with who knew what was to happen and so understood if he did not talk as much as usual; being placed at one of the lower tables, where he was not the subject of much attention and so any slips in his mask of normality would hopefully pass unobserved; sharing a trencher, having a companion who did her limited all to keep him from dropping dead from sheer tension.

Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, knight in the princess’ entourage and minor baron of no import, did not know that this feast was anything but a celebration of the reasonable alliance signed between his lady’s family and the Scottish crown.

On the dais Eleanore Regis Anglia e Filia, Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Ketton, and Barrowden did not know this feast was anything but a mark of her success. By his cautious glances Fulk thought Eleanor was doing a better job of it then him.

Prince Malcolm’s place was empty, the prince gone that morning and not to return. Eleanor partnered with the king, the empty place at her side insulating her from Anne. Fulk was glad of it. Eleanor might extend some forgiveness to the girl; he couldn’t. All Anne’s talk of her father meaning to humiliate them anyway and her turning it to something they could use to their advantage, her trying to do her duty by both her families, her winning them what they could not otherwise have, all her excuses and explanations – it did nothing to change the one thing which mattered to Fulk. She had betrayed the secret they had entrusted to her, flung their lives out into God knows what, and she had done it because she had wanted to. Because her head was so stuffed full of her stories that she could not see it as anything but wonderful. She hadn’t asked, she hadn’t warned them; Fulk didn’t think she had given them a moment’s true consideration. He’d told Eleanor to maintain polite contact, and otherwise keep away from the girl. Harder for her to do more damage then. He still wondered how much heed of that Eleanor would take …

This waiting was miserable. He wanted it over with. He wanted it to last forever.

Dish after dish he choked down, tasting nothing and wanting nothing. He followed along the conversation Hawise supplied, laughed and smiled and exclaimed and frowned and made all the right responses in all the right places. He pretended to be amused by the ‘tourney’ fought by a troupe of dwarves dressed in mock armour and riding children’s stick horses.

As the final course was being set out the King of Scots rose. When the hall had gone still he began to speak. “It is known that when a king is anointed he is set apart from all men, closer to God and granted gifts to reflect this and aid him in his burdens. It is given to a king to see that which others do not, to know that which is unknown, to do that which is undone. It is our duty to do that which God wishes to be done.” A dramatic pause, then he declared, “And so we shall.”

Jesù, this was it. It had begun. No turning back. Their old lives were dying. Fulk hid his hands beneath the table so none could see if they shook; his nails bit into his palms and he consciously battled to keep his mind unclouded by what they were doing and all that it meant.

“A man must be true to his sworn word. He must be so always, no matter the personal cost. He should be loyal to his father, his lord, and God. We find we cannot bear to allow one man to continue in this, for he does richly deserve that which he denies himself by his very steadfastness. We find it unjust to allow him to continue lacking in honest recognition.” A murmur grew up in the hall; the king raised a hand to still it. “Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, stand forth.”

Fulk exhaled once, inhaled what was intended to be a steadying breath, placed his hand on the tabletop and rose onto legs which felt like jelly. He walked along to the gap five men wide at the top where his table ended and the dais began to rise. He passed through the gap, travelled to the centre of the hall and the space before the king, feeling as he did so the curious eyes of a tableful of nobility; the low tables were too far away for him to be overly aware of the people there.

He knelt before the king, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. He’d ceased to notice his injured knee aching.

“We have commented much on your deeds and the quality which must prompt them, and so we have looked to see the source. Consequently, we do know of much. Let us furnish you with your full name. Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec.”

And so Beaumains the Kitchen Knight was supposed to stand and declare himself to be none other than Prince Gareth of Orkney. Fulk counted the rushes on the floor, shutting his ears to the uproar and declining to react. He feared what he might do if he did otherwise.

Loudly, to carry across the noise in his hall, Malcolm the Elder consoled Fulk. “We declare you have not broken your oath, and none could say it otherwise. We named your father; you did not, and by no action did you betray him, save those merits stemming from your noble blood that cannot – and never should be – concealed. Indeed, we find your silence to guard the reputation of William de la Bec to be further proof of your goodness. But let it be no more. Archbishop of York though he may have been, he was but a man, prey to all a man’s weaknesses.”

It was no injustice. Fulk knew that – the man had been chosen carefully, name, blood and life all making the story convincing enough not to be dismissed outright. The injustice lay solely in refuting his own father. He had sworn to himself he would never do that; he would never directly claim his father to be anyone than the right man.

Fulk liked to believe that if they could see this his parents would be proud of what he had achieved and wish him and Eleanor well, or at the very least understand it. Liked to believe – he couldn’t escape the stronger feeling that they would have been horrified. No such doubts could be held over Eleanor’s side; if parental ghosts were present then at least two would be trying to throttle him.

“We do create a new earldom, the Earldom of Alnwick.” Fulk let the description of his lands flow by. “And thus, in honour of his many merits, and of our friendship to him, we do bestow the lands, titles and honours upon Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec.” He stepped out from behind his table, came to the front of the dais and offered his hand to Fulk. “Do your homage.”

Fulk placed his hands between the other man’s. He filled his lungs, raised his voice and pitched his words clear for all to hear. “I become your man from this day forth, for life and for worldly honour, and shall owe you faith for the lands that I hold of you; saving the faith that I owe unto my lord the King of England.” The last bit flowed faster than the rest, a little louder; Eleanor’s twist, and he would not let it be stifled or claimed never to have been said. He was an English baron first, then a Scottish lord, and never now could he be decently required to act against Eleanor’s family, save in the worth cause of self defence. Nor could Hugh call him a traitor.

Malcolm the Elder let go of Fulk’s hands with a motion which was almost like casting them away; he showed no other reaction to having his desire for an earl who belonged primarily to him thwarted. It was his own fault, he was a victim of his own overconfidence; he’d never stipulated the form Fulk’s homage must take, and had allowed them to rush on past the subject with no more than blanket assurances.

“Furthermore,” continued the king, “when silence on this matter harms two worthy people and denies the will of God then we find it even more fitting to act.” Offering his hand once more to Fulk he said, “Rise, friend.”

In the midst of some frantic prayers Fulk still found time to be astonished that his trembling legs didn’t dump him face down on the floor. He took the king’s hand, allowed himself to be brought onto the platform and led over to the table.

As they halted by the table in front of Eleanor’s place Malcolm the Elder took her hand in his empty one, and, twisting about so all in the hall could clearly see, pressed it into Fulk’s palm and let go, leaving their hands linked and in the air. “Those whom God wishes together let no man put asunder or stand in their way.”

The only sound in the hall which rose above a whisper was the clatter of a laden tray dropped by a serving boy.

Eleanor wasn’t looking at him, she wasn’t looking at the hall, she wasn’t looking at anyone; her head was ducked, face hidden.

Then, uproar.

The king held up his hands, and was ignored. He tried to speak, and was drowned out.

Fulk took considerable delight in the wretched man’s discomfort. Finally Eleanor looked up; her mouth twitched in an aborted effort to smile. Fulk squeezed her hand and did his best to return the effort.

In the end the dignified King of Scots was reduced to hammering a goblet on the table, sloshing the dregs of its contents over his arm and damaging the goldwork with the force he required to make sufficient noise. He had to repeat the beginning of his words to make them heard. “When two love so faithfully, so purely, without hope, each keeping their feelings hidden, brought together by what seemed like chance and to such mutual benefit and in such time of need, what else can it be but the Almighty’s will?” To Fulk he said, “Is it your desire to marry her?”

He’d been told what to say, some high and fancy words which, somehow, he was supposed to stuff full of emotion. Fulk rejected them, as he’d always intended to. He spoke from the moment. “There is no other in my eyes, and never can be.”

Eleanor didn’t wait for the king to direct the same question to her, as she was supposed to. Her other hand came up to cover the one holding hers. “There is no other, and never can be.”

And if the bearded spider didn’t like their deviation from his plan he could go stick his head down a privy.

Eleanor arrived back at her rooms to a bevy of anxious men in her livery demanding to know if the rumour was true, all her knights and her senior men at arms crammed into her solar and antechamber fussing away like a flock of hens.

“It is true,” she confirmed. They deserved to hear the explanation from her own lips and so she gave it, or – more accurately – repeated the pack of lies the King of Scots had just told the hall. Fulk was a very noble bastard, he was now an earl, they had long loved each other in boringly proper fashion, and now the King of Scots had made all public and endorsed their marriage. However she told it, it was never going deviate too far from the witnessed truth in the last part – that they had done nothing to break their secrecy but had been pressed to it by Anne’s father.

The reception was better than she had dared hope. Luke advanced on his master. “You bastard!” The squire was prevented from drawing his belt knife by one of his fellows; more came to help restrain. “You were her bodyguard!” he yelled, struggling to win free of the hands fixing on him. “You were supposed to protect her! Who was there to protect her from you!?”

Fulk said quietly, “I did nothing wrong.”

An acid voice with a Scottish accent commented, “Well, we did always call him a Lancelot. There’s more truth in it than we thought.”

Waltheof contributed a bit of sense that won him a tiny smile from Hawise. “There’s been rumours enough about him, and we thought it fine enough then.” He dipped a shallow bow to Eleanor. “With your forgiveness, your Highness. Warriors as big a bunch of fools for such stories as a gaggle of lady’s maids.”

Luke subsided into his companions’ grips, seeing how futile his efforts to win free were. “They didn’t prove him a viper in our midst! They said nothing about him dragging her down!”

“As I heard it, the king left them little choice.”

Luke snarled at the Scottish knight, “He could have denied it. He could have left, both realm and service to our lady. He could have done something!”

“That would have been insulting to our lady. She’d never have heard the end of it – a princess, considered by some to be rightful Queen of England, rejected by a newly raised earl who supposedly loved her?”

“You lied to us,” Luke accused Fulk. “All this time you’ve been playing the perfect knight, dedicated to our lady and willing to do anything to protect her. Now this. Now you ruin her, and for your own gain.”

Fulk took Eleanor’s left hand in his. “A husband is the best protection a lady can have.”

Luke freed his arms with a wrench. “Find a new squire. I won’t serve the likes of you.”

Sensing Fulk’s anguish Eleanor took command of the situation. “You are not Fulk’s men. You are mine, sworn to me. You may serve under him at my will, yet you are still mine. That will not change. I have need of you. I need protection until the wedding, and a force to assert our rights after. I need men to march against Trempwick for me. You swore oaths; does this change them? I see not, but as a gesture of good will I will release any who no longer wishes to remain.

Rubbing the back of his neck one of the Englishmen muttered, “To dance about near hell I want more bloody money.” He flushed, and added, “Your Highness.”

“Pay and a half,” Eleanor promised serenely. Bankruptcy was tomorrow’s problem; extra money would be found, somehow. Today’s problem was staying alive and ensuring that happy state continued. “The offer is not negotiable; if it is turned down it will not be offered again. All new men will be hired at the standard rates, as will any who leave now and return later. Put these offers to the rest of my men, take the night to think on it, and I shall come for your answer tomorrow.”

These would be the easiest people to convince; soldiers cared for little other than pay and continued employment. The few noble-born knights were Eleanor’s real source of concern; they were born in a different world to the common men, brought up differently, saw their world and their place in it differently. They would sway as easily as grass in a breeze compared to the remainder of her world.

Waltheof’s brow furrowed; he spoke softly. “I don’t like what the man who should be my king has done. If I read it rightly. He’s using this to his gain, no other motive, and no choice in it for you. You have my loyalty, as ever.”

Constance would be abed. It was unreasonable to expect her to greet him. More than. She needed her rest, in her delicate condition. Exposure to the night’s chill risked her taking ill. Moreover, he stank after days in the field without a bath, his armour and clothes were infested by biting mites, and after riding breakneck back to Waltham he must surely look a horror; it would not be kind to inflict that on her.

Hugh emerged from the inner gatehouse having reasoned away once more his unreasonable expectations. She was not there. It was good, he told himself. There was an irrational sinking feeling in the pit of his belly, his hopes dying in truth this time.

He dismounted. Then Constance was running towards him from the keep in a most indecorous manner, calling his name. A queen should not act like some common soldier’s woman, he would tell her that! Save that he was running too, like a common man at arms, and it would not be fair.

“Are you well?” he asked, then kissed her before she could reply. A back corner of his mind observed this was a poor thing to do, for she couldn’t answer and thus he was in suspense over their child for that small while longer. Another corner observed that if he did not hear the worst then for that small while the dream lived on and the final fragment of the loss would be delayed.

“Very,” she answered. She was smiling; that smile filled her eyes, it lit her up. “The child has quickened – I feel it begin to move.”

Hugh parted them enough to rest a hand over her lower abdomen. Speechless, completely speechless with joy.

“You will not be able to feel anything for weeks yet.” Constance’s smile took on a wry quality. “I feel like I swallowed a live butterfly, one which tries to fly every now and then.”

The kiss began like an inferno, and slowly died until he became aware of the courtyard of people seeing to his group’s horses, his escort seeking food and places for the night, other women beginning to draggle out to see if their own men had returned.

Constance pulled away a little, “Your bath should be ready, food also. We should get you out of that armour.”

Hugh flushed. Careless! He had not thought – holding her so tightly, his mail would have bruised her all over. He began to apologise as they entered the hall, for that and for inflicting himself on her in such a soiled state.

Constance merely interrupted softly, “Oh Hugh, it is perfectly flattering that you missed me so much.”

Hugh’s throat grew thick. “And that you missed me.”

When he was disarmed and soaking in his bath, sipping from a goblet of mulled wine, he raised the subject of her message to him. “Sir Miles is dead.” Bless his soul, and may God assoil him. Hugh felt the loss of a good man keenly.

“His body is in the chapel. The circumstances and all were as I said in my letter.”

“So Eleanor is loose on her own. I had fears enough of the state we would receive her back in after her jaunt through the wilderness with that knight of hers. Now …” The best descriptor of how he felt was, alas, unpardonably rude. And that Jocelyn – another problem careening about unhindered! He would share the tale of the man’s visit and message with Constance later, and discover what her thoughts were.

Constance set down the pitcher of hot water intended for his hair. “She writes that her covert journey went well, save for one attack. Her knight did his duty admirably. He did so again when the second attack came, the one in which poor Miles died. Remember, there is a reason we left them together, and this is it. There is nothing he will not do to keep her safe; for her part she will not be reckless where his safety is involved.”

“This is true,” Hugh admitted with a sigh. “And I am glad it has worked as we desired, bringing her safely through these trials. Yet …”

“I am sure they will do nothing foolish. Regardless, we have already decided it is a risk we must take, and we have had it proven that there is need for that.”

“We also saw fit to do what we could, within tactful measures, to prevent anything untoward happening. The main of those measures has been returned to us in a coffin.” Hugh squirmed at dismissing his loyal friend in such terms. “The same measure responsible for providing an experienced diplomat for the negotiations, and for keeping my sister from causing her characteristic mayhem.”

“New at such missions or not, Eleanor is very much her father’s daughter. What is the worst that could happen?”

Constance’s effort at reassurance made Hugh’s frown deepen.

Morning revealed that one knight and three men at arms chose to leave. Those who remained professed their dislike for the way their princess and her knight had been treated like two of the King of Scots lesser vassals – desired or not as the marriage may be.

Wary of his former squire, Fulk repeated, “You’ve changed your mind?”

Luke nodded stiffly. “Maybe it wasn’t for gain.” He had a black eye, a reddened ear, and he held himself like he’d been kicked well in the stomach and balls.

Fulk felt on solid enough ground to try a bit of humour. “It was a nice, peaceful discussion last night then?”

The man winced. “Mostly.” For the first time since requesting a word he met Fulk’s eye. “It wasn’t for gain, was it?”

The question wasn’t phrased in want of an answer; Fulk confirmed it anyway. “No. All I want from it is her.”

“Christ Jesus, man. A princess and … and you.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know.”

“I’d like to stay. As your squire. Christ knows you’ll need one, all the fighting coming your way. Not many will be so easy to win around as us.”

Fulk’s new room was far and away the most luxurious he had ever been assigned. Decoratively carved furniture, a sizeable fireplace, a feather bed, the chest and armour stand he needed for his equipment. Hangings on the walls depicted knights engaged in valiant deeds in battle and tourney. The ceiling had been painted with simple geometric designs.

Five days from now it would be his wedding day. He could not sleep outside his gooseberry’s door without prompting a scandal. Furthermore he was an earl, with his own dignity to maintain. He was no longer Eleanor’s bodyguard.

None of this had stopped him from ensuring she kept a strengthened guard with her at all times, with four armed men in the antechamber each night. He himself kept two men borrowed from Eleanor: Luke and Waltheof. One because he didn’t trust him, and one because he wanted to know more of him. It was in the King of Scots best interests to keep them alive; if either of them were daft enough to trust solely to that then they deserved to have their throats slit.

Fulk finished his idle circuit of the square chamber. “Please have my possessions moved over,” he said to the steward.

The man nodded, and spoke in turn to his assistant. “Have the Earl of Alnwick’s effects transported across. Best have someone scatter some fleabane too.”

He’d been dumped in a room filled with fleas? That sounded highly unlikely. “Is there a problem with pests?”

The steward graciously returned his attention to Fulk. With a tiny bow he answered, “Not yet.”

Fulk had risen something over an hour ago. This was but his second task of the day, after accompanying Eleanor to collect her men’s answer. He wasn’t sure if he were surprised it had taken so long or that it had come so quickly. The first poke at the bastard earl who’d come from nowhere to snatch a pair of prizes many believed should have gone to proven men of better circumstance. “I do not like the implication.”

Another tiny bow, hedged with decently fained horror. “No implication, my lord! Pests go where there’s nothing to stop them. So it’s best to prevent.”

It was, Fulk reflected, a good thing he had long since schooled himself into being a cool-headed man. Years ago this man would have abruptly lost teeth. “So then I must assume you’ve neglected your job. Since there’s nothing already here. I shall have my men move my belongings; I can expect competence from them.”

The page bowed deeply to Eleanor, and rattled off his message so quickly there were scarcely any gaps between the words. “My lord regrets it mightily, but he must beg the return of his book, for he has an urgent need for it. He begs pardon for the inconvenience, and says you will be welcome to it the very instant his need passes.”

This was the second boy sent to retrieve one of the books lent so freely to her; she expected there to be others. People were severing close contact with her until they had some feeling for where her future would go; if she clawed her way up in the world they would be back seeking her favour. For Fulk’s sake she regretted the losses; there were many volumes he had not managed to read.

As if she didn’t see anything more than the surface request Eleanor replied, “I understand, and thank your lord for the loan.”

The book was handed over, the page left.

Prince Malcolm’s absence made inserting Fulk at the high table considerably simpler: a brisk reordering of the seating order ensconced him next to Eleanor without anyone being displaced.

So at last, that lunch, Fulk dined formally with his beloved. None could have faulted him in technique or manners. She had the best part of every portion, and each portion was the best part of the dish presented; he prepared ever morsel to perfection for her. He sought out her favourites, refused anything she showed no liking for. If there was an area where he could be faulted it was one where Eleanor too failed. They didn’t talk much, and they were ill at ease. If their affection showed through in a gesture or a look or a word then it was by chance, not design. This, too, was not by design. It pervaded all their time together. Where before all had been private and nothing could be public, now all must be public and nothing private … until the wedding.

And a servant, a impeccable servant involved in one of his many impeccable repeats of his own impeccable performance, spilled crumbs on Fulk’s sleeve.

Gah! Powercuts! Gah! A veritable plague of them over the last few days. Nearly had my PC toasted a few times, and I’ve lost work over and over. Gah! And who turned up the sun!? ~:pissed: Britain is not supposed to be all hot and sunny ~:pissed: Frogs do not like heat. ~:pissed:

Ciaran: It might be, and I have been, but the power cuts – gah!

Hugh is growing. He’s been doing so slowly for a while. He’s developing a bit of a ruthless streak.

Furball: quite right. Oops. It’s hard to proof read my own work; I tend to see what I know should be there instead of what is.

Peasant Phill: Someone else on the other forum repeated your request shortly after you posted it, and if this were a book I’d want one in it. So I’m trying to find something. I work primarily off an absolutely massive unfoldable map of England and Wales, with Scotland covered on the other side. I can’t find anything which goes into anything like as much detail on the net. Even a simple road atlas style of map would do – it’s the place names I need. Internet maps tend only to mark the more important places. Where I find something almost usable invariably half of what I need isn’t on the map, for example I found one where I could draw out one side of Fulk’s earldom, but not the rest.

I’m thinking, trying to find a way.

Vladimir: I thought you meant you didn’t understand why Nell had chosen as she did. (“But...um, I don't get it. We know a civil war is basically being fought over this flippin bird (a little English lingo there) but she's just going to say no thanks, I think I'll marry some nobody instead?”) So I was answering that.

Ciaran

07-04-2006, 21:42

Powercuts? That sounds like the danger of getting fried in front of the monitor, probably not a very pleasant experience...
And as for the heat, you have my sympathy, it´s the same here and I don´t like it one bit, either. But I wonder, wasn´t there a song stating something of "mad dogs and Englishmen" taking strolls out in the midday heat? Perhaps they were tougher back then...

Anyways, even with the powercuts you managed to convey quite the update. And Hugh, for once even behaved like a living man instead of a role-model come to life ~:eek:
I´ll have to go a couple of pages back, though, to find out when Luke, Fulks squire came around, can´t remember him right now. Neither Jocelyn nor Malcom the Younger wreaking havoc this time, but then again, in it´s fashion, the happenings in this update created more than enough havoc...

frogbeastegg

07-08-2006, 09:54

Despite the change in location and women this second outfitting for a wedding was not so different to the ones Eleanor had endured when set to marry Trempwick. A flock of women whipped up from heaven knows where by Anne’s grandmother, all clustered about her as she stood on a stool in her shift, suggesting colours, fabrics, cuts and going on and on about the wedding until Eleanor felt so full of pent up frustration she could have exploded.

For the umpteenth time she declined to remove her shift, saying she would use the one made for and never worn at her aborted wedding. This much it appeared they would allow her, content to rifle through the rest of those fine clothes and cast them aside. She couldn’t marry one man while dressed for another, they maintained. It would bring bad luck!

There was one slight difference … or maybe more than one difference. She’d learned from last time, there was the main difference. She was shorter on patience, she was not sunk in despair, and far from losing her stupid knight she was marrying him. She wanted to get it right. And there was a certain statement to make of this wedding.

When the women were mostly agreed on what colours and materials her clothes should be made of - and thus the conversation was slowing - Eleanor hopped down from her stool. She strode over to the mountain of sample squares and plucked out some she’d marked while the debate raged and kept her eye on. With a sweep of her arm she brushed the samples chosen by her ‘helpers’ to the end of the table and set her own choices down. “These.” She outlined what she had in mind.

There was some resistance at first; it faded quickly when Anne’s grandmother entered the fray and took Eleanor’s side, along with her granddaughter, Hawise, a couple of the anonymous Scottish noble ladies Eleanor hadn’t bothered to put a name to yet, and - amazingly - Godit.

So it wasn’t malice over her asserting her choice which caused measuring cords to fall hard enough to sting, or to be pulled too tight. It wasn’t that which occasioned comments on how narrow her hips were, how fragile she looked – surely her husband would break her if he wasn’t careful! – how unfashionable her hair colour was, and more, comments which went further than the usual, and stung more.

The steaming liquid in the mug was nearly transparent; it smelled herby. Eleanor raised it to her lips, steeled herself … and lowered the cup again. “Are you certain you made it correctly?”

Hawise answered gravely, “Yes. I made it often enough for my former lady.”

“So you are sure?” A fatuous question; Eleanor knew it. It delayed. It delayed the least worrisome part; the rest was unstoppable.

“Yes.”

“And it is necessary I start drinking the stuff now.” Another question in need of no answer. Start taking the infusion now, and by her wedding day it would be working. Then she shouldn’t conceive. Then she wouldn’t die. Shouldn’t – there was the worst of it. The fact it might not work.

She was being a coward, intolerable; by any form of sense it should have been far easier to drink this stuff than it had been to broach the subject with Hawise and ask the questions which had led to its being made. It managed to be nearly as difficult. Eleanor raised the cup again, debating whether to sip or down the whole lot in one go. The tea was hot enough to scald her throat as she consumed it in several big swallows. It didn’t taste that bad, faintly minty, sweetened with a trace of honey. As she lowered the empty mug Eleanor found her maid watching her with faint concern.

“Does Fulk know?” Hawise enquired softly.

Eleanor swapped mug for comb and started to run it through her hair, half turning her back on the maid. “Some choices are made as part of others, so there is no choosing them. He chose me; he knows no children can come of it.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”

Comb frozen midway through a stroke, teeth clenched, Eleanor nearly threw the question again. The damned maid was too perceptive for her own good. “I would hope not. If he is concerned he will try and reassure me. And dither. Then I shall lose whatever nerve I have. The marriage must be consummated, there is no avoiding it.” And afterwards. Some choices were made as part of others. However much or little she liked it, she would not avoid his bed. She had chosen to marry him, and so there was no choice left in that smaller thing.

“All brides worry. You have less cause than most-”

“I do not want to speak of it.”

“If you did it might reassure you.”

“My wedding day is going to be the worst day of my life, without a doubt. I am going to sincerely regret ever having agreed to it. I wish I could go through it all drunk, or better yet completely insensible, a state sadly impossible as I must be able to say my vows.” She lashed out at the empty cup stood on the table, sending it bouncing onto the floor. “And I feel like an animal being fattened for the table! The clothes, the tea, the coterie of matrons’ chattering, the planning of the ceremony – it all comes down to one end. Like an animal for slaughter.” Through gritted teeth she repeated, “I do not want to speak of it.”

On that note she went to bed.

The first day back in training after any injury was always the hardest. Fulk had kept to a light workout, one gentle on his still-sore knee. His shrunken audience had urged him on to greater efforts, and he’d refused them with the jolly assurance he intended to be in perfect working condition for his wedding. As expected that had gone down well. Mostly. Some had left. He hoped they did so from boredom.

As he left the yard he spotted a familiar figure bearing down on him. Godit. He pushed himself to a faster pace, diverted course and made it to the shelter of company before she caught up.

“I came to offer my congratulations,” she announced as she ignored his effort to escape and joined the little group. “So, congratulations. My best wishes, for both of you. May you life long and happily, have hundreds of children, prosper, and all the rest.”

“Thank you.” He’d had a lot of practice lately at sounding gracious while filled with cynicism.

Godit turned a radiant smile on the cluster of men at arms. “You’ll forgive us, I hope, if we walk slightly ahead?”

Jesù! She was trying to start rumours that would end with Eleanor killing him! “Now hold on-”

She waved a careless hand. “Oh, be sensible! We shall be a little ahead, with a large train of men behind us and many witnesses that we did nothing but talk.”

“Talk of what – that’s what people will wonder. And why. There will be enough wondering over you seeking me out like this.”

“Very well. Then I will say it here, and don’t blame me when you’re not happy about it.” She pouted, and found that pout impossible to hold as she complained, “Honestly, men! Nothing but trouble and thick-headed fools the lot of them. Try and help them and they trample all over your efforts. Inconsiderate, thoughtless, heedless, useless-”

Fulk scrubbed his hands through his sweat-drenched hair, leaving it tussled and with one lock thrust out at a silly angle above his ear. “Godit, the point?” Unexpectedly he realised that he knew from whom Anne had learned to chatter on and on at length. It was no credit to his intelligence that he’d not seen it before.

“You flatter yourself if you think I’d draw this out for the pleasure of your company. Conceited creature, you let your very fine looks and smooth tongue go to your head! I am going to marry a nice man. One without a beard, vaguely close to my own age, in possession of wits, resources and a good nature. He is going to be far more aware of my existence than his own. I do not want anything to do with married men, engaged men, or annoying men.” She scowled at him. “And you are highly annoying.”

“So Eleanor tells me, frequently.”

The muffled chuckles amongst the men at arms grew more noticeable.

“I never believed she loved you. Until yesterday. What she has done is unthinkable. Insane.” A gust of wind disrupted her veil; Godit’s hand rose to smooth it back into order. “My God,” she said quietly, “how well you belong together .”

“If that’s an insult-”

“It is not! Very much the opposite. So I don’t like to see you as you are. Miserable, the pair of you. Uneasy, like strangers crammed together. All the little things about your relationship with her are gone; you don’t joke, you don’t talk, you don’t tease. You hardly touch her, nor her you. I’ve not seen you kiss once, save that required once when you finished exchanging your betrothal vows.”

Fulk stepped into the flow and tried to dam it. “It takes time. We’ve had things changed without warning, and we’re able – expected to do things we never let ourselves think of. Two days ago being her friend was audacious.”

“You don’t have time. You’ve four days – no, three; the wedding day itself doesn’t count. I shouldn’t need to point out what marrying in this state will be like. After all that she’s thrown away for you she deserves better.” Without giving him time to reply, hell - without giving herself time to catch her breath, she admonished, “No excuses! Didn’t I once tell you every knight needs a pushy lady’s maid to set him to rights. It’s still true; the focus may be very different, but it’s still true. Do something; break the ice before it’s too late.”

As she left Fulk felt sets of curious eyes burning into him, he heard the strain of held back amusement and comments. She’d been right – he hadn’t wanted to hear this in front of an audience.

He allowed himself the face-saving luxury of muttering indiscreetly, “Easy for her to say.”

When he entered the common room Eleanor’s soldiers stopped what they were doing; dice cups ceased to rattle, drinks were removed from lips, talk died, the man who’d been singing fell silent. All attention settled on him. The two men at the high end of the table stood and offered the pick of their seats with formal bows.

In the eerie silence Fulk stepped forward and took a stool without lending thought as to which. A mug was filled for him and set in easy reach with a murmured, “It’s only ale, my lord.” As if he’d expected wine! Fulk drank; it was good ale, and he appreciated it.

He set the mug down still half full; no need to hurry his drink.

“My lord,” enquired Alfred, breaking the hush, “what is it you want?”

And Fulk knew he no longer had a place here. He groped for a reason, anything but the truth, that he had wanted to relax in friendly company and forget for a time all his qualms. To drown the longing to get Eleanor alone and let her soothe him as he reassured her. “I came to …” His mind fell back on a need he’d been contemplating. “To ask for a volunteer who doesn’t mind missing most of the wedding feast. Who’ll stand a bit of guard duty. You know what weddings are like, and how the couple are bothered … later. Hammering on the door. Advice. People listening and trying to break in. And so on. I won’t have that.”

Once there’d have been an assortment of lewd jokes about why he feared such treatment. Once.

“Eleanor,” Fulk explained awkwardly, trying to fill the stillness. “She won’t like it, not at all.”

Unsurprisingly there was a dearth of men willing to miss a party to stand a sober vigil before a door.

Over in the corner Waltheof’s whetstone fell still. “Seems like a job for a monk. Or someone who narrowly avoided that fate.” He resumed putting a new edge on his eating knife. “And I won’t try to listen myself, I promise you that.”

Hugh gazed down on the preserved body of his father, its journey home now complete. He brushed a stray strand of hair back off the corpse’s temple. It would be a lie to think this made the great half-healed scar more visible – a single strand of hair could not cover that mess. Yet it seemed to, to Hugh. That one kindly meant act of tidying somehow made the scar loom clear. The body was robed in finery befitting a king; it hid the other wounds, and it hid the incisions made when the body was split and treated to last longer. Despite that treatment and the cold of the season, the length of the journey home told in the faint smell of putrefaction.

His father’s favourite clerk, one of the few who had remained with their master’s body and helped to restore it to dignity and bring it home, said softly, “His entrails rest in Caen. His heart is to stay here, in Waltham, next to his first wife’s heart. His body will lie in Westminster. This was his wish.”

It was customary, a grand noble’s burial. The body was split and laid to rest in favoured churches so that the departed soul might benefit from more prayers. All Hugh could think of was his gratitude that his father had not chosen to have his eyes bestowed separate to his body. He could not have borne that.

London was in the hands of the rebels. He couldn’t bury him in Westminster.

Constance touched Hugh on his shoulder. “We can re-inter him. We can bury him somewhere dignified now, and then move him when all is settled. It has been done many times before.”

“I know.” And in no way did that lessen Hugh’s sense of failure. He should have been able to carry out those last wishes.

As he studied the chess board Fulk remained alert, ears pricked and eyes on the move. When the next batch of nobles came to gawk at Eleanor and himself he wanted warning. He knew she kept a similar watch over the part of the hall which lay behind his back.

They should have held this game in her solar, chaperoned by someone who couldn’t be called into question by the court. Anne, perhaps - use her as she’d used them. Anne and her two maids, in addition to Hawise, and no one could have said anything untoward happened. But no, they had to be seen. To fix them as a couple in people’s minds and prove there was truth in the King of Scots’ claim.

A few moves in the game, then Eleanor clasped both her hands together on the tabletop, thumbs tucked in and hidden. Someone was approaching them.

An ornately dressed Scot halted beside them, lowering himself into a bow aimed primarily at Eleanor. “Your Highness. Sir Fulk. Allow me to give my best wishes for a long and fruitful marriage.”

Eleanor graced him with a slight smile. “Thank you, Sir Douglass.” She named the man with only a tiny pause to betray the fact she’d not met him before.

Douglass … wasn’t he the Earl of Berwick? If so, he’d be one of Fulk’s neighbours. “Thank you,” Fulk echoed.

“William de la Bec was a friend of my father’s.”

“I’d hope one day the same can be said of the sons.”

The polite courtier’s mask didn’t budge. “I confess I don’t see much resemblance in you.”

Fulk kept his own façade in place, though apprehension attacked his heart. “Maybe I take after my mother?” In truth he was a decent mix of both parents, with some throwbacks to his maternal grandfather; the rest was all his own.

“Quite possibly. You will be incorporating the de la Bec device into your coat of arms?”

“No. I’ve born the arms of the man who raised me so long they’ve become my own.

“Ah. I see.”

“You will be joining the offensive?”

“Against Northumberland? Yes. And you?” The enquiry was civil, no trace of any actual interest.

“When I’ve set all in order in my new lands, and I’ve paid my respects to my brother-in-law.”

“A pity. I had thought you would march with us after settling your affairs. I hoped to see what you are capable of off the tourney field. Pray excuse me. I promised my lady wife I would not be long.”

When he landed in Perth and heard the news Jocelyn nearly turned around and got back on his ship again. The princess – the one who he’d been sent to find and put on the throne – was getting married. To a newly raised earl of a tiny new earldom. Who was a bastard son of a long dead house. Probably – there was a lot of yattering about that. Sometimes he wasn’t even that much, others he was some long lost son of an unspecified king.

Women! God damned bloody minded, difficult, inconvenient women! Jocelyn was now firmly convinced that, based on all available evidence, the damned capricious creatures had been put on this earth purely to make his life damned difficult. And occasionally highly enjoyable, he’d give them that. But overall very bloody difficult. The world would be a far better place without them; he’d said as much to his company.

|That had set the translating monk off on a tremendous sermon about the many and varied evils of women, devil’s tools that they were. In the end Jocelyn had had to shut him up by threatening to punch him for insulting his wife. Richildis was virtuous, thank you very much. She didn’t run about naked waving her privy parts at passing travellers, inviting them to indulge in carnal sins purely for the light entertainment of having them damn their souls. Nor did she sit at home of an evening plotting the overthrow of man’s just and fit rule over the weaker sex. Or at least he didn’t think she did.

What the damned monk – quivering in righteous outrage and more than a little fear of Jocelyn’s bunched fist – hadn’t initially grasped was that when you blasted on about a broad group like ‘women’ you inevitably categorised the good with the bad. So it shouldn’t be done. Because then you wound up passing off good men’s equally good wives as creatures fit only for destruction … or a wild night out. What you had to do was pick clear and precise examples, and give some evidence.

And anyway it was clearly absurd, the rot he was expounding. There was nothing at all wrong with women. Nothing at all. They made the world a far brighter place. They were man’s equal, his other half; if, overall, they were a little weaker in strength then they were also ahead in cunning. He wouldn’t be without them for all the riches in some very rich country.

By the end of the spirited religious debate the group was all far more enlightened and tolerant and in full agreement with him, and Jocelyn felt he’d done a lot to further the education of the young monk.

Getting in to see the princess wasn’t as hard as he’d feared. Jocelyn merely showed his letter with its royal seal to the gate guards and stated his mission, then repeated that with a few score of people until the directions proved useful and he finally found someone in the princess’ livery. A bit of standing about waiting in the antechamber to her suite of rooms, and that was that, job half done.

He got chance to see both of them; he’d interrupted some meeting about something or other – probably trivial, neither looked terribly excited; they were only sat next to each other in the cosier window seat - and caught them with just several maids for company, one of whom was little more than a child.

He’d given it all plenty of careful thought on his way here. He’d got a plan. It wasn’t like he was going to withhold the ring – heaven, no! That would be breaking his sworn word to the old king! – but it wouldn’t be prudent to walk up and say, “Hello! Your dad’s dead; you’re queen and here’s the ring. Have fun. Now, about this land grant …” No. Far better to ease into the subject naturally. He’d introduce the subject when he felt she gave him the right opportunity. If opportunity didn’t arise, well, it wouldn’t be breaking his word. No, it would be God giving him a bit of guidance, preventing him from doing something which He didn’t want done.

As he knelt before her Jocelyn’s first thought was that this Eleanor was a bit short. His second was that she wasn’t as bad as some made out; she was almost very nearly pretty. His third, as he looked up at her after murmuring his greetings, was that by God’s teeth she’d got her father’s eyes and no mistake.

“Count of Tourraine?” she repeated. “Welcome, and please stand. You have come a long way to find me.” She spoke to him in langue d’oil. So, she’d got a bit more sense than her brother.

“Yes, your Highness. At your father’s command. It grieves me to report he died of his injuries sixteen days ago. At first we thought him like to die, yet he strengthened and began to heal, only to sink at the last because he drove himself too hard and would not rest. He wished me to bear to you a final message.” Remember: nice, posh language. No cursing, no swearing, nothing. Be nice. Princesses needed handling with caution. Nice and fluffy and harmless and polite and nice.

The little girl slapped a hand over her mouth and stared at him in horror. Maybe she was a God-touched simpleton?

The princess merely said, “Oh?”

Until now the man had been impassive; he set his hand over one of hers in a gesture Jocelyn saw as uncertain, like he didn’t quite dare do what he wanted to. So, this would be the Fulk FitzWhoever de la Whatever he’d heard so much about. Outstanding knight, fearsome warrior, loyal, courtly, handsome – not that Jocelyn ever had the least inclination towards men, boys, or anything which was not thoroughly human and female, by God! – and head over heels lost irredeemably in love for the princess he had served and was now to marry. It didn’t show. The fool probably couldn’t even understand what they were saying.

Jocelyn cleared his throat to deliver his words with appropriately impressive style. “At the end of his life the former king spoke much of you, your Highness. With exasperation, with fear, with regret, and with love. You weighed heavily on his mind in his last days. He commanded me to beg humbly for your forgiveness for him, for the sake of both your souls.”

“Forgiveness?” she snapped. “Never.”

Fulk, or whatever his name was, tightened his hold on her hand into something which might actually be called comforting. He put his arm around her and murmured something in her ear Jocelyn couldn’t catch, probably some pointless rubbish, or maybe demands she ask about her inheritance as he’d gain whatever she did. She replied, equally soft, turning to face him, their faces so close their noses nearly touched. This time he caught the man’s reply, a mix between chiding and loving the single word, “Beloved.”

The princess returned her attention to Jocelyn. “I cannot forgive him, not now. Perhaps in the future I may be able to.” She shot a pointed sidelong look at the man. “If I ever can.”

How very interesting.

Still more interesting was that the half-wit girl chose to thrust herself into the conversation. “Did he say anything for me?”

Why in the name of Saint Anthony would he have a message for her?!

Then the girl added hopefully, “He was my husband. He must have done.”

Oh. Oops. “He spoke of his regret in leaving you, of his fondness for you, and of his hopes you’d find a better husband to replace him.”

The girl broke down into tears. “I don’t want another one!”

To be fair Jocelyn didn’t think the old king looked like he’d been that much fun as a husband either, and one bad experience could be so very off-putting. But forget her, she wasn’t important. The princess was. He’d try her mettle with a bit more detail. “He spoke strongly of you, your Highness. Always he spoke from strong feelings. He railed and cursed, and he spoke of how proud he was of your strength.”

“I do not care to know. I have heard enough words in ‘strong feeling’ from him to last me from now to kingdom come with a surfeit to spare.” Her fingers curled about those of the knight, and she leaned into his arm, only a fraction, not relaxing but like she was drawing some desperately needed strength from him but wouldn’t let appearances waver. Made a change to the usual feminine shrieking. “Tell me of my brother instead. Did you see him? Is he well?”

“I did, and he is. I can’t say much more; I wasn’t with him for more than an hour.”

The man spoke – in excellent langue d’oil! “You must have gotten some idea of his army and how it fared: morale, numbers, condition.”

Jocelyn was too dumbfounded to speak. With difficulty he rallied. “Several thousand, but finer than that I couldn’t say. Good morale, good condition. He’d got some Germans from his sister; they didn’t seem to be mixing in too well.”

“To be expected. I doubt they spoke any common tongue with our king’s men.”

Eleanor took the initiative back. “You must be thirsty, and hungry. The latter we can do nothing to amend, but the former …” She indicated one of the maids should pour a drink for him from the jug and goblets clearly readied for herself and her whatever-he-was.

Surprised, Jocelyn spoke his thanks and accepted the drink. He couldn’t say that he didn’t feel a bit stupid, stood alone in the space before the door holding a drink like he was at a party. It was good wine, and it wet his throat commendably. He’d try another gambit. “Forgive me if it’s out of place, but I did swear to your father I’d do what I could for you if you had need.” The lie slid by so easily. She narrowed her eyes at it, ever so very slightly. “There’s quite a fuss in Perth, and about the palace, and it’s all so mixed it’s hard to know what’s true and what’s not. Is it truly your wish to marry this man?”

“Oh yes.”

Careful now, careful; women were so unpredictable in their tempers. “Then you find it to your advantage?”

“Very much, and truthfully far more than any other I have been offered.” Her free hand came over to cover the man’s hand.

Alright, think, and think fast. What could this lowly man possibly offer her which made him better than all other prospects? Not much: a puny earldom he’d yet to take, his person, his love, and a whole load of strife. He’d be dependant on her for so much it was shameful for him, it made him … Jocelyn’s racing mind coasted to a halt. He felt himself smile. He’d be so dependant on her. She’d have a husband she could control, not one who could attempt to control her. The conniving little bitch, he thought with considerable admiration. Damn, he’d better say something before they thought him cracked in the head. “Your Highness, it gladdens my heart to hear you say that.”

Like a bolting horse Jocelyn’s thoughts raced off again. And if the man were as a good a warrior as he’d been hearing then she’d got herself a reliable man to head her armies, once he’d established himself, one who couldn’t turn on her without losing everything. In a stroke she’d disprove that Trempwick man’s claim he was married to her, freeing herself from him, and put herself safely from the marriage market so she couldn’t be claimed again or used as a bargaining counter by her bastard brother. And she couldn’t be forced into a marriage distasteful to her by her nobles either, if she made it to the throne. She’d be doing things on her own terms. The alliance with Scotland – she’d got that and managed to actually bring land into her control without ceding anything. It worked nicely on the personal side too; the man was handsome, fair spoken, and in love with her and her with him. It was unlikely he’d ever try to assert himself with her, let alone mistreat her.

Holy shrimps! It was bloody genius. For a woman. If they survived the initial turmoil. It was like one of those battle plans for chess, where if you survived the deliberately hazardous opening you were set up to an advantage.

“Your Highness,” he said. “I have another message for you, to be conveyed in private. It’s very important. From your father.”

The response was sceptical. “Really? About what?”

He had to find something to win her trust; he couldn’t pass the ring on with all these people about, damn it. “About the throne, and your brother. Your father’s wishes for his heir.”

“Surely it should be Hugh’s business, not mine.”

“Part of the message was for him. The rest for you.”

Eleanor stood. “Very well. But Fulk will remain with us, and at the least odd move he will kill you.”

She went through into her bedchamber, the knight at her heels with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Jocelyn entered, and was directed to stand in one corner.

Eleanor sat down on her bed, her hands in her lap with her right hand resting very close to her left wrist, an odd pose. “Talk.”

“When he knew he was dying he named you his heir.” He removed the coronation ring from his belt pouch, not appreciating the way the damned knight part drew his weapon in readiness. He held the ring up so they could see it. “As token of your right, he sent this.” At a nod from the princess Fulk claimed the ring from Jocelyn and passed it on to her. It was all wariness Jocelyn could appreciate, in theory and when it wasn’t directed at him.

She held the ring, inspecting it. Probably making sure it wasn’t a forgery. “Why should I believe this came from him, and this was his desire? There are others who would see me on the throne.”

“He .. he said that he wished you were a son, because you were the best of his children-”

“Rubbish. I run low on patience.”

Damn. What would best get her to believe? “He was poisoned, and bloody distraught over the news he’d been hearing of what was going on here – his supposed son and his friend squabbling over his throne, and you in the centre of it, either victim or master player. He admitted he knew Hugh wasn’t capable, and he didn’t want to leave that for a legacy. He then said that either you’d keep your seat and ride like a man born to it, or the kingdom would buck you off and trample you. Either way he’d be avenged; those who betrayed him would go down with you, or be crushed by you. And he was very sure you’d keep your seat. Because,” he added on sudden inspiration, “you never flinched from him.”

For a very long time she didn’t say anything. Jocelyn waited, apprehensive, hating the way Fulk’s attention never left him and having some idea of how much the man wanted to forget him and turn to his princess.

She turned the ring over and over in the palm of her hand, staring at it. “You will swear loyalty to me?”

“I will.”

“Then do so. On your honour, your soul, and the souls of your family, and, as soon as I may borrow one, on a holy relic.”

Bloody hell! That was one damned strong oath she wanted.

She looked up at his hesitation. “Or leave. And do not come back.”

Alright. Alright. So. She was queen, and she had more mettle than her half brother, and maybe the old king was right. It was going to be tough for her for a time; she’d surely remember those who stood by her then. And it had been the old king’s will, which he’d promised to carry out.

So Jocelyn swore loyalty to her, on his honour, his soul, and the souls of his family.

Now probably wasn’t the best of times to mention that land grant. Later, when he wouldn’t look so much like a grasping git.

“I need to think,” the princess – queen announced. “Leave me.”

Jocelyn bowed and headed for the door.

Eleanor commented softly to Fulk, “You too. I need to think.” Some of her better thinking she’d done in his arms. It wouldn’t be safe. The group outside held at least one person who had proven herself unreliable. “Continue to draw what you can out of Anne about her father’s plans.”

“In a moment.” He came and clasped her to his chest; he claimed a kiss, a lengthy and agreeable one.

The first proper close contact in days loosened something inside her; she didn’t want to carry the weight alone any longer. “The bedding ceremony. It will be done in the old tradition.” Her voice failed.

“You mean with the bride and groom displayed naked before the guests to prove there’s no unstated bodily flaw being concealed that might make the marriage void?”

Miserably she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Inspected night and morning for cuts that would prove the only source of blood aside from the honest one they would disprove Trempwick’s claims for good before many high ranking witnesses. And everyone would get a good look at her. Then they would see what the King of England had done to his own daughter, and his memory would be defiled by it. And they would get a good look at her. All of them. A roomful of drunken men. She didn’t know how she was going to manage it.

“Jesù!” His arms tightened until Eleanor felt crushed, she tightened her own embrace until her arms ached and wished she could hold him closer still. “I won’t have it. I’ll talk to that bearded spider, refuse it-”

“He will not change his mind. I tried. It is this way or not at all. I knew that before I told you of the offer. And it makes good sense. I hate it.”

He didn’t let her go. He didn’t make vain promises.

:the frog is laughing: Oh dear! That Jocelyn! And now I have this mental picture of a little shrimp with a halo and white robe …

Poor Nell. ~:mecry:

The danger the power cuts present is all to my PC. That is, the physical danger. The howls of frustration as my work vanishes without warning for the third time in a day is all mine, as is the worry the manuscript might have become corrupted or the computer melted.

Luke has been Fulk’s squire for a bit now. He’s not been around all that much. He was the one doing Malcolm impressions, and he’s seen tagging along after Fulk in the background of quite a few scenes. He fought in the tourney ion Fulk’s team, and he was also in the battle just before Nell ended up as the Dunning brothers’ prisoner, to be rescued by Malcolm. He had the odd mention before Scotland, starting from Trempwick’s attempt to abduct Eleanor from Waltham palace, when Fulk’s original squire tried to kill him and so needed replacing.

Peasant Phill

07-08-2006, 14:01

Be careful with that computer of your my lady, frogs and lighting don't mix to well.

I really like these last pages, the fleshing out of personalities is so important. For instance the 'other' side of Godit and Waltheof becoming more and more Fulks right hand and Hugh with the remains of his father.

I always liked Jocelyn but now it seems he ( or atleast you) is setting himself up to play an important role in the further developement of these events. He can be very beneficial for Nell as a powerbase in the French provinces. It seems that Jocelyn himself appriciates Eleanor (or will if he starts to know her) and knows that serving her could be very benificial. He has the wit and flair of ... the new spymaster?

Can't wait until the next instalment as all the story is coming to its end and the last moves are taken.

Ciaran

07-08-2006, 18:28

Whoa, now that was amazing. Though I halfway expected Jocelyn to arrive in the middle of the wedding, just when the priest says his little piece of someone having obejections should speak up et cetera.

But you´ve done it more than great the way you did it - showing Nell´s entourage from Jocelyn´s point of view.

Did they really dismember the bodies of kings? I´ve read about something like that happening with saints, who on their bier got literally ripped to pieces for reliquiaries.

But now I´m looking forward to the wedding.

furball

07-10-2006, 15:21

Ok. I get the Joclyn scene, amd most of the latter bits, but from this quote through the next scene, I'm at a loss:

"So it wasn’t malice over her asserting her choice which caused measuring cords to fall hard enough to sting, or to be pulled too tight. It wasn’t that which occasioned comments on how narrow her hips were, how fragile she looked – surely her husband would break her if he wasn’t careful! – how unfashionable her hair colour was, and more, comments which went further than the usual, and stung more. "

Is that paragraph referring to the "ignonomy" of the marriage again? I guess it is, to reiterate the poor nature of the marriage?

And the entire scene that begins with, "The steaming liquid in the mug was nearly transparent. . . " What is that? Is she drinking something to ensure she doesn't get pregnant? I really don't understand. I guess I still don't understand how MISERABLE the King of Scots' offer was. I'd have expected at least SOME sort of joy and anticipation that this 18 year old virgin and her true love might be getting to be together legally, joyously and after all this time! :) Granted, Eleanor is aware of the stakes, and Fulk is worried and wary of the nature of his elevation to the status of a queen's consort. But, HECK, Froggy! They're in love! They DO want to be together and - all kingdoms aside - they love each other! So what is she drinking?

Godit, or any other thing you want to toss in for future stuff is fine. But, come on. Once the necessary and admittedly icky royal plans of the marriage are accepted and acted upon, these are two kids, young and healthy, in love and knowledgeable of each other. I understand the necessity of dramatic uncertainty. But these two healthy humans have travelled together for months and learned most of each others' secrets. She's let him climax near her and knows his need. She also seems to want him.

So what is she drinking? If it's some sort of abortive thing, or something, wouldn't she tell him? And, as much as I appreciate Jocelyn and all of the Hawise and Godit stuff, why aren't these two young lovers - who are now married - locking the door and climbing all over each other? I appreciate the nod towards, "was the marriage consumated? and all the official stuff. But if it was THAT accepted, surely the couple would couple and blithely show the proof?

Sorry. My romantic (or base) side is showing. It's just that, given the politics and such have been dealt with, wouldn't they "get together" in this chapter?

Vladimir

07-10-2006, 17:57

The polite courtier’s mask didn’t budge. “I confess I don’t see much resemblance in you.”

“A pity. I had thought you would march with us after settling your affairs. I hoped to see what you are capable of off the tourney field. Pray excuse me. I promised my lady wife I would not be long.”

Sizing up his enemy is he? This should be an interesting confrontation.

What the damned monk – quivering in righteous outrage and more than a little fear of Jocelyn’s bunched fist – hadn’t initially grasped was that when you blasted on about a broad group like ‘women’ you inevitably categorised the good with the bad. So it shouldn’t be done. Because then you wound up passing off good men’s equally good wives as creatures fit only for destruction … or a wild night out. What you had to do was pick clear and precise examples, and give some evidence.

Where is Jocelyn and what did you do to him? But in all seriousness I expected more fanfare upon his arrival. A flourish of trumpets heralding his arrival, rose petals strewn about his feet, and angry husbands hot on his trail. (This ship is too damn big. If I walk the movie will be over. HAH!)

I do like his perceptions of Anne though. Serves her right for chattering away again.

What else? There was something else...:oops: . Oh well.

That speech from Hawise made me drift off. Something about not touching and laughing. Was Fulk on his horse while she was talking?

It's good to read "language d'oil" again. For some reason it always makes me think of French women oil wrestling. :2thumbsup:

Good selection, I can feel a climax building.

frogbeastegg

07-10-2006, 18:23

Peasant Phill: He – it’s Jocelyn’s doing, not mine. My plans for him had him in France still. Humph, as if he ever cared what I wanted. He’s as bad as the rest of them for walking all over the frog. Huh, he can set himself up all he likes; if he doesn’t start getting more of his assumptions right he’ll be in trouble. :sticks her tongue out at Jocelyn:

Lightening and frogs don’t mix. Lightening and frog’s computers don’t mix. Simple answer – ban lightening! Yeah!

Ciaran: Medieval weddings didn’t have that bit ~:) Instead they had what was called ‘the bans’, a series of announcements posted in church on Sunday for four Sundays prior to the wedding. If no one objected before the wedding day then tough luck. They were not compulsory; marriages could be held without them, like this one will be.

They did indeed dismember bodies. Souls benefited from prayers at the place of burial, so if there are multiple places of burial … It was a rich person’s thing, as multiple tombs cost money and the religious foundation would expect a fat contribution in return for prayers. It wasn’t the only way to be buried if you were rich, and its popularity wasn’t constant. The splitting was kept reasonable, as is described here. Saints were really hacked up, a finger here, a toe there, a body somewhere else, a bit of hair there, here an arm … Most of the relics were fakes, taken from animals or corpses no one cared for.

Vladimir: Now you’re being an űber Jocelyn groupie!

Poor Anne hardly said a thing. He just decides she’s a halfwit because she’s upset on hearing William is definitely dead, having already decided in his mind that she is nothing more than an exceptionally young lady’s maid.

Godit, not Hawise. Fulk was walking. She was telling him he needs to be more proactive with Nell.

(saved for last since it’s so long)

Is that paragraph referring to the "ignonomy" of the marriage again? I guess it is, to reiterate the poor nature of the marriage?
That paragraph is two things, about a 50/50 split. It’s a group of women who are, for the most part, horrified at what she is doing; it’s a group of women with a stranger thrust in their midst whom they don’t particularly like, doing what sadly often happens in such cases: being bitchy.

The scene is more. It’s Nell asserting herself, showing how she has changed from the last time she was in this position. It’s her showing she cares about this wedding, and is doing what she can to make it fit what they want, within the framework of what the KoS wants. It should be planting the seeds of some very minor wondering – she’s so determined to have her clothes as she wants them; how does she want them, and why?

Is she drinking something to ensure she doesn't get pregnant? […]Why?
That is what “Start taking the infusion now, and by her wedding day it would be working. Then she shouldn’t conceive.” would imply. Along with the others bits in the scene. It’s in essence the medieval version of the pill, less reliable and in the form of a herbal tea not a tablet. There are many different herbal contraceptives known or suspected to have been used at this time

Nell’s got narrow hips. Without the wonders of modern medicine that is a significant problem in childbirth. She’s got a much higher than usual chance to die, and chances of dying are already terrifyingly high for the average woman: 1 birth out of every 40 ending in death for the mother is the figure usually quoted. So the why is obvious, I’d have thought.

I do wonder why you seem to link contraceptives with her marriage being socially shocking. Twist the picture about so that Nell is as good a breeder as it’s possible to be, and I don’t see why they wouldn’t want a bit of time to themselves to enjoy the marriage they’ve done so much for, as they don’t urgently need heirs. Or they could want to wait until they have settled their situation and have a home, income and security. Or perhaps Nell hasn’t changed her mind about not wanting children, because she knows they would end up in the royal rat race, a feeling Fulk agreed with when she voiced it ages ago.

I'd have expected at least SOME sort of joy and anticipation that this 18 year old virgin and her true love might be getting to be together legally, joyously and after all this time!
Fulk’s thrilled at being able to do simple things like hold her hand in public. It’s taking him time to get used to being able to do this, and he’s trained himself well to act as though he had no attachment to her, and above all it’s a shock that the impossible has become possible; it takes time to adjust.

She’s terrified. :sigh: Begin minor essay on Nell and sex.

I hate this aspect. It’s an absolute swine to write. That’s before you take into consideration that it is the kind of thing I dislike writing, and it’s kept to a few limited places through the story, from near the beginning right up to now and beyond. Worse, it’s being told mainly in scenes I don’t like writing, don’t have much skill at doing, and hardly know what I am doing with. I’m not completely happy with how it is working; I have never believed I have got it quite right. It’s always been something which needs editing.

She’s scarred, she’s used to being slighted, obviously doesn’t make her a great believer in her desirability. She thinks Fulk will be revolted if he gets a good look. Some things would involve Fulk getting a good look :winkg:

She loves the man something stupid, but knows he’s experienced and she’s not, ergo she thinks she will be a disappointment. He’s been waiting a long time, so the likelihood of her being a disappointment feel larger. She also fears Fulk will lose interest after a bit; she can’t bear the thought. And she knows however much he loves her she is likely to lose him if she keeps him dangling about at semi-arm’s length for too long.

All her life sex has been bound up in terms of limitation. Consummate this marriage to that unwanted husband and live with his whims until someone dies. Not tempting for a gooseberry. Even with Fulk there’s an aspect of being subject to his whims; she’s not convinced that can be good.

She has all the usual fears of the unknown we poor females tend to end up with to some degree. Hers are closer to the extreme end of the scale than the calmer one. She’s got a lovely fear of being crushed; this is practically gone by now; she’s getting to like the proximity. She’s frequently told that her chances of surviving childbirth are next to none. So it’s dicing with death, relying on unreliable herbal contraception.

Then there’s the value of her virginity. She’s spent her life acutely aware of how much that’s worth. That goes hand in hand with her, ahem, education on these things. Can anyone see Trempy managing to do a decent “Useful facts of life for princesses” lecture? Me neither. The man would die of embarrassment; Nell has learned that much from him. There’s not been anyone else in her life to do it. The way she has grown up hardly helps: surrounded by a few men with precious little female company.

Let’s be honest, thus far her experience isn’t terribly encouraging. Trempy had ulterior motives. Fulk is trying not to repeat his past mistakes, scare her, or push her into something she’ll regret; above all he knows she is of a mixed mind on the subject. Broadly speaking – there’s more to the knight’s side of things.

The idea doesn’t exactly appeal. At the same time it does, very much. She’s crazy about the stupid knight, the idea appeals, but the baggage puts her off. She wants to, and doesn’t want to. This ball happens to be weighted with lead and has spikes on the outside. It’s so hard to get the balance right. In a moment she can go from wanting to to not. It’s hellish to write, especially from an external POV.

Like many such feelings, these are not consistent. She’s dumping the responsibility on Fulk, sometimes. “I’m not going to protest, so get it over with; I’m too scared to do anything.” almost. From time to time she gets the idea that she has to, to make him happy, from duty, to keep him, a “I know you want to; I’ll suffer bravely for your sake.” sort of thing. Then she remembers who she is, or something else which sends her right back into “Gah! No way!”

All this before you throw a wedding into the mix. Medieval weddings make me wonder why on earth more people didn’t elope! They’re the ‘lucky’ victims of a bit of revived tradition, which makes it all far worse from Nell’s POV; being put to bed with Fulk while a bunch of drunkards make crude jokes was bad enough, being stripped naked and displayed to them, gah!

these are two kids, young and healthy, in love and knowledgeable of each other. […]She's let him climax near her and knows his need. She also seems to want him.
:cough: Out of three times one was a disaster, one she didn’t much like, and one was decently enjoyable; the most recent is the disaster. The first time she was very carefully trying not to think the er, results of it was disgusting.

Fulk has always been trying to keep things within reasonable bounds. He hasn’t er, let go and done his best, so to speak. And he needs to. She does want him, but not strongly enough that it overcomes the fear or makes her forget herself. Because he’s not given her reason to. What she had now is a desire to make him happy, the knowledge that it is something he wants, a grudging sense of duty, and a personal interest which is all over the place and not as high as it should be and needs to be.

why aren't these two young lovers - who are now married - locking the door and climbing all over each other?
Er … because they aren’t married? Secretly, they are still married; publicly they are only betrothed. That’s why there’s all this fuss about the upcoming wedding.

But if it was THAT accepted, surely the couple would couple and blithely show the proof?
Realistically speaking many couples did pre-empt things, so to speak. People knew it happened. It’s happened in this story, too – Fulk and his first intended, Maude. But it wasn’t advertised, and it wasn’t something ‘nice’ young ladies got tangled up in; Fulk’s Maude never said a word and married the man chosen to replace Fulk still without saying a word, because it would plunge her into disgrace. Nell being a princess she is expected to be Nice with a capital N and italics.

furball

07-11-2006, 04:07

Thanks, ma'am. You've reiterated a lot of things I used to know in the story but forgot. Even your lectures are a joy to read!

zelda12

07-19-2006, 20:29

I don't know, I'm gone for a few days (actually maybe its months...) and next thing I know the threads 20 pages long! Time to re-read m'thinks, roughly how long is the story now Froggy, I want to guage how bad my eyestrain is going to be from catching up!~D

Ludens

07-21-2006, 21:03

Welcome back, Zelda ~:wave: .

frogbeastegg

07-23-2006, 16:03

Without Godit’s frantic waving Fulk still would have joined her and her companion; he’d been searching for the French count.

As he sat down opposite the pair Godit explained, “I know you can speak that mess those continentals call French, so you can translate for us. I only speak proper French, and a bit of English.” All this before his behind had contacted the bench! Fulk drew breath; she chattered on. “I’ve just about established his name – between you and I that I already knew – and where he’s from – which I also already knew – and what he is – again, I’d done a little bit of research. The rest: mysteries, mysteries, and more mysteries. Honestly, you’d have thought those in your king’s French holdings would have made a bit more of an effort to keep up with their ruler’s language. I mean, I’m not subject to whoever’s currently in charge of England this week, and here I am, fluent in one and really quite good in the other-”

“But Anglo-French is the main language of the Scottish court!” protested Fulk.

Godit glanced shyly at Jocelyn from under her eyelashes and blushed, acting for all the world as if they were discussing how wonderful the man was. “Yes, I know that. But the point is he’s negligently come here in a state where I can’t say anything to him, and can’t get anything at all from him.”

From the way the Frenchman was steadily watching her every move Fulk was willing to bet she was wrong on both counts. “Godit, he might not understand a word you say, but the rest …”

“Pish.” Godit waved a hand airily. “I have to attract his interest, and I’ve not done much at all. It would appear he’s rather keen.” Her mouth dimpled as she caught the inside of her lip in her teeth, her brow furrowing. “Then again, that can be worrying. No, on second thoughts you are probably right. I’m now worried.”

In langue d’oil Jocelyn asked Fulk, “She doesn’t seem so happy now. What in God’s name did you do?”

“Find out,” Godit demanded, “if he’s married. Quickly. If I’ve got to be wary of him in narrow corridors I’d like the advance notice so I can gather a troop of companions to follow me everywhere. Otherwise there’s less of a problem, so long as we can get him to pledge the proper oaths. And teach him a useful language. I will not marry anyone who cannot understand a word I say, nor I them.”

Fulk cleared his throat and swapped languages. “The lady would like to enquire about your family, if you have one.” Why did he end up in situations like this?!

“Oh?” Jocelyn’s attention rested on Fulk, and slowly slid back towards the beacon of upstanding feminine virtue that Godit was presently trying to be. “Family, or just my wife?” His next words were lost to Fulk, muttered and containing a few curses.

Back to Anglo-French. “He’s married.”

“Oh, curses and damnation!” Godit shot to her feet, shaking the folds of her skirts out to fall pleasingly around her feet. “That’s it, I’m off.”

Watching her departing back Jocelyn said, “Damn.” He swallowed a few mouthfuls of wine, and refilled his cup, pushing Godit’s abandoned drink over to Fulk. “Well, I did think it damned queer that a widow would be so open about wanting a lover; I didn’t think her the sort to be a court whore.” Somehow he implied that queer was the least a man could expect when away from home.

Fulk accepted the cup, taking a sip for the sake of manners. “It would have been more than queer. It’d have been scandalous.”

“You speak good langue d’oil.”

“I spent a few years in France.”

“That will explain it. So … she’s done with her thinking? Since you were looking for me.”

“No, not yet.”

“How much longer can it take? All she’s got to do is decide when to raise her banner, damn it, and then hand the rest over to them that’s made to handle it.” With all the slipperiness of an eel the man changed direction and doubled back, as though remembering who his listener was. “No slight intended to her, none at all. Just that she can’t lead an army, and that’s what will be needed.”

Fulk stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles in a deliberately nonchalant shift, all the better to lend weight to his words by making them simple fact. “If Eleanor’s thinking it’s because she has cause.”

Jocelyn grunted an agreement. “There is the matter of who she’s going to delegate to. Still, not like she’s got much choice.”

Knowing full well the answer, knowing and wanting to assert a few home truths in the face of such egotism, Fulk asked, “You’d serve under me then?”

Setting his drink down the count drew back as if a foul smell had wafted under his nose. “I am Jocelyn de Ardentes, Count of Tourraine. My noble bloodlines go back generations. I’ve fought, I’ve led, and I’ve trained for that since I was six.”

“So have I, for that last.” Fulk tucked his thumbs in his belt, again acting with deliberate nonchalance. The man had to protect his standing, and Fulk his.

“Yes. I have heard, and heard you’ve done well.” The pause spoke eloquently enough the final part of that comment: that it didn’t make a jot of difference. “So.” He reclined, mirroring Fulk’s relaxation. “Do you hope for a son first, or a daughter?”

The question caught Fulk off stride; to cover he sipped at his wine. “In truth I’ve not given it much thought. First it was impossible, now … having gained a wife I’ll not lose her.”

“Come on, you’ve given it thought – admit it, damn it. Along with many other things you weren’t supposed to be letting your mind near.”

Sons with their mother’s eyes, and their father’s height and colouring; daughters with his facial features married to their mother’s build; children who took more strongly after one parent or another so that one day he might find Eleanor looking back at him in the form or mannerisms of a child, or himself reflected likewise; so many possibilities. With them came other images long repressed: a family gathered, himself teaching his son to fight, Eleanor telling him that their children had better take better care of the nose they’d inherited from him than he had or she would go grey from sheer exasperation … He indulged himself for a time before sending the ghostly brood back to their grave. “I’d be well content with either,” he said softly. “But I’ll be far more content with my wife.”

“Most men clamour for sons. I was the same, and I was bloody fortunate; I’d a legitimate son and a bastard one before my first daughter appeared. I was disappointed – until I found I wasn’t. My little Mahaut is damned perfect! I thank God daily for all of them, but she’s always first in the list.” The glow of parental fervour dimmed, only a fraction, as Jocelyn refocused on his companion. “It was the same for your king, I expect. He spent much of his time when near death speaking of her.”

“Don’t tell her this, please.”

“Why not? She should know, damn it. He was her father, and he bloody well near burst with pride for her.”

“And with hate. There’s nothing so ugly as love gone sour.”

“Or so sweet as it recovered.” Jocelyn grimaced as if disliking the taste of what he’d said.

“More like expediency. Lightens his soul for judgement and maybe makes her more amiable to doing as he wanted.” If the dead king had been so foolish as to think that Fulk hoped he burned in hell as he deserved, and looked on as once more Eleanor set her own direction. He didn’t believe Eleanor would tamely cast away all she was because she received a ring from a father who had long ago ensured she had no loyalty to him, no love, nothing which might have promoted her to place his deathbed wishes above her own mind.

“Oh, I don’t believe he regretted their fighting, not completely. Not when so much of what he was proud of came from that.”

“Fighting?” Fulk choked down the heartfelt comments which rushed to his tongue, about longing to kill his former king for more than ‘fighting’ with his daughter. “He nearly killed her. More than once. She needs to forget, and she needs to forgive – if she ever can, and I do hope so - before she can accept he held anything but hate for her. Or it’ll be too much.”

Jocelyn hunched forward, hands wrapped about his cup. He hitched his shoulders. “You’d know more then I, I’d suppose. Still, seems bloody wrong to me.” Restlessly he sat back again, regarding Fulk with his head tilted slightly to one side. He raised his drink, lowered it, raised it again, and placed it back down half empty. “So you love her, this princess of yours.”

“Yes.”

“More than anything.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve done so for months.”

“Yes.”

“How in God’s name did you manage it?!”

Fulk indicated he didn’t understand.

“You love her, therefore you want to bed her, but you can’t and don’t for months. Months spent right near her, all the time without respite. You must have had some damned idea as to how she felt about you too.” Fulk opened his mouth to tell the man to mind his own business, to snap it shut when Jocelyn added, “What the hell are you – a eunuch? From what I hear it sounds like it.”

“Restraint. Layers of it built up over all that time, strengthened as my feelings grew. There’s a part of myself that’s been held back for so long …” For so long he didn’t know if he could fully loose it. “As for the rest, I’m particular. When I want one woman no other will do.”

The count drained his cup, refilled it and drained that one in a single draught. He set his empty vessel down with a thump and reached for the jug again; aside from a dribble it was empty. “Yes … when you’re cursed with knowing what you want and not able to have it nothing else is quite enough.”

As the great hall broke up into entertainment after the day’s final meal Fulk headed towards one of the wall alcoves, holding Eleanor’s hand loosely in his. Over his shoulder he encouraged, “Come along, my love. I’ve had enough of people gawking for a time, and enough of being surrounded by clusters of curious chaperones. I’d like a bit of time alone with my betrothed, in a scrupulously proper way, of course.”
“But …”

He tossed a dazzling grin in her direction. “Oh my love, my heart, my soul, my endless source of strife and perennial headache, it’s not polite to drag your heels until I’m let no alternative to admit I’ll die for wont of your company, like a plant without the sun.”

She followed, unresisting and some distance from happy. People were watching, many trying to seem as though they weren’t, others being open about it. She could guess what they thought, what words they put in Fulk’s mouth to stand in place of those they couldn’t hear, what motivated him … and her, whatever she did it would provoke speculation. Above all it was that she hated: the scrutiny and the strain of that scrutiny, that nothing could be what it was but must have a greater meaning or purpose or some motive. It would, she prayed, die out with time, so that one day they could do the simplest of things without a hundred reasons being bandied about.

Once they were in the alcove Fulk put his back to the hall and used his body as a screen to block as much of the arch as possible, giving them a measure of privacy. So none might think the pose odd – and because he wanted to, she thought with a considerable amount of delight – he put his arms around her and pulled her to his body. Near her ear he murmured, “Anne didn’t know much. Her father is going to wait until I’m solidly in power before doing anything about Trempwick. That could take a month or more, if things go badly.”

“Too long.”

“What’s more it sounds like he’s planning to trail along at my side, unless there’s significant gain to be made from launching a quick strike elsewhere. So the two-pronged attack I was hoping for doesn’t look likely.”

“He will call upon you to discuss strategy at some point; do what you can there.”

“I had planned it, oh gooseberry mine.” He launched a swift attack on her neck, running light kisses from under her ear down to the collar of her clothes. “How goes your thinking?”

“Uncooperatively.”

“Your French knight is one to be wary of, I’d warrant. He’s got visions of being your lord marshal dancing in his head already.”

Eleanor wound a lock of his hair around her forefinger, her other fingers caressing the back of his neck. “They can remain there.”

“It’s also definite you’ll declare yourself, if you listen to him. No thinking required. He’s seeing things clear cut; you take your army and kill your rivals, and then all is done and well.”

“If there was ever doubt there can be none now: being a knight impairs your intelligence.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “You are an exception to that rule.”

Gazing down at her with a funny look in his eyes Eleanor was sure she heard Fulk mutter, “Sod it.” The length of their bodies pressed together as he kissed her and kept on kissing her until she was giddy, crushing her against him as though he could merge them into one being if he only held her tight enough. Awareness of their watchers faded; Eleanor’s world filled with the feel of him, the scent of him, her racing heart. Long minutes later he broke the kiss, gasping. “Why do these last few days feel longer than all the months? I want you in my bed, every night for the rest of my life. And,” he added, interrupting himself with another kiss, “most of the days too.”

Eleanor buried her face in the front of his tunic. “You will be disappointed.”

“My heart, the only way that would be possible is if I lose control and act like a green boy. I’d be disappointed with myself, bitterly.” His hand stroked her back, thumb following her spine.

“Hoi!” called a loud voice, “Put each other down! The wedding isn’t for a few days yet!”

Eleanor started, and leapt free. If she had felt herself blushing before now her face and neck felt as though they were on fire.

“Brazen it out,” Fulk breathed in her ear, before turning to face the hall again and offering her his arm. Together they walked back out into the hall, into the storm of teasing and laughter. Eleanor inwardly cringed away from it, and kept her crimson face ducked; she couldn’t do as Fulk was, and return her own shots now and then. She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other and not running away to hide.

It occurred to her, midway across the hall, that she was making of herself a better target. Where people knew they could draw blood they all to often did. So she stiffened her neck and dragged her gaze back up, blushing and silent as any would expect of a young bride-to-be and no more.

It’s been one of those weeks again, sprawled over two whole weeks. Thunderstorms, work, this hideous heat wave, I suspect my PC’s primary hard drive is beginning to fail (probably due to those power cuts, gah!), plenty of upheaval which all settled only to go to more upheaval within days, things I needed to do which robbed me of time to write … gah! The heat wave and thunder promises to continue. Much of the “needed doing” is done. The upheaval aught to be done now – if it’s not I’m like to turn grey. Really I can’t see how it can go anywhere more … unless one of my colleagues takes my promotion worse than expected, and tries to murder me with a cunningly placed stack of book boxes. Yup, I did say promotion. I’m going up in the world; I shall be hopping up to the lowest management role, training now and getting the title/pay/whathaveyou in two months time.

Zelda: As of this update Eleanor is 925 pages long, or 601,315 words. Just a little bit long then. :gring:

furball

07-24-2006, 04:43

Congratulations on the promotion, Froggy! And thanks for the episode!

Ciaran

07-24-2006, 12:36

:laugh4: Jocelyn and Godit, well, I should have seen it coming.

It looks like Fulk and Jocelyn will one day meet head on, though, the latter´s ambition seems to be running a mite too high. Seems like this King-making (or rather Queen-making) business got to his head.

Congratulations to your promotion, does that mean you´ll get a nice cosy office with powercut-proof electricity, climatisation and a secretary to dictate new updates to ~;) ?

furball

07-24-2006, 12:48

Ok, nobody's gonna comment on Jocelyn finally meeting Fulk?

(glrarg) From my point of view, these two guys are ME in that time. Well, ok, I'd probably be a dung-merchant's whipping-boy. But, I mean, if I was to put myself in the STORY. . . . well, you know.

So, here's Jocelyn, the "trying-to-be-right-Knight" while knowing how the king died AND also sort-of knowing that the whole "We give you fealty" is, well, based on power, yes?

And he KNOWS the King gave his blessing to Eleanor, but he has to talk to Fulk over booze. And talk about expectations and responsibilities from HIS point of view.

Perfect, Froggy! Wonderful!

Now look. You don't have to describe Fulk and Eleanor's wedding night in detail.

Granted, Jocelyn and Godit and EVERYBODY might be waiting for the exact thing, but that isn't required by the story.

Aw, heck, I'm wrong, aren't I? After all this time, SOME sort of story will have to be told of their night.

Vladimir

07-24-2006, 15:28

Interesting conversation between the would-be eunuch and the man who should be neutered. That was also a nice intimate scene between Fulk and the princess.

zelda12

07-24-2006, 22:49

Zelda: As of this update Eleanor is 925 pages long, or 601,315 words. Just a little bit long then. :gring:

I do believe my eyes will explode before I'm finished here!:2thumbsup:

Might I have permission to copying the posts into a word document so I may read a chunk of it again over my holidays when I will be unfortunately cut off from the internet? Chances are it'll prove a better (and much longer) read than most of the other books I have waiting in the wings at the moment.

Congratulations on the promotion by the way!

And thanks for the welcome back Ludens!~:)

frogbeastegg

08-03-2006, 18:16

Her father was dead; Hugh, her guardian, was many miles away. No male relations were here, no high-ranked male friends of the family. Eleanor went to the church door on the arm of the King of Scotland, like one of his more significant wards being disposed of to a favoured lord.

The procession of high-status witnesses was some three hundred people long, trailing out behind her in a riot of colour and noise as they passed out of the palace and through the city. Townspeople filled the streets; more than once Eleanor heard fighting behind her as someone pressed too close and fell foul of the guards walking at the edges of the column.

Walking along in a daze only parts of the scene reached Eleanor: noise as if from a distance, the bright colour, an occasional person or face, the threat of rain in the sky, the scent of roasting meat as they passed one of the cook fires set up by the king to provide a feast for his subjects. The day’s archbishop-blessed suspension of the fast combined with free food and the promise of money being dispersed on the return trip wasn’t the only reason behind the crowd. People here would spend the rest of their lives boring their children, their children’s children, and any other victims they could pin down with tales of how they had attended the great royal wedding, and, what’s more, the wedding where the princess married the handsome knight of status greatly argued.

It was a day long avoided and a day long desired, a day pregnant with dread, crammed with far too much good and bad. It was a dream – how else could she be marrying her knight? A nightmare – how else could she be the centrepiece in a state wedding? After a lifetime of evading the obligatory wedding, here she was. A night spent sleepless was but the final thing she needed to detach herself from this and walk as though in a dream, seeing this from a distance … or as if it happened to someone else. After today all should begin to settle; she needed only to get through this and all should begin to settle. She had made her choice, had chosen what she wanted knowing well what it involved. The thought of hundreds of people gawking at her believing she disgraced herself and her family out of lust for an ambitious nothing was easier to bear than the reality.

When they reached the church Fulk and his smaller party were already waiting. The King of Scots led Eleanor into position opposite Fulk, removed her hand from his arm and stepped back, leaving the Archbishop of Glasgow to begin the wedding. Which he did, and it all flowed by like the murmuring of a stream.

Fulk taking her right hand and beginning to speak his vows snapped Eleanor back into the flow of the here and now. “I, Fulk, take thee Eleanor to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”

The most formal form of the vows; it would add that little bit more insolubility to the marriage. Another worry on her mountain of worries – her necessary reply contained promises the keeping of which was against her nature. She didn’t want to lie: making a lie of part reduced the whole to the same. The same for promises given and broken. It had to be in good faith. Before letting go of her hand Fulk gave it a light squeeze. It was enough. She could trust him; he would release her from the worst of the vows. She took his right hand in hers. “I, Eleanor, take thee, Fulk, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be meek and obedient at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”

An attendant brought forth a cushion with two plain gold bands lying on it. The archbishop blessed the smaller of the two rings, and gave it to Fulk.

Fulk placed the ring on her thumb. “With this Ring I thee wed,” on her index finger, “and with my body I thee honour,” and on her heart finger, “and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The second ring was blessed and offered to Eleanor. She repeated the process of working the ring along to the correct finger. The poor man, he hadn’t gained much: one battered body, and a few lands in England worth less than his own new holdings.

They exchanged one chaste kiss, waited for an interval to accommodate the congratulations, and the headed into the church for the wedding mass with the most important guests following.

Grains and seeds stung Eleanor’s exposed skin as they rained down in handfuls; she tucked in closer to Fulk’s side, using his body as a shelter. With the bare minimum of time spent waiting before the church door in the hail of confetti Eleanor tugged on Fulk’s arm to set him moving. Once far enough out from the building four servants rushed into place with a canopy to keep off the rain; it served well to intercept more of the seeds.

Fulk bent his head and murmured, “You might blame me for the weather. I prayed it would rain tonight, so no one would want to stand beneath our window and shout advice.”

“You overestimate your own importance just a little, do you not think?” With her free hand she brushed away a few bits of rice which hadn’t taken her blackly thought hint and bounced right back off her; she didn’t want the fertility blessing, thank you very much.

“I’m the lord of a very small earldom – how can I not be important? Besides, I did add that you wouldn’t be very happy if people were making a raucous din under our window and that it would be all His fault for not answering my prayers. How could a god of love and forgiveness wish a distraught gooseberry on me? Obviously He has great sympathy for me.”

“You are going to need a bigger helmet. Something is going to your head, and I am not convinced it is wit.”

“Married for the time it takes to say mass, and already I think I’m going to have to beat you. You do not believe in wasting time, do you?”

As it was their wedding Eleanor and Fulk displaced the King of Scots from the seat of honour at the centre of the high table; he’d taken his throne with him, and moved to sit at Fulk’s left, in the third best place.

When the great hall was full and the guests seated, the king rose. He made a lengthy speech on his hopes for their marriage; Eleanor paid little attention, as it consisted of the usual stock phrases and trite wishes. That done he turned to generic tedium on his pleasure at the alliance with England, all of which he had orated on before and with much the same words.

She started paying attention again when the king pulled Fulk to his feet. “We do have great faith in our new earl and friend, and do greatly anticipate his actions upon our behalf, and to the aid of his wife’s family, against the traitor Northumberland. Indeed, such is our faith that we shall assign him fully two thousand of our men and allow him to act in our name in regard to this strike, independent of our chosen marshal and his own troops.”

There was nothing for Fulk to do but bow and act grateful for the dubious opportunity of bearing the brunt of the fighting with men he couldn’t rely on, and later on the larger portion blame if things went awry. More, he managed to make it sound as though he were eager to charge off into the wilderness and play with death.

Oh, he did look splendid! Plain Fulk might seem when stood next to a king loaded in finery and crowned with a mass of gold and jewels, yet it was he who put the king to shame. Glossy brown hair falling to barely brush the shoulders of his clothes, his face composed into noble serenity, posture which told of his high health and fitness and of confidence; he was an arresting figure and would have been if he were dressed in rags. Unpretentious his clothes may be, they became him as flamboyance never would. Nor could any say he had not done her credit, or had failed to dress as his position required. The fawn brown outer tunic was of the best quality fine wool, the hem reaching mid shin and the collar, cuff and hem were host to complex embroidered patterns. Where visible at the sleeves and collar his undertunic showed a rich light yellow, his hose an expensive deep blue. He wore his best sword, and the dagger her father had given him, the waist belt, sword belt and scabbards polished into a black shine which gave the sparing ornamentation more lustre.

She felt an upwelling of pride in him that threatened to make a fool of her; plucked from his meagre place he had put a king to shame. From baseborn man at arms with outdated armour to this, and in the space of not quite eight months, done without losing any of his goodness.

When Fulk sat back down she slipped her hand into his under the table, feeling the new ring on his heart finger and marvelling once again that he loved her.

It made him sick, it did. It really, really did. By God’s testicles it made him sick. Those two being all so caring and mushy and stuff. What it did was make him sick. Jocelyn blearily watched the happy couple dancing in the middle of a load of people who were dressed far too bloody fancily. It just wasn’t right! Well it wasn’t. What business did they have being all happy and tender and all that pointless crap he didn’t care one dried lump of turd for? Yes indeed.

He put his cup to his lips and found it empty. Waving the vessel about in the air attracted the attention of a servant and won him a timely refill of wine.

No, really, it was just really, really obnoxious and not right at all, damn them and their happiness and stuff. So she was all delicately pale and nervous and not getting on well with the increasing rowdiness and a whole load of other boringly womanish stuff Jocelyn didn’t care about. So why did the stupid what’s his name – the one’s she’d (who was she again?) married – keep on looking all worried and stuff over her, and keep on trying to be nice and crap, and from the way he was being so bloody tender anyone would think he loved … whoever she was – the one with the black hair, shortish, absolutely bloody beautiful. Yeah, beautiful, really, really beautiful, like every other maiden … lady … thing in a dress in the hall. Yeah.

Jocelyn’s face scrunched up; he knew somewhere he’d lost something. Something he’d been thinking. He gulped a bit more mead to see if that would help.

Yes! There! That was it, and it was all swimming about like some fish thing in a watery thing what fish lived in. This was a wedding! Having remembered that Jocelyn had another few swallows to celebrate. A wedding. And it was all wrong! It was! The thought was so profound he knew he had to share it with his neighbour. “’t’s all blordy wong, know tha’?” He didn’t get a response. Damned bastard was still sulking over losing their little competition of wits and culture and other highly classy stuff which Tildis would have been proud of and not whined about. Yeah, well he could get stuffed. It wasn’t Jocelyn’s fault he’d had the brilliance to see one answer no one could argue, by God! And it was right – the best thing Christianity ever did for any man was getting rid of bloody circumcision. Having bits chopped off your manhood wasn’t friendly and all those other religions did it. Anyway it was the plate of sausages which had given him the idea, so it was their damned fault.

