The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[frogbeastegg]

“So happy princess run in grass and pick flowers and stuff.” This story was a whole lot easier to tell in a proper language, damn it. Mahaut’s favourite, it made Jocelyn homesick right to the soles of his boots. “She happy. Have happy time doing happy stuff. Not care she lost her knight and be all alone.”

From the room’s corner came a quiet observation. “So much easier to get some peace without armour clanking in the background.” Jocelyn didn’t doubt that the princess was as wrapt as her young namesake. A master storyteller like him could make any old yarn engaging to anyone.

He waved his hand a bit for emphasis on the next point, mimicking something swooping down from above. “Then come a … thing and it grab her, woop!” Now what was the word? “Thing. Big, danger, monster thing. Burp fire. One of them thing.”

“Dragon?”

Ellen’s mother hugged her daughter tightly, tears springing into her eyes. It was the first word the child had uttered since the siege began. That’s how good his storytelling was - nothing short of miraculous! As further proof of his prowess the princess lowered the dreary thing she was reading.

“Yes. Dragon thing. Dragon grab her and off they go.” He repeated the swoop of the dragon. “Woop!”

Ellen clutched her cloth doll to her chest as though she feared a dragon would fly down and seize it. He was so good!

“Her knight be lost, nothing she can do but scream and wave feet and try not be sick.”

The real princess muttered, “Bit of a useless milksop then.”

How rude! Interrupting! Jocelyn took the path of virtue and pretended the stupid girl didn’t exist. “So she wave her feet and scream and try not being sick. But! Is good luck and God not hate her,” unlike certain other princesses hereabouts, “and her knight ride up in time to see dragon thing do grab. So he make horse be fast and chase dragon all way home. He get there and draw his sword, and charging while saying fierce words!” Jocelyn brandished an imaginary sword above his head and raised a really good warcry.

Ellen dipped her face behind the doll’s head. See? He was so good the child was scared for real.

Again that infuriating muttered interruption. “Meanwhile the princess took advantage of the knight’s posturing to kick the dragon in a sensitive spot, stab it with a sword from its hoard, and save the day.”

Jocelyn said over his shoulder in langue d’oc, “Shut up!”

Eleanor sniffed and returned to her book. “How rude.”

Er. Um. Maybe that hadn’t been so smart? She could have had him executed for being offensive. Ellen was waiting for him to resume his telling. On second thoughts, the damned menace had had it coming to her! That one needed telling to shut up a damned sight more often.

“Knight is very brave. He do battle while princess stand out of way. Dragon is scary. Burp fire, try to bite, have claws and stuff.” Jocelyn acted out a wonderful little battle before those wide brown eyes. “Then knight stab dragon, and it go urk!” He clutched his chest and pretended to die. “When dragon is urk princess run to knight. He hurt. Got cut on arm. She tie her head-thing,” he waved a hand at Aveis’ veil to show what he meant, “around the wound. Is very sad he hurt. Also very sorry for being nuisance.” He directed a significant glance at the nuisance in the audience. “She realise she love him, see.”

“Because one is obliged to have a poor sense of timing. It comes with the crown.”

Jocelyn snapped around. “It’s perfectly good bloody timing, thank you very much! Gratitude, and such. It makes for a nice ending.”

“Ending?” One eyebrow was arched in his direction. “Beginning, I would say.”

“Ending,” Jocelyn insisted. “In love and married. That’s the ending.”

“How can it be the ending when they have their entire lives ahead of them?”

“Because it is. That’s how it works.” He fixed her with his best stern scowl. “Now shut up.” Royalty? Pah! Who cares? He’d show her who was the boss!

Eleanor’s jaw set and she took a deep, slow breath. Before she averted her face he saw her blink rapidly. “It is not the same. You are the wrong knight.”

Sod it, he’d made her cry nearly and that was damned unusual for him, what with his being a master of handling women and their fragile feelings. “Wrong knight?”

“Finish your story. The child is waiting.”

And indeed she was, the little darling. Waiting through the unintelligible exchange with wide eyes and arms wrapped around her dolly, seated on her mother’s lap like it was a throne. Which maybe it was. Jocelyn wouldn’t have minded sitting there himself …

“Knight love her too. That why he put up with all this trouble. To be near her, see? When daddy king hears about all this he say the knight can marry her as reward and because they in love. They happy, daddy king happy, everyone in kingdom happy. The end.”

As proof of his stupendous ability he finished his story moments before the solar’s door burst open to reveal a red-faced Sir Gervaise. “They’ve come!” he panted. “They’ve come – the king has come!” See? How’s that for timing?

Eleanor’s book was on the floor and she was halfway out of the door before the others in the room had moved. Jocelyn fell in the middle of the group, ahead of Aveis and behind Hawise and the castellan. Relief, and about bloody time too!

Was it dignified for a princess to run at full pelt along the battlements, skirts held in one hand so you could see her ankles? Not bloody likely. Jocelyn had to admit she did have a good turn of speed, however improper it was. Er, didn’t that imply she’d been practicing this kind of thing? God’s elbow!

When they caught up with the royal hoyden on the south-eastern tower she was gazing at the distant banners as though they were the gates of heaven. “He came.”

Her wonder indicated that she’d been in doubt, whatever she’d been telling them. Hell, and to think he’d been lulled by her sweet little assurances of rescue. “He’s your brother and your king. He’s honour bound.”

Eleanor didn’t move a muscle. “So sayth the man who but days ago wished to throw me to the wolves because he believed us abandoned.”

Jocelyn felt his face flame at the rebuke. “Bitch,” he muttered. Too late he recalled that she’d got sharp hearing.

“Do not pretend your very public doubts did not exist to make my own private ones seem foolish.” It wasn’t right that this slip of a girl could make him feel exactly as he had when the old king had focused his attention on him, damn it! Probably all down to the fact she’d got his eyes and copied that intense ‘I’m angry’ way of looking at you and all that, nothing at all to do with her. Yes, that was it – borrowed glory.

And as quickly as that she lost all interest in him. “There he is!”

Clever girl. Her brother was approaching from about a mile off. Well spotted. No one else could possible have seen that. Oh – wait, they had, and ages ago.

Hawise said, “Yes, it must be Fulk’s banner. Who else uses something which would appear to be nothing but plain blue at this distance?”

Oh. Him.

“Fulk,” Eleanor breathed. He’d been wrong before. She hadn’t looked like she was gazing on heaven’s gates because that would leave nothing sweeter for her to be gazing on now. If Richildis would look like that about him just the once … Jocelyn put his back to the intolerable sight before he puked his heart out right here all over everything. Revolting! Thank God his wife was sane.

What was there to get so excited about anyway? A lot of dust with some tiny blobs of colour bobbing about in it. Armies on the march didn’t make for good viewing unless you were closer than this. I mean, banners didn’t mean much. The bloody upstart could be dead. Hell, the whole damned army didn’t mean much. Battles were as easily lost as won. Buggering hell - the only thing that army meant was that he’d left it too late to get the hell out of here and head home before things took a turn for the violent. Doubtless this was all part of God’s greater plan. He must be destined to save the day, turn the tide of battle or something. Yeah, he could lead a sally and kill Trempwick with his bare hands! Or Hugh. Whichever wasn’t the right one. Jocelyn crossed himself and silently prayed for the Lord’s strength while assuring him his will would be done.

Aveis pointed at the army. “Look, Ellen. The good king has come to help us. No one can hurt us now.”

The child clung mutely to her mother, doll tangled under one arm. The prospect of rescue had changed nothing for her. It wrung Jocelyn’s heart to see how badly the poor little thing had been affected by the siege. Pray God his own little ones were safe. Richildis would see to that. He could trust her. It’d take more than a squabble for power between boy-king and regents to get past her guard.

Aveis ran a hand over her daughter’s hair. “The princess’ knight is there too, like in the story. He will save her.”

“But who will save him?” If Eleanor had been looking on heaven before Jocelyn now thought she was glimpsing hell beneath her feet - rightly so, for she belonged there! – via a growing hole. Made his stomach lurch all over again. So bloody young! Old enough to be married and have a child or two, young in so many other ways and most of them the ones which really damned well counted. A far bloody cry from what he liked in a woman. If Richildis stood in her place and gazed out on a similar situation with him swapped for whatshisname then she’d take charge and set an example, all calm and mature. She wouldn’t be grappling with her own inner self and bleeding vulnerability all over the place. And not just because Richildis didn’t like him – which she damned well did, actually – but because she was a proper woman.

Eleanor closed her eyes. “I do not know where he wishes to be buried or – or anything. We never spoke of it.”

Carelessness, and now it came back to bite. Death was a fact of life. A person prepared for it or faced it with their braes around their ankles, so to speak. The lack was so bloody typical of this fouled up mess of a so-called marriage between royal and peasant! All the fundamentals were missing. Scant regard paid to the proper order of things.

Aveis freed one hand from holding her daughter to touch the princess’ shoulder. “He’ll do well enough. He’s growing quite the reputation for skill, and most importantly he’s not married to me.”

See, now that Jocelyn could respect. Self-mockery for the good of another. That was a woman.

“He is my soul.” If Jocelyn called the wobbly expression on Eleanor’s face a smile he’d have been overly generous. Still, the effort could be recognised without loss of honour. “And as such he had best come here victorious and undamaged, or I shall have some choice words for him, let me tell you.” For a bit she stood with her right hand pressed about her left, grip tightest on her wedding ring. With visible effort she lowered her hands and turned about to face them all. “Spread the word about the castle. My brother is here and we are saved. The men are to be ready to sally at a moment’s notice. As soon as there is chance to engage Trempwick’s army to the aid of my brother we shall do so. Tell them that their revenge is close at hand, if they have the will to take it.”

Alright, so she was growing up. A bit. Give her five or six years and she might be interesting.








So ends part 3 of what should have been a single post.

I don’t know how many of you remember, back in the early parts of the story Fulk spent a lot of time trying to tell Eleanor stories, at first in a silly effort to cheer her up and later because he enjoys the battle of wits, and she spent only marginally less time picking them to bits and heckling because she’s a gooseberry. They haven’t had much occasion to engage in that sort of silliness for a long time. That’s what she means by “It is not the same. You are the wrong knight.”

The writing project is no longer a secret. Frogbeastegg’s Guide to Medieval II: Kingdoms. Part 1 now available.

The new shop looks great. It had better after the hell that was putting it together. 54 hour week, anyone? Surprisingly dangerous work too. I’ve got so many bruises I look like Nell after one of her conversations with her father!


Furball, I find a similar dilemma. Write one scene and work on crafting it as an individual piece and enjoy the fact it can stand alone whilst being part of the wider narrative, or do several at once and enjoy the way it flows on from one to the next. It’s been too long since I sat down and wrote for an entire day.

[Peasant Phill]

Just wanted to let you know I'm still reading and to congratulate you on your promotion.

I didn't pick up on the whole 'wrong knight' thing, but then again I had little time to read the last instalment. Thanks for the explanation.

[Ludens]

I didn't pick up on the whole 'wrong knight' thing, but then again I had little time to read the last instalment. Thanks for the explanation.
I didn't spot it either, but that's probably my lack of sensitivity. I am still reading though, and it's nice to see the story progessing like this. I hope the new shop proves to be as good as it looks.

[frogbeastegg]

It was drizzling. If one required a lengthier description then Fulk would have said that the second lion on Hugh’s surcoat was missing one of its cut sapphire eyes, and Trempwick’s armour had tiny specks of rust which betrayed the haste with which it had been cleaned. Either description sufficed. Anything more spent words in their hundreds to say what was already contained in the two brief editions.

Here in the heart of the empty ground between the armies the two men responsible for a war met for the first time since the conflict began. The flag of truce was the only one which flew here, the pair of nine man escorts the only army. The snap of the cloth playing in the wind was the only sound as the two parties drew to a halt.

“Rebels, surrender yourselves now to the crown’s justice and mercy will be shown. Continue in defiance and there shall be none.” Hugh had refused to wear his prince’s crown, standing firm in the face of his advisors’ pressure. He had stated, simply, that he was no longer a prince but not yet a king and thus had no crown, and that had been all he would say on the matter. Personally Fulk felt that his brother-by-law had made the right decision; if he needed a lump of metal on his head to proclaim his position then his cause was lost.

Trempwick’s reply was less formal. “We hold you to be the rebels.” It was strange to see the spymaster wearing armour, stranger still to recognise him as a man accustomed to it.

“I am the sole surviving son of William, sixth of that name, by the Grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, and Count of Anjou, may he rest in peace.” Hugh placed his hand over the royal coat of arms which he now wore without a label of cadency. “I am his heir, by blood and by his decree.”

“You are not my friend’s son.” A very weary looking Trempwick brushed a hand over his face. “You think I would do this otherwise? William was my friend, my closest friend. We worked together for years. All that he built I helped with, and I was proud to do so. I cannot let his legacy be usurped.”

“Your wish is to usurp his legacy by establishing my sister as your puppet. Neither she nor I shall permit this.”

“You are not my friend’s son. You cannot be his heir.”

“Untruth does not become truth with sufficient repetition.”

“The truth this there for any who but looks at you. You bear no resemblance to William, or to any other in this generation of your family, or in the generation prior.”

The Earl of Suffolk said, “Raoul, Hugh was William’s designated heir for years. If there had been any doubt surely this could not have been so?”

Trempwick gave the man a desolate little smile. “What man is eager to admit he had been betrayed by his wife? To admit so publicly? I find the greatest of respect for William that he was able to do so in the end.”

“But not to us,” Wymar of Derby countered in the quietest of voices. “If he said such words we have not heard them.”

Suffolk agreed. “We may only abide by his known wishes.”

Trempwick spread his hands. “I do not blame you. We served William together. I know your integrity. I hoped you knew mine.”

“We knew you, and knew William held faith in you,” admitted Derby. “There is no proof of what you say. For something of such import there must be proof.”

Trempwick hesitated. Then he stepped towards the two men. “Sirs, in that castle is a man known to have been at William’s death bed. He came to England immediately after, and sought out Eleanor.” The spymaster drew a breath. “It is my belief he bore the ring to her, as token of her father’s blessing.”

Hugh burst out, “Impossible!”

Trempwick’s head came up. “It is speculation only, but the ring is known to have gone missing shortly before William died; I cannot see him parting with it save by will. The timing with which Jocelyn d’Ardantes left most strongly suggests he bore a message of great import. He sought out Eleanor.”

“He paid visit to me first,” Hugh countered swiftly. “He swore allegiance to me. I granted him permission to carry word of our father’s death to my sister. This was witnessed.”

“It is true,” said Thomas. The head of Hugh’s household knights set his hand on the cross he wore about his neck. “I swear on this holy symbol I witnessed this with my own eyes, as did others.”

Varin and Suffolk nodded, the earl adding, “As did others who are not present here.”

Hugh retook control of the situation. “My sister is my most loyal supporter. Your slanders distress her immensely.”

One of Trempwick’s lot spoke up. “Then let our queen come forth and tell us this herself. Stop thrusting words into her mouth! We have had not one word from her that has not been spoken under duress of your men.”

Fulk answered this one. “The men inside Alnwick are mine, and as such hers.”

“Ah.” Trempwick’s lip curled. “The upstart inflicts his noise upon us, much like a belch in polite company.”

Another member of Trempwick’s retinue enquired, “What guarantee do we have of that? None.”

Fulk set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And what guarantee do we have that if I request my wife to leave the shelter of the walls you will not attempt to carry her off? It has been attempted before.”

Trempwick bared his teeth. “And what guarantee would we have that you would leave her free to speak? She has been a prisoner since the day word of William’s accident arrived at court.”

Varin commented, “Clearly mutual trust can never be attained. Thus to discuss anything based upon it is a waste of time.”

Hugh nodded curtly. “Indeed. I cannot and will not give this traitor the least measure of trust. He has betrayed my father, and now myself. He has used my sister most basely for his own ambitions-”

“Liar,” accused Trempwick. “It would be impossible for me to betray you as I never held faith with you. Never. Not once, not so much as the least promise. As for Eleanor …” The spymaster’s eyes were hot as he looked around the gathering. “Again and again I hear that I am only using her. That I do this to profit by her.” His throat worked and now there was no mistaking it – tears were gathering in his eyes. “Very well. I renounce my claim to her.” The words came out clipped. “Let her say in all freedom that she does not want me and I will let her go. Only let her be in her rightful place when she says it.”

Fulk snorted. “More lies.”

The spymaster drew himself up, eyes locked fixedly – blankly – ahead, hardly blinking as that would dislodge the moisture in his eyes and turn it into tears. “I have said it before noble witnesses. I will say it again before anyone you care to name. I will swear it on whatever you wish. I could not break my word then – it would destroy me. My lords, you would, rightfully, tear me to pieces were that so. Let Nell be crowned and then let her tell me her wishes. If she still repudiates me as a husband I shall leave the country, never to return save by her express request.” He took another breath. “So say no longer I do this for my own gain. I care greatly for her, but if I must lose her in order for her to gain her inheritance then so be it.”

“Raoul …” Suffolk crossed the lines and placed a hand on his old colleague’s shoulder. “Can you not lay down your arms and retake the place which was yours at the side of a new king? For peace?”

Trempwick set his hand above the older man’s, gave it a squeeze and then gently lifted it free. Holding the other man’s hand between his own two he answered softly, “I cannot.”

“Even if the lady Eleanor remained your wife?”

At the very same moment Hugh and Fulk voiced their objections. “You will not barter my wife away!”

“No! I will not countenance this. I will not give my sister to this man, and I will not have him standing at my back waiting for occasion to stab me from the shadows.”

Suffolk spun around to face them. “If a solution is not found this will come to battle! Between men who have served side by side for years. Lives will be lost, the damage which may be done – I shudder to think! Is that your wish?” He focused his outrage on Trempwick. “Is it yours?” Fulk he ignored, totally.

Hugh spoke directly to Trempwick. “For many years I honoured the peace of my father’s court, and his friendship with you. You broke that, and no longer can I return to treating you amicably. Innocent lives demand justice.”

A man on Trempwick’s side whom Fulk recognised by his coat of arms as the Earl of Westmoreland, said, “So you will drag us all to battle so you may have revenge? Because a man spoke the truth of you?”

“What man would I be if I stood by to allow my mother and sister to be slandered as they have been by this man?” Hugh demanded. “If I allowed him to name me bastard? What manner of king would I be if I permitted a man to raise his banner and disrupt the peace of my realm to such a ruinous effect as this man has? Innocent lives have been lost, and they look to me for justice.”

Fulk knew Hugh spoke of his murdered children. Trempwick must surely know it too. None other here would. They would think Hugh afire with the peculiar desire to avenge peasants.

Suffolk said, “Hugh, in the name of God, think of what you set in motion! A true battle between Englishmen, between family and friends who stand on opposing sides.”

“I know, William. I know. It is not my wish, so very far from it.” With the faintest of smiles to reassure his earl Hugh turned once more to Trempwick. “This grievance is between us. Your accusations against me are known, as are mine against you. They are irreconcilable. Let us place judgement in the hands of God.”

“You speak of judicial combat?” asked Trempwick.

The prince nodded once. “To the death, and therein the end.”

The two councils erupted into chaos. Fulk stood alone, cast back to the outskirts of Hugh’s group by the movements of people. Pushed out, ignored – and the only one aside from Hugh who had known something like this was coming. It had been a brief conversation, an odd one.

“Would you kill Trempwick if given chance? For what he has done to my sister?”

“She would not forgive me for it.”

“Would you?”

After a pause he had answered, “Yes.”

“You may have your chance, if you want it. You will understand at the time.”

Now he did. The chaos was resolving into the agreement Hugh could not personally fight his duel, that his council would not let him indulge in such a reckless course.

Fulk stepped forward, thrusting himself back into the attention he had seized and lost once already. “If it pleases the prince, I will act as his champion. Eleanor is my wife; I would stand in her interests as well as my lord’s.”

More uproar. If Hugh were represented by a champion then Trempwick must be too, for why should he risk his life when his accuser did not?

Trempwick’s voice – his first remark since the challenge had been issued – cut across the din. “What pointless playacting is this? The results of such a duel would only be held to if one of we two were dead and so unable to carry our causes further. As the heads of our sides we will not be allowed to risk single combat – as has already been proven. I cannot see the point in this, save as a desperate move by a man at the end of his road.”

Hugh’s answer was calm as could be, “I stand ready to prove my right with my body. I have no need of a champion.”

“It will not be allowed,” retorted the spymaster.

“You doubt the righteousness of your own cause?”

“The time for doubts is long since past.” The spymaster gave his enemy a patronising smile. “I live in the real world, not a dream constructed from a story. Duels before battles? Important men settling important matters in like manner to petty grudges in a court of law?” He laughed.

It had been a brave attempt but Fulk saw Hugh’s effort was doomed, and had been since the beginning. If his lords had not quashed the possibility Trempwick may have been forced into the risk; the chance had been slender but there.

Fulk said, “Then you leave no option but battle. You will not surrender, you will not negotiate, and you will not settle the dispute in person. You – and you alone – force this outcome.”

From the sidelines where he stood as not quite part of either party, Varin stated, “I think this a waste of time. It is agreed that anything based upon trust cannot work. It is certain that neither man here will step down, and neither is losing the support of their followers. Therefore there shall be a battle, and it shall be as God wills it.”

Ignoring the German Trempwick spoke to Hugh, a hint of urgency in his tone. “Take your wife and your unborn child and go into exile, never to return. Go and live in peace. You are not William’s son. You cannot be the heir. But you can stop the bloodshed, and that would be a worth act for one William raised in his household. Give up your pretence and I have no further business with you.”

Was it Fulk’s imagination or had Hugh gone a bit pale? “You have renounced your claim to my sister. Stand down, and go into exile. That will be a worthy act, and will end this.”

Varin interjected, “The Empress will be displeased if she is passed over in favour of her most inferior sister. She will come for what is hers by right, and with her shall come the might of her husband, the Emperor. Either there is a son and heir here, sirs, or my lady, the Empress, is the heir.”

Trempwick’s words seemed to be for Hugh and Hugh alone. “You are not my friend’s son. For me to stand aside would be the greatest betrayal of William - and of Eleanor – possible.”

Hugh’s reply came after a pause. “I admit I have doubted. Sometimes. In the darkest places of my heart. I doubt no longer, and have not since I raised my own banner. If I had continued to doubt I would not have raised it. My cause is just.”

“It is not. I wish you would believe me.”

Fulk believed. He found he had lost his doubts – he believed a man he knew to be manipulative, a lying ambitious bastard. He couldn’t quite say why. Eleanor did not wish to be queen, in good part because she did not fully believe herself. If she did she may feel otherwise. If she took the throne Fulk knew without a doubt he would lose her. With his whole heart he was glad she was not present to hear this, and would not until it was too late and no choice remained to her, one way or another. His whole heart … there was no space left to be disgusted with himself.

To the rest of Hugh’s council Trempwick said, “Most of you were at court at the same time as Enguerrand. Think back. Remember how our queen looked on him with favour. Remember how long she had been left to hold her court alone. Remember how he left the very day William returned, and remember where he went: to fight in the crusades in Spain. Remember what he looked like, and see the resemblance in his son, a resemblance Hugh bears to none other in his supposed linage.”

Very deliberately Hugh stated, “Old slander.” He walked away. Fulk followed, and on looking back to see why he felt emptiness at his back he saw the remainder of Hugh’s council strung out into a ragged skein that spoke of individuals hesitating before choosing to go with their lord. But they had followed.








:sniffle: That’s the kind of scene which makes me feel like giving characters a nice mug of hot chocolate and a biscuit to cheer them up. It’s written from the POV of Fulk because it’s the only way to get a balanced look at both Hugh and Trempy, and it’s the only way to see Fulk exhibiting his selfish bastard side again. There’s a far greater emotional link to either of the pair if the scene is in their POV but, alas, the other does not fare well and so the scene fails its ultimate purpose. One may hope that I managed to get across enough of each.


It’s been … ages since that Fulk did much storytelling. I’d be surprised if you did remember.

[Peasant Phill]

great scene mylady. You don't come across such scene often anymore where two sides of a conflict meet once more before the all deciding battle. it may have been even better if you wrote it from someone elses PoV as Fulk is also biased (although fairly objectiv in this scene). Varin would've been an interesting character to use for this but maybe he isn't fleshed out enough for it.

[frogbeastegg]

Horns blared; Hugh spun around to see the banners being advanced in Trempwick’s army. The first signal was repeated along the army’s line, rippling outwards from the centre. The body of the army itself seemed to heave and shift as men rose and took up formation ready for combat.

“He’s going to attack!” Wymar exclaimed. “He is abandoning his position.”

So did victory appear; Hugh crossed himself and wondered once more if he had taken the correct course. Too late now to alter it. The battle he had forced Trempwick into stirred into life and men would die in their hundreds. In the midst of that killing lay his best hope of dispatching Trempwick to justice, the only hope permitted him by his lords. If the man could not be executed then needs must he die in battle, and most poetic that the blame for the fighting be laid at the traitor’s feet for his refusal to countenance any of Hugh’s freely offered alternatives.

Hugh resumed his walk to where the attendants waited with their horses. “It is as I said it would be. The man will not settle for less than my complete destruction, and he will exploit the weariness of my army. A good thing, then, that I insisted we lay our plans prior to our arrival here, and my men drawn up in such order that they might be ready to fight within the shortest of times.” He had carried his rebuke overfar, he feared. It was not good to remind these men that they had misjudged Trempwick, and had displayed little enthusiasm when he insisted upon preparing for an attack they believed would not come so hard on the heels of failed negotiations.

Hugh fair near leapt from his skin as Trempwick’s army erupted into a great cheer.

“My lord,” pleaded Thomas, “we should hurry. The horses – we’re vulnerable here!”

I will not have it said of me that I ran. Any danger is but illusionary. They cannot reach us before we collect our mounts, and from there they cannot catch us.”

“My lord-”

“Does Trempwick run?” Hugh demanded. “Or does he walk, as I do, towards his horse, and thence back to his army? Do his councillors flap about him and fuss? Sirs, he walks, and with his group in dignified order. I shall not strike doubt into the hearts of my men by acting so timid.” The horses were perhaps forty paces away now. “Sirs, you will assume your places in the line as discussed last night. As was considered wisest then we shall hold our position and let the enemy expend their energy coming to us. I remain desirous that our plan be followed to the letter despite the move to reposition the enemy makes. Make it so.” He had to recourse to shouting to be clearly heard above the din of men repeating his sister’s name over and over. His own army failed to drown it out with their own battle cry, a disheartening fact considering his superior numbers.

They replied with a dutiful chorus of affirmations.

“Remember what you have undertaken, and do not fail me in doing it.” Being careful to look around the group to include them all in the command, Hugh held Fulk’s eyes for a fraction longer than most for it was he whom they were truly intended for. Understanding sparked in the man, and Hugh felt a weight lift from his heart as his brother-by-law inclined his head. Of the two of them Fulk would be freer to hunt down and slay Trempwick.

He crossed the remainder of the distance deep in his own thoughts. The cost of what he had brought into being made him quail, as did the arrogance which had rooted itself in his heart. All this because he stood and proclaimed himself certain of a truth he had doubted so long as he could recall. Hugh steeled himself using the familiar formulas. To his knowledge William had never doubted his blood. To his knowledge he had not been repudiated or placed to one side. Since Stephan’s death he had been raised as the heir. Trempwick was a murderer, a traitor, a liar. His lady mother had been most noble and honourable, and to consider her capable of adultery stank like a month old midden in the heat of summer. He must have faith. He must not allow Trempwick’s poison to sicken his mind. His family’s survival depended upon his success, and never again would he be found wanting in that regard.




Trempwick’s army was readying itself to attack. Eleanor gripped her hands together so hard she felt her knuckles creaking. “One may presume the negotiations were not successful,” she observed.

Jocelyn checked his sword sat loose in its sheath. “Ruthless bugger, your Trempwick. Attacking so quick off the mark. Sound idea, if you ask me. A smaller number of rested men can tear to shreds a larger group of weary ones.”

“He is not my Trempwick,” Eleanor snapped back in langue d’oil.

“Then that’s not your name I hear then bellowing until it rolls about like bloody thunder – er, begging your pardon, your Highness.”

“Even so.” As she watched the events outside Alnwick’s walls Eleanor had the feeling of pieces coming together, fitting. It was all there – she saw a way. So many long weeks after she had given up hope. Chancy, no - outright risky and with far too much out of her control, yet there it was, and the realisation of it knocked the breath out of her. “Sir Gervaise …” her softly voiced words faded before the question fully formed.

“Your Highness?”

Eleanor watched.

Trempwick’s army had positioned itself to the west of the castle on its arrival so as to present the best blockade. Now it flowed forwards and across to the east in order to draw up with the river - about a mile distant from the castle walls - protecting its left flank. This had the secondary advantage of placing it clear of the potholes and other hazards designed to break up a force coming at the siege camp from the south. A few of Alnwick’s more ambitious sentries took shots at the marching men with crossbows; the bolts fell woefully short.

Outside the castle’s main gates, now being isolated from the main army by the shift to the east, lay a tiny fortification with palisade walls. Estimates at the outpost’s garrison lay between twenty and forty, sufficient to greatly slow any attempt by the castle’s garrison to sally out to the aid of Hugh’s army.

To the south was Hugh’s army, larger than Trempwick’s and not recovered from the march which had brought it to Alnwick’s walls that very morning. It had drawn up into a thick line with two groups of mounted knights behind the infantry wall. One at the centre she expected to be the reserve Hugh would join, the other was placed to aggressively threaten the enemy right flank. A sound, if predictable, placement which gave the chance of bearing down the enemy line until it was forced into the river.

In the centre, the clear ground which rolled flatly enough to offer no advantage to either side, two tiny little groups of men rode away back to their armies. Eleanor could recognise Trempwick by his burned orange surcoat, Hugh by his unusual passion for wearing his coat of arms embroidered over his chest. Fulk would be the man in blue hanging on the edge of the royal group. Having identified the three men in her life she was not about to lose them again.

“Hawise, there is Fulk, the one in blue on the edge of Hugh’s group. Watch him well and tell me how he does.”

The maid nodded.

“Aveis, I wish you to do likewise with Hugh.”

“As you wish, your Highness.”

She would watch Trempwick herself. Later. For now she had the luxury of watching all three, the first time she had seen them united in months.

Would she try? Undertake something where success would bring her – at best – no love.

“Sir Gervaise …”

“Your Highness?”

She could lose everything. Everything.

“Your Highness?” the castellan asked again, a trace of impatience showing in his courteous words.

“I want every last man armed and assembled in the outer bailey ready to sally upon my order, save for yourself and nine others to act as guard here.” A duty had been placed in her hands and she had undertaken to fulfil it; now was not the time to flinch.





Fulk passed Sueta’s reins to his page. “You will wait in my tent. You will not come near the battle line. You will not place yourself at risk. Do you hear me?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“If I find you’ve disobeyed I’ll flay your hide off your back and send you home in disgrace, and after that you’ll have no chance of finding a new lord.” Richard was a good lad, but Fulk knew all too well how boys running off into a battlefield tended to find death, not the glory they expected. “I expect you to have clean clothes and warm water waiting for me when I return, and bandages in case of need.”

“Some food too, my lord?”

Fulk considered the state he’d likely be in by the time he returned. “I’ll eat with my wife,” he replied gently. “Now, off you go.”

Luke handed Fulk his helmet. “Well, time to do what you’re best at.”

“Read a book and debate with my princess?”

The squire struggled to restrain a sneer. “Must you debase her with every breath? I meant fight.”

As he headed for his place in the line Fulk ran over his equipment; shield settled on his left arm, sword and dagger loose and easy to draw, mace securely fastened to his belt, chinstrap knotted and helmet unlikely to come off.

Hugh had commanded most of his knights fight on foot to stiffen the main line. The presence of hardened warriors steadied those less used to fighting. York’s militia was not the only contingent in the army whom the prince doubted. Fulk’s own Scotsmen had less stake in this battle than any other present, and so would feel less inclined to remain if matters appeared to be going badly. For this reason both had been positioned in the line’s centre, mixed with more stalwart men at arms and supported on both flanks by more of the battle-proven contingents.

The loss of the Scots from his command had left Fulk with Eleanor’s men and the handful who wore his own colours, a bare thirty-one. A further hundred men from various sources had been added to this. Together with William of Suffolk, and his three hundred, Fulk made up the tip of the right flank.

On reaching the front of the line Fulk said loudly, “Noisy lot, aren’t they? Waste of breath – by the time they get here they’ll have nothing left to fight with.” That got him a few laughs, the anxious kind which came from nerves.





Droplets of sweat flew out in the wake of Hugh’s exhausted horse, and the poor beast drew in breath and breath with desperate need. “I place my cause in God’s hands! It is righteous! Have no fear! It will be as God wills it! The Lord will judge, and he will find in my favour!” Hugh’s throat was on fire, his voice worn down to harshness. “God’s will be done!”

“God’s will!” came back the still too quiet response.

“My cause is righteous! I am the old king’s son! I place my faith in God and trust he will aid!” Over and over he repeated variations on the same few themes as he rode from one end of his battle line to the other doing what he could to encourage. At the end he swapped his horse for a fresh one, gulped down some watered wine, and rode back doing it all again.

The chant of his sister’s name had a simplicity, a certain rhythm which made it almost hypnotic. It rolled back and forth like the waves in the sea. Hugh hated it with every fibre of his being.

Then, as though the Lord himself saw his plight and granted him the answer, acoustic confusion reigned as the cry of Eleanor’s name was exchanged for Trempwick’s old Saxon chant of “Ut! Ut! Ut!” accompanied by the drumming of weapons on shields.

“Hear that?” Hugh roared. “The old chant of a defeated people – defeated by my forefather! He who was rightful king after the Sainted Confessor, and usurped by a traitor! William, first of his name to rule over this land, won his battle! I shall win mine!” He brandished his sword above his head and raised William the Bastard’s famous warcry from Hastings, “God aid us! God aid us!”

It caught, and took, and began to spread.






Here we are. Hugh has forced Trempwick to battle because he sees it as the best chance of getting rid of him. Trempwick is grasping the chance to fight a wearied foe with unstated aid from Malcolm Nefastus, whose presence no one has yet reported. Nell has a plan of some sort, something which scares her. Fulk is intending to do something which he knows his gooseberry will find near impossible to forgive – kill Trempwick. Jocelyn … is Jocelyn as usual. Convergence.

A battle of this scale takes more planning than I’d expected. I’ve known about this battle for years, and it’s one of the rare occasions where knowing alone is not sufficient. There’s too much going on. There are so many things I had to check from the story: names, liveries, colours, banners, numbers, descriptions, and more. Things to extrapolate, things to work out, a battle plan for each side to resolve in detail, an overall plan of the thing to build including the timings and POV breaks …

Then I have to make the overall work as a serial. Picking break points is not easy.



Too late for another POV now, and only major characters get them.

[furball]

I was pondering serialization as I read this part. Once the battle starts, it'll be tough to break it nicely, and if your ultimate goal is a book, it may not be necessary to do so.

But as a reader, I've been avidly awaiting each morsel. Bon chance, Lady Frog!

[Death is yonder]

Hi all fellow readers~:wave: .Love the story you write froggy.Im a bit amazed at the ease you keep readers or at least me captivated.It is quite easy to relate to most of the characters in this "book" of yours,and also your stamina in writing this story over a grand period of 3 years,4months and 5days.I managed to finish this story in 3weeks.Where are the free eyedrops and headache remedies?:dizzy2: .Anyway great story!:applause: .

Random note:I apologise for any thing I said that sounds stupid.

[frogbeastegg]

From his vantage point Hugh judged that the distance between the two lines had now thinned close to the correct distance to begin his counter charge. On both sides men had begun to loose arrows and crossbow bolts, a trifle early and influenced by the insidious fear which drowned sense with its whispers that a man killed at range now could not come and slay close up. At such distance arrows arrived spent and worthless, and even crossbow bolts lost much of their lethality. A waste, in short.

“Order the advance to contact, for all groups.” Above the blaring of the horns Hugh asked Thomas, “How do you like our chances?”

“Better than if we hadn’t rested for half of yesterday,” the head of Hugh’s household knights replied immediately. A little more slowly, “Better than if we – you - hadn’t predicted an immediate attack.” Pause. “I am glad to see his army hasn’t swelled much, so we still have the advantage in numbers.” Another pause. “If only our centre holds. I mistrust their courage.”

“I have assigned trustworthy men to act as the leaders, and sprinkled solid men throughout their ranks. That should do much to make them stand.”

“Oh yes, my lord.” The knight seemed mildly amused. “You should be familiar with my pessimism by now, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

Varin’s eyebrows had raised a touch during this conversation. “My lord would never enter a battle he doubted to win.”

“Then,” Hugh replied, “he misleads you as to the degree of his confidence. There is no such thing as a certain outcome to a battle.” It was in Hugh’s mind that it was equally possible his imperial brother-by-law was an overly arrogant fool; it would not be politic to voice such a suspicion.

“To the contrary, it is very possible for a gifted general.”

Hugh let the jibe slide off as him he had with so many others. “No. You are quite wrong.”

A final, louder roar of battle cries indicated the two lines had begun the final charge.

The German sighed and indicated the two armies with a hand. “Let us say that, for the sake of our argument, you arrived in such numbers and position to surround your foe. Victory would then be assured.”

“My horse might trip or otherwise throw me, and I might break my neck. That would be a loss. I might be struck by as stray shot. I might sicken and die from a disease gained on the march. There are a variety of ways that battle you described could be lost, even did I remain safely away from the fighting. Let us not forget, without me there is no victory for us – my life is integral to it. It is thus in near every battle; there are those whose survival counts for all.”

The horses fidgeted at the crash of the two battle lines meeting. Even at this distance the shrieks of the first wounded reached their ears.

Hugh crossed himself. “God aid us.”

He was copied by each man in his personal guard.

Hugh resumed his flattening of his sister’s crony as though there had been no interruption. “What if, in your example, my exhausted army met with well-rested men in the highest of morale? If such men held a staunch defence they would inflict disproportionate damage upon my force, and thus sap further the will of my soldiers.”

“Then you would have made an unwise decision in engaging in battle.”

“And if that were my only chance to catch my enemy before he joined with another, far larger force?”

The German smiled his courtier’s smile. “Then your cause is lost beyond all redemption, and flight not battle should be foremost in your mind.”

Hugh shocked his company by laughing outright at the man. “My dear fellow, had I not done that at the very start I should have been dead some weeks ago, my wife and unborn child with me, and my sister foisted onto the throne by the traitor who would rule through her.”

Varin looked down his nose at the Englishmen. “I would hardly think that compares.”

“I grant you throwing that man from the palace gates it is a trifle different to an open battle, yet the point stands. That man had his supporters in my palace, and had corrupted how many more of my own I knew not. The relative numbers of each side may be judged from how many came to my side at the beginning – and by how many more sat idle or worse yet joined him in his treachery.”

“In my homeland-”

“Yes, you will be back there soon, and no more distressed by our crude ways.” Hugh made a show of returning his attention to the forming battle, wishing the man would take the hint and end the wearisome conversation.

Trempwick had deployed with his right flank strengthened to face the expected pressure. His left flank was not reinforced in this way. Now the lines were joined it was time to follow through with his plan. Hugh called to his signaller, “The Earl of Derby’s contingent is to move to support the right flank and all contingents there are to begin pushing forward.”

As the horns carried the commands across the field Hugh watched the situation evolve. Derby’s banner began to head to the right along the back of the battle line. It would take longer before he could tell if the efforts to press forward were meeting with success.

To prevent Trempwick transferring men from his right to his left Hugh commanded, “Have the cavalry on the left begin harassing the enemy’s flank now.”



Three short blasts on a horn followed by one long and a final short: time to begin the real work. Fulk yanked his blade free of a dying man’s stomach and roared, “A FitzWilliam! FitzWilliam’s men forward!” He pushed into the enemy, ramming with his shield to force his way precious inches onwards. A chop with his blade sent a man reeling to the ground with his head half severed, and Fulk pressed on into the space this created in the enemy line. “A FitzWilliam for the gooseberry!”

His men repeated his cry and battered at the enemy to keep place at his side. Outright terror welded each man to his fellows’ sides, the shelter of their sword arms and shields blessed salvation in the chaos. To become isolated was to die, and so as long as morale held all it took was a handful of brave men steadily pressing forward to pull the others with them.

The man behind Fulk and to his left was stammering a constant litany of curses and entreaties to every saint on Rome’s list to keep him safe as he fought, voice high and wavering. His fear didn’t cause him to miss the opportunity to thrust his blade home into an exposed armpit as Fulk blocked an incoming attack with his shield.

At Fulk’s right Waltheof screamed, “For the gooseberry!” and again the cry was echoed by the others to keep spirits high and intimidate the men they fought.

A spray of blood caught Fulk’s helmet and he felt stickiness on his face as it came through the ventilation slits on the right side of his helmet’s faceguard.




There could now be no doubt, the reinforced right flank was pressing the opposing enemy line back. If this continued the enemy centre would be left with severely reduced support and vulnerable to Hugh’s reserves. All things being at their best, the right flank would be able to commit a slow turn and press their foe back into the enemy line, creating chaos and attacking the line from behind.

Serle said, “Whatever else must be said of the man, your unfortunate brother-by-law is a fine fighter.”

Fulk’s banner flew further forward than any other, for all that he led a smaller number of men.

Hugh replied, “He has more cause than any man here save me to desire victory.”

“That may prove his end – God willing.” Thomas shrugged his shoulders at his lord’s searching look. “Better to be shed of the embarrassment in a useful fashion. That is why you placed him there, is it not?”

“I placed him thus in the full knowledge he will fight as he does to win the safety of my sister. What his fate may be is not in my hands, and I would not so presume as to believe otherwise.”

“As I said, my lord.”

The marshal agreed. “No man could possibly think badly of you if he dies. More truthfully, you are thought well of for your restraint in not throttling the upstart with your bare hands for his audacity.”





Observing. Seeing the bastard’s plan clearly now. Played slight of hand – intended to do force the left, not the right. Trempwick held up a hand to summon one of his messengers. “Have Giles and his group commit to the left flank – I want it secured.”

The rider dragged at the reins to turn his mount and galloped off before his obeisance was completed.

The next order could be carried by sound, simpler as it was. “The centre is to increase pressure on the enemy centre. I want it broken.”

The command was carried across the field in the form: centre, attack, forward. Three distinct sounds, easily recognisable.

Smaller numbers laboured against larger – overall. In the centre stronger battled weaker. On the flanks he must hold, could hold. With the bastard’s army cut into two the day would be won. Broken battle lines were defeated battle lines. Prince Malcolm’s aid would make victory certain, cleaner. It was not essential. Well rested veterans fighting tired militia – his centre would win. With time. His task, then, to ensure they had time.






Turns out it’s hard to write when the unremittingly awful Christmas music you are subjected to at work is burned so deeply into your mind that you can hear it 24 hours a day. “Right, and then Trempwick spots what Hugh is doing and I’m going to be lonesome this Chris-AGHHH!!! SHUT UP!!! Hugh. Battle. Right. No – Trempwick. Someday at Christmas there’ll be no tears – no, battle! Argh!!” :has nervous break down. The CD is 51 minutes long. I work a minimum of 8 hours a day. It’s so infectious we were all humming and singing bits of it by the third playthrough two weeks, though the general opinion of it is that the disc needs grinding into dust and sealing in concrete.

I can’t concentrate, and have grudgingly resigned myself to writing a lousy battle start in the knowledge that the later bits are strong enough to blot out the sad little Christmas tree which no one cares about because it is only a tree, and a dead one at that, so will the twee woman kindly shut the heck up and fall off a 100 foot cliff onto some very sharp rocks, thank you very much!

~:mecry:



Furball, as you can tell from the above splits have become the least of my concerns while writing this. I had it all nicely planned, and then the music struck. Now I can’t write. Gah!

Death is yonder … what an apt name for this point in the tale :gring: Welcome. :hands over the famous eyedrops:

[Ciaran]

You know, occasionally I envied you for working in a book store :book: . But around Chrismas I certainly don´t. Even though it´s been actually quite civilized around here this year, only yesterday they started playing "Last Chrismas". But once they do, they play it ad nauseam. :dizzy2:

There are new songs for carnival (something like Halloween in Germany, what with the costumes and such), why, for god´s sake not for chrismas as well?

I wonder, should I wish that you lose you sense of hearing temporarily? Helps with obnoxius customers as well...

[frogbeastegg]

It's too late. I'm long since infected. I hear the music when the CD has stopped, I hear it when I'm not in the shop, I hear it while I'm trying to read or think, and I hear it while I am asleep. It only stops when I focus on it and scream "Argh! Shutupshutupshutup!!" over and over inside my head. A minute later and I can hear it again. ~:mecry:

Another reason not to envy my job presently is the deliveries. Where we had 2 per week in this new shop we are now having upwards of 4. Yesterday we had 3 on the same day. I'm not talking about a couple of boxes of books, I'm talking about a couple of pallets worth minimum per delivery. All of which has to be unloaded and carried into the shop by hand, unpacked, priced, put out. It never ends.

Third reason, if you needed one, is the hours. In the old location the shop was open 9-5:30, meaning I worked 9-6. Now it's 9-7 4 days a week, 9-9 2 days a week, and 10:30-4:30 on Sunday. That leaves me working a variety of shifts like 7-4, 9-6, 10:30-7:30, 12:30-9:30. The latter two of those give me no chance to write, which is why my gaming has picked up recently. These hours are so successful the centre is keeping them as standard trading hours next year. Successful? Our shop is very quiet after 5:30 most days. If there is one thing worse than being required to work crappy hours it is working crappy hours for no real point.

[Death is yonder]

Death is yonder … what an apt name for this point in the tale :gring: Welcome. :hands over the famous eyedrops:Thanks for the welcome and the eyedrops froggy:beam: .Indeed "death is yonder" is quite an apt name for the current part of your "book".I've been caught up with christmas coming and the organisation of my life in preparation for the next year to look out for updates constantly:thumbsdown: .Hope you cope with your job:2thumbsup: .I'm not at that stage yet in my life.I shudder to think what will be of me next time:sweatdrop: .Maybe my relationship with the boss will be something like this.:whip: :whip: :whip: ~:mecry: .