He’d been married and it wasn’t all like this. No. Not at all. No, no, no, no. See, when he’d been married there was a lot less of this … this … He put his tongue out at the corner of his mouth to see if it would help him catch the elusive idea. Mahaut always said doing that helped her think, yes she bloody well did by saint Jeremiah, and Richildis was always whining about it being inelegant and all that drivel what didn’t really matter about anything at all. Mahaut was really clever and he was so proud of her.

Happiness! Yeah, that. Right. There was a lot less of all this happiness nonsense. And there shouldn’t have been! It was a wedding, for Christ’s sake! What did people think it was? Some kind of happy event like a wedding or one of them funeral things?

It was wrong! And it made him sick because he was so tuned to wrongness that he was like a man finely tuned to wrongness and the only man who was … that in the whole bloody hall. No one else could see it!

See, now, see, what it was meant to be was all miserable. Yeah, miserable. Right, but the guests were allowed to be happy and all that annoying stuff, but not the ones who had just got whatever-it-wased, you know, thingy. No. What they were meant to be was unhappy. Jocelyn shivered and drained his cup, bellowing for another refill.

Really, thinking back, see, it had all been like that for him, and it just wasn’t fair that these two had all this wrong and were doing things the wrong way and being all happy and crap in a terrified or worried sort of way depending on whether you were the man one or the other one. She wasn’t supposed to like him much and he didn’t like her much either but he put in a big effort and tried to be nice to her by saying things which were nice, like how much he couldn’t wait until he got her into bed and all that nice stuff. And she didn’t like any of it! No, she was all miserable and getting miserabler as time went by and nothing he could do was right and she wasn’t being very helpful either ‘cause she kept on going on about him maybe wanting to dance or something or stop drinking because he was getting drunk. So he - the man one, whoever he was - did what any decent bloke would have done and left her to it, only that didn’t help at all and it actually got worse, which was just annoying because there was no way he could win then, stay with her or go she whined. And then when the fun part actually arrived he’d found that she wasn’t interested, which wasn’t nice and all the others had been. So he’d had to do everything all by himself without any help from her and she complained which the others didn’t, and anyway enthusiasm was good so she shouldn’t have complained at all about him being enthusiastic. It just wasn’t nice, damn her! All the others had been helpful and hadn’t left everything to him and they hadn’t complained either. No, damn right. They’d said he was good at … whatsit. That. It was flattering anyway, if she’d the wit to see it. Flattering. She should have been happy he jumped on her and was enthusiastic right the moment the door closed and got rid of all the people. Showed keenness, it did, and some hefty attraction to her, but no she complained and didn’t like it and whinged it hurt. And it’d been the same when he tried again that night – which had been a real feat of amazing endurance and stuff, since he’d been very tired and drunk, but did she see that, oh no, course not. And then when he’d tried things the nice and faffing around way a few days later she’d just cowered like some cowering thing so it had all been a waste of time and he had to jump on her again anyway, and still she complained. What more could a chap do? And he only didn’t like her because she was all posh and made him feel stupid and like an arse on legs. What kind of pathetic man couldn’t even satisfy his wife? A really, really pathetic one, that’s what sort. Except, except, except everyone else liked him, so there! Christ, he was so useless!

Jocelyn tried to stand – it was only fair someone warned the groom. He wouldn’t go off unprepared like Jocelyn had, into disaster expecting something a damn sight more bloody fun. Oh no! This one would be fairly warned that he was doomed. But the hall had turned into a bloody ship on one of those things which had storms, and Jocelyn knew he’d better sit back down or risk getting washed overboard and drowning. So he did, and he hooked a leg around the bench’s support in case there was a big wave. And because it was all so terribly cruel he couldn’t warn him Jocelyn drank a toast to the poor doomed man, because that was all any decent chap could do.

It made him sick, really it did. He was the one who was supposed to have the wife who adored him and was all nice to him, and he was meant to be the caring one who everyone loved – and they did love him, everyone except his wife … and those ones he paid who probably loved him but it was hard to tell because of the money and only seeing them the once and all that. No. So it was all wrong! And it wasn’t fair. He was so lonely and alone and lonely. He’d never wanted much from life, just loads of money and a nice lot of land and a important title and good hunting grounds and a gentle war or two where he could keep fit and really wonderful children and stuff and a loving thing … yeah, one of them things. It was all he’d ever wanted and he hadn’t got any of it except the children and the title and the land and the money and the hunting and the war. Hardly anything! It was so sad Jocelyn felt a tear escape and run down his face. Muttering a curse he wiped it away with his arm, getting it on his second attempt. He didn’t deserve such a cruel fate! That God person hated him. Everyone hated him! No, it was true – they did. All of them, including God. And it wasn’t like there was any reason, I mean he’d never gone and farted on God’s favourite cushion or anything. Cruelty, that’s what it was. And hate and meanness and stuff. Yeah, well he didn’t want to be happy, so there!

A realisation prodded at Jocelyn. He told it that it could damned well sod off right now and stay sodded – sodding? - off. It prodded again, insistent and bloody well rude, and it kept on with its prodding. He lurched to his feet and zigzagged his way to the wall, nearly making it before he threw up. It just wasn’t fair! He couldn’t even get that right.

He collapsed to his hands and knees, and slumped to one side, the deck tossing wildly in the storm. He just missed the puddle of vomit which was really nice, but he could see through the forest of legs and stuff to the middle of the hall, and there he could see them, the ones who were all important and all that crap, standing and he was fussing over her and saying something quietly to her, and that wasn’t nice because it just rubbed it all in his face yet again. Jocelyn started to cry, not caring to wipe away the tears this time – that could have been dangerous: everything he did made everything worse, always! And he wasn’t going to do it any more! He should have been like that! Like the man, all kind and all that stupid rubbish and stuff and then she’d have liked him and then his life wouldn’t have gone crap and now it was all too late and he was doomed, doomed, bloody doomed, and everyone hated him because he’d been sick everywhere!

His squire turned up to drag him off to his room to recover, muttering nice words to him about how he’d gone much to far this time and he didn’t usually try to kill himself with drink so what the devil was wrong with him.

Jocelyn broke into sobs.

Late afternoon faded into evening, the sunlight dimmed and torches were lit. Course after course was brought out, showed off and admired, before being eaten in tiny portions by guests who knew they had a long haul ahead of them. Fish featured in small part, for those who wished to observe the fast despite the archbishop’s dispensation; meat made up the main, in great quantities, every possible sort cooked in every possible way. Starved of flesh the guests fell on it with greater than usual zest. In assembling the fruit and vegetable dishes the kitchens had exhausted all the possibilities offered by late winter; if the result wasn’t spectacular than it was not for wont of trying.

Drink was available in quantifies fit to float a barge: nine varieties of wine between both red and white, clairet, mead, cider, ale, beer, and a few concoctions made of fermented fruits. For children, ladies approaching their capacities and those few men not wishing to get drunk there was watered wine, small ale and small beer, and mead watered with apple juice. So by the time the banquet had been going for several hours it was no surprise most of the men were drunk to some extent, and a few of the women scandalously tipsy.

As the hall grew merrier Fulk watched Eleanor grow ever more timorous. After the first course she barely ate a thing, despite his best efforts. She took no more than cursory sips from the large goblet they shared – a restraint in which she was not alone, to the amusement of those nearby. The night was going to be difficult enough without his being befuddled, and if he had to parry too many jokes about his fearing to make himself impotent and being a miserable git who couldn’t enjoy his own wedding, then it was by far the smaller price.

In proportion to the growing inebriety the atmosphere took a dive, becoming increasingly crude and raucous. The entertainment twisted to fit, with the minstrels’ songs become lewd, the games rougher, the jokes louder, the conversation vulgar. By the time the subtlety in the form of a half life-sized naked couple with a marked resemblance to Fulk and his wife appeared, Eleanor was as pale as her snowy white mantle. The Countess of Berwick, having drunk more than she aught, crawled under her table out into the central space, assaulted the sugar groom, snapping off his overly large erect penis and waved it in the air, exuberantly claiming it as a memento of the day.

“I hope she doesn’t try that again later,” Fulk commented to Eleanor.

She didn’t say anything, staring at the sugar figures with the beginnings of panic.

Enough was enough. Much more and he feared it would take more time than they had for her to recover some good humour, and the whole night would be a disaster. The guests were the ones to announce the end by clamouring for the bedding ceremony, so with a little prompting perhaps …

Fulk took a quick drink to steady his nerves – blood was pounding in his ears as if he’d run a mile – and gathered Eleanor to him in a showy kiss, a kiss which had to be the single worst they had ever shared; she acted like a statue, and for an instant he thought she was going to shove him away. Not that he could say his own efforts were much better. He made a show out of playing with her hair, worn loose to signify she was a virgin bride, and kissed her again.

It took longer than it should have, and he was beginning to wonder about giving it up as futile when the first shout came, “If we don’t put them to bed soon we’ll be watching the consummation over dessert!” That sent Eleanor bolting out of his arms, eyes wide with terror. Fulk gave her a reassuring smile, thinking better of his initial impulse to tell her that it would be alright; to her the night would get worse before it improved.

The cry was taken up, spreading through the hall. As the highest ranking member of the group chosen to help Eleanor prepare, Anne collected up the designated ladies and came to fetch Eleanor.

When Eleanor stood Fulk feared she was going to collapse; she teetered, hand bunching up in the linen tablecloth to steady herself … or as if she didn’t want to let go.

Fulk steadied her. “Trust me. I won’t let it get too bad.”

Through numb lips Eleanor whispered, “I refuse to do worse than Anne did, and she managed dignity.” With that she moved out from her chair and off towards the oncoming party, pacing on stuff legs.

Watching her go Fulk wondered what else he expected from a princess born and raised and a gooseberry to boot, a person capable of, in the midst of her fear, turning her wedding clothes into a bald statement: mantle, dress, underdress – every bit of visible clothing was white, save for the decorative borders. The colour of purity and innocence.

Having reduced Eleanor to her shift the circle of ladies seemed content to idle a while, chatting about their own weddings. Chatting – exchanging horror stories, more like! Well, apart from the ones who were insisting that they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves; most of that was hair-raising enough.

Standing ready with Eleanor’s mantle, Hawise reminded her quietly, “When they speak in the same way of childbirth all labours last six days, and the child is the size of a two year old. None of it can be as bad as made out.”

“Small comfort – I cannot tell where the truth ends and the exaggeration begins,” hissed Eleanor.

The muted conversation attracted attention back to Eleanor. One woman in green, Maynild by name, said, “She’s a bit old for all this.”

Anne’s grandmother countered, “Better too old than too young.”

The next three comments occurred simultaneously.

“I should have preferred too young over too old. Being kept in storage all that time, with no status and no control over anything; hardly a life at all.”

“She should have been married four years ago, or more.”

“When is your birthday, anyway?”

The last question had been Godit’s; Eleanor might have thought it a kindly effort to re-include her in conversation and direct things to a less alarming line if it had not come from her. “The day after Saint Bartholomew’s day.” The twenty-fifth of August, and two weeks before she had been dispatched to France to kill Fulk’s lord; it had been the arse in the crown’s idea of a gift. Travel, excitement, a chance to win his favour, and all while being of use – it was very typical of him.

Whatever the intent behind Godit’s foray her mistress squelched it with another stunning display of her ability to commit tactical errors of the sort which, in the field, frequently led to the loss of elephants to the Alps. “Anyway, I doubt she has anything to worry about. He loves her.”

Significant looks were exchanged amongst the married members of the group.

The grandmother pursed her lips, then sighed “In her excuse she is only thirteen. Child,” this addressed to Anne instead of generally, “love does not conquer all. Nor does it solve all. It has its own difficulties.”

The one called Aline produced a little pot from somewhere. “Always better to have and not need than need and not have. This is very good for ah, soreness. If he’s considerate you will not need it, and that should be your aim. Don’t let him act like some creature in rut, however eager he is.” Reflexively Eleanor’s hand closed about the pot as the woman pressed it into her palm, tightening on it in a death grip.

Too late another made a grab for Aline’s arm to prevent the transfer. “Oh, nonsense! When something hits you with great force it’s better to roll with it; the same can be said of over-eager new husbands.” She winked at the gathering. “It’s no accident that doing just that dumps you on your back, you know. And then, having disposed of the over-eagerness, you can set about training him to something more useful without raising his hackles as you would if you tried to resist.”

One of the older women produced her own concealed item. “If he gets too bothersome find an excuse to give him a drink and slip some of this in.” She set a greenish glass vial down on the room’s little table. “He’ll sleep like a rock and wake with no harm done.”

“Bah!” Godit shouldered her way into the space at centre of the group. “All this doom and gloom. It’s a love match, and whatever else may be said of him Fulk’s a gentle man.”

Aline planted her hands on her hips. “Bah yourself. From what we hear he’s been waiting a very long time, and from I’ve seen it’s having effect.”

“Quite right.” Anne’s grandmother made a very evocative movement with her stick as she said, “All the good intentions in the world are no good if he is done in seconds.”

And so the flow of advice and speculation resumed, now with a very tight focus on Eleanor, Fulk, and the animated discussion on how patient or impatient Fulk would be and how that would affect matters. Eleanor’s attention jumped ship and went swimming off in the hopes it could escape. Or drown. Regrettably good fortune was not with it, and sufficient made it through to make Eleanor wish she could plug her ears with her fingers and hum very loudly. Knowing it wouldn’t have helped did nothing for her nerves; she’d heard too much already, and now it all churned over and over in her mind until it took enormous effort not to break and run.

Aline tugged at the sleeve of her shift. “Useful as some of this may be, time is passing and we don’t know how much longer we have until they arrive.”

The interval between removal of the last bit of clothing and Eleanor shrouding herself in her ankle-length mantle was small; people still saw.

Maynild’s “God’s mercy!” was joined by several less ladylike exclamations.

Anne’s grandmother vigorously thumped the heel of her walking stick on the floor to restore the room to a state where a person could speak and be heard. “What in heaven’s name happened to you?”

Eleanor held the mantle tight about her with one hand and gripped the pot of salve equally hard with the other, and didn’t answer.

Anne’s English maid, Adele, filled the conspicuous gap. “She refused to marry Trempwick, to her lord father’s displeasure.”

“There was more than one set of scars there,” said Aline, still with her gaze fixed on Eleanor’s covered back.

“So, now we know of the man under the crown. I consider my granddaughter a most fortunate widow.”

Anne knelt at her grandmother’s side, taking one of her hands in both hers. “No, you did not know him. He was a good man-”

“An animal.” The stick thumped into the floor again. “Worse. Had I known I would have supported your brother’s protests against the match.”

Drunken male laughter echoed in the corridor, sufficient in volume to be heard through antechamber, solar and bedchamber door. “Here they come!” exclaimed Godit unnecessarily.

Eleanor considered the practicality of downing that sleeping draught herself. Alas, it wouldn’t work in time.

Standing before the witnesses – Eleanor’s generously sized bedchamber was packed so tight that should someone step in any direction they would tread on another, save for the area of clear space about the bed – Fulk fixed the vision of an alluring gooseberry more firmly in his mind, and let his cloak be pulled off.

Eleanor was looking at him; he didn’t think she was seeing anything. In truth she looked like she was about to faint; her mantle now held more colour than her cheeks. Enough! Distressed Eleanor had its own effect, and not one the mob of morons expected to see from an eager bridegroom. The mockery at the first sign of his wilting would be vicious; more importantly he knew some would claim it as a lack of desire, and ensure Eleanor knew it. He turned on the spot, letting everyone see him from all angles.

The appreciative racket was such that the king’s chancellor bellowed, “Shut up so we can hear her, damn your eyes!”

Silence it wasn’t, but it was quieter. Fulk saw Eleanor’s throat work several times as she tried to find her voice. Stiffly she nodded her head. “He is flawless.”

“She doesn’t sound very keen. If she’s changed her mind I’ll have him!” The woman was shouted down by others volunteering to take Fulk off Eleanor’s hands.

A scowling noble in the front flung up his hands, nearly poking his neighbour up the nose. “Oh, get on with it. There’s still some good mead waiting in the hall.”

The neighbour gave him a shove. “Don’t be such a sore-arse. Just because your wife would swap you for him-” A fist to the face cut him off, and his return hit sent the scowling man tumbling back onto the people behind him. Hands swiftly closed on the pair and they were hustled out, still blazing abuse at each other.

The King of Scots advanced into the island of clear space at the foot of the great bed, worming his way closer to Eleanor. “We did hear her, she finds no fault.” When his hand reached out for the shoulder of her cloak Eleanor shrank away from him, stepping sideways. There was nothing Fulk could do but fume as the king laughed and followed.

Then Hawise was there, ‘accidentally’ in the king’s way and ready to catch the cloak. Eleanor’s white-knuckled grip on the material loosened fractionally, and the maid took this as her sign to remove the cloak. The garment didn’t come away gracefully; Eleanor’s hand was still locked on the front folds, fastening them together. People started to snigger. As if that wrenched her back to the here and now Eleanor blinked, took a deep breath … and let go.

She’d taken off Trempwick’s betrothal ring; the only ornament she wore around her neck was the teardrop shaped rock crystal he’d given her. And for some unknown reason she clung to what appeared to be a pot of salve in her left hand. The rest he didn’t give more than a cursory glance to – he’d look when it wouldn’t feel so damned sleazy.

The King of Scots lifted Eleanor’s hair up out of the way as she began her turn.

Across the approving din cut one expletive, followed by another voice, “Blessed Jesù!”

Fulk was moving before he knew he would; he flung his arms around her and used his own body to shield hers. “She is flawless in my eyes.”

Those who didn’t exclaim fell silent, and the silence spread to those who had not yet seen. There was no shortage of disparagement, voices vying to make themselves heard all at the same time. “Better look again.” came at the same time as “Maybe he’s blind.” followed by, “That’s why they made him promise fairer or fouler!” and more, drunken people latching on to this new reason to be humorous or call advice.

Hawise wasn’t much slower than Fulk, holding the cloak up ready to cover Eleanor; he let go and moved back as the cloak came into place.

Livid he turned on the witnesses, despising them all in that moment as he had never done before. “Get out!” It served only to make the flurry of comments multiply.

“Look! He’s drooping!”

For every person agreeing there was one disagreeing, and some demanding a closer look to establish the truth. One very piercing voice cut over the others, “Faced with that who wouldn’t? But thinking of the gain should help.”

A bunch of young men pushed and shoved, jostling and sniggering until their spokesman was clear of the crowd. The youth was holding something behind his back. “We all thought you’d need a bit of a hand. Well bred mounts don’t take to lowly riders-”

The youngest of the bunch broke in, “She’ll buck you right off!”

“And that was when we were thinking about a nice palfrey, not an old destrier.” He displayed the object he’d been hiding, a leather riding crop, to more laughter.

Fulk’s hands fastened around the speaker’s neck; choking, the speaker’s hands shot up to try and prise the grip loose.

Fulk gave the wretch a shake. “Out.” And he flung the youth away from him. “Out! The cursed lot of you!”

At the back of the crowd he heard new shouting, a change in tone from the derision; cutting through it he heard Waltheof and Luke taking up his cry. Expecting trouble, Fulk had arranged for them to forcibly eject guests if a need was shown.

The archbishop of Glasgow raised his hands in a call for peace. “Indeed, it is time to go. We have seen there is not a mark on either of them-”

A man bawled, “The blindness spreads! Flee, before it takes you too!”

Between the archbishop’s exhortations, Fulk’s fury, and the delicate threat – and occasional application – of the soldiers’ sheathed swords the room was eventually emptied.

Fulk slammed the door, shot the bolt across, and stood panting. “Damn them.” He turned to see what had become of his wife.

Eleanor was perched on the very edge of the bed, wrapped up tightly in her white mantle, the folds pulled so he could trace the outline of her shoulders and arms before they fell loose enough to conceal her shape. Silent tears ran down her cheeks; she was trembling.

“They’re gone, love. They won’t be back; I set Waltheof to guard the outer door, and it’s raining to hard for any to want to sing under the window. See? I told you God would listen.” His grin passed with no effect. The whip lay on the floor, abandoned and dust-smeared by many feet. Fulk snatched it up and dumped it in the fire. Next he turned his attention to the bed; the covers were pulled invitingly back and the sheet was strewn with seeds, a winter’s improvisation on the usual flower petals. He tried another smile. “Up; let me get rid of this. Sleeping in a granary’s for mice.”

Wordlessly she complied, until the mattress was cleared; she sat back down as though expecting the bed to be covered in spikes. At least she wasn’t crying any more.

Fulk brushed her cheeks dry with the back of his hand. “People are cruel. You know that. And you know how much it’s worth: nothing.” Fulk managed another smile for his cringing wife, and teased, “When you promised to be meek I didn’t think you’d take to it so wholeheartedly.”

Someone knocked at the door; Luke’s voice called, “It’s me, my lord.”

Fulk ran his hand over the top of Eleanor’s head, smoothing her hair back from her face. “By arrangement.” Pausing at the door he checked over his shoulder; she sat as she had, covered from neck to ankles and staring at the floor.

The squire bore a massive tray loaded down with food taken from the feast; Fulk’s clothes were rolled up into a bundle and stuffed under his arm. “I hope Alfred got it right; I did tell him what you wanted.”

“I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of fetching food.”

“Er … if you could take the clothes, my lord? Before I drop something.”

Fulk prised the bundle out and threw it at the bed, landing it in a tumble of escaping sleeves. Taking the tray he said, “Goodnight.”

“And you -” As Fulk turned away he gave the door a kick with the back of his foot, closing it in the man’s face.

Eleanor produced a very shaky smile. “I will not tell you how silly you look stood there like that.”

“Silly?” Fulk puffed out his chest. “My very dear gooseberry, let me tell you that silly is a long way from the word you are looking for. I feel a complete prat. Silly is much too mild.” Dumping the tray on the floor near the fire, Fulk went in pursuit of his shirt; prancing about like Adam was well enough, but not when he expected to be scuttling about the room like this for quite some time and not in early March.

As he tugged the linen over his head Eleanor blurted, “But we have to-”

“No,” he interrupted, head emerging from the collar with another of those harmless expressions on display. “There’s no more ‘have to’. That is done with. Our wedding has been naught but a parade of what other people wanted us to do. No more. Now it’s what we want. If we don’t want to consummate the marriage tonight, we won’t. Simple as that.”

“Then I shall be disgraced come morning.”

“No one thought to examine the inside of my nose, or to take my fingernails away.” As ways of getting blood went a nosebleed was unpredictable, too easy to end up with enough blood to fake a slaughter; he hoped she wouldn’t think of that, and ruin his effort at removing pressure. “So we ‘have to’ nothing.” He busied himself with the tray, taking covers off dishes and digging the eating knife out from the silver plate it had slid under.

When he glanced up he found her watching him, shoulders slumped.

“I noticed you were hardly eating a thing; I didn’t eat so much myself. I thought a private meal a good idea, and arranged it after you were gone.” Fulk collected a scattering of cushions and added them to the impromptu dining area. Plumping one up invitingly he said, “Come on, or it’ll go cold.”

As she made the shift he had chance to admire a delightful pair of ankles. That was all; the entire move was made without the mantle revealing anything, a feat of skill he couldn’t quite view with awe. Mind you, the cloak was far better than her ending up in her shift again; winkling her out of that would pose a far greater challenge. And still she clung to that pot of salve!

“Beloved, you might find it easier if you put that pot down. You won’t need it.”

From the way she had to check her hand to discover what he was talking about he realised she’d forgotten she was holding it. Her lips compressed, her fingers tightened about the pot until her tendons stood out stark white. “No. I do not suppose so.”

In the end he had to take it from her, prising it out of unresisting fingers which had lost the will to release it. A cursory sniff revealed a strong scent of nettle mixed in with the other ingredients. “They didn’t have much faith in me, did they?”

Eleanor’s eyelids lowered.

“Forget all that they said.”

The corner of her mouth wrenched down. “Yes. It does appear to have been misguided.”

“My heart, I’m only suggesting we wait until we’re both less scared, rather than jump right in as everyone expects and do less well than we could as a result.”

To say she gaped at him wouldn’t terribly far from the truth. “Scared? You?”

Fulk’s head bobbed as he nodded vigorously, exaggerating just enough to make it seem comical. “Oh yes. And for good reason. If you knew all the things which could go wrong …” An embellished shiver. “Stiff with fear’s a very misleading expression. Too much anticipation leads to the same effect. Same for too much drink, not enough sleep, too much worry, stress, cold … Sometimes I think God has a cruel sense of humour. And then I’d be mocked as incapable, and, worse, you’d think I wasn’t interested.” He set his head bobbing again, a resigned expression on his face. “Then you’d do something nasty to me. If that’s not stressful I couldn’t say what is. Yes, you women definitely get the easier side of things.” As expected she scowled and looked set to argue; he grinned, and winked. “Oh, alright. We’re about even.”

“Huh.”

“Oh sceptical one, you don’t know half of it. The other set of problems run in entirely the opposite direction. Eagerness can do terrible things.” Now he made his face doleful. “I have nightmares of you doing that shrivelling glare of yours and saying, ‘Is that it?’”

Far from raising a smile this made her stare at him in bewilderment.

“Ah. Well. Never mind. With some fortune you’ll never understand. But anyway, delayed for a better result, not abandoned.”

He’d cut up most of the food into bite-sized pieces before she spoke again, in a low voice and blushing badly. “I would understand if you did not want to-”

“Not want to!?” Fulk nearly gashed his left hand, his abrupt loss of attention a poor partner to the task of carving a rack of ribs into individual bones. He stabbed the knife point first into the meat and rested his hands on his knees. “Listen. I have told you many times I view those scars as a mark of honour – knowing how you came by them how could I not? They do not bother me. There is nothing off-putting about them. You are beautiful to me.” It would take a lot more than simple words repeated now and then before she could begin to; deeply held beliefs were difficult to change. He would achieve it. Once again he cursed the King of Scots and the drunken witnesses.

Fulk poured some wine into the single cup. “The white was unexpected. I’d thought to see you in your family’s colours, or some of your favourites.”

“What better statement could I make to refute all those rumours and lies?” Anxious, she added, “You did not mind?”

“Not in the least. Here.” He offered her the cup. She accepted it, sipped, and handed it back with the liquid’s level barely decreased.

Her chin came up and she looked right at him. “There will be no children. Hawise has been making me some tea … I have not had chance to tell you.”

“I know; I asked her. I’d have gotten her to raise the matter with you if you hadn’t beaten me to it.”

“I am sorry.”

“Think of the trouble it saves. Imagine trying to name our unlucky progeny – we’ve three families now to put a nod to: yours, mine, and the de la Bec’s. William would be a safe bet, since there’s one in each. As for the rest, disaster! No name would be a safe choice. It’s all very well naming a new child after a dead sibling; there’s something morbid about naming each boy the same thing. And as for girls! Williamina, Williametta,” Fulk snorted. “I don’t think there’s a single female variation on the name which isn’t downright ugly.”

A smile began and died on her lips in the space of a heartbeat. “I suppose so.”

Fulk put the finishing touches to his carving of half a pheasant. “Besides, think of the fuss. We’d never have a moment of peace to ourselves again, nurses or no.” He waggled the knife in the air. “Some things are damned hard to with little Primus hanging about your neck. Romance for one. Bawling brats don’t lend to the atmosphere the sophisticated knight strives to create for his lady-love. Which reminds me.” He went and retrieved something from one of the storage chests, the one furthest from the fireplace. “I asked Hawise to conceal this here for me. It was an old Saxon custom for the groom to give his bride a gift the morning after the wedding, to show his appreciation for er, the previous night. It’s died out in most places. Not where I grew up.” Fulk placed a regularly shaped rectangular cloth wrapped bundle in front of her. “I know it’s not morning, and don’t dare argue I’ve nothing to show appreciation for.”

Eleanor folded back the silk, until a prettily carved box sat in the middle of a square of flame-red. On opening the box she found another wrapped object nestled on a bed of scrunched up linen.

Fulk watching her expectantly, his eyes dancing in the firelight. “Go on,” he encouraged when she looked up.

Eleanor picked the right-hand package, undid the pretty little ribbon binding it, and repeated the unwrapping process. Dumbfounded she stared at what she revealed. “Cheese!?”

“A more personal gift than jewellery and such.” Fulk offered her the knife, making a show of it by resting the handle on his left forearm and keeping the blade tucked back towards his body like a warrior offering his sword to his commander. "A large piece of very good hard cheese, and in the middle of Lent no less. It wasn’t easy to arrange. I hope the warmth of the room hasn’t spoiled it.”

Eleanor laughed quietly as she put the cheese and its square of cloth down. She cut off two bits, and gave him one. “Since you find favour, Sir knight, your lady shall reward you. Behold her great generosity.”

“Generous indeed.” Fulk accepted the cheese gravely – and ate it in a single go. “I didn’t expect to get near any of it.”

“I think I am being maligned. You make me sound parsimonious.”

“Not at all, oh rising of my sun. I’m indifferent to cheese; I like it and no more.”

“And you wait until now to tell me?” Eleanor turned her face from him in mock disgust. “I want an annulment, on the grounds of your concealing important information about yourself!”

“Ah, but think. This means all the more cheese for you. I was going to let you eat all of that chunk yourself, with none wasted on me. But I didn’t want to be impolite when you offered me that bit.”

“I repeat, you wait until now to tell me? After you have eaten my highly generous gift?”

“You may have it back if you like.”

“Thank you, but no. My tastes do not extend to used cheese.”

“Just as well. I’d find that disconcerting.” He picked up a titbit from the feast before them, and held it to her mouth. After a hesitation of squinting down her nose at it, she took the meat.

“I will always share my cheese with you, my luflych little knight.”

“I’m honoured.” He leaned across and kissed her lingeringly on the lips.

“So you should be.”

He fed her a few more morsels, easing his way to her side under the pretext of changing his seat to be more comfortable. To the dismal sound of a deluge hammering at the windows and over a banquet of leftovers Fulk worked at relaxing his princess, and then at seducing her.

Fulk nibbled the last bit of meat from rib they were sharing and dropped it onto the silver plate serving as a bin. “I’ll let you off the meekness. It’d be much too boring, and you’d sprain something trying. The obedience though … I can see uses for that.”

“Is it too late to change my mind and marry Trempwick instead?”

“Much too late,” Fulk assured her.

She nipped his finger as she took the bit of egg tart.

“Now what could I do with an obedient Eleanor?” He offered the drink, then drank himself, setting his lips to the same place she’d drunk from, watching her from under his eyelids to determine the effect of his flirting. “I could have you rub my feet after a long day.”

“I am going nowhere near your smelly feet.” His piece of egg tart she stuffed in his face; the crumbs she tidied by the simple expediency of kissing him.

“Or I could demand you be pleasant to me.”

“You would become unbearably haughty without my charitable efforts to keep you unpretentious.”

“Or have you mend my clothes.” He captured her hand as it rose again, threatening him with a bit of pheasant, and kissed her palm.

“I cannot sew.”

“You can – I’ve seen you!”

“Alright.” She bit the proffered carrot into two. “I cannot sew well.”

Fulk consumed the rest of the carrot himself with a grin. “I love it when you’re modest; it’s such a rare occurrence.” He stroked the fingers of one hand up along her jaw until her cheek rested in his hand; another kiss, this one deeper.

“Well, I am royalty.” She kissed him in return, so tenderly.

His first finger followed the curve of her ear. “Very.”

“There is a certain obligation to be prideful.”

“Oh yes.”

“It comes with the crown, one might say.”

“Quite.”

“I could not change.”

“Never.”

“So …” With that impish smile of hers she said triumphantly, “I could never be obedient.”

Fulk slid his hand up to the back of her head and drew her to him. “Sod the obedience.” When his mouth was free again he added, “Same terms as before: I order, you obey, but otherwise do as you see fit.”

“Yes, my lord.” The very letter of meek obedience. Until she stuck her tongue out at him.

He selected a very spicy bit of beef, and licked the sauce off his fingers when she’d eaten it, again watching to see what she’d make of it. “She’s my other half, the keeper of my heart and my soul, the centre of my world and the rising of my sun … and she sticks her tongue out at me.”

“Says the knight in possession of a disreputable nose.”

When she held out a bit of the beef he licked the sauce off her fingers too. “Nobody’s perfect.” Least of all him – he’d had enough of dinner and desperately wanted to advance to dessert. The urge to fling himself on her was strong; he knew it would do her no good, as it had done Cicely and Maude no good, and they had not been so apprehensive. With Eleanor there would be no second chance if he botched the first. He would never forgive himself for not doing as well by her as she deserved – as he longed to do. This time it truly mattered that all was as perfect as he could make it. And he knew the longer one took with such things the more pleasurable the experience for both … which did nothing to quench his boiling blood.

He pulled her close and, mental fingers crossed, slipped a hand inside her cloak, brushing her nipple with a fingertip. He felt her gather herself to escape, and the relax again, one hand going to the back of his neck to pull him closer, the other shyly rising to copy his every move. Greatly encouraged he continued to explore, relishing the silken feel of her flesh.

Nibbling her earlobe, he ran kisses down her neck, skipping over the mantle at her throat and continuing from her collarbone, holding the folds of wool out of the way with one hand. Stopping only for a brief detour to a breast he travelled down close to her navel before the awkwardness of the various contortions required caused him to drop the cloak and nearly smother himself. Extricating himself he said, “Clothes get in the way.”

“Says the man with the shirt.”

Fulk’s shirt found itself ripped off and flung over his shoulder. He reapplied himself with a will. Waiting a bit to smooth away any anxiety the pause might have resurrected, he moved a hand to the brooch fastening her mantle. Her hand clamped down on top of his; she tore her lips free of his.

“Beloved,” he urged.

Eleanor ducked her head, and froze. After what felt like forever she took a breath and met his eyes once more. “Do as you will.”

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, the snow-white cloak falling away behind them.

They lay quietly for a long time, Eleanor tucked in to the curve of Fulk’s flank and enfolded in his arms. Blissful.

Eventually, feeling that the silence had passed its time, Fulk said, “I know it hurt …” A conversation had to begin somewhere, and concern was a good growing ground.

“Not for long. Only at the start … and the end.”

“It does get better.”

A delicate flush mantled Eleanor’s cheeks as she shifted her head on his shoulder, seeking a more comfortable pillow. “I think I should have no complaints if it did not.”

His heart swelling fit to burst, Fulk clasped her until his arms ached. Into her hair he whispered, “With my body I thee honour.”

They settled back into their peace, half dozing.

Eleanor bolted upright, belatedly wrenching the blankets about her so they covered her torso. “The bloodstain!”

“It’s there.”

Paying him no heed she scrambled down the bed, yanking the covers along with her until Fulk was proven correct.

Lying there exposed to the shins Fulk shivered at the abrupt loss of heat. “Dearling, if you’re going to rob me of your warmth you might at least leave me the covers! Show your poor husband some compassion.” His admiration of her tousled hair and an exposed shoulder ended when she lay back down beside him. At which point his admiration of the rest of her began again.

The second time was more confident, slower, and even more tender.

As she drifted into sleep Eleanor murmured with no small amount of wonder, “It does improve.”

That was … hmm.

‘“Nobody’s perfect.” […] “Beloved,” he urged’ – gah! That entire section makes me cringe! GAH! And it took longer to write than the rest of it put together! Days! And it’s glergh! Strangely I quite like the last two lines of that scene, where she trusts him. But the bit before makes me want to run about shouting “Ick!” Not because of what they are doing (well, yes, some of that) but because of my utter inability to write it in a half decent way. Some numberless (lost count at 26 …) revisions on and still it feels lousy, icky, rubbish, crap, and any other words you care to toss at it. Blergh.

There were some sweet bits in it though. Nell telling Fulk “I will always share my cheese with you, my luflych little knight.” is one of her cutest lines to him, methinks.

935 pages and Fulk finally gets to bash someone maligning his gooseberry. :much cheering: While nude and in a state of some delicacy. :everyone peters out into silence with shuffling feet and looking embarrassed: Dunno about anyone else but I find the notion of Fulk going ‘Celtic Warrior minus woad’ quite terrifying.

Jocelyn’s tip: don’t mix your drinks, don’t drink in large quantities on an empty stomach, and most especially don’t do any of this at a wedding to try to drown your sorrows – they come back and drown you. Believe it or not but channelling drunken Jocelyn for this scene left me with a migraine and feeling badly sick. Spooky.

Furball: Thanks.

:tries to decide what a Fulk/Jocelyn blend would be like … runs screaming!: With two sets of ‘causes trouble’ genes that person would be …!! :winkg:

Seeing how that lousy bit near the end of the second to last scene turned out I think you all had a very lucky escape – imagine a page or more of that horrificness. Yes very muchly, it is a Good Thing™ I never planned on more detail. Yup.

Ciaran: Alas, the promotion means I’ll be doing more work, if anything.

A lot of things go to Jocelyn’s head. It must have its own gravitational pull.

Vladimir: “the would-be eunuch and the man who should be neutered” That had me laughing out aloud. Brilliant.

Zelda: Personally I can’t see that being practical. It’s 938 pages long without all the spacing out; that’s a huge print job. With the spacing you can add roughly a third more to that page count. Removing all the extra spacing and restoring it to book format would take you as long as reading the whole thing from start to finish.

furball

08-04-2006, 22:56

Oh my goodness. Brilliant, Froggy! [I]All[I] of it.

There is no reason for you to 'ick' at all. I thought the entire scene with Fulk and Eleanor was believable, tender and true to the tenor of the story. Splendid writing.

But I must say I was most intrigued by Jocelyn's scene. If you've never been that drunk or that self-abusive then you have an incredible and spot-on imagination!

When they make the movie, I could play Jocelyn without even trying. :)

An absolutely wonderful episode, Froggy. I'm sure it must have been hard and time-consuming to write, but it was worth it. A joy to read.

Ciaran

08-05-2006, 17:30

Awesome. Few authors would get that scene just right (from my experience the tendency is towards "too much"), but you did. I pity Jocelyn, though, I know perfectly well how it´s like when you get sentimental and depressive instead of cheerful from drink, it takes the fun out of it.

My favourite line, though:
"A man bawled, “The blindness spreads! Flee, before it takes you too!” " :laugh4:

By the way, my word copy of this story breached the 1000-pages mark with this update. That´d be quite a pile of paper if I were to print it out.

frogbeastegg

08-10-2006, 20:16

The tapping at the door woke Eleanor; Fulk slumbered on. Grey light was beginning to creep through the cracks in the shutters. Quietly she called, “Yes?”

“My lady, they’re coming.” Waltheof.

“Thank you.” The final part of this drama approached – early.

Propped on her elbow Eleanor considered how best to wake Fulk. Sleeping people always looked younger, vulnerable. She ran a fingertip down his profile, traced his lips. He looked like he needed someone to care for him, to protect him from life’s abuses. The touch of her lips to his failed to wake him.

Eleanor leaned back again, the limits of her knowledge exhausted. How else was one meant to wake a knight after a night like that? Her mouth quirked, she shifted to gaze down at him again. If the soppy romantic way didn’t work there was always the gooseberryish way, or ways plural. As a concession she set her lips to his again before prodding him in the ribs.

Fulk’s eyes cracked open. He saw her, began to smile, eyes drifting shut again at the same time. His eyes opened again, a good deal more quickly; they widened as once again he saw her. He bolted upright, sweeping her to one side and narrowly avoiding head butting her. “Oh. Yes.” He flopped back down beside her, tucking an arm about her. “For a moment there I forgot we’re officially married. Good morning, my very beloved gooseberry.”

“The witnesses are coming.”

“It’s barely dawn yet.”

“Yes. Another prod from our dear friend, the King of Scots. An effort to catch us unaware, I should guess.”

“And foiled so easily.”

“He must have known Waltheof was on sentry duty …”

“My heart, don’t worry. I’ll let them in, they can have their look – respectfully – and then I’ll boot them out, all the while standing on my earl’s dignity.” He took her left hand, raised it to his lips and kissed the new ring. “Yesterday I had to be a good sport. Today I have a wife and standing to guard.”

Voices in the solar; a cursory, soft knock at the door, and immediately it tried to open.

Fulk rolled his eyes at her, and mouthed, “Idiots.”

The King of Scot’s voice came, “It is morning, and we none of us have time to idle. There is much to be done.”

Pulling his shirt on as he went, Fulk opened the door. This morning required fewer witnesses in the bedchamber, a happy circumstance Eleanor was positive had grown out of the general lack of sound bodies to be found the morning after any big party. The king, the archbishop, a couple of senior clergy, and two Scottish nobles looking rather the worse for wear filed in and assembled about the bed; seven to last night's two score and more.

Fulk strode over to Eleanor’s side, plucked up the blankets, waited long enough that she could brace herself, and yanked them back to the very foot of the massive bed, saying, “You’re right. It’s going to be a busy day. We shouldn’t waste time on formalities.” The briefest of pauses so they could see her unmarked by any new cuts and with blood smudged on the insides of her upper thighs, and Fulk pulled her out of the bed, tucking her behind him.

Everyone dutifully examined the blotch of dried blood which marred the crisp whiteness of the sheet. Strange, how so little result had come from so much pain. But then if the membrane hadn’t been so tough it likely wouldn’t have survived her unquiet life, and if Fulk hadn’t been careful there’d have been a lot more, blood and pain both. Or so she’d been led to believe. So little result … Eleanor’s face burned as she remembered; actually, not at all a little result and not one she felt inclined to bemoan.

Fulk said, “And that concludes the formalities.”

The king indicated his nobles should gather up the sheet for display in the hall. “We have not yet seen you, my lord of Alnwick. No negligence must be allowed, to return in the future as trouble.”

Fulk tugged his shirt back off, pressing it into Eleanor’s hands in such a way it covered her from shoulder to near-knees. He turned on the spot. “Now, if you could send my wife’s maid in with some hot water for washing …”

With surprisingly little fuss the band of witnesses were replaced by Hawise with the morning wash water. Eleanor told her, “We shall manage on our own.”

“You usually do,” the girl retorted. “I’ll wait in the solar, for when you want your hair doing.”

Left alone with her husband again Eleanor began “That maid …!”

“Is perfectly matched to her mistress.” Fulk kissed her, long and slowly; her blood began to burn.

Feeling absurdly shy Eleanor asked, “Would you mind if we did without help all the time? Only, we do not need them to help us dress.” Last night’s bedding ceremonies had stuck a sword through the heart of the feeble tolerance she had for the thought of having anyone but Fulk in the room while she was less than completely dressed.

“Hawise can sleep in the solar. She can deliver what we need and come back in when called for. My squire’s more of a problem; it wouldn’t be fair to expect Hawise to share a room with him. So I’ll do without him completely. Pretty much as I did before, truth be told.” He tweaked the shirt out of Eleanor’s hands and draped it over his arm; wonky smile growing he looked her up and down. “You really are very neatly formed.”

Running would have meant turning her back on him, then he’d see again what she hoped he would forget. So she brazened it out, wishing she could scuttle under cover. “I could say the same of you, and think I shall. Perhaps your neatly-formed-ness will be good enough to pass my shift?” She should have dived back into bed during the distraction as the witnesses left! As a side benefit he might possibly have followed …

Instead he dropped his shirt on the floor. “I can think of a few other things I’d rather be doing.”

Over a breakfast which had become substantially later than originally expected, Fulk asked, “What have I married?”

Eleanor blushed to recall some earlier words spoken in breathless admiration. “I would not know.”

He put his bread down and, clasping his hands on the tabletop, met her eye. “Have I married a queen?”

Appetite entirely gone Eleanor dumped her food back on the trencher. She fished the coronation ring out of its hiding place in the toe of a stocking right at the very bottom of her clothing chest. Sitting back down she slid it into her left ring finger above her new wedding ring. “See how well it fits?” A shake of her hand emphasised the dangling looseness; straighten her finger out and the ring would fly off.

“It can be altered to fit.”

“Of course.” Removing the ring she set it on the table – reverently: this was the sacred ring which bound ruler to realm. “But the wearer cannot be altered to fit it.”

Fulk took a very careful breath. “Eleanor, that’s very … simplistic.”

“I cannot rule; I do not have the training, nor the will to break all and make it anew. It would do considerably more harm than good. If my beloved regal ancestor wished me to rule he aught to have put some effort behind it when there was time; instead he named me as an afterthought. What is more, he named me with the thought of vengeance; he sought to use me. I will not be his revenge. He spent much of our time together killing any notion of duty I had to him, and I find I would rather kiss the hand of his killer than order his execution. And I definitely will not wreak havoc on my realm to satisfy his sense of betrayal.”

“Your realm,” Fulk repeated, eyebrows raising.

Eleanor cursed at the slip. “By birth, by blood, and by … ownership, of a sort. I am my father’s daughter.” With a curl of the lip she added, “In some aspects. And I refuse to be anyone’s puppet. Furthermore, I do not foresee any great amount of support for me now I have married you.”

“I did not think you likely to declare yourself; I know you too well. But … I expect this is not the simple all and end. As you said, your realm. You’ve never called it that before.”

Eleanor picked up the ring again and held it so Fulk could see the gemstones set in formation at the front. “The sapphires match my eyes, do they not?” Letting the burst of humour fade she became sombre.

“What are you going to do?”

“You are my husband and my lord. Your life steers mine.” To seize what was not by custom hers would be a very poor start to their marriage, and would show no respect for him. If he chose to keep her subordinate it would be no more than she deserved for misjudging him so spectacularly.

“The man decides and the woman follows; all very well where it works, but here and with us it can’t. Equal partners, my love. No major decision by either taken without our discussing it.” He gestured at the hand holding the coronation ring, the same hand wearing his wedding ring. “What would you do.”

It was Eleanor’s turn to take a deep breath. “The one wearing the crown is not invariably the ruler.”

Fulk nodded slowly, thinking it over. “The hand behind the throne, then.”

“Let Hugh have the bother of ceremony. Let him have the fawning sycophants, the hate, the being trapped and defined by the gold he wears on his head. Let him breed the next generation – heaven knows he can survive failure over and over where I could not, and is not risked by either success or failure, and if the mother of the heir dies she can be replaced.” May blessed Mary watch over Constance and protect her from that ugly death. Keenly aware of her own risk Eleanor repeated the prayer, exchanging Constance’s name for her own. “Let him have the tedious minutiae. He may lead the armies, judge the pleas, pay for things, and live his life under scrutiny. I shall do what I am trained for: lurk in the shadows, forgotten and getting things done.”

Something had crawled into Jocelyn’s mouth and died. No, that was too much a bloody understatement. Something had crawled into his mouth, vomited, shat, died and decayed. He’d scrubbed his teeth over with the salt and sage mixture several times and gargled half a flask of mouthwash; the only notable effects were increased nausea and a more damned pains in his aching head, God damn it! He winced, one hand rising to clutch his forehead. Thinking too loudly smashed his skull apart as effectively as a crossbow bolt at short range. Christ’s torments surely hadn’t been as bad as this!

The door into the princess’ solar opened; Jocelyn applied his remaining mental resources and figured out how to walk. It was a case of putting one foot before the other and not falling down into a weeping heap. Simple. Damn the woman! He waited days to hear what she wanted of him, and she had to go and wait until he felt like Death and Pestilence mixed together while War sat inside his skull having a bloody battle, and Famine gnawed at his belly. If he belched very bad things could happen – the Apocalypse could escape.

Saint Paul on the privy, what had possessed him to drink so much and in such mixed quantities!? He knew better than to do that, ever since that time when he was fifteen when he’d nearly … And as for cider! Only an utter bloody moron drank overmuch of that stuff.

The princess was alone, except for her maid. Jocelyn knelt like a proper knight of the sort Tildis was always going on about; it wasn’t difficult, he simply stopped trying to stay upright. The shock of the impact nearly shattered every bone in his body; he couldn’t help a groan.

She looked down her regal nose at him. “If you ever again behave in such a manner as you did yesterday you will find yourself banished back to the continent in short order. Associated with me, your disgrace besmirches my own name. I will not have it!”

Jocelyn flinched, smothering another groan. Did she have to damned well raise her voice like that!? “Yes, your Highness.”

“I expect my fighting men to be fit to serve at all times. You presently struggle to walk.”

“Yes, your Highness. It won’t happen again.”

“My husband and I leave tomorrow, to secure his earldom. It is my wish that you aid us.”

“The earldom,” he repeated dumbly. The earldom. Fiddling around after a trivial little dump of land when there was a kingdom at stake. Women couldn’t plan worth a damn, and they hadn’t the least notion about war.

His disapproval must have been plain, for her face hardened. “One must attend to the smaller details before considering the larger. Alnwick assembled and under our control, then Northumberland attacked with forces combined from my own, my husband’s and Scotland. Then aid to the south, as soon as is practicable, catching Trempwick on two fronts and encouraging the midlands and neutral lords to rise for us.”

A sound bit of strategy, that, and what else had he ever expected from his queen? “And when will you declare yourself, your Highness?”

Sharply she said, “I will not.”

What!? He was going to look a complete tit if he went and threw his support behind the named heir who calmly passed on her inheritance to her bastard brother! “But it was your lord father’s wish-”

“I am loyal to my brother; I go to his aid.”

“But … but …” But she’d got less sense than the gooseberry she used as a badge! The whole bloody damned point, damn it, was to put her damned behind on the bloody throne, stuff the bloody crown on her damned head, and carry out the bloody old and dead king’s damned wishes by bloody well helping her to damned well rule the whole damned realm, by God’s nose hair! And his head ached so much!

“It is fool’s talk like that which will drive a wedge of suspicion between my brother and myself, and place me in grave danger. I will thank you to keep your treason to yourself.”

Jocelyn sighed in relief. That was it. Of course. Another bit of brilliance, another demonstration that he’d not fouled up and misunderstood God’s intent. Of course – she didn’t want her brother to expect her to supplant him. Dagger in the ribs from close range, so to speak. Neater, tidier, easier, less costly in lives and all that. More assured than a war. No, get in close while smiling, bang him up and make the announcement of the old king’s will, stuff the bastard into a prison for a bit, then stick him on trial before the lords of the realm and have him executed for treason or some such. When she said she wasn’t going to be queen she simply couldn’t mean it. “I beg pardon, your Highness.”

“Prepare your men to leave tomorrow.”

He bowed and his head didn’t actually fall off, it only felt like it. He levered himself to his feet and his joints didn’t blow apart; the room did toss and sway about him and his gorge did rise. But. One detail. “I can’t serve under your husband.”

One royal eyebrow rose into a very elegant arc. No more.

Oh, now he felt like a cat on hot coals, damn it all to hell! Jocelyn babbled, “I’m better than him. My blood’s better, my birth’s better, my lands are better, my title’s older and I’ve held it longer. I’ve led my own men in my own battles and won. If I serve under him it will be … people will say …” Alright, here’s a fine pickle. How could he tell his queen that a count didn’t play subordinate to a peasant, whether that peasant be whole or part blooded, beggared or rich as rich can be? How could he get her to understand the complete, thorough humiliation of it? The loss of face, prestige and status? The man was simply inferior, however skilled, whoever he married, and whatever titles he grubbed for himself. He could be Alexander the bloody Great and Julius Caesar rolled into one and he would still be inferior. Lamely he finished, “It simply isn’t done. Men of standing can’t follow him any more than a pig can fly.”

She sighed as if this proved something. “I will be accompanying him; you will be placed with my own men. In the event of fighting you will first take orders from me, then carry them out at your own initiative.”

“Thank you, your Highness.” Jocelyn crept out to go and die in a corner somewhere.

Only Jocelyn could think he’s the owner of an apocalyptic belch. Mind you, given his antics at the wedding he’s probably right!

Furball: No, I’ve never been drunk in my life. I don’t really like the taste of alcohol; I struggle to drink half a glass of wine, and that’s the best I can manage. All else gets one sip and me pulling a face and going “Yuck!”

I did like the Jocelyn scene, very much. It’s the first time he really admits the truth to himself. He’s choked out bits of it before, and done plenty of skirting about it so it’s clear to readers while still denying it to himself, but this is the first time he’s spat out the whole. He wants his wife to love him but she doesn’t because he blew his chance without even realising it, and blew it because he’s something he doesn’t like being. The lack of that love undermines him completely and makes him insecure, desperate. And he loves her, or would if only all was well between them. Above all he knows that so much damage has been done they will never recover completely from it – if they can recover at all - and that he’s fouled up the progress he made.

Helps that it has some funny lines too. “and a loving thing … yeah, one of them things.” Wife, Jocelyn, a loving wife :winkg:

Ciaran: Too much indeed; I’ve noticed the tendency myself. It can be done well, it can be made to serve the story and reveal aspects of the characters, and it can be appropriate. More often the result is faintly absurd, boring, stupid, off-putting or laugh out loud funny.

Peasant Phill

08-11-2006, 08:26

The door into the princess’ solar opened; Jocelyn applied his remaining mental resources and figured out how to walk. It was a case of putting one foot before the other and not falling down into a weeping heap. Simple. Damn the woman! He waited days to hear what she wanted of him, and she had to go and wait until he felt like Death and Pestilence mixed together while War sat inside his skull having a bloody battle, and Famine gnawed at his belly. If he belched very bad things could happen – the Apocalypse could escape.

My favorite passages. I just love references and comparing the mother of all hangovers to the work of the horsemen of the apocalypse is just pure brilliance ( and a correct comparison at that).

furball

08-12-2006, 13:33

"She sighed as if this proved something. “I will be accompanying him; you will be placed with my own men. In the event of fighting you will first take orders from me, then carry them out at your own initiative.”

I am VERY surprised at this statement. Granted, the division between 'noble' and 'common-born.' But with this one statement, Eleanor has put Jocelyn in an impossible situation. 1) We KNOW that in a fight, Eleanor has already (mostly) agreed to take orders from Fulk; 2) So a Fulk order might seem to Eleanor that it came from her, but in the heat of battle, with Fulk talking directly to Jocelyn, Jocelyn might not see it as coming from her; 3) By telling Jocelyn - in so many words - that all orders come from her, she is actually undermining Fulk. Shouldn't she have said, "Sir, as you know my father placed his dying trust in me, so I place my trust in the Earl whom I have married and who has now become royal with me, and, thus, deserved of your trust. Do you doubt this trust or refuse to pledge your loyalty to me and mine?"

frogbeastegg

08-12-2006, 19:08

V fast note: low on time but it feels important: Nell's just made Jocelyn and his men a seperate unit. Fulk commands all else, including Nell's own liveried and sworn force. Seperate unit under her commands; dodgy guy who won't follow Fulk removed from situation where he will undoubtably cause trouble and undermine Fulk's authority. Gives Fulk safer command, and allows him to prove himself a bit more without having to watch his back and try to batter Joss into obeying - which he likely won't. And with Joss and his group staying close to Nell then her bodyguard force can do whatever without her being left unguarded, giving Fulk a larger portion of the better, trustier men.

Historically there were many incidents where nobles refused to obey or follow lesser men, even when those men had been boosted up the ladder, had proven themselves to be highly skilled over and over, had been given command by the king, etc etc.

It's a good plan. Those who will follow Fulk, however grudingly, go with him; they get action, glory, etc. Those who won't are kept away, where Nell can keep a close eye on them, where they can't cause trouble and where they'll be kept out of the action for the most part.

furball

08-13-2006, 04:39

Thanks, ma'am!

Andres

08-16-2006, 08:33

Didn't read all of your stories yet, but I must say, when I started reading, I got the "Robin Hobb" or "Raymond E. Feist-feeling".

I bow for thee, lady Frogg. :bow:

You're the master.

frogbeastegg

08-20-2006, 22:31

Riding immediately behind the bier which bore the mortal remains of his father, Hugh found no respite. Knowledge was power, so it was said. The truth of this Hugh did not dispute; knowledge and power both did his peace of mind scant good, and so there must be a kinship. Both, at present, brought forth in him most indecorous things, touching that rotten core of his with gossamer fingers which stirred and pulled.

It was best that his father was dead, no more than a soul long fled and a corpse being carried in procession to St Albans, there to rest until Westminster was reclaimed. An unfilial thought. Best for all concerned that now he was beyond the mortal cares of this vale of tears. Best. If he yet lived … Hugh shuddered to think what this knowledge would have done to his lord father. To hear his youngest daughter was to wed her baseborn bodyguard, the ignominy would have destroyed him. No, best he could not see what his line had come to, how profoundly it had sunk. For the sake of a man’s belief in his legacy preserved to comfort him in his dying, Hugh was glad, and ever would be.

From this vantage point Hugh could see the crown of his lord father’s head, a monk’s tonsure forming naturally in the sandy locks, growth forever now arrested. Tonsures represented God’s ability to see into the minds of men. Fit to be less than dust before the Almighty’s feet, Hugh would never claim such an ability, yet the coincidence struck him and mocked him, as it had throughout this day’s journey and as it would doubtless continue to do. He believed he could see into the now still thoughts – knew. Knew, and knew it was for the best Eleanor’s disgrace had come after their father’s death. Else once more he would have had to stand by as … Resolutely he formed the thought into words in the shelter of his mind; to flinch from it was spinelessness. Eleanor would have died, by their father’s hand. Not a thing of law as John’s execution had been. Murder.

Altogether it would have been the ultimate breakdown, the ruination of a good man the damnation of his soul and his memory and his life’s work. An explosion of temper, a crumpling of a vital thing within … thus the man who was his father would have died, taking Eleanor with him and leaving an animated shell which resembled the man now gone.

But their father was dead, safely dead. It was only Hugh left to face what his sister had wrought.

Hate. Hugh meditated on that word as he rode, viewing it from all angles and trying it in all applications, tasting it, testing it, weighing it. In all, he concluded about a half mile later, it was too mild a word. He hated what Nell had done. He hated her for doing it. He hated his own reactions to it. He hated her for not being clever enough to find another way to satisfy the King of Scots. He hated the King of Scots for his part in it. Such understatements!

And he hated that he was relieved. His most dangerous rival in one motion rendered considerably less hazardous. To welcome the ruin of his sister for the security it brought him! Then to celebrate her tearing the heart from Trempwick’s rebellion! To delight in her increased need of him, to know that with this he could draw her fangs and fasten her to his side for long years to come – she would need him to escape the full consequences of her ill-chosen husband, and to keep from being the King of Scot’s creature. Oh yes, all of this he hated.

Some part of him – a grain of sand out of a beach – wished Eleanor joy in her marriage. He hated that too, and hated himself for begrudging her his kindly wishes.

Hugh turned to Constance, suddenly grateful that she had defied him to ride her palfrey at his side instead of in a carriage. “Do you think … Does a child inherit any personality from its parents?”

“Some, perhaps.”

“Then I hope any ours inherits comes exclusively from you.” Hugh’s gaze lowered unwillingly to focus on Constance’s midriff and the child therein, wondrous promise and dire threat both, and reminder of other potential children. “If Nell had a child …”

“It would have no firm place in the world. Part royalty and close to the throne, part common.”

“And a threat to ours,” said Hugh, his words weary with the weight of their meaning. If his children must take some part of his character let it not be this, let the corruption pass over this next generation and become extinct, let it be content with the two generations it had already blighted.

A pained expression stole over Constance’s face. “Yes. Nell’s child, the ‘rightful’ heir to the ‘rightful’ heir cheated of her kingdom.”

“A child with no place save the one it makes, and that place of necessity high, for the world would never allow it to sink into obscurity.”

“A ready-made figurehead for discontent to form behind, as Nell herself is being used. Save a child could not resist, as she does. Or it may not wish to, once grown.”

“Or the parents may become ambitious on its behalf. It would only be natural.” Leaning over he placed a hand over his growing baby; still he could feel nothing, but Constance reported flutters of movement increasing in frequency. “Parents will risk much to give their offspring a better life.” He straightened in the saddle, letting his hand slip away. The purity of that precious life should not be marred by such thoughts as he held now. It was for the protection of that life he thought in such ways; he would barter away life and soul and eternity and all else, and do so gladly, if only it would keep his baby safe. He could not lose another, could not – would not – fail this one as he had the others. Nothing would be permitted to harm this child. No matter the cost. “So many newly born babies die. I should hate for Nell to endure that loss.” Hate, that inadequate word again. His limp hand flailed out again, caught Constance’s like an anchor to secure him against the wave of desperation surging through him. “Make sure she does not. Please. No child, no loss – you can give her sisterly advice, convince her. She is not build for breeding anyway – say it is for that. Only, please, do something.”

Sometimes the few must suffer so the majority did not have to. Sometimes one died so more did not. Sometimes it was the innocent who paid, to keep the base safe from their own flaws. Sacrifice. It was a very kingly lesson, one Hugh was learning well. His soul groaned under the burden of it. He feared the day when it might not, the day he found himself drained dry.

Sorry, only 1 day off last week, and I didn’t get to spend it writing.

Probably not the reaction most expected from Hugh. Anger, yes. Relief and the rest, no … or perhaps so, with some thought for where he is going. Makes sense if you think on it.

Hugh the father is formidable. After seeing his children murdered, all but one before they were even born, he’s verily bursting with protective urges. Already he loves that baby so much he believes he will do anything for it. It’s one of the things I like about him.

Now I must get some sleep before I drop on the keyboard; I was up late last night doing this scene and frogs simply are not made for disrupted sleeping patterns. Makes me feel like I haven’t slept at all. Got to be up early tomorrow, again. I shall come back to the comments tomorrow evening.

frogbeastegg

08-21-2006, 20:19

Thank you, AndresTheCunning. :bow:

Ah, Robin Hobb ... there's one author who isn't too squeamish to put her characters through hell, and isn't afraid to go for a realistic character when it will prompt complaints. Poor Fitz; he was young, falliable, and didn't know everything. He was better for it! Damned fine character writer indeed. Shame she isn't too good at endings.

I liked Feist's collaboration with Wurt's on Empire trilogy; the first book was my favourite, since I didn't like Kevin and found his influence on Mara and then her world to be predictable, cliched and tedious. Magician (the only one written by him alone I've read) wasn't so good for me. It felt simplistic and a bit shallow really, and thwe characters weren't interesting.

Vladimir

08-23-2006, 13:04

Welcome back. I hope you slept well. :sleeping:

frogbeastegg

08-29-2006, 20:21

It was a mark of his finding great favour that his queen had asked him ride to with herself and her husband. Now how was that – not at all bad for all of a few hours’ acquaintance. Yes, the bird of importance had landed on his shoulder and it absolutely definitely no way at all was going to shit on him!

Jocelyn deigned to nod at a cluster of locals as he approached the city gates; a little bit of grace and favour from up on high would brighten their humdrum lives. If it made him more noticeable then that was entirely an accident, honest! Currying attention was so callow, damn it, as was showing off. Anyway, the queen waved at the townspeople now and then, and if she could do it then there was nothing at all wrong with him nodding once at a single group.

Leaving Perth behind Jocelyn couldn’t help but feel he was headed home, if slowly. It shouldn’t take all that long to settle things in England enough that attention could be paid to the crown’s lands across the Narrow Sea, and when that time came the logical choice for leader of any campaign out there was, quite simply, obvious. A powerful local man, skilled, loyal, one who’d come to his queen’s side right at the start …

Laughter. Turning to its source Jocelyn saw his queen and whatshisface engaging in yet more of that smiley-smiley lovey-dovey happy-happy mushy garbage, eyes locked, faint stupid bloody smiles pasted in their stupid bloody faces, the world all but forgotten as they teased each other! Again! Had it been possible he’d have clamped his spurs to his horse and left to them their nauseating display, damn it all! No consideration, not a jot between the two of them, flaunting their adoration bloody near constantly – it was enough to make any real man sick. It was impossible now to believe that pair of … of … of soppy-brained, love struck ninnies had managed to hide their feelings for any longer then it took a snowball to melt in hell!

He fixed his attention on the ground passing under his right stirrup. He didn’t care. He didn’t envy them. He only wanted them to stop before he spewed his breakfast. It was going to be a bloody long trip, this. Being made Lord Constable – or whatever you wanted to call it - of the French holdings might not be worth the misery.

In every noble marriage each partner had their own independent household, a flexible organisation capable of growing and shrinking to reflect the needs of the time, providing a fine standard of living regardless of which property the noble resided at or was travelling to. Where husband and wife resided together the households operated side by side, where necessity had them part the two units simply split and went their separate ways as efficiently as only autonomous units could.

Presently their combined households formed what looked like an army. Because it was – men in six liveries rode in this party. Eleanor’s own guard rode centre-front, flanking their lady and her companions. Hugh’s men, Miles’ men, Jocelyn’s men, the soldiers pushed on them by the King of Scots, and Fulk’s own little army – a coup he was quite proud of; FitzGilbert’s men were renowned as one of the best Scottish mercenary companies – placed here and there in a convoluted series of arrangements intended to keep from insulting any of the donors. Some five hundred men under arms total, with another six hundred and seventy owed by the King of Scots. The logistical necessities gave Fulk a thumping migraine each time he caught sight of the multicoloured snake with its spear-point hackles. Keeping this thing from shivering apart in his hands promised to give him another.

They would gather the non-military members of their households as they went, pieced together slowly to get the best balance between competence and trustworthiness as possible. By agreement Fulk’s household would take more people from the North and Scotland while Eleanor’s remained predominantly English; a most diplomatic split. For now the servants loaned by Hugh served them both.

Overhead two banners snapped and danced in the wind, their bearers riding a horse-length behind Fulk and Eleanor. One Eleanor’s crowned gooseberry, green and gold against a scarlet background; the other a hastily made thing of white and rich blue, turned out in a frenzy of work to fit his new status. It was a strange feeling, to see at last his boyhood dream realised and his white wolf rampant as banner and livery badge both. He’d had the right to this months ago on becoming a baron; lack of any real privileges of that status had prevented him, his land and funds locked firmly in the royal fist.

They passed some miles in pleasant conversation. Eleanor was the happiest he’d seen her in a long time, it warmed his heart. Fulk suspected the dour French count riding in near silence would have said it should have scared him, since a good part of her joy came from knowing that her life was in her own hands, as much as ever could be true for someone in her position. Jocelyn didn’t seem to approve of anything which did not benefit him directly, and, strangely for a man who had offered a throne to Eleanor, he held some drearily traditional views about women.

Lunchtime came, and a halt was called. Servants ran about, setting up a tent for privileged to eat in. As the last rope was secured Eleanor went inside to oversee the placing of the portable furniture and food.

Leaving her to it, Fulk took a brisk stroll about the camp, inspecting, making himself visible, lightly asserting himself a time or two to establish his authority in function as well as theory.

As he passed by Jocelyn’s men the count finished his conversation with his squire and strode over.

“I’m not under your authority,” declared Jocelyn, matching his pace to Fulk’s.

“I know.”

“Your own wife declared it so.”

“I know.”

The repeated admission seemed to flummox Jocelyn. “You don’t mind?”

Tamping down the returning resentment with practiced ease, Fulk indicated his army with a raised hand. “Why would I?” And why, when he knew the count’s being under Eleanor’s command would keep him from battle and any chance of gain, tucked safely under mistrustful eyes which used him as a protector so other and better men could march with Fulk.

They travelled several more steps, the count’s thumbs tucked in his belt. “Well, I would,” Jocelyn said suddenly.

“I grew used to being dismissed because of my birth long ago.”

“Don’t you hate it?” Jocelyn stopped, whirling to face Fulk. “And don’t you cringe to find yourself overruled by your own bloody wife? A wife’s place is beneath her husband.”

Fulk battled to keep a straight face; the image that provoked! “I’ll remind her of that later.”

Jocelyn waggled a finger in Fulk’s face. “See that you do. Go wrong at the start and the whole thing goes to a right bloody mess! Assert yourself. Make sure she knows her place, damn it. Then you’ll both be a damned sight happier in the long run.”

“Er …”

The count placed a brotherly arm about Fulk’s shoulders and pulled him into walking again. “Now, listen. We’ve had our disagreements-”

Which was news to Fulk! He raised a hand to adjust his new hat – a brimless thing with a big jaunty feather held on by a small jewelled brooch; very stylish - trying to get the other man to let go without seeming rude.

“But I don’t hold grudges. Bloody stupid, doing that. You’re in need of help, plain to see, and being an upstanding chap and all I’ll give you the benefit of my wisdom.”

“I think I have a good idea-”

“Pah!” Jocelyn’s free hand sliced through the air. “Main thing’s to show her who’s in charge and be consistent in it – never let her behave badly and get away with it. Don’t bribe her either; no gifts to get back in her good favours, no apologies, none of that bloody weakness! If she sulks, don’t give in. Ever.”

Good advice; Fulk would be certain to follow it if he ever felt an urgent need to die. “Eleanor’s not-”

“It does work. Why, my Richildis is as obedient as anything. Meek, gentle, pleasant-tempered … She’d never disagree with me or anything of the damned sort, certainly never argue or shout at me, no bloody way! Absolute pleasure to be around, is my Tildis.”

Somehow Fulk had the impression the man was lying … he said it much too brightly.

“Always be firm on your rights, especially in the bedchamber. Headaches are just an excuse. Course,” Jocelyn’s stride gathered a swagger, “I’ve never had the least problem there; my Tildis is almost too keen on me, if such a thing is possible, but I always keep up and acquit myself very damned well. I won’t worry yourself too much yet; it’s perfectly normal to get off to a bad start and bungle things so she’d rather sleep outside in midwinter than share your bed, but you’ll improve with practice. Probably.”

Through gritted teeth Fulk answered, “We are doing perfectly well, thank you very much.”

“I never said otherwise,” the count soothed.

Twisty – that had been Eleanor’s one word description of this man. “Thank you, but I think I have some idea of married life.”

“Probably, but they’ll all be wrong. You’re not a normal man, and she’s not a normal woman, and this isn’t a normal marriage. She’s a princess of a most noble house and in line for a great future,” he winked at Fulk; it was a wonder he didn’t squish one of the crowns dancing in visionary form in his eyes. “You’re … er, you. You can’t go flinging your weight about, damn it man! You should protect her and help her; that should be your main purpose and aim in life. And she’s been badly mistreated by her father – who’d ever have thought it of such a good king? Disgraceful! Can hardly believe it – so you’ve got to be extra careful with her. She deserves a bloody sight better than some heavy-handed fool ordering her about, hitting her, crushing her down into a submissive wife.” He grunted. “Submissive wives aren’t that wonderful anyway. A real man can take a bit of criticism from his wife, let her help him, treat her as an equal, that sort of thing. That’s what I do with mine.”

Twisty? Outright dizzying! “I know,” interjected Fulk firmly.

They stopped. The friendly arm departed Fulk’s shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. You’re in a right awkward place and you’re the only one who can do anything with it. Got to find the right balance, see. Like me and my Tildis. I only hope you’ll take my advice as intended.”

“Er … thanks.”

Jocelyn beamed. “Happy to help. Anything else, just ask me. I wish every married couple was as happy as my Tildis and I are.” The grin never wavered; it fixed. “Exactly as happy. Only fair. I don’t see why some should get all the luck.”

Fulk decided there and then that this handsome count and his mysterious wife didn’t like each other one bit. That might also explain why he went so peculiar while talking about women. Eleanor had been very clear; she wanted this man kept where they could watch him as much as was practical. “Will you join us for lunch?”

“With pleasure.” They began to walk back to the tent. “Incidentally, where are you going to get your soldiers from? Since most nobility won’t serve you.”

Nightfall once again saw them settled on the King of Scot’s hospitality, at one of his royal manors. Their army camped outside, Fulk and Eleanor settled into the best bedchamber. The king’s parting gift – or insult – had occasion to be useful long before they had anticipated. As the property was not one particularly favoured by Anne’s father he did not maintain a set of furnishings in it. The English servants deployed and did their bit with efficiency which did Hugh credit, unpacking and setting up furniture equally provided by Eleanor’s brother. The only item Eleanor and Fulk could supply themselves was the bed; the King of Scots had gifted them the bed in which they had consummated their marriage, complete with mattress, covers and hangings. Since they needed to keep the sheet they may as well have the rest, he’d said. Pointing out their material poverty, more like. Still, it was a fabulous bed and Fulk wasn’t about to wish it away.

Fulk, being the very soul of chivalry, allowed Eleanor first use of the bathtub. Uncharitably it was much too small for both of them at once.

“Oh.” She stood fiddling with the knot of her girdle, and not to undo it.

Fulk plonked himself down on the bed, easily able to guess what bothered her. “I’ll sit here. I won’t be able to see your back unless you turn it to me.”

“Oh.” Lack of further protest demonstrated the progress he’d made in the last two nights; the fact she dived in before her cast off shift touched the floor showed how far he had left to go. Still, he had a nice view of her upper body … and she was washing very quickly.

He said, “If we keep them with us until we reach the southern-most part of my earldom, I think we will be able to do without Miles’ men. By then we’ll have taken hold of my lands. Trying to keep them with me when I leave to fight will be impossible, and I’d rather not march out with men who want to return to their lord’s son and do their duty by him.” He grimaced. “They’re likely to stab me in the back if I try. Can you persuade them to that much?”

“Certainly I cannot persuade them to do more than work south with us until our paths part. I shall try. It may be best to allow them to go their own way tomorrow.”

“I’d rather have the extra men while gathering up my castles; less likely to encounter trouble then.”

“But we will have the same worry each time we approach those lands until we install loyal castellans.” She held up a dripping hand to forestall his reply. “Oh, enough. I shall do as you wish. I have heard more than enough military talk for the day, thank you very much. Honestly, I did not think two men put together could spend an entire meal discussing recruitment, and occupy themselves with tactics for much of the afternoon.” Scrubbing at her leg, Eleanor grumbled, “I should have known better.”

Fulk spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry, ‘loved. I didn’t realise we were boring you; you’ve been quite curious about such things of late. Jocelyn had some useful points. I wouldn’t worry about his competence.”

“Wonderful.” Eleanor scooped up another handful of soap and started work on her left arm. “A competent general of uncertain loyalty. Precisely what we needed.”

“He swore the oaths well enough.”

“Yes, very true. I would feel better if I did not find the man so …”

“Phoney?” suggested Fulk.

Eleanor made a sound of agreement, and began to rinse her upper body.

“I think he lies a lot. About himself. He cornered me and tried to give me some advice; he contradicted himself when describing his wife, and I got the impression they don’t get along. He says otherwise, rather too often.”

“Sometimes I wonder if he has a brain. Others I fear he is dangerously sharp.” Eleanor wrapped herself in her towel as she stepped from the tub. “Your turn,” she informed Fulk, shooing him off the bed so she could sit on the spot he had warmed.

“You’ll made a damp patch,” he grumbled.

“On the foot of the outermost blanket.” She flapped a hand at him. “Go on! Before the water goes cold.”

Fulk grinned salaciously. “Ah, but then you’d charitably offer to warm me up after I’d washed.”

“No I would not. I do not want you leeching my heat when you are chilled through your own negligence.” She sniffed. “Far better that you suffer, learn your lesson, and not let it happen again.”

“Dearling, that would be doubly cruel. I’d then catch a chill. Sneezing knights aren’t impressive. Besides, you’d enjoy warming me up.”

Eleanor lifted her chin. “I am not going to bed with you for mercenary reasons, thank you very much. Some things are not about helping you evade the consequences of your own stupidity.”

“Dearling, there’s more than one reason for wanting a princess in my bed,” said Fulk patiently. “It’s well known that a wife’s very good for warming cold feet on. There’s nothing mercenary about my curling up close to you to warm myself.”

“Six foot of chilled knight takes a lot of heat to warm. I’d be frozen by the time you grew cosy. That is not chivalrous. Now get in that bath!”

Fulk tossed his hat down on the bed with a studied air of disgust. “Earl of Alnwick and her husband, and still she treats me like a common man at arms. Orders, more orders, sarcasm, insults, bah!” Being a dignified, brave knight Fulk undressed at a normal rate with nary the least thought of diving for cover. At every opportunity – and he made sure there were many – he watched Eleanor drying herself. A lower leg here, a peek of breast there, the odd hint of a hip … wonderful. By the time he reached shirt and hose he had slowed down to better watch, his interest in the bath gone.

She watched him in return, shy, yes, but open about it where she hadn’t been before.

When he’d shed his last layers Fulk began to strike silly poses, showing off his muscles. Eleanor began to laugh.

Fulk froze, clenched fists up near his ears. “Yes?” he enquired with stilted dignity.

“I was just thinking ... I wonder if it is possible …?” She caught up his hat, and hung it so it acted as a tolerable imitation of Adam’s fig-leaf, the long feather sticking out in obscene imitation of its improvised hat stand. She fell back onto the bed laughing helplessly.

Fulk shoulders slumped, and his expression became one of tolerant exasperation. “Irreverent creature!”

“Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. Another look, and she started giggling again.

Fulk shifted the hat to its correct location. Painstakingly he made certain it sat just so. Then with his best fearsome growl he lunged towards the bed. Eleanor rolled across the mattress in the opposite direction, towel falling into disarray; she nearly made it to her feet before he caught her. Holding her tight to his body he twisted over, pulling her back into the middle of the bed with himself propped on one elbow at her side. Damn, she was beautiful with her hair in disarray all over the pillows, and that wicked little smile of hers ...

Eleanor threw his hat across the room, buried her hands in his hair and pulled his face down to hers.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, that pair! Incidentally, frogs hate hats. Completely detest them; any sort on anyone for any purpose.

So passes another week with just one day off, that day mostly spent researching and ordering a new video card. My current one is dying; it never was the same after that power surge melted most of my PC a year and a bit ago. My cause was not helped by my trapping a finger in a big, heavy filing cabinet. Oh, the agony! And I'm a two-fingered typist! The next few weeks should be more promising for writing.

Decently enough, Vladimir. Now I feel like I could use a couple of days solid sleep. :sleeping:

frogbeastegg

09-04-2006, 14:06

The door closed behind Jocelyn with a very final click. His fingers slackened, letting his saddlebags drop to the ground. “Bugger.” Here he was, all favoured and important and so on, and he’d been turfed out of his room. “Bugger!” he repeated, this time with plenty of feeling – and cautious softness. Other than the queen and her whatsit he’d been the only one to get a private room in this poxy little dump of a damned royal manor, and now he’d lost it. Why? Because the wretched daughter of the wretched owner of this wretched God-damned pile had to turn up, that’s why!

Picking his belongings back up Jocelyn stormed off – quietly! – to find somewhere to settle down. The main hall would have been the usual place; bedding down there would show his apparent drop in standing to too bloody many people for comfort.

As he travelled the corridors muttering to himself, he passed the chapel. That would do. God wouldn’t mind sharing with someone He favoured so much, surely? Whatever anyone said, Jocelyn knew he didn’t snore.

Placing his bags next to the wall near the back, Jocelyn genuflected to the altar. “Uh … You don’t mind, do you?” Nothing happened. Great! That was all settled then.

Settling himself on a bench near a candle, Jocelyn looked about furtively. He was definitely alone. He pulled a sheet of low grade parchment, an inkhorn and a quill from his bags, spread the sheet out at his side and resumed his letter where he’d left off.

He twizzled the quill in his fingers, shifted his posture a few times, hummed for a bit, drummed his fingers, shifted some more and … nothing. The sullen blankness of the parchment taunted him.

What the hell was he playing at anyway, fiddling about like this?! Sending some bloody letter to that damned miserable cow. Huh. Slaving away like a clerk, cramping his fingers, straining his eyes, hunching his back and dirtying his hands with ink – menial labour, damn it, not for the likes of him! She wouldn’t appreciate it, not one bit. Probably prefer to hear nothing and hope he was dead. That was it – he was writing to her so she would know he wasn’t dead, to bust her hope and make her miserable. Exactly what she deserved for having such wicked wishes.

Aiming his quill with new resolve, Jocelyn wracked his brains for something to start off with. It needed to be assertive; this wasn’t some soppy effort at comfort, or an apology, or concern or any bloody soft damned nonsense, by the wings of Gabriel!

The quill stutter-screeched as he wrote, Deer Richildis. No! Her scrubbed that out. Too damned kindly. To my wyf Yeah, that would do … but wasn’t there a usual fancy poncy traditional opening which was practically obligatory for any literate letter writer to start with? There was, he had this nasty feeling. Some crap about greetings to your best beloved wife, and all that guff. What was it? She’d mock him if he didn’t get it all exactly right, he knew it. “Sod it,” he muttered. Some people might not mind a pack of lies like that being scrawled in their name; he did, very much. He didn’t hope she was well, and he didn’t miss her, and he didn’t care at all, and if she didn’t like it then he’d thump her when she complained.

I am in Ingland. Al gos wel. I hav sworn my oths. Now I traval with princes Elaynor.

Jocelyn gnawed the end of the quill; should he go into more detail? A bit, maybe. He didn’t want the infuriating woman getting all la-de-da and whittering on at him for not saying much supposedly because he struggled to write anything at all, which plainly wasn’t the case. He was a very accomplished letter writer.

She is marid now to some niyt, and I waz at the wedding. He is sed to be a gud fyter, and seems alright. What he is no one noes. Some bastad, sertanly. But whoz? The Scotz king says he is a de la Bec, important and the last of that house. Others say he is just the son of a pezant and a miner noble. He needs help to get on with his new lyf and wyf and all becoze he is preeveously very unimportant, and he looks on me as a natral frend. I thynk he will turn out alright in the end, maybe. The princes is wat her father sed and mor and very in luv with her niyt. They remind me of one of Mahaut’s storees almost, but real. I hope they wil not bee as dum as those storees or there wil be truble. I saw prinse Hyu as wel. But not much, onlee a part our or so. He was alright. I saw no lykenes to the old kyng. Witch may be gud, sinse the old kyng is reveeled to hav beyn right crul and by no meens decent like we all beeleeved. It was the talk of the weding, the scars al ovr Elaynor witch wur his doing, and I feer the beding cerymoany was crul too becuz everyone saw them and there was much mokry. I didn’t go to the cerymoany to luk, being a gud man who dos not luk at naked wimin without invite, so I didn’t see the scars myself but it is comon talk.

Pause.

I mis the children. I hope they are wel. Tel Thierry I sayd he must be good and lurn his lesons and look after the yunger ones like a good niyt. Tel Mahaut that I wil tel her abot the princes when I get home. Giv Jean a kis four me.

The quill crunched between his teeth. Jocelyn spat fragments onto the floor; remembering where he was he crossed himself. “Sorry, sorry!”

Before he could think better of it he scribbled, I got yu a gyft. I mis yu. Almost immediately he crossed the words out again, pressing so hard the nib of the quill split. Flinging the useless implement aside he cursed, “Buggering hell! Accursed bloody thing!”

He drew a spare quill from his pack, dipped it in the ink and resumed staring at the page.

I am sor- He scrubbed that out.

It wood be nise if yu wer here. No, too bloody soppy. Anyway, what the devil was he doing writing all this crap anyway? He wasn’t apologising, he wasn’t trying to get back in her good favours, he didn’t miss her, and he sure as saints didn’t fart wasn’t trying to please her with this ordeal by feather! He hadn’t blown their little truce, she had. So she should be the one grovelling to him, begging his forgiveness for her outburst and for daring to complain about Serlova. It was her fault. It was. If Richildis had been there with him he’d have tried her first, and she’d have refused him yet again anyway, and besides it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly to turn down Serlova. Practically charity, comforting the poor widow like that. He had nothing to make up to her, nothing.

Tayk care of my lands. If anything hapns to them I wil be riyt angry. Yes, that was more like it.

He signed his name at the bottom and laboured to review his work.

Fulk had been hearing the muffled chaos of a new arrival at the manor for a while now. At his side Eleanor slept peacefully on, for which he was glad. As of the last couple of nights she hadn’t been spending half the night worrying away; the restoration of decent hours of sleep had already eased the stress lines which had been threatening to etch themselves permanently into her face, the dark smudges under her eyes were fading.

Someone had arrived at the manor. To get through the army camped outside the walls they must be very important; to cause such bustle they must be staying. Which made Fulk wonder, who was it? The possibility it may be Malcolm fetched Fulk out of bed and set him to dressing quietly in the dim light of the night candle. He had no wish to be caught any more unprepared than he already had been.

With a final glance back at his sleeping wife Fulk moved to the door. Midway across the room his foot came down on something soft. Fulk retrieved his much abused hat and dusted it off, fortunately no damage had been done.

The manor had nearly settled down for the night, rooms and corridors filled with pallets and would-be sleepers and only a few still up and about.

Outside the main hall Fulk encountered a man in royal Scottish livery, a badge of a dove on his sleeve. Anne, the late arrival was Anne. Hastening after the man, Fulk enquired, “What are you doing here?”

The man shrugged. “You think her royal mightiness tells the likes of me anything? Balls to that.”

There appeared to be some mistake as to Fulk’s status; it wouldn’t be kind to inform the man of his mistake, so he let it be and played the simple man at arms. “But it is just the princess? Not her brother?”

“Yes, just her, and don’t go wishing that damned demon-spawn on me neither.”

Thanking the soldier, Fulk headed back to his own rooms. Eleanor could deal with Anne. His trencher had enough problems without the addition of another princess.

Passing the chapel on this different route back, Fulk noticed that someone was inside, definitely not praying. He slowed his pace; the man hunched over, a quill in his hand. Writing, in the chapel? Suspicious. Fulk went in.

The man’s head came up at the sound of boots on the tiles; Jocelyn. He snatched his work up and rolled it into a tube.

At the same time they both asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I’d come to see who had arrived.” Fulk looked pointedly at the letter the other man held in his left hand.