[frogbeastegg]

The fighting had been going on for well over an hour now. The noise, the carnage, Eleanor had become numb to it. Observing it all from her tower, impatient for it to be over and yet wanting it to continue forever if the outcome would bring the certainty of loss.

Fulk’s banner flew at the forefront, thrust proudly into Trempwick’s line. Hawise had been unable to keep sight of him, and so knowledge that he still lived was limited to occasional cries of “There! I see him!” Hugh and Trempwick remained clear of the fighting, hatefully safe. They who had brought this about faced no risk to life or limb – a safety, and responsibility, she keenly shared. Her beloved had little part in this, yet it was he who stood in the thick of danger.

Aware of footsteps approaching from behind her Eleanor looked away from the battle. A pair of servants approached, one bearing a brazier and the other a tray with a flagon and cups. Finding the promise of mulled wine somewhat insulting given the situation she returned her attention to the field. There was something about the shape of this seething mob of struggling humanity with nagged at her, something not linked to guilt or dread.

Eleanor pulled her the thick wool of her cloak tighter about herself and shivered. The afternoon was not especially cold for the time of year; the tower attracted a relentless wind and inactivity sapped warmth from her bones. When a cup of hot wine was offered her with a bow she accepted it without demur. A few seconds wrapped around the bowl of the goblet and her fingers regained sufficient life to report that she was burning them.

It was not yet time to begin the sally. With a bare fifty men to send to the field she needs must wait until Trempwick were most vulnerable. Fifty men could not cut their way through the four hundred odd who surrounded Trempwick now. Waiting to make her decision final was, in its own way, as bad as waiting for all to be done so she could discover what her life was going to look like after today. Was it worth the loss of living men – and Fulk in particular – to achieve something foisted on her by a dead man she held no kind feelings for? A responsibility accepted grudgingly and for reasons she could not fully explain. Reasons locked around contemptible things like pity for a most unsympathetic man, or a worming desire to believe the nonsense people had been pushing at her for months now. The arse in the crown hadn’t cared about her, hadn’t liked her, had never held a the least warm feeling for her. He’d sent the ring and its burdens to her out of spite knowing the turmoil it would bring her. So why risk so much, lose so much in the name of unwanted duty?

A deferential cough at her side snapped Eleanor back to the here and now. A servant held a platter laden with hot food. With the tone of someone repeating themselves for the umpteenth time she asked, “Would your Highness like something?”

She took one of the hot stuffed rolls and ate it without ado.

A muttered comment in langue d’oil caught her ear and nearly made her grin. Jocelyn thought watching a battle over mulled wine and finger food was “A bit buggered in the head!” That did not prevent him from eating with the appetite of the half starved. It was good to know she was not the only one to find it surreal.

Eleanor asked Sir Gervaise, “How much longer do you think it will be before conditions are right for us to sally?”

“A good while, your Highness.”

“The light will begin to fade in several hours. Surely they cannot continue to fight then?”

“It has been known.” The castellan busied himself with a marrow tart.

Eleanor did not enquire further.





Fulk let his helmet drop to the ground, rejoiced as air hit his face, and collapsed bonelessly onto the grass, chest heaving as his lungs desperately sucked in air. His pulse hammered through his aching body; pain spiked in matching rhythm in his wounded leg. Not to be left out his shoulder also made its agony known, protesting at his allowing the half-healed wound to be smacked by a sword.

His view of the sky was spoiled by the appearance of a flagon supported by two hands, one heavily bandaged and doing little more than resting gingerly on the side of the pottery. Fulk dragged himself into a sitting position, seized the vessel and emptied half its contents down his gullet, halting only when he choked as his need to gasp for air became irrepressible.

“Careful, my lord,” the attendant chided.

A few minutes later Fulk’s breathing had slowed to something approaching normal speed, and he took another good dose of the watered wine. Between sweat and the inevitable effect of terror on his bladder he felt like there wasn’t a drop of moisture left in his body. He handed the empty vessel back. “More,” he croaked.

By the time he’d drained half of the second drink and wolfed down two fist-sized chunks of bread stuffed with meat and onions he felt able to think of something other than his body’s needs again. A glance about told him that the other men were finding likewise.

Fulk beckoned to the attendant. “John.”

The man came over. “My lord?” He’d lost two fingers on his right hand in the fighting at the river crossing, and was now fit for nothing but fetching and carrying.

“My spare sword.” Fulk gestured to the blade lying forgotten at his side, sticky with congealing blood. “That one’s blunted. Have it sharpened and seen to ready for my next rest. A new shield too, my other’s had it.”

“Which spare, my lord?”

“Doesn’t matter.” They were both quality blades, both gifts from Eleanor’s brothers. One from Hugh for foiling Trempwick’s attempt at kidnap, one from John given alongside his armour in an effort to bribe him away from Eleanor’s side. “The one from prince Hugh,” Fulk shouted after the crippled man at arms. It took a rare kind of man not to surrender to superstition when life, limb and love hung in the balance of combat, and Fulk would take no chances. It could be that this swap had hidden benefits, being as it involved exchanging the blade given by his first love – a love he’d betrayed and abandoned – for one given in good faith. Maybe.

Inactivity was allowing his overworked muscles to stiffen, and that couldn’t be allowed. Fulk dragged himself to his feet and forced himself through some simple stretches, feeling every last damned sinew and cord in his body protest the action. One flex caused him to groan as it caught at his shoulder.

Waltheof began the painful process of regaining his own feet. “Got to see if it’s as bad as you make it look.” A bit later, “Damn, yes!”

Most of the other men who’d formed the front rank and led the brunt of the fighting in Fulk’s company remained on the ground. “Get up, you idle bastards, and get moving.” Fulk’s command lacked a certain something due to hoarseness but it proved effective enough; men dragged themselves up and began to limber up ready for to return to battle.

As Fulk groaned again Luke made an expression which began as a grin and ended as a grimace. “Think of the militia, my lord. When they get tired they get cut up. Haven’t got what it takes to swap tired men for fresh like us.”

Fulk’s leg twinged again and he bit back an oath. “Brings new meaning to dead tired. Poor sods.”

All too soon the half hour rest break was over, and Fulk announced his return to the forefront of the battle with the loudest battle cry he’d managed in more than an hour. “A FitzWilliam! A FitzWilliam for the gooseberry!”








There was a brass band playing Christmas carols in the centre yesterday. That was nice. They were loud enough to drown out the instore music. :happy froggy:

Death is Yonder, thanks.

[Peasant Phill]

Poor sods indeed.

Loud enough maybe, but it's still christmas music. I think I would go nuts listening to that CD twice let alone day in day out. Being replaced by some other but similar music would not be a relief.

But then you probably become accustomed to such things.

A good description of the 'ambiance'. The surrealism of a battle.

[Death is yonder]

Christmas Shopping... Can be described as continuously willing for the queue to move faster due to the fact your head is going to implode after listening to that ridiculously annoying music:dizzy2: :dizzy2: :dizzy2: .Still wondering how many more gifts to buy...:gah2::gah2:

[wasabi_ko]

Hey FrogBeastEgg,

Just wanted to tell you that this is an amazing story you've written. It boggles my mind how you've been able to go at it for so long!

[Ludens]

As well-written as always.
:book:

Merry Christmas, BTW.

[woad&fangs]

I just finished the last post on page 4 of this topic.

Bah, I'll just say it. So far this year I've Read Harry Potter #7 and Wicked. The Gooseberry is, so far, better than either of them.

Edit: on page 7 now. Wonderful, now I can't get the King and Anne out of my head. Thanks a lot Frogzilla. Never the less, it continues to be a wonderful story.

[Peasant Phill]

Another innocent fly caught by lady Frog. Only 19 more pages to go.

[frogbeastegg]

That particular melee had gone on long enough to be convincing. Trempwick ordered, “Have the cavalry begin their fained rout.”

The signal passed. So did time. The horsemen to reacting too close to the signal would invite suspicion.

Then. The formation started to fray. One by one men dragged their horses about and dug in their spurs. The few became the many. The many became the all. Riding at full speed away from the battle.

And their foes laid chase. Bloodlust. The thrill of victory. Predictable and useful.

One mile away along that course waited the Scottish brat. He’d cut the bastard’s men to pieces. Trempwick’s returning cavalry would come bolstered by near two hundred Scots.




His cavalry was pursuing the broken enemy from the field. Against all of his orders, against his dire threats, against his great need for them to turn on the enemy line. Hugh cried, “I shall have them walk the entire way back to London with their saddles about their necks! Every last one of them!”

He flushed at his loss of decorum. What was the use? The situation could still be salvaged, and his first thoughts should have been in that direction. Battles had setbacks, and all never went according to plan. He knew this. He had prepared for it. That this, the first stumble, came so far into the day was, overall, a promising sign. In all other aspects the plan proceeded at the level he had expected, or better.

“All of the reserves save for my guard and hundred are to attend to the left flank,” he commanded. “The position is to be re-established and held without hesitation to the cost.”

Within minutes Hugh remained alone at his vantage point, alone save for his personal bodyguard and the hundred veterans selected to fight alongside him.






His council was gone, only Thomas remained. Hugh felt the weight of sole responsibility crushing down upon his shoulders. The moment was here – or so he thought. Could he be incorrect? Waiting as little longer would make it clear, yet equally it may allow his chance to slip. He may be seeing through wishful eyes something which was not there.

Or he may be correct.

He believed he was.

If his judgement were flawed he would forfeit the engagement with his error.

Hugh’s heart pounded as though he had been in the thick of the conflict for the past hour, his palms slick with sweat.

He reviewed the situation once again. His left flank had stabilised and now held station relative to the original positions of the battle line. His centre had bowed backwards under the pressure, and it still held. His right flank had advanced sufficiently far forward that if it began to turn to the left it would bundle the enemy up on themselves. Of his cavalry there remained no trace. Of his reserves only himself and those under his direct command remained.

Sweat ran down Hugh’s back under his armour. The moment had arrived, he was certain.

If he were mistaken …

His fingers brushed the lions embroidered over his heart. The gold thread felt rough to his fingertips. The blood of capable generals ran in his veins; how disgusted they would be if they could witness his squirming thoughts. They would reject him.

Trust. Belief. If he could not muster these things in himself how may he expect them of others?

“The right flank is to begin pressing sideways.”





Three short blasts followed by two long ones – the signal! Fulk shouted, “Press left! FitzWilliam’s men, press left!”

Matching deed to word he advanced a diagonal step forward where before he’d have taken a straight one.





Sir Gervaise stepped forward to Eleanor’s elbow. In a gentle, gentle voice he said, “Your Highness, I think it may be prudent to consider our course of action in the event of your brother’s defeat.”

Eleanor whirled around. “Defeat!?”

“His cavalry is mostly gone, his centre is like to give before dusk, the bulk of his reserves are committed.”

“But – but Trempwick’s army is almost half encircled!” That was supposed to be important! Over and over she had seen it mentioned in the texts she had read. If one army encircled the other then the odds swung heavily in their favour. Still something nagged at her about the shape of the battle. “Trempwick has used most of his reserves too.”

“That will not matter if your brother’s army is cut into two. I feel that is a very real danger, your Highness.” Again that gentle request, “In that event, what will you do, your Highness?”

Defeat. It seemed impossible. How could Hugh lose? Everything depended upon his victory – how could he be so useless as to lose!? It made her want to scream. The one thing she desperately need her brother to do, something he had been trained for since he could toddle, the most important moment of his life so far, and he was going to fail?! How perfectly bloody Hugh!

“Do?” she spat. “Do? What is there to do? Wait, then pick up whatever is left and attempt to make something functional of it.”

The castellan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ah … that is not quite as specific as I had hoped, your Highness.”

“You wished me to send for my crown so I could start polishing it?” To full of pent up anger to remain still Eleanor began to stomp up and down along the tower’s rampart. “Perhaps I should begin choosing a dress to receive Trempwick in? Is that what you would have me do? Fuss about preparing myself like a bride for a man who is going to-” She couldn’t say it. He was her tutor, her mentor, he was like a father to her, for Christ’s sake!

Sir Gervaise stood unflinching. “That might be a start.” Her glare must have been positively molten because he shrank back a trifle. “He could kill everyone in this castle. He’s promised to do so. You are the only one with a chance of stopping him, and you’ll only have that chance if you appease him.”

“Damn you,” Eleanor whispered. “That was underhand.”

“I am but reminding you of what you already know.”

“I am aware of that.” Under her cloak her fingers touched her hidden knives. “I do not need to choose dresses. I shall do as I am.” Who was the knife for? Herself? Trempwick? Would she break her sworn word to Fulk and send his soul howling to the torments of hell? In the face of defeat that is what it would mean. Fulk would not survive a victory by Trempwick, and so her oath to return to her master for protection would require fulfilment. With circumstances so changed Fulk should have released her from the resentful promise!

Then it came to her. “Cannae!” Eleanor exclaimed.

Sir Gervaise looked most alarmed. “Can you what, your Highness?”

“Cannae, the battle of Cannae.” The clarification did nothing to reduce the blank looks directed at her by all on her tower. “Hannibal. The destruction of a Roman army.”

The castellan shrugged. “My master taught me from more recent examples, your Highness. I’m no scholar.”

Eleanor scowled. She’d suffered through those dreary old books in the belief her misery had been shared by those with more military knowledge than her. Evidently not. “I have been reading works of history, and of strategy.”

“Yes, your Highness. It is most … unusual for a lady.”

It was all Sir Miles’ fault. He’d managed what Trempwick never had, and made her think it may be useful. “Look.” She pointed at the field. “See the shape the armies have taken?” Hugh’s centre had bowed backwards, his right flank advanced, his left flank still held position. Trempwick’s army had poured forward as it pressed its advantage. The overall resembled a hand cupping a ball. “Hannibal knew much of his infantry could not stand up to the Roman’s. He took advantage of this. When his centre bowed back and his more solid troops kept position he ended up half-encircling the Roman army. He played to his weakness, and made it his strength.” She said nothing of Hannibal’s superior cavalry and how they had driven off their weaker Roman counterparts, enabling a greater degree of encirclement than Hugh could manage.

Jocelyn scratched his cheek. “You say your brother plan this? To have such big risk?”

It would be a very Hugh thing to do. Eleanor knew her brother sought to model himself after those considered to be great, and grasped after examples of how he should act in every situation from the mundane to the extraordinary. Anything other than be his own self. “His education was very thorough, and I know he studied ancient battles along with more modern ones. He would be delusional if he thought he could have a solid battle line with the army he has brought.”

Hawise said, “But his knights have gone, chasing after Trempwick’s. Doesn’t that mean he is in trouble if he’s trying to do what you suggest?”

“Yes.” After a pause Eleanor added, “Possibly.” Another pause. “I have no idea – I am no strategist. I have read a few histories, that is all.”

The castellan was the one to break the weighty silence. “If your brother did indeed plan for this he may have some chance yet. If his centre doesn’t break.”





Fulk cursed and twisted his sword again. It wouldn’t budge. The blade had lodged in his enemy’s spine. It had been a mistake to swing with such force, even if the weapon’s edge were so dulled it now did much of its damage through blunt force. Another tug and finally it came free, the shock of it sending him teetering backwards. Before he recovered his balance a body hit him and threw him to the ground.

He heaved at the body lying across him with all the urgency his exhausted body could muster; those who fell and didn’t rise swiftly tended not to rise again. Waltheof and another he didn’t recognise filled the gap left by his fall, protecting him as he struggled.

The body shifted and he managed to half free himself. Fulk got one foot under himself and froze. His squire’s jaw was a mess of pulped flesh, splintered bone and shattered teeth floating haphazardly in it. His left eye reduced to a splash of jelly in a crumpled socket. Amazingly Luke still breathed, mercifully unconscious and undeniably dying.

Retching, though his stomach was long since emptied, Fulk drew his dagger and did the only thing he could. In the crush he was jostled, a knee catching him in the back with bruising force, and the cut across Luke’s throat was not clean.

Back on his feet Fulk didn’t search the enemy line for the man who’d killed Luke. There was no point. If he wasn’t directly in front of him then they wouldn’t meet, simple as that.

As he returned his sword to ready position after a slash Fulk noticed the tip of the blade had snapped clean off.




Hugh drew his sword. “God aid us!”

His men returned the cry.

“God aid us!” He started forward, the terrified militia peeling back to make way for his hardened veterans. “Stand and fight!” he bellowed. “Victory is at hand! Your lord fights with you as token of this!”

The words were not hollow. Prior to leaving his vantage point both right and left flanks had cut their way across, bagging the enemy up. If the cavalry returned they could cut right into the vulnerable rear, if not then his infantry would grind their way onwards. Trempwick could not pull back, he had nothing left to threaten the envelopment, his only chance lay in shattering Hugh’s militia before his own men panicked. Hence Hugh’s presence, and with him more than a hundred heavily armed men who lived and breathed for combat. His own guard would die to a man so long as he himself stood – it was their sworn duty, their very purpose in life.

“God aid us!” Hugh’s first victim tumbled to the ground. To his left and right he could see others achieving the same success – the impact of fresh men on the exhausted enemy was devastating.




He recognised the tactic. Of course he did. Grind his teeth or laugh? The bastard thought he was Hannibal! Whatever. Annoying. Punch through his line and the bastard was done. Hold out until Malcolm arrived and the bastard was done. If not Malcolm, then his own returning cavalry. The first highly likely. The latter only necessary for a neater finish. And to that end …

Trempwick drew his sword and charged into the fray in support of his left flank.

Wished again a simple assassination had been possible. So much cleaner.





Trempwick was engaged in the battle. Eleanor’s mouth went dry. This was it, time for her final decision. It was not as hard she had earlier believed it would be.

“Count Jocelyn.”

“Your Highness?”

“You will begin your sally now. Trempwick is on his left flank.”

The count bowed, his mail chiming softly. “We capture him,” he said confidently.

“No.” Easier than near-impossible was still a long way from child’s play. Eleanor took a breath. “Kill him.” A sense of loss swept over her, and with it a measure of tranquillity.

The Frenchman blinked. “Er?”

“I undertook a certain duty.” This would not make her popular amongst her remaining menfolk.

“But … you sure?” Jocelyn was not the only one with doubt plain to read in his eyes. They all had it. Every last damned one of them. Indeed, this would not make her popular.

Very carefully the castellan ventured, “Better to capture him, to submit him to your brother’s justice. If indeed your brother wins.”

Hugh would be livid at being denied his vengeance, at losing chance to stamp his victory over his tormentor into lasting memory. “When Trempwick falls his army will crumple. He is what holds them together. Strike off the serpent’s head and what is left is harmless. If my brother’s position is as perilous as you say then we must reach for anything which may give him the edge

Would Fulk forgive her? Whether made in jest or in the full grip of her royal temper, Fulk had met each and every suggestion that she do Trempwick some permanent harm with a flat negatory. Could he love someone capable of cold-bloodedly ordering the death of a man who had raised her, saved her life? Her decision would change things between them irrevocably. Then there was that tricky promise. How could she gamble with her beloved’s soul like this? If he died in that battle … She must believe he would survive, and thus the promise would have no cost.

Eleanor had inherited a kingdom. Unlooked for, unwanted, unaccepted though it may be, it was hers and try as she might she couldn’t turn her back on it.

Eleanor said, “There can be no peace while he lives.”

With her whole heart she cursed her father for thrusting this on her.









[wizard of Oz]Ding dong the witch* is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead! :celebration: [/wizard of Oz]
*for witch substitute Christmas season


Death is Yonder, please don’t mention queues. :has flashbacks to trying to shove as many people through the shops pair of tills as possible, with 4 people crammed behind the tiny counter, two manning the tills and the other two packing bags, and all the while that evil CD plays on: There should be some kind of counselling.

Wasabi_ko, hello! :hands over the traditional eye drops: By the time you catch up you will need these for your poor, tired eye balls.

Merry Christmas, Ludens.

Another new reader! :likewise hands out eye drops to woad&fangs: If you survived the cringe worthy Harry Potter romances then Anne and William should be nothing to your hardened soul. :gring:

I do plan on releasing my readers, Peasant Phill. One day … Until then, get back in your cages! :tongueg:

[Lord Winter]

Very good read lady frog, both sides are in trouble, hugh may get his calvery annalihated by Malcom, but Trempwick has the sorty party to deal with.

Keep on the good work :2thumbsup:

[frogbeastegg]

I made a pair of maps. They're rubbish and ugly; I'm not an artist and it's hard to draw with a mouse and Paint. However they may be useful.

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v298/frogbeastegg/map1.jpg
This is the position at the start of the battle. It's not to scale at all, and things are only roughly slapped down in the right position.

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v298/frogbeastegg/map2.jpg
This is the battle as it presently stands. The bit containing the castle is my rubbish attempt at one of those posh blown up inserts you see on battlefield diagrams. The big black line is to indicate the line of seperation between scales.

Notice how Nell's unit is tagged in gooseberry green? :tongueg:

[furball]

That's the mental image I had of the battle lines, though it took me a couple of readings to form it. For some reason, my initial reading left me 180 degrees off.

I'm assuming that the castle ramparts aren't very high and that there are hills between the castle and Malcolm's army. Hard as it might be to get a rider to Hugh, it would be worth much if the castle could have warned him of the danger.

Meanwhile, wonderful writing from the POV's and giving a sense of the situation, Froggy. I always hope for happy endings, but we've had enough foreshadowing that I'm awfully worried for our favorite characters, whoever they may be. :)

One thing: The following paragraph seems very important, but I'm not sure I really understand it. I'm *assuming* that, "send his soul howling to the torments of hell," could be replaced by "kill Trempwick." That is, "his soul" refers to Trempwick's. Or am I missing something? And isn't it reasonable to believe that Fulk would never have survived a victory by Trempwick, so I don't see how cicumstances are "so changed."

"Who was the knife for? Herself? Trempwick? Would she break her sworn word to Fulk and send his soul howling to the torments of hell? In the face of defeat that is what it would mean. Fulk would not survive a victory by Trempwick, and so her oath to return to her master for protection would require fulfilment. With circumstances so changed Fulk should have released her from the resentful promise!"

[frogbeastegg]

Waaaay back in the dim and distant past (when they were travelling to Scotland) Fulk made Nell swear on his soul that if he died she would go to Trempwick for shelter. He believed she would be better treated by Trempy than Hugh. He has not released her from that, though their situation has changed enormously. If Fulk dies and Trempy is no longer there for her to go to due to her ordering him killed then her promise is broken as surely as if she fled screaming in the opposite direction.

Alnwick's a nice stone castle, good high walls and such like. It's one of the key fortresses on the English/Scottish border.

[furball]

Thank you.

[Ludens]

Thanks for the explanation. I didn't understand that line either.

[woad&fangs]

Just finished topic page eleven. It's the scene where the King arives at Jocelyns castle.:laugh4:

The thoughts, emotions, and motives of the various characters are much more believable than I'm used to reading.

[frogbeastegg]

The portcullis shuddered and began to rise. Jocelyn drew his sword. Behind him came the rasp of forty-nine other swords being freed. The iron-reinforced gate reached the top of its runners with a final clank. Four men began to swing the double doors open.

Jocelyn hefted his shield. “Forward!”

They marched out in a tight, wide column, swung around to hug the walls and broke into a jog. Why waste time and lives overpowering that damned outpost Trempwick had set up outside their gates when they could simply speed on by? The men inside it couldn’t do them a whit of harm, not without coming into range of the castle. There may only be a handful of soldiers left inside there but by God there were quite a few women and clueless men. Damn, that hellion of a princess could probably shoot down half an incoming army all on her own, damned mad woman!

Damn it, the woman was deranged, right bloody mad! All she needed to do was sit there and wait, wait and see who won and then have them disposed of if she didn’t think they’d work nicely with her new reign. That was all. None of this sallying forth and killing some of them and saving others business. If the daft slut had picked the wrong husband to kill then they’d all be in a fine bloody mess! What if they killed off the Trempwick one and her half-brother lost anyway? Where the sodding hell was she then?! In deep shit, that’s where, and him right along with her, thanks very much!

Fifty paces left between them and the back of Trempwick’s personal little mob, give or take a big fat margin of error and all that.

Right. He’d have to trust her. She was a queen and knew what she was doing. Women did that sometimes. They made incomprehensible decisions and then shrieked when you chose to do something a bit more bloody sensible. Richildis did it all the time, damn her miserable hide. It was all part and parcel of being a female. Being mysterious, that is. Shrieking too, come to think of it. That’s how God had designed them – irritate the hell out of men. There were compensations for those able to master the virtues the Lord had wanted to cultivate in the superior sex: patience, understanding, kindliness, and a good strong right fist. Hell yes, there were compensations alright! Jocelyn knew that well, being a veritable saint when it came to dealing with women.

Twenty paces. Jocelyn ordered, “Forming line!” The small band of brave heroes upon whom the entire outcome of this battle – nay, this civil war! – rested tightened up their formation until their shoulders touched, levelled their shields, and began to advance in good battle order.

How could he trust her when she didn’t know what she was doing? Looking at it from an objective point of view, she kept on saying she didn’t want the throne. What kind of bloody lunacy was that?! No, it all had to be a cunning ploy, no other reason for it. What sane person would chuck away the chance at ultimate power? She was sane, wasn’t she?

The soldiers around him shouted, “For the gooseberry!”

He hadn’t given permission for that! Surely it should be his cry they raised, not hers! Jocelyn gave it a hearty go, certain that they’d pick it up. Not only was his cry glorious and that of a count, it was a damned sight less embarrassing than all that fruit nonsense. “A d’Ardantes! A d’Ardantes!”

“The gooseberry! For the gooseberry!” They were giving it some gusto.

Oh, saint Swithen and a stick! If you couldn’t beat them you may as well join them. “A d’Ardantes! A d’Ardantes for the gooseberry!” As they crashed into the hastily formed rear guard Jocelyn discouraged the enemy from laughing at the absurd damned cry by killing anyone within reach.





Dusk was beginning to fall; the light had begun to fade. Returned to the line after his third break Fulk was past caring. If he died then he’d be able to rest. Only the thought of Eleanor, and long training, kept him on his feet, his sword – once again he wielded Maude’s gift - seeking out every opening. It should not be possible to be so exhausted and still on his feet.

Again he took a diagonal step forward. He felled an enemy. Again. Again. His tattered shield shuddered under blows, others made it past and glanced off his armour with bruising impact. A few caught the minute gaps in mail links and stabbed on home to prick his skin, every time his sluggish brain sparked into life and overrode his trained reactions to pull him from danger before the damage could become more than superficial.

The mass of humanity before him wavered for a moment, parting sufficiently to give him a view of what lay ahead. Trempwick’s banner. Fulk felt energy flood back into his limbs. Trempwick’s banner. The man himself would be under it! Through a raw throat he croaked, “FitzWilliam’s men! Press right! Right and forward – forward! Trempwick is here!”






Eleanor’s fingers were so chilled she failed to grip the goblet of hot wine adequately and it fell to the ground, the contents slopping all over the stonework and the hem of her clothes. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Go inside, your Highness,” Sir Gervaise said once again. “There’s nothing for you to do here.”

She shook her head; her teeth were chattering and it was difficult to speak without biting her own tongue off. Whyever did men think waiting was made easier by sitting in comfort oblivious to what was occurring? Here if something happened she would know of it as it unfolded.

The servant pressed a second goblet into her hands, curling her fingers around the warmth and supporting her grip with his own until her fingers had regained sufficient life to retain their grip. Eleanor smiled her thanks at the man, and he blushed.

Sir Gervaise unpinned his cloak and flung it about Eleanor’s shoulders. “Your husband will not thank you if you catch cold out here.”

The cloak was of the same heavy wool as Eleanor’s and lined with bear fur; it was marvellously warm from the castellan’s own body heat. “Thank you.”

“Go inside, your Highness.”

“As you said earlier, sir, if the day goes ill it will be for me to pull whatever is left from the fire. My place is here.”

So she waited and watched, and watched and waited. Trempwick’s line skewed further and further, his left flank was crushed into his main battle line, and the centre itself was pressed into a shapeless blob surrounded on two sides and most of another. Hugh had won, Eleanor was convinced of it.

Her attention was drawn to an unwelcome development by Aveis. A cloud of dust gave away the approach of a sizeable body of men from the north-west.

“It is likely the cavalry returning, Hugh’s or Trempwick’s,” Sir Gervaise said.

They came close enough for the banners to be visible. The castellan had been wrong. Neither Hugh’s nor Trempwick’s banners flew above that body of knights.

“Malcolm.” Eleanor spoke the name in such a way it became a curse.

The castellan spat on the floor. “What does that devil’s spawn want here?”

“Nothing good, doubtless.”

No one suggested otherwise. Gervaise and Aveis, northerners born and bred, knew the Nefastus as a distant and unwelcome neighbour. Eleanor and Hawise had met the brat.

Eleanor said, “He is the reason Trempwick was so confident. He must be. Trempwick had a good chance to win alone. With the Nefastus to support him it is all but guaranteed.”

Hawise frowned slightly. “His father is your brother’s ally.”

“An alliance he spat upon, and a father he wishes to overthrow.” Eleanor turned to her castellan in appeal. “What can we do? There must be something!”

Sir Gervaise watched the advance of Malcolm’s cavalry for a time. “Make sure the gates are well bolted, and pray the creature’s horse throws him so he breaks his neck. It is too late to call back your men, and there are no more to send.”

The Scottish cavalry was forming up to attack Hugh’s left flank where it had curled up around Trempwick’s line. It was all hideously clear to Eleanor’s semi-educated eyes. The flank would break, and this would leave the struggling centre exposed and demoralised. They would break. The right flank would collapse too, as it became unsupported. Hugh had some small worth as a prisoner. Fulk had none. Quite the reverse – by marrying her he had insulted those of noble blood, and vengeance would be extracted in full.

Eleanor’s knees went weak. She must have looked faint because Hawise and Sir Gervaise rushed to her side and grabbed hold of her.” I am well,” she assured them. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

If Malcolm came near her after the battle she would kill him with her own two hands, consequences be damned. A pair of knives to the belly, two deep thrusts low down so he bled to death over several hours in shrieking agony. If he kept his distance she would arrange his death. Whether she ended back in Trempwick’s hands or not, the Nefastus would die for this, and he would die as horrifically as she could manage. If Trempwick would not aid her then she would do it despite him.

Horns rang out, and Malcolm’s thrice damned cavalry began its charge, advancing at a steady walk towards Hugh’s right flank. The men dug in their spurs, and the horses gained speed. Still they held their course. Eleanor couldn’t look away, couldn’t close her eyes. She feared she may be sick, bile was burning the back of her throat. She’d never see Fulk again. She’d lost him.

The line gathered more speed. Infantrymen scrambled to form a fresh line to defend against the cavalry, and Trempwick’s men harried them mercilessly. They had known the prince was coming. They knew him as an ally.

Eleanor’s vision grew hazy. She didn’t blink the tears away, they were the only respite from what was taking place she could get.

The lances came down, the men bellowed their battle cry, and ploughed into the infantry. The noise was hideous, the shrieks of men and horses standing out from the din of the field.

Now Eleanor blinked. Again, and rubbed at her eyes to clear her tears. “Tell me, surely that is - he is – they are attacking Trempwick’s men!” the last part came out as a semi hysterical screech.

“God’s teeth!” Sir Gervaise leaned as far over the ramparts as he could, hand over his eyes to wring every last drop of use out of his vision. The castle walls were filled with people doing the same, and Eleanor was not too proud to stand aloof.

“He is!” Eleanor staggered back from the icy stonework, beaming like an idiot. “He is! He is attacking Trempwick!”





Betrayed. The brat prince had sided with the bastard. Must have thought Trempwick’s cause lost. Too stupid to see that he could turn it all about!

No matter. Too late. Nothing to be done. Trempwick might be in the thick of the fighting be he knew his men had begun to rout. The line was less dense. The men less willing to press forward. The sounds of the field too confused. The enemy too triumphant.

Kept fighting.

He’d lost. Failed. Like an idiot! Put too much on breaking the centre, he saw now. Should have been more conservative. Not let his line be drawn in and warped.

Should have strangled the prince with his bare hands on meeting him.

Too late for should haves. Far too late.

Break and run? He scorned to do so. Kept fighting. Kept felling men.

He knew who he fought. Knew who controlled these men at arms. There was something he could do. Just a matter of finding him …

Searching, fighting, killing, and searching.

Until … There! His shield’s facing half ripped away, his coat of arms barely distinguishable. So soaked in gore as to be red from head to toe with not a touch of other colour. Battered and cut about. Unmistakable. And headed towards Trempwick.

So. At last they could meet without fetters. No Nell to hold them back. No propriety. No boundaries. No limitations. Just … them.

Trempwick shouted, “Fulk is mine! Mine! None are to touch him! Clear us space!”

Nell’s pet was yelling words of similar effect.

Slowly an island of space formed in the melee. Fulk at one edge. Trempwick opposite. Space for them to deal with each other as they willed. No restraints. At last.

The pet kept his shield up and assumed a balanced stance better suited to individual combat. Did not move otherwise. Waiting. Allowing Trempwick to make the first move.

Trempwick waited. Did not move. Ready.

They did not speak. Did not move. The fighting raged on around them. The clear space grew and contracted, shifted. Men shouted encouragement to them.

Impasse. More boring than expected. No restraints - and no legroom for anything interesting. All they could do was cut each other to shreds. Tedious in the extreme.

“Sir Fulk,” Trempwick said.

“What, spymaster?”

Trempwick made his move with the speed of a viper, thrust his sword into his target, released the hilt and retreated a step. It was well done. Neat. He was almost pleased.

The pet’s eyes widened behind his helmet’s eye slits. The tip of his sword wavered.

“I yield.” Trempwick gestured at the sword dug point first into the slurry that was the ground. “To you, specifically, and only you.”

Priority: survive. Where there was life there was hope. The pet would never harm him unless in his own defence. It would affect his relationship with Nell too much. Freed his arm of his shield and dropped it.

The pet made no more. Kept his sword ready.

Idiots on the pet’s side encouraged him to cut Trempwick down. Avenge what had been done to his wife – his wife. Nell. To hear her referred to as such burned.

Nell’s … husband – say it, accept it – husband advanced a step. Another. Another. Trempwick held still. There was no danger. The sword point pressed closer. Amusing that he knew the knight better than he did himself. Another step. Stopped. Sword levelled.

Slow. Very slowly Trempwick raised his hands to his helmet. More slowly still he unlaced the chin strap and drew it off.

The knight pulled back half a step. Afraid of trickery, how pleasing!

Dropped the helmet to the ground.

Could draw his dagger and throw it. At this range the throat was an easy target. A fatal one. Smiled, knowing this. Freed his fingers from his mail mittens, again with infinite slowness. Unfastened the straps which held the dagger to his belt. Let it drop. Tilted his head slightly. Said, “It is rude to keep a man waiting.”

And finally that sword lowered. The knight had realised for himself he would not harm his foe. In a worn down voice, “It would not be honourable to cut down an unarmed man.”

“Just so,” Trempwick agreed. He knew it was because of Nell. They both did.




The day was won! He was victorious! A kingmaker or a queenmaker or whatever, and all that stuff! He was a hero! The leader of the sally force which had mauled Trempwick’s wing badly enough to make it possible for what’s-his-name that was the second husband to capture the unwanted first husband!

Alright, so there was a minor belch in the happy amazingness that was victory. He hadn’t managed to kill Trempwick as per his instructions. That wasn’t actually his fault, and really he couldn’t be expected to go off and kill another man’s prisoner. Besides, the way Jocelyn looked at it what’s-his-name would have to do all of the explaining. He was the daft idiot who’d gotten in the way and interfered. It was all his fault!

Richildis would be so thrilled when she heard about his exploits! Now she’d have to love him. Not that she didn’t already, of course. She’d love him more. Yes, that was it.

Jocelyn spied a routing man in full armour – rich! He dug his spurs in and caught up in no time, smacked the chap on the back of the neck with the pommel of his sword, and declared him a prisoner. Ransom money made any battle worthwhile, and that armour looked like it would make a good spare set, and all this in addition to the riderless horses they’d managed to round up. Yes, dear Tildis would have to like him now.

He followed the routing enemy for a while longer, letting the men at arms he’d led take charge of the prisoners he gathered.

One of his targets spun around as he heard the hoof beats. He was holding a crossbow. It was levelled at Jocelyn’s heart in a blink. It was cocked. The horse was still cantering along towards the soldier. The evening light glittered on the iron point. Jocelyn wrenched at the reins, brought his shield around in front of himself. The bowman’s trigger finger contracted.

Jocelyn yelled, “Fuck!”

It didn’t help. The bolt sheered through his shield before he’d finished the word, pierced his mail and padding, and drilled a hole through his shoulder.





Trempwick’s army had broken. Eleanor had witnessed the moment where her master’s banner had fallen, and she’d seen that it had been Fulk’s flying in opposition to it at the time. That did not mean Fulk himself had had a hand in the deed. He would not. Surely?

Her master was dead. Fulk was alive, Hugh was alive and victorious. It was over at last.

Trempwick was dead. Unable to stomach the celebrations of the others on her tower Eleanor departed to wait in her bedchamber for Fulk’s return. Alone.

By the fire she defrosted and tried to think of what all this meant for her unwanted kingdom. All that would come to her mind were memories of Trempwick, and tears streamed unchecked down her face.











From here on there are many scenes in close succession which have been burning away in my mind for years. Fulk V Trempy, and Jocelyn and the crossbow bolt (he’s so unlucky with those things, isn’t he?) are both of the lower order of burning scenes, and Nell weeping in front of her fire is another of slightly greater persistence. The rest are yet to come.

Originally there were supposed to be some Hugh and Trempy POVs of them fighting, and a few more of Fulk. I wrote them and removed them. The end result does feel better. It’s less bloated and has the tension in the right places.




Woad&fangs, you’re tempting me to give you some book recommendations. If you think my humble efforts are good then you have some amazing reads waiting out there for you.

[woad&fangs]

I would hardly call 1,000 pages a humble effort but I need to get back into reading more books so I'd love to hear any suggestions you may have. :book:

Currently i'm a few posts down topic page 13. Mahaut's line about boys being grumpy because they can't wear dresses was great:laugh4: I hope that the Jocelyn POV's increase. All of his talk about loyalty makes me think of him as an older more bad*** version of Fulk. I'm starting to find some of the Fulk and Eleanor POV's to be rather dull but the other characters definately pick up the slack.

Happy birthday froggy

[Ludens]

~:thumb:

Looking forward to the episode when they have a face-to-face meeting :evil: .

Happy birthday, Froggy!

[RoadKill]

Frostbeastegg, I love you for writing this story. I'm only at the bottom of page three reading, but damn! You are one fabulous writer. Loving the plot, characters and everything.

[frogbeastegg]

woad&fangs, recommendations you shall have then.

The first, universal one I give to everyone is 'Shogun' by James Clavell. It's a brick of a book, and one of the finest works of fiction I have read. The characterisation and atmosphere is exquisite.

For others ... it would be easier if I knew a few other books you have read recently, and what you thought of them.



Ludens, thank you for the birthday wishes :bow: 25 now! I'm the same age as Fulk. When I first started thinking of these characters I was two years older than Nell, meaning 21. How time flies.


Roadkill, you may not need them yet but here's the traditional eyedrops. After you work your way through the remaining 23 pages you'll need them. :hands over eyedrops:

[furball]

Birthday? Well then, may it be happy!

Agreed that Shogun is a fine work. It made me read Clavell's follow-ups, Tai-Pan, etc., but they didn't grab me nearly so much.

As a Jocelyn fan, I've bemoaned the fact that since he's come to work for Nell we've seen more of his (hitherto unexpected) bad side. I liked his role as gruff comic relief.

And Maclcolm! What a surprise!

Always a good day when there's a new installment of the Machiavellian Adventures.

[Peasant Phill]

Happy birthday.

Somehow I pictured you older than 25. Must be my ego that doesn't tolerate someone of my age being as good at something where I'm not.

Great installment, can't wait for the Trempy-Nell confrontation and whatever malcolms motivation was.

[Death is yonder]

Happy Birthday Froggy.:happybirthday3: :cake: .So much has been written in just a week or two and I couldnt even check for updates thanks to school:thumbsdown: .These teachers are like :whip: :whip: ,giving so much homework on the first week:help: .Interesting development on the story,now I'm wondering what will happen when Eleanor hears that Trempy is not dead and what will happen the next time they meet.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk stumbled on past Richard without a word. The boy was clearly horrified by his lord’s appearance; Fulk didn’t have the strength left to reassure him. All he wanted to do was sit down for a bit. No more.

The boy followed him into the tent and watched him collapse onto a stool. “My lord … you’re well?”

Fulk managed to nod. He was, after a fashion.

“Do you want some food?”

He shook his head.

“Water?”

Yes. As he moved he caught sight of himself, of the blood which caked him all over. He stilled, and shook his head again. He didn’t want to vomit again.

“They’re saying …”

Fulk dragged his head up and tried to smile to encourage the boy. All he managed with a minute twitch of his lip.

“They’re saying you’re the greatest knight on the field. In all England, even.”

“Who?”

“Everyone! Well, nearly everyone.” The boy inched a step closer, his features a bit more animated. “I’ve been hearing tales of your exploits all day. You captured Trempwick! You forced their flank – no one’s talking about Suffolk being there at all, only about you, my lord! They say you fought like a hero, that no one could touch you. That you felled scores of men yourself.”

“Yes.” It was glorious. In a few days he might be able to consider it so himself.

“You’re a hero!” Richard’s eyes glowed as he gazed at his master.

For the boy’s sake Fulk stirred himself, and summoned up a smile. “I’m the weariest knight, I won’t argue that.”

“Shall I help you disarm, my lord?”

“Please.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder to the tent’s entrance. “Is Luke coming to help?”

“Luke’s dead.” His blood was lost in all the rest which drenched Fulk’s surcoat; he knew it was there and abruptly he couldn’t bear it. He staggered to his feet and began to unbuckle his sword belt. “Help me disarm. Please.”

His surcoat went straight onto the brazier to burn, thrown on with an emotion verging on hysteria. Dried blood flaked from his armour as it was removed, and once he saw his page was getting painted by dabs of crimson Fulk waved him away to finish the job himself. His gambeson was soaked with blood, except the chest area where his coat of plates had made contamination difficult. His shirt, hose and braes were in an unspeakable state, and they too went onto the fire. Stripped naked he scrubbed at himself with a rag and lukewarm water – his hands and forearms were dyed rusted-red, as were his lower legs. Not his own blood, though he was covered in enough of that.

Richard had shrunk back, inching away fraction by fraction as Fulk peeled away his equipment. As his lord washed he began to come closer again. In a tremulous voice he said, “You’re wounded.”

Fulk looked down. His torso and arms were black and blue with bruising, only a few patches of white remaining. The half-healed wound on his shoulder had been bleeding again, as had his wounded shin. Dozens of tiny cuts and grazes marked where weapons had penetrated his armour. “Nothing serious.”

“But …” Richard clasped his hands, trembling. “What should I do?” he wailed.

Fulk wrung out his now filthy rag; he gave up and dropped it into the bowl. “You can get me some more water. Hot, cold, I don’t care so long as it will get me clean.” He should have had someone older, someone more experienced to help him. This poor lad had left home for the first time two weeks ago. “Then go find John. He’ll be able to show you what to do with my armour.” The man at arms needed a new lot in life now the loss of fingers had rendered him incapable of holding a weapon. He was reliable and a veteran, and may do well as a non-fighting squire. He’d send Richard to introduce himself to Eleanor, and tell her all was well with him.

He dabbed at the blood trickling from a slice on his forearm. The greatest knight. He thought he might be pleased with that … tomorrow.






“I am well and healthy, and have but the slightest of wounds such as any man will gather during combat, and thus I beg you not to distress yourself with concern for my welfare.” Hugh held his breath and palmed bathwater on his face. Once he felt cleansed he wiped the water away on a towel and resumed dictating to his clerk. “I pray you, my dearest lady wife, send me word of your own health at once, that I too may be at peace.”

Hugh rinsed away the last of the soap. He ought to rise from his bath and attend to the necessary business generated by his victory. The water was warm, gloriously warm, and so soothing to his aching body; to his great shame it made him desire to soak there until the water went cold. Why should he not? Trempwick was safely mewed in Alnwick’s chapel, a tiny chamber with no windows and only the one door. His men were being taken care of by the relevant parties, as were the prisoners. Eleanor, well what was a brother to do there? Their meeting had been difficult, stilted. Not a word she had uttered had been driven by anything other than formality. Congratulations on his victory, thanks for coming to her aid, concern for his health, the offer of hospitality for as long as he needed it, followed by her departing back to her bedchamber the very instant this bare minimum of conversation was completed. She had granted him the second best room and a spare bathtub rousted out from he knew not where, the best being reserved for her husband, the lord of this castle. By rights it should have been his, Hugh knew. So too the best chamber. Where a king visited those who owned the residence made way. He could not help but recall Trempwick’s words prior to the battle …

Hugh ducked his head under the water to wash away the unwholesome thoughts. Enough! This was what came from surrendering to petty comforts to the neglect of duty.

As his body squire helped him dry himself Hugh dictated the closing section of his message. “It is my intent to close business here in the north and return to the south, whereupon, I most fervently pray, beloved wife, that I may be reunited with you.”

He signed the letter with his own hand, and gave orders for it to be carried to Constance with all speed.






“I wish to speak to your lord.” The voice was familiar; Fulk couldn’t place a name to it.

John replied, “I’ll see if he’s available, your Highness.”

Highness? Fulk stopped examining his multicoloured torso and reached for his shirt. Of course – Malcolm Nefastus.

The crippled man at arms ducked into the tent. “The Prince of Scotland wishes to see you, my lord.” He picked at the bandages swathing his right hand, and said in a hushed voice, “I can have several of the men here in two squeaks, my lord. Or I can send him packing, tell him you’re too battered for visitors.”