“The Scottish princess took my room. I wanted some peace to,” Jocelyn spoke the next words as though they burned his tongue, “write to my wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Jocelyn squared his shoulders. “Are you suggesting I’m illiterate or that I have no reason to, or something?”

“I’m wondering why you didn’t dictate to your clerk.”

“I didn’t want to. You have a problem with that? It’s my bloody letter.”

Fulk looped his thumb through his belt in a casual gesture which placed his right hand closer to the hilt of his dagger. This stank; a nobleman engaging in a menial task in such a strange location, becoming defensive, aggressive almost, when questioned. Could he be a spy? “I write my own letters,” he said evenly. Few of good station had reason to dirty their hands with the tedious task of writing, in the same way they had no reason to turn their hand to the plough or smith’s hammer.

“Well there you are then.” Jocelyn turned his shoulder to Fulk, plainly wanting him to leave.

Fulk refused to take the hint. “Why here?”

“Because it’s quiet.”

“So is the hall, now.”

“I didn’t want to go to the hall.” Jocelyn came to his feet, his own hand hovering near his dagger’s hilt. “Why all these questions? Can’t a man write to his bloody wife? Is that a crime?”

“I have a duty-”

“To pry? To scut about poking your nose in other’s affairs?” Jocelyn spat on the floor, winced and crossed himself, which looked odd as at the same time he snarled, “Bet that’s how you broke the bloody thing – someone slammed their door in your spying face.”

“To protect my wife,” Fulk finished calmly. “There have been enough attempts on her. She’s been betrayed by those close to her more than once.”

Jocelyn’s fist crushed his letter. “You think I’m a traitor?” He flung the message on the floor at Fulk’s feet. “Read it then. Damn you!”

Fulk scooted the squashed tube along the floor until he could stoop to pick it up without exposing himself to a quick attack by the other man. As he’d expected the handwriting was awful, barely legible and from an unpractised hand. It was the spelling which betrayed Jocelyn; a literate man would know the correct spellings. That was the sole incriminating thing, and it explained a lot. Perhaps there was some love between the count and his mysterious wife after all, which made Fulk wonder why it was so furtive, so hidden in lies.

Fulk rolled the message back up and offered it to the Frenchman. By way of apology he said, “I think she’ll appreciate your effort.”

Jocelyn snatched back his work. “You do?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, and quite a bit.”

The set of Jocelyn’s face eased, he glanced down at the letter as if he couldn’t believe it had any worth. He scratched his cheek, fingers feeling over his cropped beard. “From what I hear you’ve a right to be wary.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

“I’ve sworn myself to her, more I swore on the souls of my family and on a relic. Like she required.”

Fulk nodded, once. “You did.” This man had put care into learning the correct spellings for his wife and children’s names. He turned to leave. “Goodnight.”

Alone again, Jocelyn picked up his quill and laboured to add one final line. I hope yu ar wel.

furball

09-04-2006, 21:47

Touching, particularly spelling the kids' names correctly. <sigh> Yep, another nice Froggy touch I missed til Fulk pointed it out.

Peasant Phill

09-06-2006, 09:33

great job once again. I hope the 'endgame' starts soon.

Turning to its source Jocelyn saw his queen and whatshisface engaging in yet more of that smiley-smiley lovey-dovey happy-happy mushy garbage, eyes locked, faint stupid bloody smiles pasted in their stupid bloody faces, the world all but forgotten as they teased each other!

It really made me laugh. It reminded me of inspector Grim from 'the thin blue line'.

Ciaran

09-06-2006, 15:13

:laugh4: Oh, that was great, Jocelyn trying his hand at writing. The problem is, show that letter to your average school kid and he´ll tell you, in an absolutely convinced tone at that, "So? What´s supposed to be wrong?":dizzy2:

Or is that actually medieval English? Having tried myself at reading the Caterbury Tales by Chaucer, I´ve found that to be a real chore.

Ludens

09-08-2006, 16:15

I don't like the Jocelyn character much, but that last scene was very entertaining.

(Yes, I am way behindhand with comments, but I'll make up for it. Sometime. :hide: )

Vladimir

09-13-2006, 16:33

If he didn't have any power I'd like him very much. But there's hope.

And another thing; about that mystery hat, you know that gravity defying one from the previous part. What's up with that? :stupido2:

frogbeastegg

09-16-2006, 17:51

Anne was still getting dressed when Eleanor arrived. “Oh, I had not expected to see you until later.” At Adele’s tut Anne turned her head back to face front again, sitting meekly still as the maid worked at her hair.

Eleanor cast about for a seat and gave up; there were none in this cupboard of a room. Instead she stood before, out of the way. “I am always up early, you should know that by now.”

“Yes, but … well, you did just get married.”

Eleanor’s eyes rolled heavenwards. Well, there was some grain of truth in that accusation, perhaps. If Fulk had not been so neatly to hand she would not have wasted minutes trying to make the man understand that he should have woken her and told her of Anne’s arrival when he returned from his excursion. All very well for him to insist she had been asleep – that was precisely the point! Slumbering away precious time in which she could have prepared countermeasures against this unreliable stepmother of hers.

Forgetting herself, Anne turned her head again, causing Adele to scurry around to keep the braid she was working on from tearing at her lady’s scalp. “I barely saw you the day before you left, and then you went so early in the morning I did not have chance to say goodbye.”

“We had a lot to plan.” And she had wanted none of it reaching Anne’s ears, for fear of where else it may reach and what harebrained notions the girl may grow from a little knowledge.

“You look a lot less tired. Really, you do, and less worried.” A shy smile stole over the girl’s face. “There must be some truth in what they say: a good knight-”

“Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted Eleanor, feeling her cheeks flame. “So everyone keeps telling me.” A good (k)night in bed does wonders for your health. Very droll. “I had not expected you to sink to such depths; crude puns indeed!”

Far from being chastened, Anne giggled. “I think it rather clever.”

“And there is proof romance stories rot the mind,” remarked Eleanor dryly.

Anne clicked her fingers over her shoulder, prompting Adele back into action on her hair. “You are happy though; it shows.”

“Yes. Very.”

“I would not have thought it made so much difference, except in that you do not have to pretend not to care for each other.”

“It does. It is as if …” Eleanor’s search for words was not aided by the memories adjoining that which she was trying to express; most distracting, they filled her with a warm glow. If before she had known he loved her, then now a thousand thousand new proofs made that knowledge bone deep, making it something that simply was. No more secrets, no more holding back, no more fears. An awareness of him keener than before, as though some part of him had remained with her and of her with him. The simple joy of having more time with him and no longer any need for them to hide. A deep sense of peace, contentment flowing like a river under the eddies of worry, fear, strain. “It is all deeper.”

“Everyone is talking of it – the court, soldiers, servants, companions, the people you passed by. You have become one of those stories you just disdained. The princess who married her knight-”

“And lived happily ever after?”

Anne took a while to answer. “There is no ending, not yet. They all have their own ideas, coloured by what they think of it.”

Eleanor bared her teeth in a mirthless grin. “And in how many of those tales am I struck down by a righteous thunderbolt?”

The girl’s chin ducked down. “I do not like to listen to those ones, or the other nasty ones.” Her face came back up again, to regard Eleanor with shining eyes. “Do you know that in one version Fulk is my half-brother, my father’s unacknowledged son? Which is why he did so much for him, and why you agreed to the match. I think I should like that, if it were true. Brothers like Malcolm are perfectly horrid, but Fulk would be wonderful, just like Alex, and then you would be my sister-by-law as well as my stepdaughter.”

Now there was a rumour fit to get Fulk knifed in the dark. “Why are you here?”

Anne blinked, entirely guileless. “Oh, I am coming with you, of course.”

“No.”

“But”-

“No. I am not having you tag along into a war.”

“I have my own soldiers, nearly fifty men, and my own household and incomes and everything, so I would not be a burden and would be able to help.”

And spy, and heaven know what else. “No. It will not be safe.”

Anne stood up, stuck her chin in the air, and ruined the effort at a mature air by stamping a royal foot. “Then I will follow after you, and you will not be able to stop me unless you shut your gates in my face and drive me off with armed force, and then you would be declaring war on my father too, so you will not. I told you, I want to see the end of this, and I want to help. You need soldiers and money, and I have both. You asked me to help, back at the start of this, and I said I would. You used to trust me; why will you not do so now?”

Eleanor set down the bald truth. “Because you proved yourself unworthy of it.”

Anne spread her hands in a plaintive gesture. “But you are happy. It was what you wanted!”

“And I have been used as a tool to weaken England and my family, and know I will be used again and again. Fulk and I, we have been thrust into balancing on a pinhead, with death in every direction should we fall. I see no end to that balancing act, so long as we live and whatever we do. You promised to say nothing, and you broke that promise to someone who would obviously use the information against us.”

“I was trying to help.”

“You broke your sworn word.”

Anne took a deep breath. “I will … I will make up for it all to you. You can trust me; I will swear the same oaths you have your followers swear, and I will never dishonour myself again, ever. I am coming with you. I am going to help you.”

Eleanor returned to breakfast with Fulk. He broke some bread off the loaf for her. “Well?”

Eleanor slumped down opposite him. “How do I end in these situations?”

“Probably because you’re a gooseberry, my love.”

“I have a dowager queen sworn in personal loyalty to me, and her maids too. She is following us like a vassal, adding her army to ours. As if I did not have enough dubious people to watch.” With a groan Eleanor buried her face in her hands. “Her family is going to think we have taken her hostage, I know it.”

“I was wrong.” Fulk patted her on the shoulder. “It’s too much trouble for a mere gooseberry. This is the princess at work.”

Been having computer trouble, in copious amounts. Everything appears to be working now. I have never had such trouble reinstalling windows, gah! Think I shall be investing in a new primary hard drive soon; it is still sending out delayed write failed messages, and appears to be botching non-critical parts of the windows updates because it won’t copy the information correctly. :sigh: But not for a short while, anyway. I want to recover my sanity after this time first.

Furball: Characters get paid 1 penny extra for each froggy touch they point out. :winkg:

Peasant Phill: ooh, Thin Blue Line. The first series of that was very good, the second slightly less so. Haven’t seen it since it was originally broadcast. Grim was good, as was Fouler and Habib.

Ciaran: No, that’s just modern English with awful spelling.

I found The Canterbury Tales, and other Old English, hard to get on with until I had read a reasonable amount of it. As long as it is in printed form, I’m, alright, just a bit slow. It helps if you think phonetically.

Ludens: If you’d said that on the other forum you’d be seeing how flameproof mod robes actually are. :winkg: He has a big following. Actually, you’re the only one I know of who doesn’t like him. His fanclub is the third largest (8), behind Fulk and Nell (9 each).

Vladimir: Er … well. You see :blushes: Oh, the things a frog ends up explaining! :in one big rush with barely a space between words: Well, Fulk is newly married to his beloved gooseberry, so he’s rather er, ah, um, let’s say excitable. And he’s been watching her while she was doing all that bath stuff, and watching with marked interest. Which has :cough: effects of a blood rushing south sort. And those effects result in something you could hang a hat on. So Nell did. Which is why the feather sticking up resembles what the hat is hanging on.

Ciaran

09-16-2006, 21:02

Well, that was a nice little update, so Anne is back on Eleanors back (bad pun, I know, but no worse than the Knight one - which I liked). She´s got something of a puppy dog, Anne has.

frogbeastegg

09-20-2006, 15:07

Hunting. Sit on horse, chase, kill. Repeat ad nausium. Not Trempwick’s idea of a day well spent. Ah, but he hunted a different quarry. So he made a show of enjoyment. Talked with his noble host. Talked with the noble guests. And obligingly didn’t mention politics. No need to. These midland lords had heard him. Dithered still, most of them. Unwilling to side, to risk their own positions. Ah, but he hunted them. And he didn’t need a spear.

The day passed. Blood was spilled. More prey found. It escaped. More prey found. Repeat over and over.

Finally they found the boar. Trempwick thought it well to distinguish himself a little here. Managed to stab it in the shoulder while it distracted itself with another fool. Not a kill, but brave. Protecting the fool who had stepped in front of the lethal animal. Risking his own life as the furious beast turned on him.

Later he felt nauseous at the risk. One goring tusk could have put an end to all! As deplorable as battle, this. As necessary. The fragility of human life was petrifying. The fragility of causes which hung upon those slender threads, outright terrifying.

The messenger rode up as they butchered the boar. At last!

The message was for Trempwick. Of course. He stepped to one side to read it. Scanned the lines, to ensure the passage of time was believable. Now! Let it all loose! He let out a cry of pure anguish. Cried, “No!” Dropped to his knees, pounded at the bloodied dirt with his fists. The letter crumpled in his fist, becoming befouled by the ground. “No!” Drive fist to earth again, with more anger! “I will kill them!” Sob, restrained sob. A person on the brink of destruction but struggling manfully to hold on. And days of pent up feeling unleashed.

The cattle stopped their babble. Stared. Oh, he had their attention now.

His host, the noble Earl of Stafford, asked, “What the devil has happened?”

Expected a coherent answer from a man in this state? Trempwick disappointed him. “I will kill them! I swear it! All of them! Oh, Christ God! Nell. Oh my poor Nell.” Sob some more.

It … hurt. It had been hurting since that first message. He had kept it dammed up. Hurt. Amazed him how much. She had turned from him.

Too late to stop. Too late to go back. Now there was only onwards. Committed. Path chosen, set, begun, half walked. And he would not go back if he could. Had no choice. The bastard or Nell, one or other must rule. It could not be the bastard.

Choked out, “They will pay in blood!” He hurled the message to the ground in Stafford’s rough direction.

The man was slow. Slow to take the hint. Slow to pick up the message. Slow to read it. So God-damned slow! “My God!” he exclaimed, after reading. Went pale. Crushed the parchment in his own fist. Nearly cast it to the ground; aborted the motion at the last instant.

Babble. They asked what it said. What could possibly cause such reactions?

Now, aim the arrow. Trempwick gained his feet, unsteady, filled with barely controlled fury. “He has given my wife to the Scots.” Battle for control … almost nearly close to an honest battle. “They have-” Choke on the words. Crush out the burning embers of respect for her gambit. Of pride in her. Let only the passion rule. “They have-“ voice failed again. He felt wetness on his face, and knew the tears to be honest. His student, his Nell, years in the teaching, in the raising, one of the rare limited few whom he had trusted with his truths, with his naked unarmoured self. And she had turned on him.

Stafford jumped in eagerly, if with most fittingly grim tone. “They have married her to her bodyguard. A bastard nothing jumped up to earl of a new-made pitiful scraping of land.”

Outrage. Predictable outrage. Fitting, oh so very fitting outrage. A married woman handed off to another – despicable! It was against the laws of man and God. A noble to a nothing – ghastly! Against the natural order of mankind, against all decency. An English princess married off by the Scots – insolent! It was none of theirs to dabble in. The bastard treating his sister so – shameful! Against all codes of good conduct, against all sense. The bastard employing such underhand methods to discredit and dispose of his rival, the rightful heir – intolerable! He demeaned his ‘own’ blood so as to grasp more tightly his ill-gotten gains.

“Married?” Trempwick spat. “Married? Put it plain – they have made her the plaything of a peasant. My wife! Our rightful queen! They may call it what they will, but those with eyes see through it.” Yes, subtle prompting: those with sense see it his way, those without don’t. “Do not be fooled that they call him part noble – I know the truth of him. A de la Bec? Never! He is the son of a peasant called Emma and a William Destier, once a minor lord of a small fief centred about Walton. A nothing!”

One of the local lordlings grasped at the letter and started to read it himself. “It says she appeared to be willing.” Sounded incredulous.

Key: it was hard to believe a princess would marry so low of her own will. Greatly easier to believe in foul play. Greatly easier again when the present civil war was considered.

The fact included in this letter so he could combat it here and now. “Appeared?” Trempwick laughed bitterly. “How many ‘willing’ brides have you seen marrying someone they do not want with a pretence of cheer because their lives will become insufferable if they do not? Or grooms, for that matter. There are many ways to make someone marry where they do not wish to, and do so with an appearance of gladness.”

Some other was nodding. “True. And she would be very alone out there, without support of her own.”

Don’t give them time to think. Keep them focused on the distraught husband, the bad of the situation. “I will destroy those responsible! I will burn Scotland to ashes, and mount the bastard’s head on a spike! And as for that peasant they have handed her to …!” Let them imagine what he would do. Save his imagination. A quick knife to the throat would be his choice: fast, clean, effective. Hardly the stuff of vengeful legend.

Would Nell forgive him? No. Pain. If he succeeded she would be queen and she would hate him. But. Overall view: her feeling toward him did not matter. Couldn’t help but add: on the relative scale of things. Duty and what must be was larger than one person. And … Tentative hope: she may understand.

The tide of melancholy was strong; he succumbed. “I should have torn Waltham to pieces at the start. I should have done more. Anything but leave her in the hands of that usurping scum.” Closed his eyes, shoulders sagged, let it all go to despair.

Stafford said, “You did not have the resources. You would have failed.”

“And I will fail again.” He made a small, empty movement with his right hand. “If I go north to her the bastard will cut me off and crush me with the aid of his ill-gotten ally.”

“Not if you still have a strong presence in the south …”

Trempwick looked up. Allowed hope to glimmer in his face.

Stafford cast a quick glance about his vassals. Stood tall. “I will not follow a man with such contempt for his own royal bloodline. As good as a kinslayer – prince Hugh could never be trusted. We would live in fear of his next depravity. After this there can be no doubt he is capable of anything.”

Assorted agreement of an aggressive tone. Some silent faces … but Trempwick had never expected to convert all. And he did not need to win all hearts to make men follow. If sufficient came to his side others would follow to promote themselves. To gain.

The earl’s son elbowed forward, aglow with the senselessly hot blood of youth. “And I, for one, will not suffer the Scots meddling in our affairs! To treat our royal blood like his vassal?” The idiot drew and brandished his hunting knife. “Here’s my answer for him!”

The earl clapped his son on the shoulder approvingly. “It’s been many long years since Langholm. Time to remind those wild louts of our superiority! We slaughtered them then, and we’ll do it again!”

Posturing. Trempwick sighed in the safety of his heart. Always the same when talking war. The speaker’s group is superior to the other. Slights are trotted out, always from the same narrow group. Nobility, courage, easy victory, all this garbage spoken of. The past called on; victories remembered and to be emulated, defeats to be avenged. Blah, blah, talk, talk, yatter, yatter. Because men needed their courage stoking. Because the current enemy must be rendered safely faceless and subhuman, to spare conscience and ease killing.

The hunt was abandoned. The castle erupted into action. Beginning the first stages of the muster. Planning the defence of the homelands with garrisons and patrols. Planning the offensive. Messages, scores of messages sent: to summon allies, to call up vassals, to spread word of what the bastard had done and call the neutral to arms, to coordinate with the army still fighting on the Welsh border, word sent to the loyalists in the North informing them of the aid soon to be on its way.

Alone at last after an exhausting day, Trempwick sat by the fire and toyed with a drink. To think. As was his custom.

“Ah, Nell,” he murmured. “Did you never think it could be used so?” A deathblow, parried and used to launch a new attack.

His mother still kept occupied a goodly portion of the bastard’s army. A good risk she had accepted: being a visible target to distract and divide. In Rochester she could hold for months, half a year, mayhap more. Unless the bastard threw away men in great quantity assaulting the walls. Which he wouldn’t. And with the strength Trempwick was gathering now he could …

So many options.

But first, he had need of securing more midland lords. One earl and the majority of his followers was not enough to be decisive. So he must ride out, and play the distraught husband some more.

Perhaps now Trempwick will stop menacing me?

At long last, the answer as to what is happening with Trempy and his mother.

Ciaran: At least unlike the puppy Anne won’t chew Nell’s shoes. :gring:

furball

09-22-2006, 05:19

Enjoyable to see the change in style during a Trempwick chapter.

Ciaran

09-24-2006, 12:28

Indeed, and finally Trempy resurfaces, I was almost wondering if you had completely forgotten about him.

Ludens

09-24-2006, 14:37

Ludens: If you’d said that on the other forum you’d be seeing how flameproof mod robes actually are. :winkg: He has a big following. Actually, you’re the only one I know of who doesn’t like him. His fanclub is the third largest (8), behind Fulk and Nell (9 each).
I took a dislike to him when he first entered the story: I felt he was a distraction to the main story line and I didn't consider him or his family interesting enough to make up for that. His continious arguments with his wife served only to illustrate a theme I already knew very well. I began to like him more when he became part of the main story line and right now he's is the funniest character in the story, which is probably why so few people agree with me, but I still feel that his scenes tend to be a bit repetitive.

Nice to Trempwick return, BTW :2thumbsup: .

frogbeastegg

10-02-2006, 17:39

A speck separated out from Wooperton’s walls and sped off towards the coast; from the speed it moved at Fulk judged it to be a courier on a horse riding at full pelt. Very well; the castellan had a right, nay duty, to be cautious of an approaching army.

He did all by the most impeccable standards. He halted his force outside range, sent a single man forward to speak on his behalf, and waited with good humour.

His messenger gave his report without meeting his eyes. “He says … um, he says go away. And that he’s sent for reinforcements, so if you attack you’ll be hit by armies from several directions before you take his walls.”

The removed insults edited themselves back in; Fulk bit back an oath. “You reminded him of the legitimacy of my claim? Told him his lord the king had settled the lands on me?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Fulk spurred his mount, reining to a stop in shouting range. “I am the Earl of Alnwick. Open your gates.”

The man who’d been pacing up and down the ramparts braced his hands on the stonework and yelled, “Fuck off to hell and take your procession with you, mongrel!”

“These lands are rightfully mine, bestowed by the King of Scots himself – your lord.”

“Since I was seventeen I have had charge of this place. My father guarded these lands for a near decade. I’ve served loyally; he served loyally. Now I’m told to hand it all over to some jumped up whore’s spawn, and what am I offered in return? Sod all! Nothing! I’ll lose everything, and I’m not going to lose it to the likes of you.” The man spat in Fulk’s general direction.

Bad business practice on the part of the Scottish king; castellans should be moved to new lands every couple of years to prevent them coming to view the lands they shepherded as their own. The same for asking a man to give up his livelihood in return for nothing. Fulk directed some malevolent thoughts in the King of Scot’s direction; he didn’t like being used to clean up another’s mess, and liked less still artificial hurdles being tossed into his path. “Think again. I’ll winkle you out from those walls like an oyster from its shell, and then I’ll send you to your king to explain your rebellion.”

“Bark, little mongrel, bark all you please. You’ll end up howling when my help arrives. Yappy little curs get kicked. I’m not the only one asked to lose all for nothing thanks to our king’s mad fancy. And when prince Malcolm gets here we’ll make a gift of you to him.”

“The prince …!” Another civil war? Could kingdoms catch them as people did colds?

The sneer pasted on the castellan’s distant face was evident from his voice. “You barked too much and in the wrong places, mongrel; I’ll enjoy seeing what he does with you. Won’t be pretty, I’ll tell you that.”

One thing Fulk was certain of: this was a lousy time for the prince to announce himself in rebellion. No time to gather sufficient support, ergo precious little chance at a quick victory. The boy was too young to rule alone, and opinion of him was none so full of love. He’d have to be mad! The memory of the boy flooded with the arrogance of the young who believe themselves advanced beyond their years ran strong in Fulk. The brightness in Malcolm’s face as over and over he pushed as far as he could, goading and slighting and posturing; the prince had come completely alive at such times, unrestrained, thrilling at soaring along so close to disaster but holding on and coming away unburned. Another memory ran concurrent, that of a boy trying desperately to prove himself to a world which cared not for him.

Fulk hitched his shoulders, making the movement large enough that it could be seen up on the walls. “Better to ask what I’ll do with him. If he raises his banners in rebellion there’s nothing to hold me back; it’d be my duty to my liege to send him home to get his backside warmed.” He pointed at the mass of his army. “And it won’t be your concern; by the time he arrives I’ll be sat in my keep drinking your wine by my fireplace in my bedchamber. You’ll be in chains. You can’t stop me. Surrender.”

“I can slow you. That will be enough.”

It may be at that. If the castles in supporting range sent men to harry Fulk’s siege it could draw matters out sufficiently for the prince to save – ruin - the day. Ah well, all the above-mediocre generals had functional minds for a reason. Fulk waved at his troublesome castellan. “My thanks for the kind warning; I’ll be sure to send extra scouts out. We’ll speak again, face to face, soon.” A heel to the ribs and Fulk’s horse made good speed away from the return insults.

If the set of his face hadn’t been eloquent enough, Fulk’s saying, “Will Alnwick give you trouble?” before his horse had come to a stop at her side told Eleanor all she needed to know.

“I think not,” she answered. “As one of the keys to our border it was placed in loyal hands by my father.”

Fulk pursed his lips. “Loyal to him, not to you or to Hugh.”

“Loyal to our house. Myself or Hugh, it matters not. It will add up to the same end.”

He dismounted, and stood staring towards the castle with its wooden outer walls, high stone inner wall and blocky Norman keep. One hand dropped to rest on the hilt of his sword.

Eleanor was willing to wait and see what he was about, a patience she saw Jocelyn didn’t mirror. The count shifted and fidgeted, his disquiet spreading to his horse. Eventually the man said, “Well, there you are. This is why you don’t let castellans stay in one place too long, and why you absolutely bloo- er, never let anything resembling inheritance take place. If the son’s talented fine, but pack him off to a different estate to the one his father was last holding. Else they start getting jumped up damned notions of having a right to the place, like a vassal.”

“I know,” stated Fulk, without looking back.

“Surprising that the king made such a damn- er, simple error.”

Eleanor shot the count a sideways glance from under a raised eyebrow. He swore like a common soldier and demonstrated many lacks of refinement, yet he was noble born and noble raised. When she was present, or another of high status, Jocelyn edited himself, with varying success. From what her people reported he didn’t make that effort around those of lesser status; it was telling that the count still cursed and swore in Fulk’s company.

“He thinks to test me, or allow me to prove my mettle. Or to use me to remove disloyal men at cheap cost to him. He aggravated this.” Fulk swung back up into his saddle and kneed his mount around to face his company. “Beloved, you will take your contingent and go to Alnwick. Once inside those walls you will stay inside them and wait for me. Leave that safety and I will want to hear why, and there’s little you could say to convince me to view it in good humour.” He addressed Jocelyn. “You will accompany her.” Before the count could do more than suck in a noisy breath at being given an order, Fulk finished, “I will resolve that.” He indicated the castle. “I shall storm it, rather than damage my new property; it shall not take long. All inside who survive I shall send in chains to their king, to explain themselves. If any arrive to interfere I shall deal likewise with them. Having placed a garrison I shall pay a cordial visit to the other formerly Scottish holdings, to see what awaits me and do whatever must be done.”

Jocelyn’s protest came out hot and loud. “It is not for you to decide what I do.”

Fulk merely met the man’s eye, composed. “If you go then you are at my lady’s command. If you stay you are by default at mine. I but stated the obvious.”

The count chewed on this. “Mind your tone in future. Lest someone take exception to it.”

Sent away. A desire not to damage Fulk’s authority in this first demonstration of his new status kept Eleanor silent. It would take very little to undermine him until he had better established himself in the eyes of others - and in his own also. There was some merit in his decision. Without the need to keep her guarded at the back of his lines he would be freer to act; she was the one best able to bring the strongest part of the new earldom into their hands, a gain best made sooner than later.

Fulk gave the necessary orders to his captains and extracted Eleanor to an island of peace in the midst of the raging sea of humanity that was an army splitting in two with one part preparing for a siege.

“Malcolm’s rebelling, or so the castellan tells me. He expects help from the prince, and the other nearby castles.”

Eleanor stopped walking, her grip on Fulk’s fingers tightening. “You will be careful.”

“I’ll have my two-thousand and my mercenaries, the boy can’t hope to raise that many in such a short time. He is not loved.”

“No. Rebelling now would be folly for him. He could not win, and he would lose much.”

“But does he see that?” Fulk pinched the bridge of his nose. “No matter. I can win here, I feel sure of it. Assuming the worst, they will all be coming at me without consolidating. As long as I move swiftly I can pick them off one by one instead of being trapped in the centre of a many-pointed pincer.” His effort at a smile came closer to a grimace. “Or so I hope. I’m not a general.”

Eleanor touched the curve of his shoulder. “Your confident earl is justified; I was proud of you just now. You have fought for me and you have always won, whatever the circumstances and seldom with any time to prepare. You were trained for war, and do not dismiss your time with Aidney; following at the elbow of a count for so many years, you will have learned much. You have had as much preparation for this as any born earl, more – you have had more field experience.”

“Such is my hope. The act had best not be hollow …”

Eleanor came in close and laid her head on his shoulder, inviting him to put his arms around her. An invitation she didn’t need. “Confidence comes with success.”

“About your plan to raise your banner.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t. Not yet.”

“I know. It will have to wait until you have your lands settled. I shall need you in full force at my side. Those who voice loyalty to me do so with the thought of me as queen, to their gain and all others’ loss. Getting them to march to my wishes and not their own will be … delicate.” Always trying to act, so often having to react instead; initiative was advantage. Over and over she reeled from one reaction to the next despite her best efforts to take control and move the fight to ground she chose.

“Your lot should be ready to march within the hour. That will give you several hours of good light. Better for you to leave today, before others in this area can mobilise.”

Eleanor pulled away enough to lock her hands in the front of his tunic and drag his face down to her level. “You will not get yourself killed. You will do nothing to mar that handsome exterior of yours. On no account will you tarnish your soul or make yourself depressed, guilty, or otherwise out of mood. Absolutely you will not do anything I would not approve of. Do I make myself clear? I will not become known as the princess whose husband got himself killed after four days of marriage! People would say you did it on purpose, to get away from me.”

Fulk took her hands in his and raised them to his lips; he kissed each and every knuckle before gravely informing her, “Only those who have met you would think such a thing. Everyone else would think you had me murdered.”

How is it that when you are training a new person at anything, they always manage to find all the mistakes you know about plus at least two you didn’t think possible? I’ve had three new people doing this to me all last week. This was my first week officially occupying my promoted position, so I was furiously trying to learn the many things about being the junior management frog which I couldn’t learn until I had to do them. Little things like leadership, staff organisation, time management, shop-wide merchandising … Talk about initiation by fire! Normally I’d be on my own for a day or two each week; I had the ‘lucky’ fortune of taking up the position in the week where the manager was on holiday and the deputy manager covering another shop for much of the week. I survived. The shop didn’t burn down. No one was killed. All in all I think it went well … considering. After this I should be able to cope with anything. Which is good – this week we get to do refurbishment with the shop open for most of the time. Next week we get to start on double deliveries. :wails:

Furball, Ciaran, nice contrast to some of the reactions Trempy’s scene got on the other forum, which was basically “Oh crap, him again. Blergh!” I do like the way opinion differs on the characters :gring:

Ludens: Jocelyn’s early scenes aren’t so well balanced for an overall narrative, I agree. Many of those scenes are there because I was learning the character. Some could be removed entirely, others trimmed down; that would remove the repetition. He needs to be there early though, before his link to the rest becomes obvious. Or so my frog sense whispers. It feels right to get to know him before William arrives. Away from abstract and impossible to explain things like feelings and senses, he shows how and why someone might rebel against a king who can and will crush them … though Yves’ plot is mostly placeholder at this point. An idiotic noble he most definitely is, unsuited to his position and a moron to boot, but not quite so blunderingly suicidal. Or no one would follow him.

furball

10-02-2006, 20:56

Froggy, I just hope the promotion and added responsibilities don't have a negative effect on your writing. I know that might sound like a non-sequiteur, but I've seen age and experience quench creative fires before.

Peasant Phill

10-03-2006, 10:11

Great some action again. I really love the logic behind there actions from every character. Especially the military and political logic.

For what my opinion's worth: don't drag it out to much. The story is allready massive and the 'endgame' has already started some time ago.

Specialist290

10-09-2006, 03:14

Finally got full member status and all the privileges that go with... which means I can finally tell you how great this story is in the actual thread instead of having to constantly bombard you w/ PMs ~D

I'm still only about halfway through, but it's all great stuff. Don't stop writing this until you've finally reached the end! ~:)

EDIT: This forum's smiley system is straaaaaaange... :dizzy2:

frogbeastegg

10-09-2006, 20:07

Sir Gervaise knelt in the mud before Eleanor with not the slightest hesitation on the part of his clothes. “Your Highness, believe me when I say I’m mighty glad to see you. I have heard so many things and … rightly I don’t know what is happening. The more I try to discover the truth, the more confusing it all becomes.” The man raised his greying head. “I hear my lord king is dead.”

“That, sadly, is true.” Eleanor indicated the man should get to his feet; it was not meet to keep such a loyal man sinking into the ooze.

Gervaise came to his feet and once more tucked the thumb of his left hand through his belt, to reduce the strain on arm muscles damaged in royal service and healed imperfectly. “Then now whom is my liege?”

“Hugh. Despite all rumour to the contrary. It was my father’s will.” Before he had gone daft with guilt and misguided revenge, Eleanor added silently.

“Then he has my loyalty.”

“Good.”
“There is another rumour of pressing import I wonder on. That Alnwick is ceded to the Scots and you have married a …” Diplomatically he did not say what he thought Eleanor had married.

“Alnwick and certain other lands go to the Scots, to join with holdings of theirs and create the new Earldom of Alnwick. The earldom has been bestowed upon my husband.” Standing outside her gates was gaining her nothing but an additional soaking by the fine drizzle which had replaced the day’s steady rain. “It is not my preference to stand here for what remains of the day.”

“Of course not, your Highness.”

And that, gratifyingly, was that. The gates opened and her army marched in with pleasing stateliness. The castle’s staff erupted into a panic of preparation. Hawise was dispatched to oversee the delivery and unpacking of Eleanor’s belongings. Anne refused to be parcelled off and acted as though glued to Eleanor’s skirts, to Eleanor’s aggravation.

Eleanor had Gervaise remain at her side, telling her all about the castle, its people, the town, the area, the news – everything. He reported, concise and every word to the point, nothing held back – that Eleanor could see – and personal views colouring little. As he talked she toured the halls, the common rooms, the kitchens, and when she had seen them she went to the counting room, inspected the strongboxes, viewed the stores. She had the castle’s account books brought out for her reading; not wishing to bore herself with them until later Eleanor gave them to Jocelyn to carry. Since the man was following her he may as well be of use. She met as many people as possible, spoke a few words to each and had all pay their proper respects to her.

Eventually Anne grew bored, and wandered off grumbling about being cold and wet and more in want of new clothing than sightseeing. At that point Eleanor was free to begin asking the questions she didn’t want the Scottish princess to hear the answers to: questions on the state of the garrison, the defences, the mood of the other landholders. She asked for and received Gervaise’s opinions on the men holding the other lands in what was now the Earldom of Alnwick, both English and Scots.

Heading back out into the cold and damp, Eleanor began a rapid tour of the walls. The castle was sighted on grassy, fairly flat land with the river Aln curving gently along to the north-east, a stone bridge crossing it within defensible distance of the castle. The shell keep at the heart of the castle was its oldest part, begun in the reign of William Rufus. As space became short and demands on the castle grew, new stone buildings had been added on to the outer walls of the keep, leaving the spacious inner bailey clear. Two outer baileys sprang off opposite one another, one to the north-east, the other to the south-west; they housed a mish-mash of timber, mixed stone and timber, and stone buildings. The towering white stone walls were decorated here and there with carvings, and small statues of knights, ladies, and beasts stood guard in recessed decorative arches. Scattered about the tops of the gatehouses, towers and keep stood half life-sized stone soldiers in the Northern tradition, eternal sentinels to watch over the castle.

One of the towers atop the circular, hollow-centred keep provided the best view of the lands between Alnwick and Wooperton, as it was taller than the towers mounted on the curtain walls. Gentle plumes of smoke were visible drifting up into the sky, the camp fires of Fulk’s army.

Eleanor said, “Keep a man on watch here at all times. If there is sign of anything I wish to know of it immediately.”

“Highness.” As they headed back to the stairs leading down Gervaise stepped in closer to Eleanor and spoke softly, “If it’s your wish we can hold against his two-thousand for months, time enough for your brother to arrive. Or we could cut him to pieces as he passes through the gatehouse. You don’t have to suffer the indignity-”

Before he could dig himself too deep Eleanor interrupted, “It may not have been precisely of my choosing, but this marriage suits me. I love Fulk, and he me. We are well matched. And it has benefits – it shows Trempwick’s lie for what it is and makes it impossible for him to continue in it. In a stroke it takes the wind from the rebellion against my brother. Overall we gained land from this treaty too; think of what it does for our border, and for presenting a threat to the rebel northern lands.”

Gervaise stepped back to a more correct distance. “As your Highness says.”

Last of all on the tour was the lord’s solar and bedchamber. Hawise had done her part well; the original bed had been removed and replaced with the one gifted to them by the King of Scots. New clothes warmed by the fire, and a luxurious bathtub steamed, the water fragrant with herbs. The chamber only had one noticeable lack for her comforts: there was no Fulk to talk to, bother, tease, love.

Gervaise dipped a shallow bow. “As you’ll know, much of the furnishings here belonged to your father, kept in readiness for when he came north. So now they are yours, I would suppose. My own belongings are,” a light pause, “at your disposal.”

One did not reward nearly four decades of loyal service by making off with your subject’s best tapestry. Not if one had hopes for another four decades’ loyalty. “That will not be necessary, but I thank you for the offer. Have them moved to your new room. I intent to arrange the outfitting of my household while I wait for my lord husband to return.” Dubbing Fulk lord anything made the poor old castellan twitch, however proper such wifely deference may be.

“Highness.” Gervaise turned to go. “I shall leave you then, if there’s nothing more?”

“I wish you to send messengers to all those holding lands now belonging to my lord husband. Order them to present themselves here immediately, with an entourage of no more than four. The same for the representatives of each town. Finally, summon the merchants with the best to be had in these parts; as I said I wish to outfit my household.”

“As you wish.”

Still in his bloodied armour Fulk seated himself on a backless chair in Wooperton’s solar. He accepted the goblet of wine from Luke, and nodded to Waltheof. “Bring him in.”

The former castellan shuffled in between two guard, his step hampered by the chain running from one ankle to the other. He was shoved to his knees before Fulk.

With his best effort at noble dispassion Fulk sipped his drink. “I’m known as a man of my word. As you see, I’ve kept mine to you down to the last detail.”

“I looked to be treated with honour.” The prisoner brandished his shackled wrists in jingly reproach.

Fulk handed his drink off to his squire. He stood at the prisoners side, and leaned down to say near his ear, “So did I.” He turned away, pacing to the far side of the room he declared, “You were loud enough when there were walls between us. Do you lack courage, or have you finally gained sense?”

“The prince didn’t come.”

“No, he didn’t.”

The former castellan wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I’m a loyal man, I-”

“Rebelled against your king, and denied me my lands.” Fulk ordered the guards, “Take him away. Lock him up. Put his family in with him, remember they are not to be harmed. They belong to king Malcolm now.”

As he was removed the prisoner, seeing there was no hope of freedom, cursed Fulk in very base terms, and kept on cursing even after his guards cuffed him a few times.

For a few moments silence reigned supreme over Fulk’s little council.

Standing again Fulk looked out of the window, down into the bailey. A collection of men stood surrounded by guards, stripped of armour and hands bound. His men, the ones who had been broken his orders not to pillage, rape or murder. Seven of them. From two-thousand that was not so bad, however only several hundred had taken part in the assault. So little did his army respect him.

He attended the hanging, and gave a short speech reiterating his desires with regards to non-combatants and his property. He balanced along a fine thread, needing there to be no hint of weakness in him, no hint of mercy – he must set himself up as a harsh lord to be feared or forever be dealing with the consequences of exploited kindness. As backward as it seemed it was best for any new lord to set out hard and then ease his rule, else his people expected kind dealing always and took it for granted, not valuing it and demanding more. Armies were still more troublesome. Above all it must be seen to be in men’s best interests to surrender to him without resistance.

His army chastened he turned to Wooperton’s populace, and announced a fine of two shillings per head to pay his costs, to be collected in full by the last day of April. Non-payment would be met by the confiscation of goods and livestock. Many would be paying a visit to a moneylenders, he knew, and working to pay back that loan for much of the year. Walton had been much like Wooperton’s village, the people he had grown up with had been much like these people, his own mother much like any mother here, and if his father hadn’t lifted him up away from it his own life could have been much like any man’s here. He shut those thoughts out; these people would struggle so others might possibly not.

At last he went to disarm.

Tomorrow he would dispatch the castellan and his surviving men under strong guard to Perth. To their number he would add the scattering of prisoners he’d taken when driving off the trio of relief forces, including one from Rochester. Leaving a garrison here, he’d take the rest of his army and strike at Rochester before they could recover. As that castle was so strong he could not assault it without unsustainable losses, and reducing it by other means would take months; if he attacked now they would be short of men and demoralised from his victories.

Fresh from his bath Fulk composed a letter to Eleanor. She had left the day before yesterday, and should have arrived in Alnwick yesterday. A messenger should be able to make the trip there and back in a day, if he rode swiftly and had access to fresh mounts. His quill fell still after he had written of his success. That which needed relaying had been recorded, the letter was ready to send and could be in her hands sometime tomorrow morning if he get it underway within the hour. And yet … When he began to write of things he wanted to tell her instead of those he had to the words flowed faster than he could keep up, the chunk of ice nestled beneath his heart melted, and once more he felt like himself.

Rain, rain, more bloody rain, and to provide variety sometimes it rained. Jocelyn’s distaste for this island gained strength with each passing day. Alain could claim it was simply a spell of bad weather exactly like those at home, but Jocelyn knew better. The sun simply didn’t exist in Britain. Never had, never would, and it was a marvel the whole bloody place hadn’t submerged. “Huh,” he grumbled under his breath, wiping away the drip which was running down his face and gathering at the end of his nose. “Damned place is fit for ducks. Ducks and frogs and bloody fish. Not men!” Small damned wonder the English kings were so touchy about their continental lands – they needed somewhere to escape to, before they sprouted fungus in their ears.

He’d been too loud, Alain had heard. “Oh, come on, my lord! It’s been clear for much of our time here. Two days of rain don’t make for Noah’s flood.”

A drip went down the front of Jocelyn’s cloak via the gap at the bottom of his hood. A cold drip, which soaked the neck of his tunic. “Shut your bloody mouth,” he snarled. “It’s not right being so damned cheerful, damn you! And three days, not two. Three bloody days. Today, yesterday, the day before.”

“It only rained for a bit yesterday, and we were dry inside Alnwick. Two days, my lord, today and the day before yesterday.”

“Don’t be such a cocky bastard, Alain. If you like this God-forsaken hole so much you can stay when I return to Ardentes.”

The squire grinned. “Yes, my lord. But please stop grumbling about the weather, it’s very tedious. I swear you’ve spent twice as much time complaining about rain than it has actually done so.”

Jocelyn settled once more into a dignified silence as he rode along at the head of the expeditionary party, as befitted a count off doing the biding of his queen/princess. Inwardly he kept up his litany of curses, complaints and grumbling. How dare the puny little burgesses of Embleton send Eleanor’s messenger back to her with word that they couldn’t come immediately but would pay her the required visit when repairs to their guild hall’s roof had been completed. The cheek of it! He’d soon put paid to that by jamming a very just sword up some laggardly bottoms, by Christ’s wounds! He’d repay the queen’s trust in him tenfold. He could see it now, his triumphant return met with rewards and all the best things in life. Brilliant.

When they arrived at the coastal town Jocelyn rode right up the main street to the town hall. He drew his sword, filled his lungs and started to pronounce fire and pillage on the unruly place. “I am Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes, Count of Tourraine and representative of Her Royal Highness, princess Eleanor. Your lady! The wife of your liege lord! Whom you have scorned and disobeyed! And so …” The wind left his sails with a puff – hadn’t she said something about not doing her port town any damage? Yes, come to think of it she had. Her precise words: “You absolutely will not kill or maim anyone, burn anything, pillage or steal, or otherwise do anything which may damage the incomes from our land. Or I shall have you damaged.” Quite the testy lady, this daughter of the old king’s. By his reckoning the bloody guild hall needed burning to the ground to remind people of their priorities.

He tried again. “And so I’m here to collect you.” Jesù, that sounded utterly shite. What it needed was more oomph, a bit more of that which made peasants’ skinny knees knock together in terror. “And I’m not bloody happy about having to make the trip, less still given this God-awful weather! So get your arses moving, so I can get you to Alnwick and return to roasting gently by my fire, damn your hides!”

The townsfolk stood about staring at his soldiers. Then they stood and stared some more. Sullenly. Action was notable by its lack.

Applying some creativity to the situation, Jocelyn swatted the nearest body on the behind with the flat of his sword. “Move!” That set the idle buggers shifting, and a few more careful blows kept everyone hurrying along right nicely. There, a perfect example of how to follow instructions. He hadn’t so much as drawn blood, so the princess couldn’t possibly complain and would be impressed by his ingenuity.

He retired to the nearest inn to wait in the dry for the headmen to be collected up, wrapped up and dumped on horses. Over a cup of mulled wine he decided that this place was a teeming hive of treachery and corruption, as was plainly visible by the surly looks the commoners kept giving him and his men. So he set out on a brisk inspection tour, under the cover of perusing the town’s wares.

It was a good bit of perusing and all; he returned with a wooden stick-horse and some other toys, an assortment of spices for Richildis, and this nice pretty young girl to help him carry it all back. She should clean up nicely, a change of clothes and a bath and she’d soon stop smelling of sea salt, bilge water and fish. Best of all she spoke langue d’oil, since the merchants had collected her as a passenger in Calais. A bit of charm, a nice smile, a compliment or two and she’d jumped right into his arms, eager to be away from the sailors. So he’d practically rescued her – no one could complain about that. It was moral, even, taking a vulnerable woman away from a situation where she was prey to the whims of a bunch of lusty men and probably actually obliged to meet those whims to pay for her passage or something. Very moral.

The other part of his inspection was less successful. He didn’t find anything, though he felt in his bones there must be something.

The news from home he’d collected from the merchants had been interesting. The boy-king had attempted to wrestle his power from his mother and uncle, and had failed. Hearsay had it that he’d ordered his own supporters to arrest the pair in the middle of the night, but they’d been warned and set a trap for the boy-king’s men. Now Paris was filled with the uncle’s soldiers and a purge was underway, hunting down and disposing of those who opposed their control of France’s fifteen year old king. So, the boy did have some balls after all. Shame he’d failed. Might have gotten the boy’s head out of those damned books he was famed for ruining his eyesight with, got him to shut up about philosophy and all that crap, and fixed his mind on proper manly pursuits like ruling and war.

Civil war nearly. If Jocelyn didn’t miss his guess then the regents’ opponents would gather and challenge the pair openly, now the king himself had made an effort.

Tourraine touched borders with France. In the event of fighting flaring up … No, foolishness, he was getting like an old woman – Richildis would be perfectly alright. She’d look after his lands, keep the children safe, and if there was any profit to make then she’d damn well make it.

Eleanor had arranged a careful display of her status, crown included. Some well chosen words had the burgesses of Embleton trembling like gaudily dressed leaves, visions of all the possible methods of royal vengeance playing vividly in their imaginations.

One carefully calculated blow hit them in the proverbial bollocks, or more literal and all-important pockets. “A hundred pounds will regain our kind regard.” They could pay; it would hurt.

Groans, pleas, claims they could never raise that much, wailing they would be ruined for generations by the expense - exaggerated all of it.

Eleanor smiled icily. “Then we shall say no more of it. Incidentally, my lord husband and I have plans to raise a levy on all ships using our docks. A tenth of the cargo’s value.”

This time the outcry was a deal more honest. This was most tragic, the burgesses agreed. It would do their trade significant harm. Embleton was but a fledgling port, slowly gaining usage. Such a levy would cause ships to avoid docking there, and the town – nay, the whole new earldom! - would be greatly harmed.

This, Eleanor allowed, was truly a pity. Perhaps she and Fulk may change their minds.

Much praise for her insight and willingness to listen to advice was forthcoming. Emphasis was laid on the need to encourage more ships to visit, thus raising the wealth passing through and into the area.

A twelfth part of any cargo’s value, Eleanor suggested.

More wailing.

Again an icy smile. Eleanor put it to them that she and her husband had many expenses due to the uncooperativeness of their lands, and thence had a war to fight in aid of the rightful king. Income must be raised. This was the best way.

Tentatively it was suggested that the town might manage a gift of sixty pounds to support their most beloved lord and lady.

Eleanor in return suggested a levy in the fifteenth part.

In the end she wrung a promise for one-hundred-and-twenty pounds from them. The town would have empty purses for a very long time.

As the burgesses rose to flee the room Eleanor smiled her frosty smile again. “I would be greatly pleased if you would remain and enjoy my hospitality. Perhaps you might advise me further on matters of trade? Only one is needed to carry word of our agreement back.” The unspoken words which made those who remained at Alnwick hostages until their home paid in full had a deflating effect similar to a pin thrust into a bubble.

:gring: Extortion: one of the great noble traditions of government during the middle ages.

Furball: At the moment the only effect is that the first two weeks were rough enough I didn’t feel like writing in the evenings. It’s easing off now.

Peasant Phill: If I didn’t have anything else at all to claim my time, and could write all day every day, I estimate I could have this done in about 4 - 5 weeks. :sees people running about wailing and waving placards saying :end:

Welcome, Specialist290. Nice to see you here.

The smilies were split up because having them all on one page took ages to load, especially for dial up users.

frogbeastegg

10-09-2006, 21:17

There's an absoslutely massive debate going on at the other forums. Something like 70 posts in a week! Mostly about Hugh versus Trempy, who has the advantage, who would be the best ruler, possible outcomes and loads of theories; there's also a fair bit on Nell and her assorted impacts on the issue. If anyone's interested it starts, roughly speaking, at post 1137 (http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/showthread.php?t=156016&page=46&pp=25). I make some comments which might prove of interest to readers here; they need to be seen in context. They're at the end of my story posts.

furball

10-10-2006, 01:37

Well, I can see why those posts in the other forum would warm a frog's blood. It must be thrilling to see your characters and plots take on a life of their own in the discussions of others. But there's something unsavory to me when posters start talking about what a character will or won't, can or can't do.

But the discussions are interesting as all get-out. :)

Meanwhile, I'm tickled yet again how we can tell a scene is one of Jocy's just by its opening sentence: "Rain, rain, more bloody rain, and to provide variety sometimes it rained." Trempy's scenes often have as strong an individual style and, to a lesser extent, Hugh's.

I haven't voted for a favorite character but I'll unabashedly admit I like the writing (interior voice, if you will) of Jocelyn's scenes best. They are unique, serve the story and character brilliantly, are fun to read, have several *wonderful* turns-of-phrase. . . I could go on and on. Don't get me wrong. There are several *excellent* scenes of other characters and I'm enjoying the story as a whole immensely.

But I think an entire week could be taught in a college literature course about the style and techniques used in Jocelyn's scenes.

As usual, YAY froggy!

Ciaran

10-11-2006, 12:10

Oh, I liked those latest updates, though I had hoped for an assault scene with Fulk. But even so, they´re great, after all the marriage parts previously things are moving back to emphazise the "Macchiavelli" part of the title.

By the way, I wholeheartedly disagree with Peasant Phill: The longer the story the better! Yes, it´s long as it is, but there´s always something new happening that, well, has to happen.

Peasant Phill

10-12-2006, 10:07

I don't mind a good read at all. I've read the Hobbit, The lord of the rings, it and many other comprehensive book. So it isn't the volume of the story that bugs me a bit.
It also isn't the time it takes to write this long story. I understand that writing is your hobby and not your occupation. What I said did not imply that it takes to long for every new installment. I'd rather wait for a chapter that is well written than be bombarded with rushed ones.

It was only my intention to point out that in my opinion, for what it's worth, the story is a bit to slow moving. The reason for this ,again IMHO for whatever it is worth, are the vast amounts of quasi-essential but somewhat repetitive passages that tend to slow it down remarkably.

I may have it wrong here. I have no idea how many booksized pages this story is counting and the periods between chapters isn't helping either (in estimating the volume of it*) but that's the feeling I have with the Machiavellian adventures.
I will of course keep on reading the story . I really want to know how it ends.

*I've been reading for a few months now.

Orb

10-15-2006, 04:50

Lady Frog, do you appreciate how much damage catching up on this is doing to my eyes?

Keep up the good work! :thumbsup:

Monk

10-17-2006, 19:13

A constant among the .org and the mead hall, i can see you're still going strong froggy. Bravo! :2thumbsup:

The Stranger

10-18-2006, 20:32

good to see you are still alive Monk :)... i guess i should one day take my time to read this and the many classics of the .org

Peasant Phill

10-19-2006, 09:31

Please do Stranger.

We'll even provide you with the mandatory eyedrops and pain killers against headaches.

The Stranger

10-20-2006, 15:13

heheheh, well, i had a idea to put the best stories in one thread. but it takes a lot of time and i cant do it on my own, not the least because my taste definitly differs from others.

I now have 10 stories that i think are among the best but i could use some help

frogbeastegg

10-23-2006, 22:22

The knock on the door came as Eleanor recovered from a lunge and began to throw her left knife at a target precariously placed atop the doorframe. Stood stock still in the doorway, the door itself still swinging open, Jocelyn looked up at the still-quivering dagger buried above his head, at Eleanor, back at the weapon, at the knife Eleanor still held, at Hawise and her own pair of blades. He made a noise midway between a strangled sob and a curse. The little wicker target, struggling to recover its balance after being struck, surrendered to the inevitable and fell off its perch, bouncing the pommel of the dagger off the count’s head.

Anne clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

Eleanor slid her remaining dagger back into its wrist sheath. “That serves you quite right for bursting in without permission.”

“Urp.” Jocelyn was busily engaged with feeling the crown of his head with both hands.

“I assume you have a very good reason?”

“There’s a message.” The count’s fingers probed a sensitive spot to the side of his parting. He whimpered something which sounded like, “Bloody hell. Knives!? Gah!”

Scowling Eleanor demanded, “And this justifies your intrusion how?”

“From your brother.”

“I still fail to see how this is your business. The messenger himself could have brought it me – and with more respect.”

Jocelyn removed his fingers from his scalp and stood up properly. “His horse slipped as he came through the inner gate, he broke his blo- er, leg. The man, that is, not the horse. Thought you’d want it quickly; I thought it would be important.”

Eleanor held out her hand; it took a bit but the man finally got the hint and handed over the letter. She examined the seal and found it intact. “You will leave. You will in future remember your manners, or I shall have you balance an apple on your head and use you for target practice. Good day.”

When the count had slunk away Anne and Hawise burst out laughing.

“Did you see his face?” Anne asked. “And when the target hit him!”

Ignoring them, Eleanor opened her letter. A second, smaller missive was tucked inside; it bore Constance’s oval seal. She turned first to Hugh’s and read swiftly. Crumpling the parchment in her fist she screamed, “A half-million marks!?” Further comment was made impossible by her choking on the multitude of - mostly unpleasant - words trying to burst forth.

Anne cocked her head to one side. “A half-million marks what?”

“A half-million marks as a fine for marrying without his consent, my lands confiscated, a public apology to him, more bloody oaths of obedience and all to be taken in public and sworn on relics, and an investigation into whether my marriage can be allowed to stand! I am to present myself at once to beg for royal pardon!” Lungs empty, Eleanor dragged in another breath and kept on howling, “And that is only me! Fulk is fined another half-million! And all the rest!”

Anne edged back a few steps. “I doubt he means it.”

“We are ordered to stand our armies down and come to his custody with no more than five attendants each.”

“But those fines are impossible to pay off, and Hugh is not that mean.”

Eleanor’s hand clenched about the fastening of her girdle, where she had hidden the coronation ring. “I would need a kingdom to make any headway paying it! And to see if my marriage can be allowed to stand?!” Eleanor cast the letter to the floor. “Sod that! He will find no reason why it cannot stand, however hard he searches. Nor will he have our complicity in undoing it.” Her temper ebbed as several details fitted together. “And all of it is in the formal, stuffy, smug, arrogant, conceited official tone – none of it is Hugh himself speaking. It is in essence a proclamation.” In her rush to unfasten Constance’s letter she snapped the thong. Done reading she rolled it up and tapped the missive thoughtfully against the palm of her hand. “Well, it appears I shall not have to go into rebellion to preserve myself.”

Anne beamed. “There. I told you everything would be alright.”

“Alright?” Eleanor favoured the girl with a miniscule not-quite-smile. “Only insofar as that our lives will not become so impossible we are left no choice but to try and overthrow Hugh. We are ordered to present ourselves – with an escort of five only – within fourteen days of receiving this. It shall not be as bad as the public statement, of that I am assured. Our marriage will be let stand. Yet we will suffer. How could it be otherwise? My brother is thinking like a king. He must be seen to be in control where he should be, and vengeful where wronged. He would be the worst kind of fool if he did not twist our arms to breaking point.”

The ground her composed façade was built on was tremulous; Eleanor made her excuses and shut herself in her bedchamber. Constance’s letter she threw at the wall with all her might. She slumped onto the bed holding another tight to her breast: Fulk’s notification he’d taken Wooperton.

They’d threatened her children. And herself. The message was couched in concern for her well-being; the meaning was obvious to her. She and her baby would be dead within the day. It was strange, to find herself torn between protective wrath and tearful fear over children who did not exist and were not wanted to.

That, with some luck, is the end of the PC issues for a couple of years to come. This new install of windows is stable and working well; only one problem is left and it’s identified and curable when I get chance to try an assortment of different video drivers. The misc. annoying bits have been subdued, my backups copied into place, and the PC generally restored to compatibility with a frog’s preferences.

Gah! I’ve spent days burning to write but not able to! Nearly drove me mad. I still feel the need to sink an entire day into hammering out page after page; alas for the present lack of a day off. Got some neat bits to write. Wednesday, roll on Wednesday … :dreams:

Furball: If such a course existed I’d be sat at the back taking notes :gring:

I wondered what authors felt like seeing their characters and plots discussed in such detail. Especially when someone says something which is wrong when compared to the author’s vision. Now I have some idea.

Ciaran: Too many fight and assault scenes get repetitive. Rough draft though this is, I do try to keep some balance. This one wouldn’t have been as interesting to show as some of the other fights in the tale.

Peasant Phill: I think you mistake my meaning. My estimate of how long this will take is based purely on content: I could complete it in five weeks solid work because we’re close to the end. Which answers your earlier post: I’m not going to let the story drag on unnecessarily. ~:)

There’s a quote from Orson Scott Card I like: there are a thousand right ways to tell a story, and ten million wrong ones, and you’re more likely to find one of the latter than the former the first time through the tale.

Orb: Welcome. Probably less damage than writing it did mine :winkg:

Monk: Yup, strong. It’s all the lifting and carrying of books I do at work :tongueg:

The Stranger: If you ever do, I hope you enjoy reading.

ELITEofWARMANGINGERYBREADMEN88

10-24-2006, 00:42

Good Details with the Characters and such. I enjoyed the Story Trembously :)..

furball

10-24-2006, 11:11

(edit)

frogbeastegg

10-29-2006, 20:30

A royal funeral was an occasion to attract magnates great and small from across the land. A king’s funeral would set men travelling for many days to attend. Thus the church was packed, and more stood outside, and still more outside the church’s outer precincts. The lowly came as close as they dared to observe the last appearance of their dead lord, and to catch glimpse of the man who would be their new king and of his lords.

There was risk in this, calculated risk. Trempwick knew where to find him, this event being so advertised, and an army could not surround a funeral to keep Hugh safe. Assassins could mix into this crowd and come at him without major difficulty – petitioners jostled and shoved to come within speaking range of Hugh, and frequently he had need to stop and exchange a few words of reassurance that the matter presented to him would receive attention. Proving once and to all that Trempwick was scum was, Hugh felt, a poor cause to die for. Security was in place, guards both visible and hidden amongst the crowds. The greater security was in knowing the man: Trempwick would not commit an act which would turn nearly every hand in the realm against him as a sacrilegious, disrespectful man false to his dead lord’s memory, and an open murderer.

At the peak of the ceremony Hugh deviated from the norm. He stepped up to the bier and held up his right hand so all could see. Then he placed his hand on his father’s breast, fingers splayed out. “This is my father. I did him no harm. I had no part in his death. If I lie let him accuse me now.” He waited, breath caught; would the dead man repudiate him now, at the end? Would this common test for a murderer prove his end? No incriminating red stains appeared on the corpse’s clothes, the dead man did not accuse. Hugh took great heart from this; the fear he was truly not this man’s son had been gnawing at his innards for so long. The fear that somehow his actions had caused Trempwick to act against his father.

Hugh held his hand there unmoving as the senior churchmen witnessed that blood did not spring forth at his touch. By his request the barons filed past the bier to bear their own witness, each and every last man of significance in the church.

When the procession was done Hugh displayed his spotless hand to his audience one last time. “Let me hear no more of those foul slanders! I am innocent. I am my father’s son. Pay no more heed to those who wish to discredit me and usurp my inheritance.”

Stopping back to his place Hugh let the ceremony proceed as normal to its conclusion.

As he emerged from the church a crossbow bolt whipped past his face to hit the carved stonework. Royal dignity did not prevent Hugh from ducking and pushing Constance behind the cover of his bodyguards, drawing his sword as he went. The unarmoured knights formed a wall of human flesh between Hugh and all possible lines of attack, offering up their lives for his own. No second attack came.

The hue and cry was up, and Hugh’s men raced to find the one responsible, fighting their way through the alarmed crowd.

A bodyguard touched Hugh’s arm. “Sire?” He pointed at Hugh’s face.

Raising his fingertips to his cheek Hugh found a trail of blood seeping from a cut.

“From there,” suggested the guard, indicating a chip taken out of the stonework by the quarrel.

Hugh wiped the blood away with his hand. At the centre of his guard Hugh stood calm, invoking every dreg of kingly dignity that was in him. He spoke to his wife, enquiring after her well-being and giving reassurance. With so many to see him here it was vital he present an appearance that inspired respect, and which would be remembered as implying abilities a leader needed.

At last the human sea parted for a trio of guards. One man bore a crossbow, the other two dragged a man along by the arms. Hugh’s heart sped until he saw the trail of blood the prisoner left behind him, and the total limpness of his muscles: the man was dead.

The body was dumped before Hugh; the soldier with the crossbow knelt and laid it on the ground beside the would-be assassin. “Sire, forgive us. We were too slow. He killed himself when he saw he would not escape.”

Hugh waved the corpse away. “Get rid of it. My father’s funeral has been profaned enough.”

He named no names as responsible for the attack, and carried on through the day as though nothing had happened. Away from his immediate presence gossip ran with the speed of fire and less mercy, guided to the correct targets by a handful of select agents. It had been Trempwick behind the attack. Trempwick who had disrupted the funeral. Trempwick who was perverse enough to dabble with open murder before the lords of the realm. Trempwick whose scheme to seize the throne had gone so far awry that he resorted to such means. Trempwick, who had lied over and over to serve his ends and was now proven to have lied, for was not the princess Eleanor married to another with the church’s blessing and had not the old king’s body accepted Hugh?

At the end of the day, alone at last save for his wife, Hugh let the façade drop. Bone weary he sank onto the bed. “It worked,” he sighed.

“Yes.” Constance settled at his side and placed her hand on his. “It worked. I near died from worry, but it worked. Never do such a thing again.”

“That should not be necessary. Let the man have a taste of what he deals to others, and may he choke on it.” It was not possible to tell all the truth of Trempwick’s character; that would mean many accusations and scant proof. A little artifice and instead they had been shown. Miles’ trusted men had done their work well. Hugh felt no pity for the man hired to take shot at him and die for it – the man was a criminal, who had accepted the offer of his life in exchange for taking the shot and missing under the supervision of Miles’ most trusted agent. Alas, he could not have been allowed to live; he would have talked. “If God wishes me to become king then such will be my destiny. If not, nothing shall preserve me. You should not worry.”

For a moment Constance looked as though she might give voice to one of her rare scathing remarks, the thinning of her lips was a clear sign. Evidently she thought better of it, for when she spoke she said only, “You did not say you were going to lay hands on the body like that.”

Hugh met her concern with a slight smile. “Did you fear my father’s body would begin to bleed, and denounce me?”

“No, I mean only that you surprised me. It should do some good. If nothing else people will now speak of your dramatic rebuttal of Trempwick’s accusations.”

“Yes.” Hugh gazed into the distance, imagining Trempwick’s reaction to this news. “If word of my sister’s marriage has not discomforted him enough, this aught to light a fire under him. In desperation he will make mistakes, and that will be the beginning of the end for him. He has had all go his way for years, playing a game none other knew of. I doubt he can manage well when the pieces make moves of their own in directions he has not thought possible. His success is become his weakness.” Focusing back on what was before him, Hugh shrugged. “Whereas my life has always been working with want others created, endeavouring to mark it with my own stamp.”

The picture daubed on the side of the stable wall was crude in both senses of the word. The couple so busily engaged in an imitation of animals coupling were identified by simple renditions of a wolf and gooseberry banded by a crown. The artist had been caught in placing the final touches to the scene: the young lad who acted as the cook’s second helper. Whether he had chosen the pose from ignorance of how decent people did things, or from deliberate intent to cast his victims as perverted animals Eleanor was not about to ask.

“Flog him,” she pronounced. “Then make him scrub that away.”

She stayed to watch her sentence carried out, as she felt it to be her miserable obligation. One had to witness the truth behind the neat, clean words to understand the true weight of the power one held.

The agreed seven days had passed. Prince Malcolm had not come to the aid of Rochester castle; no one had. Knowing himself to be cast adrift to fend for himself the castellan could honourably surrender in accordance to the bargain struck; the gates opened and he came out alone, unarmed. Brought before Fulk, he said, “I keep my part of the deal. Do you keep yours?”

Fulk inclined his head. “I do. Take your family and go.” It had been a gamble, playing his need to conserve men and stronghold against the chances of the prince coming to the rescue. It had paid off handsomely; only time had been lost.

The castellan and his family headed off into exile at a respectful turn of speed, carrying only the most portable of their possessions and escorted by a handful of their most loyal followers. The most troublesome members of the garrison thus removed, Fulk offered all others a chance to swear allegiance to him, an offer most accepted. He would mix them in with his other men, and remove them from this castle to serve elsewhere as a precaution against disloyalty.

Finally, after a siege of a week in which very few had died, Fulk marched into his undamaged new stronghold, to occupy it peacefully.

Dignity. Royal dignity. There were a lot of people rushing about Alnwick, preparing for the arrival of their new lord, an arrival which came slap in the midst of their Easter celebrations. If she ran about like a dizzy fool she’d spoil what authority she’d built up over the last six days. Dignity: with that word tolling in her head Eleanor devoted herself to not rushing to the main gate as fast as her feet could carry her, and from there however far down the road was necessary to meet with Fulk on his way in. Fit to burst with impatience she did what was expected of her, overseeing the preparations and ordering things for Fulk’s comfort.

Fulk had exercised no such restraint, it appeared, for he descended on her while she was still in the kitchens, still in his armour and begrimed from the road. As soon as he spotted her his face lit up.

Seeing him crossing the massive room at a rapid stride Eleanor dropped the spoon of soup she was tasting, snatched up her skirts and ran to him. Working people scrambled to get out of their way.

Fulk crushed her in his arms and smothered her barely begun greetings with an enthusiastic long kiss. He stopped that only to take her face between his hands, remark she looked wonderful, and kiss her again. All in all Eleanor was not about to complain, even if his armour was digging into her uncomfortably.

Still pressed again him it was hard to check for wounds; she did so anyway. The armour hid any possible damage. “Are you hurt?”

“No.”

Eleanor rewarded him for his care with a kiss fit to make his toes curl.

Fulk looked about the kitchen, and its populace of people studiously devoting all their attention to the food. “Let’s leave, before they turn you into a gooseberry pie.” He kissed her on the forehead, winked, and began walking to the exit, her hand tucked on his arm.

“Walk faster,” Eleanor suggested brightly.

Eleanor lifted the blankets and peered down at her front. “I am still covered in an imprint of your armour.”

Fulk smothered a yawn, looking contrite. “Sorry. In my defence, I had missed you very badly.”

“It was actually quite impressive.” Eleanor sighed with a faint, silly little smile. “Fun, too.”

“Mmm. Exceedingly.”

Eleanor’s smile took on a mischievous turn as she teased, “It should not be too hard for Hawise to mend that rip on my dress.”

“And she can repair my shirt afterwards.”

“There is nothing wrong with your shirt.”

“The way it was taken off there surely must be.”

Eleanor sighed again. “It was rather … incendiary.” Understatement!

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months. I’ve been crushing the impulse for so long I thought I’d killed it. Slow, tender, thorough, and all the rest of it is marvellous most of the time, but on occasion …”

“Mmm. I suppose I may permit you to turn into a human fireball again, but only on special occasions.” Eleanor glanced sidelong at him, one eyebrow lifting. “It seems so wasteful to let you exhaust yourself in minutes. It is like buying a fancy candle and then chucking it in the hearth. It may entertain, yet it is poor economy.”

“Fancy candle. Economy.” He pulled a wry expression, and yawned again. “Well, at least you’re not complaining about my whisking you away like that.”

That sprung Eleanor’s mind out of the contented lassitude it drifted in. “It will put an end to those smug bastards who said you would have no further interest in me now you have gained all you are likely to via me. And speaking of smug bastards, there are nine days remaining before Hugh’s allotted time runs out.”

Fulk rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shifted to sit up in bed. “Overall little has changed since you wrote to me of it, and so my reply is no different.”

Damn. Maybe she could talk some sense into him. “I know you cannot leave your new earldom. Let me go.” Eleanor sat up as well, pulling the blankets about her shoulders like a cloak.

Instantly Fulk was shaking his head. “No. I will not leave you to face your brother alone.”

Scowling at his obdurate attitude, Eleanor pointed out, “Someone must go and you cannot.”

“Nor will I let you. I have no reason to think he will treat you decently-”

“He is my brother-”

Fulk jabbed a finger into the mattress between them. “Which, as I recall, was his excuse for mistreating you before!”

As if it mattered! If hitting her would appease Hugh sufficiently to let them live in peace then it was a small price to pay, and one they could readily afford. “He would not harm another man’s wife. He is far too concerned about propriety to consider it.”

“A slender thing to wager on – if he raised a finger to you it would break any chance of a tolerable relationship between us.” Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes tight shut. “I am letting enough of his work go by without so much as a word of reproach; no more. And there are many ways for you to suffer his ire without breaching respectability. I will not leave you to explain it all, nor to bear his grumbling alone, or any of the rest of it.” His jaw clenched, one corner of his mouth twitched as though he battled a grin. “Besides, I know what you two are like when put together. I do not wish to find myself owing a million marks for myself, and two million for you.”

Eleanor dismissed his claim with a wave of her hand. “We will never pay even half of one million. It is not meant to be paid in full; it is meant to be awesomely impressive and hang over our heads for the rest of our lives, keeping us poor enough to be no threat and always in his debt so he may lawfully move against us if he wishes.”

“I know that. It changes nothing; you are not going alone. It would not be safe. Remember, he threatened our potential children and you.”

“Out of panic, I am come to believe. He would not actually do so, surely he could not.”

Fulk made a sceptical noise.

Eleanor turned away, not liking to see her husband’s ill-feeling for her brother. Little love may be lost between herself and Hugh, yet the antagonism between the two men came in great part from her being between them and that abraded her nerves. “When he has a child or two of his own and his seat secure he will forget he said such things. It comes from insecurity. It must. The more I think on it the more I am convinced. Constance is reasonable, yet she wrote of this herself – that must mean something! They would not do to others what Trempwick has done to them. They are too decent.”

“I’m sure you know them better than I.”

“I am certain I do,” she replied coolly. “I would take a large escort-”

“And then he would say you came in force.”

“He cannot expect me to do otherwise!” Eleanor cried, turning back to him. “The country is in civil war! One side wants nothing more than to grab me, stick a crown on my head and the rule through me!”

“It may very well be what he wants you to do,” Fulk said with infinite patience, which only added to Eleanor’s building temper.

Eleanor raised her chin defiantly. “It likely is. Then he can make a show of having me leave my escort to come and submit to him alone. Politics. Simple costless measures which repair a little of the damage to his standing.”

“Whereupon he may do as he pleases with you. No. You are not going alone.”

“You will have us declared rebel!”

“We will send him a message. We will promise to go as soon as Alnwick is secured – as he’d have asked us to, if he’d any sense.”

“If he waited he would look weak-”

“Whereas now he can look eminently sensible for compromising and exercising a bit of wit.”

“You stubborn, ox-witted-” Eleanor bit her tongue before she said something she’d come to regret. She’d try again later, when he wasn’t half asleep and travel-worn. “You need a bath. And a shave.” The words sounded so much like a threat that Fulk’s eyebrows went up. Bravely Eleanor continued, struggling to moderate her tone, “And there is a feast, and a deal of celebration. Your new vassals are here ready to pay homage. You cannot laze around in bed for the remainder of the day.”

“Ah, no,” he agreed, watching her with a faintly cautious expression. “You’re not plotting, are you?”

Eleanor gave a good show of innocence rousing back to former temper due to false accusations. “Of course not.”

“Because I have this feeling …”

“Why would I? My lord and master has spoken, making himself quite clear.”

Fulk hopped out of bed and began retrieving his clothes from where they were scattered all over the floor. “You are plotting, I know it. Well, it will do no good – I find myself attached to having a wife, and reluctant to let her wander off into a fool’s risk.”

“You are paranoid,” growled Eleanor.

“Living near you I have to be, dear heart.”

As they undressed after a long day filled with Easter revels, Fulk asked her, “Have you finished plotting now?”

The after effects of their quarrel had faded quickly on emergence from their private rooms. There had been too much to do and too much to celebrate, and it was hard not to be glad of his being back at her side. The thunder clouds came rushing back, complete with a few drops of rain. “I am not plotting.”

“Oh, still working on your plan, then.”

“No.”

Fulk dropped his shoe onto the floor. “Dearest, either you are going to wait until I leave and then rush off south, or you are going to drug me – incidentally if you do that again I’m going to drape you over my knee and ensure you can’t sit comfortably for a fortnight the very minute I catch up with you, large audience or no – and then go.”

“I am not!” Scrub the backup plan – the consequences were going to be too lively.

“So it appears I have but two choices. Either I lock you up, or I let you go.” Fulk plucked a coin from his purse. “We shall flip for it. Heads or tails?”

“I shall go with heads, as it has my father stamped on the silver. He should give me some family advantage.” Eleanor predicted confidently, “It matters not; you will let me go whichever.”

Fulk flipped the coin, then dropped it back in his purse without looking to see which side it fell on. “You will take all of your loyal men, and Jocelyn and his men also. I’m assigning Waltheof to you, in addition to fifty of my own men. You will send me word each and every day by fast courier. If a day goes by and I receive no word I am coming to fetch you with every last man that remains to me. You will report anything and everything your brother or anyone of consequence says or does with relation to us. You will not goad your brother, or quarrel with him, or do anything which may cause him to act in such a way I’ve little honourable choice but to bash his face in. You will be mindful of the fact the way you behave and are treated reflects upon me; I do not wish to have to avenge anything, nor do I wish to be thought a coward because I hold to peace.” Fulk waited until she nodded acceptance. “You will take Anne and her men with you, and you will do your utmost to leave her behind with Constance. I do not want her spying in my lands. You will come back as swiftly as may be, and stay not an hour longer than you must.”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Eleanor. At this rate he would go on all night and detail how she would or would not fasten her shoes. “I believe I understand.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose hard, Fulk detailed, “I don’t want any trouble. Of any sort. In any way. You create trouble without trying; it’s the gooseberry in you.”

“Thank you very much!” Eleanor returned to removing her clothes, working at the knot tying her braided silk girdle, the one which bore hidden the coronation ring. “I shall leave tomorrow morning.”

“I expected you would. One more thing.” His eyes stopped following the girdle to meet hers. “I’m keeping the ring. Your brother needs it; worst come to the worst it will give me some bargaining power.”

Since receiving it from Jocelyn’s hands Eleanor had kept it close by at all times. Giving it away went against the grain – it was hers, the only thing her father had given her but scars. Yet she did so, handing over the silken belt without a word.

Fulk set the girdle down near his sword. “I’ll take care of it, have no fear.”

“I know. Or I should not have given it you.”

:grumble: Why is it when you look forward to spending an entire day writing you end up doing everything but?

Good news, {BHC}KingWarman888. ~:) Thank you.

furball

10-30-2006, 00:28

frogbeastegg

11-06-2006, 23:27

Five miles outside St Albans Constance and a sizeable escort waited, Eleanor’s advance messenger having given sufficient warning for them to meet her if they so chose. Eleanor was shown alone into the pavilion where Constance waited.

The first thing Eleanor’s sister-by-law said to her was, “That knight of yours has best be worth it, Nell. If you go off him, or if things go sour, or-”

“Thank you for your well-wishes.” Stepped back from the embrace to take a look at the other woman. “How does the baby?” Not yet visible, but Constance now wore her girdle high, around her ribs instead of on her hips in a clear boast of impending motherhood.

Constance’s hand dropped to her belly, her face split into a board smile. “It is a lively little thing; I feel as though I have swallowed a frog. I am beginning to wonder at the truth of those stories of babies breaking their mother’s ribs with a misplaced kick.”

Breaking ribs!? Having experienced that already Eleanor could safely say it was nothing to smile about.

Constance’s smile died, the hand clenched. “Nothing is going to harm this one. Nothing and no one. If God has any mercy, by the time this one is born Trempwick will be nothing but meat rotting on a gibbet.”

On that cheering note Eleanor felt it best to change the subject. “How is Hugh?”

“He is on the horse; now he is beginning to find a feel for the reins, I think.”

“Good.”

“Now, about you and that knight of yours. In the main you need not be overly afraid; we do see the advantages to your marriage and so far as we can we do approve. So we will do what we can to make matters easy on you.”

“But not on any family I may have,” said Eleanor, with a pointed look at Constance’s stomach. “I would have thought you both the last people to make such threats, knowing what it is to lose children in such a way.”

Constance raised her eyebrows. “Can you honestly say we are not reinforcing a decision you have already made? Or is your knight keen to risk losing you in favour of children who will have no true place, being neither royal nor noble nor common? Children who will have to fight for everything they have, and who will never be free of the stigma of having such unusual parents. Children who will be used,” she stressed that word, “as you yourself have been, as a tool and rallying point for rebels and would-be usurpers?”

“You take the grimmest view of it.”

“As have you; I know you must have in your private reckonings. Optimism and sentimentality is not for the likes of us; it does not work in a world peopled with the likes of Trempwick. We are positioned to be their prey.” Constance took the moment of silence as assent on Eleanor’s part. “As I was saying, we will make it as easy as possible. That does not mean terribly easy – appearances must be served. And to be frank for jumping into something so insane you deserve to be roasted, however beneficial the jump may be to us. There were other ways we could have gained from your marriage, ones which did not bring such disrepute. Leaping from a cliff may be faster than climbing down it, yet it is still idiotic.”

“Hugh told me to make an advantageous marriage if any were offered. I did so.”

“I believe he had prince Malcolm in mind.” Constance winked. “I know it was the knight you chose, not the strengthened border and knife in the heart for your putative husband.”

“You do?” said Eleanor, startled.

“Quite. You gave yourself away when you asked for him back as your bodyguard; a bit of thought and watching soon unravelled things.” She fixed Eleanor with a positively chilling gaze. “We also see that the further you are from being able to sit on that throne the safer Hugh is. If putting you from the running brings us an alliance with Scotland and a safer border then so much the better.”

How many times had she seen others go through the humbling motions required to acquire royal forgiveness? Not so many, in truth. Trempwick had kept her informed of the doings in the realm, and many times she had heard him describe a lord reconciling himself with her father. As with so many things, Eleanor was discovering that witnessing and hearing were some distance from doing.

The walk through the town bad been bad enough. Dress the part of humble penitent, Constance had told her, and she had; her wardrobe still catered better for unremarkableness than ostentation. The hem of her skirts was thick was mud and filth from the streets, and a splat of muck rode at knee level; some louts had chucked missiles at her on part of her walk, calling her a failed traitor and offering to show her to the lowest brothel in town so she could indulge her taste for low-bred men to her heart’s content – if she could find any clients who’d take her. Her limited escort hadn’t been numerous enough to do more than close up about her and draw their swords; they were enough to save her in the event of an attempt on her person, so long as they did not split up, not enough to wade into a crowd and hunt down troublemakers. Some of the townspeople had been more sympathetic to her; there had damn near been a brawl before the city guard decided that, while they were meant to let her make the trip unassisted, they were also meant to stop her being trapped in a riot. Hugh needed to have a word with the captain of the city watch, a sour word. A few idiots had gone so far as to hail her as queen. Common people: rumour and lack of knowledge plagued them like a disease. The consequences could be seen broiling in this volatile mob, half supporting her and half damning her and none of them with any true idea of what had happened.

Steadying her nerves she stepped away from the six men who formed her escort and began her passage down the great hall, walking the corridor formed by a host of whispering courtiers and staring eyes. There was one thing to be glad of – this hall was not even half the size of the one at Waltham.

Hugh was not wearing his prince’s crown; his head was bare. She had expected him to wear his prince’s crown in lieu of the king’s: his place as rightful lord of the realm must be reinforced at occasions such as this. For the rest he made a fine vision of kingly state, stern and grave as he looked down his nose at her.

About one large pace before the step of the dais Eleanor knelt and bowed her head. And waited.

After a time Hugh said, “I scarce know what to say.” She heard him move, and his feet appeared in her lowered vision as he came down to her level. He offered his hands to help her up. “But what is done is done, and you are my sister. The Lord commands us to love our family, and to forgive.”

Eleanor did not trouble to hide her surprise as she stood; the worm was always left to wriggle on the hook to remind all that royal forgiveness was by no means guaranteed and did not come cheaply. A few pointed remarks and a lecture had been the least she had been expecting.

Hugh embraced her, a formal clasp lacking any warmth. “We will talk. You will explain yourself, and we shall restore our family to harmony.”

The reunion was adjourned to a private room, leaving the hall to amuse itself.

Hugh waved her to a seat before the fire, and poured her a cup of wine. “Do you deliberately set out to make my life difficult, or is it purely unintentional on your part?” he asked as he handed the goblet over and took his own seat.

“A little of both, I would imagine.”

Leaning forward Hugh seized her left hand without warning; he twisted it until he had a good view of the ring on her heart finger. His face went blank, he cast her hand away. “That is the best he could do for you? I should be comforted to know the husband you have found yourself is so scrupulous he will not squander my ally’s riches to buy a ring worthy of my sister.”

Eleanor rubbed her thumb across the slender band of plain gold. “Fulk brought it with his own money.”

“Then now I must be comforted to know that he finds it a better use of the money he was gifted by the King of Scots to buy soldiers than keep my sister in good estate.”

That Eleanor found a bit rich, considering how miserly Hugh had been towards her.

Hugh set his drink down on the floor at his side so roughly some of the contents slopped over the brim. “I did my all to look on the man with some hope, knowing some little of him and believing you would not act such a fool over someone without a shred of worth. But, dear sister, what now do I find? He does not honour you nor care for you as he should.” Hugh’s eyes flashed with the anger he was trying – as he ever did - to smother out of existence. “He left you to face me alone!”

“He is bringing his new earldom under control. If you had but waited a few weeks-”

“You know I could not. It must be seen that, though having acted the stray in this, you are not only at my side but subordinate to me. We must be seen to stand together and in the right order: it is the only way to counteract thoughts of division in the family.” Emphasising his words he spelled out, “Where we stand together you cannot be seen as my rival, nor as any willing replacement for me. Therefore there is no ground to sow the seeds of rebellion in.”

“I know that.” Eleanor averted her eyes from his. “The whole affair was … unfortunate.”

“It warms my heart to find you in agreement.” Hugh held his eyes closed an instant longer than usual as he blinked; the spark of anger was gone from his next words, “However I admit there is benefit to be had also, if all is played correctly. And believe me, dear sister, it has best be. That will be the true price you pay for what you have done.” He caught up his drink again, fist clenching about the shapely stem of the goblet. “As for that husband of yours, I find it would give me good cheer if he were stricken from God’s green earth.”

“Hugh!”

“I have no good opinion for the man. I had expected him to take care of you, to cherish you and to give you all that is in his power to make you happy. I expected him to have the courage to face me himself, and the decency to put himself as a shield between you and the misery of that.” A hand swiped through the air in the direction of the hall and beyond it the path she had taken into his presence. “Any man who presumes to marry my sister I expect to move heaven and earth on her behalf!”

“Hugh,” Eleanor said gently, trying not to smile at this demonstration of something she didn’t think he wanted anyone to know existed: brotherly concern for his little sister’s happiness. “Fulk moves heaven and earth - and sun and moon and stars. I have never been so happy. Be assured, anything within his power I have for the asking, and anything out of his power he will do his all to win for me. And the same for him from me. He did not want to let me come alone, indeed it was hard to convince him he must.”

Hugh’s nostril’s flared. “He lets you command him still? And I am to take this as better than neglect?”

“No. He listens. Then he thinks and comes to his own decisions. That is all.” With a burst of amusement at the memory of the struggle she’d had convincing Fulk to let her come alone, Eleanor vowed, “You need not fear him leaving me to run amok unchecked.”