“Thank you, but no.” Fulk had no idea why the prince would seek him out, and he had just enough strength left to be curious.

The prince was admitted – once Fulk had placed his dagger and the least blunt of his three swords within easy reach.

Malcolm was still in armour, head bare. Whatever was said of him for his part in today’s fighting none had called into question his personal bravery; it was easy to see why. His mail had rents in more than one spot. Wide, unfocused green eyes lived in a face much too white for comfort and said much of how the prince was coping with his first battle. Fulk wondered why he’d had been allowed to wander in such a state. Sheer negligence on the part of those older heads meant to be responsible for him, Fulk would say.

“I …” The prince rubbed at his right hand, cleaning it by friction.

“There’s water there.” Fulk nodded towards one of the leftover bowls.

When his hands were nearly clean the boy remembered to say, “Thank you.”

“What can I do for you, your Highness?”

Malcolm spent a deal of time on drying his trembling hands. When he could draw that out no longer he arranged the cloth very carefully on the makeshift table. “They – that is to say prince Hugh’s advisors and my own … they say I should be knighted. For today. For fighting well.”

“Congratulations, your Highness.”

“I know what else they say. When I’m not there. What everyone else says and will say.” His fists clenched, and at last his voice gathered some of the brashness Fulk remembered from before. “I bloody know alright, the bunch of shit-eating bastards. Always the bloody same, always.” Malcolm’s shoulders slumped, and without asking he sat down on the vacant stool, head low. “I know.” His voice was soft again.

“Highness?”

After a bit the boy looked up. “If I’m going to be knighted I want you to do it. Not them.”

“Why?” Fulk shifted his position to one with a touch more emphasis on comfort.

Malcolm chewed at his lower lip, a habit Fulk recognised as Anne’s. Which sibling had copied it from the other, he wondered? “Because it would mean something coming from you,” he replied at last.

Fulk snorted. “I’m nobody, a base-born bastard whom your father used to humiliate his English rivals.”

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

Again the answer was very slow in coming. “Do you know what they are calling you tonight? Not the lords and the great men, but the common soldiers? The greatest knight.”

“Yes, I’d heard.” Fulk wanted nothing so much as a cup of mead. “It’s …”

“Nonsense?” the prince supplied for him. He made a dismissive gesture ruined by the uncontrolled shaking of his hand. “You know why it’s got the fucking nobles hopping about like someone pissed all over them? Because you bloody well have, in a manner of speaking.”

Two cups of mead. Fulk sat up straight again, one hand slipping near his dagger. “If you’ve come here to insult me then you’d better leave. Now.”

“No!” The boy scowled and averted his face. “Damn it, I …” He came to his feet in one shaky movement, and kicked the stool across the tent. “It’s always the fucking same!”

There was something of despair in those words, and it made Fulk pause. “If you’ve something to say, why don’t you sit down and talk sense. You were before.”

The prince balled his fists at his side. “I was trying. Then you accused me of insulting you.”

“Because it sounded as though you were. There’s no need to swear.”

The boy stood there like a statue. Fulk waited. Eventually Malcolm righted the stool, and sat back down. “It’s what people expect of me.”

It was difficult to know how to treat that confession. Fulk sensed that it was offered by way of an apology, an opening that would not normally be offered. “Yet you can speak elegantly and well when you so choose. As you do now.”

“I am a prince.” The words, while every bit as well-spoken as one would expect from a scion of royal blood, were bleak. Malcolm breathed out heavily. “I am also the Nefastus. That has always taken precedence.” He lifted his chin. “I wish you to knight me. As I was attempting to say. You have pis- upset the lords. They have reason to fume at your being dubbed the greatest knight by the commons. Simple fact of it is that you deserve it and they don’t. Not just from today, but from before it too. You’ve won skirmishes, rescued your princess, fought in single combat and in tournament and always emerged victorious. No one can deny your skill at arms, and you’ve got the head of a leader to go with it. All you lack is the blood.”

“This greatest knight business will be forgotten within a week. There are others out there who are better than I.”

Malcolm hitched his shoulders. “Yes. But did they fight here? No. Did they capture the enemy leader? No. Did they help carve a path to this castle, even? No. So for now at least you are hailed as the greatest.”

“And that’s why you want me to knight you? Because I’m currently celebrated.”

The prince’s green eyes flashed with contempt. “The Nefastus would. I don’t.”

Fulk raised his eyebrows at that.

“I want you because …” His mouth twisted, and when he managed to get the words out they were in a still more subdued tone than the rest of the conversation. “You know what it means. I don’t think they do. Not so well as you do. Everything you’ve got in this life you won with your sword. They’re lords first and knights second.” Malcolm shifted on his stool, letting his hands hang limply between his knees. “And maybe they won’t have let Trempwick surrender. Not when they had so much reason to run him through.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d had never made another knight, had not expected to until Richard reached manhood. It must have cost the boy a lot to come here and ask for this favour. “Being knighted by me will do you no favours.”

“Say you will think about it? Please.”

“Very well.”

The boy clambered to his feet. “You’ll want to go to your wife. I’ll leave. Now. I’ll go and … and …”

And wander about uncared for until the shock wore off and he broke down, still wearing his filthy armour.

Midway to the exit the prince paused, and said so softly Fulk only just heard, “I wanted to do what was right.”

Damn it, make that two very large cups of mead. “Your Highness?” Who could he rely upon? Fulk amended his question to a more accurate form: who did he have left? Many of his better men were worn out, wounded or dead. The lot fell by default on poor old John. “If your own squire’s not up to the task, let my man help you.”

“I …” The boy choked up, unable to speak.

Time to be out of here, or he’d be trapped by his own conscience for hours. Fulk grabbed his tunic and hauled it on, buckling his belt with difficulty as he crossed his tent with his cloak stuffed under an arm. “If you’re still of the same mind, come speak with me tomorrow.” He ducked outside without giving the prince chance to reply.

The wounded man at arms was waiting a tactful distance from the tent flap. “My lord?”

“Ah, John. Just the man. I’ve a job for you …”

“My lord?”

“Take care of the prince for me. His own lot have abandoned him like a stray dog. He’s in no state to be alone.”

“You’re telling me all the killing got to him?” John made a rude noise. “Not that one.”

“Show sense, man,” Fulk snarled. The conversation with Malcolm had prodded him a short way out of his own lassitude; the need for Eleanor had begun burning in him, a tiny little flame growing hotter all the time. “He’s fourteen. He’s killed once or twice, that’s all. Nothing like this. I doubt he’s ever sent others to their deaths or made choices which ended with them, either.”

John’s mouth pulled into a sour line. “I suppose.”

“Sit with him. Get some hot wine down him, get him out of that armour, and sit with him.”

“As you command, my lord,” the man at arms growled.

Fulk clapped him on the arm as he walked past. “Good man.”





He walked like an old, old man, and limped slightly with his right leg. Bestubbled, pale, eyes surrounded by dark circles – the toll extracted from Fulk since she’d last seen him made Eleanor’s instinctive desire to rush to him waver. He looked so fragile.

When he closed the bedchamber door Fulk sagged back to lean on it. Closing his eyes he tilted his head back until it too rested on the solid woodwork.

Eleanor said the first thing which came into her mind. “You look terrible.”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks, oh gooseberry mine.” Fulk ran a hand through his hair. “Damned vultures, hopping about waiting for any meat they can tear at. They couldn’t wait to point out to me that you were up here, and not waiting for me in the bailey.”

She hadn’t thought of that, heartsick as she was and wanting to be alone until the only company she wanted was available. Hugh would never had understood that, so she had made a brief foray to receive him. Eleanor had believed otherwise of Fulk. “I am sorry. My lord.”

Fulk shook his head. “You misunderstand. Whatever we did would’ve been wrong in their eyes. If you’d been waiting then they’d have whispered about your unnatural attachment to me. Damn the lot of them to hell.” The curse was no more than a weary exhalation.

Moments later Eleanor was in his arms, face buried in his tunic. He stank of sweat and steel, and he held her tightly enough to crush her. Fulk took a deep, satisfied breath and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

A time later Eleanor raised her head and demanded, “How are you?”

Instead of replying he kissed her with the utmost gentleness, and smoothed her hair back into order where it had caught on his stubble and been pulled into disarray.

She prodded his breastbone. “That is not much of an answer.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “I am weary to the bone, battered, bruised and bloodied, half-starved, thirsty.” Fulk placed his hands on either side of her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “You have a bath waiting for me. Oh my most beloved gooseberry, for that alone I could kiss you.”

“I made the arrangements as soon as it became clear you would fight today. In the hope …”

He clasped her to his chest again; Eleanor felt a tremor pass through him. “This must be why men invented marriage.”

“To get a bath?”

Fulk’s body shook again, accompanied by a choked sob. “No.”

Eleanor stroked the back of his neck. “My poor luflych little knight. Everyone was at great pains to warn me about how you might be. I believe they thought I would be shocked. They do not know I have seen some of this before.”

He gasped out a laugh that contained another sob. “And now you’re stuck with something of all three possible moods.”

“I do not notice any signs of you drowning yourself in drink.”

“Only because there’s none in reach.”

“You are barely crying, and certainly not hysterical.”

“Battles don’t take me that way. Not since the first time.”

“Nor do I see you acting like a rutting idiot, as Aveis picturesquely termed it.”

Another quiver ran through him. “My usual remedy. As you know. Except this time it’d be honourable, not like the others. I don’t know why you put up with me using you that. It was disgusting. Sordid. Disrespectful-”

Eleanor set a finger over his lips. “I never said so.”

“I’m too tired! Now it can be something better I’m far too tired. What am I going to do?”

“Take a bath?”

This time the laugh had more of mirth and less of pain to it. “When did you become so sensible?”

“I do not know.”

Fulk pulled back so he could see her face. “As we advanced we heard stories. About men tortured to death outside the gates.”

“Yes.”

“I hear you killed someone.”

“It has been a long time since I used a crossbow. I thought I would miss.”

Fulk raised his eyebrows in silent query.

“I meant to hit him. Missing would not have had the necessary effect.”

“It can’t have been easy to hold all this together.”

Eleanor heard again the screams of those Trempwick had cut to pieces outside the walls, saw once more the moment where her mentor’s banner had fallen. “I do not ask about your battle. Do not ask me about mine.” Imploring, “Please. I want only to forget, so far as I can. I do not have the luxury of being able to drink myself into a stupor or any of the rest of that, and …” And she had done her crying, mourned what she’d lost and had turned her face to what she had left. It would be every bit as wrong to mourn Trempwick here and now, where her concern should be with her beloved, as it would have been to show any of her grief for him in public. Then too if the subject were not raised she would not have to hear what had happened in that brief time where Fulk’s banner had flown next to Trempwick’s.

Fulk’s only answer was to put his lips to hers.

Once Fulk was safely installed in his bath Eleanor made him drink some of the rich beef broth she’d been keeping warm by the fire. He put it aside half finished, and settled back against the padded rim of the tub. She believed him to be drowsing until he said, “It would have been politic to yield all this to your brother.”

“I see no reason to place you second to him.” Eleanor caught up the dish of soap and began to wash Fulk’s hair. “Has he fought for half the day? Is he half as battered as you? Is he lord of this castle? If he has complaints about the hospitality he has been granted he may direct them to me, and I shall see him off in short order.”

A wave of water swept the tub as Fulk turned around to face her. “Eleanor, it would have been tactful-”

“He is my brother first and above all, and if that is not sufficient then he owes us a very great deal. If he begrudges us one bath and one bed he is not worth caring over.”

The look he gave her boded trouble for the future, it was much too wary.

A flea struggled from Fulk’s sodden hair. Quick as a flash Eleanor crushed it with her thumb. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she cleaned pulped insect off Fulk’s shoulder.

“Thought I’d got rid of them all before I came here.”

“Did you think you had rid yourself of all this stubble also?” Eleanor ran a finger over the several days’ growth which covered his chin.

“Too tired for such delicate work.”

Eleanor tutted and made a comment about lazy knights being left to fend for themselves as a way to encourage them to betterment. Nonetheless she set to with a razor when she was done with his hair. It was slow, cautious work, the first time she’d turned her hand to it. Fulk made it seem so easy on those mornings when she’d watched him. Everywhere there lurked potential disaster – ears to nick, a chin to cut, the contours of the face to follow across hard bone and yielding flesh. That she only cut him once Eleanor credited to her familiarity with a knife.

Fulk was drowsing in earnest by the time she managed to get him out of the water so she could tend to his wounds. He leaned against one of the pillars of their bed, eyelids drooping and paying little heed to her steady progress with wine and salve.

Eleanor dressed the worst wounds first, biting her tongue as she tended the one on his shoulder. He’d taken that one before he left her; it should have healed by now, would have if he’d been given chance to let it.

“You’re not embarrassed,” Fulk commented. Fatigue slurred his words. “First time you have seen me naked and not been self-conscious.”

It was true, so much so that she had not considered it until mentioned. There wasn’t room for embarrassment. Fulk was hurt in body and spirit; he needed her. Equally she needed him.

Once Fulk’s cuts were dressed Eleanor changed to a different pot of salve, this one intended to ease his bruising. The jar was of a size with her clenched fist; it was nearly empty by the time she finished. To see the body she had come to take such delight in reduced to this sorry state grieved her deeply.

“Luke died.”

Eleanor didn’t think he desired a response of any kind from her.

“So did Nigel, and William, and Edward, and … too many others. Going to have to replace fully a third of our retained men. Of those you sent out, I don’t know. More losses. How many, how bad … I don’t know.” For a time he watched her smoothing ointment onto his bruises. “I would like some wine. Please.”

Having prepared for most eventualities Eleanor could do better than simple wine. When she brought the goblet to him it was filled with mead.

After consuming most of his drink in an improbably short space of time Fulk seemed to lose interest, and sat with the goblet lolling in his lap. “Tomorrow we’ll celebrate. Tomorrow we’ll recount our deeds and revel in the glory of it all. We’ll boast of how many we killed, and tell anyone who will listen how much we enjoyed ourselves.”

“Tomorrow the fighting will have happened yesterday.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Odd how a bit of time makes so much difference.” Fulk consumed the remnants of his mead; he held the cup out to her. “More.”

“You will have a splitting headache tomorrow,” Eleanor chided as she reached for the pitcher. The first amount she’d given him had been sufficient to make him mildly drunk.

“Right now I’m seeing Luke. He has a split head. Literally.” He uttered another of those laughing sobs. “Drink is a poor second best. Now there’s an understatement. It’s so slow, makes my mood worse until I finally pass out, and then leaves me feeling like death when I wake.”

“Then do not drink so much?”

He let her complete her work in peace, except to request a second refill.

As Eleanor tidied away the medicines Fulk lowered the goblet and watched through sleepy eyes. “That’s why I favour the other route. Though don’t be fooled by anyone who says its about creating something to make up for all the destruction, or anything like that. For a bit you can drown yourself in pure sensation, and if the first time doesn’t send you peacefully to sleep then the second should. Women never leave me with a headache either.”

“Charming.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Don’t be insulted. That’s the ale brewed from horse’s piss end of things. You’re at the other end of the scale with ice wine and such.”

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “If you are trying to tell me you intend to keep me in a barrel with a lock on it from this day forth …”

“You’re really very special.”

“I shall never let you drink heavily again.”

Fulk’s lips stretched into the most ridiculous smile Eleanor had ever witnessed. “No. Really. Other half of my soul. Makes me so glad I married you, since that makes us one flesh too according to the monks. It’s good not to be split into bits.”

“You are starting to remind me of Count Jocelyn at our wedding!”

“That’s harsh. Right when I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”

Eleanor surveyed her wreck of a husband, hands on hips. “I love you too, my luflych little knight.”

“Good.”

“Else I doubt I would put up with this.” She kissed his forehead, and plucked the goblet from his hand while he was distracted. “Why not go to bed?”

Fulk pinched the bridge of his nose and concentrated very hard. “I’m making a prat of myself, aren’t I?”

“Yes, dearest,” she assured him, kissing him again to make it plain she forgave him.

Naked except for a few bits of bandaging Fulk had no need to undress. He crawled up the bed and flailed his way under the blankets. Half asleep already, he reached out to her and held the pose insistently. “I feel better just holding you. Makes the screaming go away.”

Blowing out the candles Eleanor stripped down to her shift and climbed into bed next to him. The arm dropped down to hold her, he was asleep before she’d settled comfortably.







Only Nell could greet her poor battered knight with “You look terrible.” after stressful weeks apart. :D

Anne would be thoroughly disgusted. What kind of a reunion was that!? Where was the romance? The declarations of undying love? And Fulk went to sleep!

Crib note: “My usual remedy. As you know. Except this time it’d be honourable, not like the others. I don’t know why you put up with me using you that. It was disgusting. Sordid. Disrespectful-” Fulk is referring to certain ahem, occasions from before they were married. I doubt anyone remembers them, which is most unfair because of the awkwardness of writing those wretched scenes! I prefer to cut away at a tasteful point, There I had to detail it all so no one could get the wrong impression.




Furball, I hope you will forgive me for being evil, but I just can’t resist. Jocelyn’s unexpected bad side? You mean he was good when he was making his wife’s life hell, swapping allegiances back and forth inside his mind at the drop of a hat, and raping an assortment of unfortunates?

Peasant Phill, my knees feel like they are at least fifty. Does that help? :Is disconcerted that her knees ache and creak, especially in the winter:

Death is Yonder, the Nell/Trempy reunion is one of those persistent scenes which have been bothering me for years. To finally be close to writing it is incredible.

[woad&fangs]

Currently on page thirteen, right after Trempy's failed abduction attempt.
Still good and I like the increase in pace. I printed off the next post(16 pages in MS word:dizzy2: ) and I plan on reading it after exams tomorrow if I have any time.

The way Hugh thinks reminds me a lot of myself, which might explain why I have this overwhelming urge to strangle him.:laugh4:

[Peasant Phill]

Always a pleasant surprise to find yet another chapter has been added to this wonderful story.

I've been telling you this before but I really admire how you manage to make every character human and not just a stereotype. The Nefastus was one of the last 1 dimensional characters but you found a great solutions for that. No good and bad in this tale just people behaving according to there nature.

[furball]

Excellent scenes! Understated, carrying the feel of after-battle exhaustion and importance-delayed. I'm very impressed with how you handled Malcolm. He shows the other side of himself by wanting to be knighted by Fulk and there's only that one mumbled mention of "wanted to do what was right."

As for Jocelyn, certainly he wasn't a saint before, more just a (possibly) stereotypical guy of his times with a bit of humor tossed in. But after coming to Eleanor, he seems to have lost the charming doubtfulness he had in dealing with or thinking about Tildis. Stands to reason, but now he seems more cunningly cynical. Granted, he has doubts and concerns about Eleanor as a leader, woman, etc. It's just he seems to have lost his drunken/boorish/rogueish charm. Maybe it's just me. :)

I'll be sad when this story's done!

[Ludens]

As for Jocelyn, certainly he wasn't a saint before, more just a (possibly) stereotypical guy of his times with a bit of humor tossed in. But after coming to Eleanor, he seems to have lost the charming doubtfulness he had in dealing with or thinking about Tildis. Stands to reason, but now he seems more cunningly cynical. Granted, he has doubts and concerns about Eleanor as a leader, woman, etc. It's just he seems to have lost his drunken/boorish/rogueish charm. Maybe it's just me. :)
No, I agree with you. I also think he is a bit predictable, but Jocelyn was never a favourite of mine, so perhaps I am biased.


I'll be sad when this story's done!
My feelings exactly. The last update was very good indeed.

[frogbeastegg]

“You are staring at me.”

Fulk sipped some small ale in an attempt to ease the lip-puckering taste left in his mouth by two generous applications of salt tooth scrub. “Watching. It’s relaxing.”

“It is off-putting.” Eleanor deposited a spoonful of food onto a platter with a flick of her wrist.

“Nice technique.” The smell of the food crossed the room, tantalising, soothing away the nausea that had been bubbling in Fulk’s belly since he awoke. His trip to the source of the smell was slowed only by his stiff muscles.

Eleanor relinquished her serving spoon. “Here. If you do not like how I do it you may do it yourself.”

Fulk grinned around a mouthful of yesterday’s bread. “You do very well.”

“You say that only because you are too lazy to lift a finger yourself.”

Eating took priority over quarrelling; Eleanor watched him shovel food down with a bewilderment which would have made him abashed if he his stomach hadn’t been about to collapse from emptiness. Chunks of bacon panned in butter with cabbage and leeks accompanied the usual breakfast bread and small ale. A piece of hard cheese bore silent testament to Alnwick’s kitchen staff familiarity with their lady’s preferences. It was a small thing; it gave Fulk a keen awareness of how much of his earldom’s formative period he’d missed. The people here knew nothing of his own preferences. Fulk’s busy spoon slowed.

“What is wrong?” Eleanor asked.

“I’m bound to go on a pilgrimage. To Spain. A tour of the major holy sites.”

Eleanor’s lips thinned. “And however did you manage that?”

“Most men confess before a battle.”

“Yes. They end up giving donations to churches, or doing short pilgrimages inside their own homeland.” Eleanor sliced off a piece of cheese in such a way it made Fulk wince. “They do not end up gallivanting off to the other side of Christendom.”

“He wanted me to fight out there. That wasn’t laid on me, it was hinted at very strongly with all his talk of the Muslims preparing for war to crush the Christian kingdoms.”

“Who was this?”

“Hugh’s own confessor.”

“Hugh’s?” Eleanor pressed a hand to her brow and closed her eyes. In a very flat voice she said, “You told my brother’s pet priest all your misdeeds. Including those involving me.” Her hand slapped down onto the table. “Thank you very much!”

“I was very careful,” Fulk replied, a hand pressed to his own brow to stop his aching head from splitting into two from the noise. “No names, no implication it was you.

“Your place is here. This will be changed.”

That appeared to be her final word on the subject, and Fulk was happy to let it be so. Easing himself shortly before the bedding ceremony had been the right thing to do. He knew it to be so. How else could he have been so patient? The priest had insisted otherwise and demanded he repent, a demand Fulk had refused repeatedly. The majority, should they know of it, would side against him, saying that there would be plenty of time later to make up for his over-eagerness. Impossible as he found it to believe Eleanor would have preferred such poor treatment, Fulk couldn’t say with a certainty that she would not be upset by his way of avoiding it. The same could be said to too many things.

Fulk reached across the little table and caught her hand. “We’ve been married more than a month and it strikes me that in some ways I hardly know you. I know how you’ll react to this,” he kissed each of her knuckles and gave the last a playful nip with his teeth, “but not what you’d do if I said ‘Here’s some money, go and furnish our chambers.’”

“Well,” Eleanor said slowly, stroking the inside of his palm, “what do you expect when you spend so little time with me?”

“My dearest gooseberry, were I in any condition to, I’d take that as a challenge.” Fulk kissed her hand again to show that the spirit was willing even if the flesh were weak.

She cast her eyes down in a perfect display of modesty. “Eat your breakfast.” Eleanor’s eyes darted back up to meet his, with a hint of a purr she added, “It will help you regain your strength.”

Blood attempting to boil, Fulk obeyed. Repent? Never! Not if every last person in the world cried out that he’d been wrong. Impulsively he said, “Furnish our rooms. This place isn’t ours. Too much borrowed and gifted, nothing of us.”

Eleanor shunted some cabbage around with the tip of her eating knife. “I had hoped we might leave Alnwick. For a time at least. I know it is the heart of your power.”

“We can’t.” The disappointment she tried to hide made Fulk’s heart throb. “There’s too much in need of doing here.”

“Has Hugh said anything about granting us some lands?”

“I don’t expect to get anything.” Allowing Trempwick to live had put paid to any hopes he’d had.

Eleanor set her knife down. “You did so much to support him. If I must remind him of that-”

“No.” Fulk was surprised at how severe the word sounded. “I must make my own way.”

Eleanor took a steady breath. “Our lands are a pillaged ruin. We have no money. Everything we have is in the north, we need to be in the south.”

“No.” A pulse of pain ran across the inside of Fulk’s head; the wound in his shoulder throbbed as he shifted on his stool. “I won’t be able to respect myself if everything I’ve got are hand-outs for marrying you. No one will respect me.”

“I am not talking about charity-”

“No.” Trempwick. Fulk’s hungover mind spat the name at him. He sounded like Trempwick. The realisation revived the nausea; Fulk set his own eating implements down and pushed the trencher away to distance the now sickening smell from himself. Softening his tone was easier now. “We have money, I took a fair few ransoms and there’s captured equipment to be sold too. I’m promised payment for my spare warhorse since I lost him due to the fighting on the way here. There’ll be coin left after we pay what we need to restore the earldom to its feet.”

The blank, guarded front she presented told him she too had noticed the brief resemblance to the spymaster. “You must have captured half the nobles in Trempwick’s army.”

Fulk grinned, trying to chase away his misstep. “Better than that – I captured Trempwick himself!”

Eleanor recoiled. “What did you say?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

Fulk blinked rapidly, trying to work out what lay behind this reaction. “I captured him. We met in combat, and he surrendered to me without a blow.”

Not a thing did she give away, not a thing. She’d walled herself up behind that blank façade, shutting him out. It was a knife to the heart.

Fulk tried to win his way through the barrier she’d put up. “Eleanor?”

Nothing. Then she was on her feet and headed for the bedchamber’s door. “I have to see him.”

“No!” Fulk hurled himself after her. “No,” he repeated as he caught her arm.

“I thought he was dead!” she cried as she spun around to face him.

“Let him be dead to you.”

Eleanor freed her arm from his grip with a sharp twist. “I cannot.” She turned to the door; Fulk sidestepped to block her path and caught her by the shoulders.

“You will not see him.” It was the wrong way to behave with her, Fulk knew it and was helpless to stop himself. All he could do was will her to understand why. “He is poison. He will twist you around and sink his hooks back into you.”

A hint of what Fulk believed was contempt flashed in the depths of her eyes. “You need not worry about that.”

“I need,” he said harshly. “That man-”

“I thought he was dead.”

Fulk’s breath vanished as effectively as if an invisible fist had punched him in the stomach. “That was why you didn’t wait for me below! You were mourning for him!”

“Better than mourning him while I was with you.”

“He’s dangerous, Eleanor!” Fulk gave her a little shake, trying to impress his point. “He spouted more of his lies before the battle – and he’s guessed half the truth! If you see him people will say there’s truth in his claims-”

“Not if it is handled correctly-”

“The only safety is in not seeing him at all.”

“I have to. No one else can-”

“Anyone else can!” Fulk shouted. “For God’s sake, for once stand back and let someone else take the hazards! Let your brother work for his damned throne!”

“It is not his,” Eleanor said very softly.

Fulk wavered on the brink of he knew not what for an instant. The anguish was overwhelming. Releasing her he placed distance between them, making sure he stayed between her and the exit. “You told me I hadn’t married a queen. You told me!”

“You did not.”

Fulk paced up and down, too full of conflict to stay still. “Trempwick might admire word games, I don’t. You know very well what I meant! Queen now or ever, not at the precise moment we exchanged vows.”

“Eleanor raised her chin. “I say again, you did not.”

The way she was standing, weight balanced to dodge or roll with blows she couldn’t evade, broke his heart. Fulk’s voice came out harsh with emotion, “I will not lose you.”

“Then let me see him.”

“No! You will not go anywhere near that man. He’s dangerous!”

“Not to me!”

“Especially to you!” Fulk chopped a hand through the air. “Think! I haven’t spent so long breaking his influence only to see you run back to him.”

The traces of Eleanor’s escaping royal temper frosted over into something altogether different. “You are a jealous idiot.”

Fulk had to leave, before he did anything more stupid than he already had. “You will not go near him. That is final.” He stormed out of the room so quickly he had pretend he didn’t hear her reply.

“Is it, indeed,” he heard her say quietly.





“Is it, indeed,” Eleanor said to the slamming door.

Several minutes later the door into the solar inched open and Hawise edged into the room. “Ah …?”

The cold shock of hearing how Fulk thought of her now they were married had worn off. “That man,” Eleanor growled, “is a jealous, blind, controlling self-centred idiot!”

Aveis shouldered her way past the younger maid. “He’s also worn out, hurt, and, if that nearly empty jug of mead is anything to go by, hungover.”

True. She’d made allowances for that. She had. Had he been in good health she’d have knocked some sense into him! “He thinks I should be content to stay in this mausoleum decorating it with tapestries.” Eleanor sat down heavily on the bed. The bolster was ideally placed for a good punch; she took advantage of that. Make Alnwick a pleasant place to live? Impossible! There was a slaughter field outside, and the place still rang with the shrieks of the tortured. Not that she’d told the senseless lump that, out of consideration for his lordly feelings.

“Oh dear,” murmured Hawise.

“He thinks I am a hawk he has lured from the wild and broken to sit on his fist.”

Aveis frowned. “That sounds a little strong …”

The anger smouldered out; the tinder was too damp to burn. “What am I going to do?” she moaned. “Everything is ruined.”

The widow gave Eleanor’s shoulder a squeeze. “Not a chance. The man is plain daft for you, and you for him.”

“The situation is impossible. I will not – cannot! - let him control me utterly. If I go against him …” Eleanor hung her head. Going to see Trempwick anyway would be the end of it all. There wasn’t much choice to it, as Fulk would have found if he’d given her chance to explain. No one else could bring Trempwick under control, if indeed that were possible.

Much to Eleanor’s annoyance Aveis chuckled. “The first clash of wills and it’s all over? How easily you give up, and how little faith you have.”

“Wait,” Hawise advised. “When you’re both calmer try again. Compromise.”

Eleanor studied the toes of her shoes. “I do not think there is a compromise here.”

Aveis laughed outright. “Rubbish. There’s always a way if you’re both willing to look. Now, in the meantime why don’t you start thinking about furnishings? They’re portable; you can take them with you when you leave Alnwick.”






It’s taken Nell this long to realise Fulk is rather jealous? :is a confused frog:


Woad&fangs, hope your exams went well.

You’re a Hugh? You have my sympathy :winkg: Nah, from the start he’s a good man, sadly let down by his complete lack of confidence. The poor man spent most of his very young life being compared unfavourably to his elder brother, and the rest of his life trying to be a replacement for said brother. That won’t do anyone any good. Trempy’s revolt forces him to grow out of his brother’s shadow.

It’s the Nells in the world I feel sorry for. It’s not easy being a gooseberry.


Peasant Phill, at last I can talk about the Nefastus. He was an experiment on my part. There’s a lot of discussion about showing and telling, and about unreliable narrators. What would happen if all of these things were combined, I wondered. The experiment came to its end when Malcolm went into battle against Trempy.

Every single narrator in this story is unreliable. They say what they think, not what’s true. I – and they – told you Malcolm was pure evil, from before he appeared in person. I showed you otherwise, if you looked deeper. The experiment was to see what views people would form about the character. I expected there to be questions about the lack of agreement between show and tell. That doesn’t seem to have happened.

Early on in his appearances Malcolm executes with his own hands the men who tried to capture Eleanor for Trempwick. Nell’s POV is horrified. The Eleanor world reports that he’s done this because he enjoys killing. Young master Nefastus says a few words about not handing his dirty work off to others, and about being responsible for his own justice. That’s just excuses though, right?


Furball, I understand now. I think you’ll be happier with Jocelyn’s following scenes. His arc has reached a point of change, as you’ll understand in a bit.

Since he left home he has been freer to decide things and not have the truth forced in his face. It’s the endless byplay between reality and ‘the world according to Jocelyn(TM)’ that create the instability and humour in his character. He’s been wobbling about all over the place about whatever to support Nell or not. That’s not been so much about warping the world to fit his view, it’s about politics and his own survival as a power. The end of that comes as he charges into battle thinking

Right. He’d have to trust her. She was a queen and knew what she was doing.

That’s resolved one of the big uncertainties in his character. He’s made a choice, and with it several other issues have been settled.


Ludens, you know, now you mention not liking Jocelyn I can’t remember which characters you do like. That makes me feel bad; I try to track these things. IIRC you aren’t fond of Fulk or Trempy, or William.

[furball]

Thanks for the peeks into the background, Ms. Frog! I always hoped Jocelyn would live happily ever after with Richildis no matter what huge events swept over the Gooseberry and her lover.

Now, on a different subject: I understand the underlying tension and the growing realisation that is the theme of the chapter just produced. But, please read the following paragraph:

"That appeared to be her final word on the subject, and Fulk was happy to let it be so. Easing himself shortly before the bedding ceremony had been the right thing to do. He knew it to be so. How else could he have been so patient? The priest had insisted otherwise and demanded he repent, a demand Fulk had refused repeatedly. The majority, should they know of it, would side against him, saying that there would be plenty of time later to make up for his over-eagerness. Impossible as he found it to believe Eleanor would have preferred such poor treatment, Fulk couldn’t say with a certainty that she would not be upset by his way of avoiding it. The same could be said to too many things."

I "sorta maybe think" I know what you're referring to here, but does it really fit? And, even if it does, spending a paragraph on it RIGHT AT THIS POINT seems a little . . . flirty? disingenious? at worst, wordy.

Eleanor might think Fulk's jealous, or be seeing it for the first time, but from Fulk's point of view, Trempwick is the anti-Christ. He's responsible for torturing, manipulating and perverting a wonderful girl. . . even while all that made her into the woman Fulk loves. The paragraph I quoted, while well-written grammatically and thematically, just doesn't fit into the dramatic arc of the chapter. Granted, the personal feelings of Eleanor and Fulk allow us to downplay the grave historic consequences of kingly stuff, but to have Fulk consider *that* thing at such length - and with the author writing well, but obliquely - just seems a little too pedantically cute.

Every sentence of the paragraph fits nicely into what we might think of as the epitome of courtly love - or at least the fictionalization of it. But it just doesn't fit here. I mean, granted, Eleanor and Fulk have a sensuous underpinning to their affection, but after THAT battle, and all it portends? Well, maybe you're right. In the midst of historic affairs, the couple is agonising over what personal details Fulk told to Hugh's priest. :)

And if *that* seems harsh, consider:
----------------------------------
Eleanor shunted some cabbage around with the tip of her eating knife. “I had hoped we might leave Alnwick. For a time at least. I know it is the heart of your power.”
----------------------------------
I was gonna spend paragraphs meowing about how the last sentence should be, "Though I know it is the heart of your power."

Don't get me wrong. It's a joy to read!

EDIT: Gah! Nobody is commenting. In past times, I'd have deleted this post after sleeping on it. But Froggy has pointed out that she gets emails of every post as it's posted. Please don't take this as a censure of the writing. I just felt like commenting (rambling) at length. Please continue with the previous discussions about eye-wash and all. The story is great and it was not my intention to be too critical about one little paragraph!

[woad&fangs]

Bah, stupid English papers about the "literary analysis" of novels. Bah I say. I chose Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms" to do the report on. I've finished reading it now so I can go back to reading this story. *sigh* I hated the character of Catherine Barkley. The entire book I kept saying to myself "Maybe there's a gooseberry on the next page" and then I turned the page and the only woman was that lousy PoS Barkley. Bah!!! Gooseberry FTW, for now and for ever.

Yes, I compared your story to Hemingway's the entire time and you kicked his *** in every category except for the descriptions of war and battle which I declared a draw.

What's the address of the other forum you're posting the story on? I'm going to recommend this story to my cousin but I like the .org to be my sanctuary away from everyone I know in real life so I'd like to give her the address of the other site.

Anyways, it continues to be a great story but I have one criticism. The secret code letter sent from Trempwick to Eleanor in Scotland seemed very Deu es Machina to me. How did he sneak a letter into her room when he's been having so much troublefinding her. Maybe I missed something but that part just seemed odd to me.

If I recall I'm up to the part where the King of Scotland had just entered the city of Perth and was giving gold and lousy ale to the peasants.

Edit: Nvm, I found the other site and emailed her the web adress of that version. I just finished the part where Fulk is negotiating is new earlship with the KoS. Malcom Nefastus is interesting me. I think he'll either end up fighting Fulk and dying or defending Fulk and dying in his arms while gasping out a great one-liner with his dying breathes. Of course I could be completely wrong and in that case I'll be perfectly happy with whatever conclusion you give to his part in this tale.

[DemonArchangel]

Wow, your writing still beats the stuffing out of mine. Nightmare Fuel is nothing compared to this (easily the best story on the .org).

[frogbeastegg]

“Alnwick! I want a word with you!”

Fulk lowered his practice blade, panting from his exertions. “What might I do for you, my lord?” It was child’s play to guess which burr was prickling under William of Suffolk’s tunic. A little polite deference may ease the confrontation; the earl was one of the more reasonable in Hugh’s council.

Spittle flew from the earl of Suffolk’s mouth as he snarled, “You can set the account to rights, that’s what!” He stabbed a finger at Fulk’s chest. “You didn’t win anything. Without our support you’d have been surrounded and cut to pieces!”

Fulk leaned on his sword. “I’m quite aware of that.”

“Then you will tell people.” Suffolk crossed his arms, the crimson fading from his face as his temper receded. “It’s demeaning. To all of us. There were many of noble blood who did their parts, and there’s barely a word of recognition for it.”

“Only in certain quarters, surely? Lord Hugh knows who did what.”

“When our retinues – who fought besides us and equally as hard – hear all this greatest knight rubbish from the militia and commons it causes tension.” The aging earl shrugged. “Fights, actually.”

“I don’t see what I can do. I haven’t encouraged it.”

“You had better not!” The earl coughed, and behaved as though he suddenly found the sky immensely fascinating. “For you own sake too, man,” he said gruffly. “Would you have it said you steal other men’s glory as well as their wives?”

Fulk settled his weight on the balls of his feet, lifting the tip of his blade out of the dirt. The dregs of his hangover pulsed behind his eyes. “And who says that?”

Suffolk looked him up and down, and turned on his heel. “Rabid mongrels get put down,” he said as he walked away. “You’ve made a name for skill at arms and an aversion to insult. Leave it at that.”

The yard was close to deserted. Those men privileged enough to be lodged inside the castle’s walls were resting their weary bones. Were it not for his quarrel with Eleanor Fulk would have been doing the same. His taste for battering a stake gone to ashes, Fulk returned his practice sword to its place in the store room.

He was hailed as he emerged from the gloomy interior. “Alnwick!”

Hugh’s priest, having located his quarry, deigned to go no further and waited in the middle of the yard.

Fulk ambled over. He’d be damned if he was going to hop at this man’s beck.

The priest folded his hands into the sleeves of his habit. “I am releasing you from the obligation to go on pilgrimage.”

Eleanor had lost no time in her meddling! At the edge of Fulk’s vision the stake waited, inviting him to come back.

The priest massaged his elbows inside his loose sleeves. “If the seal of confession were not unbreakable I would have told your wife why I imposed that penalty. In that instance I believe she would have badgered me still – to send you as far away as possible.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose, unable to look the man in the eye. The content of his confession hung between them like a rotting carcass. “I’m married now. Things will change.”

A curled lip replied to that. “How can you honour the marriage when you befouled it at its inception?”

“I honoured my wife by acting in consideration of her,” Fulk ground out.

“There is always an excuse, and that one doesn’t carry to your many other sins.” The priest held up a hand. “Enough. I have no intention of wrangling with you until the sun goes down. It has been pointed out – and I agree – that it is not in the best interests of the realm in the present climate that you leave for a prolonged journey. Lord Hugh has need of you, sad as that fact may be. It would be unchristian of me to leave you burdened with a penance you could not perform until long into the future. For the remainder of your days you will pay for two boys to be educated. Charity,” the priest pronounced, settling his hands back inside his sleeves. “Bettering the unfortunate so that your soul, and the world itself, may be bettered also.”

“Rest of my days,” Fulk repeated. This was going to be expensive.

“Indeed.” A hint of fang showed as he spoke the word. This priest would soon be confessing to the sin of revenge.

Fulk managed a curt bow and went his way. Bending the church to fit with royal wishes was no small feat, Fulk tried to focus on that. Eleanor had exerted herself to free him of a load he hadn’t wanted. She’d done it without consulting him; her pronouncement it would be changed had been more final than he’d thought. It stuck in his throat and threatened to choke him.

As he stormed his way through the great hall towards the solar stairs he was hailed again, this time in slurred langue d’oil. “Hey, you! Alnwick!”

Fulk snapped a reply in the same language, “What?” He didn’t alter his course.

“I want to ask you something. It’s important, like.” Jocelyn slapped the bench at his side. “Come and sit down and share a bit of wine.”

Another full-blooded noble, and thus another man he couldn’t antagonise. Though he didn’t take the offered seat Fulk made the courtesy of closing to normal speaking distance. “I have pressing matters to deal with, so if you’ll forgive me-”

“This is pressing.” The count belched, covered his mouth with a hand. “Oops. Sorry.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not really so very much, damn it. Sound like my damned wife, ‘cept I can’t slap you and tell you to shut the hell up.” The count patted the bench again. “You can fight with your own wife later. She’ll keep. I need your advice, man to man.”

“Fight with my wife?” Fulk kept his words bland.

Jocelyn chuckled. “It’s bloody obvious. Why else would you be out here strutting about like someone rammed a spear up your arse pointy end first?”

Fulk sat down, face leaned into one hand. “Wonderful.”

“Well, maybe I’m the only one perceptive enough to work it out.” The count gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder – his wounded shoulder. Fulk’s pained intake of breath went completely unnoticed. “Everyone else will say it’s because you’re worn out, battered and all that. Effects of yesterday’s battle.” Wine sloshed into a spare cup, and the count pushed it into Fulk’s hands. “Drink that and it’ll all start to look better. Trust me.”

The throbbing agony of his wounded shoulder made Fulk more eager to comply than he might normally be. The wine was good, a sweet Rhenish that in all likelihood had come from his own wine cellar.

Jocelyn sighed, blasting Fulk with wine fumes. “Thing about wives is that they’re a bloody nuisance. Give them an inch and they’ll take a bloody mile and whine that they want carrying along it! Want my advice?”

“No.”

The count just smiled blearily. “Put your foot down, man. Stamp it right on down and if it lands on her toes, well, too damned bad. She shouldn’t have stood there in the first place.”

“Jesù,” Fulk muttered into his drink.

“Works for me. Picture of bliss, is my home. Yes. Very much so. Got to take women in hand right from the start, common knowledge that.”

Common knowledge it may be, it was little use to someone living in such an uneven match as Fulk’s even were he inclined to stomp. Inclined? His handling of their disagreement that morning played out in full, fast detail in his mind’s eye. Fulk downed the other half of his drink. His disgust bobbed to the surface and swam about most ably. “What was it you needed to speak to me about?”

“I want to go home,” Jocelyn said bluntly. “I’d never have thought it possible but I guess I’m getting old. Truth be told I didn’t much enjoy yesterday, and that was before some common bastard shot me.” He made a disgusted noise. “Old! Never thought it’d happen but there we are. It’s only old men who’d rather sit by their home hearth than do a bit of fighting.”

Fulk smiled wryly. “Then I’m old too.”

“You?” The count’s brow wrinkled. “Bloody nonsense! I’ve got my reasons, you can’t have any!”

“I’ve missed so much. My earldom began to take shape while I was away.” Fulk gazed into the empty depths of his cup. “I’ve spent most of my married life away from my wife.”

“Best way to spend it.” Jocelyn slopped more wine into their cups. “If you’re not within earshot you can’t hear the damned bitch nag and whinge, and if she can’t see what you’re doing then she won’t get all upset.”

“Says the man who wishes to return home.”

“Bloody right! I’ve got children to go back to, children I’m missing see grow up. And, of course, Tildis likes me. Loves me.” The count’s cheery expression looked as fake as a piece of the true cross. “She’s probably crying right now because she misses me so much.”

“If you say so.”

Jocelyn set his cup down. “Now, look. You probably won’t understand any of this, being how you don’t have children and a beloved wife like I do, but anyway, you can try. Every day I’m here is a day lost to them. Children that young grow so quickly! Blink and you miss something. I’ve been missing a lot and it preys on my mind. And, you know, after I got shot all I’ve been able to think of is them. What if I’d died? Where would they be then? Killed, and this isn’t really my fight. I’ve done as I was asked by my old king, and I’ve done my bit for his heirs. That’s enough, surely? Proved my loyalty, served more than the forty days they can reasonably ask of me, shed blood and all that.” He sighed gustily. “I want to see my own lands, wake in my own bed, sleep with my own wife, and spend time with my own children. I want to settle my own affairs, finish all those things which I left hanging when I bolted off over here in the name of duty. Is that so strange?”

Fulk shook his head. “No. I find it perfectly sane.”

“Well then.” Jocelyn sat up and adjusted his belt to a more comfortable angle. “What I want to know from you is who do I talk to about it? You’ve got fingers in both pies. Brother or sister?”

Fulk’s eyes narrowed. This man has been close to Eleanor for the past few weeks. What had she done to cause him to question Hugh’s status? “Is there truly any question?”

The count shrugged expansively. “Look, I’m a simple man and my brains are a bit sloshed in wine, not to mention I’ve been shot, and the last weeks have been bloody stressful, let me tell you. I don’t want to have to think. I just want to ask the right one and go home. That’s all. Nothing more. I don’t want to have to pick my way through her schemes. She’s what she is, and good for her. Me, I can’t keep up with it and I’ve ceased trying.”

“What do you mean?” Fulk asked deliberately. The wine had turned sour in his belly.

“I mean precisely what I say, damn it!”

Fulk grasped the other man’s arm. “What do you mean?”

“She orders us to go and support her brother – and then in the next breath tells us to kill a man he’d want alive.”

“Trempwick,” Fulk breathed. “She ordered him killed?”

“Oh yes.” The count belched again, getting his hand over his mouth in time to save Fulk another blast of rancid breath.

“What else?” When the count didn’t reply immediately Fulk shook his arm. “Tell me, man!”

Jocelyn twisted his wrist free. “Damn it, you’re in a piss poor position and I feel right sorry for you. Don’t know what your own wife is up to, and your options are damned limited. Let her have free rein and you’re nothing but a token. Try and take control and it could all fall in your face, and then you’d have nothing at all.” Jocelyn consumed more wine. “This is why big mismatches in rank aren’t smart. You’re at her mercy more than you should be. Got no leverage.”

Fulk grimaced. The count didn’t know the half of it. Eleanor would step over any line he chose to draw if it suited her, and what could he do then? She’d go and see Trempwick. He knew it, had known it before he’d forbidden it. What then? The desire to confront Eleanor flipped about; if he didn’t see her then he wouldn’t have to find an answer to her flouting his pitiful authority. Delay was a poor ally; the longer he left it the more he’d have to deal with.

“See prince Hugh,” Fulk said. “The throne is nothing to do with Eleanor.”

Jocelyn sniggered. “We both know that’s not true, but I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

“You’re drunk.” Fulk pushed away from the table. “Go and soak your head in a barrel of cold water.”

“If I were that drunk I’d have fallen over and been sick.”

Fulk made it halfway to the cellar where the bodies of his dead lay before he was hailed yet again. Grinding his teeth he dipped into a bow. “My lord?”

Hugh said, “I have not yet had occasion to give you my thanks for your part in yesterday’s fighting.”

Much of Hugh’s council stood at his shoulders, a human wall of fine breeding and finer clothes. The faces they presented to him were as varied as the colours of their tunics, ranging from York’s naked hatred to Wymar’s speculative focus.

Fulk dipped into another, lower bow. “I am only pleased to have been of service,” he replied humbly.

The prince touched a hand to his wounded brow when a thoughtless attempt to knit his brows upset the cut slicing across his forehead. “No man can say you did not fight ably and with the utmost courage.”

Serle’s smirk and light tone cloaked his words in the guise of a jest. “What else could be expected of England’s greatest knight?”

“What indeed?” growled York. He laid one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Reckless, purely reckless! Glory-seeking which could have placed all in jeopardy!”

“Enough, George.” Hugh’s words were whisper quiet; they silenced the earl as effectively as a knife. “I tasked Alnwick and Suffolk to cut their way through and turn Trempwick’s flank and this they did. One must step forwards in order to advance.”

“Oh, how very apt.” York clasped Fulk’s arm and tried to pull him forward; Fulk stiffened his knees and resisted easily. “Alnwick’s stepped forward, and he has advanced.”

“Yes, he has.” Hugh set his hand on Fulk’s shoulder, leaving the Earl of York little option but to step back out of his lord’s way. “He was amongst the first to step forward to my side, for which I am ever grateful – to he and to all those who stood with me at that most difficult time.”

York dipped his head under the reminder of his last minute defection to Hugh’s cause. “As you say, my lord.” The look he shot Fulk as he retreated to the rear of the throng was filled with the promise of murder.

Hugh dropped his hand back to his side. “Trempwick is your prisoner.”

Had the old king not worn his emotions plain for all to see Fulk would have said the ability to be inscrutable ran in this family’s blood. It was impossible to get the vaguest idea of what Hugh thought of Trempwick’s survival. “My lord, I shall be pleased to surrender him to you.”

“You will be compensated.”

Fulk bowed. “You are too generous my lord,” he murmured.

“I offer you a choice. The sum of one thousand marks deducted from the fine you owe me. Five hundred marks in coin. Lands worth a hundred marks, taken from those forfeited by Trempwick.”

The choice all but made itself. Bowing again Fulk replied, “I shall take the land, if that pleases you, my lord.”

One of Hugh’s followers made a disgusted sound.

Eleanor’s brother half-turned. “Someone disapproves of my decision?” No one made a sound. “It would be a poor thing if honourable behaviour were scorned. I do not take merely because I might. Think on that, sirs.” Once his point had sunk in Hugh returned his attention to Fulk. “We will discuss the wherebys and such at a later time. For the present I have much to do, and I am certain the same might be said of you. Call upon me this evening.”

Once again Fulk bowed. “Sire.” Possibilities danced in his head. The new land would increase his resources to the point where he’d have a hope of hanging on to his earldom in the event of trouble between England and Scotland.

“I expect your payments to me to increase proportionally.” With that cheerful gem Hugh resumed his walk to the main hall.

“My lord?” Fulk sprang to follow.

The merest hint of a frown betrayed Hugh. “Yes?”

“Might I ask that Woburn is included in those lands? Eleanor is very fond of the manor.”

Hugh’s chin raised. “Woburn has belonged to the crown since the first William’s day. I grant you consideration based upon your deeds in my support and from the onerous obligation to see my sister is not reduced to complete beggary. Do not press too far else you will find yourself with nothing.”

Swallowing his disappointment Fulk bowed. “As you say.” When he straightened his back he stood alone in the corridor.





The Count of Ardantes’ bow was a trifle unsteady. “I have something to ask of you, sire.”

The man’s presumption in speaking his own language irked Hugh, as did the man’s questionable sobriety. The loosened behaviour of the prior evening had been a necessary reaction to the day’s trials. Today men should be recovered from the worst. “Speak,” Hugh invited in his flawless langue d’oil.

“I beg your permission to return to my lands, sire.”

“You are concerned for their safety?”

“Of course!” Jocelyn winced. “Uh, that is to say, yes, sire.”

“I must admit I do not blame you. Between the lack of a strong hand in my own domains and the turmoil caused by my cousin of France’s efforts to break free of his regents much evil can be done.” Hugh made an open-handed gesture. “Very well. I give you leave. Go, and be a bulwark against chaos there. I charge you to bring truthful account of all that has occurred here in England to the other vassals of the crown across the Narrow Sea.”

Jocelyn got unsteadily to his feet. “Thank you, sire. I’m completely grateful.”

Watching the count’s retreating back Hugh loosed a breath of relief. With the man gone from plain sight Trempwick’s words regarding him would die sooner. “Wait.”

Jocelyn tried to turn and bow at the same time, a poor idea on a bellyful of wine. “Sire? If I may be of service to you don’t hesitate to ask!”

Hugh’s gut clenched, he felt his pulse racing at the twin pulse points below his jaw. Allowing the man to depart would be the coward’s way, and it would condemn him to a lifetime of speculating. He waved Jocelyn back to his side, placed a hand on his arm and walked him well away from the others in the hall. “There is something I would know from you. I beg of you, be honest. Do not fear reprisal, whatever your answer. I swear there will be none.”

The count’s handsome face screwed up in puzzlement. “Sire?”

Hugh’s will teetered. Doubt may well be better than certainty. Certainty could destroy him. So too might doubt – the crimes he could commit unknowing. No, not unknowing, for he doubted and could not claim true innocence. “You brought my sister my father’s ring and blessing.” Phrased thus there was no room for dissembling.

Jocelyn’s eyes went wide. “She told you?”

A knife thrust into Hugh’s heart; all his being drowned under a wave of the most incredible pain. Doubt had been better.

“Sire?”

It was well he had arranged them with their backs to all others present, for Hugh knew any fool could have read his heart from a glance at his face.

“Sire?” Jocelyn was peering into his face. “Oh, Satan’s withered balls! She didn’t, did she?”

“I thank you for your honesty,” Hugh managed to say. His tongue was made of wood.

“She refused it, I swear!”

“It does not matter.” It did not. Eleanor could have seized the ring with greedy triumph or cast it into a sewer, it did not matter. She’d been chosen. Unmanly tears made the world swim. “Would that you had been honest when first I asked.”

“Oh, sainted sardines,” the count moaned. He was wringing his hands fit to disjoint his fingers. “I would have brought it back to you but I didn’t get chance! I was doubtful about taking it to her in the first place, I only did it because those who ignore a dying man’s wish get cursed! All that matters is that you’re his son-”

The words were purest wine tipped upon his wounds. “Silence,” he choked. Hugh’s battle for control won him sufficient victory that a final few blinks cleared his vision somewhat. “Speak no more of this, now or ever, to me or any other.”

The count blanched. “I swear on my very soul I will not.”

“Go home. Go home and praise God you are free of this web.”

Jocelyn bowed and backed away. “I shall, sire.”

Hugh cringed at the honorific; more salt to his raw flesh.

Some minutes later he heard someone approach him. Drawing on every ounce of mastery he possessed Hugh turned to face Serle.

“Are you well, my lord?” the marshal enquired.

“I …” Hugh touched a hand to the stitched cut on his face. “My wound pains me. A touch of dizziness. Nothing of note.”





The door closed behind Fulk, trapping him in the chapel with a most unholy monster.

Trempwick stood, brushing at the skirt of his tunic. “I had placed you as second most likely to be the first to pay me a visit. Nell continues to surprise.”

“She won’t be coming,” Fulk snapped. The comment made him immediately suspicious; had Eleanor already paid her visit? Did Trempwick cover for her?

The spymaster cocked his head. “She will not?”

“She wants nothing to do with you.”

“She will come.”

Nettled by the man’s assurance Fulk lashed back, “She ordered her sally force to kill you.”

“Fortunate for me, then, that I encountered you first.”

“I’ve sold you to Hugh. That’s why I’m here – to tell you.”

Trempwick covered a yawn with his hand. “Sold? For thirty pieces of silver?” he asked as he sat back down.

Hate flowed through Fulk’s veins. “I wish I had killed you!”

Trempwick laughed, and even to Fulk’s suspicious ears it sounded thoroughly genuine. “Oh, how alike we are!”

“We are nothing alike,” Fulk snarled. “The day I realise I have much in common with you I’ll go for a swim in full armour!”

“How very dramatic. I had not believed you so adverse to success.”

Fulk indicated the chapel, stripped bare of all but altar, a straw pallet and a chair. “You call this success?”

“You cannot expect me to share all of my secrets. Especially not with one so plodding, bodyguard.” Trempwick twined his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “No. I meant we are alike in our mutual regret for not disposing of the other.”

Fulk bared his teeth at the spymaster. “You didn’t fail for wont of trying.”

“Bodyguard, do not be mistaken. Should I truly have set my mind to it you would have died.”

“You tried. You failed. You lost Eleanor because of it.”

Trempwick scratched his eyebrow and sighed. “I had forgotten how badly you make me desire to wring your neck with my bare hands. You annoy me, bodyguard. You buzz about my head like a fly.” In one swift movement he was on his feet and half an arm’s length from Fulk. “Well, bodyguard, I am low on tolerance. I have had a deal of time to think, and much to consider and, bodyguard, I find myself in a position to pass on the fruits of one particular tree of thought.”

“Poisonous, no doubt.”

Trempwick snatched at Fulk’s wrist, an effort the knight evaded. “What is that on your hand, bodyguard? A wedding ring. She chose you. I shall respect that and drop my own suit; you make a good partner for her when you draw upon your virtues. I shall tell you this, bodyguard, if you do not honour that marriage to utter perfection I will kill you. I will have you tied to a stake and have you cut to pieces over a day and a night just as I did with those outside this castle’s gates.”

Fulk curled his lip. “I care nothing for your threats.” Why did everyone and their brother feel the need to intimidate him into being a good husband?!

“You should. I know what you are, bodyguard. My people found the trail you left behind you, and I swear my Nell will not be cast aside like a picked bone.”

“I care nothing for your threats,” Fulk repeated.

“Do not think me toothless because I am mewed up here, and do not think I will stay my hand from tenderness to Nell’s feelings. If you hurt her, if you disappoint her, you will die.”

The morning’s argument and his predicament flooded back to the fore of Fulk’s mind. “I love her,” he protested, mainly for his own benefit. He loved her therefore all would be well.

“Yes, you do. I find it most poetic – you fell into your own snare.”

Fulk shook his head. “I don’t know what you think me capable of.”

“Anything. The last one you professed to love you seduced and dropped, left her to try and make something of the life you had kicked apart.” Trempwick stabbed out with a forefinger; Fulk warded him off with his forearm. “You seduced your old lord’s wife then later absconded with his murderer!”

“And I have been perfectly faithful to her since that day.”

Trempwick gave him back look for look. “So you did not visit a brothel and call your whore by her name?”

Fulk felt the blood flee from his face. Throttling the spymaster would cause him too much grief in the future; Fulk hammered on the door to be let out. “I was right. Nothing but poison.”

“As I said, bodyguard, I know what you are.” Trempwick seated himself, arranging his tunic so it fell in pleasing folds about his knees, for all the world like a king on a throne. “And I know what you will be: flawless or very dead.”





Hugh’s left eyebrow had been shaved away so the cut running through it could be stitched cleanly; it left him looking oddly unbalanced and Eleanor had difficulty in drawing her eyes away from it.

Noting the direction of her gaze Hugh said, “It heals.”

“I cannot decide if it is the greatest of luck or the worst that your sole wound was caused by removing your helm.”

Hugh set his fingers to the clotted seam. “No.”

“Next time, brother dearest, do not let them beat the front of your helmet in.”

“As you say.” His failure to rise to the teasing worried Eleanor. Handfuls of words were all he had to give her, quiet and subdued. His gaze fixed on the floor – save for those moments where she caught him staring at her with the oddest mix of emotions peeking out from behind the emptiness. Now he watched her watching him, and it gave Eleanor a feeling of vertigo. “You wish something?”

“To see how you do. I heard your wound was bothering you.”

Again Hugh touched the cut. “Yes.”

“You have let your physician examine you?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” Eleanor demanded, her patience fraying.

“I shall not die yet awhile.”

“Head wounds can be nasty.”

“My wound does not trouble me.”

Battle – it made men completely unbearable! For once Eleanor was glad of her experience with killing and fighting for her life, it made forbearance merely difficult instead of nigh on impossible. “Will you begin to make arrangements for your coronation?”

Hugh sat down on his bed, hands planted to either side on him. “No.”

“No? Then you intend to subdue Wales first?”

“I might.”

Eleanor scowled at his indistinct answer. “It would be wise!”

He ceased studying his shoes. Again there was that mix of … something not quite hidden in his eyes. “You think that would be the best course?”

“Hugh, the border is in flames. The army you sent there was ambushed. The loyal Welsh have been routed. Yes, restoring order before England itself is put to the torch would be a good idea!”

“Then I will go and do what I may.”

“Will you need Fulk?”

“His success causes friction with my other lords.”

“You will leave him with me then.”

“Unless you have pressing reason for him to follow me.”

As she couldn’t answer that Fulk could jolly well clear off to Wales if he didn’t start acting like a sensible man, Eleanor merely nodded. “I shall leave you to rest. I think you need it more than you admit.”

“Eleanor?”

She turned back from the door. “Yes?”

“Do you truly want Woburn?”

Startled, she searched her mind for anything which might have prompted this. The effort finished with her empty-handed. “Why do you ask?”

“Your … husband,” he grimaced at the word, “asked for it on your behalf.”

Fulk? He’d known her heart better than she herself, trying to fill her desire before she’d known it was present. “Yes,” she answered resolutely. “I would.”

“It is yours.” Some of the strength returned to Hugh’s voice. “Yours. Not his. Yours.”

Unexpected re-entry into the heady heights of land owning made Eleanor’s voice come out husky with gratitude. “Thank you.” Reliance on Fulk for everything had rankled fit to leave welts in tender places. Another thing she had not realised until it was pressed in her face.

Hugh didn’t acknowledge her words at all.

“You wish me to do homage for them?”

To her complete astonishment Hugh said, “No.”

“But surely you wish people to see me renew myself as your sworn follower?!”

“There is no need,” he murmured.

“I suppose you are right. Those who are not already convinced will not change their minds if I repeat myself again.”

“If you do not mind I should like to rest. You are right. I am in more pain than I admit.”









Seems like you’re both determined to make me blush!

Woad&fangs, I’ve not read ‘Farewell to Arms’. Your comments on it don’t encourage me.

Nell’s trip to Scotland was common knowledge, hence the need for decoys and a secretive trip. Trempy didn’t know where she was while she was travelling; once she’d arrived locating her again was simplicity itself.


Welcome back, Demon. ~:wave:

[frogbeastegg]

Here’s furball’s reply. It took a bit longer due to froggy thought processes, and the need to wash my hair so it’s semi-dry before I go to bed. When your hair reaches midway down your back it tends to soak everything within reach if you’re not careful.

I like your rambling posts. Always have. They make me look harder at what I’m writing and why. Your tendency to delete them is why I keep the email copies where possible :gring:

In a way I’d have preferred to write that quoted bit Jocelyn style. Fulk doesn’t think in the same ways as Jocelyn. He’s more refined, a product of an upbringing aimed at making him a courtly knight. What Jocelyn would term his cock Fulk calls a manhood. That difference dictates the tone.

It explains at last how a young man in peak physical condition who’d lived a very chaste life for months managed to be so in control of himself when finally allowed to make love to the woman he’d been wanting for months. Realistically speaking, if all had been as it originally appeared either he’d have been too impatient or too quick. But meh, that’s not important. If it were that alone I’d have left it out without a more than a sigh of gratitude.

There’s a second unimportant element to that part. It demonstrates once more how Fulk will dump conventional wisdom when it comes to Nell. That’s why she loves him. That’s been shown often enough that we can do without seeing it again. And yet … it’s the details like this which made Nell love Fulk, and that love prised her away from Trempwick and opened her eyes, and that set her running, and that …

Fulk’s home at last and revelling in it. He realises how much he’s missed out on due to absence, and how much more he will miss because he has been ordered on this pilgrimage. He doesn’t want to go. Eleanor wonders what is wrong; he must explain. Sooner or later he would have had to tell her anyway. This penance is unusually harsh, as Nell observes. Why? Because we’re in Fulk’s POV we get to find out the main part of why - he’s done something completely abhorrent to the church (repeatedly ;p) and done it at his own wedding. Marriage was a sacrament; he’s defiled a religious ceremony. He refused to repent. We see why he doesn’t want to tell Nell the truth. In love though they may be, and familiar with one another, in many ways Fulk and Nell haven’t had opportunity to get to know one another. Happily ever after? Climatic battle or not, their life together is still at the beginning.

Pride comes before a fall. “I’m such a wonderful husband.” Ten minutes later he’s handling everything in the worst way possible, knowing it and unable to stop. In all probability that isn’t terribly important either.

He did all this without a word to try and make her happy … and she wants to go running to another man. That’s crushing. Unnecessary too. We know he loves her, and that’s reason enough to be crushed.

The issue of Fulk’s confession carries onwards. Nell’s browbeaten the priest into changing the penance. Fulk’s not happy. There will be words. They’ll settle something, or be distanced by it. It’s part of the necessary process of settling into an open relationship.

Nell’s unhappy about Hugh’s priest hearing the grubby details of Fulk’s love life because she’s met the man and will likely meet him again. It’s a general human trait to be squeamish about having people you know, however distantly, be aware of the facets of your life you wish to keep quiet. Nell and Fulk’s moments are tame by modern terms. By period terms they range from lightly scandalous to outright shocking. A princess of royal blood allowing a baseborn bastard to use her in such sinful, disrespectful ways!? Horrific! If she could permit that then it’s very easy to believe she married Trempy and then dumped him because a prettier face came along.

Any good?

I'm torn about it myself. Cut it out and their present difficulties are entirely due to Trempwick being alive and that enigmatic statement of Nell's about the throne not being Hugh's. Leave it in and there's a lot of unnecessary wordage. Depth or conciseness?

[Death is yonder]

AHH.... Its good to be back after long weeks of torturous studying for exams!!
:dizzy2: . Day after day staring at the book memorizing...:book: . Thank goodness its over :2thumbsup: next term it begins again... I see much new updates=) all fantastically written by froggy.:yes: . Now the next item on the "what will happen next i wonder" list of things is the Jocelyn and Richildis reunion and what will transpire between their meeting. I've already partially found out what will happen between nell and trempy. Wonder what will come out of that "murderous glare" directed at Fulk by the other noble.

[woad&fangs]

awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
The gift of cheese was adorable. Same with the dialogue directly after it.
I'm now up to the morning after the wedding. Great stuff as usual.

[frogbeastegg]

The ground flew by in a blur, and Eleanor laughed with the sheer joy of it. The wind snatched the sound and carried it away – or her mare’s restless speed outpaced it. She touched her mount’s flanks with her heels, urging haste.

“Eleanor!”

Eleanor turned in her saddle and stuck her tongue out at Fulk. Her horse read her intent and gathered still more speed. The animal’s white mane blew into Eleanor’s face as she crouched low in her saddle, all but lying down on the palfrey’s back; her braid whipped out behind her, as close as she could respectably get to the delicious feel of her own mane flying on the wind.

Weeks had passed since she’d entered Alnwick’s gates and unwittingly entered a prison. Weeks since her horse had been exercised properly, weeks since she’d been free of walls, weeks since she’d left the world standing in her wake.

The thunder of hooves to her right grew incrementally closer. Eleanor dug her heels in again, knowing her mount had no more speed to give but willing it to hold the lead to the very last moment. Alnwick’s castle had receded to a dot in the distance; the walls, the death, the troubles, all left behind.

The nose of Fulk’s horse inched into the range she could see without moving her head. “You’re mad,” he shouted.

“I am free!” The chase over, Eleanor slowed to a cantor. “I would keep going forever if I could.”

“Have mercy on my poor aching bones.”

“Ha!” Eleanor allowed her palfrey to amble to a walk. “You enjoyed yourself.”

He rode with one hand leaned on his hip, swaying easily with his horse’s movement. Colour filled his face; he looked alive once more. “You’re a hoyden!”

“You only recently noticed?”

“Let your hair down.”

Eleanor dipped her eyelashes, conscious of the warmth in him. “And shock our poor escort?” Waltheof and five knights rode a good distance behind them, proof against trouble from those who’d fled yesterday’s killing field.

“Yes,” he said fiercely. He reached across to cup her cheek in his calloused hand. “You’re beautiful.”

Eleanor gently pulled his hand away so they could ride along hand in hand. “I did not think you would agree to this.” Half a day’s breathing space was sufficient to cure the hangover. As for the other causes of distemper, well that Eleanor would see soon enough.

“I’d sat in vigil with my dead for long enough. I was waiting for a reason to rejoin the living.”

Honesty; risky as it was nothing would be mended without it. “We cannot quarrel if we are watched.”

“We can.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “We’re less likely to.”

A mangy group of trees lay off to the left. With an unspoken agreement they made their way over and dismounted. Fulk hobbled the horses while Eleanor leaned her back against a tree. It was too damp to sit on the ground, too cold to shed a cloak to use as a groundsheet.

Eleanor ventured, “Hugh has granted me Woburn.”

“He refused it me.”

“How was he when you saw him?”

Fulk plucked a leaf from his mount’s mane and cast it aside. “Stiff, hard to read, formal. Same as usual.”

“I wonder what happened?” Eleanor chewed at her thumbnail. “He was as limp as four day old lettuce by the time I caught up with him. I believed it was the battle.”

“Unlikely.”

“He cannot fall to pieces now! Not so close.”

A twig snapped under Fulk’s boot as he left the horses. “Never mind him. You owe me an explanation. ‘It is not his throne’ – what do you mean by it?”

“I mean the very obvious.”

The last traces of the desire burned from his features with his harsh intake of breath. “You liar.” He shouldered past her and headed further into the budding thicket. “How many times did you say you would not be a queen?”

“I begin to think you purposely blind – you see what you think should be there.”

“You claim the throne is not Hugh’s. Whose then is it?”

“Mine.”

“Which makes you a queen.”

“No! It makes me someone with a responsibility. I do not have to sit upon it myself to discharge that obligation.”

Fulk stood, muscled clenched with opposition to what he was hearing but willing – for now – to listen.

“It is the same as if I had been left someone’s child to ward. I would not need to become its mother myself – no one would expect that. I would find it a good placement in another household so it could grow and learn the skills necessary to make its way in life. I would make the major decisions only, not concern myself with how many tunics it had.” It may have been wishful thinking, but Eleanor thought Fulk’s wariness relaxed a touch. “I cannot walk away and leave it all to go to whatever end it comes to, no more than I will allow someone to set that crown on my own head.”

“You have no obligation-”

“I do.” Eleanor knit her fingers together before her. “I do. Something has been placed in my care. Would you have me neglect it?”

“Truth be told I don’t care.” Fulk set his hands on her shoulders as he’d done that morning, except this time gently. “I don’t want to lose you. That’s all I care about.”

“You will not.”

“I’m struggling to keep up with you now. If you rise any higher I won’t manage. I’ll be left behind.”

Those raised by royalty were entirely dependant upon them: this lesson had featured often in Trempwick’s teaching. Established blood looked with extreme disfavour on any newcomers encroaching on its territory. Lacking noble family and noble blood, two potent shields, royal favour was all that remained to guard the upstarts. Should that favour be withdrawn the wolves closed in. Consequentially such men were often more loyal than their nobly born counterparts, and easier to destroy. “My luflych little knight, I would never expose you to that. Hugh will be a capable regent, or king as he will be known to all but us. All of the visible aspects of kingship, that is the work he was trained for. He will perform ably enough. Once he is crowned I shall be able to sink from sight; people will slowly forget us. A nudge now and then where it matters will be all I need to do.”

Fulk digested this slowly. “Do you intend to tell him?”

“If avoidable, no.” Eleanor bit her lip. “What end would it serve? It would rip the heart from him. He is too honourable. He would stand aside; if he knows he is a usurper he will drop the crown he has fought for like it is molten.”

Fulk dropped his hands back to his sides and shook his head. “I mislike the idea of you using the man.”

“The alternate is to abandon my realm, or attempt to rule it openly. Neither will do. Besides, is it truly so bad? This way he has what would have been his if not for Trempwick’s stirring the pot.”

Fulk plucked a twig from a nearby bush and began stripping the budding leaves from it. “Not truly, Eleanor. You miss the difference between true authority and that granted to you. Believe me, I know the difference. The space between the two is knife’s edge thin, and cuts as keenly.”
Eleanor shook her head; he’d fallen into that pit again. “My crook-nosed little fool, one day I shall doubtless curse myself for making you aware of this, but your limitations are self inflicted. There is little enough I can do save that which any woman can do.”

“Nonsense. Your family-”

“Would applaud you if you beat me,” Eleanor said tartly. “There is nothing you can do which they have not already done. Resources? Save for my newly acquired Woburn, you control them all. I am the one who must fear being cut off, not you. Any wife may sulk, or rail, or throw a stool at her infuriating husband’s head. And do not tell me you fear me sulking!”

As she’d hoped he smiled. “You’re a gooseberry. Of course I do.”

“Good!”

“I wonder sometimes if you think I’m soft. That you will ignore me where you choose because you think I will do nothing.”

Eleanor laughed in her turn, mirth quickly stifled when she realised that not only was he serious but that it hadn’t been easy for him to say. “Crooknose, you solved that one yourself some time ago and took great delight in explaining it all to me while I tried to slip your grasp.”

It took him a second to recall the occasion to which she referred. “That was playful foolishness.”

“It did not stop you smacking me,” Eleanor muttered darkly. “Nor did it stop your reasoning being right. You will not break my bones or leave me with more scars, therefore I have nothing to fear.” She plucked the denuded twig from his grasp and cast it aside, then took hold of his wrists and dragged his hands up between them. “I am used to nothing but gentleness from these. It would be a great pity to spoil that. That makes me think far harder than all the misery my beloved regal ancestor inflicted on me. I will only go against you when it is something very important to me. Fear is not the point. Redressing a balance is. We disagree. I tread on your toes. You tread on mine. All is once again equal.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“I know I cannot walk all over you. You are too proud to allow it.”

“I too proud?!” Fulk exclaimed.

“Who began this conversation?”

A touch of colour along his cheekbones silently conceded the point.

“I know it as well as I know you will not attempt to trample me underfoot.”

Fulk’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You are not seeing Trempwick, if that’s what you are angling towards.”

Eleanor took a slow breath. “No, I was not angling. I was crediting you with more sense than to attempt to lock me away in the bower to do embroidery. Trempwick is an impasse. You say I must not see him. I say I must. It is important.”

“I will not allow it. He’s as dangerous as ever – more, maybe. I saw him this morning. He braided my past into a whip and used it liberally. He got the better of me by far and I’m not ashamed to admit it if it will make you see sense. I will not have you exposed to that; you’re more vulnerable than I. He’ll batter away at you until he finds a hook which catches hold, and he’ll drag you back bit by bit. If he claims you back all of this has been for nothing.”

“All will be for nothing if he is not settled. Do you think him harmless now?”

“I know he is not – that is why you must keep away!”

“You are shouting,” Eleanor pointed out.

Their distant audience served its purpose; Fulk averted his face, jaw clenched and mercifully quiet. “I will not lose you to him.”

“I made my choice long ago. I chose you over him.” Eleanor pressed a finger over his lips and raised her voice when he would have spoken. “I chose the baseborn bastard knight with nothing to his name, not the landed earl high in my father’s favour. Why would I change my mind now? Why?! Why exchange the man I love for the failed traitor who slandered my name and started a war? You have gained much; he has lost everything.”

“That is not what I mean-”

“It is.” Eleanor silenced him again. “You view him as a rival. You long have. Once you did have reason. No longer. Not since I sent you to Waltham for safety and promised to join you. Knowing what I do, feeling as I do, how could I go back?”

Fulk captured her hand and removed it from the vicinity of his mouth. “I know how good that man is at controlling you. You don’t need to go near him, and so you mustn’t. It’s a pointless risk.”

“Trempwick was one of the greatest resources my father possessed. If anyone can bring him back to useful service it is I.”

“Impossible!”

“Mayhap.” Eleanor twisted her hand in his grip so they were once more holding hands. “I must at least try.”

“You will fail,” Fulk said flatly.

“He hails me as his queen. If that is not empty then there is good chance-”

Fulk rolled his eyes. “It’s meaningless mouthing to further his aims.”

“You are very certain. Even knowing what you do!” Eleanor snatched her hand back, freeing herself of him entirely. “I am his rightful liege. I did defeat him. I fooled him, I slipped his noose, I led him a merry dance, and now he is a prisoner. That will stand for much where Trempwick is concerned.”

“You will not bring him to heel.”

“I must try.”

“You ordered his death. You made your peace with that. Now stand back and let him die.”

“He will not die if I stand back.”

“Hugh will have him executed.”

“Hugh cannot manage that – his lords will not permit it and he is not strong enough to force them to accept. Trempwick is respected amongst the lords. What’s more, he is one of them. For that alone they would refuse to sanction his execution lest one day it is their neck under threat.”

Fulk snorted. “So you will murder him?”

Eleanor took a bit to consider her answer, though it was something she had gone over many times that morning. “If he will not bow he must die. One way or another Trempwick must be settled. As you said, he is still dangerous. If left he will chip away at Hugh’s foundations. You know this. You do not want to admit it.”

“I do not want you anywhere near that man,” Fulk repeated with all the patience of a stone wall.

This had gone on for long enough – far too long. Neither of them would budge. “I am going to see him. You may accompany me or not as you choose. I would prefer you come.”

“You will make me a laughing stock,” Fulk said harshly. “If you don’t care about the rest you might care about that! It will be said you got bored of me and ran off to your other husband!”

“Not if you accompany me.”

He growled like a goaded wolf.

“I am going.”

“I have already forbidden it.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow as if to say “So what?”

For a long space they stood glaring at each other.

Fulk looked away first. “Very well,” he ground out. “You’re going. I can’t prevent that. I’ll go with you, offer what protection I can. But you’re going against my wishes.”

With the utmost of care Eleanor kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Fulk stalked off to the horses and set about freeing them. “Not unless you can thank me after I’ve flayed your hide for forcing me to this!”

As she collected the reins for her palfrey Eleanor enquired, “Do you wish to flay my hide before or after we visit Trempwick?” Left sufficient time he’d cool off and not bother, sparing them the embarrassment.

Fulk growled again. “You’re mocking me, my lady.”

“Not at all,” Eleanor assured him meekly. My lady. That was a bad sign. Tantamount to a declaration of war.

He drew himself up in the saddle looking most forbidding. “I shall flay your hide at a time of my choosing, and we shall visit that damned man when I say so, not before. I have been pushed far enough!”

“As you say.” Eleanor slanted him a look through her eyelashes as she mounted up.

“And don’t look at me like that.”

“Yes, my lord.”







Should I be laughing at that exchange at the end? I’ve no idea, but I am. The question is, will Fulk or won’t he? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

The detail of how Eleanor/throne/Trempwick/Hugh/stuff can be better explained in a future scene, and since it is required to appear in both I chose to leave the bulk of it over there.

Death is Yonder, a few more years and you’ll be off that treadmill and stood where I am – jealous of the seemingly endless holidays those still in education get. :grumble: Doesn’t matter if it is school, collage or university, they’re always on holiday and I’m always working.

Woad&fangs, the instant I saw you say the cheese was adorable I knew you’d reached that scene. Hehe, adorable cheese – that’s got to be a literary first!

[Death is yonder]

Sarcasm has arrived in its physical avatar--- Eleanor. Some trouble could be caused from this argument. Interesting development to the likely trempwick scene incoming. I suspect that the meeting with trempwick is going to be rather... explosive:2thumbsup: . Throne... hmm... lots more development to this particular topic. I look forward to reading it. Technically Eleanor is the queen as her father wanted her to be. Yet Hugh is older. Theres probably going to be more argument about this in the story about who should succeed to the throne by the people, each having their own supporters. I think trempwick will still play a major role in the rest of the story.
My bet: I think fulk wont be laughing,but he wont be that angry. His personality is good natured.
By the way froggy, my holidays dont include the enormously long summer holidays. Just, 1 week march holiday, 4 weeks june holidays, 1 week september holidays and 5-6 weeks of december holidays.And public holidays of course.
Still, work is more strenous than school. I PREFER school to work but i suppose that would depend entirely on whether i get a job i love. If i get a job i love its like... having fun and getting paid for it. So maybe you should do something you love. Like write this book and publish it and earn big $$. All the same these teachers are very demanding, scold people at the slightest reason or hint of disrespect.:sweatdrop: . The next wave of exams should start pretty soon... nuuuuuuuuuuuu must read Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor. I must confess i'm addicted to the story. More updates please!!:book:

[furball]

Thanks for the response, Ms. Frog. As soon as I saw how you carried the issue of Fulk's "trick" into the next episode with Eleanor talking the priest out of the pilgrimage, I realized it was not the trivial plot point I had suspected. I should have trusted you!

However, upon rereading it, it's placement is still a little jarring. If I was your editor, perhaps I'd ask that you make some sort of small reference to this at an earlier point in the story, so that it's not such a surprise and seeming non-sequitur. Or something. . . :)

[frogbeastegg]

A skein of riders emerged from the outer gate house and advanced down the road towards Eleanor and her party. Their lack of banners prevented identification until late. At first Eleanor believed count Jocelyn to be riding out to meet her with some terrible news. Then she noticed the saddle bags on every mount. Foreboding shivered its way across the back of her neck.

“Trouble,” she commented to Fulk. “He is leaving in haste, the very day after Hugh’s cause was secured. Why?”

“He misses his family, and he’s homesick. He asked me about getting permission this morning, wanted to know whether to ask you or Hugh.”

There was a note of accusation in that last part. Painfully aware of their escort trailing just out of earshot Eleanor kept her reply circumspect. “You know he has held strange … notions in that regard since the day of his arrival.”

Fulk’s hands tightened on the bridle. “You’ve told me I’ve no reason for concern. I choose to trust you.”

Eleanor leaned across the gap between their horses to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

Once within speaking distance Jocelyn’s party moved to one side of the road and drew rein. He bowed in the saddle. “Highness.”

“You are leaving, sir?” Eleanor enquired in his own language.

“Yes. With a bit of haste we’ll reach the coast tonight.” Jocelyn sketched a pious crucifix over his heart. “With luck and God’s aid I could be sailing home this time tomorrow.”

Such a rush; that foreboding grew. Something had torn the heart out of Hugh. Jocelyn was leaving in a hurry. “You will miss out on much.”

“Ah …” Jocelyn rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Not to mention your wound. It would be better to let it heal before attempting such a journey.”

“I am feeling very well, thank you, Highness. It’s really nothing to a seasoned fighter like myself.”

A crossbow bolt to the shoulder could not be anything but nasty, however manly it may be to claim differently. Eleanor knew of a single reason which might drive Jocelyn, wounded and weary, out onto the road, forsaking his part in claiming the rewards which came from setting up a new king, to head home with all possible speed. He could not have been so stupid, surely?!

Jocelyn attempted to edge his horse along past the small roadblock presented by their own two mounts. “If you will forgive me …”

Stupid was such a small word, utterly inadequate. “Do I have something to forgive you for?”

Jocelyn cringed, and Eleanor realised that he’d kept his gaze firmly on the mud all the time.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “You have not done something I would call unfortunate, have you?”

The count’s mouth took on a bitter twist. “Lady, most of my life you’d call unfortunate. And damn me, but I’m beginning to agree.” He dug his spurs in and angled his horse off the road so there was no way they could impede his progress.








I’ve been looking back at a lot of my work, from the start of this story to the present day. It’s borne out a suspicion I’ve held for some months: the sparkle is gone. The scenes I’m producing now are as dry and brittle as old sticks. The little touches are mostly missing. The light little sparks of humour are few and far between. It feels tired. Too many of the little touches which make my writing mine are gone or burning low.

There’s some great material back there. I’m proud of so much of it! I still smile in the same places, I still cry at certain points, I still feel the very same emotions as the first time through. That is pretty incredible.

In my opinion the best piece I have written is that 10 page long short story about how Trempwick first began to wonder about placing Nell on the throne. 10 pages and it’s like a rose bush in fullest bloom on a summer’s day to my writer’s senses. Young Nell, in first person POV no less, has such vitality! Her world brims with life, and colour, and warmth, and everything which I deem important. Such a contrast to what I have today.

The decline begins about the same time the shop relocation began. That confirms the other suspicion which has been steadily growing. The stupid working hours are smothering me. Is it any surprise? When I can write I’m tired, lacking sufficient time and often not quite in the right mood. When I’m in the mood and a scene is burning brightly I’m stuck working.

Got some time off at last. Let’s see if I can’t manage to revive enough to end this with the life it deserves.

:settles down to attempt a long writing session:



Death is Yonder, I get 24 days of holiday this year plus public holidays or a day in lieu for working them, and that’s an improvement on what I had last year due to changes in law and a bonus for working for the company for more than 2 years. Before that I was owed 23 days including public holidays.

It’s disheartening to know that we spend far more time at work than the average medieval peasant.

Furball, mentioning it earlier would be possible. I’ll look at it when I begin revising. ~:)

[Monk]

I'm sure you'll get out of the rut froggy and for what it's worth I still enjoy your work. :yes:

[frogbeastegg]

Breath half taken to say to Fulk, “Hugh knows,” the instant they were alone, Eleanor stumbled into motionlessness as she entered the solar. One of the chairs by the fireside was occupied. Malcolm Nefastus sprawled there, toasting his feet with a cup of wine dangling loosely from one hand.

“Ah.” The brat sat up so suddenly his drink sloshed onto the rushes. “Oh.” He was on his feet before Eleanor had fully collected her thoughts. “You said to speak to you today. I hope … I hope that’s alright?”

The princeling was not paying her presence the slightest attention, Eleanor realised. He spoke to Fulk, and nervously at that.

Hawise retreated to the fringe of the room, placing herself out of the consideration of her betters. Aveis followed her example, as did, more slowly, Richard and his pitcher of wine.

Fulk stepped past her and directed the boy back to his seat. “I remember.”

“I could come back. If you’re busy.” A flick of his eyes made it plain he referred to her.

Eleanor felt herself blush, however incorrect his insinuation was. “Why are you here?” Fulk had said nothing about a visit from Hugh’s dubious ally.

The prince snarled, “Men’s business is nothing to do with you.”

Fulk took the chair opposite the boy, crossing his ankles. “Is your memory of the rest of my words so much poorer?”

“But-”

“I will have nothing to do with you if you can’t be civil.”

Malcolm chewed his lower lip. “It really is nothing to do with her.”

“If you wish to speak with me privately there are far better ways to say so.”

To Eleanor’s complete amazement the prince didn’t hurl his goblet to the ground and stomp about screaming. “If you insist,” he ground out, very nearly coming close to a gracious tone. “I would speak with you privately.”

“As you wish, your highness.” Fulk rose. “Come. We can walk the ramparts.”

Knowing it unwise to question him too openly, Eleanor cleared her throat. With Fulk’s attention attracted she raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t be long.” Fulk gave her a quick kiss. “Wait here for me.”





“Well? Have you decided?”

Several steps later Fulk answered, “Not fully.”

Malcolm’s jaw set. “You don’t want to. Just say it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t want anything to do with me.”

“I haven’t said that either.”

“You don’t have to.” Malcolm hunched his shoulders up defensively. “No one fucking has to. I know.”

“If that were true I would have said no last night and sent you on your way. And kindly watch your language.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Malcolm demanded, stopping and squaring up with Fulk. “Pity? You can fuck right off with that!”

“Not pity.”

“Then what? Why? Go on, tell me.”

Fulk resumed walking, and answered the question with his own. “Why did you come to Hugh’s aid yesterday?”

Left no alternative Malcolm fell back in at his side. “Look, just give me a straight answer. Yes or no. Spare me all this shitting around.”

With a pang Fulk realised how similar this conversation was going to be to the ones he’d had on the subject with his own father. Eight years William had been in his grave, eight years since his son’s foolhardiness had gotten him killed. Eight years on, and now he could agree with every word. Eight years too late. “Being a knight is about more than status. It’s about more than fighting.”

“What are you saying?”

“Until yesterday I’ve have refused you on those grounds. Now, today, it’s a different proposition. It requires some thought. Do you think yourself ready?”

Malcolm’s step faltered, recovered quickly. A line formed between his brows and he gnawed away at his lip. “I haven’t broken,” he replied after a long while. “My father broke after his first battle. His courage is gone.” The boy traced the path his father’s scar took over his own face, his fingernail leaving behind a snake of white which faded where the elder Malcolm’s never would. “I wasn’t wounded … maybe it doesn’t count.”

“That is your answer?” The fact that the princeling considered it at all made him wiser than Fulk had been at his age.

“It is not easy being the son of a coward.”

Fulk strode along in silence. To agree would have been to speak ill of a man he owed allegiance to. The boy spoke the truth, and it was a truth made harder by his rank. A crown prince must be braver than those he would one day lead.

“His lack of balls infects everything he touches like a bloody plague. He shits himself at the mere thought of risk, and it’s fucking Scotland up something royal. Year after year it gets worse.” Malcolm hawked and spat onto the stone. “Look at what he’s done to your wife and her bloody mess of a family. First he makes a right mockery of them by marrying a princess to you – organising it himself as though he held her wardship or something! Then he gave you the shittiest elements of his army, the ones he doesn’t care about if they die. Third, he failed to send the help he promised. He never fucking intended to lift a finger; I told you both but you wouldn’t listen. He hasn’t the balls to lead an army, he hasn’t the balls to trust anyone else to, and he’s more bothered about petty victories won by spidering about in the dark than he is about the honour of our blood. No matter if everyone treats us like lepers because of it.”

“You came,” Fulk observed neutrally. He didn’t chide the boy for swearing, knowing it would close the conversation off.

“Someone had to. He doesn’t see what he’s doing, or if he does he doesn’t care one bloody bit. He’s poisoning the realm and he doesn’t care.”

“You care.”

Malcolm’s head came up, his green eyes flashing. “Do devil-spawned changelings care about anything?”

“You are not a changeling.”

Malcolm snorted. “I was born with six toes on my left foot, or so everyone says, so I guess you may be right. Changelings look normal. Whatever. Everyone says I’m the devil’s spawn so the fucking details of what type don’t matter one bloody bit. The Nefastus doesn’t care about anything.” He pursed his lips. “But a normal prince might. Damn it, a normal prince should or he wouldn’t be worth the fucking crown. It should tear his heart to pieces.” He bared his teeth in the most mirthless grin. “Good thing for me I don’t have a heart.”

“One might speculate such a prince would raise an army to keep the word his father so blithely gave. A fully honourable deed.”

“And, as such, something the Nefastus could never do. No, the Nefastus just wanted to piss in his father’s face and do some killing. Ask anyone. That’s what they’ll tell you.”

“People are saying that,” Fulk agreed.

Malcolm scrubbed a hand wearily across his brow. “Of course they are. Can we ditch this morality play and get back to the whole point of this conversation? Will you knight me or not?”

Fulk stopped and faced the boy. “Do you truly think you’re ready?”

For the longest moment they looked at one another.

Malcolm swiped his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, fighting the wind to keep it out of the way. “No.”

Fulk began to walk again. “I wanted to be a knight for so long. I wanted it so fiercely that sometimes it hurt, actually hurt. When I finally received my accolade the hunger for it had passed. I knew it couldn’t fix the things I originally believed it could.”

“You mean it couldn’t make you respectable?” The boy’s understanding strengthened Fulk’s belief that he saw something of his younger self in the prince.

“Yes. Man at arms, knight, or earl, I’m a baseborn bastard. Nothing can change that. Your father’s invented family history can’t change that. I know who my parents were, and I loved them. I was – am – proud of them.”

“But you allow the de la Bec fiction to stand.”

“Not for much longer, I think.” Seeing the boy’s shock Fulk smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean to decry it from the rooftops or anything. I’ll just let it all drop and go quietly away. Should I speak of my family or childhood to anyone it’ll be the truth I tell them.”

“I’m not ready.” Malcolm’s head sank lower. “My father does his best to hold me back, and the people who’re meant to be teaching me aren’t much use.” Helplessly he shrugged. “And you’re right. It won’t change anything. Not really.”

“No. It doesn’t change anything.” Jesù, to his own ears he sounded worn to a nub.

“Yesterday should have changed something. I don’t see how I can be the same person I was.”

“Maybe you’re not. Change takes time.”

“I don’t think I’m any different.”

“You’re not swearing,” Fulk pointed out dryly. “Or not so much.”

Malcolm moved to the outer face of the wall and leaned on it. One of the burial pits was visible from here. At the mouth of the pit two men had a body by the arms and legs. A couple of swings to build some momentum, and they released it to flop through the air into the pit. The dead man landed sprawled, one hacked shape among many, consigned to rot with no more than his underclothes and a hurried prayer from a holy man. A cart was trundling towards the pit, a stray dog following at a distance wary of the footsoldier slogging behind the cart. An arm dangled out of the backboards, its undulation testimony to the uneven progress of the vehicle.