He buried any reply he might have in his drink.

“Hugh, Fulk is risking his life and expending his limited resources to bring the north under control for you. He is bringing formerly Scottish lands under his control, and so under yours. Then he will move again Trempwick’s northern holdings.”

“And he is growing wealthy from it.” Hugh swallowed a last mouthful and deliberately put the goblet aside. Leaning back he rested his head on the back of his chair. “I wish to meet this husband of yours. Properly. He has a very great deal to explain. I had hoped he would be doing so at this very moment.”

A lengthy silence indicated Hugh was done with the topic of Fulk, leaving Eleanor free to enquire, “Hugh, why do you not wear your crown?”

“I have no crown. I am not now a prince, nor yet anointed king. I do not lower myself below that which I am, nor do I raise myself to a level I have not yet obtained.” Hugh scrubbed his hands over his face, and stood. “You both swore fealty to me; you are both my vassals. The law is clear: you may not marry without my consent on pain of a fine and loss of your lands. Thus my expected course is clear, and to wave it away would be serious weakness on my part.” He began to pace the room. “Others would look to take advantage of it for the remainder of my days. That must never be allowed; I will have peace in my realm, if I must force it with the point of a sword. Due to your rank, and the nature of the marriage, the fine needs must be harsh. Half a million each it shall remain. Impossible as it is to pay in its entirety, I do not expect you to. The statement is makes it the main aim of it. However you will make every effort pay it, or I shall be left no option but to declare you both in rebellion. I expect a minimum of a hundred pounds per half year.”

That would amount to perhaps a third of their income if they only had Fulk’s tiny earldom, untenable. “Our lands?” asked Eleanor.

“Lost, in the entirety.”

Eleanor started forward in her chair, halfway top her feet. “Hugh-”

“Sit down,” he snapped. “For once do me the basic courtesy of allowing me to finish, if you cannot grant me any faith, or belief in my knowledge of my duty to ensure you are provided for.” Following his own command Hugh slammed himself back down in to his chair. “If I am to keep your husband from going to Scotland I needs must tie him to me. None would expect me to do otherwise. Thus I am spared the two-pronged fork you would have placed me upon: I shall not look cruel for casting you out, nor weak for not so doing. In any case, there must be a place in England where you can reside for the majority of the time; I cannot have you much at court. You are in disgrace, both of you, out of favour and in near exile, and thus it must stay until people begin to forget the infamy of this match. If they ever do begin to forget.”

“Hugh, so much concern for how you appear rather than what you feel to be right … it cannot be good for you.”

Hugh’s shoulders jerked. “You shirk the burden and dare lecture me for taking it up?” With a surprising amount of bitterness he added, “Ah, but then I am not a king born, only a king left no choice but to be made. I do not play the part naturally, but must play it all the same and must play it well.”

“Almost you sound as if you do not wish to be king.”

“My wishes matter not. Since Stephan died this has been my path, for better or ill. I do not have the luxury of turning my face from it.” Unlike her, the accusation was clear. “I am the heir. I know my duty.”

“Well,” said Eleanor, with an attempt at levity, “if you dislike it so much you could always leave it all to Trempwick, and run away to Constantinople.”

Hugh curled his lip. “I see some things never do change. Praise be disciplining you may no longer be my responsibility.”

“Praise be, brother dear?” Eleanor arced an eyebrow. “I always felt you enjoyed pretending to be superior.”

With a face like thunder Hugh clasped his hands behind his back and turned away from her. “Your husband will present himself to me at the earliest opportunity to make an accounting of himself. If he does so satisfactorily I will make for him an earldom sufficient to match his Scottish one. I know Constance has explained other matters to you.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “And, sister, I will never publicly approve of this match or wish you well in it. I cannot. To be known to approve of such a travesty …! It would finish me if people believed I condoned your flouting my authority to squander your blood and future on such a low creature. To be seen as one with so little respect for his noble lineage and most high status ...” Hugh shook his head. “No, it shall not be.” Standing at the door he placed a hand on the latch. “I have had my fill of you for now. Come, let us return to the hall and make a show of being warily reconciled for the masses. We will discuss more of what is to be done later; if your husband is to be of the least use he must be tied in to my overall strategy.”

He was a royal bodyguard now. Jocelyn strode along behind his princess, hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes busily hunting for the tiniest little hint of a possible threat. Nothing was going to harm Eleanor while he was around, nothing! And when he’d saved her life she’d be so grateful. He’d be famous too; saving her life a few times had made Fulk’s name into one known about court. Even now people mixed in tales of his heroics when talking about his amazing marriage. This could be the best thing ever to happen in his life, next to the births of his children. He’d skilfully cut down four or five – or six! – assassins, taking a slight wound in the process, maybe to the arm or shoulder so it could be tended by his grateful queen without dipping into circumstances which might be called inappropriate, and then, standing proud, modestly saying he’d done nothing but his duty and was glad to … Hell yeah! That was the stuff, damned right.

There weren’t any assassins or kidnappers on the route to the cathedral.

The reason for this trip lay near the altar: a plain tomb, no more than a stone slab set in the floor and carved with some Latin words. Saint Bartholomew’s balls, what a way to bury a king. Damned inconvenient how London was all up in arms and all, so William, sixth of his name blah blah, couldn’t be buried in Westminster like he wanted. World was in a right state when kings and royalty didn’t get treated proper; next the common lot would start giving their nobles disrespect. Jocelyn wouldn’t stand for that, no bloody way. Heads would have to be liberally lopped and evil smited generously to restore rightfulness to England, and like any proper knight he couldn’t wait to get stuck into such an ethical cause.

There weren’t any villains in the cathedral either, though one of the monks tending the altar did have a positively wicked cast to his features, all swarthy and dark like some bloody heathen from the Holy Land. Jocelyn flexed his fingers on his sword hilt when he saw the monk looking towards him, a nice subtle hint that he’d better not try anything. See? A more discreet guard the princess couldn’t have found. A born natural for the job.

Eleanor stopped at the side of the tomb and gazed down at the slab. “Stand a little further back, please,” she instructed Jocelyn.

“But …” But that was a bloody harebrained idea and no mistake! Except he couldn’t say that; softly, softly, careful, polite, nice, harmless … “If I’m too far back you could be killed before I can do anything.”

The look she gave him was withering. Honestly! Did she want to get killed? If he stepped back and she got shot to death or something because he was too far back to dive in the way of the fatal arrow and save the day he’d never heard the end of it, she’d go on and on like women always did: wah wah, I got killed because you were negligent, boo! She indicated the space between their bodies. “I am flattered by your effort to make kneeling on this floor more comfortable to me, but your efforts would be better spend offering me a cushion to rest on, not your feet.”

“Eh?”

“Let me put it another way. If you were my executioner you would need to stand further back, else you would club me with the axe handle and the blade would miss my body by a foot or more.”

Eh?

She heaved one of those feminine “Men are so stupid!” sighs. “Please. Just go and stand several paces that way.” She pointed to her left. “Now.”

Oh well, he’d done his best, and she’d got a bad temper and probably those bloody God-damned knives – and what in the name of Sampson’s best loincloth was a princess doing with bloody knives!? Jocelyn went and stood where he’d been told to, drew his sword and stood there at combat ready. He heard one of those lady-like “Oh Jesù, how do I manage to be so patient?!” sighs as the princess knelt at the side of her father’s tomb.

No assassins appeared to break the monotony while she did whatever it was she was doing. She stayed praying/meditating/wishing the deceased to the torments of hell/whatever until Jocelyn’s sword arm ached so badly he had to let the blade sag to rest on the floor and the chill of the massive stone building had sunk deep into his bones. He kept an eye on that monk the whole damned time, barely even blinking such was his amazing dedication. Until the monk left. Then he scanned the shadows, and watched the doors, and scowled at the statues so they didn’t get any ideas either.

Hesitantly Eleanor rose her right hand to her forehead. There it hovered, trembling, as though she couldn’t make up her mind what to do. The hand steadied, and she sketched out a cross, head to heart, shoulder to shoulder.

She’d been kneeling there that long he had to pull her back to her feet. No one ever sang songs about knights doing that.

Computers. They pretend that they are fixed, then they break anyway and you find yourself buying and installing new hard drives after all. Except it doesn’t go smoothly, oh no. For some mysterious reason your 4 SATA port hard drive will only take 1 SATA hard drive at a time without nuking its BIOS, necessitating resetting the entire board each time you try to set up your beloved arrangement with the secondary hard drive to hold games, back ups and junk. :sigh: Still only got the one connected up and functional. Being limited to viewing the net via that ancient laptop is a subtle form of torture. Not only is it hard to navigate anywhere and difficult to read pages with, it also allows me to look at my writing thread when I have no way to pen anything new :( In summary: failing hard drives should be banned. The grief they cause to frogs is immense.

That scene with Hugh and Nell is one of my favourite bits with the together. I love Hugh’s brotherly concern for the sister he doesn’t get on with, his outrage that Fulk appears to have left Nell to bear the fallout alone, and his determination that her husband will take proper care of her … even if he does partly class proper care as stopping her running riot :D It’s good to see his control slip a little too, making him a bit more human.

That Jocelyn :shakes head:

Furball, it was a nice hope. Too bad it didn’t work. Not being able to write is literally sending me mad ~:mecry: I start seeing the scenes more and more vividly, and hearing the characters speaking dialogue, and it grows more and more frequent as the effect grows stronger. Last night I was dreaming Eleanor all night, yesterday I heard and saw parts of scenes over and over.

Peasant Phill

11-07-2006, 10:42

Great chapter. Hooray for humain hugh and honour hungry Jocelyn (the new heroic duo).

frogbeastegg

11-21-2006, 19:09

Jocelyn as a bodyguard, Eleanor was compelled to admit to herself, was not one of her best ideas. Fulk’s professional competence had spoiled her – he’d never stood between her and her brother with his hand on his sword hilt and a “Don’t mess with me!” expression on his face.

“Jocelyn,” she said wearily, “I doubt Hugh is going to stab me. Almost definitely he is not concealing three assassins in his cloak; there simply is not room. He is my brother; we speak from time to time, and thus far neither of us have died.” Though on occasion it had been close …

The count stood down looking like a kicked puppy. “But you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, your Highness.”

“Yes. But, as my king and my kin, my brother is an exception to that.” Especially when he was stood not thirty paces away and could see her kneeling at their father’s tomb. If he had decided to interrupt her then he had reason. “You may leave us to speak privately.”

Muttering Jocelyn wandered off to a fitting distance.

As Eleanor clambered stiffly to her feet Hugh observed, “Loathe as I am to admit it, I find a definite preference for your prior bodyguard. He knew his place.” He spoke in continental French, voice raised enough that Jocelyn should be able to hear.

“Yes.”

In English, privately, “I do wonder why you felt need to take my sworn man as bodyguard when you have sufficient men of your own.”

Eleanor quickly forgot her vague thoughts on bringing a cushion if she came here again. “Your sworn man? But he swore fealty to me! I thought it the best way to keep him secured to our house, until you had your crown.”

Two heads turned to direct royal gazes at the count. Jocelyn noticed their attention and gave them both a tentative smile.

“I think,” said Hugh, “I shall have that man watched. Closely.”

“And closer still, I should imagine.”

“Just so.” Hugh turned his back on the count. “I was most astonished when, on sending for you, I was informed you were here. The semblance of duty was discharged on your first visit.”

It took Eleanor a very long time to reply. “Nonetheless, I am here.” Why that was she struggled to explain, even to herself, yet here she was. “Why did you want me?”

“To enquire as to your intentions on a few matters. As it relates to that which we are presently discussing, I shall begin with the secondary issue, that being your keeping my vassal as your guard.”

“You may have him back if you like,” offered Eleanor, labouring to keep hope from entering her voice.

“Keep him, and keep watch upon him for me.” Hugh gave her a thin-lipped smile. “I trust your talents in that regard more than my own, given your many years apprenticed to Trempwick. One would hope the man attended to his duties and taught you something of use when he was not murdering my children or otherwise entertaining himself.”

“Thank you. I think.” Eleanor regarded the tomb once more; a hot prickling burned at the back of her neck. All too easy to imagine that as the arse in the crown flogging her onwards to do what she’d reluctantly told him she would, on her first visit some days ago. Tossing a mentally snarled curse at the inhabitant she said, “Give me Miles’ resources. Let me hunt down our father’s killers, and those who robbed him.” There. She’d asked. Duty done. The bloody man had asked her at avenge him, now it was out of her hands. The effort was more than he deserved from her, not that he’d have shown the least sign of gratitude. No, he’d have thrown a tantrum because she hadn’t destroyed his realm by taking the throne.

“Why do you wish to undertake this? I had expected you to dance upon his grave.”

“Because even he deserved a little better than to die so alone and betrayed.” Because the accursed man had asked her, not Hugh the son and heir, not Matilda the perfect stuck up cow, not anyone else, her, to avenge him. Because he could no longer hurt her or had any power over her. Because she’d promised Fulk she’d try to find some peace with him. Because, if Jocelyn didn’t lie, he’d had some good to say of her, and, that being true, she wondered if there might be a grain of truth in the other reports that he had held sentiments other than complete hatred for her. Because …?

Hugh regarded her for a long moment. “You are not telling me all, I suspect.”

“Oh, I do not know!” exploded Eleanor. “I do not know why myself. Tell me why I pity the dead fool even as I hate him. Why I find some very slight forgiveness for him, just enough for me to choke out a single prayer for his miserable soul, and all because of some stupid, stupid words he spewed when dying and in all probability did not mean. Why does knowing he cannot hurt me again alter anything?” Glowering she growled, “I am sick of the man. Even dead he is a bane.”

Hugh’s eyebrows head crept steadily upwards during her rant. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice, as he worked to find a reply. “Interesting,” he concluded faintly. He rallied with visible effort. “Well. I would suppose it a worthy cause, however … conflicted the motive. A timely request, also – my other purpose in seeking you was to remind you of my purpose in assigning you to Miles as his student. Until this very moment you have indicated no interest, let alone intent, in continuing that purpose. A purpose that, if you will recall, I reluctantly agreed to at your insistent request.” He nodded curtly. “Miles’ second will visit you within the day. You will take up your duties forthwith.” Hugh rubbed his forehead with his fingers, abruptly weary-looking. “And I pray to God you make a better spymaster than diplomat.”

I have one word to say: Gah!

To expand on that, I can’t wait until January, when what retail calls Christmas will be over. Back to normal hours, no more extended opening, no more shifts, no double deliveries, and generally more time for a frog to do froggish things. Like write.

Peasant Phill, interestingly, on the other forum it’s more like everyone has their knives out and aimed at Hugh. I wonder why he seems to be liked more on one forum than the other?

Peasant Phill

11-23-2006, 11:57

Peasant Phill, interestingly, on the other forum it’s more like everyone has their knives out and aimed at Hugh. I wonder why he seems to be liked more on one forum than the other?

A simple answer, your characters are not stereotypes. They all have their good and bad sides and their reasons why they do what they do. So some people can relate more to a character more than others. Even more, there is no real 'evil' character all the readers can be against. The dead king just had no idea how to deal with his mixed feelings towards Eleanore, Trempwicks biggest 'flaws' are his ambition and background as spymaster and finally Hugh suffers under weight of his responsibilities and a low self esteem. Put every character in another situation and they would be regarded in another light. that's what great about your writing, your characters are real, human.

frogbeastegg

11-26-2006, 22:52

“We’re leaving.”

Trempwick faced the lord. Faced the cluster of other lords behind this one. Moulded himself into the essence of polite concern. Inwardly roiling. “Leaving? Whyever would that be? I had thought your word worth more than casual abandonment.” Trouble: if they were simply going then they would have gone. Purpose in staying to talk was …?

The spokesman made sure he was supported by his fellows. Coward. “You’re a God-damned treasonous liar, and a failed murderer!”

Damn. As suspected. Quick choice: outrage or shock. Outrage. Trempwick’s hand flew to his dagger. “You dare say such things?”

Eleven other hands went to weapons. Not much delayed other, loyaler hands did likewise.

The idiot at the spokesman’s left shoulder barked, “Your murder failed – prince Hugh still lives!”

Suppressed sigh. Ironic value was unmissable. If he could murder the bastard he would. It’d make all easier. Except it would be stupid. Because this would begin to happen. Galling, to have such stupidity attributed to him. “I swear on my soul I had no part in that.”

“You don’t have a soul – you sold it long ago.” Moron looked so pleased with his ‘wit’.

The spokesman must have been feeling left out. He took an extra step forward to make himself prominent. “More lies. Everything you say is likely a lie. We’re not listening any more.”

Except they were. They hadn’t left. So they were listening. So he still had a chance to turn things … or to die at the hands of a mob. Damn the bastard and his spurt of cunning! How, where and why had the bastard discovered the grain of wit and lack of tedium it took to construct such plans? The audacity to carry them out? Went against everything Trempwick knew of him and his mewling sense of honour.

Didn’t get chance to speak, the cattle started lowing again. “You said he was a bastard – he’s proved he’s not.”

Suppressed sigh. Not one blow. No. No, the bastard had managed many. Many! And as for Nell …! “He is a bastard,” Trempwick said through gritted teeth. It was true. More irony: to be challenged on the truth.

“The old king’s body accepted him!”

“The old king’s body was embalmed. I would stake my life there was not a drop of blood left in it.”

Another fool: “The church blessed the test.”

So? “The church as represented by those who follow the bastard.”

Some other: “It was all right and proper, legal, and in a court of law it would be proof enough!”

Not good. Slightly new tactic: blazed back, “And my proof is more than good! Look at his eyes, look at the damn bastard’s eyes and tell me what colour they are. Hazel. Not blue. Everyone knows blue eyes breed true where both parents have them! William’s eyes were famously blue. So were Joanna’s. So where did he get those eyes from?” Anxious. Wait. Wait. See how it went …

Some were beginning to think. Then the loud idiot shouted, “More lies!” Pounded his silly fist into his silly palm. “He said he was married to the princess. He isn’t! He said she’d been named chosen heir. Then why didn’t our king send back word and proof of it? He said she was her brother’s captive. She just came back to him of her own will! Will anyone believe a word this man says?” Brandished his useless fist in the air. “I won’t, not if he tells me the sky is blue!”

Cheers.

Damn. Mob building. Cattle following cattle. Lured by noise. Seduced by strong words. Rabble-rousers. Sense wouldn’t prevail. His words were getting lost. Harder now to appear calm. “Actually, the sky today is grey, overcast and with considerable promise of rain.” Baffled them a little, made the rush slow, falter. Now he might be heard. “I do not lie. I do not lie! He is a bastard, and he wants that throne – he will do whatever it takes to get it.” Alas, and mores the pity. “Nell returned to him of her own will? Look again – she was surrounded by an army, yet again! And look what they delivered her to: humiliation. To further discrediting of her claim! To a shoddy attempt by the bastard to hide the fact he handed her off to that nothing he calls her husband!”

Interrupted by a belligerent human ox. “More fucking lies! Enough! We said we’re leaving, and we’re going. Now.”

Damn! New direction. Trempwick said softly, “You are running away because you are faithless cowards, too afraid-”

The ox exploded into action with a roar, ripping his blade out and diving towards Trempwick.

Trained reactions laboured over more industriously than knight’s combat skills buried Trempwick’s dagger in his attacker’s guts almost before his thought of DAMN! had finished forming. Not what he’d wanted. Crude mess and in so volatile a situation! Blood soaked his clothes; the dying man sagged, his weight bearing Trempwick down to the ground. Working to free himself from the thrashings of the not-quite-a-corpse. Heard a shout, “Kill him!” Understood in the same instant why they hadn’t left: showy scene and his severed head to garner favour from the bastard. An attempt to bring others over to their side. To end his ‘rebellion’ in one go. All to make the bastard forget they’d risen against him and changed sides to support him when he appeared to be … Say it, say the bitter, bitter word: winning. Nell and the bastard cutting the ground out from under his feet. Not over yet. Temporary setback. He’d turn it about, always had, always won in the end. Would this time.

Fighting. Quite a bit of it. After gaining his feet Trempwick worked his way into the circle of his guards, defending himself as necessary.

In the end there was no one left trying to kill him, few trying to protect him. Just bodies, clinging to life and dead.

My PC is finally complete fixed. Huzzah! And about time too.

The next week does not look good for writing :( Only one day and an afternoon where I’ll have time to do anything, and I’ll have to do everything in that time. Multitasking is all very well, but reading, writing, playing M2TW, going shopping for new shoes and seeing your pet boyfriend is a trifle difficult to do all at one time.

Peasant Phill: I’m enormously pleased it reads that way – human characters are right at the top of things I want to achieve. I always suspect I have managed it, yet doubt because over and over I see it spoken of as something which is hard for writers to do. Difficult would have been writing plainer, simpler characters, or clichéd ones. Writing these characters as they are is easy, incredibly so.

furball

11-27-2006, 00:26

Another reason to look forward to Sundays.

frogbeastegg

12-06-2006, 19:48

A back-hand blow sent her reeling, a punch knocked her sprawling before she could recover. “Get up!” he roared, lashing out at her with a foot. Eleanor curled up, trying to shield herself and crawl away.

“Up!” The toe of her father’s boot slammed into her thigh. “Get up, damn you!”

Always the same refrain, and always she tried to obey, pride forbidding her to give up and stay down.

Half way to her feet Eleanor found herself hauled up by a fist knotted in the front of her clothes. “Traitor!” The accusation was accompanied by a slap. “You and him, traitors the pair of you!” The world spun as he shook her so violently she would swear she heard her teeth rattling. “My dutiful children! And he’s the one who will pay for it, not you, you foul brat!”

He let go. Eleanor staggered backwards; she flung up an arm to ward off the next blow.

“You did this!” he accused. His fist smashed into her hasty guard again, breaking through to deliver a glancing hit. “You led him on! You must have! John was a loyal son until this!” Each statement was hammered home by another blow, until Eleanor lost her footing once more.

Get up!” Eleanor felt her lower ribs give under the force of his boot – and woke to find herself doused in a cold sweat, her heart racing.

With a shaking hand she pushed tangles of hair back from her face. This was what came from thinking overly much of the arse in the crown before retiring to bed. Damn him to hell! Would he never leave her in peace?

She lay back down, and realised she could hear the murmur of conversation from outside. One knife lay under her pillow; her hand closed about the hilt. Climbing out of bed she held the weapon at the ready as she stole across the room, being careful not to wake Hawise as she passed the maid’s pallet.

Eleanor stood to the left of the doorway, a precaution against it being opened and hitting her. From here the voices were recognisable as Jocelyn’s and a woman’s.

In dodgy Anglo-French the count was listing, “Chair. Table. Fire … firepl …”

“Fireplace,” the female prompted.

“I knew that,” he grumbled in his native tongue.

“And this?”

“A window.”

Eleanor grimaced at his accent. If he’d wanted to learn the language of the court why had he not asked her for help? Why take lessons in secret? Unless he did not wish it known that he could understand some of what he heard? She put her ear to the crack of the door, straining to recognise the count’s companion.

“Try your poetry now,” the woman commanded.

The count rattled off in barely passable Anglo-French, “Where is my light hiding far from my searching eyes, Not letting my glance find it? I examine everything: the air, the rivers, the earth; Since I do not see you, all this is little to me. The sky may be calm, free from clouds, But for me, if you are absent, the day is without sum.” A pause, then, “It’s hardly going to help me get a meal when I’m in the middle of a damned town, is it?”

The female tutted. “Ah, but it may get you lodgings … or at least a bed, hmm?”

Eleanor decided that the female must be one of the court whores, the like of whom could be found tagging along in any sizeable noble household. In a household packed with unmarried men and men away from their wives, they were a necessary evil. That made sense; no lady would meet with a man alone and at this time of night. Well, no lady but one with a lover, she amended charitably. This one, however, Eleanor felt comfortable in labelling as no lady at all.

The woman was continuing, “Anyway, you asked me to teach you some poetry.”

“Oh. Yes.” Jocelyn sounded quite shamefaced about it. How bizarre. “What’s the word for that?”

“That I should call a foot, or a right foot if I wished to be specific. You know, most men just go to sleep after their exertions.”

“Easier to learn from a pretty woman.”

“Only pretty?” the female pouted.

“But very … appealing. Very. Speaking of which, what would you call this?”

There was rustling noise followed by an unlady-like giggle. “Tireless.”

On that note Eleanor scuttled back to bed. She’d have to have a word with Jocelyn tomorrow; he was meant to be guarding her and he couldn’t do that if he were … distracted. Worse, the whore could be one of Trempwick’s agents, or a similar threat. Jesù, she was going to die of embarrassment!

Sprawled comfortably before the solar’s fire Jocelyn sang as he polished the metal decorations on his dagger’s sheath. “Oh he hewed and he chopped, many heads did he lop-”

Came a royal command: “Yes, thank you. That is quite enough of that. I am trying to think.” The princess was reading some bits of parchment. They looked boring.

But he’d been so tuneful! How could she not like his singing? And the maid was trying not to smirk. Damned women. They went on and on about wanting you to sing, then when you did they told you to shut the hell up. He’d only been on the nineteenth verse of the deeds of Sir Simon de Rouen in the battle at Falaise, there were another forty-eight to go, and all full of daring exploits and exciting stuff. What he said was, “Sorry, your Highness.”

She put her reading down; a glint came into those blue eyes of hers. He didn’t like it one bit. “Perhaps you know something in Anglo-Norman instead? Poetry, perhaps?”

“No, your Highness.” Alright, careful here. Careful. Don’t want to end up looking uncultured or like a right prick. “Are the any you recommend me to learn?”

Bugger – she had this diabolical little smile now! “How about the one which begins, ‘Where is my light hiding far from my searching eyes, Not letting my glance find it?’”

He didn’t understand the words; he did remember them and the translation associated with them, his memory being bloody excellent at learning by rote. Oh flaming hell and a turbot! She knew about Arlette! And she didn’t look very happy. She might be jealous or something? Her husband was at the other end of the country, and here she was, newly married and all alone, having just gotten used to the delights of having a man in her bed, and here he was, handsome, dashing, manly, a fine and experienced figure with obvious talent in the bedchamber direction. He couldn’t blame her. In her place he’d be after himself too. “She doesn’t mean anything to me,” he assured her.

Eleanor’s chin came up; her face flamed with this quite attractive blush. “I sleep lightly. I do not like to wake to hear your … antics. Definitely not when at first I think that another attempt has been mustered to kidnap me. Absolutely not when you are supposed to be guarding me. If you must consort with whores kindly do so in your off-duty time like the other men.”

Yeah, she was jealous … sort of? Suave, sophisticated, be a gentleman. Show her that he could admit error and stuff. Women ate that like pie. He bowed right nicely. “My deepest apologies, your Highness. I assure you I remain your most faithful servant. I’m at your disposal always, no matter the time or reason.” There. That damned maid was trying to contain a smirk yet again.

“If you neglect your duty again I shall have you thrown from my service so hard you bounce back to France.”

Jocelyn suppressed a wince. This one had quite the temper on her. “Your Highness, I beg pardon once again for the whore-”

Again with that nice blush. “I do not care about the whore. I care about my safety. You may waste your entire life in a brothel for all care, so long as I am not carried off or killed while you are doing so.”

Nah, she had to be lying just a bit. She did care about the whore, she was just being properly high-born and pretending otherwise. Right? “Sorry.”

“What bothers me equally is that you are attempting to learn Anglo-French without deigning to notify me. Do you think to spy on me?”

“No!” Jocelyn was mortified to find his voice came out a bit squeaky. “No. Never, I swear it on every relic ever found. I didn’t think it important, that’s all.”

“You could learn far more far faster with the aid of me and mine. I think it remarkable this did not occur to you.”

“Your Highness …” He stalled; her glare could have melted ice – or shattered it. Just like the old king, only clearer, without anger clouding it. Oh, it was there alright, but reined in, controlled. It drove her, yes, but ruled her not at all, and that was bloody dangerous, Jocelyn felt. “It’s simply that …” Bloody hell, he felt like he should have a hat to twiddle in his hands!

“Speak up, and explain yourself. And explain yourself well.”

“It’s … You see …” His big chance was ebbing, he could practically see it going. Royal favour leaving, high position lost, disaster. Richildis would never let him hear the end of it. Damn it he’d probably jump off a tower or something to get away from her going on about it! And all because he’d been bloody fool enough to try and learn some poetry and rubbish to make her happ – because he felt like it, damn it! Nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with that admission she’d extorted out of him about feeling ignorant. Nothing sodding well to do with anything but him deciding it might make a pleasant change. Nothing!

“Well?”

His chance was dying. His chance to build up his life. His chance to provided better for his family. To leave them a legacy of more than a few scraps of land and some armour. To be a man of whom they could be proud. Jocelyn straightened his shoulders with a twitch. “My wife says I am unlearned. She’s right, damn her. I thought …” He gave a helpless shrug. “It was a chance to learn a bit without admitting I don’t know what I should. Poetry and that crap. See, it was in a language I don’t know so how could I know it?” Broiling in self-mortification he nonetheless managed to add with a growl of pride, “And I don’t like not knowing what people say. Makes me feel a right arse.” In a very small voice he said, “I thought she might like it. If I had some nice words or something. Since she’s always going on about how much she likes that bloody rubbish. But I don’t know any.”

The princess rubbed the bridge of her nose in a gesture he recognised as borrowed from her husband. “To make your wife happy you betrayed her with a whore.”

If you insisted on putting it like that then it didn’t sound too good, did it? Jocelyn shuffled his feet.

“You, sir, are hopeless.”

What else could a man do but nod? She was a princess.

The princess pulled an expression which could only be called resigned. “Well, I suppose we shall have to see to it that you are educated somewhat. Quietly, so your dignity is not bruised.” She raised a finger. “But. You have no leeway remaining. At the next failing or thing which raises my doubts you will be gone from my service so quickly you will not have time to blink. Do you understand? I am weary of correcting you; I seem to have done little but since the day you joined me.”

“Yes, your Highness. Thank you, your Highness.” See? God’s beloved or what? Everything was going exactly as he’d planned it right at the start: he was deeper in royal favour then ever. Not that he’d ever doubted, not even for the briefest of moments.

18 days to go. 18 days … (a frog’s countdown to Christmas is different to the traditional one. It looks forward to the day when the cursed Christmas CD gets booted from the shop, when the shifts end, when double deliveries are nearly over for another year, and when generally life begins to calm down. It does not look forward to the day when you get presents, else it would be 19 days)

Furball, I used to like my Sundays. A nice short working day, quiet and relaxed. Then they slapped an extra hour’s opening time onto my day, assigned our extra delivery to that day, and rampant crazy crowds run amok in the shop spending wodges of money and cluttering the place up so there is no chance to a relaxing day.

furball

12-07-2006, 22:02

<nods to the overworked amphibian>

I have to admit a continued empathy for Jocelyn. He is the character most like myself in the story. I hope he fares well by story's end. . . though please don't construe that as wanting you to change your plans for him in any way, froggy!

In this latest episode, I particularly liked that when he was finally backed into a corner, he admitted his shortcomings, "unmanly" though that may be. :) And yet, he still has the optimism (stupidity?) to think Eleanor may be jealous and that he is deeper in her favor than ever.

I love your characters, ma'am! They are not black-and-white, yet each is unique, with a distinct world-view and tone of voice.

Beefeater

12-08-2006, 15:19

As a die-hard Trempite, let me wave the flag for him a little. He's having a hard time these days. Then again I've been rooting for the unfortunate spymaster in 'The State Within' as well.

Funny how these things go. I've been reading this story, on and off, since it was first posted over at the Paradox forums, and yet this is my first post in a Froggie thread.

Shaka_Khan

12-09-2006, 14:30

Have you written a book before? ~:thumb:

Peasant Phill

12-11-2006, 09:29

And the list of froggy addicts swells on. Go forth and multiply

Von Nanega

12-11-2006, 15:47

Curses! Now I have read all that has been posted! Now what am I to do untill the next post? Good Read! Eagerly awaiting the next installment.:book:

frogbeastegg

12-18-2006, 18:18

“Quiet night?”

The sentry nodded. “Yes, lord.”

The glee at the natural way the sentry called him lord was childish, yet Fulk couldn’t help it. No minute pause, no light emphasis, none of the varied ways of turning the deference into an expression of scepticism which could not be answered; he was making progress.

“Remain alert. I’ve had reports prince Malcolm is gathering an army, and against his father’s wishes.”

As he trod down the stairs leading from the keep’s roof Fulk’s step had a light bounce. His work was beginning to pay. All those hours sweating in the yard practicing his skill at arms so his men could see his competence and willingness to work, all the days spent in the saddle riding out and about meeting as many of his people as possible and allowing them to see him, all the tedious trips round the sentry posts when he didn’t need to disturb his rest, all the evenings spend straining his eyes to read the accounts and documents pertaining to each of his new holdings, it was all beginning to pay.

As he neared the main hall he heard the laughter of his vassals and knights, still sitting undisturbed at the meal he’d left to make his rounds. Pausing at the foot of the steps to throw his cloak back over his shoulders he heard a dog yapping. Curious; there had been no animals in the hall when he’d left. Another burst of drunken laughter rang out, drowning out the efforts of one man to be heard.

Before he could open the door someone else did, striding through with such haste he nearly flattened Fulk. The man arrested his step, his eyes going wide when he recognised Fulk in the dim candlelight. He shoved the door nearly to behind himself. “Now the cat’s in amidst the pigeons. I’m not staying for more of that,” he jerked his tow-haired head towards the hall, “but you surely should, my lord.”

Fulk asked, “What’s happening, Warin?”

“Better to see for yourself, my lord.” The knight snorted. “See, then sort. As for me, I’m for my bed. I’ve had a bellyful of their entertainment. If you need me come morning you have me.” Warin slapped his hip where his sword would hang to make his meaning clear, then pushed his way past without further word.

Words from the hall filled the space the departing knight had left, loud and coarsely spoken, the product of an inebriated man. Fulk recognised the voice as belonging to Robert, the castellan of Morpeth. “Small wonder he runs, we all know his mother was some merchant’s brat his father married because he was so indebted he was set to lose his lands. He’s half peasant himself. Not proper noble. Another mongrel.”

The dog yapped again, and Fulk heard more laughter. Robert declared, “Ah, sod him. We’ve got our guest to look after.” The tone changed to one wheedling and coaxing. “Here, want some meat? Nice meat? Here, come get the bone, there’s a good muck-blooded little monster. Good boy, nice meat, yes, good boy.” More laughter. The voice returned to its former harshness. “God’s blood, look at him beg for leavings!”

“Maybe he’ll lick your boots to get it?” suggested another man.

“I’m sure he will, and like it.”

Fulk crept forward to peer through the gap between door and frame. Robert stood on the dais before the table where Fulk’s platter still lay with the remnants of his meal, indeed this was the likely source of the meat being offered to the most misbegotten dog Fulk had ever set eyes on. Short stumpy legs attached to a body shaped like a barrel, the head’s graceless lines promised a strong jaw but no intelligence, one ear had been torn off at some time in the past and the wagging tail was a many times broken rattail-like string.

Robert bent over and dangled the meat at his boots. “Come on, come on, good ugly mutt, lick my boots, come on Alnwick, good boy.”

The name made Fulk stand at attention, his fists clenched. They’d named the creature after him! Uncurling his fingers he forced the anger away almost automatically, letting the sting of the abuse slip by.

The mutt whined and sniffed around Robert’s boots but made no effort to lick them; it lunged for the scrap of meat only to receive a kick.

“Bloody damn thing!” cursed Robert. “I said lick my boots not bite my hand.”

“Mongrels always bite the hand that feeds them,” commented a laconic voice Fulk didn’t recognise. “It’s why right-thinking people don’t have any part with them.”

Robert turned his head to the speaker, alas still not enough to identify him for Fulk. “I see you here like the rest of us, so you’re not right-thinking either.”

Not all of the men still in the hall were watching the dog’s antics; a good proportion were broken up about the hall engaged in activities like board games or gambling, or simple conversation. The majority of them had pointedly turned their backs to the group with the dog. Now one looked back over his shoulder. “I believe Wooperton’s former castellan was singing that same tune – that is, until he was sent off in chains to explain himself to his king.”

“I’m pragmatic and not ashamed of it. I’ve no choice but to bow – for now. It won’t always be so. He’ll fall from favour sooner or later; he’s little more than a toy for the King of Scots, something to amuse him while he watches the scrabble over who’s to be our next king.”

“Jesù, man, give it a rest before you talk your way to your end.”

“You going to report me, Simon? Go running to our new ‘lord’ to scrabble for favour by selling other men for being honest?”

“Honest? Or drunk and over-full of bravado? I find my game more interesting than your waffle, and a deal better for the mind.” The knight turned back to his chess.

Robert hurled the meat at the mongrel, hitting it smack in the face. His group roared with laughter as the dog recoiled whining, then returned to warily sniff at the food. “See? Give the mongrel decent food and it turns its nose up at it. Picky thing. You’d think it would be grateful for whatever it could get.”

Robert’s eldest son grinned. “Probably holding our for better. A whole chicken or something, whatever the canine equivalent to an earldom is.”

One with his back to Fulk said, “Best be sure he doesn’t get near your kennels, or you’ll find he’s made free with your best breeding bitches.” In case his companions less than sober minds were too slow to work his meaning out he clarified, “Canine princess, see.”

It was the reference to Eleanor which did what the other insults hadn’t managed to, and broke a lifetime’s careful training to start Fulk forward into the hall, slamming the door open and moving so rapidly his cloak streamed out behind him. He didn’t know what he was doing; he frantically tried to form a plan as he went.

He stopped before his castellan with some clear facts standing forth in the sea of inner turmoil. The first he acted upon, drawing his sword and running the mongrel through in one clean stroke, pitying the creature but knowing he couldn’t let it live to remind people of this night’s insults.

He aimed the bloodied tip of his sword at Robert and stepped forward, forcing the other man back. He advanced another step, over the twitching body of the unfortunate dog. And another, until the castellan’s back was pressed against the table. Trepidation was sobering the hall rapidly.

Fulk said, “I will see you tomorrow at the hour of Terce and I will kill you. If you aren’t man enough to fight me then I’ll cut you down as you try to run. And since your son shares your opinion of me he can watch you die and then leave to explain to the rest of your family why they are being thrown from my lands with nothing but the goods they can carry.”

He managed to control himself until he reached the solar. There he dropped his sword and sank into the nearest chair. The last time he’d challenged anyone over his bastardy he’d won the fight with his bare fists, grinding his tormentor’s face into the dirt until two of his friends hauled him off in fear of what he’d do. He’d been eight.

A large space outside Alnwick’s walls had been marked off with stakes and rope. The sides were lined with spectators shivering in the early morning breeze. At opposite ends the two combatants prepared.

Fulk checked over Sueta’s harness, making sure each buckle and fastening was secure, that each strap was in perfect condition. The simple task gave him focus and kept nerves at bay. Not that he doubted he would win – he’d seen Robert on the practice field and knew himself to be by far the superior fighter.

Robert’s second, his son, detached from his father’s group and began to cross the arena. Proof of how desperate his opponent had become did nothing for Fulk’s spirits.

Giving Sueta a final pat Fulk went out to meet the emissary.

The young man kept his eyes firmly directed above Fulk’s head; he bowed slightly. “My father deeply regrets allowing drink to muddy his thoughts so greatly he engaged in a joke that could be taken as slighting to you. He apologises unreservedly, and begs your forgiveness. He will leave your lands and never return, if it is your wish. Will you accept his apology?”

“I will not.”

The son took a deep breath, his lips narrowing. “Then you are unreasonable.”

Fulk turned his back and walked away.

“You bloodthirsty bastard!”

Fulk stopped. Without looking over his shoulder his said, “I can kill you as well. And will, with one more insult.” With a flash of anger he turned around and stalked back towards the youth. “No other noble would be subjected to the abuse I have received. No other noble would be expected to swallow it. No other noble. And so I shall not.” He could not. His authority was tenuous enough as it was, his ability to stand equal to born lords insecure at best. Respect would not be granted him, he would have to carve it out for himself. He’d known that when he agreed to marry Eleanor. And so, in the end and despite his labouring to make himself immune, his mother’s tearful prediction had come true: his need to prove himself as good as any trueborn noble was going to dominate his life, and one day quite probably end it.

Fulk donned his great helm and mounted up, accepting his shield from Waltheof and his lance from Luke. The lightest touch of his spurs and Sueta started out into the cordoned off area.

On the other side of the arena father and son were engaged in a vehement discussion, the younger waving his arms about, clearly imploring. The elder spoke for some time before embracing his son and turning away to complete his arming. The youth stood defeated, staring at Fulk; though this distance was great he could feel the hatred burning from the young man.

When both men were on the field the herald stopped slouching against one of the stakes. “A duel for honour between Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec, and Sir Robert of Morpeth, over insults given by the latter to the former. To be fourth to the death. Sirs, are you ready?”

Fulk brandished his lance to indicate he was. Robert did likewise.

“Then do battle.” The herald ducked under the rope cordon and didn’t stop running until he was a goodly distance away.

Fulk dug his spurs in before the call to begin combat was finished, bringing his shield up and bearing down on his foe swiftly. There was no reason to drag this out and every reason to demonstrate his ability – and willingness – to kill those who upset him rapidly and without mercy.

There were no rules; Fulk dipped the tip of his lance at the last possible instant and killed his opponent’s horse. At the same time he dipped his shield low, the lower edge catching the point of his opponent’s lance before it could gouge into his thigh. He released his lance as he flicked the edge of his shield outwards to throw away the point of his opponent’s weapon, and guided Sueta away from the falling tangle of man and horse. Bare seconds had passed.

Drawing his sword he dragged his destrier around in time to see Robert roll free of his thrashing mount and struggle to his feet. Fulk slowed to a walk, allowing his enemy time to draw his sword and set himself to defend; fearsome as the reputation he sought to build, he had no care to become known as a man who rode down defenceless enemies.

Some few would have said that he should have dismounted and continued the battle on equal terms with Robert. Those few were the sort who took up a priesthood or died in their first battle, for where was the point in exerting yourself to win an advantage if you threw it away? Fulk ran his enemy down the moment he could be said to be decently prepared, hacking his head near clean from his shoulders with a downwards chop as he rode past.

:froggy huddles in a corner and chants “Four working days left, four working days left, four working days left” over and over: Four working days left until Christmas, as I get one more day off before then. Thanks be to the deity of your choice. It’s hell out there! Who’d have thought working in a bookshop could be so gruelling? It’s like watching a swarm of locusts descend on a field of crops, running rampage and devouring everything in sight, leaving behind only shattered and scattered remnants …

Most of them aren’t even buying the good books ~:(

Furball, I too like the way he admitted his shortcomings, all the more so because of the reason why: he did it for his family.

I never expected Jocelyn to be so popular when I first wrote the character. I didn’t expect to like him either. He’s a multiple rapist, violent, delusional, a liar, not particularly reliable, less than steadfast in his loyalty, an adulterer, and motivated primarily by personal gain. The incredible thing is he can be all that and still be likeable, funny, touching, and even sympathetic.

Weclome, Beefeater. Have you considered selling copies of that flag to the Trempy fanclub over at the paradox forums? I’m sure they’d like to wave along :gring:

Shaka_Khan, I’ve never written a book or been published. Hopefully one day … At that point I shall expect all my loyal followers to buy at least one copy each, preferably twenty! :gring:

Peasant Phill, I’m not sure I want my fans multiplying. Babies take up so much time, time which could be far better spent reading and commenting on my work! :winkg:

Von Nanega, ah, the endless problem of addiction. When I reach the end of a particularly good book, one which I do not want to end, I go back and start reading from the beginning again. I find that I notice a lot of new things and understand some of the earlier parts a little better, and that enhances the overall experience.

Specialist290

12-20-2006, 06:10

Just a post to let you know I'm still reading this. I'm still a little more than halfway through (as more has been added since the last time I posted here), but like an African jungle explorer with machete in hand, I'm slowly but surely making headway.

One odd thing I've noticed is that when I read, I sometimes imagine Peter Cushing as Trempwick and Christopher Lee as "King William, Sixth of That Name" (a phrase which is now semi-permanently burned into my brain).

Finally: Keep up the good work, lady froggy! :beam:

EDIT: Aargh! Psychotic forum smiley codes keep confusing me! :dizzy2:

Specialist290

12-24-2006, 19:46

*looks at time of last posted update*

*whispers to someone nearby, "Erm, I didn't scare her away, did I?"*

At any rate, Merry Christmas, froggy! (And hope your schedule gets a bit less hectic ~:) )

frogbeastegg

12-25-2006, 23:23

Dragons and gooseberries and frogs, oh my!

Being a silly Christmas thing wot I wrote, it having no place in the proper plot

In which there is a lot of squabbling.

“She is my wife,” asserted Trempwick calmly.

“No.” Fulk jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Mine.”

“Mine. Wedded and bedded, and all that.”

“Mine. Wedded and … er, wedded, and it wasn’t imaginary, unlike yours. And if it comes to imaginary then I’m still way ahead of you, pal.”

“I have proof, unlike you, bodyguard.”

Eleanor managed enough interest to say, “He has proof. Fulk, that is. I agree with him, whereas I start screaming whenever anyone says I am married to him.” She nodded at Trempwick.

The spymaster snapped, “Nell!” Whether he was horrified at her lack of manners or her claim to screaming, she couldn’t decide. Probably both; Trempwick was a very economical man.

“Sorry, master.”

Fulk put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture not the least bit assuring and all about claiming her before this bored little gathering. “Don’t be sorry. You can scream if you want to, whatever he says.”

A gold sceptre topped by a happy little dove of peace slapped down on Fulk’s knuckles, aimed by Hugh. “Unhand my sister, you varlet!”

Fulk’s hand dropped away as he turned to face the man on the throne. “She’s my wife.”

“My wife!” insisted Trempwick.

At which point Eleanor rejoined Hawise and Constance, sitting on the sidelines as the men continued the debate. Exactly as they had for the last three hours, and for the last six days before that.

Twenty minutes passed.

“Mine!”

“Mine!”

“Mine!”

Fulk was generally a placid man, Eleanor often thought, and that was part of why she liked him. Placid didn’t explode and blow your legs off, or other inconvenient things. But under that placid surface lay … something, and by heaven if it couldn’t be every bit as stubborn as a royal when it wanted to. The stupid adorable lump. “My wife,” he repeated yet again, his voice cracking from over-use, “She says so. I say so. That’s all that’s needed.”

“Mine.” Trempwick was neither placid nor stubborn. That would be too easy. He was assured, confident, as suave and poised as he ever was, even now, after days of going over the same very limited arguments. “I say so, my witnesses say so, the priest says so, and really if she has the least bit of hope for her reputation and future comfort during our long and happy years of wedded bliss Eleanor will start agreeing with me very shortly.”

“Our long years of wedded bliss.”

“Ours!”

Half an hour.

Fulk leaned forward a fraction, his eyes boring into Trempwick’s. “My wife.”

Trempwick also leaned forward, and also did the steadfast staring thing. “My wife.”

“My wife.” Fulk leaned a bit further forward.

“My wife.” So did Trempwick

“My wife.”

“My wife.”

“My wife.”

“My wife.”

“My wife.”

Their skulls met with a thunk. Both men retreated, clutching their sore heads and muttering.

“But she is my wife,” Trempwick added.

“No, mine!”

Two hours and forty minutes.

Trempwick folded his arms. “I found her first, anyway. Go find your own princess.”

That jerked Eleanor from her stupor; sitting bolt upright she exclaimed, “Master!” None of the men took any notice of her, but Hawise and Constance glowered in sympathy with her.

With the speed of a particularly fast lightening bolt Fulk added, “But I was kind to her first.”

“I saved her life first.”

“I was liked by her first.”

“Oh no you were not!” Trempwick turned to her. “Tell him.”

“Well …” hedged Eleanor. “It depends what you mean by ‘like’ …”

Trempwick spun back to his adversary and Hugh, his judge. “See!

Fulk snorted derisively. “Load of rubbish. Twisting her words, you are. Which doesn’t alter the single important fact here: she’s my wife.”

“No, I think you will find, bodyguard, if you can wrap your puny little brain about a few basic details of law that she is, in fact, my wife.”

“No,” said Fulk, his air that of a person who has struggled long and hard and would keep on struggling away patiently and with good grace until he won through the sheer dumb fact that his opponent had passed out from exhaustion, “my wife.”

Four hours, twelve minutes, fifty-seven seconds.

Eleanor muttered to her companions in seated boredom, “I do not like being squabbled over like this.” Fulk and Trempwick were still battering away, mostly ignored by her. Hugh was managing to follow the exchange with grace interest, even after all this time. Either his mind was so simple as to find this entertaining, which she doubted, or his good prince act was being stretched to its very limits.

“No,” agreed Constance. “Hardly dignified.”

Hawise nodded sympathetically. “Like a marrow bone in a heap of dogs.”

Eleanor came to her feet, resolved, and burning with it. “Enough of this,” she shouted. “Here: all you need to put an end to this, repeated yet again for those of you a little slow on the uptake: I am married to that one,” she pointed very obviously at Fulk. “Him. That one is my husband. Not the other one. The Fulk one is my husband, not the Trempwick one, and he is my husband by virtue of the fact that I married him, him alone, just him and only him, making him very much my husband.”

The arm with which Hugh held the sceptre (and its representation of peace and justice) wilted, the dove banging off the polished tile-work of the throne room’s floor in an ill-fated flight which bent its beak. “Now see here, this is most rude of you, and really I am very annoyed. I am weary of your interrupting, especially where it is of no concern to you. Whom you are married to is none of your business.”

Eleanor hid safely behind Fulk before telling her brother, “If, perchance, you are about to have another of your stuffy temper tantrums, kindly don’t. I doubt any here could stand the tedium, especially after the last few days.”

Hugh hammered the end of the sceptre on the arm of his throne. “I am the king! I shall do as I see fit.” He scowled, pouting. “And anyway, I do not have boring temper tantrums.” He effected a recovery of his dignity before anyone could deflate his illusions in a suitably kindly manner. “The matter at hand is this, and it is this we shall focus on: Two men claim you as their wife, dear sister, and one has proof. The other only has your word to back his claim. Clearly you cannot be married to the one you claim to be, as he is not a worthy match for you, being all poor and of crappy lineage and actually not very useful to me. The other, however, happens to wish me dead, and so I really doubt you can be married to him either.”

Trempwick curled his lip. “Yes, I want you dead. But so does a significant portion of the readership. Even the author doesn’t like you! Admit it, man, you are so boring you deserve to be written out with a very messy and bizarre death, if only so that it can be said that for once you actually did something interesting. In any case, my own opinions towards you have no place in whether I am married to your sister or not.” He smiled adoringly at Nell. “Then again, perhaps there is some small relevance in it – it lends me another thing in common with my dearly beloved Nell, who is - once again and just for the record - my wife, and as such it makes me all the more suitable.”

Fulk countered predictably, “My wife.” Less predictably he added, “And I want you dead too, Hugh. I’m sick and tired of you bashing my gooseberry, and being all tiresome at her in an effort to make her as boring as you are. Hands off, or else!”

Eleanor beamed with delight, and threw her arms about his chest, laying her head on his back with a contented sigh that probably said something like “I do happen to love this big solid knight chap, crooked nose and all.”

As a final addendum Fulk said, “And she’s my wife.”

“Mine!”

Thirty-two minutes, nine-and-one-eighth seconds.

Enough was enough, and more than enough. Or so it seemed Hugh had finally decided, only five and a half days after everyone else had decided the same. He shot to his feet. “Enough! Stop this ceaseless bickering! And note that whomever says that my sister is his wife last before the silence I demand falls makes no difference whatsoever to anything, so do not try to get the last word in.”

Fulk and Trempwick both subsided.

Hugh sat back down again, arranging his robes in a suitably regal (stuffy) way. “There seems to be but one way to settle this.”

“Yes,” interrupted Eleanor wearily. “Try asking the poor bride which one she married, though at present I think she is contemplating denying them both so she can have a bit of quiet.”

She might as well have said nothing, for all the notice Hugh took. “A quest. As you all know, Anne was snatched by a dragon while out for some reason or another which will remain sketchy but was not so she could be snatched by the dragon conveniently providing substance for this quest. Whoever slays the dragon and returns here with Anne can have my sister.”

Constance asked, “And half the kingdom? I do hope not, Hugh. Think of our child’s legacy.”

“No, just Nell. A most economical reward, for the return of one I am sworn to guard and for the removal of a dragon - and for a bit of peace from my sister and her turbulent suitors. Cheap at twice the price, though God forbid I have two such sisters to dispose of.” Hugh turned back to Fulk and Trempwick, pointedly ignoring his sister. “Is this agreeable to you both?”

“It is,” answered Fulk swiftly. His eyes were bright with dreams of heroic deeds. Alas, he did always read too much.

Trempwick’s assent was slower coming, no doubt following on from a load of plans about poisoned dragons and knights buried head first in swamps. “If I must do such to reclaim my wife then I shall do so, and count it cheap, such is my love for her.”

“I love her more.”

“Impossible.”

“Nu-uh, not impossible.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

Hugh roared, “Silence! Now this goes to parody, and I will not have it.” More calmly, he declared, “So be it. You have your quest. You will leave at dawn tomorrow. And if, perchance, neither of you returns,” here he looked so innocent he was obviously hoping this would be the case, “then at least there will no longer be any question as to my sister’s status.”

Eleanor stood up, stiff limbs unfurling with quiet determination a kind usually seen in movies where the disaster bit is about to happen and the hero/heroine steps in to save the day, realising that while they don’t want to get involved they are actually the only human alive who can do anything except run about and die. “Then I am going too. To make sure the right idiot kills the dragon.”

In which a frog is discovered.

Eleanor sat down on a very convenient tree stump and propped her head on one fist. This was not going well, and really it was all proving so exasperating becoming a nun didn’t sound so bad after all.

“I’m not lost,” insisted Fulk.

Trempwick sipped whatever it was he had in his costrel deliberately. “Then,” he said, licking a droplet of liquid from the corner of his mouth, “where are we?”

Fulk looked about, then angled his face at the ground his feet were planted on. He pointed. “Here.”

“Oh, well done. Bodyguard. We are stood on some grass. Ask for directions, or we shall wander lost for all eternity.”

“I’m not lost.” Fulk frowned at the spymaster. “And if you’re so lost-feeling, you ask for directions.”

“I’m a spymaster. Spymasters are never lost. We do not need to ask directions.”

“Same for knights, except knights are generally better at everything anyway because we aren’t shady bastards who lurk about in dark places getting people stabbed in the back and such.”

Eleanor raised her voice, “As you are both so sure of which way to go, which way?”

Fulk pointed in one direction, Trempwick in another, and both declared, “That way.”

Fulk smiled a very patronising smile at Trempwick. “If we go that way we’ll end up in the swamp.”

Trempwick smiled himself, quite diabolically. “Oh yes. There’s a nice pool just waiting to make your acquaintance …” He snorted, and looked from knight to princess and back again. “That is what you both expect of me, is it not? How tacky! I am insulted, badly. As if I should do such a thing.”

Eleanor felt all inconveniently guilty and soft towards him because he was genuinely hurt, and because she’d wronged him when she should have known better. Dumping bodies in bogs was the sort of thing as low-grade cackling, moustache-twirling villain did, not a spymaster of suitably grey alignments. “Sorry, master.”

Fulk caught her arm and tweaked her away from Trempwick, glowering and looking all darkly fierce and really a bit handsome. “Don’t apologise. It’s true. He’d kill me in an instant, if he thought he could get away with it.”

Trempwick gave him a pitying look. “Yes, but not in such a dreary way. Flair, bodyguard. I have flair. I do things with flair. My every move is stylish and cunning to a finely honed degree.” The spymaster’s face hardened. “And do not pretend to be blameless, bodyguard. You would kill me at first chance too. You would cut my head off, or stab me, or similar. Crude. Boring. Precisely what can be expected of a lug who wears armour and hits things with a sword.”

“Yes, true, but that’s straightforwardly honest. Not like messing about with poison, garrottes and the like. People who do that are really a bit sick in the head.”

Eleanor delicately applied her boot to Fulk’s shin, having decided that she didn’t appreciate being manhandled away from other men, and especially did not care for that last statement. As the knight hopped on one leg, clutching his shin with both hands and making funny noises, Eleanor placed her hands on her hips. “Excuse me.”

“I meant,” gasped Fulk, “people other than you. You’re exempt.”

“I should bloody well hope so!”

Trempwick put an arm around her and drew her to his chest. “My poor Nell. He cannot understand you as I can; he is too different, his life too different, his brain too small. You see what he thinks.”

“Hands off my wife!” Fulk’s statement was robbed of much of its impact by virtue of his continued hopping.

“I understand you, beloved Nell. I do not condemn you. Two of a kind. We are suited as you and he can never be.”

“She’s not a snake,” said Fulk loudly. “Nothing in common at all. And I warned you to let her go!” He drew his dagger.

Eleanor found herself abruptly dumped to one side as Trempwick drew his own dagger. The two men faced off.

Eleanor leapt in-between them. “Stop it! In case it is not abundantly clear already, I do not want either of you dead. I just want to live happily ever after with you,” she touched Fulk’s right hand, pushing it – and the weapon it held – down to his side. She turned to Trempwick and did the same, saying, “And I want you to be happy for me, and to continue to play spymaster to my apprentice but without all the plotty bits.”

It was quiet as both men tried to work out who had gotten the best advantage there.

“Ah ha! I win – she wants to live happily ever after with me.” Fulk’s triumph was a bit uncertain, and it was half a question.

“No, I do, because she wants me to run most of her life for her and wishes for my respect and so on.” Trempwick sounded no more certain.

“So, basically,” said a fourth voice, “you don’t want much at all, just the impossible.”

A bit of searching turned up the owner of the voice: a cute little frog sat on a stone looking all cute and frog-like. “Ribbit,” it – she! – said. “Ribbit, croak, ribbit, and so on.”

Eleanor leaned down to peer at the amphibian. “Now that is odd. A talking frog.”

Fulk aimed his dagger at the poor, harmless endearing little innocent frog. “Should we burn it, do you think?”

Trempwick raised an eyebrow. “Hungry, bodyguard?”

“Well, I do hear frog-on-a-skewer is quite tasty if you baste it with garlic butter and don’t let it overcook. But I was thinking more about witchcraft.”

The really-feeling-abused-now frog shrank back from the onslaught of stupid humans. “Eeeep!”

Eleanor straightened up to glare at her men. “You are scaring it.”

“Yes!” agreed the frog.

“Stop it. The poor thing looks harmless.”

“Hurrah for the gooseberry!”

Fulk sighed, and gestured at the frog with his dagger. “It talks. Frogs don’t talk. It’s probably a demon, or something. We should burn it, before it grows into another Trempwick.”

“Cheap insult, bodyguard, cheap insult.”

Eleanor crouched down to look the frog face to face. “We are keeping it,” she declared.

Fulk and Trempwick exchanged one of those looks which goes “Girls and animals! Gah!”

“And no more comments about frog with garlic.”

The cute little frog preened.

Fulk’s face looked innocent. His words dripped with innocence. He was, like, really, really innocent. “What about frog and beans? Is that allowed?”

Some really interesting arguing later, the four rode away. Nell’s horse sandwiched by Fulk’s to her right and Trempwick’s to her left. The frog sat on her shoulder, feeling a bit like a parrot.

“So, anyway,” the frog was saying, “I’m your amphibian guide. That’s my whole purpose in being in this story, not,” the frog glared at Fulk, “being a snack.”

“Huh,” grunted the knight. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I’ve got all these vague froggy memories, and I don’t think they worked out so well. I think you’re a frog of ill-omen.”

“No such thing.”

“We’ll see,” said Fulk darkly. “If I’m right you’re not having any more pets, oh gooseberry mine.”

Trempwick did some action or something to claim this dialogue as his, but really the author is too lazy to think of what it might be, so invent your own. “For once I agree with the knight. I too have these memories involving frogs …”

“Me too,” admitted Eleanor.

The secret POV …

Nell. Fulk. Trempwick. Hugh. William. Jocelyn. These are the Point Of View characters, the full set, finally revealed and going about their business in their own ways and for their own reasons. Selected carefully, to show each snippet, to reveal each detail. Channelled from raw form to character on the page, from …. there to here, with there being … where they are, where they are alive, where the true forms of each character exists, unmarred by the process of getting from there to the page via a frog.

Under all lies another POV. A secret POV. One POV to rule them all.

One you will not find in shops anywhere, and especially not priced £5.99. It does not come free with selected boxes of cereal either. Though one day there might be a collector’s edition, with a run limited to 1,000 copies and a price of suitably eye-watering levels.

This POV is dangerous.

In which you are subjected to some gibberish.

I knew they’d remember. Hell – if they didn’t there was no justice on this planet. The thought they might not know me scared me. Actually, it hurt. After everything we’d shared …

It was the transition to their world which had done it. They are not used to seeing me here, even in this crazy little comedy world. I don’t belong in their world; we meet elsewhere. At Woburn manner, usually in Nell’s room. It’s not that Woburn, but another one. It’s not chosen, either; it’s just where we tend to appear.

I think I shall admit to the impossibility of explaining it all. Don’t know why I bother; no need to explain to myself what I know in the same way as knowing how to breathe, or swim, or any such thing.

A small voice in the back of my mind suggests rather bitingly that I was explaining it for those who’ll read this, so they won’t break their brains trying to follow it all.

Meh. Can’t explain the unexplainable.

And they’d still break their brains. All I can do is hope they aren’t too attached to them.

Frog … Princess

As much as I appreciated Nell’s letting me ride on her shoulder I was beginning to get a bit tired of it.

So when we stopped I tweaked this and that, et voila: one human me. Now, before you get odd ideas about frog-human hybrid things, no I did not still have flippers! I was perfectly human, perfectly. And yes, I did have clothes! Honestly, some of you people …

Ahem, now, this human me. Er … oh, I can’t be bothered to describe myself again. Just go find one of the older descriptions lying about somewhere, if you really care.

As you can see I look nothing like Nell!

Amusingly, Nell secretly, ever-so-slightly wishes she did look like me. Because by medieval standards I look better. Me, I envy her eyesight something very rotten. Otherwise she can keep her gooseberryness. I like being frogsome. What I don’t like is being so short-sighted I can’t even see the floor well enough not to trip over things, unless they are really big things. As in dead bodies, and larger.

Anyway, so I turned into the human me, all nicely clothed in suitable medieval clothes which, because I have more power here in this story than I do in the real world, fit my hourglass figure properly, instead of being so big on the waist that they hang on the very tips of my hipbones. The sleeves are the right length too; I don’t need to resemble the orang-utan clothes are apparently made to fit these days. This saves me a small fortune in having the clothes taken in by a passing medieval tailor.

They were all staring at me. I can’t blame them; one minute I’m sat on a nice little stone Nell found for me, the next I’m not green any more.

I saw the little sparks of memory firing inside their heads. In uncanny unison they all went, “Oh. You.”

Somehow I didn’t find this flattering.

“Well,” I said, attempting to be jolly, “at least I don’t need to claim to be a princess under a rather froggy curse.”

“I told you,” declared Fulk. “I told you – a frog of ill omen. Would you listen? Oh no, not at all. The knight knows nothing, he’s got rust in his brain. Huh!”

Trempwick smiled nastily. “I would not say you have rust in the brain, bodyguard. That would necessitate your being in possession of one to begin with.”

In which Nell orders someone’s head smote off with a sword. Mightily.

“I am fed up of being lost,” Eleanor declared. “Look – there is a handy cottage with a runny-nosed peasant. It is almost as if we are meant to ask for directions here. So I shall do so, and if anyone wishes to begin arguing with me or declaring we are not lost, well, then I shall simply marry the one who says nothing. So there!” Leaving two incredibly silent men behind Eleanor rode over to the runny-nosed peasant (complete with a veneer of cosmetic grime, a stupid hat and a-historically styled clothes in some fake looking mud-brown colour! No expense spared! This special episode is just like a proper American TV series, like Xena or something!). “Hello there. My companions and I hope you can give us some directions, as we appear to be a little lost.”

Fulk and Trempwick both tried to pretend that the sizzle of her final accusation didn’t touch them, being as they were entirely correct and if their directions had been followed to the letter instead of interfered with by the other the word lost wouldn’t have entered into this work of fiction.

The kindly yokel gorped up at the princess on her milk-white horse. “Who’re you?”

“I am her royal Highness, princess Eleanor of England, daughter of William, sixth of that name, King of England and a whole load of other stuff which I cannot be bothered to list.”

The peasant looked Eleanor up and down. “You? A princess? Can’t be – princesses are tall and shapely, not short and with drainpipe hips.”

Eleanor favoured him with an expression so icy it was a wonder icicles didn’t form on his nose. “I am a princess. Very much so. And I am not that short!”

Frog, knight and spymaster all made their horses take a long step back, knowing their gooseberry as they did.

The peasant wiped his nose on his hand like peasants always do, according to Hollywood. “You’re short. Like five foot two and a half inches – I’m exactly right, I know, so don’t bother to protest. It’s my one big talent: guessing the height of things to the last eighth of an inch. Which means you can’t be princess. Princesses have to be five foot five, minimum. If anyone’s a princess here it’s her,” he pointed a finger at the frog who was trying to look a couple of inches shorter. “She’s a good five-six if I ever saw one. And she’s blond-ish.”

Eleanor smiled.

Frog, knight and spymaster all made their horses take another long step back.

“Cut his head off. With a sword. Mightily.Now.”

“Oh bugger,” said the peasant, believing at last that royalty was indeed speaking to him from the back of a horse.

Nell’s a nice person, you know.
Well, she is. Really. I know her better than anyone, so I’m qualified to judge.

Anyway, the peasant kept his head. What did you expect? She’s not happy about killing people with her own hands, she’s less happy about people being killed for her, so it’s only logical that she’s not happy with heads being lopped when she gets a bit irritable. No, she was using a bit of the distinctive royal temper and old “Off with his head!” bit to prove her credentials. Bit like feeling a pea through a hundred mattresses, but easier to arrange in the middle of nowhere.

Besides, she gets irritable so often there’d be mountains of corpses lying about the place, and that would be unhygienic.

Ooops, I think she heard that. Damn! Gotta run!

The lone knight

Chasing merrily after the fleeing frog, the party made good speed down the road, the merry sounds of Nell’s cries of, “Come back here so Fulk can kebab you, you frog!” bringing smiles to the faces of all they passed.

A good number of miles down the road the party had to come to a sudden halt. There was this bridge, you see, and on it was a knight. He was in armour and stuff, and looked quite solid. You wouldn’t want to mess with him.

At their approach he removed his helmet, revealing a close-cropped golden beard framing a handsome, leonine face. “Halt! You may not pass.”

“Why not,” challenged Fulk.

“Because I bloody well say so,” quoth the mysterious knight.

“And why’s that?” Fulk leaned his arm on his saddlebow in an effort to look like Errol Flynn in his Robin Hood movies. “As I see it there’s one of you and four of us.”

“Because,” roared the knight, “I am looking for something and I don’t want your damned horses trampling it into smithereens, by the balls of Saint Jeremiah! So you can damned well sit there and wait until I find it.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “And what, pray, are you searching for? A mote of dust in the shape of the Virgin Mary?”

The mysterious knight squared his shoulders and stepped to the mouth of the bridge, looking up at the spymaster as he answered, “Do not mock the Lord, nor his signs, nor his favour for me.”

Sensing a battle pending in which one or both of her suitors might get killed, maimed, hurt or otherwise dented, Eleanor attempted to divert attention by asking, “What are you searching for?”

“The Holy Grail,” replied the knight, with the utmost dignity.

Having knowledge of everything in this scene – this story! – which verged on the omniscient the frog-in-human-form sniggered. Holy Grail! Oh yes, he might well call it that!

Fulk gazed sceptically at the rough planks of wood forming the little bridge. “I doubt it’s there. I mean, it’d be noticeable if it were. A cup on a bridge.”

“It might not be a cup,” shot back the knight. “I mean, it could be anything. I just got told it’s the Holy Grail and that I should start my search here.”

“It’s a cup,” said Trempwick. “A cup. The cup. Ill-educated nincompoop.”

The knight ripped his sword from its scabbard. “I don’t know what a nincompoop is, but I’m not ill-educated, you scum-sucking bastard!”

Trempwick made a funny little motion with his empty right hand. “Let me try it in a smaller word for you then, my dear scholar. Idiot. Ill-educated idiot.”

The knight swung his sword, stabbing up at Trempwick. The spymaster heeled his mount into reverse, shooting back a hair’s breadth ahead of the oncoming blade, and drawing a knife.

The unknown knight clawed at the dagger which had sprouted from his throat, gargling something which might have been surprise, or then again a curse. He collapsed into a messy sprawl.

Smirking, Trempwick addressed Fulk. “Take heed, knight. That could be you.”

“Yeah?” growled Fulk. “You and what army? I’d gut you before you could draw – I’m fast, and I wouldn’t attack a mounted man on foot either. Only a moron would do a thing like that.”

The corpse twitched and let out this nasty glugging sound, perhaps protesting at this latest slur on its intelligence.

Eleanor pushed her horse in-between the two men. “Oh please, please stop it! I do not want you to fight. Whatever happened, however it came out, I could never feel quite the same about either of you. Imagine, the man I love killing the man who has been like a father to me, or vice versa.”

Trempwick set a hand on Nell’s thigh. “Poor Nell, my poor dear Nell. I should never wish such a fate upon you. You know I would rather settle this by peaceful means.” He glanced at Fulk. “How about we flip a coin? Heads and she is mine, tails and she is yours.”

“No,” snapped Fulk. “You’d weight the coin somehow.”

“And,” said Eleanor loudly, “I am not some frippery to play dice over!”

“I did not say dice, dearest Nell. I said toss a coin. Pay attention.”

Leaning …

This was not how things were supposed to be going. I looked at Jocelyn lying in a pool of his own blood, hand still curled limply about Trempwick’s dagger in his throat. No – this would not do! It will not be like this. I will not let it.

It’s so very rare for a single frog to change the fate of a world. Even Tolkein knew that, that’s why he ended up with the hobbits and not a story based around frogs like he originally planned. If I’m honest it’s rare for a frog to affect anything. Usually I try and bounce right off, like a ping pong ball hitting a battle cruiser. Sometimes, sometimes, though, I don’t bounce off, and I can feel the world beginning to bend ever so slightly … and then it springs back and knocks me flying, restoring itself to how it was.

And then so very, very rarely, when there’s a crack, where my will is strong enough, where I am determined to change things to another course, where I see a path which will be better than the one which currently lies ahead …

There’s a crack here, and I want things to be different. Very badly. It can’t go like this! I can see what lies ahead if Jocelyn dies now, visions of Fulk burning away in a gout of flame, of Trempwick choking to death on a peanut, of Nell destroyed by the loss of those dear to her, of Anne joining a song and dance troop and travelling the world with her hit musical ‘Princesses just wanna have fun!’.

No.

So I reshape it.

What now is.

Trempwick threw his knife, and strange knight flung himself to one side; the blade skimmed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

Sheet-white the mysterious knight swore, “Bloody hell! That was a right dirty move, you cheating bastard!”

“Stop it,” Eleanor ordered in her best princess voice. “No more fighting, I forbid it. This knight may be able to help us.”

The golden-haired knight swept her a deep bow. “Sir Jocelyn de Andantes at your service, my lady.”

The frog had had enough. This was meant to be a short story, and time was ticking away. “We need him to come with us. Destiny and whatever. And if he comes with us then he’ll find his Holy Grail too. Can we get going now? There’s one more we need to meet, and I’d prefer to find him before dinner time.”

And so magically the scene ended.

&*%!

The final member of this intrepid band of heroes made himself known when they stopped at for a nice pub lunch. Fulk found the little bastard trying to set fire to the building with his army.

“Now look here,” Fulk said to the youth, “we’ve come a long way and we’re on a quest to kill a dragon, and we’d quite like something to eat before you burn the inn to the ground and kill all the locals.”

The youth strutted forward until his nose was nearly pressed to Fulk’s shoulder. “Fuck off!”

Trempwick sighed. “The youth of today is going downhill like a cart on a mountain with no brakes.”

The frog nodded. “The whole lot of them should be flogged. Then executed. Then flogged again. And someone tell them to move out of the way when there’s someone else trying to use the pavement too! I don’t see why I should have to walk in the road with all the oncoming 30 mile an hour traffic just because the vicious little toe-rags won’t move.”

“Fuck off,” chirruped the boy. “I’ll do what I please. I’m a prince, see, and if you give me any trouble I’ll set my army on you.”

Quoth Fulk: “My wife is a princess. Give us any trouble and she’ll set her army on you, and her daddy and big brother and their armies.”

Eleanor leaned close to her beloved knight and complained in a whisper, “You make me sound like a spoiled brat!”

“Sorry, oh gooseberry mine.”

“Mine,” corrected Trempwick loudly. “My wife, and my gooseberry.”

The fiery-headed youth looked from spymaster to knight and back again, a leer pasted on his face. “Cor blimey! She’s got two of them! Bloody hell, she must be good … not that you could tell by looking at her.”

“Oi!” barked Fulk.

“Hey!” snapped Trempwick.

“That is not very nice, and it is quite disgusting as well,” protested Eleanor.

“Meh.” The youth waved a hand dismissively. “Now sod off. I’ve got an inn to burn down, so kindly fuck the hell off. Evil reputations don’t make themselves, you know.”

“Young man,” said the frog, drawing herself up to her full height. “I have had enough of your swearing.”

“Yeah? And what’re you going to do about it?”

“This.” The frog took out a piece of parchment from her pack and scribbled away with a quill.

“Huh,” snorted the prince. “You’re going to write. Big ******* deal!” He clamped his hands to his mouth in horror. “What happened?! What the ****** **** have you done to me, you witch!?”

“Censorship,” replied the frog, with an air of immense satisfaction. “Prince Malcolm Nefastus, swearing is not big or clever, and it doesn’t make you a hardened soldier. It might shock, but it only plays to the expectations people formed of you – you’re playing into their hands.”

“****!”

Jocelyn grinned. “I bet you were the sort of toddler who liked to chant ‘Poo! Poo! Poo!’ because your nurse told you not to.”

“Shut the **** up, you ****** tosser!” Malcolm turned to the frog, face flushed and tears streaking his cheeks. “I hate you!”

“Swearing isn’t the sort of thing a nobly bred knight does,” Jocelyn advised the prince sanctimoniously. “Ladies don’t like it. It isn’t manly. It’s ill-bred, ill-educated, and the sign of a small mind struggling to express itself without sufficient vocabulary to do so.”

The frog muttered, “Or so Richildis tells you.” Louder, and directed at the prince, “We are going to save your sister froma dragon. It might be nice if you came with us.”

The boy’s head pricked up, the flush faded from his face. “Anne’s in trouble? **** this inn – off we go!” He sprang onto the horse one of his men held ready and galloped off without stopped to draw breath. Or ask directions.

“Prince Malcolm,” Trempwick shouted after the fast-receding figure. “It is this way.”

I always liked dragons

True, I did. Proper dragons, you understand. None of those things which are described as looking like dragons but which act like ponies, or what-have-you. Proper dragony dragons. Always wondered what I could do with a story with a dragon in it. There’s the sad thing about pseudo historical fiction: no dragons, no magic, none of the things I’d like to tinker with and try out simply for the sake of having written a dragon and someone blasting someone else with a big icicle.

Heh. Except I know it wouldn’t be like that. There’s be no simply about it. I’d end up with another 1,000 page rough draft manuscript on my hands, filled with some assortment of grey characters and heaven knows what else. I’m not sufficiently interested to want to dabble and end up so deep.

I mean, look at Mr Malcolm Nefastus. A throw away character intended to have a couple of scenes, literally. To do nothing much but provide a bit of colour at the Scottish court. And bam, here he is, strutting and swearing and rescuing Nell a good week in their time before his first appearance was meant to happen. A two-dimensional character with as much depth and screen time as his bastard-brother Alexander, or such was the plan. Instead I’m landed with a princeling with Issues blasting his way across the stage.

At home with a dragon

The dragon was sat at the mouth of the cave. Anne was sat at its … feet? curled up inside the loop of its tail. She was reading a book.

“Haha!” said Fulk, settling his shield into position and drawing his lance. “I’ll kill it in no time, then be off with my wife.”

Malcolm smiled nastily. “Are you sure you don’t mean get off with?”

“That too.”

“My wife,” yelled Trempwick, “and if anyone is going to be doing anything of that sort with her it will be me!”

Eleanor buried her face in her hands. “I want to retire from life. I want to become a nun.”

The frog patted her on the shoulder. “There, there. Things will look brighter eventually. Probably. Maybe. From a certain point of view.”

Jocelyn shrugged his shoulders and declared in muttered French, “I don’t see the damned attraction anyway.” As everyone’s’ eyes settled on him he added with a strained grin, “I mean, in going first to kill the dragon. Not the princess. I can see the attraction there: she’s a princess, for damned hell’s sakes! But surely it’s better to wait until last, let the other chaps weaken or kill the beast, then kill them. Less dangerous.”

“Shut up,” Eleanor told him tartly, in yet another example of the adjective over-use permeating this silly yarn.

“I’ll go first,” declared Fulk, in yet another example of the lazy way in which the author is denoting ownership of dialogue in this shoddy little work. Honestly, one wouldn’t think scribbling down something a bit more inventive than variations of “said” would be that hard! Standards are declining everywhere. “Then we waste as little time as possible.”

“No,” cried Eleanor piteously, clinging on to his arm. “You might be killed!”

Trempwick nodded. “Yes, he might very well. He can go first.”

Jocelyn said helpfully, “I’ll go last, if you like.”

“That’s settled then.” Fulk gently prised himself free of Eleanor’s restraint. He kissed her tenderly. “Beloved, don’t fear for me. Skilful handsome knights always beat dragons, and I’m a skilful handsome knight.”

“That you are,” Eleanor replied through her tears. “And so stories always tell us. But that was small comfort to Beowulf’s wife when he got roasted, and it will be small comfort to me. What use have I for a dragon’s head? What life is worth living without a crook-nosed knight to torment? Who could be so cruel as to wish me alone and without you after so many trials, including what promises to be an entire civil war?”

“Oh my heart,” said Fulk, placing his hand over hers, which were clasped in entreaty like a good classical heroine, “My heart and soul, my one true love, what life to me is worth living without a peevish princess to nag me? Or to insult and belittle me? To boss me about and make me stressed through fear she’ll do something rash and get herself killed? How could I live without you, now I have met you? I’m entirely over my old penchant for beautiful meek girls; I’m a converted man. I want a gooseberry, not a strawberry, not a plum, not even an exotic orange. My mother would be pleased; she always said I needed a woman with a bit more bite. So you surely must understand why I must slay this beast to win your hand.”

Eleanor’s eyes shone with her tears and her love for this man. “My luflych little knight, my most dear heart, surely you must see that you are poor company if all I have left of you is a scorched foot! Let someone expendable go first to weaken the beast; let that Jocelyn go. I do not like the way he watches my bottom when I walk.”

“My love,” Fulk sighed, “My love, as you wish it so I shall let it be, from love for you and in answer to your most heartfelt entreaties, and because I, too, do not like the way Jocelyn watches your bottom as you walk.” His brow wrinkled in noble suffering. “I thought to slay him for it, but believed you had not noticed and thought it may cause you more distress to have his watching brought to your attention. If I had but known you knew I would have lopped his offending parts off long since, and put out his eyes also.”

The frog contributed her opinion to proceedings. “I agree: Jocelyn can go first. He keeps staring at my behind too.”

Trempwick shrugged. “Why not? Let the bearded idiot get killed first, then the bodyguard idiot can die next, the prince can go third, and that leaves me alone with my wife. And we shall depart for home for a bit of honeymooning and kingdom-snatching.”

“I don’t ****** care who goes in what order. I know I’ll be the one to splat that ***** dragon – it’s got my sister and it ain’t getting away with that!” declared young Nefastus hotly.

Shoved to the fore by everyone else Jocelyn nervously advanced on foot towards the great scaled monster. He closed half the distance when Anne looked up and spotted him. She put her book down., marking her page with one finger. “Oh, look! Another knight, William. I do wonder what he wants.”

The dragon raised its great head and blinked its red eyes. “The same as the last few, I expect. No matter, I shall be rid of him too.”

At which point the entire questing party fell over with shock like in one of those Japanese manga cartoons. All except the frog, who knew in advance. She nearly always does.

Eleanor clambered back to her feet. “Father?” she gasped.

The dragon tossed is head, sunlight sparking off its lustrous green scales. “What do you want, brat?”

Fulk pointed at the dragon. “That’s the king!?”

A little lick of flame danced about the earth perilously close to his feet. “Yes, I am your king! And I shall thank you to speak with a trifle more respect!”

“William?” Trempwick tottered forward, legs unsteady and face filled with horrified wonder. “It is you! What happened? We have heard nothing since you left for France; we thought you were dead!”

“I did not make it out of England. I went to bed one night, and I woke up like this on a hillside somewhere. No idea how. Then, a week or so later, I went for a bit of a fly and spotted Anne, so I went down to talk to her, and here we are. We could not go to Waltham, you see, since people tend to run and scream at the sight of me.”

“Ah,” said Eleanor dryly. “They exhibit some sense.”

The dragon swung around to face her and snorted a great cloud of smoke which, for a few moments, completely enveloped her. “Silence, brat!”

Coughing Eleanor waved her hands in front of her face to clear away the smog. “That was not nice.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Trempwick.

Malcolm Nefastus shrugged, like so many people seem to be doing in this story and the other. “I don’t know. I can’t see anything ahead of me at all, like a character in a story for whom the author ran out of ideas.”

“I have an idea,” Eleanor suggested, taking hold of Fulk’s hand and advancing a tentative step forward. “Father, as you owe me a rather large bit of effort towards my future happiness to make up for everything you have done to me, could you let Fulk kill you, please? So I can officially marry him and be happy?”

Steam plumed out of William’s ears, and Eleanor had to jump to one side to escape being burned to a crisp. “No, I jolly well cannot!”

Alas, prince Malcolm Nefastus was not so quick, and he did burn to a crisp. One pair of smouldering boots in a heap of ash, and an echo of one last “****!”

The frog elbowed her way to the fore. This was the moment she had been waiting for. “Ahem. To lift the curse, William, you have to make up for a great wrong you have done. Then, and only then, will you revert to human form.”

“Wrong I have done? I am a king; I do no wrong.”

“Look, it’s getting on and I’d like to wrap this up sometime soon, so I’ll gibe you a big fat clue. It’s Christmas. This is a Christmas comedy special. So in keeping with the over-used maudlin sappy sickening themes of this wretched time of year, you must make peace with Eleanor, and she with you.”

“Oh.” The dragon rested its snout on its front legs as it thought. “How much peace?” he asked after a long time.

“Oh, not that much., Just a bit of understanding and mutual respect.”

“Why should I have to do all the work?” The dragon lunged up onto its feet, bowling Anne from her seat and sending her and her book flying. “She is the one who annoys me constantly. She rebels. She flouts me. She-”

Eleanor interrupted, “Oh, shut up! In case it slips your mind, you are the one who broke my ribs! You are the one who forced me to agree to be betrothed to Trempwick, creating this entire mess, civil war and husband-confusion included!”

“Oh, fine, blame me for everything, same as usual. None of it is your fault, is it? Brat!” Eleanor’s hair and clothes whipped about her in the dragon’s breath as he roared that last word.

“I vividly remember trying not to marry Trempwick – you will not blame me for that!”

Trempwick held up a finger. “Note: she said ‘marry Trempwick’. Therefore she admits she is my wife. Job done, matter closed, and off home we can jolly well go. Come, Nell.”

Fulk rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Oh, piss off!”

Nell rounded on her knight. “Do not tell him to piss off – that is so rude.”

“Don’t you defend him,” Fulk warned. “I’m getting sick of it: you love me, you’re married to me, and always that shifty freak is lingering like a bad smell. There’s no space in any marriage for three people.”

Trempwick gloated, “Shut up, bodyguard, and learn some manners.”

Nell waved a finger under Fulk’s nose. “Shut up. She rounded on the gloating spymaster. “And you shut up.” And finally on the dragon. “And you, shut up!”

Off to one side Jocelyn rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Bloody hell! What a family reunion this is.”

Anne closed her book, marking her place with one finger. “William, just tell her some of the stuff you told me. Then you can go back to being human again. I would prefer that. It is so much more comfortable reading on your lap than curled up in your tail.”

“But-”

The little queen turned pleading eyes up to her husband. “Please?”

The dragon muttered until its head disappeared inside a wreath of smoke. “Oh, very well.” William arranged himself with considerable difficulty so he was face to snout with his daughter. His every breath rippled her hair; he regarded her through slitted eyes. A very long time passed and nothing was said.

“I am waiting,” Eleanor declared with studied dignity.

“And you can wait forever, brat!”

Anne didn’t look up from her book as she chided, “William!”

“Oh, but it is not fair!” the dragon grumbled. “She should have to apologise to me too.”

“I never broke your ribs,” Eleanor pointed out. “Or made you agree to marry a man with designs on the throne.”

“And I never irritated you so much you thought you would die of a seizure!”

Anne: “William!”

The dragon muttered and grumbled. Not looking at Eleanor it managed to spit out, “You cannot force a reconciliation.”

The frog blinked. “You know, that is quite right. And I do hate all this Christmas seasonal fake cheer crap. I’m not Charles Dickens, and anyway of his three Christmas stories one is good, one is tolerable and one is lousy. I don’t want to follow suit. So let’s see if we can’t break the system. William, apologise in your nicest fake voice and pour on the sugar. Nell, accept graciously and apologise likewise in turn.”

The dragon cleared its throat a few times, creating great gouts of smoke and a few flickers of flame. “I am most heartily sorry for everything. Really. I will change my ways if I have it in me.”

“I accept your apology. I forgive you, and will do my best to forget all the ills you did me. I am sorry for any hurt I caused you.”

A more artificial load of sentiment you couldn’t find anywhere, except perhaps in this year’s big budget crappy Christmas rom-com film. It worked, though. How could it not, when it works for those awful films? William the dragon glowed, and shrank, and changed form until he became William the man, neatly clothed so as to avoid offending the sensibilities of those who don’t appreciate the sight of a naked king at 9PM in the evening.

With a squeal of joy Anne dropped her book and flung her arms around her restored husband. “Hurrah! Now can we go home and then we can sit in front of the fire and I can read some more without my feet getting quite so cold as they were here.”

And everybody laughed, except prince Malcolm, who gave off an air of being as joyful as any pile of ash could be. And Fulk and Trempwick both tried to put their arm around Nell’s shoulders, and the arguing started again. And William went to meet his daughter’s persistent suitors, and found them lacking, and the arguing grew. Anne, the cheerful, warm little soul, dived into this growing many-way argument and tried to restore peace and harmony to all, and made herself loved by none for making helpful, fair suggestions like some sort of sharing system whereby Eleanor was married to Fulk one day and Trempwick the next. Jocelyn stayed well out of it, and passed the time by watching Eleanor’s behind as she moved through the fray.

Epilogue: The Holy Grail

Jocelyn picked up the book Anne had been reading, to return it to her. His eye fell on the title, and he laboured to make it out. “The knight’s book. A tome of handy advice on all matters pertaining to the conduct of a knight in matters of sport.” He opened the book up with a murmured, “Sounds like a right handy book, if such a thing exists.” He nearly dropped it on discovering that the book was about what the author termed horizontal jousting. “Jesù bloody Christ! What’s a nice young girl like you doing reading a book like this!?”

Anne went redder than her hair. “I was curious.”

Jocelyn riffled through a bit more of the book to further judge its unsuitability for a nice young lady. “Really this is very unsuitable. For your own good I think I’d better take it away and …. And burn it. Yes, burn it. Later. When no one is watching, in case it lets off perverting fumes. Yeah, that’s it. Fumes.” Jocelyn stuffed it in his saddlebags where it couldn’t lure innocent eyes into perusing the contents by accident, mistaking it for an altogether more harmless book. “Holy Grail indeed …” It had three entire chapters on courtly behaviour and crap, and two of poetry and crap, and even a chapter on how best to win the most disinterested and traumatised of ladies. Richildis was going to love this ….

I don’t know what that was. Obviously it is set after William disappeared but before the civil war proper broke out, and very obviously it is stupid. It’s made up of some ideas I’ve had lingering for ages, most notably the squabbling between Fulk and Trempy with Hugh as judge, and William the dragon telling Nell that he jolly well will not allow Fulk to kill him so she can be happy. I wanted to get Nell, Trempy, Fulk and William back together; I’ve missed writing that grouping and its little sub groupings. Alas, comedy and the alternate world aren’t enough to fill that hunger. It needs the ture characters, world and relationships; it’s those I miss.

It starts a deal better than it ends, but 17 pages in one evening is incredible, silly and poor quality or not. I hope it entertains.

I would say merry Christmas, but it falls more to my nature to say instead: Huzzah! It’s over for another year! Praise be! Yay! Yippee!

Now for New Year, and the sales :(

Specialist, I’m still alive. Barely. It was touch and go on the last day of late night shopping – one person short and record numbers of customers. I was trying to be three different people.

Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing … Hmmm … I’m not terribly familiar with either actor, but I suppose Lee’s Sauramon had the right kind of presence and dignity for William, and when he attacked Gandalf he did have something of the right … physical presence to be a raging king. He looks absolutely nothing like William, though, and his voice … well, it’s actually closer to Trempwick’s than William’s, save that it is the voice of an older man. He has the right dictation. Cushing I only know as Grand Moff Tarkin, and it’s been a few years since I watched Star Wars. Definitely looks nothing like Trempwick, or sounds like and … hmm, I don’t know. Some very slight trace of similarity in delivering lines of the “We will deal with your rebel friends soon enough” type … maybe. But I’d have to see him in action again to really judge.

Ludens

12-27-2006, 00:04

Good to hear you're survived the festive season, Froggy. Thanks for this Christmass gift.
:book:

Yes, I am still here, it's just that anything I wanted to say about your story I said a long time ago ~:thumb: .

Specialist290

12-27-2006, 00:30

Great writing as always, lady frog :beam: Sadly, despite your explanation, my imagination has decided to stubbornly cling to its own mental picture of the characters. My "Trempwick = Cushing" statement probably stems from the fact that I tend to view Trempy as a sort of "Sherlock Holmes" (another role Cushing is known for) in reverse.

As for the story itself, I've currently just reached Fulk and Eleanor's "official" wedding, and I'm hoping to finish the rest (thus far) in one more session. My only complaint about the writing so far: Every time you describe a feast scene, I get hungry. That's probably more due to me than to you, though ~;)

And finally, what better way to enjoy the story than to read it in its native dialect (http://rinkworks.com/dialect/dialectp.cgi?dialect=cockney&url=http%3A%2F%2Fforums.totalwar.org%2Fvb%2Fshowpost.php%3Fp%3D1364282%26postcount%3D642)? (I admit, the translator does come up with some strange results, and there's slight differences every time, but it should still be good for a laugh :beam: )

Keep up the good work!

EDIT: Did I ever mention this place has some straaaaaaaaaaaaaange smiley codes?

EDIT2: ...And I've done it. It took me nine hours in this sitting, and several weeks in total (not counting my first attempt at reading this; I had to start over because I had forgotten most of it), but I can finally say I've done it... Gah...

*grabs a handful of free eyedrops and begins dousing eyes liberally*

Now I can join the clamor of voices calling "UPDATE! UPDATE!" :beam: ~;p

furball

12-30-2006, 23:22

". . . without all the plotty bits." :)

Wonderful story.

scooter_the_shooter

12-31-2006, 15:14

I tried to read this (god it was probably over a year ago now sense I was keeping up with the updates.) I quit for some reason or another, I hope to take it up again soon though.:2thumbsup:

Braden

01-02-2007, 11:49

I really need to re-read this story as it’s been ages since I last read it.

Froggy,

Can I have permission to copy the story off this site and put it into word for my own consumption?

Are you planning on releasing a printable version at any stage?

Are you planning on ending the story…..ever?

frogbeastegg

01-02-2007, 18:17

Eleanor’s vantage point was frustrating. She could hear what was said in the great hall as clearly as if she stood at Hugh’s shoulder. Crouching behind the decorative waist-high wooden wall of the minstrels’ gallery afforded her an aerial view of proceedings. It also meant she couldn’t see facial expressions or fine body language, and was making her knees groan. It was demeaning, being stuffed up here like a guilty secret! Trempwick had taken open part in anything her father had wanted his opinion on.

She shifted position again, dragging her skirts around to bundle up into an impromptu cushion for her knees, and settled down to continue observing.

Nine petitioners came, spoke and left before the one she was here to see was presented. From this vantage point he was little more than a pair of wide shoulders and some brownish-black hair cut in the same style her father had favoured. Henry of Fairford, a minor baron and previously of no import. Formerly a supporter of Trempwick, now here to make his peace with Hugh. Allegedly.

The ex-rebel knelt before Hugh, head bowed. “I surrender myself to you, sire. I wish to fight for you, if you will have me.”

Hugh’s reply was a single word, and it rang through the hall. “Why?”

“I was misled. I see that now. Trempwick lied.”

Hugh leaned forward, bracing his hands on the arms of his throne. “Perhaps you mean my position is stronger than his now, and I appear the likely victor in this unsightly struggle?”

Though his wince was sufficient to make his whole body contract, Henry lifted his head. “Yes. It does appear you’ve more chance of holding your realm together than we believed.”

“I will allow you do not lack courage.” Hugh sat back. His left hand stroked the polished wood of his throne, fingers tracing the design carved into the woodwork beneath his arm. “You are a traitor, to me and again to the cause you adopted.”

“I will not break my oath again.”

“After being broken twice it has no value.”

Eleanor rested her hand on the carved wall and leaned forward to press her face to the decorative cut-out in the shape of a rose she was using as a spy hole. The way Hugh handled this man would set the tone for all the others. If he were too harsh then people would have no reason to come to his side, finding it less risky and more profitable to fight on. Too soft and he would be derided as weak, and face trouble in the future as lords decided the costs of defiance were cheap.

The ex-rebel said, “Then what do you want of me, sire?”

“You will prove your worth to me. You will make recompense for the grief you have given me. You will aid me against my enemies. Then, and only then, will your word begin to have worth once more.”

“My lands, sire?”

“Under my father you held lands valued at eighteen pounds and three shillings per annum, and you held them for six years, nine months and twelve days before your rebellion. This is correct?”

“I … I think so, sire,” stammered Henry. “At least about the time. I know the value is right. It’s the twelve days I’m not sure of.”

Eleanor smiled; one of Hugh’s few tricks, and an impressive one. He had his clerks provide him with all sorts of information on each person presenting themselves for audience, then used it to fuel an illusion of remembering inhuman amounts of detail.

“When you have proven yourself I expect you may keep them.”

Henry’s head dipped lower, his upper body following in an awkward kneeling bow. “Thank you, sire.”

More audiences followed; more people begging for favours, pleading for justice, asking for help, pestering, whining, demanding, posturing, wheedling, trying to wring what they wanted from the crown. Hugh bore it with commendable patience, dealing with each petitioner graciously. Eleanor knew that, had she been the one on the dais, by the time the dispute about grazing rights for sheep was presented she’d have flung up her hands and told the hall that she was not their nursemaid, and that surely any village council with an ounce of wit between them could solve such issues fairly. Or so she dreamed. Far more likely she would have choked down her impatience and done her best to do as Hugh was, steadily going crazy behind the veneer of courteous attention. Duty. That brief word with more weight than iron chains.

When the audience was complete Hugh announced an amnesty. All rebels surrendering to him in the next month would keep their lands on payment of a suitable fine. Those who continued to resist would have no such guarantees.

When Eleanor met up with Hugh in the room behind the rear entrance into the great hall, he asked, “Well?”

“You have the patience of a saint.”

Pausing long enough to brandish a finger in her face and admonish, “Do not be so glib. I need assistance of you, not foolery.” Hugh led the way to the solar. “Tell me what you think of it.”

“It tallies with what we have been hearing: Trempwick’s cause is crumbling. His support is beginning to ebb.”

“But is it truly?” Hugh halted and turned to face her. “That man is a viper. He lies, he deceives, no underhand trick is beneath him. Could he be misleading us somehow?” He shook his head. “When dicing with the devil one does well not to discount the least thing, and to mistrust all.”

Eleanor cocked her head to one side. “That army has had its cause snatched from beneath its feet, and its leader shown for a liar. I hardly imagine it will be in the best of states.”

“Yes.” Hugh’s brow wrinkled, and he began walking again. “That is the crux of the matter. I am aware of what the correct strategic move here is, and only too aware of how it could be turned to entrap me. I should gather my force and go in to apply the final; pressure to his crumbling support, bring this at last to an end. Yet if he is luring me in …”

“You could find yourself out-manoeuvred, out-numbered, and defeated.”

“Yes. And you can tell me little.”

“I inherited a mess. Trempwick has seeded his own people amongst mine. I cannot trust any of them. Weeding out the good from the bad will take … I hate to think how long.”

“Which means you are, in effect, useless, except for you knowledge of the man. So tell me from that, is it possible he is seeking to trap me by appearing weaker than he is?”

Knowing what was at stake Eleanor did not hurry to answer. If Hugh went on the offensive and marched into a trap his cause would be as good as lost; his army destroyed, himself captured, killed or forced to flee. However, if he did not follow up on this weakness he could give Trempwick time to stabilise his position. She considered each blow Trempwick had been dealt, and searched out every way he might use it, how each blow and counter might mesh together to form differing circumstances for her former master.

They had entered the solar before she answered. “I do not believe he is standing strong.”

Hugh poured some wine, plunging a heated poker into each goblet to warm it. He held a cup out to her. “I need you to return to … your husband. Bid him to march south to meet me with all speed.”

“You intend to take him to war with you?” A fool’s question. Eleanor cupped her hands around the warm metal of her goblet, letting the warmth seep into cool flesh. “He has his own lands to subdue – your border.”

“He has two-thousand men. I need them.” He seated himself, legs crossed. “With fortune he will be absent no more than a matter of weeks. In the time he is not present you will be, and you have men of your own. You will hold my border.” He raised his eyebrows in the face of her forming objection that she was not capable. “You are the wife of a Marcher lord – you chose that, yourself and no other. You cannot now protest when I require you to act as one.”

He was right, damn him. Quietly she said, “I will need an advisor, Hugh. I will need a … commander.”

“Sir Gervaise is well able to act as either; he has a lifetime of experience on that border. It was not for nothing that our father entrusted Alnwick to him. I will provide you with documents requesting him to serve you in that capacity until he hears otherwise.”

Eleanor took a good swallow out of her wine. “Well, then, it seems I have all I need to hammer the Scots, fend off the Trempwickites, subdue my own rebels, and dispose of any unwanted princes who darken my door. Hugh, Fulk was positive of that: the Scottish king is sitting on his hands, he has not issued the call to muster yet. He does not intend to help. His son, to the contrary, is raising an army.”

“I am aware.” Hugh sighed. “I can but hope I defeat Trempwick in time to swing North and grant you what support you need, if it should come to that. You must hold the devil’s spawned brat if he attacks.” His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You may think ill of me for this … yet it is but prudent. Anne must remain here, with Constance. Together they will return to Waltham.”

“A hostage,” Eleanor stated.

“Yes, in the best conditions and with not a word of that status breathed. I gave my word to our father that I would see her safe and provided for; you need have no concern for her well-being. I would die sooner than harm her.”

“But her family do not know that.”

“Just so. From your …” Hugh frowned, and changed his wording with deliberate effort. “From Alnwick’s reports we may need all we can lay our hands upon to safeguard ourselves.”

Calling Fulk by his title was an improvement to the grudgingly mouthed “your husband”. Perhaps Hugh would not strangle Fulk on sight. Ah, and there was a problem. Eleanor sat bolt upright. “Hugh, this means I will not be present when you first meet Fulk.” And God alone knew what the pair might do to each other without her there to smooth the waters!

Hugh mangled a most unpleasant smile. “I have faith we may manage without you.”

“It may be better-”

“Dear sister, it will be better. The man will have to stand on his own.”

Eleanor stood to leave; he’d gone into one of his moods again, as was so often the case when Fulk was mentioned, and she had no care to remain. “With your permission I will begin to prepare for my departure. The sooner I leave the sooner I am reunited with him. Of all the time we have been married we have spent more than half of it apart; too much for my liking.”

“Nell?”

Eleanor turned back. “Yes?”

“It is a delicate matter, and one on which it is not my place to interfere. However …”

“Yes?”

Hugh spoke though clenched teeth. “Tell that husband of yours that, while I am far from ignorant to the realities of life, I will view any slight to you as an insult to myself. I shall not tolerate his giving others a cause to snigger at your expense. Expecting him to remain faithful is unrealistic; he will comport himself with the utmost discretion.”

Eleanor ducked her chin so he couldn’t read her face. She did not want him to see how badly the possibility hurt. “He will grow tired of me one day, but not yet a while.”

With surprising gentleness Hugh told her, “It is not a case of growing tired. Or of loving any the less. Not always.” He took a breath. “But it is not a fit subject for a man to speak of with his sister.”

“I shall pass on your message.” Like hell she would. Or perhaps she might.

Once more her move to leave was stopped by her brother’s quiet voice. “Nell? Sometimes it is abject loneliness, and trying to alleviate it. Keep that in mind.”

Knowing it was unfair as she said it, and not caring, Eleanor retorted, “A fine thing for you to say, when you are the one keeping him from me.” She left. Any more of his efforts at consolation and she was afraid she’d burst into tears.

Ludens: I survived, and I’ve got 9 months to become a millionaire author so I don’t have to do it again next year. Best get busy :stupido:

Specialist: Congratulations on surviving :tongueg:

Native dialect?! That’s Chav-speak! Like American Redneck, but with more cheap gold jewellery. :shivers:

The smiley codes have a history to them. All the ones with a ~ before them are the original smilies we had on the old board. The rest are cut up into a couple of categories because having them all on one page took ages to load, even with broadband.

Furball: it had its moments. :gring:

Ceaser010: you stopped reading because you were quitting all internet forums, IIRC.

Braden: if you print it you will need two reams of paper. It’s 1,000 pages long, give or take a bit depending on format and font. 1,000 pages when it’s not spaced out for the forum. Two reams ends up as a stack of paper 3-4 inches thick. Intimidated yet?

The end is very close.

Specialist290

01-02-2007, 22:36

Lady frog,

If my link has in any way been construed as an insult or a slight to you or your work, then I feel it my duty to offer my humblest apologies, as neither of those was the intent of--

...Hey, wait a minute! Comparing my esteemed native tongue to the likes of young urban hooligans? Now I'm the one who feels insulted! ~:angry: The Redneck dialect is a proud language with a long history, being as it is descended from the Elizabethan English which our forefathers brought with them to these hills from the shores of Old Virginia, which in turn was brought by their forebears from Merrie Auld England herself, akin to the language in which none other than the venerable bard Shakespeare composed his epic volumes! To have my own manner of speech debased in such a way is most insulting! :gah:

( ~;p ~:joker: ~;) )

Keep up the good work, froggy! ~:)

scooter_the_shooter

01-04-2007, 02:12

I had to restart the story sense I couldn't remember where I left off before and I gotta say it's still great. I am on the 11 page of the thread.

And secondly I apologize for my last post I didn't realize when I wrote it, but now looking back at it, it looks pretty rude.:oops:

PS

I was reading it at the other forum when this one was down and I think it said somewhere that you were trying to publish blood red hand. Is this true and if so, will we be able to get it off amazon?

Braden

01-04-2007, 15:42

1,000 pages huh? So the copy I have that’s “only” 856 pages long (Verdana 10, 2cm borders) is a quite a long way from being complete then??

Intimidate me…nope! :laugh4:

Pretty sure I’m not going to print it all out but perhaps a Word and an Acrobat version would be a start.

Looking forward to the end, are you considering approaching a publishing house at all about it?

Basically, I’m willing to go to the effort of transferring the text from forum to Word purely for my Wife. She loves these kinds of stories you see – should have been borne in the era – and it’s going to be a present for her one day.

Vladimir

01-05-2007, 18:58

The end is very close.

NOOOOOOOO! :gah2: :end: :gah2:

I haven't been posting because I didn't want my lousy mood to polute the thread, but this is too much to bear!

I do realize, however, that after 1000 pages (double sided?) "near" is a bit relative. Really though, the end? :inquisitive:

Ludens

01-07-2007, 01:04

The end is very close.
I would suppose writing the end is going to be the hardest part, especially in such a complex story as this. Are you going for one climactic end scene, or are going to spread it out over several scenes?

Happy birthday, froggy.

Edit: drat, three minutes too late!

Specialist290

01-07-2007, 01:40

*doublechecks birthday list*

Hpy bday, froggy! ~D :beam:

Peasant Phill

01-07-2007, 09:32

Happy birthday

Vladimir

01-08-2007, 19:12

Another birthday? Again? I've been working here too long. Have a good one lady frog :balloon2:

scooter_the_shooter

01-09-2007, 02:29

I am finally caught up! from beginning to now in less than two weeks I'd bet.:dizzy2: it's the most I have read in a long time.

Anyway, I am hoping to see how this turns out, even though the end seems to be near with the whole Trempwick, Fulk, Eleanor, Hugh thing... that leaves many loose ends. What will Happen to Anne or Jocelyn? Or even more minor characters like Godit.

Edit, I was wary to post that post apocalyptic story here because of some of the content....but after reading this I realize there was no need to be worried at all.:dizzy2:

frogbeastegg

01-22-2007, 20:56

News from the absent frog.

Firstly, thanks to everyone who voted for me in the HOF :bow: I feel even worse about the lack of updates; repaying such loyalty with a lack of story. :shame:

I have been having a lot more of those computer problems which have been plaguing me for the last 4 months. I didn't like to post about it for the same reason I never have: I don't like to advertise a mod absence. Besides, before I've always managed to get it all working agsain soon enough that I can post an update without too bad of a delay. This time, however, it's not looking so good. I can read the net. I can manage posts, with difficulty. That's all. I can't write, I can't play games, and half the time I can't even get into windows. Huh, presently I can't get past the 'cofigure your BIOS' screen; it's not recognising my keyboard and somehow it has lost all of its settings. So I've borrowed the crappy laptop with the crappy keyboard and the crappy screen.

I'm getting a new PC. The bad news is that I'm not likely to have it until a week from now. I don't expect to be able to write until then; unless I can somehow force my dying motherboard to recognise it has a keyboard plugged in I can't reset the BIOS, and so can't boot the PC. ~:mecry:

furball

01-23-2007, 00:24

Best of luck, ma'am. I've missed you.

Ludens

01-23-2007, 18:42

I hope it works it out this time. You seem singularly unfortunate when it comes to computers :thumbsdown: .

Warluster

01-24-2007, 09:46

Vladimir

01-25-2007, 00:13

Well I think that more people of the world can read this story if it stays right here. I still would love to buy a book and would probably send a dozen as gifts.

Andres

01-25-2007, 00:23

A book? You mean paper? A real book? With illustrations?

:jumping:

Can't wait for mine, signed by the author I must insist.

Dear Andres,

Enjoy the reading of my first masterpiece! Guess this will be easier then staring at your old rotten 17" screen.

Yours sincerly,

(signed) froggy

Prince Cobra

02-01-2007, 13:49

Aye, I came in to the mead hall, and checked out your story, aye, I haven't read the whole lot(not yet) but from what Ihave read, I am deeply impressed. I feel lucky to the fact we get to see the book before it goes on the Book Store Shelves. Have you ever thought of Publishing this book? it would be a great to see this book published and all the other people in the world able to see this book.

Good luck, Warluster! I am the same somewhere in the middle of the story. Even worse since I promised to read this story until the end of the summer :wall: . Hope not get stabbed because of this( place for a little joke: the guards of the boyar Stephen Asen are on high alert to prevent an attempt of assassination by angry goosberry). But this is a good story really.

frogbeastegg

02-03-2007, 00:40

Still waiting for the new PC; there was a delay in getting the RAM I wanted ~:(

Since I can’t write properly I laboriously put this little story together; my shoulders and fingers ache to prove my labours hard-going. With a lot of work I’ve managed to iron out the worst of the craptop induced typos and get it spaced out to be readable on the forums. It’s taken me … oh, four or five times as long as it usually does to write this much; most of a week. It’s quite rough quality too.

I’ve never been a short story frog; of the many I have read, very few I enjoyed. I’ve never been successful at writing them either, or had much interest in trying. There simply isn’t space to do most of the things I like, such as developing complex, evolving characters. Not having access to my Eleanor manuscript (copies are safe on my desktop’s two hard drives, so don’t panic!), and not wanting to try and tackle a series of more difficult scenes with this God-awful keyboard, but needing to write, a short story was my only choice. Choosing this particular snippet of the greater story seemed … right. It is quite timely.

This is Fulk, eight years old.

The Noble Page

His father’s new page. Fulk leaned out of the window for a better view at the figure on the ground part hidden by the horses. Henry de Rouen. The new page. Fulk pushed away from the window and headed for the stairs down, whistling at Will to get the other boy to fall into place at his heels.

The new page. A noble. And for all the world he stood there like a lost sheep, watching all about him with quick eyes like he was scared. Fulk deftly threaded his way through the flurry of men and horses.

“You’re Henry de Rouen,” he said, stopping before the newcomer and tucking his thumbs in his belt, chin raised and muscles arrogantly loose in a pose one of his father’s household knights had been fond of until an arrow had gone in his eye and through into his brains and killed him.

Grey eyes looked him up and down from a face which gave nothing away. “I am. And you are?”

“I’m Fulk. I’m the lord’s son.” He waited. Muscles tensed; he hated himself for that. He shouldn’t care what this new boy thought. And anyway, he hadn’t outright said what he was, and nor had he lied, so he’d nothing to be ashamed of and this Henry couldn’t pick at him either.

Across the bailey hailed a voice, “There you are!” Old Edwin. Not that boys ever called him that to his face, but there was no denying it – he was old. His hair was a shock of iron-grey, and he was made out of tanned leather and he’d got more scars and lines than any living man in the whole world. Nothing could kill him, it was whispered amongst Walton’s children. He’d come through fight after fight and here he was, master at arms for the lord. He’d once had his head cut off but he’d just picked it right back up and stuck it on his bleeding neck and healed like it was nothing. Will said he’d seen the scar running all about his neck once, but Fulk didn’t believe him. Will was a stupid liar.

And that was that, no further chance to talk. Old Edwin had the older boy firmly tucked under his wing and was leading him away, asking about baggage and stuff. All Fulk could do was trail after, Will lagging at his own heels, all but ignored. So he didn’t. He left; took Will and went to practice sword and shield work.

“He’s so stuck up.”

“He thinks he knows more than we do just because he’s a few months older.”

“But he doesn’t.”

Wat cuffed his nose. “Alright! Alright! I wish I hadn’t asked. So the new boy’s a pain, I get it.”

Fulk flopped back to lie on the grass, arms providing a pillow for his head. “I bet he can’t fight worth a damn. I bet he’s soft.”

“Yes,” agreed Will. “He’s too interested in dancing, if you get my meaning.”

Fulk nodded sagely, pretending he did. Wat nodded too; Fulk bet he didn’t get it really, and that Will didn’t know what he’d said. They didn’t hardly ever manage to understand any proper men’s talk; they were just boys. “He puts on all those airs and sticks his nose in the air and acts like he’s fully twice his age, but I bet he couldn’t get anything else up.” He knew what that one meant, having heard an arguing woman toss it at her husband with a eye-popping amount of explanation. They knew too – he’d explained it to them ages and ages ago, and they’d all laughed.

Will made a disgusted noise. “And they all make such a fuss over him.”

“Such well-formed letters.” Fulk’s mimicry of the priest who taught letters to the chosen few had his audience laughing. Not himself, no, not a glimmer of mirth there. He plucked a blade of grass and nibbled at the end of it. “I’m better – my hand’s neater. I saw his stuff and it wasn’t that special at all. They only make such a fuss because he’s a noble. Must be. I don’t see why they would otherwise.” He’d been shoved to one side, because he was just a bastard.

An unexpected forth voice answered from behind them all. “It’s called making a newcomer feel welcome, which in turn’s called manners. Something none of you have.”

Fulk scrambled to his feet and turned to face Henry, fists clenched and ready to fly in defence if need be. “You sneaking spy!”

The older boy held himself curiously erect, like some sort of statue. And he was doing it again, looking at Fulk like he was some sort of inferior. “You were loud enough for any to hear.”

Will and Wat closed up behind Fulk like a little shieldwall. He return Henry look for look, disdain for disdain, trying to imagine the other boy was a lump of turd on the ground and that he was a knight. “We were talking privately. You were eavesdropping, you sneak.”

Henry shifted his stance a little, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet to be better balanced. “Lord William’s so nice I bet this is your peasant blood speaking. I hear that always runs true.”

“That is not true!” shouted Fulk. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white. And he knew he’d done it again. He’d given away his weak point to yet another sneering noble git. “I am not a peasant.”

Flicking a careless hand at Fulk’s companions, the new page said, “Look at the company you keep. A farmer’s brat and some man at arms’ whelp training to be yet another common sword waver. I wondered right from the start, I’d never heard that Lord William had a son. So I asked about you.”

“I am my father’s son, and his only son-”

“And a pity it is. He’s got no heir.”

Fulk jabbed his thumb into his breastbone. “I’ll be his heir. I’m the only son he’ll ever need.” The words slipped away before he could think; he wasn’t supposed to know about that. He’d overheard his parents talking.

“You’ll be mucking out horses and running errands when he’s dead, bastard boy. You can’t be his heir. Only trueborns can inherit. It’s the law, bastard. You’ll be a servant, bastard.”

“Call me that one more time-”

“Bastard.”

Fulk hurled himself forward, right fist fainting high while his left came around and connected solidly with Henry’s stomach as the other boy tried to dodge. His fist smashed his foe’s lips as he began to recover, paired with another blow to the stomach. Henry went down. Fulk booted him in the ribs, once, twice. “Where’s your stupid words now?”

Rolling in an effort to get away, Henry spat blood. “Bastard.”

It was easy to wrap his hands around the other boy’s neck as he flailed vulnerable, easier to tighten his grip until those stupid grey eyes began to bulge and his stupid face went red. “I will be a knight, and I will be a better bloody knight than you and all your sort. I’ll be the best knight that ever was and that there ever will be!”

Hands dragged at his shoulders. “You’re killing him!” screamed Wat. “Will – help!”

Will began to prise at Fulk’s grip, and between them the two managed to haul Fulk away though he struggled and kicked.

Fulk stood panting for breath, his friends keeping their hold on his arms, loosening it after he stayed quiet for a time. Henry was clutching at his throat, also gasping. Fulk was mesmerised by his neck; the marks of his own fingers stood out in a necklace of blooming bruises. The invulnerability of rage ebbed, and what he’d done dawned on him. Shrugging his friend’s holds off, Fulk turned and fled, away from the clearing, away from the village, away from everyone.

Fulk returned home when the sky was beginning to redden, after wandering about aimlessly, sick to his heart. He’d nearly killed someone. He’d let his stupid feelings get the better of him again.

He could guess what to expect – Henry would have blabbed everything. Sure enough, his mother looked up and immediately told him, “Your father has been looking for you.”

Knights didn’t drag their heels or mope when the time came to die in glorious battle. “I’ll go up to the manor.”

“Not before I tend to your hand.”

Fulk looked down at the ragged clots on his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It will if it becomes infected.”

Knowing better than to argue Fulk let her clean the splits in his skin, smooth a salve into his raw flesh, and wrap a bandage about his knuckles to keep all clean.

As she worked in silence Fulk wondered, could Henry have been right? He knew he had inherited his mother’s rich brown hair and eyes, and a certain part of her slender grace. Yet the rest of him promised to follow in his father’s mould. If looks split up like that then why couldn’t the rest of him too? Why couldn’t he have part of his father’s noble blood?

As she tied the bandage off neatly, his mother said in a low voice, “If you continue to fight one day you will lose. On that day I will have nothing left to me.”

Fulk bowed his head. Having come close to killing someone today his own death no longer seemed such an alien concept.

“Are you so ashamed to be my son?”

“No! That’s why I fight – because I hate them insulting us.”

“You will succeed only in driving the comments to where you can’t hear them. You won’t stop them. Not that way.”

In his heart of hearts Fulk knew she was right. As soon as he revealed his weakness people seized on it, bad people anyway. Many others didn’t care. Some few held a little awe for him, because of his father being the lord; Wat was one such, his younger cousin Cicely another. “Then how?”

“School yourself to outward indifference. Make it so such comments have no hold on you. Those who would hurt you seek a reaction; give them none and they’ll tire of it.” Standing, she gave him a little push towards the door. “Now, go. Before he comes back here stamping and muttering and exclaiming over what a wolf cub he’s sired.”

Fulk grinned; wolf cub was more than half complimentary, and they both knew it.

“Henry insisted he fell down some stairs.” Fulk’s father glared down at his son. “You, however, will tell me the truth.”

Fulk twiddled his thumbs behind his back. “He insulted me. A lot. About being a bastard.” So Henry hadn’t gone crying for vengeance. Fulk felt a bit bad about thinking he would.

“So you strangled him.”

“We fought. I won.”

“Ignobly.”

“I’m not noble,” Fulk said defiantly.

Fulk’s father raised his eyebrows. “Boy, there are two kinds of noble, for all that it’s meant to be one and the same and bred in blood and bone. Noble of birth, and noble of deed. While you aren’t the first you damned well can be the second.”

Fulk looked up to meet his father’s eyes in anguish. “He said I’d be nothing but a servant when you died. It’s true. I’ll have nothing, and nowhere to go.”

“Every man is a servant, even the king.”

“Not an honourable servant like a liegeman, a menial. A stable-sweeper or something.”

“No son of mine will sweep stables.” William laid a big hand on his son’s head. “Mind your lessons and learn well, and I’ll see you are made a knight. A place will be found for you; I’ll see to that. With the talent you’re hinting at many lords would be glad to give you hearth space.”

“And I’ll have to watch as Walton is handed on to another.”

One corner of William’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I do not intend to die for a great many years yet.”

Fulk couldn’t see it happening either. His father was tall and strong, and he did well in feats of arms, and he knew so much there must be no limits to his knowledge, and he was stern to his peasants and foes, and so kind when he was with his little family. He was the most marvellous man in the world. How could such a man die?

The smile was smoothed away into what Fulk called the lord’s face, the stern look which it had borne when he first entered the room. “Well, my little wolf cub, now I’ve two pages it seems I’ve twice the trouble. One lies and tells me nothing, which is noble in its way but a habit he must break when I ask for information. And as for the other, as my son you’ve responsibilities to my guests, and to my followers. Including pages you take a dislike to. Responsibilities such as not trying to strangle them, and not bursting into jealous fits which provoke answering insults.”

Fulk winced. How did his father always know everything!?

When he saw Henry was soaking in the stream Fulk almost turned around and went to find another spot where he could lick his wounds in peace. Too late – the other boy spotted him, and to leave now would look like cowardice. Fulk stiffened his back and walked on.

Something had to be said. Fulk felt like a right fool as he stripped his clothes off in silence with the other boy watching. “You were brave. There were three of us.”

Henry tried to smile through his torn lips. “I didn’t think they’d do anything but watch. You, on the other hand, I didn’t reckon to be three in one.”

“I had a lot of practice.” Fulk dropped his shirt onto the pile of clothes and waded into the water. The icy chill had an immediate effect on the stinging welts on his back.

“I hate fighting. I want to travel. I want to see the whole of Christendom. But I’m the first son, so I’ve got to be a knight.”

Fulk offered his own dream by way of trade. “I want to be a great knight. I’ll have a wolf as my emblem and everyone will have heard of me.” On his walk out to the stream he’d been thinking over and over it all, thinking over everything. Decisively he added, “A noble knight.”

The mockery he expected didn’t come. “Before you can be a noble knight you’ve got to be a noble squire.”

“And a noble page, too,” Fulk acknowledged.

Henry sat down on the streambed so the cool water flowed over his own set of stripes. “You’re not born to it.”

Fulk’s right fist clenched, pulling at the scabs. He took a deep breath and willed his flush of anger away. It was so hard to do.

Henry seemed to watch his inner struggle; once it was won he said, “But many who are never manage it, not really. Not in more than name. So maybe you might become properly noble in deed, and then people won’t take so much notice of the rest.”

“And maybe you might manage it in more than blood also, if you didn’t bait others.”

“I might.” Henry threw Fulk a silly little salute. “So, you have a tongue that shows promise as well as teeth and claws.”

Fulk shrugged, affecting to be uncaring when the comment pleased him absurdly. “Oh, it’s nothing I try for. Must be natural talent.”

I’m not much cop at titles, but I rather like this one. At first the noble page appears to be Henry, but at the end it’s clear it’s Fulk. Or so I hope …

Going to go now. My shoulders ache something fierce; I can’t stand to type any more.

furball

02-03-2007, 02:09

Thank you for the read. Best of luck with the new computer!

naut

02-03-2007, 12:30

Yes more late nights reading.

:bow:

Ludens

02-06-2007, 13:14

Nice job. I liked the opening better than the ending. The latter struck me as being somewhat rushed, although I can't really say why. It seemed to lack the froggy-touch ~:) .

frogbeastegg

02-15-2007, 20:31

Quick update: still waiting for the PC. Long story; to save copying information check this topic (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?p=1429061#post1429061). Rest assured I am going forth to kick Aria in the nuts until they give me my PC! Never, ever buy anything from them. This may be down to their tech problems, but still it sucks completely and their response/customer service has left much to be desired.

Am working on another short story for the meantime. It's slow, painful; progress. This laptop is so bad for writing on. It hurts my eyes. It hurts my fingers. It hurts my shoulders. Ten minutes leaves me feeling like I've spent the night sleeping while twisted into some insane position. On the floor. In a draught. With someone perodically kicking me.

Peasant Phill

02-16-2007, 00:09

Don't worry lady frog, your loyal fanbase is willing to wait.

Ludens

02-16-2007, 20:32

Don't worry lady frog, your loyal fanbase is willing to wait.
:yes:

frogbeastegg

02-24-2007, 16:44

The first half of that other short story; I scraped the version I was working on on the laptop and started afresh, with much better results, I feel. This one is a young Nell, simply because I have missed writing Nell/Trempwick interaction. The other half will follow soon, tomorrow evening or Monday.

Two immovable objects

Part 1

I stared and I stared, my chin propped on my hands and my legs swinging, swinging but not enough I could be accused of fidgeting. Boring! I already knew the answer – I’d figured that out ages ago. If I said so then Trempwick would just shift the pieces about and set another. So I didn’t say a word. Where’s the point? More boredom, and maybe a puzzle I can’t solve. At least this way I got to think.

Yawn. I didn’t dare really yawn, but Trempwick couldn’t tell I was thinking it. Boring, boring, boring!

I must have given my lack of attention away somehow. Trempwick looked up from the book he was reading. “Have you found the answer, dearest Nell?”

“No, master,” I mumbled, like a good meek princess who absolutely isn’t lying at all.

He turned a page in his book and shifted his shoulders to remove the crick you get from sitting and reading for longer than is sensible. “A pity. I had expected you to see it much faster. No matter, there is no need for haste. Our meal will wait until you are done.”

The thing about this master of mine is that, unlike all my old tutors, he isn’t stupid. Nor does he assume I am. He’s got me by the neck! Either I sit here and starve – and I’m starving already, lunch was hours ago – or I spit out his answer and prove I lied. Either way he’ll say it’s beneficial for me. How did he grow up to be so cunning? Most people don’t. Most people don’t make everything into a way where they win no matter what.

I sat and pretended to think for some minutes longer, then I picked up the right-most pawn and dumped it back down one square further on. And with such moves mighty infantry regiments clashed with a battle of knights, and the nearby castle’s garrison felt threatened by siege. Or something. Chess is really so silly, and if you try to make sense of it like that it only gets dumber.

Trempwick gave me a rather acid smile. “Well done, sweet Nell. Not so hard, was it?”

“No, master.” How did he know that I knew the answer ages before this?

He went off to tell the servants to bring our meal – I hope! – and I didn’t move, I stayed sat at the chess board and tried not to look too bored in case he came back suddenly. Dogs and princesses needed to be trained to sit and wait without running amok and making a mess everywhere, he once told me. Where he got that comparison from I don’t know, it’s not like I try to eat his shoes or anything.

After a bit I picked up the book he’d left lying on his chair. Being ever so careful to keep his page with my finger, I glanced at the opening. It was in Latin, and a bit of a struggle to read, but I was making slow and steady progress when Trempwick came back.

“A life of your grandfather, my dear Nell. His deeds, his achievements, his family, the events of his reign.”

“Yes, master.” My grandfather had been a dreary man, it seemed. All peace and justice and donations to churches and stuff. Must have been a product of old age, because I heard loads of stories about how he fought the Duke of Brittany, and then the King of France, and the Scots, and the barbarous Welsh, and even sent some men over to Ireland to fight the wild men there. “Master?”

“Yes, Nell?”

“Why doesn’t the chronicler say anything about the wars?”

He scowled at me. “You speak like a peasant, Nell.”

That’s not true; I speak like a proper noble, in any of my languages. Trempwick says I have to speak like royalty before I can pretend to speak like anyone else, and that I have to be natural whether I’m speaking like myself or like someone else. I don’t see why. Surely as long as I sound right it doesn’t matter which I use when speaking with him? That’s not something to say to Trempwick though; he wouldn’t like it. “Sorry, master. Why does the chronicler not say anything of my grandsire’s wars?”

Trempwick began to pack away the chess board; I hurried to help him. That meant no more stupid puzzles today, hurray! As he set the white king back in his space in the carved rosewood box, Trempwick said, “How far did you read?”

“Not far, only the introduction, master.” It was a dull book about a dull man, and I was only looking at it because I had nothing else to do. Why would I read far?

“Then there is your answer, beloved Nell.”

“I do not understand, master.” I dropped a handful of pieces back into the box, biting the corner of my lip at the clatter they made and half expecting a rebuke for my clumsiness.

He looked at me sharply, staring, probing for I don’t know what. Then his face softened just a tiny bit, which is like saying the snow began to thaw because one tiny patch had gotten a bit soggy. “Sometimes I forget how young you are, dear Nell.” He plucked the new lot of pieces I’d picked up from my hand, none too gently. “Others it is entirely to evident. Exercise some care in future.”

I bowed my head and tried my best to appear contrite. “Sorry, master.”

He waved me away from the table, I guess to reinforce the fact I was no longer to be trusted. “Think, Nell. Why might the chronicler choose to emphasis such achievements, and what might it mean?”

“If I knew that I would not have asked, master.” Sometimes a little boldness got one far with Trempwick. Others it found you kneeling on a cold stone floor with your hands behind your head until your arms dropped off.

“I said think, not ask,” he snapped.

I tried not to cringe; that cold floor was beckoning. “Sorry, master.”

“You have a mind in that head of yours, and I am weary of seeing you let it go to waste, my dear Nell. Think. You have done more than sufficient idling for the day.” He shut the lid on his chess piece box with a slam; so much for taking care with it. “I cannot abide people who do not think. Worse than cattle.”

His tirade was interrupted by the servant bringing our food. I was glad; it is so rare for him to let his temper slip so. He kept his mouth shut until the man set down the tray and left. By the time he spoke again he’d regained control of himself. “It disappoints me to see you being less than you could be, dear Nell. You were wasted before I accepted you as my pupil, and I dislike the thought that I am failing to make you all you could be.”

I felt a bit sorry for him, to be honest. He was right, before he became my tutor I was stuck with fool after fool who insisted on trying to force me to fit their plan instead of adapting that plan to suit me. I spoke in Latin, to show his efforts hadn’t been entirely wasted. “I am still growing.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “I should hope so, beloved Nell. You aught gain a few more feet at least.” He held up a finger in that traditional pose used by every artist drawing lecturing people. “Now, think. Try to answer your own question.”

Think I did, and think some more. “Because,” I said slowly, uncertain if this was right or if it was plain foolish, “then last years of his rule were peaceful? So people forgot about the wars?”

To my relief Trempwick nodded. “That is a contribution. Furthermore, the author himself is predisposed to focus on peaceful achievements. Tell me why, and tell me in langue d’oil.”

I wasn’t very good with the courtly French used on the other side of the Narrow Sea; I’d only been learning it for a half-year. I fumbled to get the right words for the idea I had. “He was a … monk. Liked church building.”

“Yes, correct. So now you have your answer.”

I suppose I did: monks were tiresome and only wrote about the dull bits.

Trempwick seated himself at the table and began to serve out the food. Each trencher received several juicy slices of roasted pork and a splodge of stewed apples. Two bowls of herby pottage were already filled and ready to eat; he placed one beside each trencher, adding a fist-sized lump of crusty brown bread.

I stood waiting, my hands clasped at my back. To move in ahead of time might result in his remembering his displeasure with me and leaving me to starve. My empty stomach growled in anticipation.

Lastly he picked up a rectangular lump wrapped in cloth. I watched closely; if it was what I thought … It was: cheese, proper hard cheese, not the cheaper unset stuff we usually had. Divine!

Trempwick picked up a knife and began to cut the cheese; he bade me, “Sit down.”

Being wise in the ways of my master I sat and didn’t touch anything. In his vindictive moods he could pick out every least hint of my not doing exactly what he said and make my life a misery. Something about my needing to listen to what people say, not what I think they say. I don’t pretend it makes much sense.

He offered me a very large piece of cheese. That was my first indication something unpleasant was going to happen, something he regretted. “Your father is coming. He will be here tomorrow.”

The cheese dropped out of my hand, landing on the table with a soft thud. “Tomorrow!” The last time I had seen my illustrious parent he had been talking about how to get rid of me, cursing and raging. I’d only ended up with Trempwick because the spymaster had pleaded I could be put to use. If he hadn’t I’d probably be dead, such was my father’s love for me.

Trempwick rescued my cheese and placed it on my platter for me. “It has been nearly a year you have been with me. He wishes to see how you have progressed.”

“Why?” I burst out, unable to keep calm like Trempwick always wanted me to. “Why? He hates me! Why can’t he forget about me?” I’d have cried and I’d have curled up in Trempwick’s lap for comfort like some baby, if only I wasn’t six years old and long past being able to do that without shame.

“He will be proud. Only behave as I have taught you, and he will be very proud.”

“No he won’t.”

Trempwick pursed his lips. “Not if you speak like that.”

Now I was crying, whether I liked it or not. It wasn’t fair! He was coming and I was going to die and all Trempwick cared about was how I spoke.

Maybe he saw it too, because my master came and knelt at my side. He brushed my tears away with his thumb. “Nell, you must listen and try to obey. You must not let your fear rule you. No. You must remember all I have taught and keep to it no matter what. Then there will be nothing for him to dislike. He will be proud of you. He will not hurt you.”

He always did. Every time I saw him he ended up angry, and when he got angry I got hurt. “He hates me,” I said again.

“Oh Nell, he will not always. When he sees you as you are now, he must surely change his mind towards you. He was always angry because he thought he had done badly by you. He cannot think so now.” He smiled encouraging at me, and wiped my cheek again. “Your Latin is as good as prince John’s, and Adele has none. See? You are better than your siblings. He cannot feel he has done badly for you, not now.”

“Yes, master,” I muttered. I didn’t see how Latin would help at all.

“You can count to a thousand, and add, and subtract, and you begin to do multiplication and division. You read and write in Anglo-French, and begin to in English and Latin; you speak all three languages well, and make good advances with langue d’oil.”

And I could drop herbs into a bowl of food or a drink without it being noticed, and tie a knot for a noose which wouldn’t slip. I didn’t think he would want to hear about that.

“You are very well educated for your age.” He rocked back to sit on his heels. “Let it show. Keep your head, and that too will speak well of you to him. But if you let yourself slip, and start speaking poorly, or forget things, then he will become irritated, and from there it will be hard for you to recover.”

“I will try, master.” What else could I say? He was coming, and I had nowhere to run to. All I could do was wait, and I could wait snivelling or I could wait pretending I wasn’t scared. I’m not a coward. I reached out and took my hunk of bread, forcing a tiny mouthful of it down my dry throat. My appetite was complete gone. I took another little bite.

Trempwick shook his head. “Amazing. Beloved Nell, I think nothing could dent your appetite. You are always half-staved, whatever I feed you. I think you must be a bottomless pit!”

I swallowed before replying, “Sorry, master.” I reached for the cheese before he could change his mind and say it wasn’t necessary to offset the shock of his visit.

He sighed, and moved back to his own place at the table, muttering, “I am sure it will make you grow up big and strong …”

My Novatech desktop arrived on Tuesday, and I assembled it across three evenings. It’s now up and running, and a wee bit good. :D At long last I am back up and running! Wow is the best word to describe the performance increase. Just wow. And best of all it turns on if I hit the power button! :D

As it’s been more than five weeks since I last managed to do any real writing I’m badly out of practice. I intent to finish this short story, then perhaps do a couple more until I feel back up to scratch, at which point I shall resume the main story. I need to read through the more recent chapters to regain my feel for where I am and what is happening; without the focus of writing to pin me in one specific place I have been wandering all over the Eleanor timeline and world, as you can see from these two tales.

For anyone who is interested froggy’s beast happens to be:
A black Tunami Dream case
MSI 975X board
Intel 6600 dualcore processor running at 2.4ghz
2GB of matched pair Corsair DDR2 XMS2 RAM
BFG 8800 GTS 640MB
2 seagate 160GB hard drives (from my old machine)
Toshiba CD/DVD rewritable drive
No soundcard; the onboard sound is more than good enough for my desktop stereo speakers

It’s a machine built to last years before needing any work, and to handle the surprisingly demanding grunt work of flinging about my massive manuscripts with other programs in the background. The games I play tend to be quite demanding on processor and RAM, and then on video, e.g Medieval II: Total War.

furball

02-26-2007, 09:09

What? A new computer and you are now doing Anime?

I won't even read this all the way through. Sorry.

frogbeastegg

02-26-2007, 11:22

What? A new computer and you are now doing Anime?

I won't even read this all the way through. Sorry.
What on earth do you intend that to mean? I find the way I'm understanding it to be quite insulting. You don't like the viewpoint shift so you call it a cartoon(?!) and label it as rubbish without reading it. Because apart from being in first person this is the same old same old I have been writing for years now. Same old same old gets boring; I want to flex my muscles a little as I get back in practice. I can't stray from this world until the main story is done, so altering it a little is the best I can manage.

There are a few thousand other ways to say that you don't like the short story, and why. Any of them would have been preferable. Such as "I really don't like stories in a first person viewpoint. I wish you hadn't used it."

I thought people might be interested in reading it, since it fleshes out a bit of background people have been asking me about since the older Nell made her first appearance in the proper story, is different, and is better than having nothing at all. Evidently not.

furball

02-27-2007, 01:00

Whoops. My daughter came home in a huff last night and I thought I'd closed that page without it saving. I actually *liked* the story and the switch to 1st person. I was gonna expand the anime joke with reference to Nell being 6, but really, last night was such a horror story in itself that I've forgotten my train of thought.

Gonna edit that other post, as it's really nonsensical.

Edit: One of the things I was gonna mention last night is that it was neat to be reminded that Trempwick has known Nell since she was this young. It definitely adds a dimension to his attitude towards her.

Honestly, Miss Frog, I enjoyed the story and am very happy you are able to write (and post!) again.

(Final edit: My daughter phoned and the "crisis" is resolved . . . mostly.)

frogbeastegg

02-27-2007, 20:18

I’d been washed and scrubbed and washed and scrubbed again until I glowed that healthy pink which speaks of skin being chafed off. My best clothes had been fetched out, and Trempwick himself had wielded comb and a spot of water to tame my hair into a braid which wouldn’t fluff up like an angry cat’s tail. Maybe. If a kindly saint was watching.

Trempwick walked a slow circle about me to gauge the final effect. “You look positively angelic, my dear Nell.”

Angelic? I? “Yes, master.” It’s seldom possible to go wrong by agreeing with Trempwick; that I had learned in the first week.

“You do not believe me?” He picked up my mirror where it lay abandoned on my little dressing table, and held it out to me. “See for yourself.”

Left with no option but to obey, I took the mirror and looked. Through the layer of dust coating the highly polished silver I saw myself. I suppose I could have been said to be angelic at that particular moment, so neat and tidy was I, with my hair lustrous in the sunlight and my eyes made to seem bigger and bluer by my pale face. Angelic. That is, if angels had ugly pinkish scars on their faces. Trempwick said it would continue to fade with time, and that as I grew it would look smaller, until one day it would barely be noticeable. I handed the mirror back as quickly as I could. I don’t like to be reminded.

Trempwick held out his hand to me. “Ready?”

For what? He wasn’t here yet, praise be. Maybe he wasn’t really coming after all. I placed my hand in his, raised my chin. “Yes.” I’m a princess of the blood. It has … demands. Dignity, and all that. As if I’m ever allowed to forget – people have been whining and wailing about it to me all my life. The first thing anyone said to me on my arrival in this world was probably, “Stop crying, Eleanor. You’re a princess.” Seems like ample reason to scream myself hoarse, if you ask me.

Hand in hand we left my room and started down towards the stairs. Trempwick said, “All will be will, Nell. You will see.”

I have never known my master to lie to me. If he’s been wrong I don’t know of it. Over and over he’d told me all would be well. So I tried to have faith; I tried to believe it. And maybe, just maybe, I was beginning to.

He hadn’t forgotten. He did arrive, some time past midday. We’d been sitting in the main hall so we could go out and meet him at the first sound of his arrival.

He swept past me without a word. Barely a glance. Too busy exclaiming at how good it was to see Trempwick again to notice me. Well fine! I didn’t care about him either! I didn’t want to be noticed.

Not knowing what else to do, and not daring to skulk away, I tagged along at the men’s heels like some puppy, listening like a good spymaster’s apprentice.

My father was saying, “Having you mewed up here is a waste, Raoul.”

“To the contrary, I can work well from here. And where else might I train your daughter in peace?”

He grunted, displeased, probably because I’d been mentioned. “I say it again – it is a waste. You can do far more than school children.”

“Educating your daughter is a privilege, sire,” my master said lightly. My heart swelled. “I would not exchange it for another.”

“Many others could teach her her letters. None other could do your part for me.”

“A knight trains his own squire. A spymaster is no different.”

He grunted again.

My master continued undaunted, “Besides, it is my pleasure to teach her. She has a keen mind.”

“That is not what her other tutors told me.”

“With all due respect – which is none at all – to my predecessors in this role, they were incorrect.”

My father stopped so suddenly I nearly ran into the back of him; he turned and stared down at me. “Indeed? Then I look forward to witnessing this … transformation for myself.”

I felt myself shrinking into a tiny spec on the floor, and knew if I tried to speak my voice would come out as a mousy squeak. He made it sound like he was about to watch torture.

And as quickly as attention had shifted to me I was ignored again, and they were walking to the solar. My legs trembled as I followed; I hoped I didn’t fall flat on my face. That would put a nail in my coffin.

In the solar he took the best chair, Trempwick stood at his side. Me, I ended up stood in front of him like a petitioner at an audience. I put my hands by my sides and kept my back straight, for whatever good that may do. If nothing else I couldn’t be accused of slouching.

My father leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and set his chin on his hand. “You have grown.”

Of course. I’m always growing. It’s what people my age do. “Yes, sir.” I was gratified to find my voice only squeaked a bit.

He made a show of astonishment, and said to Trempwick, “Ah! Manners! You have managed to instil manners in her.”

Shame no one had done the same for him.

Trempwick made no reply.

He stared at me. I fought the desire to shuffle my feet, or to look away. I gave him back look for look. My courage amazed me!

“But not so many manners.” Each word was pronounced like a rock dropped in a pond: sudden, deliberate, final. He snarled, “Do not stare at me, brat!”

I looked away. Like a coward or a sneak or a servant.

Trempwick frowned. “William, she is no pauper to spend her life gazing on the floor and not daring to look another in the eye.”

“She forgets due deference. That stare is challenging.”

And yet if I had looked away at the start he would surely have called me a craven. I hate him.

My master began to speak again, but hecut him off with a chop of his hand. “Show me what she has learned.”

And so I worked my way through my paces with my master’s guidance, showing off some of what I knew. Not flawlessly, not effortlessly, but well. Languages, and history, and geography, and poetry, and stories, and numbers, and my family’s history, and more. Throughout he said not a word, nor gave any hint of what he thought. That unnerved me more than anything. I’d seen my elder siblings displaying their learning in a similar manner back when I was still at Waltham; they’d received praise, and occasional corrections when they erred.

Eventually Trempwick stopped prompting me, and the solar fell into a hush. My father sat up properly, sucking in a deep lungful of air like a swimmer about to dive. “Leave us, Raoul. I will speak with her alone.”

My master bowed and left, granting me an encouraging smile as he went past me.

“Well,” he said. “Impressive enough.”

A wary smile stole onto my face. “Thank you, sir.” Maybe Trempwick was right, maybe he would like me now.

“You will return to court, and continue your education there. I have found a potential match for you; I will arrange for you to meet your prospective husband.”

“No!” It is amazing how the bravest things you say in your life are done without a moment’s thought. That likely makes them the stupidest things you say too.

His face turned deep red, and he shot to his feet. “What did you say?”

“No.” It came out as a wavering whisper. I’d have turned and fled if my legs hadn’t turned to jelly.

“You ungrateful brat!” I swear the rafters trembled at the force of his bellow. “You will do as I say!”

Mutely I shook my head. I couldn’t find it in me to manage more.

He closed on me until I could smell the sandalwood his clothes had been stored with. “You ungrateful little brat.”

I barely saw the slap coming.

Trempwick’s eyebrows rose as William came into the room. The way he was walking … “Is something wrong?”

“That brat!” William snatched up the goblet of wine which was waiting on the table and downed it in one go.

The spymaster’s eyebrows rose a trifle further. “What happened? Please, do not tell me you quarrelled-”

“Quarrelled?!” William slammed his empty vessel back down so hard Trempwick’s drink and the pitcher danced, wine slopping over their rims. “That little bitch kicked me in the balls! Metaphorically and literally!”

Polite astonishment. “Good God. Why?”

“Because she is an ill-mannered, wild, uncontrollable, undisciplined, foul little brat!”

Not a rational answer. Sat and waited.

William blew out a breath and scrubbed his hands through his short hair. “I have a court full of powerful men who would gladly overthrow me and steal my place, and not a one of them dares to stand before me like she does.”

Nodded slowly.

Anger deflating, leaving him looking hollow, William sat opposite his friend. “None of them dares. But she does. A slip of a little girl. And she says me no, and kicks me in the balls. Hard.” A fist slammed down onto the chair’s arm. “My own daughter!”

Try light jesting. “One might suggest that this is how you can tell whom her father is.”

He hunched over in his chair; a baleful glare. “None of my other children are like this.”

No. They were … blander.

“They are obedient. They are respectful. They know their place, and their duty.”

And they lack spark. Best not said. “Nell is very intelligent. I do genuinely enjoy teaching her.”

“And I genuinely enjoy spending time with my other off-spring. This one, however,” He made a noise which spoke volumes.

“She fears you.”

“I do not see that.”

“She is her father’s daughter.” No one could doubt that, unlike a certain other … “Do you back down from what you fear, or do you confront it?”

“I am her father. It is not for her to confront; it is for her to obey.”

“Blind obedience is no virtue.”

“Damn it, man! I do not ask for blindness! Hugh – now there is a perfect example. He is obedient, but does not make it necessary for me to order him overly much. So he may go his own way a little, and in that he chooses sensibly, always. I can trust him.”

Pause. “Prince Hugh is not … a leader.” Or a prince. Alas for the heir to the crown. “He is a born follower.”

“Nonetheless, he is my heir. He will gain confidence with time, then he will lead.”

Doubted that immensely. Said nothing. So hard to tell a friend his son is shaping up to be a poor heir. So hard to say his son is not his son. So hard not to say.

“Hugh will rule after me.”

God save the realm. No way to avert it. John was worse. True of blood, but lazy. Tending towards being a pleasure seeking idler. “Yes, he will.” God save the realm.

“He will need faithful advisors, men like you. Help him. What he lacks himself can be found in other men and lent to his cause.”

No, it could not. It could not. Despair. Despair that is a well-known companion. “As you say, William. I will do my best for your legacy, you know I will.”

A trace of relief at being assured again of what he already knows. “Yes, I do know it.” Jaw clenched. “As for that daughter of mine, may she rot! I do not want her at court. I do not want her in any of my residences where I may encounter her. I do not want her seen. I would have taken her home today, but she will have none of it. Very well! She has made her choice, and she may rot in it until she begs to do otherwise.”

Nell would never beg. So stubborn. Stood up. “Excuse me, sire. I must go tend to my pupil.”

“Leave her. There is no need. Coddle her for a few bruises and you will spoil her further.”

“Nonetheless, she is my apprentice.” A curt bow, leave. Blind to what he does. Unable to face it, perhaps. Unable to admit how far he lets himself go. Unable to admit how completely this child undoes him. Said it himself: no one else dares. And she is but a little girl.

Father and daughter. Two immovable objects, meeting from opposite directions.

The final scene still needs some more work, so I'm holding on to it for a bit.

I managed to get this up on the paradox forum last night, but the org was taking ages to load so I had to give up.

:tells Trempwick to stand his assassins down: :winkg:

Good to hear the crisis is nearly over.

furball

02-28-2007, 00:33

"'With all due respect - which is none at all - . . . '"

"Of course. I’m always growing. It’s what people my age do."

I've missed these! Amidst all the wonderful characters, plot lines and points of view, I've always *really* enjoyed these turns of phrase and playful use of language. They're like little instant gems of connection between writer and reader and they can make good chapters really sparkle.

(Quoted as they are above, they lose some lustre. But in context, and with the timing of the words in place on the page, they are boffo.)

As for the crisis, it involved (involves) young women and men, expectations, sense-of-self and hormones. And as much as has been written about *those* things, it still comes as a shock when they all meet and confront us personally, I guess.

frogbeastegg

03-02-2007, 12:11

However hard I try he always finds me, so I didn’t try that hard. When he stormed off I waited a minute to be sure he’d gotten out of the corridors, then left, as fast and as stealthily as my poor aching body would allow. I didn’t want to see anyone. They would know what had happened. They would see the tears streaming down my face. They would make comments.

Out of the manor, out past the fields, out away from the tiny village, and up a tree. Most people don’t look up, and if they did I’d be safely out of reach.

Trempwick did look up. He’d proven that the first time I met him. So when he appeared at the foot of my tree a while later I spoke first. “You were wrong, master.” I leaned my head against the rough bark of my tree; the light bite of the brittle wood into my cheek distracted a little from the pain raging across the rest of me.

“I am sorry, Nell. More than you might believe.” He seated himself cross-legged on the grass at the foot of my tree. “I made a fundamental error, my dearest Nell. Can you tell me what it was?”

I bit my tongue on an assortment of pithy comments, and instead said, “You misjudged his character.” One can only bite their tongue so far; bitterly I added, “He’s nothing but an arse in a crown! I hate him.”

“Nell! I will not have you using such language; do you think yourself some dung-cleaner’s whelp?”

“But it’s true. He is just some stupid ego-struck man. A complete arse.”

“Nell!”

I cringed, all my livid bravado banished by the whiplash of his voice.

“You will give your father due respect.” His tone softened. “He is a good king, and a good friend. Dare I say it, he is a good man also.”

But not to me. Nor, ultimately, to poor Stephan. He’d said good things about our father too, and look where he’d ended up: murdered, at that arse in a crown’s order and by Trempwick’s hand. I didn’t forgive either of them, however many times Trempwick explained that it was for the best. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. “Yes, master,” I mumbled.

“I know what he is like, and long have.” He leaned back against my tree and looked up at me; I felt the impact of his gaze like a crossbow bolt hitting me. “I let my emotions cast a shadow of influence on my thoughts. Everything I knew was correct. However I let a slender possibility become my expected outcome because that was what I wished to happen. It is not a mistake I make very often. Learn from my error, my beloved Nell.”

“I will, master.”

“He tells me you injured him in … a delicate location.”

I’d booted him in the balls, yes. I was damned proud of it! If only I’d been wearing my usual shoes, nice sturdy creations complete with hobnails in the soles. They’d have been far better than these stupid soft slipper-like things made for refined ladies. “Yes, master.”

He raised an eyebrow in an expression of polite interest. “Might I ask why?”

This one I’d been thinking about since I stopped crying, willing my mind to surface from the clouds of pain and function. The simple truth of terrified self-preserving instinct at work wouldn’t be good enough. I believed I’d found an excuse which might work. “Strategy, master.”

“Strategy, dear Nell? Pray enlighten me, and be sure you do it in properly formed words. Do not think your lapses escape my notice.”

“When you cannot win a battle and know it and your enemy knows it too, you have to make it so he will not attack you. The best way is to make it so it will cost him too much, so he will leave you alone because he knows he will get mauled too.”

I couldn’t see his face because he was looking directly ahead again, but I had the distinct impression Trempwick was agape – or as agape as a self-controlled spymaster ever got. “Do you know,” he said after a bit, his tone one of bemusement, “I once wasted an entire afternoon trying to wring that simple concept from your brothers? I coaxed and I hinted, and I found myself reduced to giving bigger and bigger hints. In the end I had to tell them. Such a vital part of a ruler’s repertoire and they were unable to see it for themselves. Yet you, years younger and not tutored to think in such terms, found it for yourself without prompting.”

I frowned. I didn’t quite understand what he was driving at, or if he was driving at anything at all. “You mean I would make a better king than they would?” I thought it might be what he wanted me to say, an opportunity for him to lecture me further, probably on humility and my place in life.

He stared at me in astonishment for a bit, then threw back his head and laughed, a sweet sound of real astounded joy. “Queen Eleanor. You would be a queen in that case, though you performed the functions of a king.” He seemed to gather himself. He stood up and sternly told me, “Remember your place in this world: to serve the crown. Do not let ambition form within you. Now come down from there and let me look at you.”

I made my painful way down, hanging from the thick branch I’d been sitting on and then dropping to the ground to land in a crouch. He seized my chin immediately, tilting my face up to examine it. The repeated slaps had split my mouth open at the corner; I knew it had swelled up and must look a clotty mess. I expect my face was all red and bruising, and blotchy from my crying. Having given my face a cursory examination, Trempwick twisted me around to get the light where it would help him and pulled out the neck of my clothes so he could peer down the neck hole at my back. “Hmm, bruising, some welts. Nothing dire. You will live, though uncomfortably.”

Letting me go he produced a cloth-wrapped square from his belt pouch and slapped it in my hand. “I hear this is a traditional solution for weeping children. Having gone through the effort of procuring it I shall not allow it to go to waste simply because you have ceased bawling.”

The object felt a bit squishy, and the cloth itself was sticky. Tentatively I unwrapped it, unsure of what a spymaster might consider to be a remedy for a child in a state I knew he found irritating. Honey cake, as it turned out to be. “Thank you, master,” I said, breaking off a mouthful and devouring it.

He watched with such an expression of tolerant exasperation I was tempted to laugh. “Please make sure you wash your hands properly before touching anything, dear Nell.”

I wondered when he would realise that the inside and contents of his belt pouch was now, in all likelihood, sticky. “Yes, master. I will.”

He began to walk in the direction of the manor, calling to me heel like any dog.

I followed along like a good princess, eating my cake slowly. Not a crumb was going to go to waste.

The arse in the crown was leaving as we arrived. Worse luck. If I’d dragged things out for a few more minutes we’d have missed him. He took in me, and my cake. “Raoul, you are overly lenient.”

My master took hold of the shoulder of my dress and tweaked me over to stand close at his side. He didn’t let go. Maybe he thought I’d run away. “Lenience is not a trait I can ever be accused of, sire.”

The explosion I’d expected from him didn’t come. He merely grunted. “Well, you have charge of the brat. Make her into something fit to be of my blood.”

My master smiled faintly. “Sire, I shall.”

He left.

Hands and face scrubbed under Trempwick’s eagle eye until any hint of stickiness was long gone, I was let into the solar. Settling himself in his customary chair he indicated a spot on the floor before him. “Do kneel, dear Nell. Your company brings warmth to my heart, but, alas, there is no convenient seat for you.”

There was my stool. There was another chair which I often dreamed would become mine when I impressed him enough to earn the honour. What I didn’t do was point this out. Meekly I knelt on the floor some six paces away from him. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t my fault that arse had taken it into his head to beat me until his arm ached, and if he was bothered about my kicking him where it most definitely hurt, well, I’d already suffered in plenty for it.

Leaning back in his chair he folded his arms. “I expect those bruises on your back will stiffen. It would be beneficial for you to raise your arms a little, stretch your muscles out. Then they will not cramp so badly.” I clasped my hands behind my neck, keeping my elbows pointed straight outwards and on a level with my shoulders to keep the burden on my neck minimal. “Yes, that is the idea, dear Nell.”

I don’t know how much time passed. It felt like forever, with my knees beginning to protest and that protest growing in strength, and my neck, back and shoulders aching more and more with every passing instant. Over and over I dragged myself back up to a straight position, occasionally prompted by some little gesture of Trempwick’s such as the lift of an eyebrow. My arms were trembling with fatigue, hanging lower and lower with more and more of their weight falling on my poor neck.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything. He only … stared. Thinking, I suppose. Deeply thinking.

“What is an atheling, sweet Nell?” His softly spoken words fairly made me jump out of my skin.

It wasn’t fair! I was about ready to fall flat on my face; expecting me to answer questions just wasn’t fair. “It is Saxon, master. It means prince.”

“No, Nell. It means someone who has a legitimate claim on the throne. There is a difference. The nephew of a king today is not invariably a prince. He would have been an atheling.” He shifted forward, leaning his arms on his knees so his face was on a level with mine. “Why would there be a difference?”

“Because … I don’t know, master.”

“Do not know,” he chided. “Sometimes, dear Nell, I despair of you. If you cannot manage the basics while in mildly adverse conditions what hope can there be for you?”

Mildly adverse!? What more did I have to suffer before it began to count as reason for a rest?

“Dearest Nell, the answer is simple if you recall a little history. Kings were once elected in England. Before your several times great-grandsire conquered the realm. Athelings were the men with claims, the ones most likely to be considered candidates. Men without that status could be considered too, men like Harold the Usurper. They had to be in a position of considerable power and influence to be thought of. This means, dear Nell, that the man considered best able to rule became the king, not the one who was the eldest son. The youngest might become king, or a cousin. It did not have to be the eldest living son. This was tradition for a great many years. In some shadow of a way it still is; a prince must have the support of the greater portion of the realm’s lords to ascend to the throne, else he will lose it.”

The struggle was too much. I managed to twist my fall so I didn’t land flat on my face. I was done, no more. No matter what he threatened, what scorn he poured on me. Done.

“Huh.” That was the only comment Trempwick made. He picked me up and carried me up to my bare little room, where, to my surprise, the bathtub awaited, steaming and filling the air with the tantalising scent of herbs. Leaving me on my bed he told me, “Bathe. Soak your wounds. Then go to bed and rest. First thing tomorrow I expect you to tell me what you think is in that water, and why.”

I had to wait until feeling came back properly into my limbs before I could strip and gingerly sink into the water, closing my eyes against the sting as the injuries on my back became submerged one after another. Presently the pain began to ease, and I let myself relax. I begin to sift through the scents, naming them aloud in a whisper, “Lavender oil, to relax muscles. Comfrey, to speed the healing of the bruises …”

Finis.

And so concludes a piece which answers three batches of questions which people have been intermittently asking me for two years: Nell’s training; when Trempwick began to think about putting her on the throne; did William really intend to bring Nell home again.

I think the next update may be a continuation of the story proper. I advise people to refresh themselves as to what was happening before my enforced break.

Furball, it’s the neat little bits like that which I enjoy writing. Those and the tiny little self contained utterly pointless mini stories, like the honey cake in this part. I know a piece is well on its way to being good when I read it back and find bits like that; they’re responsible for a good part of the life and sparkle.

Wasp

03-05-2007, 21:27

My compliments on the story so far, frogbeastegg! I'm only at page 10/11, but I'm catching up, and it has managed to capture me right from the start. Just wanted to post so you'd know you have another fan here.

frogbeastegg

03-09-2007, 14:12

Anne skipped to one side, narrowly evading a crack to the elbow from the corner of a chest a servant was carrying past. “You are not wasting any time, are you?”

Eleanor bared her teeth in an approximation of a smile. “I am returning to my newly acquired husband – the slightest moment’s gain is worth having. My only regret is that I shall have to dawdle along at the same pace as my escort, instead of taking a light guard and riding on with all speed.” She led Anne through into her bedchamber, an island of peace in the frenzy of preparations to leave. Tomorrow everything that was hers would be ripped from this room too, loaded up, and off she would jolly well go. “I shall be gone before Terce.”

“So early!”

Eleanor cast a glance back over her shoulder. “Not nearly early enough; even slugabeds are up and about by then.”

“Most people will still be eating their breakfast.”

“If any of my lot intend to be so lazy they can run to catch up. I do not intend to be delayed.” She was truly cursing her bout of shopping to feather their nest. A few new tapestries and whathaveyou had seemed an excellent idea at the time; now they were nothing but an extra burden to slow her. Happy as Fulk might be with having something to sit on which hadn’t been appropriated from a vassal, she was confident he’d be far happier simply to have her back. She knew she’d prefer to have a knight over a set of matching candle sticks, however dark the room.

Eleanor cleared a pile of books off the room’s window seat. “Here, sit down.”

“Are they yours?” Anne asked. “I did not think you liked books much.”

“Heavens, no!” Eleanor shifted more books so she could sit down next to Anne. “Do I look like I can afford to throw money away on books? I had to take a loan to buy some bare essentials, and let me tell you, it is hard to find someone willing to loan money to the probable-king’s out of favour sister.” She’d had to find someone daft enough to believe her the probable-queen, and stomach an outrageous interest rate.

“You should have said! I shall lend you some.” She folded her arms and looked stern when Eleanor began to protest. “Oh, stop it. Your situation is dire enough as it is without owing interest to lenders and stuff, and I bet you still did not buy everything you need.”

“No, I did not,” Eleanor replied softly. “A disgraced pair of noble paupers cannot live too comfortably, else they find the instalments on their fines grow.”

Anne’s mouth drew down. “But-”

“I managed enough for us to live akin to a comfortably-off minor noble. That will suffice.” Eleanor swallowed her pride and didn’t let the offer of a loan escape; every penny was precious. “As to your kind offer of money, let me have enough to repay my loan immediately, so no interest is owed upon it. We will repay you as soon as we can.”

To her credit Anne didn’t hesitate. “How much?”

Eleanor’s face burned as she named a sum which, to her, was high. “Fifty pounds.”

“Fifty?!” Anne’s chin jutted into the air. “Fifty I can give you and never miss. So I shall, and do not argue. You have a war to fight, and an earldom to build, and you only just got married, and neither of you had much in the first place so there is a lot you still need to get, and then all this fuss and bother about fines for marrying without Hugh’s permission and all. So you need money. I have plenty.”

“Thank you.”

Anne muttered a mild curse. “You did not argue – I should have offered more. You must be desperate, not to argue.”

“I will not accept more,” Eleanor told her firmly, “so do not try. If you press me I shall refuse to take anything at all.” Then, because Anne was so dejected, “Think of it so: fifty pounds is like to be half of our own income for the year, so you have increased our funds by half. That will make a very big difference. More we should not need, provided peace can be returned swiftly. Dismissing our army will leave us with money and to spare. Fulk and I, we are not used to high luxury, and nor do we really desire it. We will be well content.”

“If you need anything more …”

“We will ask. Now, tell me, was there a reason for your visit, or is it merely social?”

Anne clasped her hands in her lap; her gaze dropped to the floor. “I came to say I am staying here. I will not be going back north with you.”

Ah, Hugh must have spoken with her. Good. “You will be much safer with Constance. If you came with me I would worry endlessly.”

“I do not know if I will be able to stay with Constance. She may not want me following her, or Hugh might not.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. How had Hugh managed to get a simple thing so wrong?! “Surely Hugh did not say anything of the sort. It would be absurd.”

Anne looked up in surprise. “Oh, I have not said anything at all to him yet! I thought I would see what you thought first.”

Eleanor made a few quick adjustments to take this revelation into account; no point in revealing to Anne that they had planned to leave her with Constance whether she liked it or not. “I think it a good idea. You will be safer.”

“That was not what I was thinking. I – I thought that …” She chewed her lower lip and resumed staring at her feet. “You said that Fulk still says there is no sign of the help my father promised? And that Malcolm is still rumoured to be raising an army of his own?”

Eleanor nodded. “Yes.”

“I do not think he will come to help you like he said he would. And Malcolm …” She met Eleanor’s eyes, sincere. “You have met him, and you know the sorts of things he was saying when he left Perth. I think Alex is not enough. You need another hostage, a more valuable one. My father did not want me to come with you. I had to run away, practically. I think that is because he always intended to betray you, and he did not want me to be used against him.” Anne took a deep breath. “I do not approve of that. If I can stop him breaking his word and make him come to help you then I think I really have to.”

“You may find your family slow to forgive you.” As much as they needed the extra leverage on the King of Scots, it would have been a poor thing indeed to repay Anne’s courage by failing to warn her.

“I intend to stay in England anyway.” Anne touched the wedding ring she still wore on her heart finger. “I do not wish to marry again. At least, not for a very long time.”

Eleanor placed a hand on the girl’s slender shoulder. “You will be welcome to.”

“It was what William wished anyway.” After a bit Anne pushed herself off the window seat and stood. “I shall go and talk to Hugh now, since you think it a good idea.”

That’s the sum surviving total of my writing for the last week. I’ve deleted a good 13 pages more, if you add it all up. This is not a good place to be trying to get back into writing the story. There’s no hook. No scene I burn to write, no scene I have clear little flashes of vision of, nothing neat to scribble down. It’s all boring in-between stuff. A struggle to write, as it’s hard for it not to come out boring. It would have worked before, when I hadn’t been away for so long.

I’m thinking I may have to cut a few scenes entirely, and skip on ahead to when it begins to get interesting for me again. The story wouldn’t end up missing anything vital that way, only a lot of non-vital stuff of the sort which provides the depth, shading and background. Not something I want to do. However if it’s the only way I’m going to get moving again …

Urgh! I can’t stand producing such dry, dead, tedious, lifeless boring stuff as this! I want my bounce, sparkle, zing and silly little bits back! They were there in that short story … honey cakes, and silly lines, and wry little comments, and character, and it all flew down onto the page effortlessly and at speed. Unlike this dead mass. ~:mecry:

Welcome, Wasp. When you catch up you will have earned your free bottle of eyedrops. You’ll probably need them too; this tale is a wee bit long.

frogbeastegg

03-12-2007, 20:09

If she inched her toes further forward Eleanor would be standing on her royal father. She held her skirts back with one hand so she could look down and see the tips of her shoes, and the join between slab of stone and flagstone floor. Idly she wiggled her big toe, the movement barely visible beneath the solid leather.

“Princess,” echoed Jocelyn’s voice down the length of the church. He spoke in his badly accented Anglo-French. He left the massive door a little ajar and advanced cautiously down the aisle; the slash of sunlight streaming through the door rose up his body until it went over his head and left him as partially masked by shadows as she. “Your … we … um … horses. Stuff. Oh!” With a noise of complete disgust he gave up and swapped to his native tongue. “Your escort is ready to leave as soon as you command, your Highness.”

Eleanor nodded. “A moment.”

The count retreated to a respectful distance; he was learning, in more ways than one.

Eleanor knelt down at the side of her father’s tomb. One final visit. “I remember,” she vowed.

She walked away, the hobnails in her sturdy shoes ringing faintly on the flagstones.

The arse in the crown would have taken that to mean she remembered her grudgingly given promise to avenge him. That would have been his mistake. She remembered everything.

Eleanor rode the first few miles in complete silence, so lost in thought she didn’t chafe at the slow pace dictated by the baggage wagons.

When beckoned to her side Jocelyn responded immediately, kneeing his horse into a trot until he drew level, and bowing deeply in his saddle. “Your Highness?”

After a long pause she said, “Tell me about my father.”

“About the old king? Oh. Well. Ah.” Jocelyn scratched his beard and thought a bit. “He was a good king. He was just, and a good fighter and commander and all. All in all his rule was peaceful enough. No civil wars. Oh, er … oh.” The count flushed. “Well, none except this one, and this one probably only happened because everyone thought he was dead, so it’s no bad reflection on him. Or, indeed, on your brother,” he added hastily. “No, no, not at all. Far from it. I’m sure he’ll be as fine a king as any who ever lived once that Trempwick gets his head lopped.” Then he seemed to remember Trempwick had raised her. “Or not, as the case may be. Not lopped, that is, not the bit about making a good king. Who knows, the two might make peace, work together or something.” He held up a finger. “Now, indeed. There’s the whole damn – er, the whole thing. Life’s unpredictable. So are wars. Might be that everything turns out happily, with peace and love all around. Or maybe not. But I’m sure it will go for the best. Probably. Yes.”

Eleanor sighed; she felt quite dizzy just listening to so many changes of direction. “Actually, I wished to know about the man, not the king, and I wish to know an honest opinion. Bad or good.”

“Ah …”

She met the count’s eyes. “Nothing you say of him could possibly be worse than what I can say.” Of all the people she could have gone to now she had decided to ask, Jocelyn was the safest. He could not tell her much which touched upon her, unlike Anne, for example. The things he might tell her would be … less harmful.

Now it was the count’s turn to take his time in speaking. “The very first time I saw him up close he was sat on my chair in my hall, my daughter on his lap. I’d have snatched her away, if he hadn’t been my king and all. The rumours I’d heard … And there had been much talk of your betrothal to that Trempwick fellow, and how it came about.” The count’s brows drew down into a fearsome expression. “Hell, damn it! The mere sight of him near her made my blood go damned cold!” Jocelyn rubbed the scowl from his face with his fingertips and sighed. “He listened to her childish chatter like it was the council of his wisest friend - played along, even. He was tolerant. He took it all in his stride, the silly talk about dresses and castles and whathaveyou. I began to think maybe the rumours were exaggerated.”

Eleanor’s throat tightened. How many other unknown children had seen that side of her father when she, his own flesh and blood, never had? “And?” she prompted, for this had the feel of an unfinished tale.

“And then later I saw him lose his temper.” Jocelyn leaned forward and rubbed his horse between the ears. “Thought he was going to bloo – er, kill himself with an apoplexy. This was after the hunting accident, you see, and he’d not long been up and about and all.”

“Why did he lose his temper?” Eleanor asked quietly. She believed she knew.

“When he heard what’d been happening back here.” Jocelyn’s mouth flattened into a line. “It was a scary sight, believe me, and I’m no mincing pansy. Er, begging your pardon, your Highness. After that I could see how he could do all the things I’d heard about.” Pause. “But … you know? It was more like pain than real anger. Deeply wounded and lashing out.”

“He trusted Trempwick. He had done so for years.”

Jocelyn fixed his eyes on the horizon. “I pitied him.”

They rode in complete silence for a time.

Jocelyn said, “He was a man used to being in command. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Things went his way, because he made them do so. He’d been doing it so long he’d got good at it, and got so used to it that it - it became like breathing to him, I think.”

So others had said. So she could believe. No one could rule for so many years without becoming altered by it.

“When he looked at you it was like he was seeing all the dirty thoughts and doubts in your mind and everything wicked you’d ever done.” Jocelyn drew himself up straighter in the saddle. “Not, you understand, that I’ve anything to be ashamed of. Not at all. Ever.”

Unable to help herself, Eleanor teased, “So you are perfect then?” And enough of that! Lest someone think her flirting with the man. Sometimes being chaperoned and surrounded worked to ruin reputations, not safeguard them.

Jocelyn looked at her with a sideways smile. “Oh, I suppose I could admit to one or two minor sins.”

A tiny flutter awoke under her heart. Eleanor ruthlessly stamped on it. It was nothing but the effect of being so long away from Fulk, combined with the shock of having a handsome knight flirting at her. When she was reunited with him she’d have to tell Fulk she understood better a few of the things he’d told her, not least about knowing what you were missing making the missing far harder to live with. “Then find a priest,” she told him coolly.

Something burned in Jocelyn’s eyes for a heartbeat, come and gone before Eleanor could fully identify it. Fury? If he thought he had some right to toy with her and sulk when she stepped away then he had best learnt to think otherwise, and quickly. She scowled to let him know it hadn’t gone unseen.

Stiffly Jocelyn said, “You reminded me of my wife.”

Ah, the mysterious wife! Eleanor would rather like to meet the lady.

He returned to their prior topic without ceremony. “He was a fair man. I expected to pay dearly for following Yves into his crack-brained rebellion – though I’d no choice, you understand. I was his vassal, sworn to him. Instead he made me count in Yves place. His justice could be hard though; I had reason to fear when he turned up at my gates. He was even-handed in his hardness, I’ll say that. He did treat his son no differently when …” He broke off and mumbled an apology.

“When my brother rebelled,” Eleanor finished for him. As she’d told her father, she remembered. “That was Trempwick’s doing, in the main. Clearing a son out of the way.” She swallowed painfully. “He knew what my father would feel he must do, and took advantage.” She remembered … the arse in the crown descending on Woburn like a wounded boar, drawing his sword on Trempwick when he tried to protect her, blaming her for all and battering her senseless with his rage. John’s reappearance in chains in Waltham’s hall; the look on her father’s face: absolute dismay. The arguing over what was to be done. The execution. And a grieving father again blaming her. “It hurt him very badly.”

For the first time Hawise joined the conversation. “Yet he still upheld his laws, though he could have made an exception. That says some good of him.”

The world was blurring before Eleanor’s eyes. She looked down to hide the forming tears. “A terrible kind of good.” The nails of her right hand bit into her palm and she focused on keeping her breathing even to restore her control.

“Yes. Sometimes that is what is needed.”

Jocelyn ran a hand over his mount’s neck, brushing off a fly. “The maid has the right of it. Who could dispute the judgement of a man who’d executed his own son to keep the law? And who’d be fool enough to rebel against him? Well, who except that blo- er, idiot Yves.”