Fulk waited at the boy’s side. A few days time and there’d be a naked hill on the grass, one of several. Come late summer and it would be covered in plants, inoffensive enough if you didn’t know what slept under it.

Malcolm said, “I won’t live to be crowned. Or if I do I won’t last long after. My own nobles will kill me.”

“Then give them reason not to.”

Malcolm traced an intricate design on the rampart top with his finger. “They called me the Nefastus before I understood what the word meant. Before I could say it myself. How am I meant to fight that? I can’t. The Nefastus can do no good, no right. He’s evil. I learned that long, long ago.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“What’s the point in being good if everyone decides you’re evil anyway?”

Fulk braced his elbows on the wall, ostensibly to lean there for his comfort, in reality to placed him closer to the boy’s height. He addressed his question to his clasped hands. “What’s the point in aiding your father’s ally if everyone says you did it for perversity?”

For a very long time the only sound was that of the wind, and the fainter noises coming from the burial detail in front and the bailey behind them.

Malcolm stood away from the rampart, shoulders set level. “Take me as your squire. Please.”

Fulk was so taken aback at first all he could do was gape. “Your Highness, I am no one-”

The boy shook his head. “You’re hailed as the greatest knight in all England! What better tutor could I ask for.”

“I am a baseborn bastard.”

“So? Princes sometimes have lowly men as their tutors. As long as those men are recognised as being highly skilled-”

Fulk interrupted, trying to keep his tone mild yet firm, “Those men live in their lord’s household and owe everything to him. They don’t hold land or titles. They don’t owe allegiance to two different kings. They’re not married to a princess. Highness, if I accepted you it would be taken as a political statement!”

Malcolm’s head went down. “You don’t want me either.”

“Highness, whatever I want has no place in it. A man in my position can’t train the heir to a throne. I can’t join your household, and you can’t join mine.” That aside, knowing how Eleanor felt about this prince meant he could not ask her to tolerate his close presence. Ah, and there was another reason against this. “Besides, as soon as Hugh is safely crowned Eleanor and I will be withdrawing from public life. We’ll be living in the quietest obscurity manageable.”

“But-”

“Hugh cannot have her at his court, and we cannot have our own separate from his. Anything which lets men judge Hugh against her cannot be permitted. Anything which would allow the notion of her as a queen to live on cannot be allowed.” Fulk spread his hands. “You must see it is impossible, your Highness.”

The boy gave a wretched nod. “Yes,” he sighed. “I guess I do.”

“For whatever it may be worth, I’d probably have accepted you if it were possible.” As he said the placatory words Fulk found that they held a small grain of truth.

Several moments passed. Malcolm said, “I just don’t feel like I can go home again. Not after …” He made a vague motion with his hand which managed to encompass burial pits, armies, and themselves. “After all this.”

“And a bit ago you were claiming you felt no different.”

Malcolm scowled. “Fuck it, I still don’t even know if I came to the right side’s help. Truly. It’s no clear matter as to which of them’s the better, or which has the right of it, or what. It’s a big fat bloody mess, and my father stuck his oar in and stirred the water up so cloudy I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Eleanor doesn’t want the throne.” A scatter of carrion birds took to the sky, disturbed from their feast by the body collectors.

“Wanting is the least of the qualifications. Take it from me.” Malcolm snorted with amusement. “If it came to wanting half the fucking population would be qualified!”

“True enough.”

“All I know is that Hugh’s our ally. He’s not filled all the terms of his half of the bargain, but then my father’s barely filled the minimum of his. He surrendered the land we asked for, and you’re married to his sister like my fucking father demanded. That means he’s kept more of his part than we have of ours. Or that’s the way it stood until I raised an army to come and help.”

Fulk glanced sidelong at the boy. “You went to Trempwick first.”

Malcolm’s face flamed. “I had to. I had to persuade him that I was on his side or I wouldn’t have been able to take him by surprise. I’ve not got that many men.”

Fulk didn’t think a boy could outwit the spymaster. Yet there was no denying Malcolm had charged into an unprepared enemy. There had to be more to it.

“I can’t go home.” Malcolm began to walk again, checking back over his shoulder to see if Fulk would follow. After a bit he did.

Malcolm said, “I won’t be shoved back into my corner. Fuck it, I don’t think I can be shoved back into my corner. Men know I’ve raised and led an army, and they know I’ve been on the winning side. Whatever they say about it doesn’t matter. They can’t consider me to be a child any more. They’re going to be looking at me and wondering from now on.” Malcolm halted, hands held out to his sides and his eyes agleam. “He can’t hold me back any more!”

“Your Highness-”

“Have you any idea what it’s like to be shoved in a corner and kept looking like a useless pisspot? To never be allowed chance to prove yourself! Damn it, to never be allowed chance to even learn properly?” He dropped his hands back to his sides, some of the exultation fading from his face. “He’s too scared to let me do anything which might be risky. More than that, he’s too scared to let me do anything which might make me look better. If I die he’s got a young child for an heir. If I’m triumphant I’m a rival.”

Fulk remembered the armoured figure of his father standing over him, braced to face the enemy to preserve his wounded bastard. He’d been unconscious by the time they’d cut his father down. “You can’t blame a father for wanting to his keep his son safe.”

Malcolm shook his head in rejection. “No! I can – he’s so completely fucking wrong I have to! Protect me?!” The boy’s voice wavered on the edge of breaking. “He’s never tried! Not how it counts.”

“And which way would that be?”

The prince stood, shoulders heaving with his rapid breathing. “He let his baby son be called an unholy demon. His baby! And he let it go on for so long that’s all the poor fucking sod could be! He encouraged it! You’ve seen that your yourself, when you were at our court.”

This was getting decidedly awkward. Fulk wasn’t sure he could agree with either the King of Scots encouraging the loathing of his son, or with a person being forced into becoming something by weight of popular opinion. “Your Highness-”

“So now I’m the Nefastus. Barely anyone will follow him. So I’m no threat to the bearded shit. Which is good for him because if I ever get the chance I’m going to gut him for what he’s done to me! And when he’s dead I’ll be left to claw my way out of the fucking pit he’s dug me!” The prince’s rage collapsed. He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “And I won’t manage to dig my way out.” As an afterthought he added, “There’s a mark on my left foot next to my smallest toe. Maybe that’s where it was cut away. Maybe I am a demon. I’ve got red hair.”

“So does Anne, and none would say she’s anything but sweetness and light.”

Malcolm gave Fulk the barest hint of a smile. “Anne got all of the good which is missing from me. And I don’t begrudge her it. Much. She … wears it better than I ever could.”

“Tell prince Hugh that you don’t feel ready to accept his offer of knighthood, and ask if you can become his squire.” Fulk could see the boy considering it, and further expanded on the idea. “It’d be an honourable placement, and a useful one. You’d gain knowledge of those you’ll have to work with when you inherit your own throne. You’d have space to grow, and Hugh’s a good man.” Hugh could be the best man on earth and he’d still curse Fulk for directing this difficult princeling his way. Hugh held traits which might balance Malcolm out if only they could be instilled. Hell, even better manners would be a big improvement.

After a bit Malcolm said, “I’ll think about it.” He gave a curt bow. “I’ll leave you be now. My thanks … and if you tell anyone about what I’ve told you I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll not have people laughing at me like I’m some pissing milksop!”











Vote Prince Malcolm Nefastus for the “Most Charming Character” award or *^%& off!

Well, that’s some improvement. It’s the burial pits and carrion crows which make the biggest difference here. There’s more to the scene than dialogue scattered with the obligatory line ownership. The dull procession of overly repetitive “he said/nodded/sighed/looked/blah blah” is reduced too. It wrote itself faster than any scene in a long time, and more easily. Dr. Froggy’s cure: more sleep than I’ve had in a long time, more reading than I’ve done in a long time, more writing and in longer stretches than I’ve done in a long time. Pity I don’t have several more months.



Welcome back, Monk! ~:wave:

[Monk]

Interesting! I'm not sure whether to pity Malcolm or slap him! And Thanks for the welcome back, looks like i'm on critic duty until Ludens returns!

It was much enjoyed froggy. You managed to steer clear of falling back into the droning on of dialogue for the most part but there were still one or two places where it fell a little flat. Still I believe it's nothing major as when you fall into it, you manage to pick yourself right back up a few lines later.

It's difficult for me to comment on your story as our styles are so (in my mind) vastly different. So if I take a few days to say something don't get too discouraged I'm likely just trying to think up a way to comment :2thumbsup:

[woad&fangs]

Hi, I'm still reading the story. I just finished the scene at King William's grave between Hugh, Eleanor, and Jocelyn.

I liked it when Jocelyn was writing to Richildis and Fulk interrupted him. Those were 2 excellent scenes.

I'm glad that Hugh is finally getting a hold on his(well technically Eleanor's) kingdom. If the fanclub thing is still going on then add me to the Constance one. She's the one that keeps Hugh on the right path.

Whatever happened to Red Hand? Is that still going to be published?

[frogbeastegg]

After a lengthy pause Trempwick said, “Well, well.”

Hugh did not reply.

“I wondered when you would pluck up the courage to face me.”

“I do not need courage to face you,” Hugh said most softly. “There are a great many things more terrible than you.” He moved past the spymaster to stand before the altar. He made his reverence and knelt.

“You came to pray?” Trempwick stood over him, within view so he could not be taken for a threat.

“What else does one do in a chapel?”

“Since I have been housed here all who come, come for me.”

Hugh tilted his head to look up at the man. “Why should I come to pay you visit? I hold no care for you.”

Trempwick settled himself on the nearest bench, crossing his legs. “Why would you not?”

Hugh refocused his attention on the Almighty.

After a bit Trempwick prompted, “I have never thought you one for gloating.”

Was it self-destruction if one failed to raise one’s shield to ward off a fatal blow? Hugh feared so. Yet could it not be said martyrs did precisely this? They might live yet turned their face to the wall and let the blow land. Campaign in Wales would offer occasion to let his guard slip. Not martyrdom. No, it was so very distant from it.

“However I would have thought you would have something to say.”

To die to clear the way for the rightful heir. To prevent himself from sinning further, from becoming a usurper in truth.

“Promises of fair trial, perhaps. Assurances that I will be treated with honour.” Trempwick leaned his arms on his knees. Hugh paid him little mind.

Self destruction. Suicide. As surely as if he drove a knife through his own breast.

“Ignorance was not a flaw I would have attributed to you.”

Could he do it?

“I shall rest the blame on that head wound of yours.”

Hugh strove to hold himself stationary. To face the question and all it held in full, and to do so without emotion. Emotion would impair his judgement.

“I should not be surprised if it left you a scar.”

Emotion. That is all he found. Odd, most odd. Hugh felt numb, had since the blow had first landed. How could one be numb and yet brim over with passion in one and the same instant?

“Never mind. It will not be too bad of a scar. Remember also how ladies find scars appealing.” Trempwick laughed, a sound filled with heartache. “Look at your sister and her broken-nosed commoner.”

Half sister, Hugh corrected mentally. The heir. The chosen one. The one judged more able than he. The favourite. Hugh drew in a noisy breath and threw his gaze skywards. Control. He must have control.

“Ah, that seems to have caused some upset.” Trempwick spread his hands. “I apologise, I suppose. I had not realised another apart from myself found that sensitive.”

Control.

“From the day William offered her to me in marriage I never doubted she would be mine. Never doubted she would not see me as a worthy match.”

Hugh growled, “No one ever doubts her.” She possessed resemblance to both of their – her parents. Jesù, how it hurt.

Trempwick offered the slightest of smiles. “It hurt.” He touched his breastbone. “Not just the losing of her. The rejection. No man likes to think another may be preferred to he. That hurt too.”

And what if the superior one was a female, and a younger sister to boot?

“For the rejection to be so public as well …” The spymaster repeated his wretched little laugh. “Nell does nothing by half.”

Death. An end to feeling. An end to it all – pain and problems both.

Hugh came to his feet so slowly all the weight of the world might have been on his shoulders. “No.” More vehemently, “Christ, no!” He would throw away every reward in paradise to see his child! Abandon it?! Abandon Constance?! Never!

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Somehow I do not feel you are agreeing with me.”

Hugh battled the surge of emotions. “I agree Eleanor little understands the meaning of moderation.”

The spymaster held his pose for long enough to show he didn’t believe Hugh’s cover up. “Well, what is moderation but the limitation placed upon the able by the less so?”

“I seem to recall you preaching moderation in drink, spymaster. Does this mean you are unable to hold your wine?”

Trempwick sketched a mocking salute. “Witty.”

On the maddest of whims Hugh asked, “Did you oppose my succession because I lack ability? In part, if not in whole?”

Trempwick came to his feet, studying Hugh’s face intently. “Something in you has changed, bastard.”

Hugh did not flinch. And realising it his heart soared – the word has lost all power over him. William had repudiated him at the end. For all of the accursed mess it had wrought in Hugh’s life there was one simple bit of blessed simplicity in it all. He was no man’s son. There was a freedom in that. As quickly as it had flown his heart broke anew. He was no man’s son. William had not wanted him, inadequate creature with suspect blood that he was. No longer could he meet Trempwick’s eye. “Show me a man who would not have changed after the trials I have faced, and I will show you a corpse.”

“If you had no ability you would have fallen at the outset. I admit I am surprised you have survived as well as you have – though in no small part I put that down to Nell’s support of you.” Trempwick’s eyes lost their focus, gazing into the middle distance. “Yes … I should dearly love to speak with my student and discover what is in her mind.” As quick as the snap of a whip the moment ended; with a blithe smile he stated, “Bastard, when it comes to ability you are average. No more, no less. Do not do yourself overmuch credit by assuming otherwise in either direction.”

Hugh’s throat was tight. Average. He had always been average. Had always laboured under that cloud. Maybe William would have wanted him if he’d been talented. Maybe he’d have looked better if he’d not had Stephan the beloved on one side and Eleanor the damned menace on the other!

Trempwick didn’t relent. “You have lived in mediocrity. You will die in it. I would say you were born in it but alas, for that to be true you would have to come from legitimate stock.”

“I am aware of this,” Hugh ground out. “I asked if you opposed me because of that. I did not request you grind my face in my own uselessness!”

Trempwick paced away, one hand massaging his brow. “Bastard, if you wish it plain I can put it no plainer than this. I feel nothing for you as a person; you are drab, average, tedious. I despise your very existence, and the reason for this is simple. You represent a lapse in judgement from a lady whom, until that point, I considered to be the very pinnacle of all that a lady should be. Furthermore, my friend’s failure as a husband led to this. In short, you are born from the mistakes of people I wanted to be beyond errors. You are come from the unhappiness of two people I dearly wished every joy to. As for your father,” Trempwick spat on the floor. “That for him!”

“I see.”

“To an extent, perhaps.”

“Eleanor once told me that you loved our mother.”

Trempwick’s expression was incredulous. “So you think I am upset because you might have been my own son if she had but chosen differently?”

A rage Hugh had been struggling with for so long finally boiled over. “You should have tried your hand – she was a whore.” The next he knew he was on the floor clutching his chest, gasping for breath.

Trempwick massaged his fist, his own breathing quick. “Damn! What is it about her brood that I must keep on doing this? Judgemental idiots, the lot of you!” He crouched at Hugh’s side and dragged his head up by the hair. “Listen well, bastard. Your mother was lonely and abandoned because my friend took her for granted. He thought he could leave her for much of a year and return home to find her waiting and eager like some flower which only opened up when he was present, utterly unchanged from the girl he had married, and thought he could do this year after year.” He leaned right in close. “He was wrong.”

Hugh dragged another lungful of air in. “She was his wife!”

“And he was her husband.” Trempwick released his grip on Hugh’s hair and stood up. “A man should not ask for what he is unprepared to give himself. Or so I have always believed. William was far from chaste.”

Hugh said nothing. What good to him was justification? Would it restore him to grace? No. William was dead; he could never withdraw his rejection.

Trempwick folded his arms. “I can say that she should have found the strength to remain alone, and each time I have done so I have found myself saying in the same breath she should never had needed to. I can say Enguerrand should have had the decency to leave before it came to that or the decency not to abandon her when William returned. I can say that without the least qualm. I hated him for it.” Trempwick clenched his fist. “How self-indulgent of the man, to run away to Spain to die on Crusade! Salve his soul and end his misery all in the one go. Not a thought for Joanna, left behind to bear all that she had before in addition to his leaving.”

Hugh braced a hand on the bench and levered himself into a semi upright position. “If she had done her duty by her husband there would never have been any speculation over my parentage.”

Trempwick bared his teeth. “If she had done that you would not be here to bother me, bastard.” He threw his hands up in the air. “And while we are at it, if William had done his duty by her then you still would not be here, and undoubtedly the world would be a happier place by far.”

“It is all her fault.” Hugh took a final breath and tried to stand; his legs held.

“I do not know why you came here, bastard. Nor do I care.” Trempwick’s lip curled; abruptly he moved away and sat back down in the same position he’d been when Hugh had entered. “If you came here in an attempt to win my support, know once and for all that you will never have it. I will not see a mistake dressed in robes and anointed to rule over us. If you came to learn something,” Trempwick snorted with disgust, “your closed mind has prevented any chance. I will waste no more time on you.”

Neatening his clothes restored a modicum of Hugh’s sense of dignity. “I have no idea why I came. I was mad to believe you would have the courtesy to leave me in peace to my prayers.” He called for the guards to let him out.

“I do not think you came to pray,” Trempwick called after him.








Sorry; late, tired, got to be up early tomorrow. Been sat about waiting for something else to load. Will come back to comments :zzz:

[furball]

Well, I wasn't going to post a comment, 'til I read that you would come back for comments. :)

I'm always happy to see a new installment of the story. I usually go back and read the latest 2 or 3 installments first to remind myself of what's going on. In some cases - like this one - the scene change is such that I needn't have done that, but it's a joy to reread them anyway.

There's a couple of nice things you've done with Hugh here, Ms. Frog! I wouldn't have expected Hugh to consider "doing himself in," but once you presented it, it seemed perfectly in-character for him. But then having him emphatically reject the idea because he wouldn't deny himself to his child and wife? Masterful! After all, that's what Enguerrand had done and look what that had done to Hugh.

Trempwick is more rounded out here, as well. He can be exasperated and truthful and still not budge an inch. Of course, Trempwick has fooled better men than me and I could be wrong, but I think we're seeing some real emotion from the man: “Damn! What is it about her brood that I must keep on doing this? Judgemental idiots, the lot of you!”

The final argumentative bits, with Trempwick explaining his love for both the king and queen and seeing the humanity of both their shortcomings - juxtaposed with Hugh's unbending "judgementalism" - was very well done, imho.

[frogbeastegg]

When Fulk eventually returned he seemed surprised to find three heads industriously bent over embryonic garments. “A sewing gooseberry. I think I’ve seen everything now.”

Eleanor did not share Hawise’s and Aveis’ amusement; she fixed Fulk with her most vicious glare. “You left home with three changes of clothes and returned with but the one you stood up in. One more word and I shall leave you to go about replacing them!”

Hugh knew he had been disowned, Trempwick sat in custody, the battle’s dead were still being buried, Malcolm Nefastus wanted something of Fulk, and here she sat, sewing. Sewing! Concern for Fulk’s welfare had ganged up with society’s ideas about wifely duty and consigned her to this. The man needed clothes. She was supposed to see he had them. Farming the work out to others would lead to whispers of neglect, and that wouldn’t be fair to Fulk.

Fulk set his hand over his heart. “It gives me great comfort to know my best-beloved has personally stitched my underclothes.”

Underclothes. Eleanor schooled her face into serenity. It was true – her skills were as yet insufficient to work on more complex garments. Asked at any other time she would have taken a sort of pride in it, as she rightfully should considering how much effort she’d put in over the years to evade spending time with a needle. Right now, right this very moment, here and now, it was bloody well too much! Her kingdom needed her to steer it through this final patch of troubled waters, and here she was, working on a new pair of braes! Not even something dignified!

Moving to stand behind her, Fulk ran her braid through his fingers. “No need to look so stoical, my love. I’ll save you from your labours.” A finger tickled the back of her neck, and worked lower. “We’ve a debt to settle, and that takes precedence, if you ask me.”

He was ideally positioned for an elbow to the crotch; Eleanor somehow resisted the temptation. How very typically male – always a keen memory for the one thing you wished him to forget! “It does?”

“Of course.” His finger was near the scar shaped like the curve of the arse in the crown’s belt buckle, a positioning which had to be purposeful. “You might sound more cheerful.”

Eleanor said sceptically, “I might?” He’d taken a blow to the head and no one had told her. Surely. Compliant, yes, Fulk could reasonably expect that. Cheerful?!

Someone smothered a giggle – with both maids’ heads bent over their work Eleanor couldn’t identify the offender.

“Think of my poor masculine pride.”

The same masculine pride which had caused the disagreement about Trempwick in the first place? “We have more important things to be doing.”

“Paying debts is very important, I feel.” With both hands he massaged her shoulders, an action very close to wringing her neck however tenderly he dressed it up. “And this one’s growing by the minute.”

This time it was easy to identify the giggler – because both women did it.

With a sigh Eleanor dumped her sewing and stood up. “If you insist.”

“Your enthusiasm drives me to giddy heights of excitement,” Fulk drawled.

Deranged. Quite perfectly deranged. “I am most properly deferential.”

“Slip of the tongue there, dearest.” He looped an arm about her waist and started to walk her to their chamber. “I think you meant defiant.”

She gave him a black look. “I can be defiant if you prefer.”

“Maybe later. I doubt I’ve the energy to deal with defiant presently.”

The giggles turned into out and out laughter as the door shut.

“Well?” Eleanor demanded.

Fulk spread his hands. “If you’re really not interested-”

“Fulk FitzWilliam, if you expect me to be excited over ‘having my hide flayed’; as you so picturesquely put it-” Eleanor broke off; he was laughing.

“Oh, love!” He wiped at his eye and made some effort to bring himself under control. “If a hundred people had witnessed that exchange, and if I asked them what they thought I was talking about, every last one would say I referred to the marriage debt!”

“Oh,” Eleanor said. That may make more sense. A rush of heat informed her that she was blushing furiously. “It might have helped if you had not been prodding at my scars and such!”

“I hate to disappoint, but I barely have the strength for one debt. Settling both is currently beyond me.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “I know which I’d prefer.”

Eleanor indulged for a moment before breaking their kiss and pressing him back a little. “Hugh knows. About the ring – Jocelyn must have told him.”

Fulk considered, then shrugged. “We’re guarded and this castle is filled with my men. He can’t harm you here, nor do I think him the type to. No, there’s more danger he’ll bend knee to you. He can’t do that if he can’t get to you.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “How fortunate that you’re presently unavailable for visitors.”

He’d said nothing which she had not already thought of. “I will have to speak to him.”

“Later. When he’s had some chance to come to terms with what he’s heard.”

“When it is not so raw he must see that a lifetime’s naming him as a son means more than a deathbed change of mind.” Fulk’s lack of concern made it easier for Eleanor to trust her own feelings on the matter, and relax. “What did Malcolm want?”

Fulk untied the ribbon from her hair and started unravelling her braid. “Didn’t I ask you to loose your hair? Didn’t you claim a bit ago to be properly deferent?”

When the kiss broke Eleanor said, “You asked me to loose my hair well over an hour before I made the latter claim.” She repeated, “What did Malcolm want?”

“To be my squire. I said it was impossible.” Fulk combed his fingers through the lengths of her hair. “Could we please forget about the world outside? We’ve been apart for weeks. I fought my way halfway across the country to get here. I nearly died. You weren’t much further from disaster. The realm’s not yet settled into peace either. We’ve had very little time together since we got married. So little time, in fact, that we’ve lain together less than a score of times. We’ve been arguing. It’s only since late this morning I’m beginning to feel capable of a proper reunion.” He raised his voice in exaggerated frustration, “There are better things to be doing than talking politics!”

“Well when you put it like that …” Eleanor leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. “And it is eighteen times.”

Fulk broke into a grin. “You counted?”

Eleanor returned the look from under her eyelashes. “You did not?”





“I counted.” Fulk sounded closer to sleep than wakefulness.

Eleanor smiled into his shoulder. “Of course.”

“Let’s stay here for the rest of the day.”

Eleanor ran her fingertips over the light fuzz of hairs growing on his stomach. “Is that an excuse to go back to sleep, or do you have something more in mind?” she teased.

“Perhaps by the evening, if you take good care of me.”

“Oh hush. It was not a literal question and you know it.” It had been obvious that he’d been struggling and that his wounds had pained him, slow and careful that they’d been.

He cracked open his eyes and grumbled, “I can be hopeful if I want to be.”

“As you wish, my luflych little knight.” If he wanted an honourable excuse for spending the rest of the day in bed then she wouldn’t deny it him.

Moments later Fulk’s head sagged against hers as he dosed off.





“You spoke to my sister?”

The page interlaced his fingers nervously. “No, my lord.” He hastened to add, “I couldn’t get to her. She was … busy. Her servants said so.”

Hugh’s unthinking attempt to knit his brow sent a flash of pain across his forehead. “Busy how?”

The youth blushed.

“I see.” Hugh dismissed the page with a wave of his hand, absurdly relieved that the youth hadn’t replied verbally. It was one thing to know his sister was married, and to understand that marriage by necessity entailed such activates. Yet the thought of his sister – the heir to the throne – in the embrace of that peasant sickened his gut.

Alone once more Hugh sat in continued contemplation.

Snubbed?











There’s some life in there despite the fact I’m zombified with fatigue. That’s nice.



Furball, I don’t think I can do better than to say that was a very helpful comment, and thanks for posting it. Elaborating just ends up with a wad of text saying nothing satisfactory, so I’ll leave it at that. ~:)

[furball]

<beam> And thanks for a new episode. I hope you get plenty of rest. I have a feeling you'll need it for the coming chapters.

[Peasant Phill]

In case you were wondering who's still reading your book on this forum, I enjoying it immensly and always eagerly awaiting your next installment.

[Death is yonder]

Just to let you know im still reading, just not very frequently or occasionally even. You can now proceed to blame school work, teachers, afterschool activites and oncoming exams. I'm waiting in suspense for the plot build up on the conversations which seem to suggest something big is brewing. I shouldn't be reading for quite a while. My exams are just around the corner and I need to study if not i'll die:sweatdrop: .

Anxiously counting the days till freedom :smg: :smg: :smg:

[frogbeastegg]

It had occurred to Hugh that Eleanor may have given him this space to come to terms with his discovery. It was either that or contempt. To his chagrin he was aware of swinging between the two with no semblance of logic. His thoughts had settled upon a path like unto the knotworks used for decoration by the Irish. No perceptible beginning, no hope of an end, so tangled that to attempt to follow it invited blurred vision. Relentlessly he ran along that tangle, over and over. A man of certainty, reduced to being assured of very little and hunting for something to grasp hold of – Hugh found himself contemptible, and so it was small wonder his half-sister viewed him likewise.

Hours after his page had returned from the failed summons the door opened. Eleanor entered without ceremony or announcement, and waited for some reaction from him.

“How long have you known?” Hugh asked after a while. He stood, his blood waking from the sluggishness which had inhabited it for the past afternoon. This time it was a demand. “How long have you been laughing at me?”

Eleanor answered the second question quickly enough. “I have never laughed-”

Should he go near her Hugh feared he would do her some violence, and – questions of inheritance aside - that would be unforgivable now she was another man’s wife. He positioned himself at the window, as far away from her as he could get. “You have manipulated me to perfection!”

“No!”

The cycle continued along its now familiar path; the anger set and in its place rose misery. “That only shows how unworthy I am.” He bowed his head, clenching his eyes tight shut against the tears welling up yet again. “To be led by the nose by my youngest sister.”

“Why do you think I manipulated you?”

“You came to me with your tales of treason on the part of Trempwick, and led me to clear the path for you.” He snorted. “Trempwick is settled. The most rabid of the nobility are dead – so very conveniently, if I may so remark.”

He heard footsteps; by his estimation she had closed the distance between them by half. “Hugh, I came to you before our father had his accident. Before he made this fool’s decision.”

“I have no father,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You are William’s son-”

Hugh pounded his clenched fists on the window sill and roared, “No!”

“Hugh-” Blessed Jesù, she was right beside him now. Had she no sense of self-preservation?

“Of the two men who might bear that name, one abandoned me, the other disowned me.”

Eleanor set her hand on his shoulder, the touch so light it was next to imperceptible. “He was dying, and, dare I say it, heartbroken at what had happened here. He did not deny you when you set your had upon his corpse.”

Hugh swept her hand away with a swipe of his arm. “He denied me when he should have given me his blessing, and that can never be retracted. I do not care. Truly I do not. I do not care why. I do not care when. All that matters is that he chose you.” He stabbed at her with a finger. “You. Not me.” He stabbed again, this time making contact – and by God’s mercy he didn’t care! “You! The youngest! A female!” And stabbed again, forcing her back a step. “The one with the least right!” He pressed her back another step. “The favourite! Always his favourite!”

Eleanor’s retreat ceased; she squared up to him and snarled, “He hated me!”

“You were the focus of his attention!” Hugh bellowed. “He never showed half the interest in me that he did in you!”

“Interest that left me covered in scars!” she spat back.

“So many times did I have to suffer through him wishing you were male, knowing that he would have supplanted me with you if you were!” When he realised he was measuring her neck up to gauge how effectively he could strangle her Hugh drew a deep breath, shoved her to one side, and put as much space between them as possible. “Keep away from me! If you had any idea-”

“How much you hate me?” Eleanor interrupted. “I know, Hugh.” Her lips thinned in an expression which was far from a smile. “I know.”

Hugh held her gaze for a long time. “I have discovered I was formerly mistaken about many things. All those years. I was not learning how to hold my throne and do well by it. I was learning how to take it.” He found himself snarling a smile, and dropped one hand to his dagger. “How easy it would be to take back what is mine.”

Eleanor held her empty hands out to her sides. “I am unarmed. I left my knives behind.”

“I have raised and led armies. I have crushed those who opposed me. I have made myself and my purpose known. I have won support. As I was taught to do. All I needs must do is remove the final obstacle.” Hugh found himself more tired than angry, and that made this unsustainable. His hand fell away from the leather-wrapped hilt. “I never knew how badly I desired the crown I had been pushed towards until I was threatened with its loss.” He sank back to lean against the wall for support. “I wanted it, I worked for it, and on the very day which should have been my triumph I learned I had nothing.”

In reaction to the fight going out of him, Eleanor sat herself down in the window seat. “Brother dear-”

Hugh flinched. “Do not call me that.”

Eleanor shrugged. “As you wish.”

After a long time Hugh decided himself to be delaying. With a fluid shrug of his shoulders he pushed off the wall and stood on his own two feet. “You already know what I will do, do you not?”

“Out of all of our family, you are, I think, the only one I know at all,” Eleanor said softly.

“Do you have the ring?”

She had been concealing it in her girdle. A little pocket must have been added so the ring could sit at the small of her back.

Hugh closed the gap, left hand extended. “I wish to examine it.”

As trusting as could be Eleanor dropped the ring of Saint Edward into his hand. Hugh closed his fingers about it, a thrill running through him. That which had been lost was once again found. The weight in his hand was comforting, Eleanor’s body had warmed the gold – he could have fooled himself into believing he held a living thing. Hugh uncurled his fingers. The sapphire winked blue at the centre of its halo of tiny rubies and emeralds. The Confessor has selected the sapphire as it stood for faithfulness and verity, and later legend had built up about the deep blue eyes common in the royal family. The bloodline had been marked by, and for, the ring.

Eleanor held out her own hand.

Instead of passing the ring back Hugh took her left hand in his and slid the ring into place above her marriage band. Dropping to one knee he kissed the ring. “I am your man.” It was not, in the end, as difficult as he had feared. The price his other options would exact of him he deemed too high. A day spent searching himself to see if he could do otherwise held some reward, then.

Eleanor took him by the elbow and stood, pulling him up with her. “You are the most honourable man I know. You would never have done otherwise.”

Honour. What good was that to Constance and his child? “I will go into exile.”

Eleanor transferred her grip to his right forearm, a clasp sometimes used amongst fighting men to indicate a brotherhood of sorts. “You will stay here, and you will help me right the mess I have been left.”

Hugh twisted his hand free and said bitterly, “A discredited former claimant to the throne will be of no use to you.”

“You will not be discredited.” Eleanor removed the outsized ring and returned it to its hiding place. “You will be crowned as Hugh, first of that name, King of England, Duke of Normandy, and all the rest of that mouthful.”

Hugh could not believe his ears; he shook his head. “What nonsense is this?”

“You were trained to rule, so rule you shall.” Eleanor sat back down, straight-backed and self-assured. It was not hard to imagine her upon a throne. “All will be as it should. Your son will inherit after you. None will know I have the ring, and on my death it will find its way back to the treasury.”

“I do not believe this …”

“Brother dear, I do not want the throne. I do not believe any good could come of it.” Eleanor folded her hands in her lap, a minor adjustment which robbed her of the regal overtones. “Nor do I believe it fair that I, who do not want it and have not worked for it, should take that which you desire deeply and have worked beyond exhaustion for.”

Hugh pursed his lips. “I am not a usurper.”

“You will not be. You have my blessing.”

Then he understood. “You would make me your puppet.”

“No. I would make you a king, in your own right and in truth.”

All this time she had been attempting to look him in the eye, a contact he’d denied her. Now shock drew his eyes to hers. “How can I be that? I am your man until the end of my days, nothing can change that. You cannot clean the knowledge from my mind.”

“I will not live at court. Therefore I could not control you, assuming I so wished - which I do not. I will leave you to your own devices, to make your own decisions and to act as you will.” Eleanor hesitated. “However should I feel something to be important I will speak, and I expect you to listen.”

Hugh’s head felt fit to explode, his world tipped upside down for a second time in the space of a day. He walked aimlessly from the need to be doing something, pressing at his cut forehead so the pain would cut through the tangle and enable him to think. Better a puppet than an exile. Better a puppet than a pauper with nothing to offer his wife and child. “I would have to have certain guarantees.”

“What do you require?” she asked immediately.

What indeed? The statement had been more a delaying tactic than a coherent desire. No – there was one thing clear to him. “You say my son will follow after me. What guarantee have I of this?”

“Our prior accord on that matter stills stands, and always shall.”

“That is not enough.” If he had previously doubted his ability to murder children, he further doubted his ability to murder a legitimate heir. Had he not proved himself incapable mere minutes ago? The threat was no longer believable. “It must be made … legal. Some form of proclamation – something to bar any of your descent from ever taking the throne.”

“As you will. It can be formed so it appears to be based on my choice of husband.”

In the hopes of returning a fraction of the agony her existence had caused him, Hugh said, “One supposes that one bulk of the matter remains unchanged. You are not built for breeding. You will die most unpleasantly, the brat along with you.”

She gave him a very thin smile. “Anything else?”

Having begun it was easier to continue; he was able to answer smoothly. “You will not come to court without my permission.”

“I will not come to court without seeking permission save in a situation I perceive as an emergency,” she countered.

“This is not agreeable.” Hugh folded his arms and attempted to appear inflexible. “You may class any situation as an emergency. I will not have the threat of your appearance hanging over my head at all times.”

“And I will not permit myself to be sealed off so I cannot act if there is need.” Eleanor gave it a moment’s consideration. “In such circumstances I will send a messenger ahead, and this messenger will arrive half a day in advance of myself.”

“I suppose this is agreeable.” What else? He must make himself and his as secure as feasible. “You will not raise an army in your own name, or in your husband’s. You will not retain more than fifty armed men between you.”

“Eighty.”

“You quibble as though buying cloth from a merchant,” Hugh said in disgust.

“I agree where it is reasonable, and seek to preserve my interests where it is not. You think I will give all away and let you dictate?” Eleanor shook her head. “Eighty, and I will publicly swear loyalty to you each year at Christmas. Should the Earl of Alnwick need to take to the field in your support it is best he bring a respectable contingent. I do not think to hold so many men during peaceful times – the cost would be ruinous.”

“Seventy, and you will swear whenever I view it as needful.”

“Seventy, and no more than twice a year. There is a difference between leaving no space for people to misunderstand our relationship, and abuse.”

He had not expected to win too much on this point, and the moral validity of his attempting to limit her was dubious. “Very well. Provided no more than fifteen of those men are knights.

“Agreed.” Eleanor had been toying with her wedding ring, turning it about on her finger. Now she revealed why. “We will pay no more of the fines imposed upon us for our marriage. To maintain appearances we will appear to do so.”

“I acknowledge that I had less right to impose those fines than I believed at the time.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “Less right? No right. Fines are imposed on subordinates. I am subordinate to no one, saving my husband where it is fitting.”

Hugh struggled for a long time before managing to swallow that. “Yes.” No good – the morsel he had struggled so hard to choke down came right back up again. “If I am to be king then all are subordinate to me.”

“All except me,” she replied without delay.

“Then I am no king.”

“You will be as much a king as any other to wear a crown – far more than many who have reigned. I will not stand at your side and whisper into your ear.” Once more she clasped her hands in her lap, letting the commanding pose fade. “Is there anything else?”

It was all too much, too soon, and too unexpected. “I need more time for thought.”

“You shall have it.” Eleanor rose. “There is one final thing. Trempwick must be dealt with, and swiftly.”

Hugh nodded, pleased to find her thinking the same as he. “There must be a way to kill him without besmirching ourselves.”

“It is my intent to make him useful.”

“What?” Hugh growled.

Eleanor raised her chin. “He names me his queen. I will make him bend knee and serve.”

“You will loose that viper?” Hugh could scarcely believe his ears – after all the man had done! After all they had been through to bring him down! “The man who murdered my children-”

“And more besides,” she interrupted. “No. Never. I will find him a prison and he will never leave it. We cannot kill him, we cannot loose him, and keeping him mewed up is a great danger unless he can be brought to see reason to work for what we build.”

Hugh stated, “I will not work with him.”

This seemed to amuse Eleanor. “He will not work with you, rather say.” More seriously, “He would work to undermine you.”

“I do not care what words you put it in. You will not succeed.”

She gave him one of those impudent smiles which announced she had taken the words as a challenge. “We shall see.”








The next few scenes tie into that one quite strongly.

Furball, thanks.

Peasant Phill, nice to see you passing through again.

Death is Yonder, however will you concentrate on your exams knowing something big is in the offing in Eleanor-land? :p

[frogbeastegg]

“Sorry.” Embleton’s representative bowed deeply. “Sorry, my lord. We are so sorry.”

Jocelyn grunted and did his best to look imperious as he sat on his horse.

“Sorry. Sorry, so very sorry …” The man peeked up to see if his profuse apologies were doing any good.

“You must be,” Jocelyn growled.

The man flinched back down. “Sorry. We’re all really very, very sorry.”

Embleton had survived Trempwick’s raids on the lands surrounding Alnwick thanks to its solid wooden walls and the local hicks who marched up and down on them pretending to be soldiers at the least hint of approaching men. Jocelyn had seen first-hand their resolve to protect themselves – the damned bastards had shut the gates against him, filled the walls with every male capable of holding something which might do damage, and then told him to piss off! Oh, the gall of it! And then they’d accused him of being a survivor from Trempwick’s army! A rebel! Trying to flee via their port! He’d been stuck trying to get these idiots to see their damned obvious mistake for so long the rain which had been threatening all day had arrived and started to soak him. Him! The hero of the battle of Alnwick! The queen’s chosen favourite useful knight-count-hero!

Filled anew with righteous fury Jocelyn tapped his shoulder where he’d been shot. “I wounded in royal aid. Rebel? I kill you for insult!”

The representative crumbled to his knees, followed by everyone else from this nest of overly-proud peasants. “It was an honest mistake, my lord. Please, forgive us. We’re so, so sorry. We’ve been fending off Trempwick’s men for over a week now.”

The whining was losing its appeal. Jocelyn glared down his nose at the idiots. “I go home. Royal business,” he added, puffing his chest up. “I serve. I come for ship. You give. I leave tomorrow. You …” How did a chap tell peasants to get to work and sort it out in this mangled version of a language?! In the end he settled for a flap of a hand coupled with a firm, “Do!”

The idiots fled with much bowing and gabbling in their stupid language.

Alain blew a droplet of rainwater off his nose. “Lucky any of these lot speak Anglo-French, really, my lord.”

“Lucky?”

“Yes. Imagine if they only spoke English.”

Jocelyn scowled. “Ha! They should have recognised us as quality and royalists because we speak proper French.”

“Speaking of which …” the squire nodded at a figure hanging about in the shadows of the gate’s archway, still bowing.

Ah. Yes. The one peasant with a pinch of sense in this whole damned muddy dump. The only one capable of working out that the fact Jocelyn’s party flew Jocelyn’s banner meant that – gasp! – Jocelyn was amongst them, and that he was a known royalist. Jocelyn rode over. “You I thank. You sense.” He tossed the man a couple of coins, and rode off to the sound of profuse thanks.

“Why is it always raining in this damned country?” Jocelyn demanded of his squire. “Wonder the bloody place hasn’t washed away, if you ask me.”

The squire pulled a face, and blew another droplet off his nose. “My lord, you complain about it raining far more than it actually does. It’s not been any different to home in terms of how often we’ve been soaked.”

Jocelyn growled low in his throat. “Makes my damned wound ache, damn it.”

Alain made a tutting noise that could have belonged to any old crone wailing about reckless children. “Well, we did tell you that it’d be better to wait a few days before leaving. Heal up a bit.”

“I’m fine.” Stay a bit longer. Yeah, right. They’d have found him face down in a gutter in no time at all, and not in the happy ‘I’m drunk and can’t stand’ sense neither. Damn, damn, damn, damn! Royal favour? He was right properly and fully screwed in that regard for the time being. Jocelyn squinted skywards for a hint that God was there, waiting to reassure his loyal subject in this time of need. Maybe the two royals would forget about his little slip up? I mean, life was busy and it was amazing what a person could forget after a few weeks. Right?

“I think it’s kind of sweet that you’re in such a hurry to get back to your family.”

Jocelyn raised a fist. “Come closer, boy, and say that again so I can knock you off your bloody horse!”

Alain spread his hands. “But that’s what you told us, my lord.”

“Yes. But I didn’t say a damned word about bloody sweet! You chucked that in to piss me off, damn you.”

The squire grinned. “Worked, too.”

“Disrespectful brat.”

It was the end of the day and the shops lining the main street were closing up. One of the more tardy ones caught Jocelyn’s eye, and he reigned in. “Oi!” he said politely to catch the workers’ attention.

The two youths froze, and slowly turned to look with the kind of abject dread that made Jocelyn feel happy about being a mounted lord wearing noisy armour, followed by a troop of mounted men wearing noisy armour. Respect, see. “My lord?” mumbled the first one.

Jocelyn dismounted, landing with a squish. He looked down to find his boots sunk an inch into the mud that now formed the road. Damn it, this waterlogged dump of a land should have stone paving on all its exposed surfaces! He picked his way across the short distance between himself and the goldsmith’s stall, careful as can be so he didn’t slip and end up on his arse. Standing under the opened top shutter he was at long damned last out of the bloody rain, and that was nice. “You don’t speak a proper language, do you?”

The pair were young; they were likely journeymen. After a quick exchange one shot off into the shop calling for his master.

Jocelyn ignored them, and peered at the display they had been packing up. It was mainly made up of rings, simple things which posed no huge risk when displayed openly. He reached out for the one which had caught his eye. A plain gold band, made for a man’s hand.

A voice said in accented langue d’oil, “Ah, that one is a nice piece, isn’t it?”

Jocelyn looked up to find the goldsmith himself hurrying towards him from the living area of the building.

The man bowed. “I thank you for your interest in my humble work, my lord. Is there any way I can assist?”

“Mainly looking,” Jocelyn grunted.

The goldsmith smiled ingratiatingly. “Of course. Anything for one who helped protect our lord’s lady.”

Anything including a fat discount? Jocelyn turned the ring about, checking it from this way and that. It all looked the same, no flaws or such. The weight was nice, proper and heavy like solid gold should be.

“It’s intended for a man’s wedding ring,” the smith explained, inching closer. “Not that many wear them now, but it’s going to be the fashion. The princess Eleanor’s husband, our lord of Alnwick, wears one.” The man seemed to recall that Jocelyn had met said princess and her husband, and added quickly, “Or so I hear. From a good source, though, normally reliable.”

“He does.”

The goldsmith looked quite relieved to hear his predicted fashion wasn’t stillborn. “I think it’s a nice idea, myself. Gives the wife a visible claim on her man. Doesn’t seem right if the couple belong to each other, but only one’s marked as owned, if you follow. I don’t know why more men don’t wear one.” Hypocrite – his own heartfinger was bare.

Jocelyn grunted again as if he didn’t care about the man’s words. See, there was the thing: would Tildis appreciate it at all? More importantly, would she get damned ideas?! Bloody woman, nothing but trouble. Should have been worrying about himself and his lands, and here he was, wondering about pissing away hard earned money to buy something she wouldn’t appreciate – something which would kind of sort of turn him into a wee bit of a girly-man. Giving his wife some visible claim on him?! Damn, how messed up was that?

Jocelyn put the ring back, and turned his attention to the pieces made for women. He’d bring her a present instead. “I’m looking for a gift for my wife.”

“Ah, well, there’s a lot to choose from, my lord.”

There was. Jocelyn looked at it all, and did his best to ignore the never-ending commentary. Time after time he found his eye returning to that damned ring.

Whatisname didn’t look all emasculated and he wore one. Christ’s knees, the man was practically a legend now – not that that would last, the upstart nobody! - and barely anyone at all commented badly on the fact he wore a ring. Damn it all, the idiot seemed proud to actually wear the thing! Imagine that! Yes, well, Jocelyn would be proud to be married to a princess if he were some kind of toad or whatever dug up out of nowhere.

Wear a ring? Give his wife some claim on him? Risk harming his machismo? No! Damned! Way! Ever!