Eleanor gave a broken little laugh. “Oh, my father was very good at not sparing his sons. He always put the realm first.” This was why he had none left. This, too, she remembered. “It is quite fascinating. When I spoke of my father’s methods of ruling with Sir Miles he believed he was a weaker king, for the same reason you call him a strong one. A strong king, he said, did not need to execute rebels. He could afford to pardon them.”

Jocelyn shrugged. “That’s one way of looking at things. But surely the mark of a strong king is that few rebel.”

“Sir Miles said that the rebellions would be minor, all but harmless and easily quashed. By keeping an iron fist about the kingdom’s throat there would be fewer rebellions, but they would be much more explosive, and harder to put down as men would know they had little chance of clemency.” Eleanor looked down at the backs of her hands. “I agree with him, for the main. There must be a reason for rebels to surrender easily, so fighting does not drag on and a minor revolt does not become a battle to the death. However, too much mercy and lords will take advantage. If they do not get what they wish they will raise their banners and cause trouble in the hopes of being granted it for laying down their arms.”

“He was very proud of you.”

Eleanor fixed the count with an icy stare, silently ordering him to return to a safer subject.

The less than subtle hint was lost on Jocelyn. “I guess it’s because of all he was. Not many stood up to him, but you did. You remind me a bit of him-”

“Enough!” Eleanor spurred her horse into a trot and left her place in the column.

He’d hated her, handed her over to Trempwick and semi-exile, cursed her and blamed her, beaten her over and over, ignored her, left her a pauper in his life and after his death, and had the gall to tell people he was proud of her for the very reasons he tormented her. She remembered it all.

It had been Trempwick who had given her sparing praise, encouraged her, taught her, on occasion played with her, picked her up when she fell, worried when she was ill, fed her and clothed her, given her rare gifts, and done many of the things a father should. She remembered.

It had been Trempwick who, finally, made it so the arse in the crown could never hurt her again. It had been him who had murdered her father. He whom she should thank from the bottom of her heart. He who she had sworn vengeance on. This she also recalled.

And at the last her father had chosen her. That she could not forget.

Nearly all of that is … out of tune, for wont of a better way to describe it. Still, it doesn’t feel dead, which is some improvement.

Peasant Phill

03-13-2007, 01:59

I intend this as a constructive critique, but I find this installment rather repetitive. Everything has already been said or suggested. Unless, of course, you're going somewhere with this.

I'm happy your computer problems are over and that you're writing again on the story. Although you may feel like it's hard to finish or that what you've written doesn't feel right, it's still of very enjoyable.

Wasp

03-13-2007, 22:23

Welcome, Wasp. When you catch up you will have earned your free bottle of eyedrops. You’ll probably need them too; this tale is a wee bit long.

I've noticed, I'm only at page 11 at the moment (my reading time gets eaten up by philosophers, you see. And having midterms isn't helping either ~;) ), but I'm sure I'll catch up one day, and give more 'recent' comments and praises.

I'm still in the 'poor Fulk'.. phase :beam:

Ludens

03-14-2007, 21:28

I second Peasant Phill's comments. It's good, but it covers familiar ground. Still, I am glad you are making headway :book: .

frogbeastegg

03-22-2007, 21:53

Fulk walked alongside Eleanor’s horse as she rode into the bailey. “For a time I feared you would continue on by, and not stop here. I wasn’t sure my messengers would reach you in time; I was only warned of your approach this morning.” He had her enfolded in his arms before her toes touched the ground.

“Twit,” she replied, affectionately running a fingertip along his jawbone. She kissed him lingeringly on the lips. “I had intended to pass the night at Morpeth, and then continue on to Alnwick tomorrow.”

Fulk settled her hand on his arm and began to walk her to the keep. “And then you received a message from a bothersome man requesting you come to Ashington instead, meaning you had to alter all your plans at the last instant.”

“However did you guess?”

“Oh soul of my soul, you are supposed to say the message was welcome and not the least bit annoying.”

Eleanor looked up at him in a perplexed manner, only a tiny glint in her eyes to show she teased. “Why?”

Tutting Fulk rapped her knuckles – gently. “Remind me to beat you later for being such an unsatisfactory wife.”

“If you are in danger of forgetting then the problem can hardly be dire.”

A bark of laughter escaped him before he regained control, drawing the eyes of everyone in the bailey. Not that people hadn’t been watching and straining their ears beforehand, more that now they gave up the pretence of not doing so. “’loved, people are going to think us peculiar.”

They already did, and had since their betrothal was made. “Have you been here for long?”

He shook his head. “Since yesterday. I thought I had best tour my southern lands after a recent bit of trouble and now seemed timely – it brings us back together a day sooner.”

Eleanor’s eyebrow formed a delicate arc. “Trouble?”

“Later, oh light of my eyes.”

On their way through the keep Fulk kept up a constant flow of talk about this and that, about their lands and people and what he’d seen in his lordly tour. None of it real information, more a pleasant outline of the best aspects filled with a scattering of humorous observations and anecdotes.

At the bottom of the staircase he ducked into the shadows to the side of the doorway, pulling her with him. Pressing her up against the wall he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her lips while his hands did a bit of gentle exploring. “Jesù, how I missed you!”

“Me too.” Eleanor held his face between her hands and gazed into his eyes, smiling broadly. “I had no one to annoy.”

“My poor gooseberry.” He brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist. “Such a trial for you.”

“I shall have to make up for lost time.” This particular kiss left her feeling quite tipsy; Fulk steadied her as she nearly lost her balance.

“Why are we standing about in a stairwell when we have a perfectly good bedchamber?” Fulk didn’t wait for an answer; taking her hand he began to ascend the stairs.

“I thought it was because you were reliving the days when we had to hide everything.” She paused a moment for effect before adding casually, “You know, reliving your lost youth.”

“Lost youth!?” He halted, bending down awkwardly to kiss her across the great difference in heights caused by being on different steps. “I’ll take that as a challenge, oh insulting one. We’ll see who tires first.”

Eleanor felt herself blush. “You are going to knock me down the stairs if you are not careful.”

“I’m sure you’d manage to pull me down after you, and arrange things so I broke your fall.” He started to climb again.

Idly playing with the light fuzz of hair on Fulk’s stomach Eleanor mused, “It is strange how such a small thing can give one so much pleasure …”

Fulk turned his head on the pillow to look at her with an aggrieved expression. “Small!? I’ll have you know it is nothing of the sort, thank you very much!”

She laughed, blushing slightly. “I was thinking of how pleasant it was to be lying here like this.”

“Mmm.” His fingers continued to wander up and down her spine.

“As to the other …” she gave the part in question a playful tweak. “I am sure it is very prodigious.”

“Your bath will have gone cold.” True enough, the wisps of steam coming from the bathtub in the centre of the room had all but disappeared. Fulk covered his face with a hand. “You will think I’ve forgotten all my manners since marrying you. Dragging you off to bed without so much as giving you chance to scrape the mud off your boots.”

“You did not even say hello,” she chided gently.

Fulk nibbled her earlobe. “Hello, my dear gooseberry.”

“Hello, my luflych little knight.”

“Best go and salvage what is left of your bath, ‘loved.”

Eleanor stretched, slipped away from Fulk and pulled the covers back over her shoulder. “After you.”

“Royal bath tester?” Fulk sat up.

“You are my husband. It is your sworn responsibility to protect me from all hazards.”

“Including cold bath water?” He made his way to the tub with a load of good natured grumbling. “Fortunately I am the bravest of knights, and I intend to be a most uxorious husband.” He dabbled his fingers in the water. “It’s still quite warm.”

“Oh?” Eleanor sat up, clutching the bottom sheet to her breast. “Hurry up then, or it will be cold by the time I get in.”

With more grumbling about having bathed only the night before last, Fulk sank into the tub. “Tell me about what is to happen, then. I doubt your letters included it all.”

“Actually, they did, for the main.” It was a bit of a stretch, and she nearly fell out of the bed, but Eleanor managed to reach the nearest article of clothing and pull it to her. Donning it she hopped out of bed. Fulk’s shirt was large on him; on her it hung to her knees, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. As she told him all that had happened during her time at court she laid out Fulk’s clothes on the bed ready for him to dress; her own she dumped to one side for washing, searching out fresh garments from the small wardrobe she’d left behind with Fulk.

By the time she had finished reporting Fulk was out of the bath, dried, and nearly fully dressed.

“If I hurry I can march the day after tomorrow,” he said. “My men are in a state of readiness in case of trouble.”

Eleanor bowed her head. She had expected it to take several days at least. “So soon.”

“Arranging the defence of our lands will be the time consuming part. Provisions and the like are already stored in readiness.” He buckled on his belt and began to collect up the wet towels.

“I thought we might have a few days.”

“You said Hugh commanded me to join him with all possible speed.” He arranged the towels to dry before the fire.

“He did. He would not know if you waited a day.” She looked at him beseechingly. “He could spare us a day.”

Fulk placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Heart of my heart, he is my king. I must obey. And in war a day may make all the difference.” He tilted her chin up with his fingers so she looked at him. “Never think I want to leave.” He stepped away. “Now have that bath, before it does go cold. We’ll be dining in the main hall soon enough; I ordered a minor feast to celebrate your return and our pardon by your brother.” He made a wry face. “It is politic to be seen to be grateful, however much I’d prefer to celebrate in private.”

Eleanor approached the bath in what was rapidly becoming her usual way now she had an audience; she stripped off and dived in as quickly as possible, keeping her front to Fulk. “Tell me about this trouble of yours.”

“Well, she’s about five foot two inches, has blue eyes and black hair-” He ducked to evade the washcloth she flung at him. “I had to kill one of my vassals. He was insulting me before others. I had no choice.” Fulk dropped the washcloth back into the tub, very obviously admiring the view as he did so. “I let the son live, sent him into exile. I don’t like killing so pointlessly; it feels much too close to murder for my comfort. The son’s disappeared. I suspect he is stirring up trouble, gathering like-minded men, or searching out prince Malcolm, possibly even seeking to join Trempwick.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Jesù, I feel like a fool for letting him live, and damn me if I don’t feel like a murderer for killing the father.”

“What insults?”

“He had a dog, the most wretched creature you’d ever set eyes on. He’d named it Alnwick. He had it performing tricks. He said … things.” Fulk began to pace restlessly about the room. “He did it before the hall, when only I and a handful of others were absent. I killed the dog as well – I could not do otherwise.”

Eleanor sank down until the back of the tub came up to her neck; she watched Fulk’s progress about the room. “You did right. You must establish yourself as a man who demands respect, else you will be kicked to the gutter and overrun.”

“Right though it may be, I dislike it.”

Eleanor said nothing. She disliked it also. Fulk was that rare thing: a man who was able to walk away, who did not quarrel and threaten violence to preserve his honour at the merest hint of a slight. She loved him for it.

Fulk’s pacing dawdled to a halt. “Well, I can’t claim I didn’t know I’d have to do this when I agreed to marry you.”

“There is a difference between knowing you will hate something, and finding you do indeed hate it.”

Fulk’s lips moved into the faintest of smiles. “Yes.”

Eleanor took a deep breath. “Speaking of which, where is my ring?”

Fulk produced it from his belt pouch. “It never left my side.”

Giving herself a final rinse to be sure all the soap was gone, Eleanor darted out of the bath and shrouded herself in a towel. She dressed herself before she took the ring from Fulk, giving it a cursory examination to make sure it was undamaged. It was the work of minutes to reinstate it to its original hiding place, tied to the inside of her girdle so it pressed into her waist, a constant reminder of its presence now she was no longer accustomed to it being there.

Fulk held out his hand. “Come, let me show you our castle. It would be well for us to be seen together, and for you to meet people.”

Hammering at the door woke Eleanor from a deep, contented sleep. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes Fulk sat up and demanded, “What is it?”

“My lord – Morpeth’s under attack!”

“What!?” Fulk scrambled out of bed and ran to the western window; he flung open the shutters and stuck his head out. “Hell and damnation!”

With no one talking and the shutter open Eleanor could hear the faint peals of a church bell being rung in alarm.

“I want a mounted party ready to go in an hour,” Fulk snapped. “A hundred men – and make sure they’re sober!”

“Yes, my lord.” Booted feet clomped rapidly away.

The bell gave one wobbling peal and fell silent. It was too easy to imagine the one ringing it falling under the attackers’ blades, clinging to the rope as they went down.

Shivering at the shock of night air on his bare flesh Fulk slammed the shutters to and used the night candle to light others. “Help me arm.”

Her heart had leapt up to lodge at the base of her throat; Eleanor swallowed a few times in an effort to put it back into place. Reluctantly she got out of bed, flung on her dress, and knelt by the chest which contained Fulk’s’ armour. She dragged the equipment out into the light item by item, part of her attention given to checking each was in good condition, much of it given to watching Fulk. Everything about him. She drank each detail in, fixing it in memory. Next time she saw him he could be hurt, maimed, dead. There might not be a next time.

As he laced his hose to his braes belt Fulk said, “They must have gambled on our being too drunk after the feast to ride out quickly.”

“Yes,” Eleanor agreed.

“Bad luck for them I only provided enough ale for the men at arms to feel grateful.”

“Or they did not know I had returned. Without the men from my escort you would be marching out in much less force. Vulnerable.” Eleanor helped Fulk on with his mail chausses; to her pride her fingers did not tremble and cause her to fumble.

Fulk hauled his gambeson on the instant she’d finished fastening the ties.

Not being strong enough to lift the mail hauberk, Eleanor dragged it across the floor by the shoulders. Fulk made a face at the abuse, and stepped forward to lift the armour up onto the bed. Kneeling on the floor at the bedside he thrust his arms and head into the mail; Eleanor dragged the skirts down over his back, and he stood up, letting gravity do the rest. The mail slid into place with the running-water hiss of thousands of tiny links rushing over the thick padded linen of the gambeson. Fulk jumped on the spot a few times to settle it into place. She had his coat of plates ready in perfect time; as soon as his hauberk was settled Fulk thrust out his left arm and ducked his head so she could place it on him without either of them needing to stand waiting for the other to catch up.

He grinned at her as she fastened the buckles down his left side. “Considering you’ve armed me but a handful of times, you’re not doing so badly. I begin to wonder if you’ve been practicing with another knight.”

“When apprenticed to Trempwick you learn new things quickly; the habit looks fit to remain with me for life.”

Fulk took hold of her by the arms. “You will stay in the castle. You will not leave. You will not send men out to look for me, or for any other reason. Do not put yourself at risk. This may be intended to lure me away so another group can come for you.”

“Then why not stay with me?” She could not prevent herself from asking. “Send someone else to Morpeth.”

“I am the earl.”

She’d known he couldn’t give what she asked for before she’d spoken; still it hurt that he chose to leave. “Yes, my lord.”

“You will be careful, and you will do as I asked. You have more than enough men to hold this place.”

So many soldiers, in fact, that they would not all fit within the walls. So many they would eat through provisions at a terrifying speed. It was a nightmare in the event of sudden attack. “Too many.”

“Not if handled well. Those outside … there are a multitude of uses for them, including driving off a small army before it could set up siege. You have veteran knights here and loyal to you; use them.”

“Yes, my lord.” Eleanor belted his sword on over his surcoat and stood back, her work done.

Not quite an hour later she stood in the bailey, shared one final embrace with her husband, and watched him ride off to war.

I had a completely lousy week. So bad I didn’t feel like writing. Some of it has been mended, the rest I have grown resigned to. I feel better now.

Oh gosh! A man who picks up after himself, and who hangs towels up properly so they dry! :swoons:

Peasant Phill, Ludens, you’re both probably right. If (and I almost definitely would) I altered the balance of that type of scene throughout the story, I’d weight it so this recent one carried about the same weight while most of the others slimmed down. This one is more important: Nell is asking about her father. An important step forward for her. Pondering the differences between William and Trempwick also matters, and no I won’t say why … though you should be able to figure it out by now. It’s not a vital to the story scene; it does have importance in things making sense and the transitions being believable.

Wasp, I’m still in the “poor Fulk” phase. I nearly always am. Poor man, being in love with a gooseberry :gring:

furball

03-23-2007, 11:15

Yay! Froggy and Fulk and Elly and all are back!

The first bit seems a bit contrived - MASSIVE APOLOGIES, but when you get to editting this, the first bit might get editted when the massive layover due to computer woes is discounted. As a story posted in fits and starts, it works fine.

“A hundred men – and make sure they’re sober!”

Yay!

And the feeling of suspense and "hurry" even as we deal with the minutiae of putting on Fulk's armor - excellent!

In fact, the whole episode makes my head spin. It's hard to tell how what's happening fits into the narrative WITHOUT also being aware that "froggy" has been off-line for so long. But you certainly got our attention! :)

The writing is excellent. The tempo will be corrected for a book on the rewrite. Please don't take anything I say as too negative.

At this point, you have our minds in your typy little fingers, Ms. Frog. Goodonya!

Wasp

03-23-2007, 12:59

Wasp, I’m still in the “poor Fulk” phase. I nearly always am. Poor man, being in love with a gooseberry :gring:

Actually, I've switched to the 'poor Wasp' phase. So much to read, not nearly enough time! ~D

Lord_Basher

03-26-2007, 08:34

ACK,, I have read this form the first post and now there is no more?? Froggy, Love the story has had me messmerised for the last month and a half since I found it, please continue fror some reason I can not get enough of this story.

If you have more simular stories I would love to read those also. Thanks again for a great read and please continue as your time permits.

Ludens

03-26-2007, 17:15

If you have more simular stories I would love to read those also. Thanks again for a great read and please continue as your time permits.
Hello Lord_Basher, welcome to the Org ~:wave: . Froggy has posted several stories in the Mead Hall, although this one is probably her best. You can find more stories by her in the Mead Hall Library (link in my signature). I recommend reading Blood Red Hand and Dragon's Tears.

frogbeastegg

03-28-2007, 19:30

The outdated wooden castle of Morpeth was an inferno, bearing sole responsibility for much of the smoke rising over the settlement. It was past saving. The keep was collapsing in fits and spurts, sparks flying and the flames leaping higher as the devoured the added fuel. The bailey fared little better, separated out somewhat from the keep though it was. There were sufficient timber framed buildings to keep the conflagration going when they shied away from the outer wall, giving home to the destruction until the flames were able to take another nibble from the ramparts. It would take a rainstorm to put this out.

Even at this distance the heat made Fulk’s exposed flesh feel tight. He wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand, the mail mitten dangling from his wrist batting at his chin. Whoever had done this had known what they were about. They would have set multiple fires in places where the flames could build in heat in shelter, feeding and growing until they raged invincible.

He spurred Sueta back towards the village, putting his back to one vision of destruction in favour of another. People ran about with buckets, fighting the flames. Others stared, broken by what had happened and useless. There were bodies lying here and there in clotting blood, limbs a sprawl. No one had had chance to lay them out in more dignified poses.

The attackers were gone, long gone.

Fulk drew rein at a distance; battle trained though he was Sueta was far from happy with this hell on earth. Dismounting he gave a rapid stream of orders, “Half the men to set up patrols; I won’t have any sneak up on us. Get the best scouts busy finding out which way the attackers went. As for the rest, get them busy saving what can be. Forget the castle; it’s beyond hope.”

The nearest villager not engaged in the fight was an old man. He watched his house as it burned. Only the thatch had caught, and a part of one wall; it could easily be saved.

“What happened?” Fulk assumed his question has been lost in the din of flames and shouting. He repeated a question in a shout.

The man stared at him mutely. His throat worked a few times, and eventually he asked, “You’re the new lord?”

“I am.”

“What happened is you.” He resumed watching his home burn.

“What do you mean?”

No reply.

Luke stepped forward and hit the man on the shoulder. “Answer my lord when he speaks to you, scum!”

“Luke!”

The squire’s eyes blazed as he turned to face his lord. “He owes you respect!”

“He does not, not if I allow my men to act so. You sully my name with your behaviour. If you wish to be helpful go and find a bucket and do something about that.” He indicated the blazing settlement with a sweep of his arm. With poor grace the squire complied. Addressing the villager again Fulk repeated, “What do you mean?”

“This morning I had two sons. Now I have nothing.” The old man blinked his eyes slowly, tears welling up. “One lies in the street in his own blood. The other I disown for joining those who did this. You should have killed the old lord’s son when you killed him, God knows you had excuse. Then he wouldn’t have come back. Then I’d still have two sons.”

When further efforts to speak to the man were met by stony silence Fulk claimed a bucket and went to fight the fires.

Built entirely from stone and set slightly apart the church was the only building unharmed by the flames. This was the only way in which it had been spared. Anything of value was gone, the interior ransacked. Someone had taken an axe to the rood screen and wooden pews. The altar had been overturned. They found the village priest in the belfry.

“Blessed Jesù.” Luke crossed himself.

The priest lay still and contorted, hands clutched to his stomach. Crimson smears spread out from the pool of blood where he’d thrashed about in his agony. Entrails spilled between his blood-blackened hands. Swinging in the breeze let in by the open door, the bell rope swayed above the corpse; it too was soaked in blood.

Waltheof knelt at the priest’s side and tried to close the eyes. Stubbornly the lids kept springing back up, and the knight abandoned the attempt. “They will burn in hell for this.”

“One may hope.” Fulk had seen enough; he made for the exit. “We should concern ourselves with making best use of the early warning he gave us.”

Morpeth looked no better in the light of dawn. The village was reduced to a hotchpotch of blackened skeletons still smoking amidst other, sounder buildings. On its man-made hill the castle had settled down to a low, steady glow as the flames consumed the last traces of fuel. The bodies were being collected now by some of Fulk’s men. The village green was host to several rows of corpses, some burned, some hacked up, some incomplete. Men, some women, a few children.

A second collection of bodies rested in a heedless pile on a second corner of the green; this collection was much smaller, exclusively male. One woman lingered at a short distance; Fulk supposed one of her menfolk lay amongst those who had attacked the village, and she was deciding if she dared claim him for burial. All the others were avoiding her as if she emanated a disease.

“My lord.” The man at arms saluted.

“You have found out what happened?” Fulk asked.

“Yes, my lord. Leastways, it seems like it.”

Fulk turned his eyes away from his ruined castle and thoughts of how much its loss would cost him. “Then report.”

“Lord. The attack came from the castle. That’s why they didn’t retreat there for shelter. The castellan’s son had gathered up some allies from I don’t know where, and somehow roused sympathy with a few of the men here. Ones who were his friend, I guess, or who didn’t like what you’d done.” The soldier tugged his forelock again. “Begging your pardon for saying so, my lord.”

Fulk waved at him to continue.

“They took what they could from the castle and started it burning, and swept down onto the village. Burning and looting, mostly, but killing those who got in the way.”

“Which way did they go?”

The man at arms didn’t quite meet Fulk’s eye. “North. My lord.”

North. Towards Scotland. “You will ride back to Ashington and tell all this to my lady wife. You will also tell her I am in pursuit.”

The plumes of smoke still came from Morpeth, however Eleanor’s eyes couldn’t make out any signs of flames. The westerly wind carried the scent of burning where the previous day’s had blown east and born the salt smell of the sea.

“There’ll be smoke for a day at least,” Jocelyn informed her. “Maybe more. Depends what was burned and how badly, and on the weather. If it rains it’ll stop smouldering that much sooner.”

“I am aware of this.”

“Oh. Well. Good.” The count took up a pose with both hands resting on the breastwork.

When she had stood at the top of Ashington’s keep with Fulk yesterday Eleanor had looked out at the view and thought the area to be much the same as the other parts of the north she had seen, which was to say beautiful in a bleak manner. This morning she saw a strategic strongpoint turned into a disaster. The small castle could house perhaps a hundred and twenty at a push; typically the garrison and the locals with their animals would number less than this.

Absently she commented, “I find myself glad my lord husband left the bulk of his loaned army dispersed about the earldom.”

Jocelyn snorted. “If I were him I’d find some polite excuse to get shot of the lot of them. Hire myself some men of my own in my colours, loyal to me. Borrowed is asking for trouble.”

Hawise protested, “The King of Scots is our ally. Surely we must make a show of trust?”

“You are both correct.” Eleanor shaded her eyes with her hand and continued to focus on the village, identifying features in the terrain and making rough calculations. “Aveis, how many are there in the village?”

The castellan’s wife answered without delay. “Seventy-one.”

Jocelyn looked sidelong at the young woman. “You know the count well.”

“As I should. These are my lands, sir. My husband holds them through me.”

The count held up his hands to ward off her ire. “I only meant that it seemed a surprising thing for a beautiful lady to bother about.”

Above Aveis’ grey eyes her brows drew down. “Some of us, sir, have both brains and beauty. I do not flatter myself that I am beautiful, and nor should you.”

Jocelyn spluttered, recovered his composure, and purposely put his shoulder to the girl.

Eleanor decided in a heartbeat that she liked the young woman. “What about timber suitable for building?”

“It depends what one wishes to build.”

“A stockade around the village.”

Aveis joined Eleanor in gazing down at the settlement. “It should be possible, if you kept the length and wood usage to the minimum. Anything else would take a chunk out of my forests which would take years to recover from.”

Eleanor beckoned Jocelyn to her side. “I am thinking of an earthen rampart topped with a wooden wall, running close to the outermost buildings. A simple defence to shelter the villagers and those of our forces who cannot fit within the castle itself. I want it done by nightfall tomorrow.”

Jocelyn blew out air through pursed lips. “Highness, it’s going to be a fair bit of work to organise.”

Eleanor gifted the man with a bright, bright smile. “That is why I am entrusting the task to you.”

Though all of Fulk’s army rode in silence to make their passage less obvious, Luke’s irked him. The squire could claim to be obeying the order but Fulk knew that wasn’t the reason for his keeping his mouth tight shut. The man was sulking, plain and simple.

Eventually Fulk was sick to the stomach of it. He nudged his horse close to his squires and leaned over in his saddle so the man would hear his quiet rebuke. “You sulk like a little girl told she cannot have a puppy. You should have known better than to take a heavy hand with a grief-stricken old man.”

The squire’s mouth tightened. “And you, my lord, should be learning better than to be so soft. You must be a worthy husband for the princess.”

“Brutality and callousness would make me far from worthy.”

“Hah!” Luke spat to the side away from Fulk. “When people mock you they mock her. When they disrespect you they disrespect her. And you’re meant to protect her. I begin to think you lack the balls to do it.”

Fulk’s hands clenched about the reins. “I killed one man-”

“And let another escape.”

“I cannot kill everyone – and I will not try.”

“Then you shouldn’t have married her.”

“Christ, man!” Fulk slammed his teeth shut on further loud exclamations. In a low voice filled with repressed anger he said, “I married her, which keeps her out of the hands of those who would use her, and scuppers Trempwick’s attempt to stuff her on the throne willing or no. No one will hurt her again while I am alive, and if anyone dares lay a finger on her against her will I shall mince them into dog food. She will not be sold off to someone she doesn’t like to shore up her brother’s crown, or be crammed in a nunnery to rot. I treat her as my equal, and cherish her above all else. I love her more than my soul. I am the most faithful of husbands, and always will be. Those who directly insult her I make pay.” Fulk took a breath. “If I were to try and fight everyone I would die. Then she’d be alone and more vulnerable than before. Did you ever think of that? Besides, she doesn’t want a blood-soaked thug.” The corner of his mouth lifted as he imagined what Eleanor would say about that observation.

The squire snorted. “So says the great knight.”

“Yes – so says the man who charged a band of kidnappers alone and wounded for her sake.”

Luke fixed his eyes straight ahead, his face set. “Very well. You are no coward. But you have brought ignominy to her-”

“And you think that will be bettered by maltreating old men and brawling with those who make bad jests?” Fulk demanded. His squire was guilty of both, and more.

Luke tilted his head, grinning a little. “Or by breaking a man’s nose because he suggested you could take a mistress?”

Guilty as charged Fulk cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”

“I can’t stand it. That night, when we rescued her, she knew all our names. She asked how we were – she was anxious for us.” Luke’s face glowed as he recalled. “We were her first concern.”

It was time to broach something which had become increasingly clear to Fulk, something he considered himself a blind dolt for not noticing long before. “I know you worship her-”

Luke’s head snapped around. Immediately he protested, “Not in any impure way. She is – is like a - a saint to me!”

At the notion of Saint Eleanor the Irritable, complete with a crooked halo and garbed in robes which hid a pair of knives, Fulk bit back a grin.

The squire didn’t notice Fulk’s difficulty. “Or perhaps a legend. What else could she be?” Softly he said again, “She knew our names. How many nobles know their men at arms’ names? Especially newly hired ones. And she fought her abductors, brave as any man, and more than once she’s been caught in danger and we’ve never seen a hint of fear from her.”

The gushing praise made Fulk feel decidedly uncomfortable; he interrupted to put a stop to it “Yes, I know. I love her for it, and for many other reasons. But you won’t help her by brawling, and I won’t help her by dying, so pull yourself together and start thinking clearly.”

“She is a lady worth our devotion. I would die for her.”

Fulk sighed. Luke was a couple of years younger, and heaven knew Fulk had gone through his own idealistic – or idiotic – phase in the heady days when he’d been in love with Maude and before his world had died, but still his fingers positively itched to shake his squire until his teeth rattled. Curtly he told him, “She’d by far prefer it if you lived. It’s less messy, and she’s not left trying to find a trustworthy replacement. And in the name of heaven, keep silent about her fighting. That would ruin her name more surely than marrying me ever did.”

Luke cast about, checking belatedly no one could overheard their hushed conversation. “Sorry, my lord. I would not betray her.”

“Then see you conduct yourself in a manner which brings no stain to her name or mine, else you will find yourself cast out.” Fulk spurred Sueta on ahead.

Saint Eleanor the Irritable figurines will be on sale in the Eleanor™ store as soon as I find some people skilled enough to carve and paint them. No cheap and tacky plastic knock-offs here, no siree!

Furball, contrived, probably. ~:) The entire scene would most likely vanish during an edit, with a couple of lines and references transferred over to the following scene. It was a good scene for getting back into writing the story though, and after so long apart I thought Nell and Fulk deserved a bit of time together before they were separated again.

Wasp, once you run out of the pre-written material you’ll be waiting days between episodes. I doubt that will be any better. ~:(

Lord basher, as Ludens says I have a few older works here. None are nearly as good as this one, or as long. They’re very much the work of a frog who was only beginning to learn how to write. Be warned not to expect another ‘Eleanor’ if you go searching for them. ~:)

Wasp

03-29-2007, 21:45

Wasp, once you run out of the pre-written material you’ll be waiting days between episodes. I doubt that will be any better. ~:(

No matter.. I think I'm only slightly gaining on you, so there's still plenty to read. Although it's a shame I can't give any recent criticism, but if you want, I can PM you if I find something extremely special.

frogbeastegg

04-05-2007, 19:03

An arrow thudded into Fulk’s shield; he beat aside his foe’s blade with his sword and delivered a quick cut to the man’s right arm. A second arrow whipped by and buried itself in his unfortunate enemy’s unprotected chest. Cursing under his breath Fulk spurred Sueta on and away, trying to put something between himself and the goon with the bow intent on taking pot shots at him.

A man in a mail shirt jabbed at him with a spear; Fulk deflected the thrust with his sword and commanded his destrier in close. The footsoldier was knocked from his feet as Sueta’s flank crashed into him, and trampled underfoot.

An impact on his back told Fulk that the bowman was still following his progress with a keen eye; not feeling any pain he assumed the arrow had glanced off his coat of plates, or at worst had lodged in his armour. He wondered why the idiot didn’t simply shoot his mount out from under him; an unarmoured horse was a far easier target.

He had no more time to wonder on it; a man spurred his horse at him, swinging furiously with his sword. Trading blows and making liberal use of his shield Fulk felt the blood sing in his veins; exhaustion vanished, banished by exhilaration as he settled into the heady challenge of pitting his skills against others’.

A second man came at him as he fought, and was intercepted by Luke.

Moments later he saw one of his mounted guard weave in his saddle as though drunk, and slide gently down to the ground in a flow of blood.

An arrow spanged off his helm; in that instant of distraction Fulk’s foe lunged, the tip of his sword getting in over the top of Fulk’s shield and catching his shoulder. He smashed the rim of his shield into the sword arm left overexposed by the desperate attack. The sword dropped from nerveless fingers, the point grating in the wound as it fell away. A quick chop to his enemy’s neck ended matters - and another arrow missed its mark.

Fulk filled his lungs and roared, “Will someone get that God damned bastard of an archer already!?” He spurred his horse deeper into the fight.

A slight figure was shoved to his knees before Fulk. The man at arms controlling the prisoner clarified needlessly, “The archer, my lord.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. Of all the things he might have expected this had not featured. A boy. A mere adolescent, no more than fourteen at the very best, armed with a hunting bow made slightly small to fit his growing height. It could never have put an arrow through his armour. “Why didn’t you shoot my horse?”

The wretched figure mumbled groundwards, “He’s too beautiful. I couldn’t.”

Fulk suppressed a sigh. “I don’t suppose you have a father in Morpeth, a rather sour old man with a great hooked nose?”

“Yes … my lord.”

The excitement of the battle over, Fulk’s blood was cooling, leaving him weary and beginning to feel the aching throb of his wounded shoulder. “Why on earth are you here?” he demanded, abruptly sick to the stomach of this prisoner.

“My cousin … he said I’d never have to farm again.” For the first time the boy looked up from his shoes. “I’d be a soldier, like I always wanted.”

“Your father has disowned you.”

“He always said I should be like my brother: boring.”

“Then you won’t be too grieved to hear your brother is dead,” Fulk said acidly.

The boy dipped his head again. “I know. I … saw.” His voice caught and wobbled. “I didn’t think he’d be hurt. Any of them! I thought we’d take some stuff, start a few fires, and go.” There was a choked sob, and he begged, “Please don’t kill me!”

Fulk hardened his heart; he could not afford to be merciful. “If you are old enough to take up weapons and fight with those attacking your home then you are old enough to pay the price of it.”

He had his men bundle the wretch away to join the rest of the prisoners before he could change his mind. Not, he knew, that he should show any mercy – it was impossible to believe the boy could be so naive as he claimed to have been.

Once his party was ready to begin the ride home Fulk collected his most important prisoner from the knot of bound men. “A shame you ran so far. It leaves you a long walk back,” he informed the former castellan’s son. “Your father said I was a dog. But it’s not going to be me running along on a leash.” He tossed the free end of the length of rope bound around the man’s hands to Luke; the squire fastened it to his saddle.

Morpeth’s son set his shoulders. “You’re a bloody mongrel and one day someone will kick you back down to the cesspit where you belong. I only wish I could be there to see it.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Your future’s easier to predict. You’ll hang, your men along with you.”

The prisoner bared his teeth in a grin which tugged open the cut across his cheek causing it to bleed anew. “I’ve avenged my father, and by now my mother and sisters are long out of your reach. You’ll never have what was ours – not now. It’s ashes, thief.”

Fulk pitched his voice to carry without being obvious about it; if he had to play silly games to build his reputation he’d rather do so with a degree of subtly. “Wrong. I’d left you your possessions; now all you went to such trouble to carry this far is mine, as rightful spoils. As for your castle? It was an outdated dung heap that only a mangy little cock like you would crow about. I’ll rebuild it in stone, and I’ll sell off your goods to help pay for it.” He gave the rope about the prisoner’s wrists a good tug to test the strength of the knots, yanking so hard the man was nearly pulled off balance. “Do try not to fall over too many times. You won’t cut such a fine figure at your execution if you’re all scraped from being dragged behind a horse.” Being as the man was still in his armour the two day trip home would be arduous, to say the least.

Ignoring his prisoner’s insults Fulk mounted up, turned Sueta’s head for home, and dug in his spurs.

Got a lot of reading to do. A lot. Good books, too …

Wasp, yes, please do ~:)

Peasant Phill

04-06-2007, 09:42

Ah, some action at last. I was aching for it.

Let all those rebels hang for disturbing probably some of the last moments of peace Fulk and Eleanor will have in a long time.

frogbeastegg

04-10-2007, 20:35

Eleanor sucked at her pricked fingertip while thinking a multitude of words Trempwick would have been distressed to find she knew.

Stitching serenely away at a strip which would become a decorative border for something, Hawise remarked, “It’s a wonder that shirt isn’t decorated with little bloodstains.”

Eleanor glowered at her maid. “Very amusing.” If a speck of blood had ended up on the crisp white linen each time she had pricked herself she would have had no recourse but to alter the simplified vine and leaf pattern border for one featuring redcurrants. She snorted. “I must have been deranged when I started this. I loathe sewing, and it loathes me.” The idea had occurred to her while she was at court; she blamed Hugh’s stuffy influences for making it form.

Aveis looked up from her own sewing with a shy smile. “It looks like the product of a mind missing a husband, to me. I once spent an entire summer sewing clothes for Dicken because he was on campaign.” Her needle stopped its work and her head bowed slightly. “That was our first summer.”

Hawise asked, “Dicken was your first husband?”

“Second.” Aveis began sewing again. “After Guy, before Huon.”

“You have had three husbands?” Hawise’s own needle arrested in its work. “But you can’t be more than twenty!”

“Three, in four years.”

Blood had stopped beading up on Eleanor’s fingertip, and she judged it safe to resume her struggle to work a pattern about the neck of Fulk’s gift. “You have been singularly unfortunate.” Aveis’ lack of luck with husbands was already known to her, as was the circumstances of each death, yet there could be no harm in hearing the story from the young woman’s own lips. It may prove enlightening.

“This land eats men,” Aveis said bitterly.

Hawise neatly inferred what her mistress required, and played dumb. “What do you mean?”

“Stephan was dead three weeks after our wedding, killed in a skirmish with raiders on our land. Several weeks later I married Dicken, at his insistence and for my protection. He took a wound while on campaign against the old Earl of Northumberland, and died of it.”

“Northumberland?” Hawise’s head came up. “But that would mean …”

“Yes. Five months ago, ousting one traitor so another could take his place.” Aveis inclined her head to Eleanor. “If your Highness will forgive me for speaking of some close to her as such.”

“Trempwick is a traitor, as was John, whom the former Northumberland followed.” Eleanor leaned back from her work to see how it was looking. Satisfied no stitch was out of place she resumed her labour. “One may hope you have had your share of grief.”

The sound of someone climbing the last few steps was followed by a loud cough beyond the curtain which blocked off the entrance to the solar. “Ah … your Highness?”

Eleanor muttered, “Speaking of grief, here comes one of mine to haunt me in penance for my ill deeds.” Louder. “You may enter.”

Sweat gave Jocelyn’s brow a sheen, and he was mildly out of breath. A small girl was sat on his hip, held securely in place with an arm. She held onto his tunic with two tiny little fists as though she feared to be dropped. “I report wall done,” he proclaimed proudly.

His progress with Anglo-French was remarkable, Eleanor felt compelled to admit. He learned swiftly, possessing both a good ear and a solid memory. The close kinship between this language and his own native one undoubtedly speeded his progress considerably. He’d be picking up some English as well, she had no doubt. “Good. Have you moved the army inside the walls?”

“It done. Guard set too.”

“Any sign of my husband?” There had been no message from Fulk since he had left Morpeth two days before. It was too much to expect a constant stream of reports but Eleanor lived in hope. It was better than living in apprehension.

“No, your Highness.”

The small girl wriggled in Jocelyn’s arms and tugged at his tunic. He smiled at her. “Ah, sorry, you wanted mother. You going walk to her? Or be carry?” The child just stretched out an arm towards Aveis. Jocelyn set the girl down on her feet. “There. Walking?” The results weren’t impressive; the child kept one hand locked on the count’s tunic hem for balance and stood staring about the room with big brown eyes.

Aveis knelt down on the floor and stretched out her arms towards the child. “Come on, Ellen. Come to mother.”

The child didn’t seem inclined to cooperate, perhaps enjoying the fuss.

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Ellen?”

“Usually Eleanor, after my mother, but given the company it seems best to use her nickname.” Aveis smiled at her daughter. “That’s how you always say it, isn’t it, Ellen?”

Ellen abandoned Jocelyn and shot across the room to her mother in one of those displays of lightening speed which only toddlers seemed to be capable of. Sat on her mother’s knee she wrapped both arms around her neck with an air which proclaimed she was not going to be moved without a lot of noise.

“She cute.” Jocelyn nodded. “Remind me of my daughter. She four now. Adorable; holds my heart in both hands. I miss her. Was nice to play a bit with yours. Then she ask for you lots, so I brought her. This no problem, I hope?”

“Ellen will be two in a few more months.” Aveis smoothed her daughter’s sandy hair. “Won’t you?”

The girl nodded.

Eleanor supposed the child was struck dumb by the number of strangers. “That would make her-”

“Dicken’s daughter, yes. And my heir.”

Jocelyn helped himself to a seat at the window. “You no sons?”

Aveis froze; her face went blank. “No.”

“Husband must be sad?”

“He wants an heir of his own so he can send Ellen away, yes. The lack of one is God’s judgement on him, I would say.” She lifted her chin. “It is no secret that I didn’t want to marry him, or that he barged his way into my home less than a week after Dicken’s body was returned to me.”

Jocelyn shrugged. “Too much odd words.”

In Langue d’oil Eleanor surmised, “Her current husband forced her to marry him soon after her previous one died.”

“Ah.” Jocelyn rubbed his chin in embarrassment. “Still … um, what is good at end is happy all, right? Or … thing?”

The three ladies stared at him, each privately trying to tease some meaning from that random pronouncement.

He tried again. “How justice from God? A child maybe make all happier?”

Aveis hugged her daughter closer and regarded the count across the top of the child’s head. “I was two months gone with child when Huon married me. I lost it three days later.”

Jocelyn’s brow creased. “Ah … Um … Tragic. Sad. Yet not the end of all. Another child brings joy of its own. Look at prince Hugh and wife; always hope. Must not blame him; forgive is good. Look to future, not sit in past like cat in puddle of piss.”

Ellen giggled. “He said piss, mummy! He’s naughty.”

Aveis gave the count a filthy look, and turned her focus to her child. “Yes. He is a very bad man.”

Jocelyn looked bewildered. “What I say?”

Eleanor told him in Langue ‘d’oil, “Your turn of phrase does not translate well, and I do not think the lady appreciates being told to stop sulking.”

Jocelyn reverted to his native tongue in disgust. “Huh. Try to be poetic and this is what happens: people act like you shat on their shoes. Er – begging your pardon, your Highness.”

Eleanor couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh dear!”

Jocelyn scratched the back of his neck. “I never claimed to be a courtier.”

Eleanor forbore to remind him that he had, and on numerous occasions. “If you wish to remain a count you must become one.”

Jocelyn started to his feet in alarm. “Highness, if I have given such grave offence, please, I beg of you, forgive me and grant me another chance to prove my worth-”

“No, no.” Eleanor held up a hand in the hopes it would shut him up. “I meant if you are a count you needs must pass time at court, therefore you must become a courtier.”

“Oh.” Jocelyn became keenly aware of the two ladies and one child staring at him, wondering what he was doing as they were unable to follow the conversation. “Oh.” He sat back down with a thump. “Is there nothing useful I can be doing?” he almost pleaded. “Useful other than guarding you, of course. Which is very useful, and a task which honours me deeply.”

Alright, his claims weren’t complete lies: he did have a streak of courtier in him. “You can send out some scouts. I wish to know where my husband is.”

“Yes, your Highness. At once.” He bowed and shot out the door as though the room were an oven coming up to temperature.

Eleanor placed a few more stitches in her shirt. “I pity his wife. She must have been driven demented.”

Little Ellen commented, “I like him. He’s funny. He made a coin appear from nowhere. And he looks like the lion in the bible.”

Aveis started, and looked thoughtful. “Yes, yes, I suppose he does, a little. It’s the hair, and the beard; they look like a mane.”

Hawise added, “He has the same way of moving as the lion I saw in the king’s menagerie, too, all graceful, dangerous strength. And the eyes; they’re very intent.”

“And the brains of one too,” Eleanor finished, a touch sourly as she’d just stabbed herself with her needle again due to her lack of attention. She set the sewing aside and rose. “Enough of this; I have lost enough blood for one day. I wish to inspect the new defences.”

I wrote more than double this amount in a single day. Half of that unposted part is off in the future and won’t be seen for some time; the rest is half finished. :silly smile: It was wonderful, page after page flying down. Just like old times.

Peasant Phill, agreed, the change of pace is nice.

edyzmedieval

04-13-2007, 21:15

Seriously Froggy, this is weird. Why don't you actually publish your work? You've worked on about 18 pages on Org, and you can easily make it a 500 page book. And you'll surely have success.

frogbeastegg

04-21-2007, 19:39

Eleanor squinted into the distance, trying to pick out which of the mass of figures was Fulk. He had to be down there somewhere, one of the mounted men in armour riding along at the front of the column. He had to be. If he wasn’t then he was gravely wounded or dead.

Aveis stood at Eleanor’s other side, still as a statue. Her eyes were riveted on the approaching army, to all appearance calm and uncaring – until one noticed how her hands were clasped tightly enough to make her knuckles shine white. The tension seeping off her reached Eleanor and made her own grow, the woman’s bitter statement of “This land eats men.” repeating itself over and over in the back of her mind.

There! A man in a blue surcoat right at the front – that had to be him. She pointed him out to her companions. “That is him, is it not?”

“I think so,” said Aveis dubiously.

Hawise squinted for a few moments longer before standing back. “Maybe. My eyes aren’t as good as yours, Eleanor.”

The passing of another minute, and the figure in blue resolved clearly into Fulk. Following a brief distance behind him was a bier, bearing a body draped with a cloak. The dead man’s shield was placed over his chest.

Aveis gave a short cry and clamped her hands over her mouth. The blood drained from her face and she swayed, like she was about to faint.

“I am sorry,” Eleanor said softly. Three dead husbands in four years; Eleanor could easily guess at the kind of talk which would plague Aveis from now.

To Eleanor’s shock Aveis flung herself to her knees and clutched at Eleanor’s skirt, talking rapidly through a flood of tears. “Don’t make me marry again! Please. I’ll pay you - I’ll do anything you want. I swear I won’t marry without your permission, or do anything else to put my lands at risk, if you will only let me be. Please. Anything. I’ll-”

Eleanor had to raise her voice to be heard across the flow. “Enough!”

Aveis subsided with one final heartfelt plea, which she delivered while looking up at her liege lord’s wife. “Please.”

It was not really for Eleanor to decide, leastways not without consulting with Fulk – this woman was his vassal, not hers. However he had said he wanted her to act as his partner, and she would be damned before she chose to sit in Fulk’s shade and snooze. It was necessary to quash compassion and to act is a business-like manner to extract as much as possible from this situation. “You ask much. While you may hold this land in your own right, you cannot ride out to defend it, or in support of my husband. This is not a peaceful time where that is of small matter.”

Aveis wiped her face on her sleeve and made an effort to pull herself together. “Your Highness, if you are able to hold your lord’s lands in his absence why do you think I cannot?”

Eleanor gave a tight smile. “Your last husband proved you unable to guard your lands and person adequately.” She felt evil when the poor girl cringed. “And I believe you acquired your second husband because you needed him to protect you.” She pretended to think for a second. “What guarantee do I have that you will not find yourself yet another husband? One who may not be to my lord husband’s best interests.”

“I will pay-”

“That in itself gives us no guarantee. I think it best for you to join my household, and for your lands to be placed in the hands of a steward of my lord husband’s choosing.”

Aveis’ head came up. “I have not spent so long trying to hold my lands together to hand them off to another!”

That answer Eleanor liked. “For a few months, until the situation is settled and you have proven your trustworthiness. You have my word that your lands will not be stripped for our profit; they will be returned to you in good order.” She eyed the crude fortifications around the village thoughtfully. They would have to be pulled down when Fulk returned and they left this place; that would leave a surplus of building timber for which a use could undoubtedly be found. “Possibly even with some improvements.

Aveis bowed her head in acceptance. “It seems I have little choice but to accept.”

“Then stand up. Please. And stop calling me ‘your Highness’.”

To Eleanor’s immense relief Aveis complied, before turning away to gaze over the ramparts. “I will not have Huon buried here. His carcass can rot elsewhere – anywhere, so long as it is not on my land.”

“Does he have family?”

“An elder brother. He holds his land from the Duke of Northumberland, and is fighting for him.” Aveis dabbed at her eyes again and tried a smile. “Having him pay for Huon’s funeral will mean less money to support Trempwick. So Huon may have finally done something I can approve of.”

Presently in a state which I like to describe as GAH!! Two people have quit at work; one’s already gone, the other leaves soon. Neither gave enough warning for us to find someone to replace them. So we’re understaffed. Badly. Making life all the more Fun we have our annual stock take on Thursday. We’re not remotely ready – we can’t be, as we simply haven’t had the people to sort it all out. We’ve also been told we’re not allowed to borrow staff from other branches to help, despite the fact that this is traditional and really rather necessary. We need 9 people. We have 6. That’s just for the day of the stock take; I won’t go into the nasty staffing problems beforehand, or the problems afterwards. So it’s overtime for the stock take prep, and overtime as cover; one day off this week, a couple of 10 hour shifts, being late out on days where we do the normal shift …

As you may guess, this means I barely have time to write. ~:(

I wish it were as easy as that. Publishers and agents are almost always only going to look at finished manuscripts when it comes to new authors. Until I have something complete, edited and polished there’s little point in my sending anything off. The best I could hope for would be a polite letter asking me to submit again when the work was complete. It would be a miracle if I got taken on for an unfinished work. The downside to these massive tales of mine is that they take a very long time to complete, meaning I haven’t yet got anything to send. I’d try short stories, but I really don’t get on with them. It’s not possible to do the things I like in so little space.

furball

04-22-2007, 05:46

Always good to see new chapters, Froggy. Best of luck at work.

Peasant Phill

04-23-2007, 09:37

good luck with the stock. I think we can wait a bit for the next chapter. I'll have to start with some other addiction to counter the cold turkey of this one. I'm not sure I'll pick alcohol, sigarettes or comics.

Ludens

04-23-2007, 14:28

good luck with the stock. I think we can wait a bit for the next chapter.
:yes:

frogbeastegg

04-23-2007, 16:17

With a knife Eleanor cut through the bandages holding the pad on linen to Fulk’s wound and eased it away, scarcely breathing as she did so for fear of what she would find. The wound sat under his collar bone, puffy and red, about an inch long. It looked deep. “You should have taken better care.”

“If I had not been distracted by an arrow I would have guarded better. As it was the blade missed my coat of plates by a finger’s breadth and thrust through my mail.” He sounded uncharacteristically peeved about the whole incident. “The entire thing was chance, not skill on their part or a lack of it on mine.”

She dropped the soiled linen to the floor and bent to take a closer look at the scab. “Better care of the cut, you rust-brained idiot! Though care when fighting would not go amiss.”

“It was cleaned when we stopped for the night, and again when we stopped last night.”

“And obviously that has not been enough. Your armour has been irritating it.”

“I could hardly ride along unarmed, nor could I dally.” Fulk twisted about obediently so the wound was in the best light.

Eleanor drew one of her knifes and, trying not to think of what she was doing to her poor knight, sliced open the wound. Immediately blood flowed forth, mingled with pus. She applied gentle pressure on either side of the wound; more pus oozed out. When nothing but clean blood flowed Eleanor rinsed the rent in his flesh with wine. Fulk hissed at the pain.

“Sorry,” Eleanor said at once.

“It will hurt however gentle you try to be.” He looked up at her with a strained smile. “Can I have a kiss for being so brave?”

Eleanor wiped his shoulder clean with a fresh bit of cloth, and slapped a pad over the bleeding injury. “Hold that in place until the bleeding slows.”

Instead of replacing her hand with his he placed his own over hers and stood up. “My kiss?”

“Be careful with that towel!” Fresh from his bath Fulk was naked except for a towel wrapped about his waist. “You do not wish to give poor Hawise a shock.”

The aforementioned maid was busily collecting up the soiled dressings to go with the clothes for washing, her eyes averted.

Fulk fiddled with the folds until they looked more secure. “There. Happy? Now can I have that kiss?”

Being a meek wife Eleanor complied for a good minute or two. Drawing back she ran a hand over her cheeks. “You need to shave,” she said ruefully. “Scratchy as a thorn bush.”

Fulk rubbed his free hand over the stubbly beard he’d grown on his outing. “Mmm.”

He seemed to be in a good mood despite being weary and wounded; Eleanor thought it best to inform him about Aveis now, in case his mood grew worse or he discovered it from another source. “Aveis’ husband died …”

“Yes. Right before my eyes. Nothing I could do; he took a blow to the head and was dragged down from his horse while stunned. A dagger through his helm’s eye slit ended it.”

“I have taken her into my household. We need to place someone trustworthy in charge of her lands.” Fulk’s eyebrows rose; he said nothing. Wanting to justify herself in case he was angry, Eleanor said quickly, “She has proven herself incapable of protecting her lands and herself; if we left her in control we would very likely find trouble, and we cannot afford more of that. This way the lands are guarded, and so is she – who will dare snatch her from my household? Once peace is restored it should be possible for her to hold her own, if we keep a close eye.”

“That’s well enough.”

Very slowly Eleanor let out the breath she had been holding, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Fulk poked her in the ribs, grinning. “What’s this? Baited breath? My, my!”

Eleanor glowered at him. “I was unsure as to whether you would be pleased.” She pushed him back down onto the stool and checked to see how his wound was clotting

“I don’t like lazy wives; my dear gooseberry, I expect you to work.” He composed his features into a mock stern expression. “If you don’t work then I won’t waste money on feeding you.”

Dryly Eleanor remarked, “How very Trempwickish.”

“Ah.” Fulk’s lips pressed together. “You may be assured that, unlike with him, you have no cause for worry if you step on my toes. Being a decent sort of chap, you have to stamp before I start hopping about and swearing.”

Not wanting to hear another chorus of his dislike for Trempwick, Eleanor changed the subject. “Who will you place in control of Morpeth?”

Fulk considered for a bit. “Waltheof, I think. He’s steady, proven himself loyal, and I strongly doubt he’ll despoil the lady’s lands for his own profit. He’s been raised to be a lord, so he’ll know what’s needed.”

Satisfied that the bleeding had slowed sufficiently Eleanor began to apply a thick layer of salve to a fresh pad of linen. “It will act as good contrast, and bind him more closely to us. While the King of Scots allows him to be robbed of his inheritance, we do our best for him.”

This time it was Fulk’s turn to comment, “How very Trempwickish.”

“No,” she corrected impatiently, “how very noble. For nobles such thinking is absorbed from birth. It must be, else you have little hope of surviving. If you have land, someone else wants it. If you have wealth, someone else desires it. If you can be of use, someone will want to use you.”

“I know,” he interrupted. “And such thinking is not limited to the nobility.”

Eleanor forbore a pithy reply. She bandaged the new dressing into place as Hawise returned with a bowl of fresh hot water for Fulk to shave with. As Fulk set to with a blade, Eleanor helped Hawise lay out fresh clothes for him. The maid made herself scarce when Fulk was ready to dress.

As he added the finishing touches to his attire Fulk said, “I’m going to pass verdict on the prisoners, so they can be executed tomorrow.” There was a pause. He didn’t quite look at her as he said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t step beyond being a witness. I want this to be seen as my justice; it was my mercy they abused, and my lands they burned. And I want to be seen as being my own man.”

Eleanor digested this, keeping her teeth shut on a spate of impolite of words. After a bit she managed to get out something which wasn’t too unpleasant. “Very well. I shall sit like a brainless statue so the world can say you are an independent man.”

“Beloved-”

“I know such things are necessary. That does not mean I have to like it.”

“It could be worse. I could have asked you not to accompany me.”

“That would be a fool’s move. It would harm my ability to rule in your absence; I must be associated with you, and be seen to be trusted.”

“I’m not a fool.”

“I did not say you were.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, ‘loved. I admit I did wonder if I’d do best to ask you while still in armour and mounted for a fast escape.”

Not willing to be placated by kisses and silliness Eleanor glowered at him. “Flattery will gain you nothing. Or insults. Whichever that was meant to be.”

“If you don’t know I’m sure I don’t, oh wisest of all fruit.”

Eleanor continued to pin him with a level stare. It was like trying to outface a gargoyle.

“I made you a shirt,” she said, at the same time as he said, “I brought you something.”

There was a pause as they both waited in expectation of the other speaking. Eleanor broke it. “You go first, since you are the one asking me to pretend to be a bland dolt with no opinion or influence.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he muttered.

Eleanor gave him a smile loaded with false brightness. “I would.”

“On my way back we passed a merchant and his convoy. They’d obviously been trying to get clear of our path in the hopes we didn’t spot them, but one of their carts had broken a wheel.” Fulk reached into his belt pouch and pulled out something which he kept hidden in the palm of his hand. “I’m afraid I disappointed him; I didn’t loot his goods.”

“I should hope not.”

“I had a couple of my soldiers helped mend the wheel.”

Eleanor folded her arms. “Sir Fulk the Honest.”

He shrugged. “Too good an opportunity for name-building to waste. Anyway, I had a look at his wares while I waited for them to finish.” He presented his opened hand to her. On his palm lay a gold ring brooch. The long needle-shaped pin had three bands of engraved patterning on it at top, middle and tip. The decorative bands were repeated at four equally spaced points on the ring, with the addition of an amethyst set in the heart of each. “This was clearly the best amongst what he had.”

It would be churlish to remain in bad humour now. Eleanor kissed him. “Thank you.” She took the brooch from him as he settled his arm about her; close examination revealed the workmanship to be very fine. “It must have been expensive.”

“Actually, it wasn’t. Part gratitude for my help, part terror I’d simply take it, I think.” Fulk gave the end of her braid a gentle tug. “Now, what were you trying to say?”

Discomfiture at admitting to trying her hand at a hated activity for love of him combined with the worry that her gift couldn’t match his. Her words were barely audible, and carried a hint of challenge. “I made you a shirt.”

“Where is it?” When she made no move to fetch it he enquired, “Aren’t I allowed to see this shirt of mine?”

“Oh … later.” Eleanor stepped back and slipped her hand into his. “You have bandits to judge, and I have a lump of stone to imitate. Let us be off and have done with it, before I change my mind.”

I kept the day off I didn’t expect to! Yay! Don’t expect to be writing again until the weekend at the very earliest, and I’m working over that anyway.

If you want addiction I strongly suggest Puzzle Quest (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=82848).

Peasant Phill

04-23-2007, 23:51

What a pleasant surpise. I didn't expect to be able to read a new chapter until at least next week.

And about my alternative addiction: I'll try my hand at this 'Puzzle Quest' but my affinity with Belgian and French comic books will be hard to beat.

john_C

05-01-2007, 14:33

Frogbeastegg,

Congratulations on writing an thoroughly entertaining and absorbing story. Your efforts are certainly appreciated. I have spent the last four days reading this thread start to finish and am impressed by your continued dedication. I have thoroughly enjoyed it and I hope you will take some constructive criticism in the light it is intended.

I agree that you should consider seeking publication. However, to put it bluntly, the text is currently too long. Authors like Robert Jordan can abuse their fans' goodwill because they are already established (though god knows why). Your best bet might be to split the story in to two or three parts, but to do so you will likely need to rewrite extensively to create some natural breaks, satisfying the reader's need for (partial) conclusion whilst leaving enough suspense to hook them in to future books.

You need a good editor (I am not volunteering - I mean a professional). In a text this long some mistakes are inevitable, but there are continuity errors and confusions that a good editor would spot. I didn't take notes as I read but an example that really stuck in my mind was the juxtaposition of Hugh's seige of Rochester (Kent I presume) and Malcolm's 'gift' of Rochester (Northumberland). If an explicit distinction was made between them anywhere, I missed it. I am also pretty certain that Trempwick's house-servant who Nell fell-out with appeared in the house after his 'dismissal' (in Nell's presence). There are also a small number of (inevitable) anachronisms, though I struggle to recall any specifically.

The mark of a great author is brevity. That does not necessarily mean a short book (look at Tolstoy), but the best authors have an economy with words. No one should ever want to skip parts of the text to 'find out what happens next'.

On that note, keep up the good work.

John

frogbeastegg

05-04-2007, 12:24

Away from the boasting morons who infested the hall Jocelyn fancied he felt less sick. Yes, better the cool night air and the stars for company that that – that boastful pack of preening fools! Sneering he leaned his arms on the rampart. “I killed two men,” he said in a contemptuous falsetto. “I was wounded but kept on fighting to the end. I took down their leader. Bah!” He spat over the wall. If he’d not been shut away here playing nursemaid to former king’s blue-eyed get he’d be matching stories with the best of them, aye, and out-doing the lot of them at that!

“Yeah, well guarding her is an honour, and none of them got chosen,” he muttered. “So that makes me more skilful, more loyal, more heroic, and a bloody sight more important than the whole collection of them.”

He spat again, the bad taste in his mouth still clinging. “And anyway, boasting like that is just plain bad taste, and I don’t care if they were celebrating their victorious return home or not. Bloody pretentious gits.”

It was, all in all and in every way, too much for a man to bear, and he refused to be part of it. Even if he did have the evening off duty because the princess was off in private with her husband, letting him take his due. Even if there was some very fine wine available. And nice food. And this one woman with the most incredible bottom …

His meditations on sophisticated stuff like life, fame, modesty and bottoms was interrupted by the tower door at the far end of the ramparts opening and a figure slipping out.

Aveis glanced about, hastened to the rampart and threw something over. Gathering her mantle about herself she turned to leave.

Disposing of something where others couldn’t see? It was obvious what was happening here – she’d murdered her husband somehow and was hiding the evidence! Jocelyn launched himself forward out of the murky shadow of the tower he stood close to.

“What you throw?” he demanded loudly in their stupid language. If she ran now he’d have a job to catch up with her, some forty paces between them.

Aveis started, whirled around, her face pale in the moonlight. She seemed rooted to the spot, doubtless stuck with terror by justice in the form of Jocelyn descending on her! Her reply carried across the night on its air of challenge. “That is none of your business, and I’ll thank you to cease spying on me.”

“It my. I saw. Now you tell.”

“None of your business.” She turned to go.

He let her get one pace away out of gentlemanly courtesy, then clamped a hand on her shoulder. Not too hard – no one would ever accuse him of being anything less than fully gentle with women, children and delicate creatures of all kinds. “You talk,” he repeated, his voice pitched low.

“I am under the princess’ and earl’s protection. Let me go!” Aveis tried to wrench herself free, but made no progress. “Let me go or I shall scream.”

“Scream?”

She sucked in a lungful of air; his free hand slapped across her mouth before Aveis had chance to make so much as a sound.

“Problem with scream,” he explained, “is so slow. Need breath” The damned problem with women and screaming was that it was murder on a chap’s ears and it caused so much fuss! Given that incentive he’d made a point of necessity to learn to silence his dear, dear wife as soon as she’d shown a willingness to do it. Oh, the troubles that had caused him before he’d even managed to get her home from her guardian’s house after their cursed bloody wedding. Damned bitch. Well, at least she’d grown out of it once she’d realised he’d shut her up with his fist when it got annoying.

His attention was recalled from that damned female to the present one he was tangling with: she twisted her head and sank her teeth into the meaty part of his thumb. With a shout he snatched that hand back and gave her a healthy smack to the ear which sent her reeling with only his iron grip on her shoulder to keep her steady. “Stupid damned mad bitch!”

Aveis answered his restrained manner by giving vent to that threatened scream.

Jocelyn clamped his hand back over her mouth, risking life and limb in his charitable efforts to protect her from herself. “Now listen. People come, I tell them you I saw. Then you talk to them also. You want that?” Course, when the evil woman confessed to her foul murders he’d have to hand her over to justice anyway. It would be such a pity to see her burn … If he’d not been entirely honest when he’d called her beautiful she’d not been entirely accurate when she’d claimed not to be so.

Aveis’ eyes narrowed. She gave a tiny shake of the head, the best she could manage under his restraint.

Cautiously Jocelyn removed his hand. If she gave the slightest hint of shrieking again he’d stop playing nice and bloody her lips; that usually stopped all inclination to make a racket. “Now. Talking.”

All noble pride – strangely appealing, it didn’t make him want to smack her until she stopped being so damned cocksure - she commanded, “Unhand me. I am under the princess’ protection.”

“You run or thing, I hurt you. Got it?” He waited for her infinitesimal nod before loosing her. “Talk, killer. Or I get you …hold by guard people with asking.” He’d not had occasion to threaten anyone with arrest and questioning yet; his vocabulary was sadly not up to the occasion, a missed opportunity if ever there was one.

She drew back a long step, righting her clothes. “I was disposing of one of the more distasteful remainders of my late marriage. And that, sir, is all you need know.”

Ah ha! She confessed it. Maybe some sort of deal could be made … if she withdrew into a convent he needn’t have her executed. Yes, indeed, it was a right Christian thing to do! Mercy, forgiveness, turning the other cheek, and if she wanted to demonstrate her gratitude then he’d not be churl enough to send her away, and away it would be downright sinful to do so. Mercy begets its own reward, and to turn your nose up at it would insult the very concept of compassion. That would be an insult to God, no less. “Poison? Or other …” He struggled to think of the word. “Bad medicine thing … make ill …um …” What the hell did these people call drugs?!

For a moment Aveis stared at him; her mouth twisted and she produced something akin to a laugh. “If only. That would speak of daring I fear I don’t possess.” She looked away. “When faced with a hated husband some women reach for the monk’s hood. Me? Almond cream. That one thing says it all about my character, I’m afraid.”

Women didn’t make sense when they spoke in good langue d’oil. They made less sense in this mangled cousin language. “What?” He shook his head; focus on the more important bit, by a saint’s cosy old robe! “You admit you hate him. So reason for kill him.”

“Admit I hated him?” Aveis gave him a pitying look. “It’s never been a secret. Whatever else I may did for my daughter’s sake, I never watered down what I thought of Huon. Who could expect me to? He barged his way into my home dragging a pet priest along with him, forced me to marry him, and caused me to lose my unborn baby. That, too, has never been a secret.”

“You admit you kill him.”

Aveis folded her arms. “No. I admit I wish I had – there would have been justice in that. But I didn’t. There are more than enough witnesses to that. Huon died in combat. Someone had the good taste to stuff a knife through his eye. I lacked the courage, and my daughter deserves better than such an infamous mother.”

This didn’t make sense. It had to be this God-damned language! “But you hate him, and you throw away secret thing-”

“Almond cream,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. “Almond cream. Go down there and retrieve it if you won’t believe me.”

Now she was trying to trick him. Jocelyn pounced on the misleading invitation. “Yes. You come with too.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“I not let you run, killer-person.”

“I killed no one,” she said through gritted teeth. “As I keep telling you. It’s all in small, simple words even you should understand.”

This damned creature was asking for another slap, and Jocelyn was sorely tempted to give it. “I understand all good.”

“Ha!”

“You hide throw poison-stuff-”

“Almond cream,” she nearly shouted. “It’s hand cream! Made out of almond milk, beeswax, and a few other things. It’s good for dry or chapped skin.”

Come to think of it, didn’t Richildis have some pot of stuff like that? She used it to keep her hands nice and soft. “Then why throw if so not-harm?”

Aveis’ moonlit face set in an expression which belonged on a statue of an avenging angel somewhere. “Because I hope never to need the bloody stuff again. That’s why.”

Jocelyn’s eyebrows shot up; she swore! And she called herself a lady! For shame. He didn’t understand, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. Bloody women and their making everything more complicated than it needed to be, never could say anything straight out like a man. “I don’t get. Don’t see how this explain any thing.”

“Chafed, sore skin,” she said slowly and distinctly, still troubling to keep her voice hushed. “Huon wanted an heir. I wanted none of him. He didn’t care about me. So there was a certain need for almond cream on my part. Now do you understand, or must I put it even more bluntly and shame myself completely?”

“Um …” Jocelyn scratched at his chin. Some of that he hadn’t really understood; dictation differing from the norm made this cursed bastardisation of his language so hard to follow! He replayed her words over in his mind as best he could remember them, teasing out meaning from them as best he could.

“Let us say his attentions, if they could be called that, left me feeling somewhat … raw in a delicate place.”

Oh, that! He matched her blush with one of his own. She must think him a right innocent idiot for not understanding earlier. How very embarrassing, a man of his wealth of talents taken as clueless in the bedchamber department! “I get it.” What was she anyway, Richildis’ long lost sister?! Same old complaints, except dear, darling Tildis had never used her gumption and got some of this almond stuff. Jocelyn’s scratching took on a thoughtful mien. Perhaps Richildis would like some as a gift?

“Then you will understand why I’m delighted to be able to throw the damned pot as far away as possible. And why I don’t want all and sundry seeing me do it.”

“Um, yes.”

Aveis drew her mantle about herself for warmth. “And now you will stop accusing me of murder.”

“Um … yes. You just unlucky. Very.” Or cursed. Every man who got near her died. Jocelyn suddenly wondered if the curse spread by proximity, or if one actually had to end up in her bed before the doom settled. He discreetly moved back a few inches to be on the safe side.

“I have thought myself nothing but for much of the last year,” Aveis replied with a touch of astringent humour. She made to leave.

Jocelyn blurted out, “Wait. Please.”

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Um … Your husband, the dead one. New dead one.”

“Yes?”

Why the hell was he asking this? He didn’t care at all; it had no relevance to him or his life. “You make tell like he had no chance ever. Could never be good.”

Aveis bit her lip and looked down. “He didn’t have a chance. After that beginning he never could.”

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “Bad beginning is not nice, yes. But not all following has to be bad. Hope …” He spread his hands, helpless in the face of the language barrier.

“I didn’t want to marry Dicken either. By the time he died I loved him. The difference is Dicken was …” She smiled faintly. “Polite. Polite about everything. There’s consideration in that. He was kind. What we had was not the best of beginnings, yet it was very far from the complete disaster that Huon made for himself.”

No hope there either; it was too late to go back and belch quietly. It occurred to Jocelyn that he might not be asking the right question of this woman. “What you do now?”

“I intend to go inside and go to sleep.”

“No, now you have freedom. No Huon. What now?”

Aveis didn’t reply for a very long time. “I shall follow my lady, and be a companion to her as she asked.”

“That where, not what.”

“Ah, a sharp distinction for someone who struggles to string words together.” She held up a hand as he opened his mouth for an angry retort. “I didn’t mean that badly. To be truthful it is not something I had dared think about. What shall I do?” she mused. A slow smile spread over her face. “I shall spend time with my daughter. Huon had us kept apart much of the time.” The smile took on a slightly different quality, “But that’s not what you meant, is it?”

Jocelyn swallowed with a throat abruptly dry. “No.”

“I do wonder why you ask.”

He kept his peace.

“My guess would be that you have a lady of your own to rehabilitate.”

Jocelyn inclined his head. “She treated bad by a fool.” Treatment she’d returned in equal measure to that fool, something he couldn’t expect Aveis to help with.

“What shall I do …” Aveis moved to the rampart and gazed up at the stars. “It seems my choices are limited, broadly speaking. I can keep my acquired distaste. I can become a vowess or take holy orders. Or I can find myself a nice, patient, decent man and see if he can heal the damage.” One hand tightened into a fist. “And eventually I expect there will be yet another husband.”

Jocelyn paced a few steps up and down the rampart. He’d wanted more, proper advice. That’s what he’d humbled himself for. Huh. It would all be a waste of bloody time anyway. He should have asked what to do with a frigid, hate-filled bitch who … His thoughts stuttered to a stop; he couldn’t find the heart for it. Must be the wine he’d had earlier; it was from Italy, and the people there were all damned weird and no mistake. “Fool made a bad mess. She difficult person too. I not knowing what best to do.” He turned on his heel to face her, head up. “Not what I used to. I get nice women, Happy ones. Not sad. Am used to um, what say? Equal want? She only one who not want.”

“I can’t give you more than I already have. Come back in a few years, and I might have a better answer for you. But surely you do know much of what you need, whether you realise it or not. If you love the lady.” She set her hand on the iron door handle. “Now, I am going back inside.”

Love!? Love!? Alone in the dark Jocelyn spluttered and chocked. Love Richildis?! No one could love that cold bitch! She was entirely unlovable!

When Jocelyn returned to the cupboard which was making do as his private room he settled on the straw pallet which filled fully half the floor space, lying fully clothed, his arms behind his head. Alright. Think. Think. She’d said he knew what he needed, which meant she’d recognised his brilliance and general skill at everything he tried his hand at. He was being too modest. He was underestimating himself. He did know. Of course he did. He only needed to put his finger on what he knew.

He wracked his brains until his eyelids grew heavy, drooped, stayed shut …

Next morning he decided it would be a good idea to send some news back to that miserable cow. Make sure she knew he was still alive, lest she start celebrating his death or something. Laboriously he began to write.

Deer Richildis. I am lurning the locull lang-u-ige. I am gud at it. I speek like a naytiv now, everyone sayz. I lurn sum Inglish two …

Only Jocelyn could take behaving politely to his wife to mean he shouldn’t belch so loudly in her presence. Only Jocelyn could think that taking home a pot of almond cream and instructing his wife to use it as something other than a hand cream might go down well. Only Jocelyn could contemplate Aveis being ‘grateful only to wonder minutes later if merely standing close to her is enough to get him cursed. Only Jocelyn :needs shaking head smiley:

All I shall say of the past few weeks is this: Not. Fun.

Peasant Phill, how did Puzzle Quest go?

Welcome, john_C. You registered to post that? :blushes: Constructive criticism is always welcome.

I have considered the possibilities of splitting the story into two books. The best breaking points come earlier on: when Nell is in the church getting betrothed to Trempwick, when Trempwick’s true nature is revealed, when Eleanor leads a hall full of nobles in swearing allegiance to Hugh on the announcement of William’s accident and probable death. I’m not sure any of those are strong enough to provide decent closure and prompt the reader onwards to pick up the second volume if and when it hits shelves.

However … there’s a fair bit I’d like to add to the first portion of the story, and a lot which can be trimmed away from the second half. That would balance it somewhat, and I must admit I like the idea of Nell standing in that church reflecting that she’s now tied for life to Trempwick being an ending. Written to a higher standard it could make for a very powerful stopping point.

But then I hit the problem of the second volume being very different in tone and content to the first, covering as it does a civil war and not spytastic adventures. That may not go down so well.

Rochester is an issue I’m aware of. It came about due to my looking at a highly detailed map of England and plucking a place whose location suited an event I needed. Then, later on, I headed north and started to lay out Fulk’s earldom, and there, to my horror, was another place called Rochester! The famous historical Rochester which houses the castle siege by King John is in Kent. The northern Rochester tends to be called High Rochester in the bit’s I’ve found about it on google. There was a Roman fort very close to it: Bremenium. In a second draft I’ll have to name Rochester Northumberland Rochester High so there’s a distinction between them; I can’t really use another location to stand in for either.

Peasant Phill

05-04-2007, 15:48

Jocelyn is a great character and a (sometimes) welcome relief from the main story.

I didn't get to Puzzlequest I'm afraid. That other addiction you know. There was this new series (1 book so far) name Kaamelott, a parody on the legend of king Arthur. Merlin is useless, Bors a coward and a drama queen, Parcefal a goofball , ... Mix it with an undead enemy with bureaucratic problem and you get one hell of a story. It stands up to Monty Pythons' hunt for the Holy Grail as far as I'm concerned.

furball

05-05-2007, 02:53

I really admire how you change the POV and interior voice with the different characters, Ms. Frog! Having Jocelyn deal with a new language makes his . . . boorishness? . . . all the more loveable.

I *don't* want to influence the plans you have for the story, but I'm sure hoping Jocelyn and 'Tildis live happily ever after. Heck, I'm hoping the same for Eleanor and Fulk, but I know how you authors are. :)

john_C

05-05-2007, 04:12

I have considered the possibilities of splitting the story into two books...I must admit I like the idea of Nell standing in that church reflecting that she’s now tied for life to Trempwick being an ending. Written to a higher standard it could make for a very powerful stopping point.

Yes, that might work, though I agree that the tone of the second book would be very different.

Rochester is an issue I’m aware of. It came about due to my looking at a highly detailed map of England and plucking a place whose location suited an event I needed.

Great choice. The castle was originally built by the Normans and the Cathedral there was also rebuilt by the Normans (though dates from around 600 AD). The location is outstanding - a square keep on a hill overlooking the Medway river at the point where the Roman road from Dover to London crosses. Strategically vital point for trade and communications.

Rochester-Castle (http://www.castles-abbeys.co.uk/Rochester-Castle.html)

and an ariel view (http://maps.google.com/maps?ll=51.39051,0.503182&spn=0.009092,0.020084&t=k&z=16&om=1&msa=0&msid=110055938968627148426.000001125a1f8dbd451aa)

(The castle is about 250m south of the south end of the bridge at the 'apex' of a crossed-diamond shaped pathway, whilst the cathedral is about 60m directly west of the keep. Zoom out to see the strategic importance of the castle to the river and bridge. An engraving of Rochester by Nathaniel Buck at the foot of the first page linked to above shows the medieval bridge to have been even closer to the castle.)

My wife worked in Chatham for a couple of years and I visited Rochester a few times. I wasn't aware of High Rochester either.

Anyway. Good luck with the writing.

John

frogbeastegg

05-13-2007, 21:54

A gallows had been built outside the castle walls, a simple affair with several upright poles supporting a long horizontal beam. It would accommodate all the prisoners in one go, a mercy more for Fulk than those who were to die. He had no intention of speeding these men on their way by having their necks snapped after the drop, and felt obligated to stand and watch until the last of them expired. Whirling away in a cloud of self-satisfied noble pride after witnessing the first minute of the prisoners’ slow strangulation did not seem right.

The crowd which had turned up to watch the event may be less enamoured of this concession to efficiency than Fulk. Some of them came from Morpeth, to witness justice for what had happened to them. Others were here for the entertainment of seeing people die.

The prisoners were off to one side, under heavy guard. A guard mainly intended to display the Earl of Alnwick’s power; men stripped to shirt and braes with hands bound posed a threat to none. One stood separate to the rest. In appearance only the man’s bound hands and two guards gave him away as a prisoner, in all other aspects he looked like a knight dressed for a trip to town, complete with spurs and belted sword. The castellan’s son.

The ragged crescent of an audience ranged about the gallows had to number near a hundred now. Someone was selling pies and pastries off a tray. Elsewhere an enterprising minstrel battered away at a hand drum, singing a dire, fantasy filled rendition of the attack on Morpeth and Fulk’s hunt for the prisoners.

Fulk signalled to Alfred. “Let’s get this over with.”

The man at arms saluted and began to issue orders. An expectant hush rippled out across the crowd. Amongst the condemned several men began to pray frantically.

All of their expectations were confounded when the soldiers drove the son forward to stand before Fulk. The doomed man wasted no time in spitting on Fulk’s boots. “Bastard son of a diseased whore!”

Fulk rested his hand on his sword hilt, but otherwise gave no reaction. “Doubtless you’re thinking I won’t hang you.”

The prisoner bared his teeth. “I’m a knight.”

“And hanging is for the ignoble.”

“Like you. God knows who your father is, your mother surely didn’t. He can’t have been noble – you haven’t the least drip of grace in you, you fucking mongrel.”

“If you’re hoping to goad me into killing you quickly you shall be disappointed.”

“You’re nothing but a turd on a fancy chair, a front for that wife of yours to hide behind as she gives orders.”

Given the sparkling quality of this conversation Fulk decided it best to act as though the other man didn’t speak. “I wouldn’t be the first to hang a knight, if I so chose, but it seems there is a happy solution to the problem, one which satisfied honour all around and maintains the status quo.”

“I bet she’s not the same with her other husband. I hear Trempwick’s a man, not a bloody bedroom toy. Don’t know how she finds time for you both, what with all the other men she’s tumbling with.”

“I can strip you of your knighthood.”

The castellan’s son went bright red and he bellowed, “What!?” He bared his teeth in a snarl. “You don’t have the right, you jumped up prick!”

Fulk shrugged. “Probably not. But it would be such a shame to waste the preparation, and the King of Scots did bid me to maintain peace in my lands by what means I feel necessary.”

“You’re a bloody lunatic!”

“And you, Sir William of Morpeth, are Sir William no more. Just plain William.” Fulk gestured to his men.

They bundled the prisoner back a few steps; one man held him firmly in place while the other unbuckled his sword belt. Once that was free he drew the weapon, casting sheath and belt to one side. Resting the tip of the sword on the ground, the soldier placed his foot midway up the blade and steadily applied his weight. The blade had been specially made for this, a soft, brittle thing which soon gave way. The destroyed weapon followed its casing onto the ground. The man at arms drew his dagger, knelt and cut the straps holding the prisoner’s spurs; they too were cast aside. A third soldier brought forward the prisoner’s shield. The device was cut from it, the knife point leaving marks scoured into the wooden planking beneath the leather facing. The shield was added to the pile of refuse; the patch of leather bearing the man’s coat of arms was sliced into fragments and scattered on the wind.

Throughout this just plain William ranted, cursed, swore, and plumbed depths of insult which would have left prince Malcolm agape in admiration.

Fulk stood witness impassive, jaw clenched and hand gripped tight on his sword to prevent himself loosening just plain William’s teeth with his bare knuckles.

When the men at arms were done Fulk summoned every drop of self control he had to remark in the mildest tone he could muster, “If I were you I’d save my breath. You’ll be needing it, in a bit.”

The prisoner’s reply was such that, before his lengthy spiel had run to its end, Fulk buried his fist in the man’s stomach, broke his nose with his other fist, and sent him sprawling in the dust with a third blow. Breathing heavily he stood over this latest William to blight his life. “I won’t fail.” He moved away so the prisoner could be hauled to his feet. “String him up. Let lack of breath put an end to his foul spewings.”

Eleanor leaned as far forward as she could in a vain effort to get a better view. “Oh, what is happening down there!?”

Down on the execution ground the distant figure of Fulk stepped back and the man he’d flattened was dragged away to the gallows.

A hand gingerly set itself down on her shoulder and politely tried to pull her back. Jocelyn pleaded in langue d’oil, “Please, your Highness. Stand back a bit.”

Eleanor freed her shoulder with a shrug. What did he fear? Being of good design, the tower’s archery slits were cut with slanting edges so they presented a narrow slit to the outside world and an almost door sized alcove to the inside. To fall out of the window Eleanor would have to slice her arms off, think slimming thoughts and breathe in. To be hit by a missile from outside she’d have to be deeply unlucky – moreso, given the present lack of a besieging force. “Oh, do stop pestering.”

The prisoners had been herded to stand in a line under the crossbar of the gallows. Nooses rested about their necks, and the executioner and his assistant were busily climbing over the structure tying the free ends of the ropes in place. The man whom Fulk had flattened was struggling, laying about himself using his bound hands like a club. He was yelling incessantly; faint traces of his voice reached Eleanor at her window. She could not identify any words.

When all the prisoners were strung up ready the executions stood to one side awaiting Fulk’s final order. He gave it. The assistant started at the left of the line, kicking the logs out from under the men’s feet, his master doing the same at the other end. Soon fifteen men and a boy kicked frantically at thin air, faces purpling as they steadily strangled.

Eleanor turned away. She paced the circuit of the room a few times as though that would speed the time until Fulk returned.

Hawise said softly, “I wonder if that was the trouble he expected?”

“If so it was not worth mewing me up behind the walls.” Eleanor stride faltered, then picked up speed. “Oh, damn it! What happened down there? That was very unlike him.”

Aveis left off staring fixedly at the ground. “Insults would be my guess. William has long been the same; if he feels his back is to the wall he flares up, determined to go down fighting. He thinks it makes him brave.” The widow snorted. “He’s a fool. Saying things when you’ve nothing left to lose is not brave. It’s saying them when you’ve much left to lose that’s brave. Or foolhardy.”

Eleanor tapped her fingers against her thigh, mind working furiously. “To get such a reaction …”

Hawise nodded unhappily. “He must have stuck a poisoned barb right through Fulk’s heart.”

At the window once more Eleanor saw the former knight’s body still twitched as it dangled. “Damn him!” She pounded her fist on the wall. “I hope he is suffering.”

Another trip about the room, and Eleanor headed for the tower room’s door. “Back to the solar. That is where Fulk will come first. He will not think to look for me here.”

Eleanor waited a long, long time, and it felt longer still. There was no sign of Fulk. The gallows could not be seen from this part of the castle.

The midday meal was delivered to the solar, and went mostly ignored.

Eventually Eleanor set down the book she was not reading. “Jocelyn. Go and find out what is happening. Surely they must be dead by now.”

The count shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He closed his mouth again and dipped into a bow, leaving on his errand without ado. That, Eleanor reflected with no small measure of satisfaction, spoke well for the lasting effects of her setting his ears alight over his treatment of Aveis. Sound grounds for suspicion or not, he had been much too heavy-handed and with someone under her protection.

Jocelyn returned perhaps quarter of an hour later. “Your husband’s down in the training yard, working with his knights.”

Eleanor marked her place with a bit of ribbon. “He is what?”

“Yes. He’s got them all armoured up and fighting on foot in close formation against another team of twenty. He’s right in the centre, and acquitting himself excellently.”

Her blood had gone cold and it was spreading numbness throughout her body.

Hawise rose and silently poured a drink for her lady. “Bad news?” she enquired as she extended the goblet of wine.

“He is training. With his knights.” Without showing hide nor hair near her, or sending her word. The count still loomed in the doorway, one hand inattentively stroking the pommel of his sword. This infuriated Eleanor for reasons she couldn’t explain. “Go on with you,” she told him in French. “Go join them. It would be a pity for you to be the only knight here not showing off your prowess.”

Jocelyn bowed deeply. “Thank you, your Highness.” He virtually ran out of the door, already roaring for his squire.

“Men,” Eleanor cursed. “The only difference between them and boys is that boys have the excuse of youth!”

Aveis laughed. “Oh, so very true! Shall we go and watch them at their play?”

“I am not wanted.” Eleanor drained her cup too quickly, and nearly choked.

Hawise refilled Eleanor’s goblet, but only to halfway. “Whatever makes you say that?” She set the pitcher down at the farthest end of the table from Eleanor and advanced the platter of chewettes in what was likely a hint that she should eat something.

“He neglected to inform me he was going to play battles, so evidently he does not want me there.”

“You quarrelled, didn’t you?” Hawise tested the temperature of a morsel of food with her fingertip. “This is still warm – just. Eat something, if only so we can.”

“You do not need to wait for me, and we did not quarrel.”

The maid sat back from the food and folded her hands in her lap. “If we refuse to eat without you then you must from pity for us.”

“You make it sound as though I have had nothing all day.”

“You as good as didn’t,” Aveis said. “You picked at your breakfast until you had excuse to leave it.”

“Executions do nothing for my appetitive.” Eleanor returned to her book, scowling. “Whyever did I lumber myself with two companions? Twice the nagging.”

Hawise cleared away the mostly empty goblet without asking if Eleanor was done with it. “What are you reading?”

“Er …” Eleanor searched the pages before her, trying to find something which would identify the work to her.

“It must be very good, to have held your attention so well.”

“Yes …” She turned the page, attempting to hide her increasing desperation.

“It’s one of Fulk’s, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Other than his treasured king Arthur he only owned two, both gifts from the King of Scots. But which of the two had he left lying around on their bed that morning!?

“And you aren’t reading it at all. Not so much as a word in the past morning.” Hawise took a knife and set to slicing the small chunk of cheese into bite-sized portions. “So, what did you quarrel about?”

Eleanor slammed the book shut. “Very well, so I am not reading it. That means nothing.” The sudden influx of wine was not sitting easily on Eleanor’s empty stomach and it would be a shame to waste the cheese; she took a handful of bits and ate them one after another.

Aveis took a sticky pastry with a lack of delay which spoke of temptation too long denied. “Was it about his wanting you to stay here instead of standing at his side during the execution?

Hawise asked, “Or about his leaving? Or something else?”

“I have been in sufficient perilous situations to be wise enough to wish never to be in another, and furthermore I know Fulk can better protect himself if he is not having to worry about preserving me. As to the other, he has been summoned by my brother and to ignore that begs for disaster.”

Hawise finished with the cheese and set the collection of bits in easy reach for Eleanor, along with a few other tempting selections. “Something is wrong, that much is clear.”

“Yes,” agreed Aveis.

“I am worried about him. That is all.” Eleanor bit into a chewette and found it was filled with diced pork and leeks. “It is not often he lets other’s words get to him. Striking a man unable to defend himself is not something he would normally do. Avoiding me …” She lifted a shoulder and did her best to sound unconcerned. “I do not know. I have so rarely seen him upset.” Which was true. It most likely had nothing at all to do with last night.

Hawise was about to speak, but Aveis got there first. “For whatever it is worth, my advice is to give him the time he seems to be seeking, then go and find him, if he hasn’t come looking for you.”

Eleanor fetched her cloak and swung it about her shoulders, fastening it in place with the brooch Fulk had given her. “Forget this. I am going to go down there and watch.”

Caught in uncertainty Eleanor opened the door a crack and did no more. Waiting.
Fulk looked over his shoulder at the sound of the door opening. “If you’re coming in shut the door. There’s a frightful draught which runs along that corridor.” He returned his attention to the ledger opened on the writing desk before him.

As he didn’t seem too displeased Eleanor came to stand at his side. After his practice session ended he had disappeared to disarm, then plain disappeared.

“Door to door search?”

“I asked Luke if he knew where you were. He said you had headed here once you’d disarmed.”

Fulk sat back. “There’s a few things I wanted to settle before I march south.” He indicated a few entries on the ledger with his forefinger. “The wood from the village palisade, we’ll use it to build a new mill. This place has enough custom to support two, and it will bring added revenues. Aveis will have no grounds to say we’ve done badly by her. The rest of the wood we’ll buy ourselves, and put towards rebuilding Morpeth.”

With great care Eleanor said, “You still plan to leave tomorrow?” If the subject had not been the focus of an argument it was only because they were both stepping around it as though it were a viper on the ground.

“I have been called. I cannot drag my heels. Bad enough I have been delayed as long as this.”

“I am pleased you are so confident I can settle your earldom into peace.”

“I don’t expect to be gone long.”

“No, it only takes a month or two. Hardly any time at all.” Assuming it didn’t take longer. Assuming he came back. Assuming there was anything to come back to. “Another week or two of your presence would do much here.”

Fulk rolled the ledger back up. “It will do me no good to delay, not in the long view. I need your brother’s good opinion.”

She was tempted to point out he was in greater need of her good opinion than Hugh’s, since he wasn’t married to Hugh. Instead she worded the unspoken fear which had been hanging between them since their betrothal. “And if the King of Scots betrays us while you are away?”

Fulk set the account roll aside. “He will wait until I’m here; If I’m away with the soldiers he loaned me then he will have to bring in extra troops to take control rather than having those he loaned me simply overthrow us. That in and of itself is another reason why I should leave soon. The longer we hold these lands the better our chance of retaining them if and when he comes. While I’m in the south I intend to recruit; I’ll dismiss these loaned swords the instant I reach Alnwick and fill my castles with my own men.” He reached out and took her hand. “We need your brother set to come to our support. We need him to look strong, too strong for Malcolm the Elder to think worth fighting. He’s not a warlike man, and he’ll only attack if he thinks it a venture he’ll gain easily from.” He closed his eyes wearily. “In truth we need them both. One to guard us against the other.”

Eleanor squeezed his hand in return. “The worst of this is that we are both right. Your place is here and you should not be rushing off to leave me. You cannot do otherwise.”

“A man shouldn’t have two such lords as I do. It’s a situation designed to collapse when it favours either king, I’m increasingly convinced of it.” Fulk produced a weak smile. “Let’s run off and find ourselves a nice little country manor somewhere, live out our lives in peace and quiet.”

“Why did you hit William of Morpeth?”

Fulk’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed a few times. “It’ll be all over the place, you’ll hear whether you want to or not. Lies. Filth. Things meant to wound.” His fist clenched and he stared at the desk fit to burn a hole through the wood.

She didn’t know what to do. Absurd and only too true. If it were her father in such a mood she’d only have to say something and he’d lash out, venting his anger that way. The same applied to Hugh, doubtless learned from that example. If she believed it would help Fulk she’d made that sacrifice in a heartbeat and not regret it. Trempwick had so rarely exhibited a wounded heart, and when he had his remedy had been one which excluded her to the point of her not knowing what it was. And Fulk? She’d seen him hurt enough to storm away and leave her until his mood improved, but then the wound had involved her and this time it did not. Uncertainly she tucked a lock of sweat dampened hair behind his ear and teased, “You seem to be breaking a lot of noses of late, my luflych little knight. This is the second I know of. Trying to set a fashion, crooknose?”

“He told me what would happen if I fail now. Not that I didn’t know, but to hear it in such bald terms …”

Eleanor put her arms around him and held him tight, leaning her cheek on the top of his head. It seemed the best thing to do. He smelled of iron and fresh sweat. “You will not fail.”

“My earldom ravaged, my people slain, our possessions looted, myself torn to pieces, and you …” The expression on his face spoke for that. “All in great detail. Very great detail.”

Though any of that would have tried him sorely Eleanor had no doubt that it was the last part which had got him. What man liked to hear the worst of what could happen to his beloved if she fell into the hands of his enemies? “I am a prize not to be abused. Nothing too bad would befall me. I am too important, too valuable.” To her own ears the lie sounded convincing enough to pass Trempwick’s stringent standards. To Fulk’s it would ring false even were it the truth.

Fulk’s shoulders heaved and Eleanor wondered if he was about to cry. He burst out, “Bloody Williams! Why is it always a William? Some days I think every fifth man is called that, others I know it is every third, and so many of them cause me trouble! It’s a cursed name, whether it was my father’s or not. I’ve decided no child of mine will ever be named William.”

Eleanor stiffened, completely thrown. “Child?”

“A figure of speech, dearest gooseberry. If I have no children none of them can be named William, can they?”

Figure of speech or slip of the tongue from a man who maintained such vigilance she had no chance of claiming she’d taken the necessary precautions when she had not? But he was smiling and encouraging her to sit on his lap instead of standing behind him, so she let the thought go. “Were you avoiding me?” she asked as she snuggled into his embrace.

“Yes,” he replied after a pause. “You know I don’t like showing my temper near you, and at that point I had a fine rage to work off.”

“Not because of last night?”

“Heavens, no!” His fingers toyed with the ribbon binding her plait, as though he was tempted to free her hair. “I half expected you to not like the idea of a back rub. I thought it worth a try though, since you’re more comfortable with me looking at your body.”

“But my refusing upset you.”

“You didn’t refuse, you sat there staring at me until I changed my mind.”

“It upset you and it spoiled everything.”

“It spoiled the mood, yes, but your doing something you didn’t want to wouldn’t have saved it. And I had hoped you would know by now I don’t find anything about you repulsive. Quite the opposite.”

Eleanor tweaked her braid out of his fingers and paid attention to how securely the ribbon was fastened. “I do know. You have made it impossible for me to think otherwise. But …” She shrugged. “I do not see how I will ever be comfortable with you seeing that mess on my back.”

“Time may change your mind.”

She did not think so … but then she hadn’t believed she’d be anything but uneasy with him gawping at her full stop. “Speaking of time, how long do you intend to stay with Hugh?”

“I had thought fifty days, more than is reasonable for him to expect of me without taking generosity too far.”

“Make it thirty. If you are away too long you will have nothing left to return to. This new earldom needs its earl.”

Now Fulk removed her braid from her worrying fingers; he replaced it so it hung down her spine. “And the new wife needs her husband?”

“Not particularly, If you remain away long enough I expect I shall have an endless parade of would-be new ones eager to kidnap me.”

“Forty days. If your brother is decisive that aught to be enough.”

So tired. So very tired. The bad side to my new contact lenses is that when my eyes are as tired as this my vision goes decidedly fuzzy. It makes reading hard. I expect there are more typos than usual here

Peasant Phill, the only comic series I’ve read is Asterix. It’s damned fine work, and the English edityions are an outstanding example of how translation should be done.

Furball, Jocelyn in Anglo-Norman is a whole new experience, one I grin at regularly. “Look to future, not sit in past like cat in puddle of piss.” I’d suggest he take that advice himself, it might help him find some peace with Richildis. That would be nice.

John_c, Rochester castle is one I haven’t had opportunity to visit. I have wanted to since first reading the account of King John’s siege of the castle, years and years ago. One day, I hope …

furball

05-14-2007, 11:16

wow

Peasant Phill

05-14-2007, 16:12

Damn, a moment I thought that Fulk could be a bit selfish and inattentive. It would've done wonders for my identification with Fulk. Guess I'm not Fulk material.

Ah Asterix, "strange folks those Romans/Brits/Belgians/Egyptians,..." It's a great series if your 10 or 24 (my age) or more. My interests go more along the line of serious, story based comics but some series are just to good to miss.
If your into French/Belgian style comics or just want to have a good laugh, I can advise you Gaston (Lagaffe) by Franquin. It's gag based and a bit outdated but the drawing style and the humor is legendary.

frogbeastegg

05-23-2007, 20:01

Hugh and his retinue stood in prime position to watch the deployment of the army outside London. If the swarm of soldiers going about their tasks was not naked enough of a threat the groups of trebuchets and catapults being assembled at strategic points were. The king was here, and he intended to bring his capital to heel with fire and the sword.

Varin surveyed the high stone walls, hand held to his brow to shield against the afternoon sun. “It is no easy prize.”

“Only if one storms it,” Hugh replied.

“You plan to sit in the mud outside while the churls within hurl abuse at you?”

After two months of the German’s company Hugh found that his wish the man walk into the path of a ballista bolt only grew. His sister’s emissary was as imperious as her own missives. His desire was, he knew, deeply ungrateful, as were his unkind thoughts towards Matilda. She had sent this man, and the soldiers who served him, to aid him. Hugh’s brows drew down. To aid – and to spit demands in his face. To try and reduce him to their dependant. That was honesty, no more and no less and he felt no shame whatsoever in thinking it to himself. If circumstances warranted it he would say it aloud, in company, and at the very top of his voice.

Hugh was unable to keep a trace of irritation from his voice. “No, that I do not.”

“Then you will storm, I think.” The German waved a hand at the imposing city walls. “A task, I think, for your brother-by-law, no? Let him lead, give him that honour, and pray God he meets his death.”

“No, that I shall not.”

“True, there is good in her being wed to some nothing. She who would steal a crown. It is fitting. Still, I say there are pig-keepers and dung collectors who would suit her better.”

Hugh held his breath. He counted to ten before he trusted himself to speak. “Your words displease me. Whatever others have done in her name, remember this – she is my sister, and the sister of your Empress.”

Varin bowed deeply. “Pray forgive me my ardour in my Empress’ cause, and yours too, of course.”

“Guard your tongue better in future.” The apology was empty, yet what else could Hugh do but accept it as he had those previous?

“Sire!” cried one of Hugh’s bodyguard. He flung an arm out at the nearest set of city gates. A small group had emerged and was riding towards the bulk of Hugh’s army under flag of truce.

Hugh gave a brief prayer of thanks to the Lord for His benevolence, and begged for His continued support.

A while later the two men were brought on foot to Hugh’s position. They bowed deeply. The elder of the two men spoke. “Sire, we come on behalf of the city of London to ask for peace.”

“Sire?” repeated Hugh. “That was not how I was named when last I was here.”

The second man grimaced and clutched his fancy hat all the tighter in an effort to look reverent. “Some hotheads-”

“Most of the populace,” Hugh interrupted. “Let us not dress this up as something pretty, for it is not and I find myself little inclined to grant you such kindness after my prior visit. You thought to set up another on my throne. Now you have lost your nerve, and fear to lose more. You wish to keep your purses safe, your lives guarded, and your pride intact. This I shall not allow. You are here to beg me from a position of abject weakness, yet you think to dictate to me.”

The older man’s hand dropped to where his sword would hang if he hadn’t been disarmed. “If you will not come to a sensible agreement then you will find you have none. We turned you away once and we can do it again, and again, and again, and I say you’ll weary of it long before us. Sire.”

Hugh dismounted, handing his mount’s reins to his attendant. He stepped towards the emissaries. “Pray come with me, I would show you something.”

He led them – his guards following and on the alert for treachery – to the baggage park for the trio of trebuchets being constructed at the heart of his siege line. Parked safely off to one side were two wagons filled with barrels. The engineers rushing about gave them a wide berth, the soldiers set to guard them stood a trifle further away than was proper and eyed the wagons with distinct unease.

Hugh ordered the chief engineer, “I wish a barrel brought down and opened for my guests.”

The man tugged his greying forelock. “Sire.”

The barrel selected by the chief was handed down from the rightmost cart, handled with such care that it looked like the men were under the illusion it was as fragile as an egg. When the top of the cask was breached – with utmost care – an indescribable, foul stench filled the air. The liquid within was dark, thick.

Having given the emissaries time to inspect the barrel Hugh asked, “Do you know what this is?”

The foppish one shook his head but the elder man did not. “Greek fire,” he said.

“Yes.” One of three barrels remaining to him; the others on the carts were filled with water. This secret was known to but a handful, the chief engineer one of them.

“Enough to burn down the city.”

“If I so choose.”

The younger of the pair exclaimed, “You wouldn’t! Your own capital! And – and we have the crown jewels-”

“I have no use for a rebellious city which attacks its liege lord and insults him in the most vicious manner.” Hugh’s words were calm but inwardly he shook with rage. The memory of his last visit to London was vivid, so very vivid. “I would sooner have made a new regalia than have the traditional one set upon me by tradesmen and commoners with the mistaken belief I am their tame pet.” Hugh beckoned for his horse. Once mounted he gazed imperiously down at the emissaries. “Make no mistake of it, I am king. I am my father’s son.” The threat contained in the last he made clear by resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. His lord father would have had precious little mercy for those who has shown such defiance. “Return to your city. Tell them what you have seen. Then make your choice. Will you burn, or will you return to me in a manner befitting rebels begging for their lives?”

The pair bowed and started away.

Hugh called after them, “I want the ringleaders of the mob who abused me. All of them.” Ringleaders? He would get scapegoats, men innocent of – no! He checked that line of thought. There were few innocents in that city. The walls had been filled to overflow with people throwing stones and pouring fourth foul words. Whoever they gave him would in truth be guilty in addition to being unpopular with their fellows. It was not so great a sacrifice he demanded, a handful to pay the main price on behalf of others. A handful to ensure men’s tongues were stilled. He would be more merciful than his four times great-grandsire, whose example he followed. William, first of his name to rule this land, had severed the hands and feet of those who had taunted him about his bastard’s birth from the safety of Alencon’s walls, and left them to live or die as God willed. Death was kinder than such an existence, however great the suffering before the end came.

Midway through his inspection tour of the siege camp one of his squires came running up. “Sire, your … Sir … your …” The lad appeared to be at a loss for the most fitting words. He set his shoulders and chose, “Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec is here.”

Eleanor’s husband. Hugh was pleased he managed to couch the man in such mild terms. It had taken such effort, yet he had succeeded. Pray he could manage the rest in similar style, and not disgrace himself. “He has brought his force?”

“Yes, Sire. Something like a hundred men in his own colours, and perhaps a thousand in the King of Scot’s.”

There at the least was something to be grateful for. The man had done as Nell had said he would … Hugh could not help but wonder what that boded for his sister’s marriage. Did she control this bastard knight she had wed? He exerted his will and turned his mind from such considerations. “Show him where he is to encamp his men.”

“When do you wish to see him, sire?”

Never. Immediately. “I will send for him when I wish to,” he replied eventually. Let him wait like the unimportant, out of favour cur that he was. Let him wait until Hugh felt in control, able to face him without ordering him torn limb from limb.

As Eleanor passed through the main hall she noticed Jocelyn in discussion with Sir Gervaise, Alnwick’s castellan. Knowing how good Jocelyn’s Anglo-French was, and that Gervaise lacked any other language, the fact they were making sufficient sense to each other to appear alarmed made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She diverted her path to them. “What is happening?”

Sir Gervaise bowed briefly. “Your Highness, one of the patrols is late back.”

“How late?”

“We expected them back a couple of hours ago.”

There was only one reason Eleanor could think of for five men to go missing while on a routine patrol in the heart of Fulk’s earldom. “Send several pairs of men out to search for them, with instructions to remain unseen as far as possible. Double the guard on the walls, and get the defences ready.” Eleanor blushed under the steady gazes of the two men, keenly aware that they knew their jobs far better than she.

Gervaise inclined his head. “Your Highness, it shall be done,” he said gravely.

Eleanor acknowledged the rescue from her misstep with a slight smile. “I trust it shall. Please keep me informed.” She departed, changing her plans for the afternoon from inspecting the food stores to bringing in all that could be managed this very day.

Sorry, been ferociously busy and subjected to some very nasty shocks and stress, then spent the last few days recovering. There’s an awful lot going on in the story at this point, and it’s impossible to keep it all straight if I’m mostly asleep and worrying away fit to out-do Nell! I’ll see if I can manage two updates this week; I’ve got a couple of days of my little holiday left.

Furball, wow to you too :tongueg:

Peasant Phill, Fulk’s leaving her to worry about him not once but twice could be said to be a tad selfish and inattentive. All he needed to do was send a couple of words with a messenger of some sort and she’d have calmed down. His evading her only made her worry more.

He’s been more selfish in the past, much more selfish. Presently he’s still newly married to his beloved, with all the soppiness and stupidity which comes attached.

frogbeastegg

05-26-2007, 14:23

“Prince Hugh commands Sir Fulk to present himself.”

“I shall tell him.”

Without waiting for his squire to come in and relay the message Fulk sat up, reaching for his tunic as his blankets fell away. It was a cold night, and his tent had none of the luxuries his rank commanded. It had an ancient wooden bed matched with a straw-stuffed pallet and a heap of blankets. That was all, unless the chest in which his spare clothes and other possessions were stored counted. Still, he supposed he should be glad of having any of it, and consider himself grateful the tent itself, plain white canvas though it was, was of a height to stand in and the same size as a very small room. Yet a brazier of some sort to heat the place would have been so nice …

When Luke entered the tent he saw Fulk putting on the first leg of his hose. “I thought you were asleep, my lord.”

“Not yet.” He’d been too busy missing the warmth of a wife at his side. It was astonishing how quickly a man got used to that, and how long it took before he could fully settle back into the solitary life. Time might blunt that; Fulk hoped not.

When he presented himself at Hugh’s own tent the welcome he received was not the warmest he’d had in his life. The prince waved away his attendants. He did not invite Fulk to rise from his obeisance. He didn’t speak. But then nor did he start shouting, or launch himself into an attack, so it was far from the worst welcome too.

Fulk stayed on one knee and kept his head bowed. Let the man do what he willed in his own time.

“So. You finally showed your face.”

Fulk looked up so as not to be addressing the prince’s boots. “As commanded, sire.”

“You were commanded to present yourself weeks ago. Instead you sent my sister alone.” The muscle under Hugh’s left eye ticked; his jaw was clenched so hard it was a marvel his teeth didn’t break. This Fulk took as a very bad sign; the prince normally possessed enough restraint that he could lend some to his father and youngest sister and still have plenty left over for himself.

“I couldn’t leave my earldom without losing it, sire.”

“You left her to face the necessary retribution alone! You should have shielded her from that as best you could. Bodyguard.” Hugh’s lip curled as he snarled the last word.

It was uncanny to hear someone other than Trempwick call him that. “If I lost the earldom we would have had nothing, and all we’d worked to gain for you-”

“Gain?” Clamping his hands on the arms of his low-backed chair Hugh leaned forward. “You ceded land to the King of Scots, and did him homage for your earldom. Gain? I gained naught.” The prince gave Fulk no chance to speak in his defence, anticipating his argument. “But you will follow me, not he, yes?”

Fulk gave a curt nod. “You are my king, and my wife’s brother.”

“And any fool with eyes can see this. Gain? You bring me a perpetual threat hanging over my head! The very instant he thinks it to his benefit, my cousin of Scotland will use your paltry earldom as an excuse for war.”

“I know, sire.” Fulk made an open-handed gesture. “It need not be a disadvantage. The earldom may be designed to shatter apart under stress, but if it is well garrisoned with men loyal to us we can hold it. I am sure of it.”

“It is an expense I can ill-afford to keep something I little desire.” Hugh leaned back, his face struggled back into impassiveness. “It is your earldom. You pay for it.”

Fulk started to get to his feet, remembered himself and sank back down. “Sire, I am already all but crippled-”

“I expect this is where you make your demands of me.” The hand lying in Hugh’s lap clenched into a fist. “Very well. Get on with it. An earldom to match your Scottish one, doubtless. What else?”

“I make no demands. I ask for nothing.”

“Then either you are very modest, or in possession of some modicum of intellect. Get up.” When Fulk complied the prince also rose. He walked a slow circuit around Fulk, hands clasped at the small of his back, always turning his head so he could see his brother-by-law. “I must credit you with the latter, or I fear I should be lying. You know I can give you nothing. You know I must. Now it is created Alnwick must be held, for if it is not my realm’s north border becomes exceedingly vulnerable and England itself open to attack. You know I must bind you to my side, lest you change your mind and side with my cousin of Scotland. You most likely gamble that I shall honour the debt I owe my sister due to her efforts to support me and not supplant me as others would have her do. Indeed, you may gamble that I seek the best way to keep her content so she will remain loyal. You may assume that, for all that I should leave the pair of you to rot, I will not allow my sister to live in penury. I admit that there is a measure of truth in this; I do not mean for you to be comfortable, but nor shall you be begging your bread from door to door as you deserve to.” The prince broke off his stalking, and resumed his seat. “One must think of the family name, and of duty to one’s blood.”

“Sire,” said Fulk slowly, “while any and all of this may be true, as I see it I’ve gained the one thing you could give me that I want. Your sister. Alnwick is enough to support us. If most of its income is left to us then it aught to be enough to pay for its defence, provided I can rely upon you to come swiftly to my aid if I’m attacked. I can fund garrisons, not an army. It’s garrisons which are needed until there’s fighting. If there’s fighting. There may not be – if he sees no benefit then king Malcolm won’t risk the attack.”

“A collection of most pretty words. However I see the flaw. If you can pay for it. You cannot, unless I either give you more resources of free you of that fine. Which I shall not. I will not lose further face in the eyes of my barons because of this marriage.”

By now Fulk wondered if this interview was designed in part to test his mettle. The prince had been nothing but honest in word and emotion – he knew Eleanor’s brother well enough to be certain he would not fake either. Yet if the prince hoped to gain any use from his unwanted brother-by-law then he needed to be sure of what kind of man he was. With this in mind Fulk decided to take a risk. “Sire, our marriage ripped the heart out of Trempwick’s cause. You may have lost face, but you gained by Trempwick losing support.”

“And that is the only reason I do not have you killed for your presumption,” Hugh snarled. “And I will have this truth from you – was your father the Archbishop William de la Bec?”

After a hesitation Fulk answered, “No, sire. He was, as I always said, lord of Walton, a small fief of no great worth.”

Hugh bolted to his feet and turned his back to Fulk, a cry wringing itself from him, “In the name of God, how is it fair that the children of such a man as you can threaten mine?!” He spun back around, eyes burning. “They shall not. I will not allow it. Never again will my protection be found wonting – this I have sworn. No one will harm a child of mine again. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that. Your marriage will be barren – must be. One way or another it will be.”

How strongly Hugh meant that vow could be seen in how far he had let his control slip. As much as that control had wavered during this interview seeing the self-possessed prince slip into this combination of fiercely protective father and grieving man made Fulk wonder if he saw the true reason the man tried to stifle himself so much. Because it shut the pain away. “It is a decision we came to ourselves before we were wed, sire. Our children would be … outcasts and pawns, and I will not risk losing Eleanor.”

“Then pray whatever efforts you make are successful.” Hugh’s head bowed, his words became very soft. “It is a hard thing to lose a child to nature. It is all but beyond bearing to lose one otherwise.” His head came back up; Fulk nearly flinched when their eyes met. Such naked pain. The moment lasted but a heartbeat, and Hugh became once more the cool prince. “Very well. I will make you an earldom to match your Alnwick. Something assembled out of Trempwick’s lands; it seems meet that his loss becomes the gain of those who stood loyal. So you may hold Alnwick. However you will get nothing until you have proven to all that the bestowal of it is earned. I will give you nothing until men can honestly advise me that you have earned it.”

Fulk bowed. “Thank you, sire.”

“I have very little choice but to be generous. To do otherwise would be to ask you both to betray me at a later time.”

“Sire …” Fulk saw Hugh’s eyes narrow; committed he had to make his request. “The loss of her lands hurts Eleanor more than she would ever admit. It’s made her as good as a beggar.”

Hugh gave his shoulders a tiny shrug. “She was not so prideful when she chose to marry you.”

“Can you not restore something to her? Grant me less when I have proven myself worthy of it, if you do not wish to give us an acre more than what you have already planned. It is not right she should be so dependant on me.”

“Not right?” Hugh’s back stiffened. “It is a travesty. Look at what you are, and then remember what she is. A baseborn bastard and a princess of the highest lineage this kingdom has ever had.”

“Sire, I have the very keenest awareness of who and what she is,” Fulk replied quietly. An awareness far sharper than Hugh’s, for he knew he was married to William’s chosen heir and Hugh did not – and God being merciful he never would.

“It is a travesty she submitted to willingly.” The prince held up his hand when Fulk would have spoken again. “I will consider it. Be content with that, and ask no more of me.”

Fulk bowed again. “Sire.”

“One last thing.” Hugh sized the front of Fulk’s tunic with both hands and pulled until their faces were so close their noses almost touched. “If you ever make her unhappy I will have you torn to pieces. If you cast the slightest mote of disgrace on her name - above what you already have, damn you! - your sufferings will be unimaginable. And if you betray her, God help you!” He loosed Fulk ungently, sending him back a half-step. “You will be the very paradigm of a good husband to her, or you will husband some wretch in the blackest pit of hell having been sent there in a manner which will cause men to wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night from terror at the thought of such a fate. Am I understood?”

Fulk straightened the neckline of his clothes, hoping Hugh hadn’t torn the shirt Eleanor had made for him; he’d hate to have to explain signs of mending to her. “Yes, sire, and with respect it did not need saying.”

“She is my sister. It needed saying.” Hugh rubbed the back of his hand across his brow, suddenly nothing more than a weary man who should be in his bed. “Even a king is a brother sometimes.”

Weak as the evening light was, from the top of Alnwick’s high keep Eleanor could see that an army was in the final stages of encircling the castle. A large army. One too big for her own force to counter, one which had moved too swiftly to be harassed by skirmishing defenders.

Two banners flew at a point directly opposite the castle’s main gate. One was Trempwick’s, the other her own.

“Damn him and curse him to hell! How dare he raise my own banner against me!”

Sir Gervaise left off his own observations and came to stand at her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, your Highness. We’re well stocked and well prepared. We’re in no real danger; Alnwick is one of the strongest fortresses in the north. Relief will come in time.”

Eleanor watched the ant-like men scurrying about on the ground, trying to pick out her master. After all this time he’d finally caught up with her.

How long since a game had come this desperate? Long. Long and long. He’d won then. He could win now. Raoul Trempwick had gained his place through repeated victory. Defeat was a dim memory from his younger days. It would not become the bitter companion of his final days.

Nell was somewhere within the mountain of stone that was Alnwick. Once he had her he could turn this about. So he would get her.

Trempwick completed his inspection of his army’s deployment and returned to his tent. So weary! By the last part of his tour he could barely suppress the tremors of fatigue. Dangerous. To keep those he had left he could show no weakness. Must seem strong. Confident. They’d tear him to bits otherwise. Desperate men were hazardous. These men were desperate indeed, seeing no option but to press on and pray for all to turn their way once again. Making peace with the bastard would be too costly.

He sank into his folding chair and poured himself some wine. Too many days and nights spent working himself to the bone. A forced march days long, miles long. Every ounce of haste he could muster had been spent for this, his best chance to regain Nell. From the Welsh border to here within four days of receiving urgent word that the bulk of the force about Nell marched south.

How long did he have? Days … How many? Four for the bastard to reach him if he managed heroic speed. Say another three for word to reach him. More could be won if skirmishers went sent down to harass the advance. Ten days total?

Trempwick took a bite of his plain meal. Another. Another. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Food was strength. Strength was life. Ten days. Ten nights. 240 hours.

He could do it.

He had to.

The bit where he grabs Fulk and tells him he is going to be the best husband ever or else is one of my favourite Hugh snippets :gring: I like him a lot more when the façade cracks and he becomes human.

Poor Trempy, he could use a week at a luxury spa. Rest, food, relaxation, and no worrying.

Peasant Phill

05-28-2007, 12:25

Why did i hear the theme from McGyver in the background when Trempwick had his monologue?
The next installment will be very interesting.

furball

05-30-2007, 07:13

"Furball, wow to you too"

Took a few days to decide how or if I should respond. :)

Yeah, I apologize for the vapid post. I long ago decided that posting spelling corrections was too nit-picky. And I've mentioned that I shy away from commenting on characters or plot too much cause I don't want to influence the creative process or planned exposition. And pointing out all the wonderful turns-of-phrase or POVs, etc., just makes me sound like a fan-boy.

But I want you to know I read and enjoy every episode, ma'am.

I don't know what you have planned for the future, but it feels like there could still be a couple of hundred jam-packed pages of action, plot, characterization and historical info to go. . . and I wouldn't mind a bit!

Editting this for publication would be a big task and an absolute joy. I realize the problems there might be in breaking it into two (or more!) books. But there are certainly enough characters, plot, interesting info and sheer *interest* to warrant it. However the story ends, I think we're all gonna be sorry to have to say goodbye to everyone.

frogbeastegg

06-06-2007, 19:04

The first set of church bells inside London began to ring for Terce, a cacophony which grew as the multitude of holy sites joined in with their own differing melodies.

Prince Hugh spoke to his chief engineer. “Let us clap our spurs to this doddering horse. Give them a single volley.”

From the fringes of Hugh’s retinue Fulk watched as the siege engines were made ready to shoot by an orderly flurry of activity. The same preparations would be taking place in the other siege camps, the order having been relayed by flag signal.

The machines flung their shot in harmony; seconds later the other camps launched and missiles flew at the capital from four directions. Fulk succumbed to the same temptation as others in the prince’s party, and shaded his eyes to better track the flight of a single flaming missile mixed in with the stones. Like many he had never seen Greek fire before, only heard the appalling stories of those who had. Stories, he suspected, which grew in each telling.

The missiles hit home. The effect was disappointing. The stone shot produced a series of audible impacts as they landed behind the walls. The Greek fire … nothing. A murmur ran through the spectators. Perhaps, it was suggested in low voices, not enough of the substance had been used? A single cloth-wrapped missile the size of a man’s head mustn’t be enough, whatever the stories said. Hugh had been too mean with his fanatically guarded supply and so wasted what he’d used. Those who had been present for Hugh’s attack on the rebel-held castle ten days march from here countered with the possibility that the missile have landed in a street, and so had little to burn.

Wisps of greasy black smoke began to rise from the area where the missile had disappeared behind the city wall. The wisps grew to a plume, and again to a cloud. A church bell rang again, a tuneless clamour crying of attack and fire.

Within the half hour the city gates opened and a procession of men on foot wearing long white robes trooped out. A second party consisting of guards and some prisoners hung back near the walls, waiting.

Brought before their king the twelve most important men of the city dropped to their knees, awkwardly due to the nooses they had placed about their necks in token of his right to execute them. “Sire,” their spokesman said, “London is yours. We surrender without condition. We place our fate in your hands.”

Hugh raised his chin. “I accept your surrender.”

The kneeling men bowed with difficulty.

“You will have your militia stand down at once. Any man found bearing a weapon other than a dagger for personal protection will be killed on sight. My men will take possession of the walls; any person not in my service found on those walls will be killed. When the party I send to take control of the tower arrives the gates must be opened to them without delay, and again, on pain of death, the walls must be cleared and no person of yours bearing arms. Only when my men are in full control of the city will I myself enter.”

Paranoid though this would inevitably be seen as, Fulk believed it to be a wise choice. London had proven itself worthy of distrust; the ease with which it could fall upon Hugh and his army must not be underestimated. With the army deployed to march through the streets, strung out in a thin column winding through the city, and the city’s gates slammed shut to prevent escape Hugh’s entire cause could be cut to pieces by ambushes pouring from the side streets. Some would view the damage to the city a price well worth paying for the victory in this civil war.

The spokesman said, “The men you asked for wait outside the city under guard. The mayor is amongst them. He more than any other was Trempwick’s man.”

Hugh dispatched a party to claim the men. He bade the emissaries to rise and remove the halters from their necks. “Unless there is additional treachery from your city I shall from this point forwards show you the mercy I would grant to those who surrendered without recourse for violence on my part. Your people need not fear, excepting those who violate my orders with regards to weaponry and forbidden areas. There will be no looting and my soldiers will behave with decency. I intend to permit your charters and rights to stand intact, for the main.” He offered his right hand for them to bow over and kiss; each man did so in turn. “If London crosses me again I shall raze it to the ground and the city shall remain as naught but ashes, never to be rebuilt.” The prince set his hand on the crucifix formed by the hilt of his sword. “This I do swear. Such treachery as has run rampant through my realm must never be permitted again. It is an affront to God and to all right thinking men, and so shall it be rewarded fittingly.”

“Give me back my wife, and I shall depart peacefully. My word upon it.”

Eleanor shouted back a reply before any of her companions could. “I am not your wife!”

At this distance it was as good as impossible to read Trempwick’s expression. “Nell. I know you are under duress-”

“I am not!” Eleanor filled her lungs and roared back so loudly the words tore at her throat. “I am not your wife! I am not anyone’s queen! I will not usurp my brother’s throne! Never!”

“Your half-brother has no right to the throne. You are the chosen heir!” A full bowshot separated them, yet his finger pointed unerringly at her. “You. No other.”

It was a truth Eleanor was uncomfortably aware of, with her father’s ring hidden in her girdle and his messenger standing at her side. Eleanor prayed Jocelyn had the sense to keep his mouth tight closed. “Traitor and liar!”

Perhaps deciding that further addressing her was too dangerous – or that he might gain more by bypassing her – Trempwick addressed those stood with her. “Send her out to me and I will march away within that very hour. My word on it. I shall seek no retribution, now or later. Continue to hold her and I will not let a single one of you live, and the manner of your dying will be the most unpleasant I can find. There will be no mercy. I give you one hour. Send my lady out within that time or learn I speak no idle threats.” He rode back to his army without further ado.

Sir Gervaise said, “I wonder that he does not think we will cut your throat if he attacks, considering he believes us your captors.”

Eleanor watched her master’s retreating figure. “He knows I am not. Thus he knows I am in no danger from you.”

“He may speak of idle threats all he likes, but I don’t see much he can do save attempt to storm our walls.”

Knowing Trempwick as she did Eleanor did not fear his storming the castle. Why take such a risk when he could get her to surrender herself, or induce her garrison to betray her?

The unlucky men handed to him as those responsible for the abuse he had received on his first visit to the city Hugh had dealt with in the largest of the city’s market places. People crowded out to watch, filled with curiosity about the event itself and the man at the centre of it.

Following the example of his four time great-grandsire Hugh had their hands and feet cut off. In a touch of his own he had their tongues cut out, and that wound cauterised with the others before the loss of blood could carry their lives away before it was time. The wretches were then taken to be hung at various crossroads in the city. The city’s mayor – for he was the first the citizens had thrust forward into Hugh’s hands – ended his life strung up above the very gate where he had denied Hugh access. The corpses would hang for three days, after which they would be cut down and cast into an unmarked pit outside the walls. In a show of mercy Hugh had requested the ground be consecrated so their souls might have some hope of redemption.

Acutely conscious of his people’s regard Hugh conducted himself with the utmost care throughout, showing neither too much interest nor too little, bloodlust nor squeamishness, hatred nor pity. To aid him in maintaining this facade in full force of the grizzly display he turned his mind to how much money he could extract from this city in fines and payments to regain royal favour. The loss of coin would hurt these merchants far more than anything else he might devise.

As promised one hour later Trempwick returned, bringing with him several soldiers and four prisoners carrying a roughly hewn tree trunk.

“My patrol,” Gervaise growled.

Two of Trempwick’s men began to dig a hole in the ground to seat the stake in.

Eleanor’s head swam with the horror of understanding. “He will torture them to death.”

Jocelyn looked appalled. “You inside. Not watch. Better.” His hand moved fractionally to indicate Aveis and her daughter standing close to the back of the gatehouse’s ramparts, and again for Hawise at Eleanor’s side.

Eleanor took his meaning – and limited it. “Go inside,” she ordered her two ladies. “Do not come back out without permission.” She would stay. She owed that much to those who were going to die for her.

Aveis made no attempt to hide her relief at the command; she settled her child on her hip and carried her away.

Hawise didn’t move. “If you are staying so am I.”

Eleanor contemplated having Jocelyn carry the maid away but decided against it. It might set a precedent; she could find herself bundled away likewise. “Sir Gervaise.”

“Your Highness?”

“Make sure the garrison know that Trempwick will do the same to them if he captures them, whether we surrender or no.”

“Your Highness.”

It took a while to set up the stake and bind the first prisoner to it. By that time the walls were lined with much of the garrison, stony-faced as they came to see for themselves the truth of their comrade’s capture.

Trempwick spurred his horse forward. “Let her go, and I will let my prisoners go. Otherwise they die one after another.”

Sir Gervaise cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Burn in hell!”

Trempwick dragged his mount’s head about and rode back towards his camp. One of the soldiers near the stake drew a knife and started work on the prisoner.

Eleanor found it increasingly hard to make her eyes focus on the writhing figure on the stake, then hard to gaze in that direction at all. She tried to close her ears to the screams. Before long she was trembling with the effort it took to remain in place. Trempwick’s man was a master at his work; she suspected he must be the spymaster’s chief torturer. To carve a man up, piece by piece, bit by bit, without placing him in danger of his life or permitting him to lose consciousness required tremendous skill. Those prisoners would each take hours to die.

Her stomach got the better of her; she lurched to the corner of the gatehouse and threw up. Hawise, she noticed, had done likewise and now huddled in a corner with her hands pressed over her ears. Another bloodcurdling scream set Eleanor heaving again, and induced her to admit that duty was less important than ensuring these deaths weren’t in vain.

“Help me back to the solar,” she begged Jocelyn. Trempwick knew his target too well.

Hugh stood before the chest which held the crown jewels. Reverently he bowed to them, and crossed himself. He murmured a prayer of thanks to God for allowing him to come this far.

The palms of his hands were damp; he wiped them on the skirt of his tunic and reached into the velvet-lined depths of the chest. The twin sceptres were the first items he touched. He ran his fingertips along the slender shafts until each hand lay at the correct point to grip them. Taking a deep breath he lifted them clear. In his right hand rested the iron sceptre topped by a fleur-de-lys, in his left the gold with the crucifix and four pearls dangling as pendants. For the first time in his life he felt the weight of the symbols of his future authority and right to command. He found them lighter than the invisible burdens they represented.

Setting them aside he lifted up Saint Edward’s staff. Holding it in a single-handed grip he stared eye to eye with the dove perched atop the gold-sheathed shaft. The foot of the staff was capped by a spike, and it was to Hugh’s chagrin that he knew he thus far managed only one half of the duty the saint’s staff lay upon a crowned king. In a whisper he swore, “I will herd them back to peace and smite those who would break it, or I shall die in the attempting of it.”

The jewel and gold encrusted sword Hugh placed aside swiftly. This was his father’s sword, made for his coronation, one of the few personal items of regalia included in the chest. Hugh would not use this sword when his own day came. He found himself attracted to the concept of using a true sword in his own crowning, a thing made for battle with only such ornamentation as was practical, feeling it would speak of his strength and intention to pursue his foes as practical things, not ornamental tradition.

He grieved for the loss of the ring, which should have been returned to this store from his father’s hand upon his death, and wondered how a replacement could sit alongside the splendour made and blessed for Saint Edward the Confessor. A ring there must be, for without it king could not fully be wedded to country. Even were the band of gold set with sapphires and diamonds imitated so closely as to be indistinguishable from the original it would not, could not, be the same.

Only one other item out of the collection in the chest Hugh wished to see, to touch. The crown itself. Not a crown made for common wear, not a showy plaything, the crown. The crown with which kings were made; the only crown with which a King of England could be made.

Hugh had seen his father wear it during the occasional ceremonial crown wearings, and on rare important occasions where one of his personal ones would not do. The glory of it took his breath away as he lifted it into the light; the weight of it made his neck muscles bunch in anticipation of the discomfort it would cause its wearer.

Hugh did not foul tradition by placing it on himself. Only the Archbishop of Canterbury could place this crown on a man’s head and only he could lift it off again, whether this man was being anointed king or had already ruled for a lifetime. He did not tempt fate by lifting it above his head as though to imagine himself wearing it.

Touching his lips to the gold brow band he murmured, “Let me be worthy.” He returned it to the chest, to sleep in the dark until he could be united with it in Westminster before God and nation.

He knelt before the chest, intending to spend time in vigil before these, the symbols of the high office he hoped to undertake, as a squire spent time in vigil before going forth to be knighted.

That crown had been made for a saint; Hugh prayed for his aid. It had graced the heads of men whose names now rang with an echo of legend; Hugh meditated on their examples. It had been worn by men of lesser calibre; Hugh desired above all to evade becoming another such man. He prayed for a son to pass this on to. He asked for guidance. Above all he looked at what he sought to undertake, what it truly meant, his fitness for it, and how he could best serve it.

Hours later he rose on stiff legs and closed the chest, fastening its four stout locks. He crossed himself, bowed, and stepped backwards until he was near the door. Only then did he turn away, careful not to put his back to the holy objects.

What a nice update.

Peasant Phill, having never watched McGuyver I wouldn’t know :tongueg: From what I hear of that program McTrempver would build a catapult from a paperclip, a piece of flint and a pet ant called Tony. It would not only work brilliantly but it would instantaneously blow a massive gap in the walls in a single shot. This could be amusing.

Furball, truth be told I couldn’t think what to say at all so I went with “Wow to you to” in the hopes it might at least cover for my complete lack of inspiration.

I wouldn’t be afraid of influencing the story ~:) The characters tell me what happens, and I merely write it down. I can barely influence it myself. It’s a good thing; I tend to cringe from some of the less than happy events, and they are necessary.

frogbeastegg

06-17-2007, 21:02

Jocelyn finished adjusting his clothes and flipped a coin to the really very damned sullen girl who’d had the good fortune to catch his eye. Honestly it was too much! Anyone would think by her attitude that she hadn’t wanted to be bundled into bed by a highly attractive count!

He made his way through the warren of corridors to the outside, travelling in the warm stupor which came from recent satisfaction. As he emerged into the bailey he smothered a yawn. What would be really nice now was a nap. He took a deep breath of fresh air in an effort to shake off the lassitude and cursed the unfairness of it all. God made men sleepy at certain times as a hint that they should doze peacefully in a soft feather bed with a suitable female twined about them. Fat bloody chance of that! Fat bloody chance before you added in the siege and some poor wretch wailing his life away outside the gates hour after hour and a princess who possessed a right bunch of strange attitudes towards men doing what came naturally. Once you factored all that in it was a miracle you managed to take your clothes off in the first place.

A group of men at arms were training in the bailey; his own men were working their paces separate to the locals. Jocelyn took up position to watch, arms folded and face set in a scowl which implied his people needed to work a damned sight harder to win his approval. Not that they actually did. The posture was traditional – his men didn’t need to improve, by Christ’s knee! Each one of them could have fought three of the locals without breaking a sweat, being proper sturdy men in the service of someone who knew a lot more about war than the average lord.

On spotting Jocelyn Alain cried, “Up the pace you idle bastards, the lord’s watching!”

The handful of men picked up speed, cutting and jabbing at their sparring partners with more energy. Inwardly Jocelyn grinned; just like being back at home. Home. The word slashed through Jocelyn leaving an unbearable ache. If he’d been home he’d have been watching his eldest son taking his swings at the pell with a wooden sword made to suit his growing height, concealing his pride in endless corrections as he guided his heir on the first steps of the path to manhood. Someone else would be doing that, maybe at this very time.

Trempwick’s prisoner let out a particularly blood curdling shriek; activity in the bailey faltered for a fraction of a heartbeat.

Jesù and his blessed torments, feeling overwhelmed him and Jocelyn nearly shouted that he’d had enough! He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his children again, to sit in his own hall, to speak his own language, to argue with his own wife, to be master of all he surveyed, to have some proper fun and to get to doze afterwards, and above all to be away from this bloody civil war!

He slouched back against the wall of the keep, his scowl no longer fained. He was getting old, that was it. Must be. Saint Bartholomew’s bones, but it wasn’t fair that he could turn into a whining old git at the ripe old age of eight and twenty! By choice he encouraged slight tickle of a budding yawn into a fully fledged jaw-cracker, aware as he did so of a nagging sense of dissatisfaction. The yawn petered off into a heavy sigh. One penny and some good effort all wasted on some ingrate of a servant girl and the only difference was that he felt sleepy, a little less tense with lust, and more agitated to spend actual proper time with someone who actually properly liked him and whom he actually properly liked in return. It had been too long since he’d last seen Amelyn and their son, young Jocelyn. Longer still since he’d spent time with Gisele, and his off and on relationship with Tillot had been off for so long it was as good as finished.

His thoughts were broke by a sound, or rather an absence of it. The screaming had stopped. All activity ceased and men held their breaths as they waited to see if the poor damned wretch would be revived again, or if he’d finally managed to slip away from this world to the kindly embrace of a bevy of angels who’d bandage his wounds and such like.

Time stretched and silence prevailed. The collectively held breaths were released and life resumed for all except the man outside the gates.

The worst thing about this bloody siege – apart from the risk of death, the being trapped, the screaming, the right cunning git parked outside the gates, the simmering atmosphere inside the gates, and the boredom – was being cut off from the rest of the world. For all he knew Richildis had sent him word of how his lands were faring – hell, damn it the bloody woman had bloody well better have! Anything could have happened. Considering she was a woman Tildis was smart, and when it came to the children she was highly motivated, so he could mostly rely on her to keep his lands in one piece if only for their sake. Thing was, between the civil war over the English crown and the French king’s attempt to wrest power from his regents Jocelyn had this recurring nightmare of returning to find his holdings burned to ashes, dead bodies lying decomposing where there had once been settlements, and then, as he entered the ruins of his grand castle at Saint Maur, three little corpses and another with gorgeous golden hair … Richildis could send him a messenger telling him she was dead, and he’d not know about it.

The whoomp of a catapult shooting made Jocelyn bolt upright, battling the instinct to dive for cover. The missile soared overhead, a black speck which grew in size until it became a lump about the size of a man’s head. It landed, bounced, rolled, and came to a rest two good strides away Jocelyn’s feet. The reason it had looked the same size as a man’s head was quite simple: it was one. Or had been. The nose, lips and ears had been trimmed away to leave half-clotted wounds which had run out of blood to ooze, and the eyes had been torn out. There wasn’t a hair left on it, not on the scalp, not where the eyebrows should be, not eyelashes.

Jocelyn swallowed hard and nudged the head with his foot so it faced away from him. He wasn’t squeamish but as mutilated heads went this one looked particularly unhappy. Convulsively Jocelyn scraped the toe of his boot against the ground, wanting the brownish-crimson muck the brief contact had left gone; he felt an unwanted yell building in his throat.

Jesù bloody Christ! That Trempwick was one hell of a bloody sick bastard!

A ragged crescent had formed about the head, everyone keeping their distance but all feeling obliged to look, as they’d felt obliged to look at the man when he’d still been alive, whole and recognisable at the start of this. Some of the less hardy souls tossed up their stomachs.

In a low voice a man observed, “That’ll be us, if he gets his hands on us.”

Jocelyn’s English was good enough to snatch a word or two out of the whole, no more. The same applied to the reply of, “Then we’d best make sure the castle doesn’t fall. Right?”

“Alnwick’s strong,” put in a grizzled old veteran.

One of the soldiers who’d spewed up his guts swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and rose on shaky legs. “What fucking good is that if help never comes? Or if it’s not enough? No man should die like that!” He very nearly looked at the head, and shuddered.

Jocelyn’s effort to puzzle out any form of sense from the words was shattered by the resumption of the screaming outside the walls, this time rising in a new voice.

Some of the men in the bailey crossed themselves. Multiple voices murmured, “God save us.”

“Better to look to the king than the Almighty.”

“If he comes.”

Another man added, “If he wins.”

And a third, “What king?” Whatever he’d said caused his fellows to turn on him with more than a bit of hostility. Quickly the man at arms added, “Well, no one’s been crowned yet, have they? So there’s not a king, speaking legally. That’s all I meant.”

Enough of all this jabbering! Whatever it meant Jocelyn didn’t like it. Soldiers needed to be kept busy so they didn’t have time to scare themselves like a pack of brats swapping ghost stories. In loud langue d’oil Jocelyn ordered his bemused men, “Enough bloody idling, back to it, damn your lazy hides!”

The example was gradually followed by the locals, and once more the yard was filled with men practicing their skill at arms to the sound of a man being torn to shreds.

Thunder. There’s been a lot of it here recently, and by the looks of things it is going to thunder again soon. Don’t know if any of you remember but at the near the start of ‘Eleanor’ I had my PC melted by a thunder-induced power surge. This has left me paranoid, especially now I have this wonderful shiny black machine of reliability. At the slightest rumble it gets completely disconnected from the power supply, making it a tad hard to write ;)

Peasant Phill

06-18-2007, 17:56

"Jesù bloody Christ! That Trempwick was one hell of a bloody sick bastard!" All the besieged will be nervous wreckes before Trempwick sends his first man into combat.
Let's hope a releave force gets there in time.

It was probably lightning that fried your PC and not thunder, nevertheless the one goes with the other. English isn't my first language so I don't know the excact word for it but there is a device that disconnects whatever you plug into it when the current running through it is higher than a certain amount. And if that doesn't work, you can still use old reliable ( and non-electrical) pen and paper.

DemonArchangel

06-22-2007, 21:07

Froggy: Peasant Phill refers to a surge protector.

frogbeastegg

06-22-2007, 22:00

My current PC is plugged into a surge protector. So was the one which got melted. :blankg:

frogbeastegg

06-25-2007, 21:49

“Life’s a strange thing,” Edwin observed. “Yesterday we were all closeted away frantic over what to do, and today we sit in feast to celebrate London’s return to its rightful master.”

Fulk swallowed his mouthful of quail. “A feast we might have had yesterday if not for your delays.”

The goldsmith raised his eating knife in a salute. “Fair point. Alas, I must confess that we Londoners have a certain arrogant pride. Few of us believed the prince would truly risk damage to his capital, whatever he did to that castle. We were wrong.”

“I think the prince is surprising a great many people, Trempwick not the least.”

“Yes, yes.” Edwin nodded. “Few expected him to be able to hold his own, and fewer believed he would be capable of acting as he has – as has been necessary.”

Fulk glanced to the dais where Eleanor’s brother sat at the centre of the table, a sight of considerable splendour despite his lack of a crown, king’s or prince’s. “They do say adversity does wonders for refining a man.”

“To his better elements, or his worst. We are fortunate in that it appears our future king is refining to the good. There’s not a soul in the city who doesn’t know he could have treated us far more harshly, and some of us can admit it would have been deserved.” Edwin transferred the bones of his portion of the quail onto the waste platter and helped himself to a portion of veal. “The fines he has levied on the city are heavy but we keep our heads and our businesses. We shall recover.”

“I doubt all as are sanguine.”

“That would be unnatural! Men are made to complain.”

Luke refilled Fulk’s goblet with wine and stepped back to his place in the shadows. A droplet of wine had splashed onto Fulk’s hand; he wiped it away.

Fulk’s dining partner held up his own cup for a refill. “Your squire’s not made for this, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

“Luke is learning swiftly.” As was his master, Fulk admitted to himself. His terror of committing a blunder while dining in high company receded a little more each time he did so.

The goldsmith held up a hand in a placating gesture. “I meant it not as a slight. It was an attempt to broach a subject in an artful manner.” With a self-mocking smile he broke off a mouthful of bread. “Evidently not so artful as I’d hoped.”

Until now Edwin had made conversation which, if not always light, had seldom failed to be engaging, and Fulk had found himself forming a good opinion of the man. If nothing else the goldsmith had failed to remark on Fulk’s exclusion from the high table, and his behaviour had been unfailingly courteous. “And this subject would be …?”

“You have need of someone who can fill a body servant’s role to a standard which befits your new rank.”

“Do I?” Fulk phrased it so it wasn’t a question so much as a warning not to attempt to impose.

“Now I’ve offended you, and for that I apologise.” Edwin waved away a servant offering a new type of wine since both their cups were full. “I’m not sure how such things are handled amongst the nobility. Apprenticeships are generally arranged in the bluntest of terms.”

The goldsmith’s open naming him as nobility put Fulk on his guard. “What do you want of me?” he asked, a trifle brusquely.

“I have three sons. The eldest will take over my business, and I think to have my youngest join him as a partner. My middle son has no taste for it, and his dislike for the work shows. He wants to be a warrior, wants desperately and has for much of his life. I’m a rich man.” Edwin tugged at one richly embroidered cuff, jewelled rings glinting as they caught the light. “Very. It’s no accident that I’m sat here at the high end of this table, worthy of a place next to the king’s unusual brother-by-law.” He subsided with an apologetic half-smile. “That sounds intolerably boastful, I know. But it’s true. I can fund my son to knighthood, if I can but find one prepared to take him. He’s not got a drop of noble blood in him, so finding a man willing to take him on is not proving easy.”

“So you’re asking me because of who I am.”

“I hoped that you of all people might be willing to overlook his one lack.”

It would be a long while before noblemen thought to place their sons with him for training, if ever they did. Fulk’s rapid rise had placed new demands on him; an earl needed more than one squire, and he needed someone of greater social skill than a common man at arms drafted to the position. Denied the traditional source of young men Fulk had long known he would have to find an alternate source; the one on offer here struck him as one with potential.

Edwin misinterpreted his silence. “I’m not asking you to make him a lord, or a landed knight, or anything such. Just a household knight, a man who can fight and follow his lord. You give him the skills, I’ll give him the equipment and pay you for his upkeep.”

“How old is the boy?”

“Ten. Somewhat old to begin I know, but he’s been taught a little basic skill. Some wrestling, a bit of staff fighting, a bit of the care of armour, and he’s good with horses. He’s tall for his age, and he’s got good stamina.”

“I’ll look at him. No promises, mind.”

Gah! At the time in the story when I most need to write quickly I’m plodding along and the frustration of it is killing me!

This scene needs others to work decently, and is posted solely on the theory that something is better than nothing when you’ve already been waiting a while. The other scenes are following as quickly as is amphibianly possible, which is presently not very :( Should be done by the end of the week :crosses fingers:

You know things are bad when you think a broken finger or similar would do wonders for your writing because you’d need to take some time off work sick and could spend days at a time writing endlessly, then realise you’d have to turn up anyway because everyone else who can do what you do is not there.

Peasant Phill

06-27-2007, 17:30

The conclusion is rapidly drawing near so I'm wondering why you depicted a scene where Fulk consideres taking a 10 year old boy as second squire. It must be because he (or the situation) is crucial to the upcoming confrontation otherwise (IMHO) it has no function.

furball

06-27-2007, 22:36

"You know things are bad when you think a broken finger or similar would do wonders for your writing because you’d need to take some time off work sick and could spend days at a time writing endlessly, then realise you’d have to turn up anyway *because everyone else who can do what you do is not there.*"

Took me a few years, but I realised *I* do what I do; no one else does. That's why I was worth big bucks and then got fired. :) (There was someone younger and cheaper and maybe even better who did what I did.)

That's off-topic and oblique, but if you're truly hoping to get time off to write while others grunt at the store, then you're almost certainly a writer, not an anonymous assistant manager for some chain bookstore. Granted, in 97 cases out of 100, the money's better at the bookstore.

I'm sure you already know this. Keep writing anyway.

P.S. I like Edwin! Polite, but quite direct. And the possible motives for the offer are interesting. :)

frogbeastegg

07-01-2007, 21:49

A breathless soldier burst into the room, knuckling his forehead respectfully as he came to a halt. “Something’s happening! Highness, Trempwick’s before the gates.”

Eleanor dropped what she was doing and rushed from the solar, through the castle to the gatehouse. She arrived partway through her former master’s speech.

“- and for any who aids me I promise twenty marks in honest coin, to be paid immediately. For those who doubt I have the resources, allow me to give you a small taste of the bounty I command.” He rose in his stirrups and signalled towards his camp.

One of the catapults launched. Heartbeats later the missile landed, a cloth bag which splashed coins over the bailey as it impacted. Hundreds of coins glinting bright silver as they rolled and bounced over the cobbles.

“Money,” grunted Jocelyn. “Well, makes a change from severed heads, limbs, torsos and whathaveyou.”

Surprise wore off swiftly, and men threw themselves at the money, grubbing in the dirt to claim what they could.

A flash of bright white showed in Trempwick’s distant face, Eleanor knew he had grinned at her. He held up a hand in salute and rode away.

She spun away from the ramparts and crossed to the inside rampart of the gatehouse to look down on the growing chaos inside her fortress. The desperate hunt to scoop up the wealth was turning rough, predictably. As she watched one man drew his dagger and slashed at his nearest rival.

Eleanor commanded Sir Gervaise, “Get your most reliable men and get down there to stop that!”

Aware that time was of the essence Eleanor didn’t wait for the castellan to gather his forces. Filling her lungs she leaned as far over the inner wall as she dared. “Stop!” she shouted. “Cease at once!” When they ignored her Eleanor marched up to the sentry on the gatehouse. “You! Load that thing. Now.”

The man cranked back the arm of his crossbow, set a bolt in the grove and stood to attention. Eleanor snatched the weapon from his hands, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. In the bailey a man in a brown tunic clawed at the feathered shaft suddenly protruding from his back and crumpled to lie face down on the stones, still feebly trying to remove the bolt.

Having acquired some attention Eleanor tried again. “I said stop!” This time she was heeded by most. “Anyone who moves, dies. Drop whatever you have picked up. This money will be collected up and fairly shared out by Sir Gervaise.”

With excellent timing said knight arrived in the bailey with a knot of men at his back, grim faced and sword in hand. At a signal one of the band cracked the pommel of his sword onto the skull of a servant who had continued to collect up coins; the woman dropped like a sack of flour. Eleanor hoped she was only unconscious.

The moment balanced on a knife’s edge a heartbeat longer, then people began to grudgingly comply, standing off-guard and opening their hands so the money dropped back to the ground.

Eleanor breathed a covert sigh of relief. “You fools! You nearly played right into Trempwick’s hands. Chaos! Disorder! Greed! Precisely what he wants. He knows he cannot win this castle by force, so he seeks to have you surrender it to him. Fighting amongst yourselves to weaken our defences, or allowing greed to get the best of you so you believe his lies and open the gates. Let me tell you, you will receive no reward from him but a death every bit as hideous as that he inflicts on our captured! Why would he give you a fortune when he could simply kill you? Think on that.”

Enough, before she preached herself into being intolerable and they threw her to Trempwick out of pure spite. Sir Gervaise was more than capable of handling the rest.

Turning away from the inner rampart Eleanor noticed the men at arms were staring at her, near open-mouthed, an attitude they swiftly rectified when she glared at them.

Eleanor thrust the crossbow back into its owner’s arms. “I hate killing,” she commented through clenched teeth as she headed for the stairs.

A youth in Hugh’s livery bowed. “Sir Fulk, his Highness, prince Hugh, requests your company.”

Fulk reluctantly stood and left the corner where he’d been sitting alone and allowed the squire to lead him to his master.

Hugh was engaged in conversation with a pretty young girl, one whom, Fulk had noticed, he had favoured for most of the day.

Fulk made his bow and waited silently to be acknowledged.

“I desire you partner me in a game of chess.” The prince brushed his fingers across the back of the girl’s hand, and let it drop from his loose grip. “Such a contest will not entertain you, so I free you to seek out more befitting company.”

She dropped into a curtsey so low Fulk marvelled that she didn’t overbalance. “I thank you again for noticing me, sire.” Something in the way she spoke identified her as an educated commoner; a noble lady wouldn’t quite sound her words so.

Hugh inclined his head in a polite farewell, and led Fulk through the hall. The board was set up in an alcove at the high end of the hall. People had been gently discouraged from venturing to this area. A flagon of hippocras and two cups waited within convenient reach.

Sitting down before the white side the prince made his first move swiftly, a central pawn advanced two squares. “You think me a hypocrite to warn you to chaste behaviour and then allow men to push their daughters at me.”

“My lord, I …” Fulk met the prince’s hazel eyes and his diplomatic words halted.

“Am I to inform my subjects that their best is not good enough for me? Or shall I walk aloof, and seem unnatural?” Hugh’s nostrils flared. “And thanks be to Trempwick I am presently in need of as many children as I can sire, to put rest to the rumours about my capability to secure the succession.”

“Your position is one I don’t envy.”

“Kings take lovers. It is how it always has been, and so I expect it shall always continue. It is expected. It is remarkable when one does not, and not, I lament, in the positive way it should be.”

Fulk propped his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on them, surveying the board. “Yes.”

“Furthermore, as my wife is with child it is inadvisable for me to lie with her. It may harm the child. Hugh raised his chin. “In any case, does it not make me a man like any other man? I think you will find there are many who miss their wives, or whom find themselves lonely.”

Fulk smiled, wistful. “Myself among them, and worse than most, I expect since I’m but newly married and have had little time to spend with Eleanor.”

“You hold us in contempt, do you not?” Hugh shunted his chosen piece forward, building another link in a growing pawn chain. “You do not succumb to temptation while we do.”

“Not at all, my lord.”

Deep in the prince’s eyes hatred flared bright. “Liar.”

“No, my lord.” Fulk pressed his hands palm down on his thighs. “I’ve no reason to lie to you.”

Hugh’s lip curled and he said scornfully, “Tell me then, saint Fulk, how you resist the temptation to which other men fall.”

After a brief pause Fulk did, irked enough to not cull the crudity from his explanation. “When I first fell in love, years ago, I discovered that unless I had some feeling for the woman concerned I could save myself some bother and get much the same result with my own hand. So I do.”

“So, the truth behind the pristine façade. You are worse than any of us, throwing yourself away in a fruitless, solitary act that is the preserve of young boys and the most abjectly pathetic of those who have reached manhood.”

“By most lights, church’s and man’s, yes, I am worse. But at least no one’s harmed but myself. It’s better than letting my humours become unbalanced or risking a fatal congestion by abstaining completely.”

“You are most aggravating.”

Fulk’s feeling of tension flowed away. “So your sister tells me, frequently.”

“I find that whatever you do vexes me, and the knowledge of that fact irks me also. I will not have you betraying my sister, but learning you are a pervert who engages in that sordid act pleases me not at all. Yet I would be no happier if you were revealed as a passionless man.”

“Being who and what I am I’d be surprised if there was anything in that regard I could feel for your sister which would find your approval.”

Expressions warred with each other on the prince’s face. “I admit that is true,” he said eventually. “The thought of you touching her turns my stomach. The thought of you neglecting her, or judging her to be in some way unsatisfactory, makes me wish to kill you.”

“It is ever thus when a brother cares for his sister – or a father for his daughter. No one is good enough to meet full approval.”

Hugh’s brows contracted ever so very slightly. “Nell and I do not get on.”

“Yet you want her to be happy and safe.”

“I try to do my duty towards her. She has been … badly handled for much of her life. I would be despicable if I did not attempt to rectify this.”

The sentiment Fulk agreed with; the prince’s methods for the main part he did not. If he struggled to be objective Fulk could sympathise somewhat with Eleanor’s poor brother; the man had done in his best in the way he thought correct. When glimpses of the brother showed through the would-be king’s mask his care showed itself as surprisingly genuine.

“As you have been candid with me I shall return the … favour.” Hugh returned his attention to their game, blanking his body language so once more he was the tediously regal prince. “Were I left to my own devices, away from expectation and need, I would still commit the same sin. I recognise my weakness.” The prince’s eyes lost their focus as he gazed into some distant vista. “For a few precious minutes it makes me forget how I miss Constance, and all my fears.” Before Fulk could speak Hugh’s attention snapped back to the here and now. “This is not the reason I requested you join me for this game. I have a task for you.”

“My lord?”

“There is a thorn in my side, and I would have you blunt it.”

Fulk shifted uneasily, visions of being asked to do something underhand flashing through his head. “I’m only a knight-”

“You are my sister’s husband, and it is your obligation to safeguard her reputation.” Hugh deliberately made a move on the chess board. “I must demand you act as though we discuss matters of no import. While we are not overheard it is untrue that we are not observed.”

“My lord.”

“The man who leads the troops my sister sent misses no opportunity to slight Nell. He does this in defiance of my gentle requests he refrain from so doing. I cannot act more strongly; to my sorrow I need those men, and am unwilling to place myself on bad terms with Matilda and her husband.” Hugh sighed. “I fear there will be sufficient of that later.”

“Why does he do this?”

“As the eldest of my father’s daughters Matilda, by rights, would be his heir if there was no male to take precedence. The claim that has been put forth in Nell’s name tramples this right underfoot. Matilda is understandably … distressed.”

“And so her loyal people lose no opportunity to show their support by belittling Eleanor and the claim put forth by Trempwick.”

The prince inclined his head. “Just so.”

“I have already had difficulty with some being … let us say rude towards my wife, and towards myself.” Curtly Fulk finished, “I killed them.”

“I do not wish for that,” Hugh said. “Challenge him if he utters objectionable words in your hearing, or if you can honestly say news of his slights has reached your ears. I will allow a combat, but not to the death. Thus my duty towards both sisters is honourably discharged.”

The space between king and rook was clear; Fulk castled, and sat back to await his opponent’s move. “I shall do what I can.”

“There is one other thing I would ask of you with regards to this. Please, do not make it an objectionable scene, or disrupt the harmony of my court overly much.” The prince rubbed his brow. “Things are so delicate at present.”

Fulk met his prince’s eye and said gravely, “I will do nothing to bring infamy on me and mine.”

They played out their game, conversation tailing off as no new subject presented itself to replace the concluded business. It was a close game, one from which the prince emerged as the victor.

As they walked back into the main hubbub of the hall Hugh said, “You play well. Perhaps we may play again.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“If you had not married my sister I suspect I might have liked you.”

They parted ways, Hugh returning to his high company, Fulk to his corner in a bid to evade the tame-oddity curiosity he attracted.

Peasant Phill, lots of reasons ~:)

-When viewed in conjunction with the scenes close to it, it provides a nice island of calm amidst the screaming and politicking, and a good contrast between situations too. Nell’s under siege, her people being diced outside her gates and their remains flung in over the walls; Fulk’s having a nice victory banquet and thinking about the future.

-Assuming Fulk survives the ending he’s going to need the things which began to be established here, things an earl needs but he is denied because of his unusual status and circumstances. Assuming he doesn’t survive … well, he’s not to know that, and will continue to plan accordingly.

-It shows that not everyone is snubbing him. Indeed, to a certain set of people he is a special opportunity.

-It shows some insight into the Londoners’ views on what’s happened. Why did they defy Hugh? Why did they hesitate to open their gates after seeing the Greek fire? It also demonstrates how attitudes towards Hugh are changing: “Few expected him to be able to hold his own, and fewer believed he would be capable of acting as he has”

-A certain amount of character growth on Fulk’s part is also contained here. This is a conversation the man at arms and later knight would never have had, and a meal he’d not have taken part in except in a seat at the lowest end of the table or acting as Eleanor’s servant. The earl is steadily forming and finding his feet.

-A couple of others I won’t talk about until the story is done.

Furball, it gets worse. It’s now looking like I’m going to be the only member of management around for most of next week, with no one to cover my days off. Hurray for small children with chicken pox needing their mothers/people on holiday and out of the country bad timing combos. :crosses fingers and hopes someone can be borrowed from another branch so she can actually have days off:

:sniffle: I’m thinking it’s a pity that I had chicken pox when I was very young, else I might catch it from the manager when I see her, and then I’d have to have an entire two weeks off … Er, um and then I remember how ugly and itchy the whole chicken pox episode was, and change my mind.

Molbo

07-08-2007, 15:50

I had to register here just so i could say this. Amazing story, please keep it up. I'll definately buy the book if it ever comes out(when it comes out, of course).

frogbeastegg

07-09-2007, 21:25

The Earl of Chester’s final stronghold had fallen, the last remnants of his army were gone, his person was in Welsh hands. Defeat, total defeat. With the utmost care Hugh disentangled himself from Cecilia and sat up at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. One large stride forward, one new hand clutching at his heel to drag him back! He had retaken London, and now must divert himself to the west instead of remaining in the east and heartlands to press the advantage he had gained.

Three days. His triumph had lasted three days. Three days since he had marched into London. He supposed he must be thankful to the Lord that he had been granted even this much respite, and knew he aught to embrace this latest trial with fortitude. If he were not tested how could he be found worthy?

Behind him Cecilia stirred in her sleep. Gently Hugh pressed the edge of the blankets away from her face, down so they lay on a level with her collar bone and would tickle her nose no more. A future must be found for this girl sooner than had been expected. He brushed a knuckle across her cheek. Yes. He would speak with her on the morrow and see what wishes she had, if she had given her future any consideration. He smiled, a mix of tender and grim. Yes, and at that time he would see what in truth she was. Whether her innocence was but an act, or whether she truly gave little thought to gaining by his attention. If it were but an act he knew he would find himself wounded; he found he had some tender feeling for this creature who had made him laugh, and forget, and feel protective in a way not fraught with the terror of failure and its high price. No rival for Constance, not close to it.

He resumed his contemplation of the matter which he had been worrying at for the entire day. Numerous councils with those closest to him had revealed little he had not already known, and having heard each man’s advice it was left to him to choose between the options he had already known himself confronted with heartbeats after receiving the news.

What to do about London?

The sound of a door slamming open had Hugh on his feet and moving for his sword. When his hand closed about the hilt he was already in the process of imposing his naked body between door and bed. If Trempwick’s assassins had finally come for him he may manage to hold them off long enough for his guard to come and rescue the girl.

The commotion grew to fever pitch; he braced himself as the door to his chamber burst open.

Fulk gasped, “Trempwick’s got Eleanor under siege.”

“We cannot merely abandon London.” It was the same refrain the Earl of Derby had been singing since news of Chester’s capture yesterday morning. Fulk wasn’t alone in stifling a sigh. This council had been circling about for hours, and growling stomachs reminded the room it was past time for breakfast. Time for action, too, by Fulk’s way of thinking.

The prince’s patience was nothing if not saintly. An observer fresh to this council would have said Hugh hadn’t heard the words before. “We do not have the resources to hold it. We need every last man under arms we can muster if we are to rescue my sister.”

“Do we need to?” Fulk’s eyes fixed on the chief of Hugh’s household knights with the promise that if he did not pick his next words carefully they would be crammed back down his throat; the man loosened his collar, perhaps remembering the defeat during a friendly training match that he’d suffered at Fulk’s hands when the latter had been but a knight in Eleanor’s service. “I mean, well, while he’s besieging Alnwick we know where Trempwick is. He’s taken many of his supporters with him. While they are away we can sweep through the areas he has left vulnerable and restore them to the fold.”

Hugh’s reply was soft. “I will not abandon my sister, Thomas.”

At the very same moment Fulk spoke. “I won’t abandon my wife.”

Thomas said, “Sire, I don’t speak of abandoning the lady Eleanor. I speak of capitalising on our enemy’s mistake. We could unite much of the country behind your banner, then turn to face Trempwick with a larger force. We’d be cutting him off, trapping him up north where he will have less resources to draw upon.”

Fulk met Hugh’s eyes in appeal. “By which time Eleanor will be in his hands.”

The rest of the council behaved as though he had not spoken, as they had done on each of the rare occasions he had attempted to contribute.

“Unite?” Serle ran his finger along his upper lip, back and forth, deep in thought. “There are … how many castles we’d have to subdue? How many petty armies? The entirety of the Welsh border, or as good as. How many garrisons would we have to provide?” Hugh’s marshal looked about the council meeting each man’s eye – except for Fulk’s. “It seems to me that it’s neither a quick or easy thing, and in no way does it guarantee us a stronger position to face Trempwick with. Then too it risks the princess’ safety.”

Thomas insisted, “Men are coming over to our lord because they see in him the victory in this conflict, and as long as that is so things becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. With each lord who bends knee our lord’s position grows stronger, and so more will bend knee.”

“You have London.” Someone groaned at Wymar of Derby’s words. The earl raised his voice a fraction and tried again, “You have London. Have yourself crowned, sire. Become a king in truth.”

Varin nodded. “It would strengthen your claim, yes. Strengthen yours and further weaken your sister’s false claim.”

Hugh laid both his hands palm down on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Hubris, sirs. I wonder if you are acquainted with the word? I shall not be guilty of it! Not another word on the matter, not a single one.” The room remained silent. Hugh folded his hands before him on the table. “It is in my mind that my coronation – should God will it happen – can function as a signal of a new beginning, and promote healing in this broken kingdom.”

“The matter in hand, sirs?” William – yes, another in the endless plague! – spoke mildly. “Need I remind you? We know of Trempwick’s location, and we have some word of the force accompanying him. He threatens our lord’s sister, the lady whom he wishes to place on the throne. What course should our lord take?” The sudden noise of the old man pounding his fist made some of the council jump. “That is what we are summoned to discuss, sirs! No more. Let us keep our focus and do what we can to aid our lord. Those who cannot should be excused from this gathering.”

Hugh inclined his head to the man. “Thank you, my lord of Suffolk.”

Silence held as the men reoriented their thoughts and waited for someone to begin discussion again.

If he would not be heard why had Hugh demanded he be present? He must have been intended to speak. On the basis of that Fulk seized the opportunity. “If Trempwick gets his hands on Eleanor his position is strengthened. Don’t underestimate him.” He could have saved his breath for all the notice that was taken.

Serle said, “Sire, if offered amiable terms Trempwick may be brought to submit to you-”

Hugh’s head came up. “I will not have that man as my subject, now or ever.”

“Exile-”

“No.”

“You are set on his destruction.”

Hugh let silence speak for him.

Suffolk cleared his throat. “He served your father long and well. If a reconciliation could be managed-”

“He has done the unforgivable.”

The old earl straightened his shoulders and met the prince’s eyes directly. “Sire, you know I have stood at your side since the beginning so I pray you’ll hear me now and forgive me. I feel my words must be said. Many men have called you a bastard, and many more will. Many have risen against you, and it will happen again in the future no matter how strong your throne. Men must have hope of reconciliation with you else you leave them no option but to battle on to the death, and that will make none happy.”

“I have reconciled with those who have come to me,” Hugh replied stiffly.

“Yes, and that is well.”

The Earl of Derby was nodding. “Well indeed, for I should hate to lose my head.” He made a show of rubbing his neck as though he could feel the threat of the executioner’s axe. It had taken him a long time to throw his lot in with the prince; his presence at this council was a nod to his experience and service to the old king, not his loyalty to Hugh. “Sire, I pray you will forgive me also, though I’m less deserving than Suffolk. I agree with him. If you cannot tolerate him in your realm, exile him. If you kill him then men will wonder if they may oppose you and live. That, sire, creates a festering wound, and when it bursts you shall face men who know they must win or die.”

Suffolk picked up where the other left off. “Raoul was your father’s friend and his best ally. It would sit ill to see him killed by your father’s son.”

In this moment Fulk recognised a truth which hadn’t occurred to him before. The notables in this land would not allow Trempwick to fall too far, for fear that one day the same would happen to them. They would seek to bind Hugh’s hands to strengthen their own power, and as the prince could not speak of the covert war waged against him over the course of years he had no reasonable way to challenging his lords. To do so would be to appear tyrannical, just as speaking of the strikes Trempwick had against him would make him seem a paranoid maniac. Precious few kings ruled absolute; Hugh started in a position weaker than most due to this war, and would need to claw his way into the saddle inch by painful inch. Only then could he address the task of taming the beast and asserting his dominance over it.

Fulk’s temper had been growing fouler by the minute. Eleanor was close to falling into Trempwick’s hands and if none other could recognise what that meant, he did. He’d gather his men and go alone if he knew it wouldn’t be futile suicide. When he tried to speak these lords ignored him. They failed to give their prince the council he needed because they did not know Trempwick! They were thinking of this war as identical to any other.

Thomas suggested, “A show of force. It may serve. If my lord was to march to Alnwick’s aid in full splendour it may be possible to open a dialogue with the rebels.”

Something in Fulk snapped. He burst to his feet and slammed his hands on the tabletop. “Enough!”

Every eye in the room settled on him, none friendly. Ralph, Earl of Oxford, wrinkled his nose. “You forget yourself!”

“I forget nothing.” Fulk slapped a hand on the table once again. “That man must not get his hands on my wife-”

William of Suffolk interrupted, hands raised in a soothing gesture. “It is good you are concerned about the princess-”

He was interrupted in his turn by Hugh. “Let the man speak.”

Fulk bowed. “Thank you, sire.” He took a moment to take control of his temper. “I served in that man’s household for near half a year. I know the man who lies behind the courtier’s veneer. I know what he’s capable of. If he gets his hands on Eleanor then he’ll have a good chance to recover his position, even to win. People have deserted him because he’s losing – if he gains control of Eleanor he won’t be losing any more.” Inwardly he grimaced at his blunt words. He was treading close to the edge of what was acceptable. “If he’s got her then he’s got something to offer people once again: stakes in the kingdom he’s going to build in her name. Prince Hugh will have lost face, and that will hurt his cause too. Once he takes control of Eleanor it will be near impossible to rescue her.” If indeed there was much left of her to rescue. Fulk stiffened his sinews and refused to further contemplate that. “Or if you will not believe that, then consider this. We know where he is, and we know he’ll be staying there for a time. This is the best chance we’ve had to put an end to him. From the reports my man brought me we can about match him in terms of numbers.”

“You speak of battle.” Wymar’s words were cautiously neutral, the intonation of a man not wanting to appear a coward. “I question the sense of this. Battle is an unpredictable thing, and if defeat would finish him then so to would it finish us. You say the numbers would be about even? Then we have no clear advantage. Our army would be tired after the march; Trempwick’s would be fresh.” He shook his head. “It is a very great risk, and one I warn against.”

The German was quick to follow this up. “But could not more forces be gathered on the march? Wouldn’t the castle’s garrison sally to aid us?”

Thomas said, “Yes. However Trempwick must be expecting us to march on him. The way will not be easy, even if the entire affair is not a trap.” He turned to Fulk. “How reliable is this messenger in any case?”

At least they no longer behaved as though he were a ghost. “I trusted Waltheof sufficiently to leave him in control of Ashington. He rode immediately on being told Alnwick was threatened, rode so hard he more than half killed himself.”

Serle added, “We’ve had other, matching reports. There is no doubt; he is there.”

Thomas pursed his lips. “It stinks like a trap. We should send scouts and do nothing before we have more detailed information.”

“There is no time.” Fulk clasped his right hand about his left, thumb and index finger coming to rest touching his wedding ring. Five weeks of marriage and he was perilously close to becoming a widower.

To the surprise of all Hugh rose. He stood as straight as a spear, head up and hands clasped behind his back. “We will march north with all speed – all speed, that we may hope to take Trempwick by surprise. We will fight as necessary, if necessary and when necessary. On our arrival within proximity of Alnwick we shall attack the siege camp if it is opportune. If not we shall pause to assess the situation. The path ahead will be heavily scouted throughout the march; we shall not walk blind into a trap, nor place ourselves in a position where we must do battle with slender chance at victory.” The prince aimed his next words primarily towards Wymar. “My army will be withdrawn from London in its entirety, not a man left behind. The crown jewels and all else of import I shall send under close guard to my wife at Waltham. I shall trust the city to hold its loyalty to me better than it has in the past. I shall need every last man; better to lose the city than my kingdom, and one might hope they recall my clemency this time and what I have promised to do should I need to take this city by force again.”

Hugh paused so they could absorb this. “This is a chance to bring an end to this accursed war, for once Trempwick falls the serpent will have no head. As for what shall be done with him, let us return to that when he is in our hands. Alnwick is correct: we cannot allow him to capture my sister.” He paused a second time. “As for the Welsh Marches, I find it quite apt to entrust that defence to the eastern-most of the midland lords.” He bared his teeth in an expression which would have been more at home on the snout of a wolf. “They refused to obey my command to muster into an army to aid Chester. Now it is their lands which shall be ravaged, unless they do as I commanded and defend them. I would think, sirs, we may trust them to do that, and perhaps next time they shall heed my words.”

Hugh made a very shallow bow to his council. “This is my will, sirs. Let it be done. I desire to be on the road by midday.” He departed without giving them chance to protest.

The Earl of Suffolk laughed aloud, incredulous. “Now who did that remind you of?”

“The old king,” answered Wymar. “When he had already settled his mind on a matter and wished to see if his council could change it, and found that we could not.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Suffolk’s enthusiasm manifested in a broad smile. “It warms my heart to see the prince take up this corner of his father’s mantle.”

Wymar matched William’s smile with a dry one of his own. “Let us pray he has also taken up his father’s knack for making the right decision at such times.”

Worn down by exhaustion little Ellen slipped into slumber, her hands gradually losing the death-grip they’d had on her mother’s dress since the screaming had first started yesterday morning. Aveis handed her daughter over to the child’s nurse, careful not to wake her. “Put her to bed, and be sure to remain with her in case she wakes.”

“At least someone sleeps,” Hawise commented as the nurse carried the child away.

Contrary to the expectations of most in Alnwick Trempwick had not ceased his assault on the garrison’s resolve when night fell. Twin bonfires had been lit either side of the stake and its occupant and the torture had continued throughout the night. When the prisoner had died – the second since this began – the third was brought out. As with the first prisoner to die this latest corpse had been beheaded and all four limbs severed. The head and both legs had been shot over the walls so far; the remainder would undoubtedly follow.

Eleanor drank half her cup of small ale, and bravely attempted a bit of plain bread. Breakfast. Not what her stomach desired, tender as it was from the grisly sights she could still see if she closed her eyes. Two small mouthfuls later she gave up, feeling as though the bread had lodged at the base of her throat. “Where are they?” she demanded, pushing away from the table and pacing around the room.

Neither companion answered; they had no better idea of Jocelyn’s and Gervaise’s whereabouts then she.

Opening the solar door Eleanor commanded the men who stood on guard there, “Find Sir Gervaise and Sir Jocelyn and tell them that I am awaiting them.”

It took a while but eventually the two men made an appearance.