And anyway, just because he wanted to sort everything out didn’t mean he wanted to change anything. Except for the things he wanted to change, naturally. But not the rest.

There was a cloak pin which was nice. It had pretty little seed pearls embedded on it. Richildis would like it, if she knew what was good for her. “I’ll take this one,” he told the smith.

When he left the shop a couple of minutes later he slipped both his purchases into his belt pouch.

Look, just because he had the sodding thing didn’t mean he had to wear it.








Ah, Jocelyn. :help:

[furball]

Yay! :)

[Death is yonder]

Countdown: Exams ending in 3days
Breaktime: Average of 5 minutes a day.

Finally I get to read the new installments...if only i could take paid leave if there
was such a thing over here in slave land. Hugh is becoming paranoid, he should know very well that Eleanor wants nothing to do with being the Queen. Now that she relinquishes the title Hugh is becoming Arrogant and demanding, so soon already imposing demands and constraints. Maybe Eleanor will rebel in future or he'll do something drastic. Seems like Eleanor WILL be meeting Trempwick pretty soon, stop dragging it out! The suspense is killing me:skull: .
Jocelyn seems even more pretty easily angered now. One can easily guess Richildis's reaction.

I do manage to concentrate on my exams. I focus on the consequences and hurriedly get back to studying for the mid years papers.:sweatdrop: :sweatdrop: .

[frogbeastegg]

By the time Eleanor returned Fulk lay on their bed, half dressed, his battered old copy of King Arthur in his hands. The familiar feel of the tome was comforting; leafing casually through the pages and reading the odd snippet here and there kept his mind sufficiently engaged that he didn’t sit and brood.

“You were asleep when I left,” she said, closing the door. “You had been for a long time. I did not want to wake you. You needed the rest.”

Fulk closed the book, not bothering to keep his place marked. “Is it too much to hope that you’ve brought food?”

She seemed surprised that he hadn’t asked where she had been. “I arranged for a private meal to be brought to us, instead of our having to join everybody in the hall.”

It was close to 3 o’clock; not much longer to wait. “My stomach is happy to hear this.” Fulk shuffled over on the bed. “Come, sit with me. You’re nicer to hold than a book.”

Eleanor gathered her skirts neatly and sat beside him. “I begin to see that the true expense in keeping knights is food – and not for the horses.”

“I haven’t eaten properly for days, and all the fighting-”

Eleanor threatened him playfully with a finger. “Idiot. Do not make me poke you. You know full well I was teasing.”

“Bah!” Fulk grabbed her about the waist and pulled her down next to him. Her efforts to twist and land without any weight on him fouled his own attempt not to get knocked; Eleanor came crunching down on his ribs.

“It was your own stupid fault,” she told him over his groans, removing her weight from his abused body and checking him over for further damage.

Once she’d curled up at his side Fulk felt better. “Why does the world seem so much more bearable when there’s a gooseberry to hold?” he mused out aloud.

“Because you are hopelessly in love with me?” Eleanor suggested.

Fulk pretended to consider. “I think it’s because you are warm, myself.”

After a bit she said, “I went to see Hugh.”

Fulk’s hand fell still on her back. “I thought we might have the rest of the day for ourselves. No more bothering about anything other than enjoying the fact we are together again.”

“The sooner all is settled then the sooner our miscellany of guests will be gone.”

“True enough. But it would be nice to spend a bit of time enjoying that which I fought for.”

Eleanor propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. “Your fight may be over; mine is not.”

It was true; Fulk knew himself to be trapped and surrendered with as much grace as he could muster, which was to say not as much as he’d like. “Alright.”

“He accepted my offer.” Eleanor shifted to sit at his side, legs tucked to one side and skirts neatly arranged in a pose often used by artists painting young ladies seated upon grass. “We have agreed some terms. There will be others when he has had time for thought. When I have, also – our own interests must be protected.”

“Wouldn’t do to have him settle so comfortably he forgets who the crown truly belongs to,” Fulk said blandly.

She looked at him sharply. “Would not do to have him decide to remove me as an unnecessary danger. Or to try and shunt me out into the cold. Or-”

“Yes, I know, dearest.” Fulk snorted, half in irritation at himself, half in delight at how fired up she had become. “Forgive me. I seem to have become quite sour, these days.”

“Overall our agreements will suit you – we will not spend much time at court, for example.”

It was the wording which gave away the existence of one agreement she believed he would baulk at. Fulk braced himself and enquired, “But?”

“My descendants will be barred from the succession by law.”

Fulk pinched the bridge of his nose. “This matters how? Unless I have been highly unobservant nothing has changed – it’s unnecessary.”

“Yes. It is a formality.”

“One you think will give me pause.”

“The reason which will be given publicly will be your complete unsuitability as a match for me.”

Fulk pressed his lips together. “I’m tempted to add my own demand to all of this – if I’m to be paraded as a dirty peasant yet again then I want recognition of what I’ve done for your damned brother.” He attempted to smile to twist the words into a joke; he feared it came closer to a grimace.

Eleanor answered with a very slight smile of her own. “If Hugh does not offer you recognition of his own accord it will be to his lasting shame. On that most will agree, if a little grudgingly. A lord must reward his followers.”

“Why is he demanding this? It’s unnecessary. And I’m not convinced it would hold either – it could be overturned. It wouldn’t be … ” Fulk sifted through a selection of words. “Custom. There’s no precedent. It wouldn’t take much to declare it unlawful.”

“Peace of mind. Write me out of the line and he and two very distant sisters no one wants are all that is left.” Eleanor tapped her fingers on her thigh, and Fulk knew she was talking to him with one part of her attention and devoting the rest to considering something else. “It centres attention more firmly on him and his own line. Makes me less of a rival, and encourages people not to consider potential rivals to his sons.”

Fulk shrugged his shoulders. “Anything which makes him feel better makes him less dangerous to us.”

Eleanor’s tapping took up a more complex rhythm. “I need to see Trempwick. I must get him to stand at my side before I can do much else.”

“Tomorrow,” Fulk countered reflexively.

Eleanor’s hand fell still. “Today.” Again he had the feeling she was only half here. “Secure Trempwick today, work the majority of what is needful tomorrow, and the army departs for Wales the day after. At last we are left in peace, and the worst will be over.” She blinked slowly, and suddenly she was back with him. “Today, and then we will have our peace.”

Fulk sat up in a blaze of protesting muscles. “We will go when I say so. You agreed to that.”

She inclined her head. “I did.”

At this point what use was there in fighting to save a bit of face? He had already surrendered on the main point. Trempwick would continue to be a source of discord until they got rid of him; in that he could agree that sooner was better. There remained the matter of those rash - if heartfelt at the time – words. Fulk had been wondering what to do since he’d woken and found himself alone. He had a somewhat hesitant hope that he’d found a solution. “Very well. We’ll go this afternoon.” He left a meaningful pause. “There remains the matter of the price.”

In the space of a word Eleanor had become completely impenetrable. “Very well,” she said impersonally. In that moment Fulk knew she’d not expected him to make good his threat to beat her.

“It seems unfair to me.”

A touch of life returned to her. “You might say that,” she allowed.

Fulk smiled deliberately. “I’m left in the position of doing something I don’t want in recompense for doing something else I don’t want to.”

That took the wind out of her sails. She scowled at him. “You were the one with the hide flaying, not me.”

Actually, Fulk had the distinct feeling that entire line had been opened up by her so he had a graceful way to back down. “The best idea is to change the price to something I do want.”

She eyed him in much the same way she’d look at a rabid wolf lying on her best rug. “Go on.”

Fulk lay back down and clasped his hands over his stomach. Best to make this look casual. “I would like you to make an effort – how much of one is up to you – to stop hiding your back from me.” There. It was said. And several moments after finishing he was still alive. That was promising.

“Pardon.” It was not a question. It was a verbal rock dropped from a great height.

“An effort, as much as you feel able and willing to do.”

That glare could have pinned him to the wall. This might not have been such a good idea. “And you are giving me some choice in this?”

“Yes.” Fulk sat back up, abruptly realising she could interpret his efforts at a relaxed tone as a cocky, smugly insensitive demand. “I’m not asking you to do more than you’re comfortable with. That’s why I’m asking. I thought you’d slowly realise I don’t find it ugly. You’ve grown accustomed to me looking at you, provided I can’t see a hint of your back. But you’re still so worried about that.” This was coming out abysmally. “I wish you weren’t. I wish you didn’t worry about what I can see, and do your best to arrange yourself so I can’t see your scars. I-”

Eleanor slid off the bed and crossed to where his clothes lay. She picked up his belt, and tossed it over to him. “There is my answer.”

Fulk swept the belt away from him. “No.”

Her lip curled. “So the choice is hollow.”

“I’m not asking you to stand around naked so I can examine your back in detail,” Fulk cried. “I’m just asking that perhaps you’ll try not to shrink away if I kiss your shoulder when you’re naked because I might – might keep going and catch sight of a scar.” He moved to stand with her; not so close she would find it threatening, close enough to make it intimate. “I love you. I think you’re beautiful; surely you can’t doubt that any more.”

Part of the iciness defrosted. “Do you think it was no effort to let that roomful of drunken boors stare at me so we could be married?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you think after that it was easy to let you look at me at all?”

“No,” he said softly. “I know it wasn’t easy at all – at first. You have grown accustomed to it.” With a half smile he offered, “I think you begin to like it.”

She blushed quite stunningly.

“You do,” he confirmed, feeling as though he could fly with pure delight.

“It is the way you do it,” Eleanor mumbled. “So …”

Fulk put out a hand and stroked her cheek. “Love struck idiot gazing upon his delight?”

“One could say that.”

“How do you know you won’t see me looking at the rest of you like that if given chance?”

Eleanor’s answer was voiced very gravely. “Because I do not have eyes in the back of my head.”

Fulk laughed. “Alright. You won’t see.” It was incredible how quickly they could turn a mood, incredible and the most marvellous thing in the world. This morning’s mistakes were not being repeated. “’Loved, if you don’t let me see then you will never learn that I truly do not care. You’ll always worry. I’m not asking you for something you can’t do; I know you have the courage to rise to the challenge.”

Eleanor struck a regal pose of condescension, ever so slightly over the top to make it into a joke. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Fulk made a show of considering her for a bit, then kissed her gently on the lips. “Will you try?”

The reply was so long in coming Fulk began to wonder if she were hoping he’d forget he asked. “I suppose I shall have to.”





Prince Malcolm dipped into the shallowest of bows. “I thank you for your offer of knighthood.” The young prince surreptitiously wiped his palms on the moss-green wool of his tunic. “I can’t accept.”

Hugh’s jaw tightened. Rejected – unfit to knight the heir to a throne! How did the boy know?! Had Eleanor told people the truth despite her assurances she would not? Had Hugh himself somehow betrayed the secret?

Malcolm hooked a strand of hair behind his ear. “I … well …”

“It is not needful for you to explain yourself,” Hugh said, managing to sound almost normal.

“There is.” Malcolm, took a steady breath. “It’s hard.”

Hard to tell a man to his face he was no good? From the boy’s reputation Hugh found that impossible to believe.

“I’m not ready for it,” the prince blurted out, as though he feared his nerve would fail if he waited a moment longer. “And I want to be your squire. Please.”

Hugh realised he was gaping and closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. “Squire?”

“If you’ll have me.”

It was not unknown for the heir to one throne to spend time at the court of a family he would have to work with once he came to power. The ties of friendship could do much to alleviate the risk of unpleasantness. The arrangement would reflect prestige upon both houses. Then too would it serve as a way to test the length of his chains. Could he contract an agreement as important as this without his sister’s interference? “I would treat you the same as any other squire,” Hugh warned. “There will be no allowances for your rank. Indeed, I will demand more of you because of it.”

Malcolm nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

“You will cease swearing, and speak in the manner which befits a noble. No more sloppiness.” As for the boy himself, how far could Hugh push? “If you cannot manage that of your own accord I will have you beaten until you do.”

This time there was no nod. “Sir.”

“You will cause no trouble, nor give offence to any. My squire’s actions reflect upon my own name, and I will not permit it to be sullied.”

“I understand.”

Hugh eyed the boy suspiciously. This princeling had a reputation. “I am in grave seriousness about all of this.”

Malcolm’s eyes rose from their deferential scrutiny of the floor. “As am I. My current tutors have bloo-” He caught himself just in time. “Have failed me. I don’t – do not know the things I should, the things I must know if I am to be an effective king.”

Was he certain about this? The advantages were plain, the single disadvantage being the boy himself. Yet was it not unfair to think badly of Malcolm based upon little evidence and many rumours? “Go and speak with Serle,” Hugh said after a bit. “Ask him for the items necessary to a squire.”

Malcolm bowed, this time more deeply. The boy’s red hair tumbled forward to curtain his face. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

“You will have your hair cut so it is a minimum of an inch away from your shoulders. No warrior worth the name has shoulder-length hair. It is a danger, and effeminate.”

“The Spartans-“ Malcolm clamped his mouth shut, bobbed another bow, and left.








It bounces in some places and clunks in most others. Oh well.

Death is Yonder, Hugh’s trying to protect himself and discover how his sister’s idea will work.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor didn’t stop moving, the progression from entering the room to belting Trempwick full across the face with the back of her hand was smooth as could be.

Trempwick slowly turned his head back, one hand pressed to his cheek. “I thought I had taught you better, dear Nell,” he said softly.

“You are correct. You did.” Eleanor put every ounce of strength she possessed behind the blow to his solar plexus. “You will agree that was a perfect reproduction of the only time you raised your hand to me, will you not?”

Folded up on the floor gasping for air Trempwick couldn’t reply.

“I confess I was uncertain I would catch the right spot, never having done it before. Your teaching was thorough, as always.” Forget Trempwick – Fulk had drilled her in that move while improving her defensive combat skills.

Fulk was watching this interplay with the most gratifyingly open amazement. Whatever he’d expected it was not this. She had told him to remain silent and out of the way unless called upon to do otherwise, and reluctantly he had agreed.

Eleanor stepped closer. The toe of one daintily shod foot peeked out from under the hem of her clothes, a mere finger’s breadth from the hand Trempwick had spread on the floor for support. “Nothing to say, dear Raoul?”

Trempwick managed no more than a strangled sound that was half struggle for air.

She set her foot over his hand, exerting the lightest of pressure. “I am sorry, I did not quite catch that.”

“Irony,” Trempwick managed. His chest worked hard as he refilled his lungs.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “Pray I do not venture from that to sarcasm.”

He wheezed a laugh and made to sit up; Eleanor pressed her foot down on his hand so he couldn’t. “Ironic,” he explained laboriously, “as I did the same to your half-brother not so long ago.”

Under the sole of her shoe Eleanor felt his hand attempt to move again; she slammed her weight down. It was vital that she dominate this, each and every last moment. Sharp and strong. “I am not here to chatter.”

Trempwick looked up at her with the merest hint of a wistful smile playing on his lips. “Ah, my dear Nell. One could hope …” His face become wholly serious. “But you are right.” His left hand still pinioned to the floor, Trempwick bowed so deeply his forehead touched the flagstones. Awkward as the manoeuvre was he managed to make it appear graceful. “My queen. I am your man.”

The tiniest squeamish fluttering in the pit of her stomach; Eleanor stamped on that as she crushed her master’s hand. If bones hadn’t broken it would be a wonder. Trempwick went rigid, his breath caught in a gasp. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t believed her capable of it, else he would have snatched his hand back as she lifted her foot.

Fulk made a movement, quickly arrested. His face had gone blank, an effort to keep her from reading that which he had not managed to keep from his eyes: dismay.

Eleanor shifted her weight to her other foot, still not letting Trempwick reclaim his damaged hand. “Every lie you speak to me from here on is going to cost you, Raoul.”

“You will get in trouble, Nell,” Trempwick said quietly. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

Eleanor flashed him a wicked grin, and switched her weight back to the foot resting upon his hand. “When have I ever cared for that?”

Voice tight with pain Trempwick replied, “Seldom enough, I confess.”

“Correct.” Eleanor stepped back.

Trempwick lifted his hand from the floor and gingerly attempted to form a fist. His smallest finger wouldn’t bend; heel marks ran lividly across the lower knuckles of that finger and the one next to it. “I would not have thought you weighed so much, dearest Nell.” He pushed himself up to his feet, cradling his left hand in close to his body. “I did not lie, sweet Nell.”

Eleanor made a scornful noise. “I am not fool enough to believe that!”

He shook his head. “Oh, Nell …”

“Do not play the wounded puppy with me. It will not work. Sympathy? I have none for you. I ordered your death, Raoul.”

“So your … husband told me.” Trempwick let his hands fall to his sides. “He also told me you would not come to visit me.”

She’d been expecting that one, and had come prepared. “Did you despair, Raoul?” Eleanor purred. “Each time the door opened and it was not me, did your heart sink?”

“I knew you would come, beloved Nell.”

“Faith? Hope? Or do you persist in the belief you understand me?”

He met her mockery without discomposure. “While it has become evident you have changed since we last spent real time together,” he touched his hand and grimaced, “you have not changed beyond recognition. You are still my dear little Nell.” There was a touch of warmth in the lines of his face as he surveyed her. He bowed very, very slightly. “Yes, I think I may say without reservations that you are no longer my pupil. You have grown past that. I am proud that you have reached this point.” In the space of a heartbeat all the warmth drained from him, and he became the stern teacher. “But you are not yet my equal. Nor my master. Do not over-estimate yourself, beloved Nell.” As swiftly as it had formed the ice melted; Trempwick dropped to his knees. “What you are, indisputably, is my queen.”

Eleanor kicked him, using the side of her foot so she wouldn’t hurt her toes in her stupidly flimsy shoes. “Lying again.”

Trempwick rubbed ruefully at the bruise forming on his hip. “I see you have taken up one of your lord father’s less fitting habits. I do rather wish you had not gone past the point where I am able to encourage you to more appropriate behaviour.”

“Dare utter that lie again and I will kick you again.”

He looked right up at her, leaving his guard wide open and said in very distinctly formed words, “You are my queen.”

Good as her word Eleanor kicked him again, this time in the groin. It was important to keep him off-balance, to make him feel less able to predict her.

“You are my queen,” Trempwick repeated.

Eleanor backhanded him across the face. Overall this was going as hoped: he insisted she was his queen, and she refused to believe. Eventually she would let him demonstrate his loyalty, and from there she would set about rendering him powerless except in a handful of directions she could maintain control of. “You sought to make me your pawn so you could rule!”

“You had to be steered towards power-”

“I had to pick it up to mend the mess you were making,” Eleanor spat. “And thereafter your every action ran counter to my desires – counter to my interests. From the first you went counter to my interests!” She held herself on the edge of giving in to her temper, let him watch the struggle, and slowly stepped back from the bring. Let him think she was so outraged at him she could barely control herself.

“That is not true, my dear Nell.”

“You claimed to be married to me-”

“To protect you. To prevent your half-brother handing you off to another.”

“That speaks of your whims, not mine. I never wished to marry you, and you knew that.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Did I indeed?” He laughed. “Honestly, dearest, most beloved Nell, you never could quite make your mind up. When you put your bodyguard from your mind you were amiable enough.”

“You ruined my reputation!” Eleanor clenched her fists at her side, glaring at Trempwick for all she was worth. The fury was only partly an act. “Fickle, unreliable – that is the best of what people thought! ”

“Truthfully, darling Nell, any damage that was done came from your resistance. If you had bowed your head instead of repudiating me then none would have thought badly of you.”

“All you wanted was to rule through me. Why would I have agreed, seeing that? But you did not think I knew, did you?” Eleanor laughed, brief, harsh. This point needed grinding in. Trempwick would follow someone he felt to be worth his while. “You thought me so blind, so crushed that I would not work it out. You were wrong. I had an alliance with Hugh from the very first, an alliance with the sole aim of bringing you down.” Eleanor indicated the makeshift prison. “And here you are, so very down and with nowhere to go but lower still.”

Trempwick’s reaction was as cool as one might expect, yet there was something, perhaps that he was a fraction too calm, that suggested the barb had hit home. “Are you boasting, dear Nell? Threatening? Or gloating? Something of all, perhaps.”

Eleanor lifted her chin proudly and folded her arms. “I am telling.”

“Delightful. While you play storyteller I shall settle into a more comfortable position to listen.” Trempwick dragged the pew nearest her around so he could sit and look at her.

As his behind was about to contact the bench Eleanor said coldly, “I did not give you permission to sit.” This was going too far too fast, and he left her no choice. Permit him to behave so casually and she would never manage to assert her authority over him.

He hesitated for the merest fraction of a moment, then sat. “I am weary from yesterday, and somewhat mistreated. You will forgive me.”

With a wickedness that felt utterly delightful Eleanor said mildly, “Of course. I am sorry for my lack of consideration. Your age cannot make your trials any easier; bodies take stress so much less willingly once past their peak.” The tone she now paired to a thoughtful little smile. “I think, actually, it would do you considerable good if you were to kneel. If you sit you will only grow stiff and make your back hurt.”

He knew what she was doing, there was no question of that. How could he not, when he himself had taught her by example? The question was, would he acquiesce? Trempwick tilted his head to one side, smirking faintly. “Nell …”

In several quick strides she was at his side, leaning down to speak directly into his ear in a harsh, low voice, “And what would my father do if you came to him after raising this disaster in his name?”

Trempwick said very softly, “Ah,” as though he had discovered something of unexpected – and pleasing - value. He knelt.

Blessed relief swept through Eleanor, combining with tension to make her muscles tremble. “He would have had you killed,” Eleanor said, pacing about him as Trempwick had frequently done when she had been commanded to kneel. With concern that was made to sound very nearly real she suggested, “Why not raise your hand above your head? It will reduce the swelling. I am afraid it does look quite nasty, and should not be left to grow worse.”

Traces of amusement still apparent, Trempwick raised his hands and clasped them at the back of his neck. “Is there no love between us, dear Nell?”

What could she say to that? What should she say to that? Her pacing stopped at his back. “You betrayed me. You used me. You failed, and now you are done.”

Trempwick twisted about in an effort to look at her. “That does not answer me, darling Nell.”

“It tells you all you need.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Speaking of which …”

Eleanor turned her back and walked away, refusing to elaborate on her implication that she considered herself to be standing on the same ground William had once occupied.

“I am playing along, dearest Nell,” Trempwick called after her. “I could choose otherwise.”

Eleanor half turned, moulding her features into restrained scepticism. “You made one mistake, master, and months later you still do not realise how low you have tumbled.”

“Will you execute me for treason?” he enquired pleasantly. “I never gave my oath to your brother. I hold nothing from him. He is not crowned. Any accusation of treason can only be ridiculous.”

“Accusations of treason against Hugh are absurd,” Eleanor agreed. “However, you name me your queen. I ordered you to stand down, and you refused. Indeed, you continued to besiege me. There are sufficient witnesses.”

Trempwick dipped his head in a shallow nod. “Inventive, I shall acknowledge that. Hard to make it stick.”

“Whoever says I intend to?” Eleanor seated herself on one of the pews off to Trempwick’s side so she could see his face in profile and he could not look at her without twisting uncomfortably. “You credit me with passing the apprenticeship, so grant me the sense to not tell you of how your end will come.”

“My queen,” he gave a brief triumphant smile as it became plain she was too far away to reach him in a timely manner. “I spot a pattern amongst the odd words here and there. You do consider yourself to be William’s heir.”

Eleanor got up from her seat, booted him in the stomach, and sat back down as if nothing had happened. This was becoming tiresome – however had the arse in the crown kept his interest in casual violence? What was more her foot ached. Her right hand ached. Her knuckles stung in particular. She felt rotten, downright guilty.

“You do. My queen.”

Delay could no longer serve. Eleanor crossed back to his side, sized a handful of his hair, twisted his head about and hissed in his ear, “You made one mistake. You forgot what you made me. And because of that you nearly destroyed me!” With a jerk she released him, leaning down so they were eye to eye with a mere inch between the tips of their noses. “I am a thing of shadow. Shove me into the light and I melt away. One mistake. One. The biggest damned mistake anyone could have made!” Eleanor enunciated her next words clearly, knowing that they would offend him greatly. “A mistake worthy of the cattle, master.”

The day’s growth of stubble made it easier to see Trempwick’s jaw muscles harden at the insult.

Eleanor pressed on, knowing she had him on the back foot. “To rule in my own name is not what I am made for, and that you forgot it makes your intellect so suspect I would not trust your advice on what colour grass is!”

Trempwick said flatly, “I did not allow your father to insult me so.”

“No,” she snarled. “You allowed him to draw a sword on you.” Eleanor jabbed his neck where a thin, faint scar was visible; the legacy of a cut inflicted when he’d attempted to prevent William taking his anger out on her. “Insult? It is richly deserved, idiot.”

“Words. Blows. Games.” Trempwick brandished his left hand in her face. “This!” He dropped his hands to his sides but remained on his knees. “Dear Nell, you run close to the edges of my tolerance!”

Instinct drove Eleanor to her reply: very deliberately she flicked him on the nose. Absurd, completely absurd, answering his challenge with disdain.

From the corner where Fulk stood ignored came a muffled snort of mirth.

Her position meant Eleanor couldn’t miss the spark of rage which lit deep in Trempwick’s eyes. “If you were not my queen-”

“But I am.” So she flicked him again.

Trempwick said through clenched teeth, “You are, and I am sorely beginning to regret it.”

“Because I told you a truth you did not wish to hear?” Eleanor straightened up and wandered back to her seat. “You made a fool’s mistake. Face it.”

Trempwick turned his attention to his broken hand. He visibly braced himself, and pulled his broken finger straight. “I should like a bandage. If you please.”

Eleanor smiled benevolently down at him. “Maybe later.”

Trempwick improvised a splint by holding his smallest finger against its neighbour with his other hand. “I know what you are doing.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

“You have chosen a dangerous course. You need my help.”

“The help of the very man who made it dangerous in the first place?” Eleanor arced an eyebrow. “I think not.”

“You need my network, and you need me to head it. How else will you maintain control?”

“Raoul, dear Raoul, you are struggling.” Eleanor leaned forward, leaning her arms on her knees. “Let me remind you of a basic principle. The ruler rules. Everyone else obeys.”

“Let me remind you,” he said, mimicking her tone, “that I have allowed you to play with me. Because of that.”

Eleanor leaned back against the hard wooden back of the pew, feeling the carved scene on it dig into her. “Let me remind you,” she said, mimicking him in her turn, right down to the hint of the sneer, “that you are here because you went against my wishes. Repeatedly.”

Trempwick shook his head sadly. “Ah, Nell. You doubt my loyalty.”

“Doubt is too gentle a word.” Eleanor changed direction; sharp and strong, she must keep to that. “I am not here to negotiate for your support. I am here to tell you that you will send word to your mother, commanding her to surrender to the forces besieging her.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Indeed, sweet Nell?”

Eleanor stated her demands at a measured pace, one after another. “Tomorrow you will be brought out to apologise to me in public, and to admit that your claims to marriage were lies. You will exchange the kiss of peace with Hugh. You will state that you no longer oppose him, or his rule. You will swear the most binding oaths possible that you will not raise forces against him again. You will accept being stripped of all your lands and titles without murmur, and you will request leave to retire from the world to a monastery. You may take the cowl or be incarcerated as a worldly guest; I leave you that choice. You will not name a location; I will chose, and you may be sure that it will be somewhere secure, surrounded by my people.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Will I indeed, dear Nell?”

“You will give me the locations of certain people so I may have them killed.”

“Such as?”

Eleanor named all of Trempwick’s people from Woburn, and all the others she knew of from his network. Some of those names he had given her himself, others she had gleaned with Miles’ help. The list ended with her father’s personal physician, the man William named as his murderer.

When she had finished Trempwick remarked, “Darling Nell, that is quite a list.”

“If so much as one of them escapes I will hold you to have betrayed me. Do not think to fool me either; I will view the corpse of each and every one I know by sight so I may be sure the right person is dead. If you play me false at any point, or so much as look suspect, you will die, and I care not for the consequences.”

“And why will I do any of this?”

Eleanor produced the ring of Saint Edward the Confessor from its hiding place and held it up so Trempwick could see it. “Because your queen commands it.”

Trempwick touched his brow in a mocking salute. “Clever. A neat enough trap, dearest Nell. It could have been neater, could definitely have been better, but neat enough.”

“Once at the location I shall choose for you, you will not communicate with the outside world. Your only contact will be with me. You will turn all of your attention to a project I have for you.”

“Yes?”

“You will write for me a work which is … let us say instructional. All the things you have not taught me.” This way she could access the knowledge she desperately needed without having to spend much time close to the man who possessed it.

After a bit Trempwick said, “One might expect, then, that you will turn to me for advice when you feel the need for it.”

She’d waved the stick, now to bait the rod with the promise of future influence. “I would not ask a man I could not trust for advice.”

“As I said, a very neat little trap.” Trempwick massaged the back of his left hand; he was not willing to let her forget what she had done to him. Playing on her guilt in the hopes of a better deal? “Let us say, speculatively, that I acceded to these demands. Your half-brother would not play along. He wishes me dead.”

“You wish me to prove my control over Hugh?” Eleanor made a dismissive gesture. Self-assurance was vital, show doubts and he would twist all about until he was the one giving demands. “He will agree. He understands what is owing to his queen.”

“Even the loyalist man can be pushed into revolt if too much is demanded of him.”

“You are far from what I would call a loyal man.”

“And so the onus is on me to prove otherwise. As I said, neat.” Trempwick smiled, slowly. “The question is, my dear little Nell, is am I willing to go to such lengths to prove myself?”

That was indeed the question.

Trempwick stood up, flexing each leg a few times to work out the stiffness. “So I was right. William did leave you the ring.”

Eleanor bolted upright in her seat. “I did not give you permission to rise.”

“It makes my heart glad that he was able to bridge the gap at last.” Trempwick laid his hand over his heart. “It pained me to see you always at such odds.”

“Raoul! Kneel!” This was trouble – she must asset her tenuous authority over him. Simply knocking him flat would not work, not now he had begun to challenge her openly. Chances were high he would defend himself now. Wits; back to the familiar old cut and parry of words alone.

As Trempwick came closer to her Fulk left his corner, hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

Trempwick said, “I asked you for a bandage, my darling Nell. Asked humbly, for such a small trifle which will cost you nothing to grant. You denied me.”

Both men came to a standstill, Fulk at Eleanor’s back, Trempwick to her front. She felt trapped, diminutive, and the situation was threatening to slip out of her grasp. To counter this she rose. “You expect me to shred my clothes to make you one?”

Trempwick smiled faintly. Very softly he said, “Do you remember those evenings where you used to sit at my side, your head resting against my knees?”

She did, though that had been many years ago. Sometimes he had read, ignoring her presence. Others he had read to her, or talked with her.

He continued, “I brought you some honey cake once, after your father had beaten you. It ruined my scrip.”

“It was a silly place to carry it.”

“I brought you your first horse, a milk white mare and the gentlest creature ever bred.”

“This is irrelevant.”

Trempwick shook his head. “Sweet Nell, it is not.”

“It is.”

“Fourteen years. You went from child to adult under my hand. I taught you, nurtured you. I weathered the tempers and the tears, basked in the smiles, survived the multitude of irritations, watched you go from strength to strength. I grew … fond of you.” He smiled a faint, gentle smile. “On occasion I wished to wring your neck with my bare hands. I saved your life, more than once. And now here we are. And you denied me a bandage.”

Eleanor said nothing.

“Anyone who would wield power must know that harshness and mercy go hand in hand. A pinch of the latter can win a heart more comprehensively than a fistful of the former. Beloved Nell, offer the right man a bandage at the right time and he will do anything for you.”

He was attempting to throw her, to lead her off onto the wrong path, that must be it. “You will not be won with bandages.”

“No, sweetest Nell, I will not.” Trempwick reached out with his sound hand and brushed a strand of hair back away from her face. “Respect, my dear little Nell. I respected William so I followed him, and was honoured to call him friend. I cannot respect someone who refuses a simple bandage to someone she has such a history with.”

Defeat. As simple as that. She had second guessed him one time too many. “Very well.”

He let her get close to the door before he called, “Eleanor.”

Trempwick used her full name so rarely that she could not do other than turn back.

“As I said, it is a very neat trap. And as you said, you are mainly responsible for my being here.” He folded his arms, being careful with his broken hand. “That I can respect.”

He’d played with her in his turn, making his own point. The prison she found for him had best have high walls. “So you will do as I said?”

“You have a long way to go, and a lot to learn. You need me. Or one day you will refuse a bandage to the wrong person.”








Course, what this really needs is some Trempy POV. That shall have to wait.

[frogbeastegg]

Oops. Just realised that when Nell says “Let me remind you of a basic principle. The ruler rules. Everyone else obeys.” it sounds like she means she need not worry about disloyalty. What she actually means is yet another reminder to Trempy that he does his own thing, and that is not acceptable to her. "I'll help you run the realm, dear Nell ..." "Yeah right, you'll do your own thing and ignore my wishes!"

Too late to edit it now.

[frogbeastegg]

My email reader sent me what he calls a bit of doggerel. I found it hilarious, and he invited me to post it in the topic if I thought it worth sharing.



There was a man whose name was Fulk
His brain was not of massive bulk
Of intellect he had no surfeit
His lady-friend once called him "turfwit".

He was a brave and gallant knight
And valiantly he did fight
His arm was strong, his heart was true
In fact his faults were very few.

His lady was E-le-an-or
In whom he found no fault nor flaw
He loved her with a fond devotion
Deeper than the deepest ocean

A gooseberry became her sign
The emblem of her spirit fine
(How odd this choice of prickly fruit
But Eleanor cared not a hoot).

Together they, with strength and reason,
To nothing brought foul Trempwick's treason
For he was made to fret and panic
When Fulk became the Earl of Alnwick.

And if you didn't know that Alnwick was pronounced "annick", you do now !

I have a copy pinned up on my wall near my PC, underneath the little map of Alnwick and environs I drew. Brilliant.

Got stacks of reading I need to do in a very short time (7 books, 2 days!) so you’ll have to excuse me. I’m only here while I wait for something.

[frogbeastegg]

Hawise looked up from her sewing as Fulk and Eleanor entered the solar. “Your food is keeping warm by the fireplace.”

Eleanor disappeared into their chamber without a word. Fulk lingered to thank the pair for their care.

“Bad news?” Aveis asked.

“No, just …” He hitched one shoulder and completed his answer with a single word. “Trempwick.”

As he closed the bedchamber door he heard Aveis’ little daughter asking what a Trempwick was; Fulk couldn’t help but grin. Innocence: the most precious thing in the world.

Fulk investigated the tray of covered dishes by the hearth; his mouth watered at the delicious scent as he lifted the first lid. He found pottage, slices of roasted pork with strips of crackling, a mess of cooked vegetables, and a small chicken in addition to bread and a piece of cheese. It shouldn’t be possible to feel half-starved after the amount he’d eaten today; his stomach growled to the contrary. “Shall we eat?”

Eleanor helped him drag the table next to their bed and arrange the dishes. Once all was arranged she sat next to him, let him fill their shared platter, and confided, “I feel sick.”

Fulk took a bite of chicken so as to give himself time to consider his answer. “What was that about sitting with your head on his knees?”

“Precisely as it sounded.”

“So you sat on the floor at his side with your head resting against him?” It was no difficult thing to call up a mental imagine of Trempwick absent-mindedly playing with Eleanor’s hair as she sat like that. It but reinforced the connection.

She looked at him puzzled; she didn’t see it. “On a cushion, but yes.”

“Beloved, normal men do that with their favourite dog.”

“Dog?” she repeated.

“Dog.” Fulk cut a piece of the cheese and held it extended on the tip of his eating knife, silently insisting she take it. “Must I remind you of all that man’s done?” She still hadn’t taken the food so Fulk caught her hand and pressed the cheese into it. “He deserved a hell of a lot more than a broken finger, and is not worth your heartache.”

“Dog,” she repeated again, this time with anger.

“I thought you knew it. When you flicked him on the nose like a naughty puppy.”

“I have not had much contact with dogs.” The bit of cheese was beginning to turn greasy with the warmth of her hand; she noticed and – at last – ate it. “The more we talked the more likely it was he would turn the situation to his advantage. I had to overpower him, to set him off-balance.”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” Fulk broke off a chunk of bread and scooped up some pottage with it.

Eleanor drew one of her knives and prodded half-heartedly at the pork. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Dear heart, the instant I saw you wallop him I knew you’d end up feeling guilty, and that’s the only reason I didn’t cheer.” Fulk exchanged bread for spoon for more efficient pottage-eating. “Your head knows it was for the best. Your heart rebels.”

“The arse in the crown would have killed him.” Eleanor frowned, and abandoned her knife to stand point-down in the meat. “I wonder if that would have sickened his stomach as this has mine.”

Fulk pulled her knife free of the pork, wiped the blade down and set it to one side. “Does it matter? You’re not him.”

Eleanor cupped her chin on her hands, leaning on the table. “I do not know,” she admitted after a bit.

“Oh sour one, mere words won’t stop you feeling guilty. Nor should they. That guilt’s important – it means you’re a good person. Equally important’s the reason why you did it; it wasn’t revenge, and it wasn’t for pleasure. Else you’d have worn something sturdier than those dainty little shoes.”

Eleanor pulled a face, half grimace and half wry. “Cheap philosophy from a ravenous knight.”

“Best kind there is. Affordable, to the point, rational, and accompanied by delicious edibles.” Fulk proffered a bit of chicken. “Best hurry, or I’ll eat it.”

She rolled her eyes as she plucked the meat from the knife’s point with thumb and forefinger. “You will get so fat your horse will be flattened.” Changing the subject, Eleanor said, “You said Hugh would speak to you about lands later today. You had best go soon, else he will believe you disinterested.”

It was a very politely phrased request for some time alone, and as such Fulk had no wish to argue with it. “I’ll go once I’ve eaten.”






Malcolm had had his hair cut, cropped back to hang a bit below jaw level. In a week or so once it’d had a bit of time to grow Fulk suspected there’d be a nice hint of a curl to the ends, making it look less severe. The cut was a definite improvement; his neck looked a lot sturdier when your view of it was unhindered, and his face too appeared less delicate. The prince was engaged in sewing Hugh’s badge onto his tunic, perched on a stool in the corridor outside Hugh’s door.

“You have been accepted as a squire, then?” Fulk asked.

“Yes. On trial, of a sorts.” Malcolm set his tunic to one side and rose. “You’re here to see my lord?”

“This morning he bade me visit him later in the day.”

“I shall announce you then.” Malcolm paused, his fist raised to knock on Hugh’s door. “One thing. Send back my father’s men. Keep them longer and he’ll bitch and mewl away like a damned fishwife, and that’ll start trouble. The purpose he gave them to you for is done, or so he’ll whine. He’ll claim abuse of his generosity.”

Fulk inclined his head. “My thanks for the warning.”

“Let them stay for the victory celebrations tomorrow, then get the hell rid of them.” The prince announced Fulk, and ushered him on through into Hugh’s chamber.

Fulk bowed. “You said I should come later today.”

Hugh looked at him from under lowered brows. “I presume you will now inform me what you desire from me.”

“It is not for me to make demands of my king,” Fulk said softly.

“Let us dispense with empty pleasantry. You know how things stand.”

“I know that this has been a difficult day for you.”

Hugh interrupted, “How polite.” He banged a fist on his knee. “I have no desire for your commiserations, sympathy, pity, or whatever else you would level at me. You will earn no favour by the attempt. I have lived at court for much of my life; I am aware of how it runs.”

“We are not friends, and I am not playing the courtier. Yet we are brothers of a sort.”

Eleanor’s brother grimaced. “Pray do not remind me.” He looked away. “Bastards-by-law, as they that consider themselves witty would doubtless dub us if they but knew.”

Fulk smiled very slightly at the prince’s play on words. “Wit is a predictable thing, isn’t it?”

“Tiresomely so. I subconsciously hear monks writing my vita as I go about my days.” Hugh’s chin came back up, and in a voice that was as close to silly as this man got he orated, “Thereby did Hugh, first of that name, hurry south after his victory at Alnwick, to attend to the rebellious Welsh and restore order to his father’s realm in order that he may be crowned.”

“You still intend to leave the day after tomorrow then?” Fulk asked, more to steer then conversation away from this unstable ground.

“I believed it the best option. My sister informs me that she does likewise. Therefore I shall go.”

“What of the north?”

Hugh rose, and stood close to Fulk, his hands clasped behind his back. Fulk had the feeling he was being scrutinised like a suspect morsel of food. “Trempwick’s holdings here must be reclaimed for the crown. Those who routed from Trempwick’s army should be sought out, lest they prey upon the land as outlaws.” Hugh let silence rein for a moment. “This task is one natural to a man of power in this region. It is a task lacking in glory, menial, almost. Few rewards will attend it; there will be little plunder, few ransoms, and much of what is taken must be rendered to the crown.”

Fulk could see where this was going; he felt giddied with the extent of it. “You’re going to leave this to me?”

Hugh half turned away, relieving his scrutiny. “I will not take you south. You cause dissention amongst my lords and I will not have that, not even should my sister command it of me. If she has an ounce of sense she will not.” Hugh bared his teeth. “No. Let you prove your worth. You can fight like a fiend, and lead a smaller group of men. But can you lead on a larger scale? Can you administer? Are you worth my trust? Are you worthy of that earl’s title? This task will let you be weighed by all those with an eye to watch.”

Fulk moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “Am I to undertake this alone?”

Hugh repeated that discomforting smile. “The nearest natural ally for you in this endeavour is my lord of York. I desire peace in the north and there is scant chance at that if he must shoulder the yoke with you. No, for him is the glory of attending upon his future king and taking the battle to the enemy. Yours is the tedium of cleaning up.”

“I do not have the resources!”

“I shall gift you two hundred of my men at arms. Add this to your own and the numbers should suffice. Trempwick’s followers are a broken rabble now; you should have little enough trouble. Send away your Scots. I will not have it said I used foreigners to oppress my subjects.” Hugh paced a few steps away and back again. “I require you deliver into my hands all of Trempwick’s possessions in the north. However I grant you Carlisle to hold as your own. That will give you a strong presence on the far east and west sides of the border, with Newcastle and other strong points remaining in royal hands between.”

Carlisle. Alnwick. That would leave him responsible for two of the main stumbling blocks for any Scottish invasion. “To safeguard the border would require more funds than those lands could provide alone.”

“Carlisle alone does not represent the full worth of the reward I have promised you in exchange for Trempwick. The remainder we shall draw in centred about Carlisle, to form a holding of similar size to your earldom.”

Pathetically small, then. “If all my lands are in the north then I’ll have to spend much of my time here. As will Eleanor.” Thus followed the unspoken conclusion, they’d be out of Hugh’s way. “She won’t like that.”

“You will have Woburn, and I shall add some lands here and there in Kent, again taken from Trempwick’s forfeited holdings.”

Fulk drew a breath and threw the dice. “Rochester.”

“No,” answered Hugh, before the words has finished leaving Fulk’s mouth. “To hold two key castles on the border and Rochester as well – never! I would be accused of favouritism towards my brother-by-law, a nothing who scavenges from the losses of better men!” Hugh thrust a finger at Fulk’s chest. “I knew it, you are making demands against the weakness of my position! Well hear this: I shall do nothing to risk my own ruination by the lords. It was agreed with my sister. You will be forgotten, semi-exiles, out of sight and out of people’s minds. I will not place myself in the hazardous position of seeming to favour you or her. It would cast doubt on my strength, and cause resentment. Nor will I be seen to be her puppet.” The prince drew a calming breath and pressed a hand to his wounded brow. “If this notion of Eleanor’s is to work then it must be played cautiously. You must know that. I wish to guard my own position and that of my family, as is most natural. She wishes to do likewise. We both desire the peaceful rule of our father’s lands. It is a matter as delicate as any alliance, with a great number of added difficulties.”

Fulk squared up to Hugh and refused to back down. “You’re going to parade me as an excuse for writing Eleanor out of the succession – I want compensation.” Compensation, and security for them when they were away from his castles in the north. Unfortified manors left them completely vulnerable to Hugh when they were closer to the court.

“You have my sister and have risen further than you could dream of if you had not. That is compensation enough.”

“I do not like being used this way.”

“Then you should not have married her. You knew you could never be offered open acceptance or expect too much of me when you placed your ring on her finger.”

“That is true, but-”

“Then the matter is at an end.” When Fulk would have argued Hugh overrode him, “Think what you have gained, man! Carlisle and attached lands, immunity from the fines owing to me for your marriage, a place on the outermost fringes of my accepted circle, and a chance to prove yourself more than a mere fighter. To demand more is greed, and contemptible as such. It undermines the concord between Eleanor and myself. And think also, if you were not married to her I should have given you some coin or a single manor for your service and you would have been content.”

Once more when Fulk would have spoken the prince drowned him out, “Before you bewail your situation think upon mine, and find yourself fortunate. I am the son of faithless slut and a disloyal noble, disowned by the man I believed my father and thrown over in favour of my youngest sister! I came this close,” he held up thumb and forefinger a mere inch apart, “to securing the throne by my own resources, proving myself able and vindicating my doubts, and at the last all is overthrown, making my struggles count for naught. I know not what I am, what my fate will be, or whether a son of mine shall rule after me. I have won the respect of many of my lords, and lost any I held for myself. Civil war has weakened my hand such that I cannot stand against my lords, and now look to years of painstakingly gathering back the power my father had so that next time I discover a man like Trempwick I may sever his head and be at peace. Meanwhile I am told that I am required to work with that cursed man, and so shall perpetually be glancing over my shoulder. All this work I face with the added impediment of Eleanor – any lord disagreeing with my rulership can attempt to depose me in her favour. So deeply am I in need of their aid that my lords can balk and refuse me and there is very little I can do about it if the majority of the others do not fall in behind me!” Hugh filled his lungs and continued his tirade, “Wales is a bloody mess, though one may take comfort in the fact capitulation is likely within a sort space of my arrival there. The family lands across the Narrow Sea must be brought to heel. France itself is riven by uncertainty, and that endangers those holdings. Matilda and her husband are going to nag, nag, nag away in my ear because it is their delusion I owe them my throne due to their paltry aid, and so I must stand against that also.” Hugh’s voice caught; he blinked rapidly and turned away. In more ragged tones he concluded, “And somehow I must tell my wife I am of tainted birth, not the prince she believed me to be. That will be hardest of all.”