Eleanor raised an eyebrow in silent rebuke at their tardiness in delivering the report she had requested be delivered to her first thing this morning. “Well?”

Sir Gervaise spoke for both men. “Still no sign of siege engines or such. Morcar’s torso was returned to us a short while ago; that’s why we were delayed, your Highness.”

Jocelyn pulled a face. “It hit person. They dead too.”

Since hysterical laughter wouldn’t help much Eleanor swore instead.

The castellan raised his own eyebrows at that unladylike slip.

Eleanor rubbed her forehead. “Oh Jesù, what rotten luck. They will soon be opening the gates and throwing me out.”

“Things aren’t so bad yet, your Highness.”

Eleanor repeated the most significant word in the Gervaise’s speech. “Yet.”

“We should find something to keep the men at arms busy. Doing something will raise morale, people won’t feel like they are sitting waiting for rescue or death.”

“Have you any suggestions?”

Sir Gervaise shook his head. “I’d suggest a sally or something else to harm our foe, but I don’t dare. If our men should be captured Trempwick will have them butchered before our gates.”

“We cannot allow ourselves to be paralysed by fear.” Would Trempwick be expecting her to launch a counter attack, or would he expect her to keep her men close from fear for their lives? Did he think her but a passive opponent, frozen by the thought of her master descending to do as he always had and defeat her? Or had he prepared for her to fling every last ounce of herself into the struggle?

“A thing you should know, your Highness. They wonder why the hel- er, why you not order crossbow man to shoot for you. They wonder when you learn to shoot.” Jocelyn scowled, oozing disapproval. “What you did was …” He struggled visibly for a second before managing a tame description. “Not natural for lady.”

Sir Gervaise said, “An old story has been brought back up. Something about you killing a would-be abductor with your own hand.”

She managed to control her irritation over being interrupted mid-thought. “That has never been a secret.”

“It was assumed to be an – an accident, almost. A frantic thing done in the heat of the moment.”

Battered and more than half-dazed, watching Fulk and his tiny band struggle to her rescue, thrown over the shoulder of a man struggling to open Waltham’s outer gate to carry her away to Trempwick, the struggle to draw her abductor’s dagger and drive it home … Eleanor remembered only too clearly. “It was,” she said quietly.

Sir Gervaise bowed. “Your Highness, forgive me my poor wording. Before it was assumed you’d struck lucky, no skill or planning involved. Now a few wonder otherwise.”

Eleanor moulded herself into incredibility. “Are you suggesting I am a trained killer, sir?”

The castellan’s face flamed, and he made yet another obeisance. “Forgive me, your Highness.”

Mercifully Jocelyn kept silent about the practice session he’d witnessed.

She let a touch of coldness into her voice. “I am a fair shot with a crossbow because I use one when I hunt. Many ladies can use a hunting bow. As I had but little occasion to hunt I could not keep up the skill required to hit with a bow. Hence the crossbow. It is less skilful.” To add substance to this cover she would now have to go hunting occasionally, worse luck. “A man at medium range is a large enough target, and I admit there was an element of good luck.”

“It shall be made known.”

“Subtly, if you please. Any other way will heighten the rumours to the contrary.”

“Of course, your Highness.”

Eleanor weighed her options once again, and went with gut instinct. “I desire you to look at the feasibility of launching some kind of strike against Trempwick tonight. It must be an action which brings our people back safely, and has a high chance of something we could term success.” Trempwick best knew her as someone who disliked risking other’s lives, whom could always shrank before him when he turned to face whatever pitiful challenge she had mustered. She rose, signalling that this audience was at an end. “I leave the matter in your capable hands. Bring your proposals to me in two hours time.”

Welcome, Molbo. You’re probably in need of these :hands over the famous ‘Eleanor’ eye drops:

furball

07-10-2007, 03:33

Glad to see another chapter! This is beginning to look like "it." (That is, the denoument.)

<insert words of encouragement and gentle admonitions to not be rushed here>

Ludens

07-10-2007, 15:10

Just a note to say I am still here, and I particularly enjoyed the last installment. I'll join furball in saying: please carry on, but take your time.

Peasant Phill

07-10-2007, 15:13

Yes, a lucky shot, right .......

I really loved Hugh's war council and the mixed feelings when prince Hugh turns out to be his father's son.

Like I already said, I can't wait to read the climax. But I agree with Furball and Ludens, no need to rush it.

frogbeastegg

07-17-2007, 20:10

Madness! Why hadn’t he stopped her? Why hadn’t he counselled against this? Why oh why in the name of sweet innocent cherubs had he been bloody stupid enough to damned well bloody volunteer?!

Jocelyn’s hands entered the unconscious pre-battle dance, checking sword, helmet lacing, shield straps, dagger. The familiar actions steadied his nerves. “Go. Moving.”

The ropes were tossed over the wall, coils unwinding until with a snap they reached their full extent. Black-clad men in light armour swung themselves over the wall and began to climb down. They’d chosen a spot in the shadow of a tower; their activity would be hard for enemy sentries to spot. Or such was the hope.

Like the brave leader he was Jocelyn stepped up as quickly as any of them and started his own decent, all the while cursing himself as a bloody fool! If he got captured then he’d deserve to be cut to bits! Please, Lord, that would not happen. Divine protection, the same gentle favour which had shone its soft light upon him all his life, yes, that’s what he needed right now. That and approximately three-thousand fully armed knights.

His feet touched the ground. Releasing the rope he swung his borrowed shield onto his arm and hurried forward in a half-crouch to join his raiding party.

Once the men were all formed up he indicated that the archers should ready their bows by means of cunning gestures – why the damned hell had he taken a group of idiots who couldn’t speak his language?! – and started the advance.

One might think that they’d go to put an end to their comrade’s suffering on that infernal stake. One would be wrong. Jocelyn hoped Trempwick was a one, like the princess said. Well, more like abjectly prayed he would be; hope was too light a damned word. He led his band onward, right hand tight on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Two sentries sat at the campfire he’d chosen as a target. When they’d got as close as he dared he held up his hand to signal a halt, pointed at the men who’d been named as the best shots in the group and then again at the sentries.

Kneeling the men nocked their arrows, drew and loosed. Both sentries sprouted feathered shafts and toppled over.

See? God did love him! Jocelyn drew his sword and aimed the tip of it at the enemy camp. The archers remained in position to offer support for the withdrawal. All the others followed Jocelyn’s splendid example.

Dispersing amongst the tents the men at arms plunged weapons into sleeping bodies. Not sullying his hands with murder Jocelyn stood by the fire hoping any inquisitive enemies would mistake him for a sentry.

Then there was shouting – the alarm was raised! Jocelyn swore with creativity that could only be called admirable under the circumstances. He was damned if he knew what had given the game away, but he didn’t plan on hanging about to become a carve-your-own-count for that sick bastard with a knife who’d been showing off his fearful skills outside the gates for all too bloody long!

Jocelyn snatched up a bit of burning wood from the fire and touched it to the walls of the nearest tent. The English idiots soon got the idea, and set a few blazes of their own. It was a right good idea, Jocelyn thought. Until the flames spread and made the location of trouble all too bloody obvious!

“Back! Running! Away! Thing!” Jocelyn waved his right arm vigorously in the direction of Alnwick castle. As he jogged along in the midst of his retreating party he realised a small oversight on his part. He didn’t know how to command an orderly retreat in this bloody language. One word writ itself large in his mind, decorated with fancy gold work and pictures of nymphs and stuff: shit! What good all his nice courtly language now!? Tildis never thought of that did she? Oh no, not a chance.

The first men were sprinting out after them now, weapons in hands. A few had snatched up shields, those being the ones with a bit more thought about them then the other rebel bastards. Wakened rudely from their sleep they weren’t in the best shape for a fight. Like sheep to the wolves, and the Englishmen were the wolves. Er, his Englishmen. The other lot were the sheep. Naturally.

Jocelyn barked one of the commands he had so painstakingly learned that afternoon. “Shield wall!” The men skidded to a halt and formed up shoulder to shoulder with Jocelyn in the centre, black-painted shields locking together rim to rim. The archers sprinted up and took up positions behind the body of infantry.

Jocelyn made his intent quite clear with a bit more sword waving. “Kill the bastards!” Alright, so he didn’t know any local version of that, but it seemed like they got the general idea. The formation started forward, a little ragged at first but recovering its shape after the first steps.

The pursuers slowed, looked about for support.

Jocelyn grinned. This was more like it! “A d’Ardantes! A d’Ardantes!”

His battle cry was echoed by the men at arms. “Alnwick and vengeance!” It wasn’t the most inspired of battle cries but Jocelyn guessed it might loosen the bowels a bit if one had a guilty conscience over dicing men up into itty bitty pieces and catapulting them at their friends.

One of the dithering rebels went down with an arrow in his shoulder. His friends began to head back at the attackers, forming up themselves. More men ran to their support, and in the distance yet more bloody rebels could be seen heading to the nice big “come here!” blaze some prize idiot had gone and started.

Jocelyn made one of those bold commander’s decisions. “Running!”

The shield wall dissolved around him as men turned their backs and started to run for all they were worth.

“Bugger!” Orderly retreat! That was what was needed, not some every man for himself sprint race! If the rebels mustered a bit of cavalry then they’d be cut down like so many fleeing cowards!

Not wanting to be left behind Jocelyn put on a good turn of speed, sword whistling as it sliced through the air over and over in his pumping fist. His natural fleetness of foot soon had him in the front of the pack.

With maybe five hundred paces left to the walls he heard what he hadn’t wanted to: bloody horses, and closing fast!

“Stopping!” he gasped. “Shield … thing! Shield wall!”

To their credit most of the men halted and formed up like the seasoned soldiers they were.

The incoming horsemen were pitiful. A handful of men who’d grabbed some clothes and their weapons and had leapt bareback onto their animals. One lucky chap got his horse shot out from under him; the others reined in at the last moment, turning and riding a short distance away, casting back insults and threats.

Instinctively the shield wall was inching backwards, for which Jocelyn was glad. He couldn’t remember how you commanded that one and he didn’t fancy standing about here until enough enemy idiots mustered to come and turn him into a martyr for his cause.

While they were still fifty paces out of range of supporting fire from the castle walls the counter attack Jocelyn had been dreading caught up with them: a body of men able to match them in numbers, hastily equipped and out for blood.

Warding off blows with his shield he countered where he could, sending one back with a wounded arm and giving another a torn out throat. Around him his borrowed soldiers laid into the rebels with vicious enthusiasm. All the time the formation kept on inching back, back, back towards the safety promised by the walls. His blood caught fire; at last the chance to do something other than sit about being bored! He was angry, he was fed up, he wanted to go home, and he was going to stick his sword right where a bunch of these goons didn’t want it!

A crossbow bolt flew harmlessly by, another, a third sent a rebel to his knees screaming in anguish. The enemy edged back, disengaged, broke and ran in their turn.

Jocelyn wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his tunic. “Hoo-bloody-ray.”

The men on the walls continued to take pot-shots at anyone they thought to be in range until the last of the raiding party had climbed back up the ropes.

It was with an air of satisfaction that Jocelyn cleaned the blood off the blade of his sword. He’d led a right heroic venture, and no mistake! Successful, brave, and barely a single loss. He could be proud of himself.

The men at arms were fussing amongst themselves, elation dying in a way which made Jocelyn’s guts go all funny. He didn’t like it, not one bit. Something was wrong and it was going to undercut his heroics.

Sir Gervaise was the one to translate the babble into something Jocelyn could understand. “Harold didn’t return. No one saw him fall.” The castellan blew out a breath and shrank in on himself. “I shouldn’t have let him go. I should have known.”

“Traitor?”

“The first prisoner was his brother. I thought this would be vengeance enough. Looks like I was wrong.” The castellan crossed himself, forehead to naval, shoulder to shoulder. “I pray God we won’t see him on that stake tomorrow.”

Carve-you-own-count, hehe :D

True story. Yesterday afternoon I seated myself at my computer, replete with the warm glow which comes from finishing a 932 page brick of a book, and contemplated the amount of writing I could get done in my six day holiday. The PC booted up, I clicked start, navigated to the short cut to Eleanor – and nearly fell out of my chair because of some extremely loud drilling on the wall behind me. The neighbour is having his house done up. :cries: The timing would have been comical if it weren’t so cruel! I can’t write with that kind of racket going on! I’m no better off than I am when I’m working; I can only write in the evenings. :cries some more:

It keeps thundering too. You know how I feel about using my PC when I can hear thunder. My melted PC was plugged in to a surge protector; I don’t trust the things.

It’s a good thing the three of you are able to be patient. That curse on me seems to be alive and well. Random reader: “I love this story; I hope it never ends!” Evil Genie: “Bwa ha ha ha! Granted! She’ll have every problem imaginable, and then a few more!” :tongueg:

furball

07-17-2007, 23:37

Loving the story, here, too! Yay, Jocelyn!

Poor Froggy! Noise like that drives me crazy. Go read in a coffee shop during the day and write in the evening? (I hope to heck they aren't making noise after tea-time.)

Ciaran

07-18-2007, 18:12

Yes, people have this tendency to do stuff like that at the most inconvenient times, either while you´re home because of holidays, or on weekends, when you actually hope for something like relaxing in quiet. But no, some DIY freak always decides that this is the best time for checking whether in the past week an oil well developed inside the wall (it´s amazing just how much holes people seem to be able to drill into a wall).

And yes, I´m still alive and following your story. Following as in saving up reading material for some time when I´ve got a lot of it on my hands, so I can sit down and have nice, huge chunks to read.

frogbeastegg

07-25-2007, 16:52

Trempwick bowed in his saddle. “Good morning, dear wife.”

“Rot in hell!”

Eleanor guessed at his amusement, unable to see it from this distance. “You always were irritable when deprived of sleep, beloved Nell. Forgive me for keeping you from your rest these past nights. Alas, it could not be helped. There is no way to make … noise carry to select ears.”

“Noise?” Eleanor clenched her fists and wished her master was in range for a punch. “You were cutting people up! My people!”

Down on his horse the spymaster shrugged, exaggerating the movement so it carried over the distance clearly. “A necessary evil to persuade your captors to set you free.”

“I am not a prisoner!”

Trempwick cocked his head to one side. “You mean to say you choose this?”

Sensing a trap Eleanor hesitated to reply.

“You choose to hide behind those walls while others die, merely so you may claim to be wed to a handsome toy and evade your inheritance, your duty to this realm and its people?”

Off to one side Jocelyn raised his eyebrows and muttered, “Got a point,” in his native tongue.

Eleanor filled her lungs and bellowed, “No! I choose not to surrender to your lies and help you usurp my brother’s throne! I will not be your puppet.”

Some muttered langue d’oil commented, “Got a point.”

“Puppet?” The little figure on the horse shook his head. “Beloved Nell, how could you think such a thing?”

She crossed her arms. “Easily.”

“Oh, Nell! Do not let the fears of those who would keep you tied down to a place less than that which is yours by right disturb you. The bastard and all those who support him will do their utmost to keep you under their control, and make you believe you act so of your own will.”

“Rubbish.”

Trempwick nudged his horse a few steps forward, perilously close to the outmost edges of crossbow range. “Can you honestly say Hugh has never tried to curtail you? To force you into becoming what he believes you should be? To place himself in the superior position, and reduce you to a meek creature which obeys his every whim?”

No, she could not say that. Her need to seek a passable reply slowed her, and again Trempwick got there first.

“You cannot. If you did I would call you a liar, dear Nell. How many times did the court see him beat you in an effort to make you behave as he wished? How many slights were there, public and private? How often were you pressed into his shadow? How often were you pulled into the light only so he could be seen to slap you back into the darkness?”

“And how many times did my father do the same?” Eleanor let a trace of her temper show; let him think he was flustering her. “The answer is writ upon my back, most famously. Or infamously, if you prefer.” She laughed scornfully. “And you claim he made me his heir?”

Jocelyn cleared his throat.

Even at this distance Eleanor knew Trempwick’s eyes met her own. This conversation was steadily becoming more private, less aimed at the ears of their many spectators. “Your father, may he rest in peace, was very different to your half-brother, beloved Nell. I think you know that, deep down. You fought. You argued. You disagreed. It was … nasty in the extreme. However, dearest Nell, it all came from who and what you both were. It was a clash of people. Not one of position. He never publicly shamed you. He never impinged upon your position. Not once did he suggest you were anything but his daughter and to be paid every last bit of deference due to you as such.”

“He kept me in a situation most unfitting for my rank.”

“Were you any less a princess because you did not eat gilded peacock?”

Eleanor made a complaint of something she had been glad of, “Kept from court I was close to forgotten-”

“And safe!” Trempwick pointed at her. “Safe, and able to learn that which you needed. Think of Hugh’s reaction when he discovered what you had learned, Nell! He was horrified.”

A point which would be easy to refute if only it wouldn’t be foolhardy in the extreme to admit she had been trained to kill. “Let us speak of you and your own deeds. You attempted to carry me off by force-”

“Rescue you.”

“Which is why I was knocked near-unconscious and dragged away when I expressed no desire to accompany your thugs?”

“A regrettable misunderstanding-”

“No!” she shouted. “By your design. You wanted your puppet back at any cost.”

“I wanted my wife back-”

Again she interrupted, knowing she needed momentum if she were to keep from being trodden underfoot by him. “I am NOT your wife!”

“Nell, dearest-”

“I am the wife of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec, Earl of Alnwick. The ceremony was witnessed by hundreds, as was the proof your claims can only be false.”

To her dismay Trempwick only laughed, shaking his head in a kind of pity. “Nell, Nell, oh my poor Nell. Blood has so many sources, and so many ways of being drawn. A nosebleed, a cut or bite to an area covered by hair or difficult to view when the body is oriented in a standing position. Even, dare I be so crude, the female passage. A scratch there would be impossible to detect. Speaking of which, an enterprising soul could conceal a small vial of blood there, to be retrieved once alone.” He looked at her again and she could feel his exhilaration at striking what he thought would be the blow which made her back down, as she always had in the past. “Did they check your fingernails for traces of blood? Did they examine every last inch of you and the bastard-knight?”

“You filthy-minded git!” As easily as that he’d sewn the seeds of a doubt which would never die. “And what of your own claims? They are every bit as open to doubt, and a damned sight more so as I deny you. That blood probably came from a goat!”

“Beloved Nell, I do not blame you. You were to be disposed of, made into a thing which could not rival your half-brother. Your marriage to me was to be discredited.” He hung his head as though distressed by his next words. “Nell, maybe it is easier for you to deny what has been done to you, and I know it would be dangerous for you sing a song other than the one your captors dictate. But I want you to know I do not blame you, or feel anything for you but the care I felt before. I hate myself for not being able to save you in time.” His head came back up. “As for your rapist,” he set his hand to the hilt of his sword. “There will be a reckoning.”

“If anyone is going to bear that unhappy label it will be you, except I firmly intend to die before you can get your filthy, treacherous hands on me!” Through the mists of her rage Eleanor noticed that her companions were all edging discretely away from her, all except Hawise. The maid had witnessed a royal explosion before and thus presumably felt in no danger of life or limb. “There will be a reckoning. My husband and my king will be marching to destroy you – all I need do is keep you here. You cannot run away empty-handed for that would mean the final defeat of your cause. You will not win when they bring you to battle. And I promise you, I will not be taken alive. Storm these walls and you ensure your defeat – you cannot rule without me, Raoul Trempwick.” She let him digest her words, let the others digest them. “Do you doubt me?”

“No, Nell. I do not.” He held up a finger. “Except in one detail. Should it come to battle I will win.”

“You are not a general. My brother is.”

“God will aid the righteous.”

That pious nugget was for the benefit of the audience; Eleanor was tempted to retch. “Yes, he will.”

“When the pair of misbegotten accidents lie dead there will be none left to compel you to mouth these lies.”

“Only death will put an end to your lies. I look forward to it.”

“And so to business.” Somehow the man made it sound like he was sighing the words, not shouting them across a large distance. “Hear this! I run low on patience.”

“And time,” Eleanor muttered, drawing a stern look from Sir Gervaise.

“The rest of my army has arrived. You will have seen a certain change in the local countryside.” He indicated the clouds of smoke hanging in the sky; burned villages, devastated fields. “I hold you to have declined terms. You know what that means.”

An army gone to rampage. Killing, raping, looting, torturing. No quarter given, no mercy. No exemptions; male or female, adult or child, noble or common, soldier or civilian, inside the castle or merely unlucky enough to be caught near it all would share whatever fate Trempwick’s soldiers cared to send them to. Standard practice; it was the reason so many besieged places came to terms when they felt the end was close.

Sir Gervaise sounded calm as he replied, “Relief will come.”

“You imagine I have not dispatched men to harass any army attempting to come this way?” Trempwick shook his head. “Let me tell you, sir, I have taken every measure available to me. If aid does come it will be in poor condition to face my army, and too late to save you.”

“Am I to take your word for this? You must think me born yesterday.”

“I level the same accusation at you. I would be the worst kind of fool to come here and leave myself exposed.” Trempwick’s mount sidled; the spymaster soon had it under control again. The lapse was enough to convince Eleanor of his tenseness – and to make her wonder if he wanted her to believe him more desperate than he was. The spymaster raised his voice. “You have also seen my generosity. You have seen I keep my word.”

Gervaise spat at the ground. “We’ve seen you consort with traitors!”

Having raised objection at the label of traitor and received a pitiless two-fronted condemnation of her softness from both of her advisors Eleanor kept her opinion to herself. Well enough to say neither knight would be ill-mannered enough to show anything but deference to her here, they would have more than sufficient time to make her eardrums ring for it later, and again for showing disunity within those at the centre of this siege, and again for displaying her weakness in a way which would steal heart from the soldiers. When captured and faced with Trempwick’s stake anyone would gabble what information they could, take the reward, and ride for freedom like all hell was on their tail.

Eleanor called, “How far did you let him get before he was killed and all that you gave him taken back?”

“One does not encourage men to one’s side by slaughtering those who change allegiance.”

“Do you deny your last prisoner was killed by Harold before you captured him?”

“I do not deny it, nor do I deny the man split from your little attack force in a misguided attempt to avenge his brother.” A pause, then he purred, “I do not deny he chose to tell me all he knew and renounce his former allegiances the moment I stepped into his presence.” Trempwick pulled on the reins making his horse step through a half-turn. “Life is the sweetest thing known to man, and sweeter still when imperilled. The younger one is the more this is true. Body and soul will labour to remain together; when at the brink anything is preferable to that final nothing. It is easy to speak of facing death in cold blood. You will find most flinch from it the instant realisation dawns.” Suddenly his focus was no longer on her, his words not solely for her. “Harold faced the choice. He chose life. I did not have to do a thing. Each of you will face that choice, face it now.”

“Yes,” drawled Sir Gervaise. “We can surrender to you and be killed like dogs, or we can hold out and be rescued by our lord.”

“As you will. We shall see how your resolve lasts.” Trempwick’s attention locked on Eleanor again. “When a ruler neglects their duty it is the people who suffer. They depend on the crown to keep the peace. Would that England had such a ruler.” He rode away, signalling to his camp as he went.

Men at arms began to erect new stakes at intervals around Alnwick while others dragged out prisoners taken from the raids on the surrounding settlements.

And so, at last, I get to write the first proper Nell/Trempy scene in over a year! I’ve had bits of dialogue from this stored safely at the end of my manuscript since the very beginning.

“Were you any less a princess because you did not eat gilded peacock?” That line is pure Trempwick. One of my favourites by him.

Humph. As soon as I got a bit of peace and quiet I managed this in an hour. That only makes the week spend trying and failing worse. A pox on people drilling and hammering! The noise stopped on Saturday afternoon. I was back at work on the Sunday.

Furball, in the end I walled myself up in my bedroom and read endlessly. My Playstation 2 got a bit of a workout too. Not quite what I’d planned to be doing, but enjoyable.

Ciaran, I admit to wondering if Trempwick had got you :tongueg:

Ciaran

07-28-2007, 11:34

:laugh4: Not quite. Only too little time to read and review. I think I left off when Jocely tried his hand at letter-writing. The advantage of long intervalls of reading that I´ll have a lot to read in one piece. And I really like reading huge chunks in one go.

frogbeastegg

08-02-2007, 15:13

“The scouts report a group of rebels is working to destroy the bridge near Repton,” Hugh told his council. “Around seventy men at a rough count.”

The Earl of Derby pounded his fist on the cantle of his saddle. “They dare intrude upon my lands! By God, I’ll see them dead!”

Serle brushed his hair back from his face, only for the wind to blow it right back into his eyes. “Sooner rather than later, I’d hope, Wymar. If we have to divert our path we’ll lose time.”

“If we’re going to lose time I’d rather we did it by halting to hold this council,” suggested Thomas wryly.

Hugh stated, “We will not lose time. Whatever must be done to make all speed we will do, be it marching in the dark or discussing strategy in our saddles.”

“I was jesting.”

The prince frowned at the leader of his household knights. “I would rather you turned your mind to a solution.”

“If any man amongst us needs to think on what to do he needs casting out as unfit to advise you, my lord.” Thomas ran his hand over his hair again and angled his head so that this time the wind didn’t undo his efforts. “With respect, of course.”

“True.” The prince produced a smile worn thin by close to three full days marching at an unrelenting pace. “However, let it never be said I do not seek council and behave as a tyrant.”

The Earl of Derby spurred his horse forward, and twisted in his saddle to look back at his fellows. “Sire, let me lead the counter attack. We’re entering my lands; I know the terrain, and their presence threatens what is mine.”

Hugh watched the ground pass beneath his horse’s hooves, thinking. “Thomas?”

“My lord?”

“Gather a hundred men, all able to fight mounted. Form them up near the front of the army.”

“My lord.” The knight dragged his horse about and dug in his spurs.

Wymar enquired again, “Might I lead them, my lord?”

Hugh did not feel it would be wise to allow such a recent convert to his cause to lead this action. If the way were not cleared the army would have to divert to use another crossing point and that would add a half day to the march, more if the rebels acted sensibly and set about making the alternate crossings impassable. In addition he was uneasy with loosing the earl to avenge the violation of his lands; weariness clouded all of their minds as it was, and needed no aid from anger.

It came to him that he had a man to lead this small engagement. A man whom he required to distinguish himself, whom he needed to test to take the measure of. “Alnwick?”

His brother-by-law ceased to stare at the horizon. “Yes, my lord?”

“Take the men Thomas gathers for you and lead them west with speed. The scouts report there is another crossing point about five miles along, too minor to be of use to our army. Cross there and come along to hit the rebels from the rear. Try not to let any escape; they would but cause us trouble later.”

Fulk touched a hand to his brow in a salute. “As you order.”

Wymar’s reaction to being passed over did not go unnoticed; the man became stiff in his saddle, face set.

As the man rode away the Earl of Suffolk commented, “Put him in harm’s way and mayhap harm will find him. A problem solved with the minimum of embarrassment.”

Hugh rounded on the old man. “Such words are a disgrace and ill befit you. That you think me possible of acting in such a way …” The spark burned out, and Hugh broke eye contact. He changed his instinctive reply for the truth; he spoke it and counted the pain as a fragment of his penance. “Is not so surprising as I would wish, considering some of my recent deeds. What is best if seldom what is pleasant.”

Fulk rode at a canter back to the section of the column where his men marched. He drew into place between his squire and page. “Luke, I want you and ten men to form my bodyguard. Ready for battle, though leave your helms off. We’ve a bit of a ride first.”

Young Richard dragged himself up straight in his saddle, blinking sleep from his eyes. “And me, my lord?”

“Give me my shield then bring Sueta up.”

The boy struggled to unsling the shield from his back without falling from his pony; biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling Fulk aided his page. The shield was a scant foot shorter than the ten-year-old, unwieldy and very heavy for such a young body. Richard had insisted on bearing it to give Luke a rest.

Already in his body armour Fulk only needed a few finishing touches to ready himself to depart; he raised his coif, laced his aventail, slung his great helm from the front of his saddle so he could reach it more easily, and settled his shield on his back. By the time his warhorse was brought up he was itching with impatience. He swung up into Sueta’s saddle without letting the animal stop, tossing the reins of his palfrey to his page.

Fulk spurred away in the midst of his bodyguard. He’d heard Suffolk’s comment as he departed the council and he’d be damned if he died to save them some bother.

From this point on I have very definite ideas of which scenes I want in each posted section, so from now on I will be posting only when the group of scenes I require to make up an update are done to my satisfaction. No more thinking “It works decently as a section and it’s been a long enough wait.” In addition a good number of those scenes are ones which I anticipate will take me a while before I manage something I consider tolerable. I’m sorry to say this collectively means you are probably going to be waiting a few days longer between updates ~:(

Ciaran, I guess that would be Jocelyn’s first letter? That’s ages ago! Lots to read indeed …

furball

08-02-2007, 23:20

<bows low> As you wish, m'lady Frog.

Ciaran

08-03-2007, 17:55

Yes. Brilliant, isn´t it? As I have mentioned before, I love long books :book:

Ludens

08-04-2007, 10:47

As always, take you time.
:bow:

frogbeastegg

08-16-2007, 13:54

Fulk slashed at Sueta’s flanks with his spurs, bending forward in the saddle to lunge at the infantryman. The tip of his sword entered the man’s back as the soldier’s spear sank into the belly of Luke’s horse. Man and beast screamed their death agonies, droplets of sound lost in a sea of noise.

Luke scrambled free of his dying mount, landing heavily on his feet. Off-balance he warded a blow with his shield and stumbled back, tripping on the thrashing carcass of his warhorse. The three remaining men who’d helped dismount him surged forward sensing the kill.

Sueta bulled forward, blood streaming from his flanks as Fulk dug his spurs in again and again. The warhorse snapped at an arm carelessly waved close to his snout, teeth closing on empty air as the enemy realised his peril and dove forward. Fulk busied his sword in his squire’s defence, the remainder of his bodyguard working their way up to join him.

Two men attacked Fulk from his right, working in concert to keep him under continuous threat. Devoting all his effort to guarding himself against them there was little he could do when a man on his left lunged at his leg; pain burned through him as the fine point of the weapon caught in a link of mail, dug in and tore through, his own momentum dragging the blade onward. The wound was not overly serious, he could tell that immediately – he still had the limb and bone hadn’t broken.

On foot Luke cut down one of the pair harassing Fulk on the right, on the left one of his other bodyguards trampled his mount in close to Fulk and set himself up as a shield of flesh and iron. Fulk himself dispatched the second attacker on his right, near hewing his shoulder from his body with a downwards chop while the man turned to face Luke.

The temporary lull in the fighting enabled Fulk to spare a glance for his left leg. Blood flowed from a tear in his mail chausses, down his calf to drip from his boot. He’d live – he’d better, he reflected grimly. Any rescue of Eleanor from Alnwick would be for naught if she were left a vulnerable widow.

He brandished his sword and bellowed, “A FitzWilliam! A FitzWilliam for the gooseberry!” His mounted guard in close formation about him, Fulk drove back into the forefront of the battle.

Fulk clenched his teeth so hard they ached and battled the scream trying to escape his lips. Abruptly the pain dulled to a steady burn.

“There.” Luke dropped a broken link of mail onto the cloak Fulk sprawled on. “The wound’s clean now.”

“Good,” Fulk croaked. Why did the treatment of a wound always hurt more than the getting of it?

The squire set aside his tweezers in favour of a flask.

Batting aside Waltheof’s restraining hands Fulk raised himself on his elbow and thrust out a hand. “Give me that.” He took a very hefty swig of the alcohol before letting his squire pour the rest over his wound, groaning at the agony of it.

“Nearly done now, my lord.”

Fulk dropped back to lie on the ground, head spinning and sight going grainy. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, both to stave off the faintness and to keep his mind away from the stitching of the cut. The wound was long and shallow, running from shortly beneath his knee down to a hand’s breath above his ankle. It would make walking and riding a trial. He could not allow it to impede him. A few more days was all he asked of it, a few more days and then he’d give it all the rest it needed … one way or another. He grimaced, knowing it was bad luck to think about dying when fighting lay ahead.

The salve they applied to his leg soothed the burning sufficiently for his mind to clear. “How bad’s my armour?”

Luke said, “I’ll sew up the rent in the padding tonight. The mail will have to go to an armourer; should be possible to do a crude fix for tomorrow morning.”

Fulk took a steadying breath and sat up. His attack force had deployed itself at the mouth of the bridge, on the far side to the approaching army. Sentries patrolled the outskirts of their makeshift camp. Other men stripped the bodies and dumped them into a shallow trench. They were the ones who had been but lightly involved in the fighting; most of the force sat or sprawled on the ground resting or undergoing treatment for their own injuries.

The corners of Waltheof’s mouth lifted fractionally. “Best rest we’ve had since leaving London. We should fight more often.”

Fulk gave a weary smile of his own in appreciation of the effort, if not the shabby humour. By day they marched at the best speed the army could manage. As darkness began to fall they marched. When the first trace of morning light appeared they marched. When they stopped at night men rolled up in their cloaks and slept like the dead until roused for their turn at sentry duty. During the day they had four breaks, a half hour each. Each time he heard someone complaining about the pace Fulk pointed at Waltheof; the man had ridden from the North at breakneck speed to bring news of the siege, and now rode back without so much as a day’s rest in between. He had refused to remain behind, insisting his place was at his lord’s side. It was with extreme reluctance that Waltheof had agreed to remain with the small party Fulk had left a short distance behind the bridge battle, ready to assist wounded men who managed to make their way back to them. Grey with fatigue the Scottish knight was in no condition to fight.

“Go and rest yourself,” Fulk ordered him.

The knight nodded, stiffly getting to his feet and walking away with the gait of an old, arthritic man.

Luke began to bandage Fulk’s leg. Head bent to this task he began to talk in a very low, very flat voice. “Have you thought what will happen to her if you die now? Victor’s spoils. That’s what she will be. Whoever wins. If you die. Think about what that means.”

If his leg hadn’t hurt so much Fulk might have taken advantage of their positions to kick out at his squire. He was in no mood to coddle the man’s worshipful feelings for Eleanor. “I don’t plan to,” he snarled. “And I know what it means so well it’s a wonder I manage to sleep!”

“Yet you risked yourself for me. That’s how you got this wound. You shouldn’t have. It’s my place to die to keep you safe, for her sake. Not the other way around. I thank you for my life, my lord, but from here on concern yourself with your survival and your victory, nothing else, I beg you.”

Shame left Fulk speechless.

She’d changed. Become … harder. Able to close herself to the suffering of trivial people in order to focus on her own goals. This was good. An indispensable ability in a queen, a leader. The timing? Trempwick slumped in his chair and massaged his face with his hands. The timing was appalling. The Nell he had known for so many years would have been unable to stand the pressure he had applied. She would have come out of that castle on the first day. Unable to see that she was more important than any number of others. Unwilling to see that she could make a difference only by focusing on getting the large decisions right, not chasing after the small detail.

Now he applied his pressure to the garrison. To her guard. To induce them to betray her. It felt unsavoury. To undermine the first clear proofs that he was right, that she could win loyalty and rule. To take away from her what she had won and leave her with ashes. Most of her soldiers were local. They sat safe inside their walls while the people who made up their lives suffered, died, fled, bled. Sat safe while their homes burned, their crops were ruined, their goods taken. Keep applying the pressure and they’d crack. Steady pressure – too much and they would run frenzied in their grief. Too much and they might turn too fully on the ‘cause’ of their loss. Nell must not be harmed! Must not. Couldn’t take any chances. Couldn’t storm the walls, too risky. Might be killed in the fighting, or be mistaken for fair game. Catapult stones were so indiscriminate, flying debris so dangerous. Couldn’t take any chances …

He came awake again sometime later, hand going for his dagger and springing to his feet before his eyes opened fully. Before he realised he’d even dozed off.

Mauger stood by the tent’s entrance, empty hands held out at his sides so his master could see he was harmless. “There’s a messenger to see you.”

Relaxed, sheathed his weapon. Willed his racing heart to slow. Not an assassin. “At this time of night?”

“He’s an interesting one. You’ll want to see him, Raoul.”

Nodded. Mauger’s judgement could be trusted. “Send him in.”

Presently a travel-worn man entered the tent and bent his knee. “Sir, I bring a message from my lord. He asks that you hear it and send your reply with all speed.”

Beckoned to the man. “Step forward and tell me your message.”

The brazier’s light picked out details on the man’s livery as he stepped forward; yellow and red, a rearing red lion with a label of cadancy above it nestled in the parting of the man’s cloak.

Had an entire week where I couldn’t write thanks to work. No days off and nasty hours. Yay.

Peasant Phill

08-17-2007, 09:40

Hmm, who is going to betray his king?
Another cliffhanger, you sure make us crave the next shot of 'The Goosberry'.

You better make sure you become a famous writer then, if you don't want work to interfere with your writing.

k0maru

08-19-2007, 00:12

Hello, dear author. Forgive me a brief tale - i came to (what seems to be known as) the Org looking for Medieval 2 strategies. I don't recall exactly when or where, but it was a few weeks ago that i happened upon one of your posts. There at the bottom was the now famous Eleanorian quote, and it warmed some of my own memories of gooseberries and princesses. Or one such ... berry. At any rate, a little too much work of late had robbed me of a bit of humanity - and your wonderful story brought it back!

I'm just another fan, writing to you from Japan, sending my thanks - and hoping you get more time to write.

Thank you! (and please don't let her get hurt anymore... but i know you're not really in control of these things afterall)

frogbeastegg

08-25-2007, 13:13

“Your Highness? May I speak with you?” The fact Jocelyn’s request came in langue d’oil made Eleanor suspect it was something he didn’t want others to understand, and that in turn led her to suspect he was about to begin the conversation she had been dreading since Trempwick turned up at the gates. Feet planted, hands clasping his belt in a pose which thrust his elbows out to the side and made him appear more imposing, the count was going to talk whether she wanted him to or not.

Eleanor gave the mangy rag of parchment containing the inventory of Alnwick’s medical supplies to Aveis. “Gather as many people as you need and set to making bandages and such like.”

Aveis’ hand dropped to rest protectively on her daughter’s head. “You think there will be a battle, then?”

“I think it best to be prepared for that increasing eventuality.”

Her other companion, Hawise, Eleanor forbore to send away. In the first it would not be seemly, in the second it would be asking for trouble. Already long mired in speculation about her virtue she could afford no more doubt; need for a good reputation aside, soldiers had little interest in protecting someone they considered a harlot. She would have to trust Hawise’s discretion and her limited langue d’oil; as faithful as the maid had been Eleanor still felt it a foolhardy risk.

Jocelyn seemed to realise how threatening his body language was; he removed one hand from his belt and ducked a curt bow. “Thank you, your Highness. I’m not much good at speaking prettily, so with your permission I’ll speak freely instead.”

Eleanor perched on the edge of the backless chair near the fireplace. “I would prefer you spoke wisely.”

If the hint registered the count gave no sign. “Highness, I’m a loyal man, truly. I say what I say because of that.”

Eleanor declined to make the expected agreeing noises.

“I know you’ve got a plan. I don’t know what it is. I do know you need to do something, and fast. The men are about ready to mutiny, and I don’t bloody blame them – that’s their families out there.”

“You suggest I surrender, then?”

“Your husband’s willing to take you back, and that’s a bloody miracle after all you’ve done-”

Eleanor kept her tone level. “My husband is with my brother.” Fascinating how he now named Trempwick as her husband when previously he’d been content that Fulk held that dubious honour.

“By the time that one gets here you’re going to be out of options.” Jocelyn spread his hands. “If Trempwick wins he’ll take you back and you’ll have no bargaining power. If the prince wins then your throne is lost.”

“That throne is not mine.”

The count flung out an arm, matching his words with a gesture which felt like a crossbow being levelled at her forehead. “You are the heir! That’s why I am here!” The arm sagged, and dropped; Jocelyn moderated his voice. “I mean, it’s why I was sent here. It’s not the reason I choose to be here. Well, it is, but that’s duty, not ambition or something. I’m a loyal man, that’s why your father chose me-”

Eleanor covertly dug her fingernails into the palm of her other hand. If she gave him a nudge back towards the right path please God he would take it. “You are here out of loyalty to my brother, lending your forces to mine for my protection.”

“No.” Jocelyn advanced, halted again as though holding himself back. “I am here because your father sent me. He made me swear loyalty to his heir-”

“And so you serve my brother.” A droplet of sweat trickled down Eleanor’s back; she recognised the expression on Hawise’s face, calm and neutral – and deep in damned thought. The maid was understanding entirely too much of this.

“No. And so I serve you, your Highness.”

Nudge? The man wouldn’t get a hint if it was pounded into his skull with a mallet! “I am not the heir.”

“I heard him name you! I saw him take the ring off his own bloody hand to send to you!” Jocelyn took another step forward, face twisted with emotion. “He knew he was dying and he named you, and I was there!” Softly he repeated. “I was there. You are the heir.”

Hawise had gone sheet white, and Eleanor was none so sure she didn’t share the maid’s lack of colour.

Jocelyn took another step; he was close now. He held out his hand. “You have the ring,” he appealed.

Eleanor leaned back fractionally, away from him. “The ring was lost when my father’s belongings were looted.”

“He gave it to me. I gave it to you. You have it.”

“This is a very dangerous nonsense. My brother is the heir. The ring is lost.” Eleanor shifted her right hand so it lay close to the hilt of the knife on her left arm.

The count knelt in front of her, placing his face on a level with hers. “You’re in great danger.”

“Because of men who claim I am something I am not, sir.”

“Maybe you aim to have the prince defeat Trempwick, then your husband and your force here will turn on him and destroy what’s left of Hugh’s army?” The count stroked a hand over his beard. “Yes, yes, that might work. Bloody risky, but it might.”

Now Fulk was her husband again!? “I have no such plan!” Eleanor cried, pushing her chair back away from him and standing. “I am not the heir. I do not want the throne. I am not Trempwick’s wife. Cease this nonsense!”

Jocelyn rose to his feet, body straightening unhurriedly. “If there’s a battle the prince can’t hope to win it. Trempwick’s damned well picked this ground, he’s prepared it, he’s rested and supplied, and he’s got a bit of damned sense he’ll have been making the enemy’s advance difficult so they arrive worn out and bloodied. His men are a pack of desperate men with nothing left to lose and bloody all to gain – they can’t give up and go home because they’ve gone too bloody far to hope for forgiveness. They’ll tear anything your brother can muster to shreds. You’ve got to see that.” The count stepped around the chair. “Except it won’t come to battle, not for us. We’ll be tossed out those gates. The thirst’s beginning to bite those prisoners, and that’s got their family in here with their bloody balls in the hot coals. They’ve got to act or they’ll lose them, and no right thinking man’s going to sit idly by.” Another step. “It’s a wonder they’d kept faith so long. They should have been sallying forth when the first smoke cloud appeared, saving their families and their lands. But no, they kept faith with you.” Another step. “They kept faith while their homes burned, their friends killed and their womenfolk were raped. So you bloody owe it to us to do something!”

Eleanor stiffened her knees and refused to back away. A dispassionate corner of her mind observed that it was strangely easy to stand unquailing before this angry warrior; after her father Jocelyn was nothing. “Do you think I do not know this? Do you think it does not make my heart bleed?”

“They’ll throw us out those gates, and that army out there is bloody pissed off! They’ll kill me!” Jocelyn brandished a finger in Eleanor’s face. “Lady, I didn’t come to this miserable bloody island to die! I’ve got a family, lands, stuff I want to go back to!” He changed tack abruptly, having utterly betrayed his true motivation. “They’ll do worse to you. If my wife did a tenth of what you’ve done to your husband I’d bloody beat her to death the moment I set eyes on the mad bloody bitch, queen or beggar or whatever the fucking God she happened to be! So consider yourself bloody fortunate that he’s willing to take you back, and don’t make matters worse!”

With one smooth motion Eleanor drew a knife and levelled the point at the count’s belly. He was close enough the wool of his tunic brushed the point with each breath he took. A few steps off to Jocelyn’s side and rear Hawise drew her own knife and assumed a ready stance.

“Enough,” Eleanor said quietly.

Jocelyn’s lip curled as he eyed her weapon. “Sixteen sainted sardines, you’re not bloody natural!”

“A lady in my position must be able to defend herself.”

“Bloody Christ!” From the corner of his eye the count spotted Hawise and her own weapon. “Shit!” He held up his hands, empty and palm outwards, changed his tone to one more placating. “Look, I’m sorry. I got carried away, but with good reason. Please, you have to listen. They will throw us out. The prince can’t win. You need to do something. Before it’s too late. Highness. Please. Go back to your husband on your own terms.”

“Trempwick is not my husband. He is an ambitious man who would use me to rule.” Eleanor took several steps back and lowered her knife, still prepared to defend at an instant’s warning. “You do not like what is happening outside these walls? That will be all England if he shoves me onto the throne. Lords warring amongst themselves and the crown too weak to stop them. I cannot lead an army, so another would have to do it for me and they would serve their own ends, not mine. I cannot command respect in the traditional ways; I would always be challenged by one or another. There could be no peace.”

“The prince can’t win.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “My brother is a seasoned general. Trempwick is not. I would not discount him so swiftly were I you.”

“That’s no damned use if we’re thrown out before he arrives.”

“As for that, I have plans of my own. You are right; I do owe my defenders a tremendous debt for their loyalty, and I intend to honour it.”

Jocelyn chewed this over. “I suggest you get on with whatever it is, and quickly. If it doesn’t work you’ll want returning to your husband and right quick. I’ll escort you. I’m your bodyguard, after all, and I pledged to your father I’d serve his heir.”

Eleanor pointed her knife at him and snapped, “What you mean to say, sir, is that if I fail you will throw me to the wolves to save yourself, and try to gain while doing so.” She sheathed her weapon. “If my brother is victorious you will abandon my father’s wishes in order to curry favour with Hugh, and that is well.” When the count would have protested she snarled, “Make no mistake, sir, I know your type. Did I not I might be deluded into thinking I might rule successfully.”

A very long time after the count departed Hawise broke the hush that had fallen upon the room. “So, it’s true. You are the named heir.”

It would be a poor thing to attempt to deceive her maid now, futile too. “Yes. For what that is worth. Not very much, I should think.” She smiled tightly, eyes hot with the absurd threat of tears. “He chose me at the last minute, thinking me his best hope for vengeance.”

“Yet you support Hugh.”

“Yet I support Hugh.” Eleanor sank into her chair and scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Brother or half brother he was raised to rule from the day Stephan died, and I to support him. Support him I shall. He has been accused of being inept. That is not true. He is finding his feet, discovering his confidence, and were he as inept as he is accused of being Trempwick would long since have run him out of power. Instead he is the one pressing Trempwick. I admit I am surprised at how well he has done; I did not think he had this much steel in him. Especially talented, no, Hugh is not that. Nor gifted, nor a born leader. He will not be an outstanding king, merely a good one.” That he had needed considerable help to stand on his own feet, and a mighty good push to set him staggering off in an attempt to walk, well that did not need to be mentioned.

Eleanor twisted her girdle about and freed the her father’s ring from its hiding place. The great sapphire set in the centre of the ring gleamed joyously in welcome of the daylight.

“The coronation ring of Saint Edward the Confessor,” Hawise breathed.

“Yes. From my beloved regal ancestor’s hand to mine.” Eleanor threaded it onto her right heart finger, where it hung next to her wedding ring like a great gold cartwheel. “See how well it fits? One cannot claim I would grow into it. It would have to be cut down, a fitting analogy, I find, for the whole damned thing.” She extended her beringed hand to her maid. “I am swearing you to secrecy. You will never speak of any of this again so long as you live, to anyone. Not a word.”

Hawise knelt, placed her hands in Eleanor’s and swore, “I shall not repeat a word of what I have learned here so long as I live, this I do swear upon my immortal soul and this sacred ring.” She set her lips to the centrepiece of gemstones to seal the oath.

Eleanor returned the ring to its hiding place with some reluctance. As one of the realm’s holiest relics and the symbol of the marriage between king and country it deserved better than being tucked in the belt of a renegade heir.

Varin drew his horse in level with Fulk’s. “It was a decent piece of work you made of the bridge.”

“Thank you.” Fulk viewed this sudden desire to speak with him with no small amount of suspicion; the German had thus far kept aloof, and he remembered what Hugh had said of the man.

“A pity about the leg.”

“It’s none so bad, and healing.” The wound burned like fire, constantly.

“You are an interesting man.”

Fulk used his mouthful of food as an excuse to delay his reply. He swallowed with difficulty, and took a drink of watered wine from the skin hanging from his saddle. “Twice baked bread: as dry as dust and hard as biscuit, mostly tasteless and completely disgusting. I look forward to a proper meal.”

“And a few other home comforts too, no doubt.”

Fulk ran a hand over the short beard he’d grown. “Yes – a razor!”

Varin laughed. “I also.” He dropped his reins, stood in his stirrups and stretched his arms above his head until the joints cracked. “Your wife also you will be glad to see again?”

“More than anything.”

In the distance horns brayed; another of the outriding parties had sighted potentially hostile forces. Both men fell silent as they waited. The horns rang out again, this time signalling the outrider’s advance to contact.

Varin resumed their conversation. “So then, you look forward to settling into domestic bliss.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Varin hitched his shoulders, made awkward by the shield hanging across his back. “Not all men are cut from the same cloth. Some do not stomach peace well.”

“I look forward to it. I’ve had little enough time to spend with Eleanor, and my lands need work.”

“Good then. I wish you the joy of it.”

“Thank you.”

“A word of advice, if I may?” He didn’t wait for consent. “My lady, the Empress, will have no quarrel with her sister if she accepts her place in this world and remains there. If she will not behave as she should the quarrel between sisters will grow, and then I would not like to say how things will be.”

“You may keep your threats,” Fulk answered curtly. “They’re pointless. She doesn’t want the throne, the claim was made in her name by those who would use her for their own ends.”

“Could the claim have been made if she had not made it possible? No. Her wilfulness placed her in a position where the unscrupulous could make use of her.”

“Beware. You come dangerously close to saying something I take exception to.”

Varin made a disgusted noise. “I am trying to help you. The Empress feels herself slighted, and I would not pretend that she takes overmuch to heart. She was passed over, people thought to deny her her due. Where the Empress is slighted the Emperor is doubly so. Wrong has been done them; I am here as a part of their effort to right that – and to prevent further … mishap. Provided from this point on your wife limits herself to the place which has been made for her there shall be no quarrel.”

“And what place would that be?” Fulk asked stiffly.

“The wife of a minor, newly made earl of dubious lineage, living in semi-exile in the graceless north.”

“That I could very easily take as an insult.”

“A man in your position might easily imagine the whole of God’s creation insults him.” Varin pulled at the reins and touched his mount’s flank with his spurs. Over his shoulder he said, “I would suggest a man in your position cannot afford to.”

Fulk let out the breath he had been holding. Bone weary, aching, wounded; the last thing he felt like doing was fighting for a reason which would bring him no closer to Eleanor, king’s request or no.

“You should have pounded him!” Richard’s face glowed with indignation, the first time the lad had looked fully awake in a long time. “He shouldn’t say such things.”

“There’s fighting enough to be done without seeking more within our own ranks.”

“But he insulted you!”

“He is far from the first, and shall be far from the last.”

The enthusiasm dimmed from the boy’s face. “But you’re a knight, a great lord.”

“Yes, and as such I should behave with civility. It is not right for a man to disrupt his lord’s household with brawling.” Noticing how his page was sagging under the weight of the shield Fulk leaned over and re-arranged it so part of the lower rim rested on the pony’s back. “Better?”

The child dragged his back straight and, face set, remained fully upright in his saddle. “Thank you, my lord.” Under the veneer of grime Richard’s face turned rosy.

Fulk bit the inside of his cheeks to keep his face straight; he remembered well how the tender pride of youth saw anything which did not treat them as a full adult as patronising, even where the reverse was true. If his page knew he thought well of him for his stolid endurance the poor boy would be horrified.

“Don’t be taken in by the stories. A knight need not answer every last ill-spoken word with his sword. That would make him nothing more than a thug. A true knight – a true man, for that matter – knows when to turn the other cheek.”

“But you were going to fight him.” Richard’s brow creased. “Weren’t you?”

“I was growling to warn him off. If he backed down then I’d won without needing to fight. And, you’ll notice, he did.”

“He insulted you some more as he left.”

“He would have lost face if he had not. I knew it, he knew it, anybody watching would have know it. To pursue him because of that would have made me less of a man. Always be gracious in victory, Richard, and always leave a way for people to back down. Else you find yourself with troubles you could have avoided.”

The boy was quiet for a moment. “I think I see, my lord.”

Fulk continued to eat his miserable lunch while listening to the distant sounds of fighting. He’d nearly finished the fist-sized loaf of bread when he spotted a messenger galloping back down the marching column.

The man dragged back on the reins, the animal turning about and slowing and pretty as you could please. “Sir Fulk, you are commanded to take your men and go to the aid of the fifth-right party of outriders. They have engaged the enemy party which has been harassing our flanks and are holding them. You are to encircle them and help finish them off. Quickly – before they escape.”

Fulk dumped the remnants of his bread into his page’s hands. “FitzWilliam’s men! Form up!”

Jocelyn: I’m possibly in some danger and I’m freaking out! Cooperate, damn you!
Nell: I’ve been waiting 1071 pages to pull a knife on a yelling idiot-man. Go ahead, make my day.
Jocelyn: Eeeek!
:gring:

When I become supreme ruler of the universe I am going to ban noise! (This shouted over the sound of skirting boards being cut down to size and fixed to the walls in the house next door)

Peasant Phill, I’m working on it.:stupido:

Welcome, k0maru. :gives the traditional ‘Eleanor’ eyedrops: I’m very pleased you enjoyed my work. I find that a good read will help to balance out the stresses and strains of life; I’m flattered – and amazed- that anyone finds my scribblings do that. I blame it solidly on the characters ~:)

:Celebrating having passed the “100 books read this year!” mark: 102 books to be precise.

furball

08-26-2007, 03:21

Ah, a new episode is the bright point of a lousy week.

Ciaran

08-26-2007, 11:58

1071 pages? You must be using a tiny font, I´m at 1151 as of the latest update. 1151 A4 pages, that´s some material for a holiday, just there´s none in sight for the time being. Oh well, it´ll increase the chance that there´ll be even more by then. :2thumbsup:

frogbeastegg

09-07-2007, 16:26

Trempwick’s messenger was allowed in through the gate once he had dismounted. The man knelt before Eleanor and offered up a scroll. “My queen.”

Taking the roll of parchment Eleanor indicated a pair of soldiers who had not been close to the messenger before. “Let him sit in the gatehouse guard room again. Remain with him.” Though the same messenger had been running back and forth between castle and camp since the flag of truce had first been raised Eleanor still refused to give him more than the bare minimum of courtesy. He would be given no chance to compromise the castle’s security.

Once again the message was in code. Having deciphered two messages and written three in the space of a day Eleanor’s skills with Trempwick’s favoured cipher were in full flow; it was the work of minutes to read it. He offered her eight days. Would that be enough?

She took up her quill and held it poised. Eight days. She had asked for fifteen, he had countered with five, she with thirteen, he with six, and her previous reply had insisted upon ten. Eight days – if no help came by then she could honestly call herself abandoned, and what had begun as a play for time may well be the only course left to her.

Eleanor wrote: I say again, you ask me to leave my sanctuary and place all in trust to you: my life, my future. You have given me no cause for such confidence. Hugh has given you more trouble than you anticipated, and your position has been reduced to one more precarious than you admit. I will not be persuaded to act hastily or to place overmuch faith in you who have made so many mistakes. Thus I say ten days, and on this I shall not be moved. If Hugh has not come by then he will not, and I need not fear leaving these walls only to find myself in the camp of the defeated.

A little sand scattered on the words dried the ink. After three previous letters the role started to feel natural enough; it was easier now to play the part of queen-in-waiting.

A bit of thought, then she addressed the next point. I see your soldiers have begun to cut my people free of the stakes, and commend your obedience to my wishes. This part was difficult. The point of testing Trempwick’s willingness to obey could only be carried so far before her true motive became so obvious he would no longer deign to play along. If she asked for too much he would refuse and dress it up as being in her best interests. No matter how hard she tried she could not see a way to get Trempwick to release the prisoners; he knew they were one of his best holds over those inside the castle. Regretfully she let the point die there.

I have no objection to your constructing a small fortified position outside the range of Alnwick’s walls if you are so afraid of my garrison sallying forth to aid Hugh. This fear, however, does reinforce my own opinion that the confidence you claim in your victory is less solid than you would have me believe, and thus reinforces my decision to remain inside these walls until Hugh is defeated or plainly not coming. Eleanor tapped her fingers on the tabletop. With a little inventiveness the fortification could be bypassed and aid still sent to Hugh, and in the worst case her forces could mount an attack on it in an effort to overrun it once the main battle lines had joined.

Eleanor left her quill sitting in the ink well and made a quick review of the situation. No, there was nothing else for her to add. On all other matters I will remain silent until we may speak face to face, and request, once more, that you cease to pester me with them. The completed letter she took back down to the messenger.

Acceptable. Trempwick set the letter aside and reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Let her have her minor victories. Ten days, not eight. Made precious little difference. If it made her feel more in control, good. Convinced her of his willingness to work with her, excellent.

It was clear now she didn’t envisage a partnership. Thought he would take all and use her. Made her actions make far more sense. Trempwick tapped his fingertips on his tabletop. Should have considered that. Yet. Another. Mistake. Enough to make him grind his teeth. When had he become so careless? Answer: since he’d been pushed into acting prematurely. Meaning since the very instant word reached him of William’s accident. Meaning many weeks ago. Given the circumstances mistakes were to be expected. Understandable. Predictable. Unacceptable! All so much proof that one mind was not sufficient where two could be had.

Hurt that she thought him capable of it. Should have known he respected her abilities. But … He sighed and gently laid his fingers the letter. But would she be good if she had not considered and considered and thought and searched, looked back, evaluated and re-evaluated, found possibilities and assumed nothing?

No.

The very suspicion. The willingness to upturn all she had known as a lie. The caution. He’d cultivated it devotedly across the years. Could not complain now it had come to fruition and bitten him.

Hurt.

Pointless. Focus on the important. What was done was done. Mistakes – learn from and move on.

Eight days or ten. No real import. Scout reports gave a picture of the bastard’s army. He would be here inside of eight. An exhausted army harried and demoralised arriving at a prepared ground. Numbers not quite equal but close enough. Until one added the unexpected factor.

Could the prince be trusted? No. Might not turn up. Might arrive only when all was won. Might seek glory only, be reckless. Might hang back and try to keep safe. So many things that boy could do.

Was he truly necessary? No. Enough factors in his favour to make seeking an engagement safe.

So ten or eight, no matter.

The stakes had done their job: brought the castle to negotiation. Would have been best if they had worked sooner and placed Nell back at his side. But they’d worked. The garrison had no heart left. Nell had proven herself admirably tough. But in the end had admitted her responsibility. Dual victory. No need for them now.

Fortification blocking the gate accepted: good. Main use psychological. Placing a barrier. Men don’t run at walls, as a rule. Note: expect and be ready for attempts to bypass it and aid the bastard.

Suspicion: works both ways. Wouldn’t accept anything she said at face value any more than she would.

No! More! Mistakes!

Speak face to face. Fine. Necessary. Could only make her see, understand, everything that way. Had expected this answer. Increased his belief she played for time. Lied.

Once she was back at his side they would talk. From there things would mend. He would correct her misunderstandings. Complete the interrupted teaching. Then they could forge forward side by side. Achieve.

Admission: If he did lose better that she was in Alnwick. Better she not be close to the vanquished. Better she have some chance at life, such as it would be.

He would not lose.

Battle was always chancy. A gamble.

All was prepared. The ground chosen. His men knew victory was their only chance to evade death or exile with loss of all property and station. Their chance to gain great rewards: the lands of the defeated, material junk, position, whatever. The bastard was worn down, tired, his men less desperate: this made much difference.

Better if it had not come to this.

Irritated Trempwick crumpled the clean parchment. Too little sleep and too much worry. It upset his balance. Too much care or not enough. Either could lead to mistakes. Had done all he could given the circumstances. Now it remained to see it through to conclusion. Needed air, exercise. Nell – to talk, to see. To get away from this business of writing letters. Refresh himself, take her measure. See if there were any tiny moves he could make to tilt things yet further his way.

Trempwick called for his horse. He would convey his acceptance of her terms personally.

“Then we have a deal.” Eleanor turned away from the ramparts. There was nothing else in need of saying and she did not wish to talk with Trempwick. Every word exposed her to risk, increased the likelihood he would see through her play - if he had not already.

“Leaving so quickly, beloved Nell?” Trempwick called.

“There is nothing left to say.”

“There is.”

Eleanor returned to the front of the wall. “Such as?”

“How about goodbye? You might wish me luck, and offer to pray for me.” The spymaster softened his voice so it was hard to hear. “You might give me chance to say I love you.”

Whether that lie was for the benefit of their audience or for her Eleanor could not say and did not care. As she left the gatehouse roof she heard him shout, “It’s true.”

“We have missed you at court.” Hugh let the gentle rebuke sink in before he added, “I am glad that you have come to aid us now.”

George, Earl of York ducked his head. “Nothing would have pleased me greater than to have sped to your side the very day I heard the sad news of your father’s death.”

“It would have given me great pleasure also to know such a close friend of my father would be there to help receive his mortal remains and conduct them to his place of rest.” The former king and his Earl of York had cared no great amount for one another; theirs had been a relationship of necessity. Politics, Hugh now believed, was the source of all lies. Therefore politics were the invention of the devil, being as he was the source of all ill in God’s earth. A pity one could not call upon a clergyman to exorcise this evil from his kingdom.

“Sire, there have been … troubles which kept me here. Unrest. Bother from the north.”

Hugh indicated with a wave of his hand that the earl should rise. “I understand very well.” The earl had been hiding until he knew which side was safest to back. One must assume the man had been following word of Hugh’s advance for days, agonising over the decision to jump or hold aloof. Here he was, half a day’s ride from York itself, decision made. Hugh stepped in to clasp the man’s hand. “I thank you for your tireless work against the rebels. You have my gratitude.” A tiny pause rested before the final word, and he placed a touch of emphasis on that word.

The dig was not lost; York returned to his knees, hand still in Hugh’s. “Let me swear fealty to you, sire.”

As the earl made his oath Hugh felt acutely conscious of the figure he must present; he must look a shabby old soldier in contrast to York. If his hands had not been locked around George’s he would have needed to control the urge to bat at his surcoat in a ineffectual attempt to clear the dust from the scarlet velvet.

“Sire, the city stands ready to receive you, if that is your will. If you would continue to march we are ready for that too.” York addressed the soldiers he had brought with him. “Is that not so?”

“Aye,” the men roared.

“Is that not so?” York asked again, louder.

“Aye!”

“Will you fight for your king?”

“AYE!”

York’s militia stood well-fed and well-rested in their nice clean livery in the midst of an army befouled with five day’s hard marching and fighting. They looked like nothing so much as a collection of soft youths playing at being soldiers as they put on their pretty show. Hugh became aware that this was not an attitude he was alone in; the scorn of his veterans was palpable.

Hugh swung into the saddle and trotted his horse out in front of the hundred-odd new men. “I thank you for your enthusiasm, and will repay it with the chance to take the battle to the enemy. You will be able to tell your children and your children’s children of how you did your king a mighty service by rescuing his sister and returning peace to the realm.” He could find no more words for these clean faces. They cheered for him anyway, thrusting spears and empty fists skyward.

“What is it to be, sire?” Serle enquired as Hugh rejoined his lords. “Onwards, or York?”

There remained half a day’s march before the sun began to fall. “York,” he said, before he could change his mind.

Derby nodded. “A wise choice, sire. Chance to rest securely and fill their bellies will bring the fire back to the men.”

The orders to form back up into marching order went out. Men dragged themselves back onto their horses.

Hugh said, “It is my desire to enter York in such a manner a strong impression is left upon their minds.”

Serle chuckled and made an exaggerated job of inspecting their state. “I think we’ll do that.”

Their part of the column had begun to move. Hugh tapped his palfrey with his spurs. The animal was so weary he had to spur it again, more harshly, to get it to move. “A king of rusted mail and dirt.”

“No, sire.” For all that Fulk had been part of Hugh’s council since before they left London he still spoke rarely. “A king who’s been busy doing his own hard work.”

Wymar of Derby took over the theme, all but snatching it from Fulk’s hands. “Yes, and with a deal of success. Be the victorious general.”

“I am not yet victorious,” Hugh reminded them softly.

“Do not be a pedant, sire. It ill befits you.” Derby peeled away from the group and rode off to his place in the line.

Fulk paused in the antechamber before the stairs leading up to the prince’s chambers, intrigued by the conversation Hugh’s guards were having.

“It’s like that Troy war story.”

“It is?”

A third voice, a little more refined in accent than the others, drawled, “The Iliad, you mean.”

“Yeah, that,” replied the first voice. “See, there’s this princess and she’s married to a boring old sod, so she runs off with this handsome sod. Then there’s this big war. Now isn’t that exactly like this?”

“Is it?” The forth voice sounded confused.

“Yes!” insisted the first voice. “One princess, two husbands, and a right hell of a war all because of some stupid tart.”

The more refined voice said, “I don’t agree. Helen of Troy was a famous beauty. Prince Paris was of most noble birth, and quite useless. There’s no rebel trying to usurp the throne-”

The first voice interrupted, “Yeah, but you’re going too far. Look, all I’m saying is that there’s this handsome guy, a normal guy, and a princess who wants a bit of fun, and it all causes this big war-”

“It doesn’t work,” the interrupted man insisted. “Our princess was never married to Trempwick.”

“Depends who you ask,” the second voice muttered.

The forth voice: “I don’t think so. See, I was on duty on the day she got betrothed. I saw it all.”

“Saw?” The first voice jeered. “Hiding in her blanket chest, was you?”

With a wounded dignity the voice explained, “I was in the tower nearest the building she was in. I heard all the screaming.”

“But you saw nothing, you daft prick.”

“When she left that building she was all faint, like.”

“You said you saw it all, but you bloody didn’t, so stop your lying already.”

“I tell you, I heard-”

“Yeah, then why didn’t you say heard, arse face? You said saw, and you didn’t.”

The posher voice sighed, “God give me strength.”

“Oi!” barked the forth voice. “A bit of respect! Just cause you’re a knight and we’re not.”

“Silence, peasant, or I’ll flay you alive and feed you to my hounds.”

The guards laughed.

“Yeah, but it is just like that,” the first voice insisted, unwilling to give up.

“No, it isn’t.” The knight’s voice was full of a schoolmaster’s patience. “Paris was a useless little fart stuffed full of the best blood in his land. Fulk isn’t, either of them. Helen was beautiful. The princess isn’t. Menelaus was a wronged husband. Trempwick’s a bloody traitor and a liar.”

Eavesdropping was increasingly uncomfortable, and the prince’s summons had a degree of urgency to them. Fulk made his passage across the room as loud as he could. The voices shut up abruptly; by the time he entered the room the four occupants were engaged in harmless little tasks while they chattered about how nice it would be to sleep in the warm that night.

“The prince has summoned me,” Fulk said.

“Yes, my lord. You’re to go up immediately.” The owner of the more educated voice opened the stair door for Fulk and bowed him on through.

The prince had taken advantage of the time to bathe, and the remains of a hearty meal rested on the room’s table. “In two days we should arrive in proximity to Alnwick.”

“Yes, sire.”

“How well do you know the surrounds?”

“Not well enough to be of much use, sire. There are a few men with me who’re local. They’ll know far more.”

The prince fiddled with the ring on his right hand. “Do you think we will be in time? Nell will not have surrendered, will she?”

“Never,” Fulk stated.

“I do not mean out of treacherous desires. I am positive Trempwick will not have sat meekly outside Alnwick’s walls.” Hugh linked his hands in his lap, his thumb beating a steady tattoo against his wrist. “That man must surely be desperate, and he has great need of her if he is to have a hope of turning all back in his favour.”

“Never,” Fulk repeated. “She knows what is at stake.”

“He has had the training of her …”

“She managed to fool him once, and she’s stubborn enough to resist his tricky if she’s a mind to. Which she has.”

“In general I must profess to having faith in my sister’s ability to behave like a mule. It is Trempwick whom concerns me. That man is …”

“Yes.”

Hugh got to his feet. “Well, I shall attempt to share your faith.”

“Eleanor would only surrender if she knew us to be dead.” That was his own fault. He’d never thought to release Eleanor from the promise that she would go to Trempwick in the event of his death. When circumstance gave them chance to marry it hadn’t seemed important in the multitude of other things, and then it had been forgotten. It had been in her better interests at the time, sufficiently so for him to go through the bother of ensuring she would obey. It still might be. Everything had changed since their journey to Scotland. He’d made her swear on his soul; she would not damn him to an eternity of torment by breaking her word. The mere thought made his wounded leg burn and the multitude of other small hurts flare to remind him of their presence.

Something of his thoughts must have shown, as Hugh told him, not unkindly, “Go back to whatever lodgings they found for you in this city. Go and rest. I need you hale and ready to fight for me once more.”

Fulk bowed. “Sire. The prince was wrong. In that battle he’d be fighting for Eleanor – and himself.

Blegh. Nasty writing which stubbornly refuses to turn into something less icky; definitely a section earmarked for a heavily revised edit at some point in the future. I can’t lose the nagging feeling I’m missing something. I’ve been trying to work out what for days. If I have missed something it’s buried under the nasty feel of this episode. Then again, maybe it’s the nastiness itself which makes me feel there should be more.

Can’t stop; got company and my shiny knight equivalent has been ignored for long enough so I could prepare this for posting. Today without comments is better than tomorrow with, I hope.

Peasant Phill

09-09-2007, 19:01

Help for Trempwick in the form of prince Malcolm, I should have known. hmm, I wouldn't be surprised if Malcolm would seek out Fulk in the upcoming battle.
And what role will the York militia have in the upcoming clash? Trempwick must have expected them or I would be dissapointed.

We, as far as I can speak for the rest of your fan base, would hate it if we would estrange you from your own Fulk.

frogbeastegg

09-20-2007, 20:17

Hugh’s council had deployed in a tight orbit around their lord, making it impossible for Fulk to do anything but tag along on the fringe. He was used to that.

Only the prince acknowledged his arrival. “You are the last of us, Alnwick.”

“In so many ways.” York addressed his words to the grey skies.

The prince spared a glare for his earl. “As I was attempting to say before I was interrupted in such a discourteous manner, we are now met and must be about our work. The scouts sent on to the vicinity of Alnwick have returned and the news is grave, sirs.”

Fulk’s breath froze in his lungs. A choked noise emerged from his lips in place of the query he wished for.

Hugh twisted in his saddle, excluding the rest of the council from his attention. “She is safe. As far as we may ascertain, she is safe.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“The castle still stands in its entirety, undamaged. It would appear not a single attempt has been made to storm it. Nor did the scouts see siege equipment.”

Serle said, “How bizarre.”

“As Trempwick’s cause depends upon his possession of my sister he can do naught which might harm her.”

“Yes, but surely he’s done more to persuade the garrison to surrender than sit outside the walls?”

“The nearby settlements did not come to separate terms with Trempwick, thus when they were overrun they were treated in the manner usual to places taken by storm. Some were fastened to stakes outside the castle walls and left to die. Consequently the castle itself has come to an agreement of some sort. Those fortunate few whom, by God’s providence, had escaped both slaughter and capture could not inform my scouts of the particulars.”

The news of Alnwick’s devastation touched no one but Fulk; it was his land and only he had lost by it. How many of his people had he lost? “If Eleanor had any say in the agreement she will have been playing for time.”

Hugh nodded. “So I had surmised.”

“Then speed is of the essence.” Wymar pulled a wry face as he amended, “Of greater essence.”

The prince said softly, “Sirs, Trempwick has gathered some three thousand men to his cause, and waits to give battle.”

York waved a careless hand. “We outnumber him, thanks to the men I brought to you.”

Serle voiced what was in Fulk’s mind. “Numbers will not avail if we’re exhausted.”

“No.” Hugh’s lips formed a colourless line, so hard were they pressed together. “We must slow our pace. Three thousand is but an estimate, and the rebels are prepared for us. We must slow to a normal fast march.”

That would add two days on to their travelling time.

Horns blew out on the distant right; one of the outriding groups protecting the column’s flanks had sighted some enemy.

Fulk stood in his stirrups, shaded his eyes with his hand. He couldn’t sight the threat; it must be further along the line, forward or back.

The prince muttered, “Christ’s sweet bones, is a moment’s peace too much to pray for?” Louder, “Sirs, return to your places. This one belongs to whomever it is closest to.”

This was supposed to be part of a larger update. I decided to split it out so you have something to read after your long wait.

Never work in a shop that’s in closing down mode. No, that didn’t come out right. NEVER work in a shop that’s in closing down mode! That’s better. The bookshop I work in is relocating. The original shop went into closing down 2 weeks ago tomorrow. It’s insane! Hordes of blank eyed idiots shuffling along trying to buy everything they can lay their sticky hands on, trashing the place, whinging and yelling when something costs a whole 10 pence more than their non-existent maths skills think it should, threatening to contact Trading Standards because apparently the fact the current shop is closing down for good does not mean the current shop is closing down, and - how could I possibly forget? – asking if we’re really closing down or if we’re moving into the big new shopping centre. I answer that question an estimated 600 times a day, no exaggeration. Even the nice, polite and considerate customers begin to make me scream inside.

Last week I had 1 day off and did 11 hours overtime. On the bright side I do get a promotion: floor manager froggy.

Closing down mode. It’s put me in touch with my inner Trempwick. I want to set up some stakes outside, with notices pinned on the corpses “Put things back where you picked them up or this will be you!”

And in the midst of this I’m trying to do a bit of unofficially semi-official writing for something. Don’t worry; I’m stealing the time required for that from everything but Eleanor and my pet boyfriend. It’s not affecting my work on the story.

furball

09-21-2007, 00:43

Congrats on the promotion. Happy to see a new chapter.

Ciaran

09-21-2007, 17:01

Well, furball caught the essentials, I can´t do it any snappier. I like the idea with the stakes. Even though after a few days you´ll have to put up with the smell...

Dol Guldur

09-23-2007, 00:57

That's when they raise the stakes, Ciaran. ;)

Good writing, frogbeastegg! I wish I had time to read and comment more; I will try and do so at some point in the vague future...

And don't be too harsh on your customers; take comfort in the fact that they are most likely the more literate and cultured part of society :book:

frogbeastegg

10-02-2007, 15:12

Malcolm slouched sideways in his chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other sprawled on the floor. The pose said … much. Trempwick grinned inwardly at how much the boy revealed without knowing. Nonchalance. Uncaring. A most unprincely pose. All deliberate. Meant to put others off-guard. Prompt contempt. Bravado, too. The posturing of a youth inwardly unsure of his place in the world.

Trempwick said, “You will forgive me if I ask the obvious question, and enquire why you have offered to support me.”

The boy angled his head a touch. A hint of a sneer. “Will I?”

“You will.”

Shrugged his shoulders. “Go on then, get the hell on with it.” The words as carelessly formed as the movement. Deliberately so? Likely.

“Your father was instrumental to giving my wife to that mongrel as a plaything, and he created him as Earl of Alnwick. This gives him a section of the border which is, shall we say … brimming with potential. It humiliates his rival house. It prolongs our little war, whereas his supporting me would have brought it to an end. Let me add that your father became unreceptive to my overtures around the time my wife was placed into his hands by her bastard brother. Previously he had been friendly enough. One might say this indicates he wishes to see me fail.”

Again the careless shrug. “So?”

“I have it on good authority that aid was promised to my wife’s half-brother. This aid has not materialised, save for a small force placed under the command of the creature who has my wife.”

A heavy sigh. The boy returned both feet to the floor. “So fucking what? I’m not my father. I don’t give a shit what he wants.”

Swearing. A hint of it before. Now much more when the boy was pressed. Not princely behaviour. A tactic? Let’s play along a little … Inject distaste into tone, hint of it in body language. “Then tell me, my prince,” light emphasis on that title to reinforce his disapproval of this behaviour, “why you are here.”

“Because we’ve got to make a plan.” The boy rolled his eyes. Returned to slumping in his seat. “Fucking Christ, it’s not for the company, I’ll tell you that. I don’t ride God knows how many fucking miles in bloody secrecy to sit around in a tent talking to pedantic old men.”

Annoying. Most annoying. Wonder no one had strangled the brat! “If you are as stupid as you appear I decline your help.”

A sardonic little smirk. “If you’re as stupid as you appear I decline to help.” All pronounced in a nice mimicry of Trempwick’s own intonation. “Aren’t you meant to be some oh-so-smart crony of the dead king’s?”

Oh for the time to pick this brat to pieces, understand, and put him back together as something useful! Glimmers of talent. No doubt most were thrown by the attitude. Internal smile. Not this ‘pedantic old man’. “Very well. You are here in defiance of your father, presumably because you do not agree with him in this matter. As you insist on your offer of aid being strictly secret until the trap is sprung I doubt he knows what you are doing.” Needle. “Thus you fear he would stop you.”
The boy snorted. “That old coward? Stop me? Fuck, no! He doesn’t have the balls. If he raises his armies against me I’ll raise mine against him, and being as he’s a fucking coward I’ll win.”

Such overconfidence. Did the child honestly believe it?

“See,” the boy continued, “thing is I’ll inherit that throne whatever, so for now it’s in my best interests to wait for the old goat to drop dead. Maybe later I’ll get tired of waiting and help him out of this bloody world, but for now I’ve got other stuff to be doing.” Malcolm clasped his hands on his belly and reclined in his awkward position on the chair. “What he’ll do is piss around and whine, and right now I can’t be bothered with that. He’ll get in the bloody way. What I want is a quick bit of work and I can’t do that with the silly old fuck dancing about wailing and waving his hands.”

“Which does not resolve the question of why you are offering me aid.” Raised a finger. “The true motivation, the reason why you disagree with your father’s decisions.”

The boy made a face. “Fucking God, you’re a tiresome old shit.”

“Nonetheless.”

“Oh, all right, damn you!” Made a show of sitting up properly, repositioning his chair at the table opposite Trempwick. Braced his elbows on the tabletop and propped his head on his hands. “Better? Happy now? Right, good, you can stop your damned moaning now.”

Poured the goblet of wine he would have offered at the start if the brat had behaved. Filled one for himself. Took a sip to prove it safe. Continued his discreet analysis.

Malcolm drank the wine in one go, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Stick a bastard on England’s throne and it devalues it. Therefore all thrones get devalued, including mine. I won’t stand for that fucking nonsense. I’d rather have some girl playing ruler, provided she’s got the right blood, of course. Only a blind man could doubt that your Eleanor is the dead king’s get.”

Flash of insight. “If you are concerned with the value of royalty you cannot approve of a princess being handed off to a baseborn bastard, or of said bastard being given false links to a noble house.”

“Too fucking right.” The boy slammed a fist on the table “I will not fucking sit by and do nothing at bloody all while that idiotic old cretin pisses all over what should be and fucks up the value of my inheritance while he does so!” He offered his hand. “You and me, we’ll bring an end to this fucking travesty. Right?”

A certain nagging feeling. Seeing the ripples and missing the current …? Was he hoping to hide the stone in the obnoxiously stated splash? It would be a mistake to take this princeling at presented value. Didn’t take the hand. “That seems a small enough reason for the risks involved. Secretly allying yourself with your father’s enemy? Risking your life in battle?”

Interrupted, “What is it with old men and mewling about the risks of battle?”

“Old men have heads cool enough to see what may be lost.” Don’t let the attempt at distraction work. “Now you will add those details you omitted from your first account. Why?”

“Maybe I just want to piss my father off?” The boy spread his hands. “You think of that?”

From reputation Trempwick guessed that many would believe that of the brat. “I will not fall for that.”

“Why not?” The boy’s grin was very convincing. His words exaggerated bragging. “I’m the Nefastus, red-haired, six-toed and the devil’s own spawn. I rape nuns, murder children, torture animals, and whatever else I’ve got the time for. Pissing the old git off is nothing.”

An … idea. Lines coming together to form an outline. “Where does expectation end and reality begin?”

A pitying look. “They’re both the same.”

“Your description of yourself is that of a villain in a child’s story.”

“Where else do you think I got the ideas? Sermons are good too, filled with shit to try out. All those ‘thou shalt not’s. Like a gold mine.”

“I doubt that is true.”

Laughed. “I’m invoked to scare children, for fucks sake!” In a silly voice, “Eat your pottage or the Nefastus will get you.”

“People believe it because it is the truth, or because they wish to believe it and you play to it? People believe what they are told to if there is anything to give that conception a hint of support.”

The boy went utterly still. Quickly raised his eyebrows and scoffed, “Splitting hairs. Either way it’s true, so stop wasting my fucking time you tedious old git. Do you want my help or not? Because I’m getting fed up, and I don’t hang around being bored – I leave.”

Ah ha. Attempt a change of tactic? Sternest teacher mode! “The reason, boy. Tell me or leave in silence. I will not ally myself with an uncertain party.”

Stared at each other. Silence. Battle of wills. Who would look away first? Laughed inwardly. As if he had not had years of practice at cowing a troublesome child!

The brat gave. “Fine. Let’s say that – for the sake of argument, and only that – a person might see what the right thing is and want to do it, but no one would ever believe it of him. So he has to lie.”

Play along, remain the tutor. “Very well. Let us pretend this is true. Explain.”

In a very low voice with all the sloppily formed sounds absent, “If a person’s a weak-hearted mewling twat they might think the way your princess has been treated is disgusting. Cheated out of her inheritance. Taken from her husband and shunted off onto some mongrel bastard. Handed around from gaoler to gaoler, destined to spend the rest of her life a prisoner.” Swallowed. “If that person were related to the man who did much of this he might feel some responsibility to … correct matters. As much as can be. Some of what she’s suffered can never be made up for.” And all at once his head came up, the arrogance returned. “But that person would be a mewling, weak hearted twat, and a right fucking idiot. Risking so much for shit-brained ideas like justice and chivalry!” He spat on the floor. “I’m the Nefastus. I kill people like that.”

“Quite.”

“And you know what? You were right – what I told you before wasn’t all. There’s another reason why I’m doing this. Two, actually. That mongrel bastard shit turned down the chance to become my trainer-at-arms, and he dared to humiliate me before a lot of people. I want him dead for that. Your fucking princess spurned me. Yeah, that’s right. She acted like I was some grubby peasant.” Leered. “Which is a bit rich considering she was busy fucking that grubby peasant of hers, and God knows who else.”

Watched with studied interest. A flow of bile, like pus from a wound.

“If I get her returned to you then she’s lost her precious lover, and that’s going to hurt her. I want that bitch to suffer. You’ll make her suffer. I know you will, whatever you damn well claim. You’re going to crush that bitch back under your boot where she belongs.”

An act maintained for long enough took on a life of its own.

“The bitch will lose it all and she’ll know it and live the misery for the rest of her fucking life, and she’ll know I brought her to it. She’ll soon wish she’d done differently, oh yes. She’ll rue the bloody day she rejected me. There’s just one other thing I want from this. One hour. One hour alone with that damned bitch. We’ll soon see if she’s still too proud to suck my cock-”

Knife drawn pricking at the brat’s ribs, one hand locked about his neck choking off words and breath. So fast, like lightening! So fast … before he’d known he would move. Surprised. Let the instinct command him. Tightened his grip, said with intensity, “You dare suggest my wife would do something only the lowest of whores will contemplate?”

Couldn’t answer. Both hands clawed at the fist locked about his neck.

“I should kill you for the insult.”

His face was going crimson.

“The church classes it as sodomy. The deepest of sins. You think a lady would allow herself to be so demeaned?” Drew blood with the tip of his dagger. “You think I would allow that?”

The brat tried to shake his head.

“I doubt you understand the depth of the insult. I doubt you have the experience to, boy. You named the filthiest act you know of in the midst of a rant aimed to hurt me for seeing through you. You have no idea what it entails, or why it is considered to be so disgusting.” Relaxed his grip sufficiently to allow the brat to breathe. “Is this not so?”

Squeaked, “Yes!”

“And now you begin to understand you are deeply, deeply sorry.”

“Yes! Yes!”

Put his face very close to Malcolm’s. “If you continue this way one day you will find yourself dead. Beware, my prince. Playing to the world’s expectations is one thing, letting it go too far is another. People expect you to die badly. Is that your wish also?”

Wrenched once more at the restraining hand. “Fuck off!”

Let him go. “A pity.” Returned his dagger to his belt. “I could teach you a lot.”

The boy rubbed at his neck. “Such as?”

Smiled.

Pedantic old man. Lol!

That would be the second of the three scenes which was supposed to make up one segment. :sigh: Two weeks and my writing time should be back to normal. I hope. Barring any further landmines thrown in my froggy path.

Furball :bow:

Ciaran, that wouldn’t be a problem. The problem would be choosing which of the many to put on the limited stakes! There would be no time for decay to set in sufficiently.

Dol Guldur, the moment you stick up a closing down sign you get every cheap :furious3: in the city headed your way. Cultured? Half this lot can’t even read. Why else do they feel the need to look at a shop wallpapered in “closing down!” signs and ask the nearest member of staff “You closin’ down or summat?” while chewing gum and clutching their mobile phone like a talisman against all evil. :blankg: The non-book lines are selling far faster than the books.