The prince was in possession of a most impressive problem list, Fulk would freely admit. His lack of envy likewise. “From what I know of her, lady Constance will not care whose son you are.”

“I would feel better if I could tell her Trempwick had been brought to justice.”

“Eleanor said that the surest hurt anyone could inflict on Trempwick was humiliation. One may be sure he’s getting that. He’s not going to enjoy tomorrow.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows and enquired pointedly, “And at any point am I to be made privy to what is to occur?”

Fulk outlined Eleanor’s demands, leaving the one he expected to be most unacceptable to last. Sure enough Hugh was not pleased.

“I am to exchange the kiss of peace with the man who murdered my children? Does my sister know what she asks of me? Or she is deranged?”

“If you try to have him executed your lords will stand up and refuse. You can’t push them into it; as you yourself admitted your position is too weak to press them to act against their interests now. You can’t exile him, not if you want any peace of mind. Murdering him would cause all to lose faith in you and hate you. Therefore imprisonment is the only way. Doing it this way rips the centre out of the opposition.”

“I do not like this.”

“Think of how humiliated he will be, and how much that will hurt.”

After a bit Hugh nodded once, grimly. “For the good of the realm I will do it. And for that.”










Ugh. At this point in the story we have cool scene, boring scene, boring scene, good scene, and the two boring scenes are so very boring indeed, and the contrast highlights that. These two scenes are dull, and of a type which has been repeated way too many times throughout this story. Each time I sat down to work on them I got distracted easily because I’m so disinterested in them. The only decent part is Hugh’s big wad of text over his situation, and here it’s presented with barely more than placeholder marks so readers can ‘breathe’ as they wade through it. Both scenes are pretty much placeholder versions. I’m that bored with these two scenes I finally decided to get them out of the way and get on with life; they say what they need to.

[frogbeastegg]

Staring.

Everyone who was anyone at Alnwick was present. Staring. At him. Waiting. Wondering. Expectant.

A lesser man might have quailed. Trempwick did not. He walked with his armed escort to either side. Walked right down the centre of the hall, taking his time. Dignified. Now and then he nodded or smiled at a face in the crowd. Acknowledging those of greater worth in this market of power.

The bastard sat on the lord’s chair at the head of the hall. Nell standing behind him, in the shadows. A melancholy man might have made much of that. Might have wondered if he had somehow condemned her to those shadows. His teaching too good? Not good enough? Right? Wrong?

Enough. Too late.

The bodyguard hung close to his wife. Lord and lady of the castle, on the dais by right of that and by right of close relationship to the bastard.

Hugh’s most favoured clustered at the foot of the dais. Ready to advise.

Eventually Trempwick reached the point where he should stop. Kneel. All of that.

He didn’t kneel.

How would he play this? All night spent thinking. Planning. Searching.

A joke. Of his own making and turned upon him.

What could he do but what he had known he would when he had told Nell he would acquiesce?

And no one knew where to begin. His guards did not dare knock him to his knees before this gathering. The bastard struggled to find what he should do. As usual. Pitiful. Nell kept to her place, out of the way and silent.

Then Suffolk spoke. “I had not heard you were wounded, Raoul.”

Trempwick raised his bandaged hand, smiled a touch. “A broken finger and some bruises. Nothing of worth.”

“I had not heard.”

Temptation to answer the tactful question with an affirmative. An honourably taken captive mistreated by the bastard. Smiled again, humoured. A quirk of the eyebrows. “All my injuries were taken in battle. I swear it.” Truth from a certain direction. Honourable battle – with his former apprentice. A battle of minds. Exhilarating!

The bastard grated, “You are not here for polite discourse, but to answer for what you have done.”

Answer? If only that were so. Answering was but the least of it.

So let it be begun. Then let it be over. “One could say that.” Trempwick advanced a step, angling himself towards Nell. Bowed. “My lady. Before the battle I said certain things.”

She sneered so beautifully. Fairly dripping contempt. “You have said much of late. None of it of worth.”

Acted as though her rebuff stabbed through his heart and he needed to steel himself to continue. Bowed his head at the pain of the loss of face that was coming. Face? Utter damnation. Ruin. “There was some worth,” he said quietly. No difficult thing to appear heartbroken. She had chosen well. She knew where to drive the blade to cause maximum pain. Of course she did – he had taught her well!

“Not that I have seen.”

Now. The real beginning. Paused, stood on the brink. Looked again at his options. Could refuse to play by her rules. Could restate his claims. Could drive this gathering to sweet rubble.

Could? Could not. It took a special kind of wildness to destroy every drop of one’s life work.

Deep breath, and let it truly begin. “Eleanor, I renounce my claims on you. All of them, and without exception.”

Derided, “How generous of you. You have no claims on me.”

Bow head to hide the pain, face muscles locked in an effort at blankness. “We were betrothed. That claim was valid.” Breath. “I admit the others were not.”

That caused a stir. Why wouldn’t it? He had admitted to a momentous deception.

“You had better clarify that.” Such was the best of the varied responses the nobles offered. Many were less kind. Equally many disbelieving. There was the thing: an idea once planted was near impossible to fully uproot. This they both knew. The aim was to prove him untrustworthy. To make him unappealing as a man to follow. To put him outside of acceptable society. Isolated. Disarmed. His claws drawn, his fangs pulled, and other such dramatic analogies.

Trempwick turned to face those he counted closest to friends amongst the audience. Let pain be writ large upon his features. “I sought to protect her – her position was so dangerous when news of William’s accident came to us! Claiming her for my wife, it was not so strange a thing to do. It placed her under my protection, prevented her being handed off to another to buy support.” His words found understanding with some, not with others. Now, let his agony show. Be beaten. Let them see how the taste of ashes filled his mouth till he felt he would choke! “It got out of hand. Simply.” Spread his hands. Sorrowful. Repentant. Trying to explain himself. “I did not believe she denied me of her own free will – given the circumstances who would? I had to press the point to try and win her free.”

York said belligerently, “It can be said that you drove her into marrying that bastard nothing!”

Sadly true. Trempwick let tears brim at the corners of his eyes. A touch excessive? No, his part was to play the penitent. To destroy himself so he could live. As long as there was life hope remained. Live now, and the future remained malleable. Die, and all was fixed. What was lost could be regained. The heights he had tumbled from could not be reclaimed. That did not mean unremitting doom was his lot. Slowly he could regain some measure of influence where it mattered. Above all he could watch over Nell. Ensure she survived. Thrived. Grew to the potential he had long seen. His legacy. To stand away was to abandon her. Nell needed help. One day the bastard would consider removing her. One day a man might seek to rule through her. Much could go wrong. Much. And much yet for her to learn.

Trempwick said with true feeling, concealing nothing, “And I curse that with my every breath!”

The bastard slapped his hands on the arms of his appropriated chair. “You admit you slandered my sister! You admit you lied, and grew that lie into greater and greater proportions!” An attempt to be stern and commanding. It didn’t roar. It didn’t promise impending pain. It wasn’t … dominant. It was a man attempting to be. Those not looking closely would be fooled. But Trempwick had always looked closely. The promise of his rare moments aside, the bastard would never measure up to William.

It was, overall, a trifle too much to bear. Could not resist the dry retort, “It is not so terribly unusual. Have you seen how many pleas for justice come to the crown on such matters?” Managed to resist adding that his lie had worked. That the bastard had not been able to hand her off to a supporter. Correction: mostly worked. Ah, alas for that mostly.

“None of them relate to my sister! No other man would have the audacity to make such claims of our family!”

Quite the excitable chap today, was he not?

The bastard stood. Drew himself up in icy majesty. Poise. A better pose could not be found for a illustration of a king being kingly. “You slandered my sister, myself, and our mother. Your claims began a war. You sought to deny me my inheritance, and to size control of the throne for yourself. Hundreds have died – thousands, mayhap! My peace has been shattered, my justice mocked. My father’s body lies buried not in Westminster with his ancestors and lady wife, but in Waltham, again because of you. Wales has risen in rebellion, and lords who owed me their fealty followed you in your defiance.” On he went. Laying out the charges. On and on. A challenge: could he knock the bastard from his lordly stride with a simple yawn? Best not try. For Nell’s sake. Eventually it wound up with the predictable demand, “What have you to say for yourself?”

Oh, this sham was tedious! Still, what man ever enjoyed his humiliation? They had but begun. A feeling rose, one he labelled ‘Sod it!’. Examined it. Liked it. Nell would have what she desired, but he would be damned if he would play along meekly. He had better things to spend his time on. Watching a candle flame flicker in a draft in his prison, to give but one example. “Pray, if you will, allow me to do all here one service. Namely save a deal of time and worry.” Raised his voice so it rang through the hall. “Yes, I falsely claimed Nell as my wife. Yes, I defied you. Yes, I fought against you. Yes, I encouraged others to stand against you. Yes, I have done my utmost to see your sister set upon the throne, and yes, I have done so because I believe you to be a bastard and unfit to succeed William. Yes, I had men tortured unlawfully outside this castle’s gates, though they were of but common stock and of little consequence. Yes, the men under my command have laid waste to much of the area within a day’s ride of this place, killing and looting. That is warfare, and you cannot claim it to be exceptional. Indeed, out of all that you level at me I shall disagree with but one. I refute your accusation of rebellion. I have at no point held land from you or given you my pledge, and you are not yet anointed and crowned. Your status is no more special than mine.”

Trempwick addressed his peers, arms held out to the sides in appeal. “I shall add one accusation to the tally, and admit to it. That of failure. And ultimately, that is what I am most guilty of and shall be condemned for.” He let his arms fall, stood proud, and said in a strong tone, “And being condemned for that, well that is as it should be. What use have we for failures? We, the elite, the best men, those of noble blood and noble talent. Should failures advise kings? Should they lead other men? Should they impose their wills upon the world, be it on the largest scale or on the smallest village?” He shook his head, exaggerating the movement so those at the back of the hall still might make it out. “No. Failure is the greatest crime for men like us. All else beside it is nothing – save unfaithfulness, and of that I am not guilty.”

Trempwick looked about the gathering. Found that precious few would now meet his gaze. Observed everywhere discomfort. Disdain. Contempt. Burning scorn. Met Nell’s eyes last of all. She should have known he could not meekly play along. Alone of all those here she would know the full significance of his words. He, Raoul Trempwick, the spymaster, a man who prided himself on his mind, his cunning, his ability, he had failed. And admitted to it. Before everyone. Condemned himself for it. Eviscerated himself with it.

The spymaster admitted he had been outmanoeuvred.

The ultimate failure.

And here he was, telling everyone about it.

She hadn’t asked him to go this far. Not explicitly. She’d asked him to begin to win back her trust. So thus it had been required. Felt as though a blade had been plunged into his vitals. Better to wield the blade himself and be gutted by his own hand on his own terms than allow another to do it.

Ended his speech with a question, “The difficulty is, what now is the price of failure?”

That threw the bees’ nest amongst the crowd, so to speak. Pity he couldn’t have a seat and watch in comfort.

Eventually, after much arguing, Suffolk turned to Trempwick, not quite managing to look directly at him, and asked, “Raoul, why? You are one of the least warlike men I know. Damn it, it was hard enough to get you onto the training yard when you were at court! And always, always, you were faithful to William. Out of all of us at William’s side, I would have named you as the least likely to engage in a gambit like this. In Christ’s name man, why?!”

Calculation. All routes were counterproductive. No way to press this so Nell was forced to step into the open and take the crown. Could not push too far: room must be left for the bastard to grant his survival. The bastard himself must be credible enough for Nell to rule through him. In the end chose, “Reasons are irrelevant. Results are what have weight, as well you know, my friend.” Friend? No longer. The man’s good feeling was gone.

Serle butted in with, “We do not need to give him another chance to repeat his slander. We’ve all heard it often enough. Does anyone honestly expect him to change his story now?”

And off they went on another jolly old argument.

On and on.

Babbling and squabbling like a pack of birds at a carcass.

Some few suggested his execution. Shouted down, every time and in short order. There’d been enough bloodshed. He was not guilty of treason. And oh so many other pretty excuses. More truthfully no one wanted this new king to have such a stranglehold as William.

Exile? That was popular. Except there were those who feared he would stir up trouble. Return. Wash the realm in blood. And such. And did it not fail to avenge the insults done to their noble lord? And so on.

Imprisonment. That was nice. The risk of escape, less so.

Mutilation. Good old fashioned mutilation. Put out eyes, lop off hands, feet, castration. Oh so many options. Oh so very old fashioned. Hadn’t we all moved on from that? Was it not now the exclusive domain of the lowly? Losing body parts to justice was for common scum. Should a man of gentle birth be treated like a mere peasant? Intolerable!

Could he be given another chance? A hefty fine, loss of much of his lands and all of his titles, binding oaths, and all that usual guff. Had not the bastard shown clemency to all those who surrendered and swore their oaths to him? Had Trempwick not surrendered? He had. He had not. No one could agree on that, and so no one could agree whether they should discuss the rest. Facile little brains trapped in superficial little questions.

Could he be trusted? Sadly on this one they agreed near unanimously. No.

Periodically the bastard would assert himself. Trempwick would not be allowed to go free. He would not be sent away to cause trouble elsewhere. He would never, ever, hold lands again. He could not be forgiven.

And over it all began again.

Really, there was no end to it. All those increasingly red faces, increasingly hoarse voices, all the waved fists, the efforts at calm, the smug superiority and the open shows of temper – bah!

Indeed, a seat would be most appreciated. He should be dead of age before a conclusion was reached.

Nell herself? She kept clear of it, as did her pet. Not for them swimming in the unruly sea. Wise: stay beneath notice, be seen to influence nothing. The merest suggestion now and then, delicately phrased. A nudge. A smile. A frown. The bastard followed her lead with great care. Always waiting some minutes to circle cautiously back to the right spot. Amazing that his clumsy feet did not trample the flowers. Amazing that the conceited lot did not see that steadily, surely, slowly, the sprawling mass was shrunk down to a collection of neater concepts.

Several months from now Nell would reach her twentieth year. Inexperienced? Surely. Blinded by her youth? Very much so. Lacking confidence? That was so, albeit less so than two months ago. Still in need of teaching? That could not be denied. Prone to mistakes? It would take a miracle for her not to be. New to the tasks she set her hand to? Undoubtedly. Trempwick smiled in the safety of his own mind.

Not yet twenty. It was easy to forget what that meant. Easy to look back with older eyes. To believe that one had always been as one was now. To tint the picture with, perhaps, a trace of added vigour, to remember some few hopes, and then to declare that this slightly alerted now was truthfully then. To forget one’s own mistakes, fumblings, uncertainties. The awkward parts which had led to maturity.

Yes, a little more teaching, a little more time, a lot more experience … It was good that, amidst this bleeding wreck, he could find something that made his heart glad. She had known he would not abandon her. Had known he would work to regain what he had lost. That understanding had brought her to him with her offer. She had played him almost masterfully. And he had let her.

Finally someone took the hint and asked Trempwick the question he had been waiting for. “Will you swear an oath to Hugh as your king?”

At! Last! All eyes turned to him. Expectant. His answer would determine much. An end to this incessant talking was coming into sight.

Unfolded his arms, taking care with his broken hand. Stood back to attention. “As I have said, I have failed. What is more, our causes were laid at God’s feet when we took to battle. A judgement has been delivered.”

Another asked, “You do not blame your defeat on Prince Malcolm then?”

A lesser man might. One unable to admit his faults. Small show of discomfort, then admit clearly, “I was losing before the prince joined the battle. I had failed to break the line, my flank had been turned, and my smaller numbers were beginning to struggle. He speeded the inevitable.” Shrug of one shoulder. “Whatever my abilities, commanding an army is not chief amongst them.”

Hugh commanded, “Answer the original question.”

Disembowelled by his admission of failure he had nothing left to give in terms of pain. “The world has lost all pleasures for me. There is nothing left in it I wish for. My lord is dead, I have lost my betrothed, I shall not regain my lands and truthfully I no longer feel any zest for them. The cause I believed in …” He touched the crucifix he wore at his neck as though he cared, “God has judged against. There is nothing left for me in the world,” he repeated. Emphasis. Let it appear to be earnest. “I beg leave to retire from the world to somewhere quiet.”

Thomas exclaimed with contempt, “You would become a monk?”

Appeared to give it thought. “No,” Trempwick answered slowly. “I must make peace with myself before I can do that. Solitude. Quiet. Contemplation. No intrusions from the world – mayhap I will then find it.” Monk? Monk?! Hell would have snow before his hair was clipped into a tonsure!

The bastard demanded again, “Will you swear?”

“Whatever you wish.” Meaningless. Openly moving against the bastard had been a grave mistake. Should never have allowed himself to feel pushed into moving before ready. Failure had taught him many lessons. He would not repeat his mistakes.

There was more talking. It went on forever and was very boring.

Eventually it was agreed that he would be consigned to honourable imprisonment, sealed away somewhere small and out of the way for the remainder of his days or until he entered a religious order.

Trempwick bent knee and swore to accept the bastard as his king, to never go against his interests, to never encourage rebellion against him or engage in rebellion himself, and other boring things. The sole interest came when they exchanged the kiss of peace. As they embraced the bastard hissed in his ear, “Murderer!” Trempwick returned, “Bastard!”

There was general approval of this ‘happy’ conclusion.

As his guards led him back to his incarceration the disposal of his lands and goods began. The realisation struck at last. Struck keenly. He had nothing but the clothes he stood in. Had not expected pain from that. There was.

There was.











I’ve been writing out of order for a bit. Doing scenes which I wanted to rather than merely those which are next chronologically. I’ve got another 8 1/2 pages after this, but the bridging scene between this and those scenes isn’t finished and my poor old eyes have had enough of computer screens for the day. I’ve misc others which won’t be brought out for a time yet, including the very final scene.

Speaking of which, I managed 6 pages this afternoon afternoon. This entire scene. Well golly gosh! That is the best going I have had for a while. Rambling about the chronology appears to have done me some good.

It surprised me how much humour Trempy manages to find in his social death. I like his summing up of the arguments for imprisonment and mutilation, and the whispered threats during the kiss of peace.

Also had 2 weeks of unexpected demand for significant effort to be applied in another direction, of which good news will (fingers crossed and all other good luck charms primed) be forthcoming tomorrow.



Echo … echo …echo

echo…
echo …

echo

[woad&fangs]

Great scene:2thumbsup:

[Ciaran]

Are you implying that you are depraved of reviews? Desperate for readers? In the latter case, you´ve got one one (at least) hooked worse than an addict - me. I may not comment on every installment, as a matter of fact, I haven´t even read all udates for quite some time, but I´m religiously following them, my current pagecount for your story 1270 pages in Word as of now - quite the book, I must say. I´m just longing for the day when I´ll have time to read all of it.

[Prince Cobra]

I carefully consider to clone myself. One Stephen is not sufficient to this world and the tasks I have to do. Sorry, froggy, your story is really good (though to tell you the truth, there is more mush than necessary (at least for me; personal opinion, not criterion in any way ) ) and the reason for my failure to read it is hidden in my lack of organisation. I hope sooner or later to reach the end. :)

[Death is yonder]

Delay in posting comments, results werent up to expectations. Great new installments, might be long winded in some parts but they probably contribute to major plot outlines in the future installments. Not really able to come on much anymore except read and not comment. Just remember, I'll always enjoy your story. :beam:
PS: maybe i should do this more often, many segments of storyline at one time is somewhat preferrable to cliffhangers :2thumbsup:.

[frogbeastegg]

“Let me check my understanding,” Malcolm said respectfully to Hugh. “I’m here as a prince of Scotland, and as one who fought in the battle, yes?”

Did the boy intend to behave so disgracefully during this celebration? Hugh wondered anew what he had taken on in accepting this prince. “You are.”

“And nothing I do is going to reflect on you? Since I’m not here as your squire.”

“That is so.”

“Then with all respect, I’m not sitting here.” Malcolm stepped back, away from the seat of honour he’d been offered at Hugh’s right hand. “I can’t. It belongs to someone else.”

The question of who formed on Hugh’s lips, never to be uttered as comprehension dawned. The boy was looking off to the very end of the left-hand part of the high table where a plainly dressed figure had been settled. Softly, desiring to keep this between they two, Hugh said, “He cannot have it. You must understand.”

Malcolm chewed at his lip, the fingers of one hand worrying at the fabric of his tunic skirt. “It’s his hospitality we’re eating. This is his home. He captured Trempwick and fought like a lion for you.”

“I know.” Hugh imbued the words with a hint of a plea that the boy accept the necessary injustice, and not cause a scene.

Malcolm raised his head proudly. “If he can’t take his place then let no other. Let it stand empty. I’ll sit with him.”

“That will not be well accepted.”

“I don’t bloody care for your nobles’ scorn.”

“You have much to learn about diplomacy, boy.”

Malcolm grinned, all reckless youth. “Give me more men like him and I’d rule the whole fucking world!” He went to join Fulk in his spot at the least honoured part of the best table, a swagger in his step.

Under his breath Hugh retorted, “At this rate you will be dead before you rule your father’s kingdom.”






Trempwick dipped into a civil bow. “Is there something you wish of me? It is my hope you might permit me to stay.” He indicated his three guards and Eleanor’s own collection of companions. “With all these witnesses present I can do you no harm, and tongues cannot wag.”

Eleanor replied with a flat question. “You wish to stay?” She’d had him fetched up here to ensure nothing came of the opportunities presented by the feast. With the castle close to empty and most of the men headed towards becoming drunk it would not be hard for someone to set Trempwick free. By any token Trempwick should wish to be as far from her as he could get.

Trempwick folded his arms, careful of his splinted and bound finger. “Outside Hugh and his army are feasting, recounting over and over the details of my defeat. When they are not speaking of their glorious deeds they are speaking of this morning and my abject humiliation. Many of my former supporters sit amongst them, as do those I had counted friends. Of all those at Alnwick there are but few who do not attend. Even the lowliest servants are there. Myself, my three guards, yourself, your ladies - we all of us remain apart because we cannot go. That company is no place for a lady, and I …” He shrugged. “Well, that is obvious.”

“So?”

“How many times have we ended up in this very situation? Separate to all others?”

So far from his expected behaviour was this that Eleanor’s suspicions flared into full alert. “Attempt to manipulate me and you will find yourself back in confinement, and with added guards.”

“Outside of that chapel my every movement is followed, my every word overheard. Anything of significance I might do is reported. I cannot make use of the privy without these three gentlemen watching.” He attempted to keep his features composed; only those who knew him well would see the battle. “Nell, I wish only for a bit of company. Some intelligent conversation. Now is not a time for me to remain alone.” Trempwick’s fingers dug into his palm, a flash of emotion that was in all probability real. “Those people are celebrating my utter ruin. I recanted for you. Do not leave me alone to face the shadows.”

He sounded like a child asking for protection from his nightmares.

“Nell, no one is going to come to my aid. Not now. Not after this morning. Who can you see that would be willing to come free a man so discredited? Damn it – most of them will no longer so much as look directly at me! I am beneath their notice, that is what you have made of me.” Trempwick uncurled his fingers and pressed his hands flat against his sides so he could not further betray himself. “It is rather devastating to be so alone on a day like today. We will talk of whatever you wish. You name the subjects. You tell me when to be silent.”

To be the butt of everyone’s jokes, to have an entire day’s entertainment for hundreds of people designed around your humiliation, to know that today marked the beginning of mockery which would outlast your lifespan itself, for a proud person there was little worse. He asked for a reprieve, a small mercy. “You will sit in that corner,” Eleanor pointed to the one furthest from her, “and you will behave impeccably, or I shall send you back to the chapel.” Fulk’s company had been the sole reason she had made it through her own worst day; aware of how cruel it would be to cast Trempwick off into the abyss she could not quite bring herself to do it. Then too this was what she had planned, and only the fact he asked for the same thing aroused her suspicions.

“Thank you.” He could not keep the relief from showing. Obedient as could be the ex-spymaster sat in the designated corner, not seeking to request a stool or cushion. Perhaps he hoped she would offer him one, perhaps in his gratitude he didn’t care.

His three hand-picked guards she had sit on a bench between him and the others in the room, hemming him in so he couldn’t make any sudden moves.

For a time she ignored him, continuing to chat with Hawise and Aveis about Fulk’s new clothes, knowing how much that would exasperate the ex-spymaster. Several hours of daylight remained so the shutters were all open; through the windows came the sounds of the feast. The bubbling background sound that was many men talking all at once, punctuated with cheers and occasional snatches of song. At one point a loud chant was taken up, the word “Victory!” repeated over and over in semi-drunken disorder.

Trempwick’s shoulders twitched as though he wished to shudder but did not dare. “If I made a disparaging remark about drink and its affects would that be taken amiss?”

“Such celebration is necessary.” Eleanor looked up from her sewing to meet his eyes. “The reasons for which you well know.”

“Oh, indeed. Celebrating survival, bonding, reinforcing their status as honourable fighting men, and all that.” Trempwick closed his eyes. “At least I, abject in my defeat, shall not have a pounding head to add to my woes.” Some time later he asked, “Did you feel this way at your wedding?”

Eleanor did not reply.

“Malcolm the elder’s work was deft; it cannot have been easy for you to bear. He made so much of a princess of high birth marrying a man like-”

She headed off the bid to forge a common ground and draw her out to a position where he might be able to work on her, “We will not speak of that, or anything relating to it.”

Trempwick lapsed back into silence.

Better that he talk with little response from her, better that he be placed on a subject of her choosing and confined to it. Anything to lessen the places where his hooks might catch. There was one subject which would fit the need, one which Eleanor was not entirely ready to explore. A subject which none other could speak on it with quite the same authority. Ready or not, the time had come and Eleanor recognised it. “Tell me about my father.”

It took a bit before Trempwick began to speak. “One day he persuaded me to ride three passes at him with a lance, for friendship’s sake. I am not much of a warrior, nor ever have been. I am competent, not spectacular, and have no liking for such pursuits. It was rare I took to the practice field at court. The first run he knocked me out of my saddle. He rode back and helped me up, dusted the dirt off me, asked if I was well and then stuck me back on my damned horse. The second time we both caught each others’ shields, not well enough to break our lances and not well enough to dismount. The third time was the same. He gifted me a hawk, and told me that since I had shown I could stay on a horse I must come with him when he went hunting the next day. And so I did, sadly. All day spent in the saddle charging about in the rain, watching a bunch of birds flying at other birds. Can you guess what he did next?”

Something to continue the streak of dragging his friend through things he disliked, assuredly. “No.”

Trempwick smiled at the memory. “Every bird my hawk brought down he exchanged for a book. It was a good bird, I barely had need to do more than let it go. Cost him a small fortune. He liked to remind people of his lordship, and always rewarded those who followed him well.”

Eleanor stabbed at the cloth with her needle. “He sounds like an overbearing egotist, if you ask me.”

“A certain degree of overbearing and ego is required of any who leads on a grand scale. If you do not belief in yourself then who else can? For ultimately that is what ego is, and-”

“We will not speak of that,” Eleanor dictated.

Trempwick fell silent, his head nodding slowly as if to say he understood. Several minutes later he said, “William intoxicated the realm when he was a young king. I think we were all of us afflicted with a kind of madness, drunk on the possibilities. We had a young king married to his lovely young wife, making a handsome couple ripe with promise for children, and love, and concord, and all of those finer things we wish for in our rulers. Young …” Trempwick dwelled on the word, tasting it. “Yes, we had our young king and everything seemed possible. I was but a boy, yet even I felt it. William’s father had made for a dry king. By contrast William was youth, and laughter, and energy, and glorious, glorious possibility. Much was expected of him.”

“And did he deliver?” Eleanor was fascinated despite herself.

A slow smile spread across Trempwick’s face, at once both regretful and fond. “Oh yes. Very much so, and therein, I think, lies the heartbreak of William. If he had been a little less than hoped life might have been kinder to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Desired of William were these things: a secure succession, a strong hand, success in wars with our neighbours, peace at home.” Trempwick counted each point off on a finger. Once he’d finished he regarded her over the splayed fingers. “Can you tell me how each turned out, Nell?”

No, she would not be drawn into games. “I commanded you to tell me of my father, not to plague me with questions.”

The ex-spymaster bowed his head. “As you wish.” He folded his hands in his lap. “In that case I will address only one of those. Perhaps in time you will ask me about the others – when you are ready to hear the answers. We desired a strong king, and a strong king we got. Stronger than any who preceded him, one could say.” Trempwick paused a beat. “So strong that, eventually, he could execute lords who displeased him too greatly, and none could stand against him to prevent it. He held so much power in his own hands no one was safe, and everyone knew that.”

Eleanor feared he might be planning to use this angle to lead into a discussion of Hugh’s weakness as a king. “I desired to hear of the man, not the king.”

Again that expression which mixed sorrow with affection. “Dear Nell, that is what I am trying to tell you. In the end William’s successes as a king overshadowed the person behind them.”






“I am the almighty Trempwick! And I’m going to whoop your lowly arse!” The armoured figure levelled his sword at his foe, fumbled and nearly dropped it. He recovered and stabbed at the unresponsive man.

They called this comedy. They had to be right – Fulk was close to being the only man who wasn’t laughing so it must be funny.

“Death! That’s the penalty for stealing my wife!” ‘Trempwick’ lowered his sword and confided in a stage whisper to the audience, “She’s not actually mine at all, but what they don’t know won’t hurt. Clear away the opposition and I’ll swoop in and fill the gap.” The fool playing the spymaster’s part was short. Now he drew himself up to his full height, completing the joke – ‘Fulk’ was far larger, ‘Trempwick’ could never compare. Raising his weapon again ‘Trempwick’ posed heroically, trying to intimidate his foe.

In answer ‘Fulk’ twirled his sword through a series of showy, impressive arcs, settled into a competent ready position and bellowed, “Boo!”.

‘Trempwick’ squealed, dropped his sword and fled. ‘Fulk’ gave chase, belabouring him about the bottom with the flat of his wooden sword.

The nobles went wild, banging at the trestle tables and howling with laughter. The noble on Malcolm’s other side spilled his drink, so hard was he shaking with mirth. The prince himself laughed with all the rest, slapping a hand on the table to show his appreciation.

“I’ll win!” ‘Trempwick’ insisted as he hopped and scrambled. “I’ll get you! I’ll get all of you! You’ll see!”

Fulk slammed his cup up to his lips and pretended to drink to hide his distaste. Christ, why had he doubted Eleanor when she’d said making Trempwick bow would hurt him more than death? Should the old king’s soul be watching this spectacle he’d have to agree his daughter had carried out his request for vengeance.

The pitiful chase continued for a time, with ‘Trempwick’ slipping and tumbling about most impressively. Finally he became trapped before the high table. ‘Fulk’ proclaimed, “None can resist me! My sword’s bigger and got more steel in it!” He held his sword with the hilt near his groin, blade angled upwards to make sure everyone got the innuendo.

‘Trempwick’ huddled on the ground sobbing. “I yield! I yield! You’re the better man!”

Both players stood and took a bow before their cheering audience.

Hugh stood. “You have pleased us all.” Given that he’d laughed at the places where it would have been notable if he hadn’t, his praise was polite. “Your recreation of the duel between Alnwick and Trempwick will be remembered as long as the battle itself!”

Fulk hoped not.

Hugh gave orders that the jesters be given a purse of coin and sat back down, working at his food and making a show of polite expectation as the next entertainment for the high tables was set up.

The feast was several hours old and still in its early stages. An ambitious affair, it involved all those who had fought on Hugh’s side during the battle, from the prince himself down to the militia. Those of decent birth who’d changed sides were present also, adding another hundred or so to the numbers. The large numbers involved had required the party to be set up outside the castle’s walls, on the side furthest from the burial pits.

Due to the depredations on the surrounding land, and the inability of the castle’s stores to feast an entire army, the meal itself was a masterpiece of improvisation. Great pits had been dug for roasting whole animals; high tables and low alike ate small courses of meat carved directly from the carcasses. Once an animal was picked clean another was put into its place, and the celebrators made leisurely progress through small meatless dishes as they waited for the new meat to cook. Here at the high tables the flow of food was kept to a steady pace, uninterrupted by gaps created by the insufficient supplies. The common soldiers at their fire pits weren’t so fortunate. They had their own entertainment too, a raucous racket that provided a ceaseless background of cheers, song, and other sundry noise.

The leader of the minstrels led the others in a bow to Hugh once the group had settled into position in the space before the high table. “Sire, we offer a work on the battle itself, one with which we hope to immortalise the brave deeds performed, if it please your Highness.”
In his dreary little spot at the very end of the left hand side of the high table Fulk pretended to take another drink. His page came hurrying forward to refill his cup, only to find it still quite full. Richard poured out a little more of the sweet white wine Fulk was favouring, and retreated back to the fringes.

“You’ve barely touched a drop,” Malcolm observed.

Fulk ran a finger across the surface of his wine, creating a minute whirlpool. “Seems best to keep a clear head.” Drink made men freer with their views and with their fists, and there were many here who resented him.

“You’d rather be at the bonfires, right?”

Would he? Fulk breathed out. “No. That would swap one awkward for another.”

The boy’s brow creased. “But isn’t that where you’ve spent most of your life? Amongst them and their sort? So naturally you’d feel more at home.”

“I’m half noble and half common. Whichever I’m amongst my other half makes me out of place.” Fulk broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the juices that had run from their roast venison.

“Is there nowhere you feel right?”

The innocent question tickled Fulk; he swallowed the morsel and answered, “With Eleanor.”

That did confuse the princeling. “But she’s …?”

“The other half of my soul,” he supplied with a wry smile, knowing full well the youth wouldn’t understand until he’d discovered love’s wonders for himself.

A while later Malcolm nudged Fulk’s elbow. “There you are!”

The minstrels’ interminable song had worked its way around to mentioning him, last out of all notables present on Hugh’s side of the field. Where the deeds of the others had been covered in detail Fulk was granted much less space, mentioned merely as dispatching enemy men skilfully and in great number, fighting with courage and honour. Soon the epic moved on to detail the situation of the battle overall when the battle reached the midpoint.

“They barely did you credit,” Malcolm exclaimed. “You were the greatest knight on the field! You should be one of the main figures.”

Fulk shrugged. “Doubtless I’ll have more mention when Trempwick’s captured.”

“They’re doing you out of your just fame. Don’t you care?”

Deep down? Yes. He’d earned his accolades and the recognition of skill that went hand in hand with them. As a boy he’d longed to be famous, had thirsted to prove his ability so none could pass over him. The greatest knight … a dream come true. “Those whose opinion I value know the truth of it. That’s what matters.”

“You sound like the lesson line to a bloody homily,” Malcolm muttered.





“William was a good man.” These were the first words Trempwick had uttered in a long space. Having worked through a disjointed collection of depictions of William he’d seemed to give up at trying to capture the man in words. “In all truth. You asked me to tell you about your father, and that is what I find many of my words boil down to. He was a good man. That is what you should know of him, Nell. It is what he would have liked you to know.”

Eleanor bit back the retort that if the arse in the crown had wanted her to think him a good person then he might have behaved like one towards her. Instead she settled for an acid, “Really.”

Trempwick tilted his head to one side. “If he were not would he have won Anne’s affection?”

Eleanor swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “No.”

“You should have known him – and he you. That did not happen, to my great sorrow. You only saw parts of each other.” Trempwick sighed. “I tried some few times in the past; you never wished to listen.”

“Nor did he.”

The ex-spymaster smiled faintly. “Oh, I think he must have listened, however resistant he was. Must have seen the same things. Why else make the choices he did?” Why else leave her the ring, he meant. “He wished you educated, wished to see your potential turned to worthy ends. That is why he placed you with me.”

Eleanor worked away at a seam, determined not to let him lure anything from her.

“Each time I met him after that day he enquired about you. How you were progressing.” Trempwick shifted his position, moving to sit cross-legged. “William was capable of caring very deeply for people, hence all his concern for his second wife. Think of how carefully he laboured to protect her position. Always he treated her with softness. That requires a good heart.” Trempwick sighed. “His problem was that he did not always have much empathy. It was easy for him to see Anne’s vulnerability because when she first arrived at court she was much like a lamb fearing slaughter. He did not recognise the strains he placed on Joanna because she was overall a more capable person. Simply, it never occurred to him that she might become lonely, or might dislike being so often apart from him. And she … she gave no sign of it. She kept her pains hidden close to her heart where only the perceptive could see them.”

“I thought he did not care.”

“Did you not wonder why it took him so long to marry again?”

Eleanor’s needle stilled. “He had enough children, and no pressing need for new allies.”

“He left her chamber untouched until he surrendered it to Anne. A new crown was made for her, instead of Joanna’s being altered to fit.” Trempwick gave that chance to sink in. “The same principle applied to the rest of his family. He cared, he did not see that he was needed, and he thought there would be time once he had dealt with this pressing matter or that. Always later. Time ran out, and eventually he realised that, to his heartbreak.” Trempwick waited, seemingly expecting her to ask a question. When she did not he continued, “He would have been an excellent father if only he had seen the need to put his family ahead of the realm sometimes. You should have seen him when Stephan was born. He practically walked on air radiating light! Never have I seen a man so thrilled with his firstborn.” The corners of Trempwick’s mouth lifted. “The first time I saw you he was carrying you in the crook of his arm, glowing with pride. You were this big, “ he measured out a space slightly smaller than his forearm, “and you were but a few days old. He actually sang to you a bit, believe it or not.” He chuckled. “William didn’t have the best of voices – it was a wonder you did not start screaming! He went on and on about how much milk you drank, how good your lungs were when you started wailing, how you were going to have this feature of his and that of your mother’s, how placid you were …”

Eleanor’s throat had gone tight and her eyes burned. She had heard all of this before, why did it affect her now?

Gently Trempwick said, “You begin to gain some sense of what you lost. That is what causes you sorrow.”

Eleanor looked up sharply.

“It is plain for all to see, dear Nell.”

Eleanor continued to stare at him, certain that she had fallen into some trap and now he dictated what he believed she felt so he could tighten the bonds.

Hawise offered a soft explanation, “You’re crying.” Everyone in the room was looking at her, most with concern.

Eleanor’s fingers rose to her face and encountered a single track of dampness running down her cheek. Jesù, she hadn’t noticed. A deep breath and a bit of effort ensured that escaped tear remained solitary. “Continue,” she ordered Trempwick.

“Sometimes he would play at sword fighting with the boys. He would let Stephan, Hugh and John all rush at him with their wooden swords and make a great show of warding off their blows before letting himself fall under their combined might, laughing and calling that he yielded. The girls, he would play for them, or dance with them and pretend they were grown up ladies, or tell them stories. I remember one year he entered a tournament bedecked with four favours: one belonging to his wife, the other three to his daughters.” Trempwick looked at her keenly, with rare compassion in his eyes. “It is not easy to hear all this, is it?”

“It is the very opposite of all I saw of him.” Of all she had wished to believe of him. Sometimes hating the man had been all that kept her on her feet, spitting defiance.

“Not entirely, dear Nell. You saw some of his good, but always distorted by the relationship between you. Just as he saw some of your good, similarly distorted.”

It was true she had seen him treat Anne with nothing but kindness, and that he had been heartbroken when he had been cornered into ordering John’s death. Abruptly one thought struck her, and she voiced it. “For all his glorious beginning, he seems to have had few friends left by the end.”

Trempwick did not reply for a long time. “That is a difficult one to answer. It is true, and it is far from true.”

“Then do not attempt to answer it.”

Trempwick searched for another subject to speak on. “William was passionate about justice. That was partly why he travelled so much; so he could judge as many of the cases people brought to him as possible. It was not uncommon for him to spend fully half the day listening to the pleas brought before him by people of all grades, noble down to common. He gave them all fair hearing. Some like to hear pleas for the power it gives them, but not William. He liked to puzzle through a problem. Liked to settle things, not for the satisfaction of imposing his will on others but for giving them resolution.”

Eleanor listened with half an ear as Trempwick narrated an impersonal account of the aspects of William’s personality and rule which could be had from any of those who had attended the court during the past three decades. It seemed that Trempwick had decided she was not ready to hear more of the personal. He was probably right.





This new act featured acrobats. Their costumes were tawdry, their performances no better than average. The audience was going wild – two of the performers were female and it was plain the entire act had been planned around the effects tight clothes and pert breasts would have on a collection of partying men.

One of the women leaped into a high jump and landed standing on the shoulders of her male partner, balancing there easily.

Malcolm swallowed with some difficulty. “Fuck, you can see all her thigh muscles in those hose!”

Said thigh muscles were in excellent shape, and well-displayed by the effort of keeping her balance. If there was a man present who wasn’t having intimate thoughts about those thighs it was a safe bet that he was a sodomite. “Now you know why the church is so passionate about women wearing men’s clothes.”

Malcolm giggled drunkenly. “Yes, I can see why priests would want them dressed like that!”

Fulk rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

The acrobat wrapped her legs about her man’s neck and hung down his back, waving her arms about in some pose which highlighted her shapely chest.

“Fuck!” squeaked Malcolm. He coughed a few times, and squirmed in his seat, surreptitiously adjusting his tunic on his lap. “Pity they’re just some grubby ditch whores, or I’d have to try a few things out.”

Fulk returned to his food. “Really.”

“It’s alright for you, your wife’s here. The rest of us have nothing. Fucking fuckity bloody fuck!” That last was exclaimed in response to the pair of not-remotely-ladies performing some highly athletic contortions while lying on the ground.

Fulk decided from then on to keep his eyes firmly on his food. The princeling was right: he was the only man here with a wife nearby, and showing much interest in this crude display would reflect badly upon her. “Whoever authorised this was mad – they’re going to cause so much trouble.”

“Huh?” Malcolm’s attention was centred on a waggling bottom.

“Think: there’s two of them and they’ve just wound up a couple of hundred drunk men.”

Completely enthralled Malcolm had forgotten to blink. “Huh.”

With a shake of his head Fulk left him to it. He remembered what it was like to be fourteen.

The act appeared to be coming to its close when a man’s groin intruded on Fulk’s vision. “Like what you see?”

Fulk pointedly looked his new view up and down. “Not overly. I thank heaven you’re clothed.”

“Funny.” The intruder braced his hands on the table and leaned down so his wine-fugged breath blasted into Fulk’s face. “I’m talking about those cheap tarts, as you know full well, bastard-boy.”

Fulk consumed the bite of food impaled on the tip of his eating knife, clearing the small blade for use. “They’re mediocre acrobats.”

“Not stopped you gaping at them,” he slurred.

The drunkard’s clothes were of a decent cut and material, decorated with strips of woven braiding. He wore a single ring on his signet finger, and his belt buckle showed traces of pewter where the gilt finish was rubbing off. Like all here he was unarmed; sword and dagger attachments had worn glossy patches on the leather of his belt. Evidently he was a knight, poor but taken care of. A member of someone’s retinue in all likelihood; the question was who’s. “They’re about to carve the mutton. Best go back to your place or you’ll miss out.” He held no hope that this would happen; this man had been sent to pick a fight and, riding high on drink and victory, he was eager for it. All Fulk could do was behave reasonably, make it obvious he’d been set upon, and hope someone took it upon themselves to intervene before matters grew too messy.

“I said you’ve been drooling after those cheap peasant tits.” The knight pounded a fist on the table, making the dishes dance. “It’s a disgrace!” Attention was beginning to transfer from the acrobats to Fulk and his unwanted companion. Aware of this the man raised his voice. “Showing your true damned colours, aren’t you, bastard? Stinking peasant in lust after another stinking peasant! Can’t get enough of it, can you?”

Fulk altered his grip on his eating knife, shifting his thumb over to make it easier to stab than to cut precisely. “You’re drunk. Leave now and I will take no offence.”

“Isn’t our lord’s sister good enough for you?” The knight slapped Fulk’s cup over, and wine slopped across the table. Only a little bit caught Fulk himself. “God’s knee, it’s a disgrace! Royalty isn’t good enough for you so you lust after that filthy common flesh like a mongrel after a butcher’s garbage!”

The moment that followed was a busy one, featuring a gaggle of voices as people began to call for cordiality, Malcolm launching indignant abuse at the fellow, and Fulk seizing the knight by his tunic and yanking him across the table.

One hand pressing the knight onto the wooden boards, the other clenched in the man’s hair, Fulk growled, “No one insults my wife.” He bounced the knight’s skull off the table.

The knight was thrashing and flailing, trying to win free but too drunk to outmatch Fulk. “You mongrel bloody bastard! Go back to the midden heap you came from!”

Fulk gave him another lump on the head, and punched him in the face. “The last man to overstretch my tolerance I killed!”

Dimly Fulk was aware that the acrobats had stopped, and that all eyes were now on this impromptu show.

Malcolm offered Fulk the knife he’d dropped as he went for the other man. “Put his bloody eyes out!”

Fulk planted his fist in the knight’s kidneys. “Who put you up to this?”

That more than anything caused a flurry of activity. Those who had begun to intervene now redoubled their efforts, and new voices added themselves to the efforts. The man was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d been punished enough. This was a celebration and fighting was forbidden. Enough men had died, and now it was time for peace.

Fulk repeated his demand, punch and all. The fuss grew louder as he’d expected. No one wanted to see another noble lose face for ordering one of his men to accost the upstart.

The knight bared his teeth. “Go to Satan, mongrel!”

Fulk went to punch him again; his wrist was seized as the blow began to descend. Fulk turned to confront the meddler and came face to face with Hugh. Surprised that his brother-by-law had involved himself personally Fulk let his arm go slack.

When he saw that the violent intent had left Fulk Hugh released him. “She is my sister,” he said by way of explanation. He addressed the rapidly sobering knight. “I know you. You are named Robert.”

“Sire,” the knight squirmed, his drink-fuelled courage draining as rapidly as a bottomless barrel. In all likelihood he hadn’t dreamed Hugh might become involved.

Hugh indicated Fulk should let the knight up, and reluctantly he did so. Robert collapsed onto his knees before Hugh and reached out to touch the tips of his boots. “Forgive me, sire!”

Hugh drew back out of reach. “You have broken the peace of my feast, slighted my sister, provoked another man unjustly, and upset my digestion.”

Robert raised his hands, imploring. “Sire.”

“Have I not commanded that my brother-by-law, such as he is, be left? Have I not said that such baiting is below what I expect of a man, and the behaviour of a spoiled child?”

The only sounds came from the fire pits where the common soldiers partied on, unaware of what was happening. Hugh knew whom the man served; would he name him as the source of this defiance of his command?

Hugh let the moment hang, and then turned to Fulk. “Kill him if you will, if not I shall exile him.”

Malcolm pointed out, “He’s got no weapon.” Only Hugh and his guards were armed tonight; the short blade of an eating knife would make messy work of any attempted kill.

Hugh drew his dagger and offered it hilt first to Fulk. “You may have the loan of this if you require it.”

The hush continued as Fulk accepted the weapon and made his grip on it comfortable. “A man should show proper respect for his lord.”

The knight tried to come to his feet but hands clamped about his shoulders and held him in place; he’d been sacrificed to prevent the episode growing into something altogether more dangerous. “No!”

Fulk drew the dagger across the knight’s neck, slicing through skin but leaving the vitals untouched. “It would be disrespectful to my lord to mar his celebration with your death.”

At Hugh’s order the knight was removed, hands clutched to his neck to stem the seep of blood. Slowly men settled back into their places, conversations resumed, and the scattered dishes were cleared away. Several of Hugh’s guard took advantage of the confusion to remove the acrobats; it appeared the prince hadn’t approved of their performance.

“I’d have killed the fucking prick,” Malcolm said as he sat back down. “Bet they didn’t expect Hugh to become involved.”

“There’s a fine line between having a reputation for being a man not to be messed with, and being a bloody-thirsty butcher.” The one behind this had expected him to rise to the bait faster, leaving the blame for the disruption on his shoulders. Fulk drained off half his wine in a few quick swallows; his enemy had misjudged him this time, and couldn’t be relied upon to make the same mistake again.





The solar door opened without any warning, and Fulk stepped through. Ignoring everyone else in the room he made straight for Eleanor and planted a wine-scented kiss on her cheek. “I decided I’d had enough and left early.” He plucked her sewing from her hands, dropped it off to one side and encouraged her to her feet, whereupon he pressed a lengthy, passionate kiss on her and half crushed her in a tight embrace.

Eleanor had a good idea what he was doing and, little as she liked it, she played along, returning his passion with her own. “You got bored?” she enquired oh so innocently.

“Decided there’s other things I’d rather be doing.” To illustrate his point he tightened his hold on her waist, pressing her against him so only a lack-witted fool standing seventy paces away couldn’t guess what kind of a state he was in.

At that point Eleanor decided he’d had his fun and it would be best to get him away from company before he did something she found too objectionable. It had been bad enough when Trempwick had flaunted his ability to touch her in front of Fulk without him returning the taunt in more antagonistic form.

Only after another lengthy kiss did he deign to acknowledge Trempwick’s presence. Not removing his gaze from Eleanor’s face Fulk ordered the guards, “Throw the rubbish back on the midden.”

Trempwick greeted this with a dry smile. The soldiers didn’t let him finish his bow before they took his arms and pulled him towards the exit.

Once they were alone Eleanor only got out half a protest before he kissed her again, cutting off her words. At the next opportunity she changed her words for the shorter accusation of, “You are drunk!”

“Mildly,” he beamed. “It would have been rude not to be. Quite a lot of toasts going on in the latter part. Then the wine ran out and we had to swap to cider.” He busied himself with letting her hair down. “I feel better too, less tired and less battered.”

“That is because you are drunk!” He was making a mess out of undoing the ribbon, so Eleanor helped him before he created such a tangle she’d lose hair.

“Not really, or I’d be all miserable and depressed. Which I’m not. So I’m not.”

His speech reminded her of Count Jocelyn, and that wasn’t a warming thought. “I would not advise you to swear an oath about your sobriety in a court of law,” she advised. “Other than the drinking, how was it?”

Freed of the need to tackle her hair ribbon, Fulk turned his attention to the lacing which pulled her dress into figure-hugging tightness. “Oh, not so bad. Songs, poetry, that sort of thing. Acrobats, too. They were very –” One of the laces gave way with the sound of tearing fabric. Fulk moved on to the next one with a sheepish grin, “Boring. Very boring.”

“What-” That was as far as she got before his mouth came down on hers. At that point she decided conversation could wait until later.






Eleanor judged there had been sufficient pleasant dozing for the time being. She gave her husband a gentle nudge. “I will not let you use me like that again.”

The statement had the desired effect: Fulk scrambled into a semi-upright position, his addled faculties thrashing towards wakeful sobriety. “I thought you were enjoying it – I swear! I know it was all rather rushed-”

“Not that,” Eleanor informed him, satisfied that she had gotten his full attention. To make up for the shock she gave him a shy little smile. “That was quite acceptable.”

Fulk flopped back onto the bed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t scare me like that, oh gooseberry mine.”

“I meant that show you put on in the solar.” Eleanor rolled onto her side so she could glare at him. “I will not have you flaunting your rights to me like that. I hated it when Trempwick did that, and I like it no better with you.” She scowled. “It makes me feel like you are a dog marking your territory.” Certain that he’d got the point she snuggled back in to his side. “So, how was the feast?”

Fulk lowered his hand from his face. “Oh, it was … pretty well typical for what you would expect of the occasion.”

“How very evasive,” she teased.

“Malcolm came to sit with me. He turned down the place of honour.” Fulk pulled the blankets up to cover their shoulders. “I confess I was very grateful to him. He was the only company I had.”

“There is ill-feeling over Carlisle?”

“Amongst some, yes, of course. Amongst others …” Fulk settled his free arm about her, hand stroking her back. “It’s like they are holding their breath.”

Eleanor suggested, “They do not know if you are capable of cleansing the north of stragglers from Trempwick’s army. They wait to see if you manage, or if you bring about disaster.”

“Yes, but also … Also they wait to see what I will do”

“You are a man of possibilities now. You are in the highly unusual position of having two liege lords, and you will soon have control over two of the main fortifications on the border. And,” she added with a wry smile, “you have me.”

After a bit Fulk said, “I need you to find something out for me. A knight named Robert was sent to pick a fight with me tonight. I need to know who he served.”

“A fight?!”

Quickly he reassured her, “It came to nothing. Your brother exiled him. But I need to know who he served.”

“I will find out.”







12 pages before spacing. Not bad. I’m aware the two final scenes are mainly pointless; they are the equivalent of a breathing space on the grander scale. Got stuff happening, breathing space, on to more stuff happening.



Yay! I was getting lonely with just myself posting for so long. :winkg:

RE long winded, mush etc, I feel much the same. Far too many pages with everyone effectively sat about in Alnwick. The next part has people outside of Alnwick :gasp:

[Ludens]

I've finally caught up again with the story again. Although I am not much of a Trempwick fan, I really enjoyed his trail. (As for who I am a fan of, that depends very much on my mood :egypt: .) I am also glad to hear that the story is going to move away from Alnwick. Out of curiosity, how much longer do you think the story will get?

Congratulations on impressing your bosses! May profits get even better next week ~;) .

[Ciaran]

:help: I desperately need time to catch up. Why can´t the day have 48 hours? It would be so helpful...

I wonder the same thing as Ludens, do you even have an ending in mind? I´m also rather worried, because, quite frankly, the length of the story seems to tether on my Word´s limits (well, who would imagine someone writing close to 1,300 pages? Not Bill Gates, by the look of it). Not that I´m saying you should finish any time soon, indeed, it´ll be a sad day indeed when this story will be declared finished.

[frogbeastegg]

We're pretty close. I've already written the final scene, and the endings of three character arcs are prepared in near-final condition. It's a case of joining the dots between there and here, and covering the last big event.

As for how long in terms of time, that's much harder to say. My new shop is my priority at the moment.

[Peasant Phill]

I'm just wondering mylady frog,
Did you base you're characters (partly) of of real hisorical persons?
Just the other day I noticed the similarities between Fuld and William Marchal. Although Fulk isn't an exact copy there are many similarities and some interesting coincidences.

So are there other such similarities with other characters?

[Ludens]

Did you base you're characters (partly) of of real hisorical persons?
Just the other day I noticed the similarities between Fuld and William Marchal. Although Fulk isn't an exact copy there are many similarities and some interesting coincidences.

Interesting. What similarities are there between Fulk and Marshal? I am only slightly familiar with the career of the latter.

[frogbeastegg]

William Marshal is my favourite historical figure, hands down and barring none. That man's career was incredible, so much so that when I was a tiny frog I believed he was a fictional character! Ludens, you can find a tolerable overview of his career here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Marshal,_1st_Earl_of_Pembroke).

While no character is based on real personages, there are trace elements. The Fulk/Marshal traces are the most readily apparent, though many of them are unintentional or a necessity of story. That said, knowing that there is historical basis for these elements is reassuring to me, and has allowed me to feel comfortable about including things which I might otherwise have shied away from in the name of realism.

The largest influence he had on Fulk is the way both are dubbed "the greatest knight". Simply, I couldn't find an alternative that sounded half as good as Marshal's historical tag. The best knight? The hero of Alnwick and some other battles?

Both men are highly skilled fighters, right in the top percentile. That's unintentional: Fulk's place in the plot requires him to be supremely talented. It's his skill which gets him a place as Nell's bodyguard, which enables him to survive and protect her, which wins him attention, and which eventually grants him a fighting chance (pun intended) of making this Earl of Alnwick business work. All that besides, I wanted to write about a highly skilled knight and here was my big chance.

That's another similarity: both men got their breaks due to their fighting skills. Their skill at arms made it possible for them to move up in the world.

Humble origins is another similarity some might see. IMO that's not valid. William Marshal was noble, through and through. Legitimately born, the son of a powerful and influential man who had served in positions of import and trust in several royal courts. John Marshal was something of a legend in his own day. Fulk's a bastard with peasant blood, and the son of a minor knight of trivial import.

The matter of marriage contains a pair of similarities. Both men married above themselves: Fulk to Nell, William Marshal to the de Clare heiress. Both gained wealth and rank from their wives, though Fulk's gains are at once both bigger (Nell's a princess!) and far smaller (no huge tracts of lands and no titles which bear tremendous weight). The other trace is that, as far as we can tell from the evidence, Marshal absolutely adored his wife and she him. Both of these similarities arise out of the simple fact that when Fulk married Nell he had to gain materially otherwise they would have absolutely nothing at all.

Any others in particular you were thinking of?


The second strongest set of traces IMO is one which will may shock readers who know the historical person. Trempwick/Simon de Montefort.

Both are men from good but not outstanding family who rose meteorically due to friendship with and service to the king. Both were honoured by their king with trust, lands, titles, money. Both held considerable influence.

Simon married princess Eleanor, Henry III's sister. He was considered to be beneath her, but just barely tolerable. Trempy very nearly married Nell, and was considered to be beneath her and barely tolerable. Simon and Eleanor married for love, without her family's permission. If not for Fulk, and if Trempy had handled the situation better, Nell would have found that there was more love than anything else in that mess of feelings she has for her former master.

Simon and Trempy eventually reached critical breaking point with their royal friend. Simon rose in open rebellion after a long period of disagreements and unhappiness, Trempy ... you know. After that break Simon succeeded, for a time at least. He held Henry III and his heir prisoner and effectively ruled the country. Then the wheels came off the cart, leading to Simon's death in battle. Trempy comes close to establishing himself but never quite manages it. Both men's efforts end with personal disaster.

Both men used their royal wives as part of their justification to rebelling.


Nell herself has only the most general of influences. She's influenced by all those medieval women who were brave enough to choose a husband for love, and to defy their families to marry them. She's influenced by those women who guarded their husband's castles in times of war, who demanded what was theirs by rights, who insisted on having influence over their own destinies, who were players in the grand game and not pawns. She's influenced by all those women who were brushed over and forgotten by recorded history because of the Victorian belief that the truth would only encourage all this nonsense about women voting and being treated like equals. Nell is what she is because meek damsels in towers were the abnormality in this period, not the standard.


That's enough for now. I'd better get writing the next part or it will be another week until anyone sees it. I find that I only get chance to write at weekends with this new job. Watch this space ...

[frogbeastegg]

The captain of the guards took down a length of rope from his saddlebow. “Hold out your hands, my lord.” The honorific was spoken with sufficient twist to be insulting.

Trempwick asked, “Is this truly necessary?”

“Hold out your hands.”

Appealed to the bailey full of people. His peers. His former friends. People who could be counted upon to see a noble’s privilege protected. “Is this necessary? I have given my word to attempt no escape.”

There was an uneasy moment. The throng conferred. Shuffled. Murmured. None looked fully at him – still. Unhappy to see a noble threatened with bonds. None spoke out. None condemned this affront to his birth.

Eyes made contact with Trempwick’s. Suffolk! Hope surged. Good old Suffolk. Always reliable. Always principled.

The earl said, “Your word is worthless. You have no honour.”

Trempwick flinched back as though slapped.

Slowly, wordlessly, he extended his arms, wrists together and allowed them to bind his hands before him.

The soldiers had to help him onto his horse. The indignity of it! He did not even know where he was being taken. A more permanent prison. A religious foundation of some kind. But where? No one had seen fit to inform him. Had been unable to discover for himself. Blinded and deafened – or as good as.

The early morning breeze was chill. Trempwick could no longer repress his shivers. Cold. Always cold since the battle. Cold in the chapel, cold in the hall, cold out here. Fed up of being cold. Aware of the folly of heading into the unpredictable spring weather improperly dressed. “Might I have a cloak?” he requested in a humble tone.

The captain hawked and spat off to one side. “You think my men have nothing better to do than pick up after you? Where did you leave it?”

Insufferable. Trempwick drew himself up in the saddle. Dignity, bound hands or no. “The only belongings which were returned to me after the battle you see on me now. Ask Alnwick, for he has all my other possessions.”

“You mean to tell me that you, former Earl of Kent and the old king’s friend, the man who claimed to be the husband of my lord’s wife, the man who thought to set himself up as king in all but name, you don’t have so much as a cloak to your name?” The soldier laughed, as did his men.

Bile burned in the pit of his throat. Swallowed, again, once more in a futile effort to banish it. “No. I do not.”

Hugh’s army was almost ready to march out. By midday they would be nothing but a cloud of dust on the horizon. From the shelter of the keep’s doorway Eleanor watched the final preparations. Servants rushed back and forth with armfuls of goods, loading them onto wagons.

On the other side of the bailey Hugh and his companions waited for their attendants to saddle their horses and lead them over. A second party, already mounted, waited in an unobtrusive corner; Trempwick and fifteen guards hand picked for their loyalty. They would take Trempwick to Repton. There was a small, enclosed abbey there which received little favour from the wider world. It would serve as a safe enough prison, at least for the time being.

Eleanor turned to Fulk. “There is one last question I have for him. Will you escort me?”

He pressed his lips together in disapproval, but gave a curt nod and offered her his arm.

Trempwick’s hands had been bound before him; he could still hold the reins well enough to maintain control over his mount provided he kept a steady pace. He bowed in the saddle. “Your Highness.”

“I have one last question for you.”

“Oh?”

Fulk slipped his arm about her waist and arranged his cloak so it covered her shoulders as well, a tender gesture which told the watchers, “She’s mine and it’s with my permission that she’s here!”.

Eleanor asked, “When did your path break from my father’s?”

“Ah.” Trempwick tapped his fingers on the pommel of his saddle. “Difficult to answer, and yet easy also.”

“Then do so, that I may have peace of mind and rid myself of the sight of you.”

Trempwick tapped out half a verse of some song about the joys of spring before abruptly stilling his hands. “You remember what I told you of William when Stephan was a baby?” He did not give her chance to affirm that she did. “Think of how much he must have changed, and in what ways, by the time your brother died. There is your answer, Nell. There was the first crack.”

The arse in the crown’s ruthless practicality had been too much for the spymaster? It seem ridiculous, unbelievable. Yet … it had not been William who had been required to kill Stephan. That task had fallen to his friend. To Trempwick also had fallen the burden of a student who blamed him entirely for her beloved brother’s death. From this one deed how many others had grown? Her own death had been ordered as a result, and only Trempwick’s intervention had saved her. Perhaps not so ridiculous after all.

Trempwick struggled to draw his cloak forward so it better covered his body. “Does that grant you peace of mind?”

“It may.” Eleanor let Fulk lead her back to the keep.





Eleanor returned her half-brother’s embrace. “God be with you.”

“And with you.” Hugh stepped back. “I thank you for your hospitality these past few days.”

“It was the least I owe you.” Formal leave-takings. So many structures and steps to dance through that they were more for the audience than those taking part.

Hugh backed down a few paces, still facing her. “I shall send you word of how I fare in Wales.”

So he had better! “That would ease my heart greatly.”

Now Hugh turned to face the otherwise ignored Fulk. “Do not fail the trust I have placed in you.” With that he turned and walked away.

Before Hugh could reach his horse the neat form was broken by Varin stepping forward from the throng of important bystanders. He bowed in Hugh’s direction. “If I may, my lord? I was instructed by my lady, the Empress, to deliver a message on the occasion of my departure.” Without waiting for an answer he moved to stand before Eleanor. He did not bow, or otherwise show deference. “My lady, the Empress, commands me to say this: You are seventh, last, least. Do not forget it.”

How very Matilda. Eleanor smiled sweetly and chose her response to hit upon her sister’s biggest vulnerability. “Please pass this message on to my sister in return: an excess of bile is commonly believed to hinder the chances of conceiving a son.”

The German flushed red. “Perhaps a son is not in God’s design for the Emperor and his wife. Have you thought of that?”

“Indeed.” Eleanor smiled again, so honeyed that she could rot teeth at ten paces. “However if she does not try she will not get.”

Varin laid his hand on his sword hilt. “The Empress does not need the advice of a whore!”

Hugh spurred his horse over next to the German. Mildly he said, “I pray you, chose your words more carefully lest Alnwick feel compelled to defend his lady wife.”

“I am an emissary!”

“Then be diplomatic.”

Varin let his hand fall away from his sword. “You would let him attempt to harm me, a representative of your sister?”

Hugh inclined his head gravely. “Eleanor is also my sister. I deplore the lack of cordiality between my sisters.”

Varin retreated to the protection of his countrymen. “My message is delivered. We shall depart for the coast now, as arranged. It remains only for me to wish you success in your endeavours, and to express once again my regret at our inability to stay to witness your coronation. My orders were specific; we were to return once your position was secure.”

“I thank you again for your aid, and pray you to give my warm regards to my sister and her lord husband.”

“I shall, and know they will be pleased to receive them.”

Hugh commanded his men to stand to respectful attention as the party of German knights rode out. Eleanor considered it a shrewd move; the homage to their fighting ability would stroke Matilda’s ego and may suffice to keep her from puffing up over Hugh’s intervention in this, the final chapter in the studied insults designed to remind the world she was older than the sister who had so nearly been crowned.

Hugh dismounted and came back to Eleanor’s side. “I wonder if I create trouble for another day?” he mused.

“If she comes I shall teach our sister a thing or two about who holds what rights, and the lesson will send her screaming back across the sea.”

Hugh’s only reply was to raise his eyebrows.

Eleanor had been named as heir and held proof of that. Thus she came above Matilda in the order of inheritance. The order of birth had been superseded by their father’s specific wishes. She smiled, and commented for any who might be eavesdropping to their quiet conversation, “English custom and law divides holdings equally amongst all daughters where there is no male heir. My sister has become such a foreigner that she forgets this. It is fortunate that we have you, is it not?” Eleanor patted her brother on the shoulder. “The squabbling would be quite unpleasant.”

Hugh watched the departing men for a space. “I will not be browbeaten by them into becoming akin to their vassal. Yes, they gave me aid when I needed it, unasked for and unsought. That does not make me so beholden to them as to bend my knee.”

“There is little enough harm they can do us here. Any attack must come across the sea, an expensive and risky proposition and one we can defend against with relative ease. Our lords would not accept them, and they surely know it.”

“I worry more about their influence with others. They might stir up trouble for me abroad.”

“Brother dear, settle yourself well in the saddle and they will need to keep you sweet for the aid you can provide against France.”

Hugh shook himself from his thoughts and placed one foot in the stirrups ready to mount. “I take my leave of you now. That day passes and time is lost.” With a smooth motion he boosted himself up and swung his leg over the back of his horse. “Do endeavour to remain out of trouble.”

[frogbeastegg]

“I can guess what you are thinking.”

Fulk dragged his attention away from watching the rearguard of Hugh’s army passing through Alnwick’s outer gatehouse. “Oh?”

“Good riddance,” Eleanor said.

“No!” The objection came so quickly it made him sound guilty. Which he was. Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well … not like that.”

Eleanor’s elbow dug into his bruised ribs. “Behave, crooknose.”

“I behave? What about you, oh diminutive terror?” Fulk offered her his arm, and together they retreated inside the keep.

“My second guess would have been that you were still bristling over Trempwick’s parting comment.”

Knowing that a bit of humour would do much to convince her to forget it, Fulk stuck his nose in the air. “Parting insults from defeated snakes are beneath my notice.” His playful arrogance nearly cost him as they reached the foot of the spiral stairs leading up to their private rooms; his wounded leg refused to lift far enough to clear the first step and, as he wasn’t watching where he was going, the first he knew of it was when his toe exploded into pain and he started to fall. Eleanor kept him upright with some quick support. “Thanks.”

“Be careful, my luflych little knight.” She released him and began to climb ahead of him. Several steps up she glanced back over her shoulder and grinned impishly. “In case you fall again. No reason for both of us to break our necks!”

Fulk exaggerated a sigh. “You wouldn’t dare speak to me like this if there were people to overhear.” He started his own painful climb, cursing that Alnwick’s keep boasted an impressive four floors above the ground.

Eleanor laughed, and halted again to look down on him. “How long has it been since we were without hangers on? Except for when we are in our chamber, I mean?”

“Weeks?”

“Months. Not really since Woburn.” She waited until he was close enough to reach out for her and skipped up another half-turn’s worth of stairs. “We have our lives back,” she exulted.

“That’s what I was thinking, outside.”

“No maids, no squires, no pages, no guards, no servants, no brothers, no-”

“Bothers,” Fulk cut in.

“No Trempwick, I think you mean.”

Fulk hitched his shoulders. “He’s a bother. I did refer to bothers in plural.”

“It was not an insult.” Eleanor stopped again, barring his own progress.

“Huh.” As Trempwick had ridden out of the bailey he’d by necessity passed them. He’d stopped, and in a very loud voice said to Fulk, “Love her well, and use her gently.” His mocking bow had been interrupted by his guards seizing the bridle of his mount and dragging it along after them.

“Truly.”

“Keep climbing,” Fulk said brusquely. “It’s draughty here.”

She did, dawdling. “It is a common enough blessing given out to the groom at weddings.”

Fulk snorted. “As if I’d ever treat you differently anyway, and as if I’ve any need of his advice. And he’s not your family. That’s a father’s wish, or a brother’s or-”

She stopped and spun around again. “Or a mentor’s, who cares for his pupil and wishes her happiness. Or a rival suitor’s, admitting he has lost.” Crouching down placed her face on a level with his. “He is gone. All that remains of him is that which we ourselves keep with us. Let it go.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Well said. Keep climbing, ‘loved.”

They passed the door into the third floor, a set of balconies above the main hall. Eleanor enquired, “How long will you stay? Before you ride out to Carlisle?”

That, truly, was what Fulk had been thinking of as they watched the army leave. “Days. A week, perhaps a few days more. I need to give my wounds chance to heal.”

She angled a flirtatious look back over her shoulder. “Is that the only reason?”

“I thought it might be pleasant to spend a bit of time being thoroughly married, what with all the time we’ve been apart.” His wicked grin was a waste of time, aimed at her back as it was. “How else can I appreciate the freedom of being out in the field if I’ve not been nagged within an inch of my life?”

“Quite. And those are the only reasons?”

As they neared the door into their solar Fulk thought he had what she wished to hear from him. “I’m an earl. It’s not for me to go gallivanting about hunting down small groups of men and engaging in the petty day to day business of cleaning up after Trempwick. It’s for me to coordinate it all, to make it possible, and to apply my weight where it’s needed most.”

Eleanor held the door open for him with a radiant smile. “I always said you were smarter than your penchant for armour suggests.”




Hugh swept tendrils of hair from Alice’s face with his fingertip, his work undone as she jerked forward to heave once again into the bowl. His hands felt clammy; it was but one morning and one bout of sickness, yet his heart pounded at what it might mean. Alice had done astoundingly well to keep the army’s pace as he rushed north to confront Trempwick, and she had been visibly flagging by the time they reached York. Consideration for her well-being, combined with the increased danger as he closed with the rebels, had caused him to leave her behind in the city.

Once the spasm has passed Alice straightened. Wearily she closed her eyes and leaned against him. “I should like a drink.”

Obediently Hugh fetched the pitcher she indicated, the second of the two in the room. He poured, and learned it was sour wine, most excellent for cleansing bad tastes from the mouth.

Sour wine! Indeed- the very presence of the bowl! The way her robe had been easily to hand, enabling her to snatch it up and cover her nakedness as she bolted from the bed! It struck Hugh all in an instant. She had been expecting this. “You are with child,” he exclaimed softly. He sat before he fell, one hand pressed to his face.

Alice covered her lower stomach with her arms, a subconscious motion which was all the answer he needed. “I have been taken ill each morning for the last week. I think it probable.”

That which he had endeavoured to bring about had happened: he had a second child on the way, proof of his fertility and God’s blessing. A child whose life would be dedicated to the support of the legitimate heir. A child to fill the aching gaps in his essence left by Trempwick’s murdering.

A bastard. Like himself.

The world was an altered place to that in which he had made those prudent decisions and set upon this course. Hugh poured himself a measure of her wine and gulped it down. “Why did you not tell me?”

He’d forgotten how very green her eyes were. “You arrived late last night, Hugh. My concern was for your comfort, and to hear all of your news. This morning …” She shrugged, pulling her covering more tightly about herself. “The first thing I did on waking was be sick, and that woke you.”

Dawn was still straggling its way into the world; the chamber’s fire had burned low and the coldest part of the night had recently passed. Shock warded against chill only so far; covered in gooseflesh and shivering mightily Hugh dragged his tunic over his head and wrapped his cloak about his shoulders. Lacking his linen undergarments the wool itched against his bare flesh. “You will be well cared for, you and the child both.” Because it mattered with an intensity that came from his new world Hugh knelt at her side, clasped her hand in both of his and looked her in the eye as he vowed, “This child will know its father, and will not lack affection.”

She accepted this with a nod. “Where does this leave us? Shall I be put aside now you have your child?”

“Do you wish to be freed of me?” Hugh countered.

Alice ducked her chin. “I …”

“Yes?” Hugh encouraged. She was gathering the nerve to tell him she wished to be rid of him, he was positive of it. This liaison had been entered into with considerable consideration to practicality by the both of them, she wishing to be free of her rebel of a husband, he desiring a child and companionship and aware of the realm’s expectations of him. “I gave you my word, you will not be returned to your husband. One cannot doubt that he would treat you most cruelly for surrendering Tilbury to me.”

“He’s a traitor. I wish you’d found his body after the battle. I hope he is killed as he bolts for safety!”

Where a husband and wife held strongly to opposed allegiances only ill could result. “He did not treat you as you deserved.”

“And I thank you for showing me that. For that alone … I owe you a debt, Hugh.” Tentatively, visibly afraid he would rebuff her now he had gotten her with child, Alice tucked herself in at his side and waited for him to make some contact.

Hugh placed his arm about her waist. So, she had not turned from him; he found himself smiling slightly, content. He did not love her as he did Constance, did not love her at all, but there was affection there, and tenderness, and it would take a tougher man than he to have little care for a lady whom he had introduced to the gentler side of the act of love and procreation. “It was my very great pleasure … and yours too, I have always hoped.”

She cast her eyes demurely down. “To my surprise, yes.”

“You might return home. Act as keeper of Tilbury for me.”

“I should be honoured by your trust in me.”

“Your husband, and others like him, will face exile. They have had sufficient opportunity and sufficient again to come to me. No more. They have scorned my mercy and shall suffer accordingly.”

“I shall hold Tilbury for you with all loyalty.”

Hugh began to dress, unable to withstand the cold. Unable to put into words the harsh truth: that he did not desire her sufficiently to place the child at risk by lying with her. Unlike Constance, with whom he had been unable to prevent himself reprehensibly risking the safety of his legitimate child and heir on numerous occasions. “When the child is of age it will be found a fitting place for education, and it will be amply provided for.”

Alice too began to don her garments. “Visit us occasionally. I can send the child to you sometimes, so you can see more of it without needing to see me.”

Hugh’s fingers fell still on the lacing of his hose.

“I understand how it must be,” Alice assured him. “It would be a slight to your wife if it were otherwise. You love her, and would not hurt her for the world. So you will see little of me, because while passing entertainment is no slight to her anything longer lasting or deeper is.”

“I will not put you aside into disgrace.” He thanked the Lord that he had always found a preference for sensible women, not emotional creatures who wailed and sobbed while turning their faces from reality to look to a dream.

“You have already promised me so. The child will be acknowledged and cared for, and with Tilbury and very occasional visits none will say I was used and dropped. Your wife’s honour is safe, and mine comes out as well as it might. I ask only that you allow me to marry again, should my husband die and I so choose.”

Hugh could not but wonder if her husband’s death would be natural. “I have no objection, provided a period of time passes between death and remarriage. A minimum of a year and a half would be respectable.”








I completed an MS Word based list of my history books last week. More than 400 books. 400. Most of them on medieval England, and all but a tiny percentage being academic not casual. 400. I knew I had a lot of them, but 400?! What did I do once my froggy mind had stopped boggling? I ordered another boxful :blankg:

[Ciaran]

Four hundred books. Why, that´s a library all of its own. And I take it you´re read all of them, too. Where do you find the time?

[Quintus.JC]

:applause: :applause: :applause:

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I only started to read this story a week ago and now I'm completely addicted to it. I'm currently trying to blitz the whole story and got to page 9/28. Its still gonna take a lot of time for me to get where most people are now.

Great story, keep up the good work Lady Frog. I would definitely buy that book when it come out. :beam:

Edit: coming to page 11, just out of curiosity, is Trimpwick a bad guy? I rather like the chap.

[Peasant Phill]

Welcome Quintus.JC

Here are the eyedrops that comes with your subscription to this story.

P.S. there aren't bad/good guys in this story like ther are in most Hollywood movies. However, there are characters with who you sympathise or don't sympathise. And even then ...

[Quintus.JC]

Welcome Quintus.JC

Here are the eyedrops that comes with your subscription to this story.

P.S. there aren't bad/good guys in this story like ther are in most Hollywood movies. However, there are characters with who you sympathise or don't sympathise. And even then ...

Yeah I understand. I'm only currently about halfway, I could find sympathy with just about all the characters; even old king William, even though the way he treats Eleanor can't be forgiven, I also rather dislikes Prince Hugh, he's far too dogmatic for anyone's good. Trempwick seemed to have a geniue fondness for Eleanor if not love. Anyway have to keep reading, I wish the days were longer....

Edit: Just got to the part where Fulk and Nell are finally married, Gosh I'm so happy. I know there are still so many twists and turns, but finally, things are starting to look up for them. I hope this story has an happy ending.

[Quintus.JC]

Finally got to the end. Poor Trempwick... :embarassed: it's a great story Lady Frog. I'll be looking forward for the grand finale, hope it will be a happy one.:yes:

[Peasant Phill]

Happy ending for whom?

[Quintus.JC]

Happy ending for whom?

Everyone really, it seems to be heading that way. The only person I really dislike is Prince Hugh, but he can keep his crown, I suppose.

[Quintus.JC]

Ever wondered what Princess Eleanor would look like in animation, what about this picture.


http://z.about.com/d/movies/1/0/G/J/P/shrekthethirdpubr.jpg
I find that that picture fits the description almost perfectly, except the blue eyes. ~:)

[Peasant Phill]

I fear that animation is a bit to much Disney/pixar/...
Princess Eleanor isn't exactly the pinacle of beauty. And a bowtie in her hair?

Lady Frog once posted a painting of how she imagined Her gooseberryness would look like. It's somewhere in these pages.

Oh, and with those close fitting sleeves, where do you imagine she puts her knifes?

[Quintus.JC]

I fear that animation is a bit to much Disney/pixar/...
Princess Eleanor isn't exactly the pinacle of beauty. And a bowtie in her hair?

Lady Frog once posted a painting of how she imagined Her gooseberryness would look like. It's somewhere in these pages.

Oh, and with those close fitting sleeves, where do you imagine she puts her knifes?

To be honest I think that picture was hardly the pinacle of beauty. There's nothing I can do about the bowtie and the tight-sleve, lets just imagine this is one of the occasions where she has to look formal and princessish and all. She is described in numerous accound as being 'almost pretty' when required to look the part. The thing is that when I watched Shrek 3 she instantly reminded me of her, at least some of descriptions fits anyway.

There's a painting? I want to see it! :beam:

[frogbeastegg]

Here's the picture I found while searching for something else on the internet, about halfway into this story. It's shockingly similar to how I see Nell. The picture's face is somewhat too fat, and those silly little curls at her temples need to go. Nell tends to wear a single braid instead of a pair. Otherwise that's very close to her when she's wearing everyday clothes and trying to look studious. The colours for the clothes should be altered though; these colours are expensive to make, and if Nell were wearing them she'd be in full on princess mode complete with inches thick embroidery on her hems, jewelled girdle, the works.

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v298/frogbeastegg/Nelllookalike.jpg

I found an portrait which reminds me strongly of Fulk while browsing through a book of Titian's paintings at work last year. I haven't found any good versions of it on the net; here's the best:

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v298/frogbeastegg/PoaYM.jpg
He needs clothes from the correct period, hair a darker shade of brown and the famous crooked nose, otherwise it's him, haircut and all. I nearly dropped the book when I first opened it to that page! You can't see it so well in this small version, but in the A4 sized image in the book (which I brought solely for that page!) the man is very arresting, yet in a very different way to the (IMO) boring 'handsome' stars of today.

[Ciaran]

Now there´s only Trempwick missing from the three main characters.

[frogbeastegg]

In death, as in life, Edward sneered at Eleanor. In death, as never in life, he provoked an emotion other than abhorrence from her. She’d lived near this man for much of her life, watched him serve Trempwick with devotion bordering upon slavish. Devotion that had seen him at the head of Woburn’s efforts to keep her floating without attachments or comfort other than Trempwick.

Slavish devotion, and look at where he had ended up: sacrificed by Trempwick as part of the effort to win back her trust. Would Edward have approved, have gone willingly to this death to aid his master? Or would it have been the request which asked too much?

Swallowing her gorge Eleanor indicated the agent should return the grizzly trophy to the wicker basket he’d delivered it in.

“He was not where the spymaster said he would be, your Highness.”

Eleanor looked up sharply. “Trempwick lied?” Her gut twisted; would she soon be viewing Trempwick’s corpse to reassure herself she was safe?

The agent bowed. “No, leastways it didn’t look like it to us. More like this one had taken it into his head to do some work of his own to rescue his master.”

Eleanor let the man sweat under her regard as she considered his words. This man, Mark, has been one of Miles’ best, one whom the old knight had been certain Trempwick had not corrupted. Trempwick himself had objected to his name being on the list of his agents, said he shouldn’t be killed because he was innocent. How far did one trust? “Show me the others,” she commanded.

The other heads she viewed a touch more dispassionately; she hadn’t lived with any of these people. Truthfully she had met only one of them in life. Henry, who had served as Trempwick’s lieutenant in the North. The other two were known by name and function only, a fact best hidden lest the real men escape the cull.

“Take them away and bury them,” Eleanor said once the display was complete. It was with considerably more difficulty that she said, “The hunt must continue. Send word when there is more for me to see and I shall make arrangements to view them.”

Mark bowed deeply. “As your Highness commands.”

Eleanor battled her queasiness valiantly, a battle lost midway back to Alnwick when she kept her escort waiting while she vomited into a bush. The men at arms averted their eyes and said not a word. They had been with her through far worse and seen her keep her stomach; that shamed her more than the revealed weakness.

When she was done Alfred offered her his costrel of water. “It’s a different thing, to be ordering deaths and seeing the results. Different to killing yourself, different to seeing a battle.”

Eleanor spat out a mouthful of water “I expect I shall become accustomed,” she said wretchedly.







Fulk resisted the urge to fidget as he waited for the man kneeling before the dais to finish his meandering plea. Hours had already been filled with similar pleas, or cases begging him for justice. Midday approached and the crowd of petitioners waiting at the back of Alnwick’s great hall had barely thinned. It wasn’t unexpected; this was the first time he’d held court as earl, and his lands has suffered badly.

“And so, we humbly beg your lordship, for the sake of Christian charity, to look kindly on us, your poor subjects.”

Fulk waited a moment to be sure the man was done. There’d been an embarrassing muddle at the start of the morning when he’d thought a plaintiff finished and the man had started talking again at the same moment as he. “I will say to you the same as I have to those others come here to represent their village in similar pleas. I will send a trustworthy man to your village and he will inspect the damage done, see what stores you have, and take inventory. Then I will make a decision as to whether to permit you to give a lower amount to me this year.” Fulk touched his fingers to the hilt of his sword, same as he had each time he’d made this speech. “If you attempt to hide goods or animals from my investigator your village will forfeit everything you hid and be fined ten marks. Be warned.”

The representative bowed, bowed again, and bowed yet again. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you, and may God bless you.”

Fulk clamped his jaw on a yawn and carefully shifted his posture so his back wasn’t in contact with the carved wood of the throne-like chair. What on earth had possessed the previous lord to have a mounted saint brandishing a sword carved slap across the high back? The chair would have to be changed or he’d end up with a damaged spine.

The next petitioner knelt before the dais and launched into his speech. It was remarkably similar to the previous one. Fulk knew he could interrupt at any time; it seemed ill-bred, and a poor return for the trouble taken to reach Alnwick and gain audience.

Once upon a time Fulk had watched in awe as his father performed his duty as lord and dreamed of the day when he too would sit in the high chair and nod gravely as people brought him their woes for judgement.

The plea wound to a close, and Fulk repeated yet again the bit about an inspector being sent to see what state the village was in. This time he added something to the close, “And let this stand for all others who have come to make such a plea. Let them go to my clerk and register their village’s request with him, and the necessary arrangements to send someone be made.” That thinned the crowd considerably.

The next petitioner reported brigands had taken up residence near his home and were extorting resources from the villagers. That one was simply solved; a party of twenty men at arms were to leave at once to hunt them down.

After that came a long-winded plea from a merchant for restitution for goods seized by Trempwick’s army. As the man worked through flowery phrases, claiming utter ruin suffered out of loyal service to Hugh, Eleanor slipped into the hall. She and Hawise worked their way along the outermost edge of the room, doing their best not to attract attention. Fulk lent most of his attention to admiring her progress; he already knew he would deny this plea. He’d have liked to have her at his side, taking her place as Lady of Alnwick and acknowledged as someone whose judgement he trusted. Eleanor had been less enthusiastic, arguing that, at least in the beginning, he should not been seen playing lord with her close by else people would consider him her puppet.

The merchant was still going some minutes after Eleanor disappeared up the stairs. Enough was enough. “Your request is denied,” Fulk interrupted. “You chose to take your train out of the city when the rebel army was know to be in the area. You cannot blame lord Hugh for that; the decision – and the blame – rests solely with you.”

The merchant straightened up indignantly. “It is the king’s duty to keep the peace and suppress rebels!”

“And suppress the rebels he did.” Fulk rested a clenched fist on the arm of his seat and advised the man, “Check the mounds outside my castle as you leave if you doubt.”






Jocelyn removed his tunic with care, lifting it over his head and then dragging the left sleeve off his arm. Damned crossbows and damn that idiot crossbowman who’d bloody well shot him!

“Does my lord need some help?”

Jocelyn squinted at the maid, considering. She was quite pretty, in a peasant sort of way, and it had been a damned long time since he last got to play … He started to say yes, changed his mind. She looked acceptable and it had been a damned long time – how bloody humbling was that?! Throwing himself at the first offer of contact with the first half decent woman to come near him?! And she wasn’t even offering help of that sort, damn it, though admittedly she certainly would if he smiled and turned his charm in her direction. Irresistible, wounded or not. But yes, saying he couldn’t manage just so she’d come close and maybe possibly brush against him once or twice while he enjoyed being at eye level with her breasts was too damned desperate. “I’ll manage.”

The stupid maid didn’t listen – see? Irresistible – and came to help him. The view was about as good as he’d expected. He’d got the shirt half-way off when the room’s door opened. A woman stood there, neatly framed. Stood staring. Frozen. The expression on her face …

Then she was gone, whirling around and slamming the door behind her. Footsteps could be heard running down the inn’s wooden staircase.

Christ’s sweet wounds! Jocelyn fought to disentangle himself from shirt and maid, stumbling to his feet. It couldn’t have been. He was hallucinating. It was an evil vision conjured up by his injuries. Bugger that – it was some kind of divine judgement on him for allowing himself to get excited by this woman! Her expression!

He staggered out of the room, still battling to get his right arm back into its sleeve and pull the garment over his head so he wasn’t running about bare-chested like some barbarian. “Richildis!”

It couldn’t have been.

He ran.

“Richildis!” He skidded out into the inn’s courtyard in time to see his wife hurl herself onto her horse and apply her boot to its ribs in such a wise it left no doubts as to her current state of mind. Damned cow was upset, but why?! “Richildis! Damn it, stop!”

She didn’t. The four men at arms accompanying her goggled at him, and one by one reined about to ride after her. Bloody traitors! Still, what else could he expect from the sods? They wore her colours, were her own hand-picked escort raised from her own lands. Bloody traitors! He was her husband; she belonged to him and so did they!

“Tildis!” Jocelyn roared.

Jocelyn became aware of the fact he stood in the yard of a common inn in his shirt and hose, having been abandoned by his wife. Everyone was staring. A lot. Everyone being peasants. Norman peasants. He was being gawped at by yokels. Making a scene. He, a count, humiliated in front of riffraff. It was all her fault!

Alain emerged from the main inn building at a run. “My lord? What’s going on?”

It was still possible to see the escaping riders. Jocelyn felt calm wash over him. Perfect calm. Like a tide of ice. So angry he’d come out the other side of rage. Humiliated. By his wife. Unreasonably. Unfairly. Unforgivably. He was going to kill her.

Jocelyn brushed a hand over his shirt, smoothing a crease from the linen. “Fetch my sword and my horse.” The squire didn’t move. “NOW!” Alain sped off, white as a sheet.

He’d done so much. How could she do this to him? He’d written those God-damned idiotic pointless effeminate letters like some bloody celibate clerk. He’d refused the maid’s offer of help even though he was really, really bloody tempted and actually rather in need of some help, thank you very much. He’d made a damned fool out of himself asking that widow the princess/queen/whatever sheltered for advice on how best to approach his wife. He’d learned some of the local lingo while in England. He’d brought that God-cursed bloody damned ring!

Jocelyn started to march. Across the courtyard. Out through the gate. Along the road. Each step swift and sure. Fatigue was gone. Pain was gone. The light-headedness that head plagued him since he took this wound was gone. Justice. That powered him now. He was going to give that evil bitch some justice. Following them before they got out of sight. Before they escaped. Justice.

Alain caught up with him, running at full pelt with the palfrey trotting gracefully at his side. He hadn’t brought the sword.

Jocelyn snatched the reins from his squire’s hand. “Where is my sword?” He demanded.

“My lord …” The youth shook his head.

Jocelyn backhanded him across the face. “I am your lord. Your place is to obey.”

Alain raised his head, cheek already reddening. “My lord, you are not yourself-”

“Then who the fuck else am I?”

“I beg you-”

Jocelyn grabbed his squire and snarled into his face, “Get back to the inn and bloody wait! If you try to follow me I will knock your damned head off, I swear it!” He cast Alain away from him and mounted up. He didn’t need a sword. Bare hands would suffice.

The squire ran after him as he galloped away. Soon left behind. The dust cloud in the distance drew closer. Resolved into a small dot. Into a larger dot. Into five visible riders. Sweat droplets spattered in the horse’s wake, keeping Jocelyn’s tears company.

Women rode side-saddle. It slowed them. Inferior creatures and their inferior means – no match for a man like him! Once within haling distance Jocelyn bellowed, “Stop! I command it!” Did they begin to slow? “I am your lord! I command it!”

Spurring his horse ruthlessly Jocelyn managed to catch up with the tail of the party. The men at arms didn’t dare block him; they shifted their own mounts from his path as he steadily gained on Richildis. When close enough he leaned and grabbed the reins.

She fought him. The damned ungrateful cow had the audacity to batter at him with one hand while dragging at the reins with the other. They struggled for a short space. The edge of her hand bashed into his temple. That was it! Jocelyn bared his teeth in a grin of he knew not what variety. “Damned bitch!”

He was a knight. A master horseman trained to ride using his knees to guide his mount while his hands were engaged in other tasks, to keep his seat when under stressful circumstances. So he grabbed Richildis by the waist and dragged her off her horse, slinging her over his saddlebow. His shoulder tore, blood began to run.

The gasping palfrey shambled to a stop; Jocelyn threw his struggling wife to the ground. A handful of moments saw her back on her feet; Jocelyn dismounted then. She stood facing him, breathing heavily, for all the world like an animal brought to bay. Wasn’t that what she was?

Only when the men at arms closed in a semi-circle loose enough to be non-threatening did Jocelyn take his eyes off her. “Return to the inn,” he ordered.

They shuffled their feet and looked uneasy, and damned well didn’t leave.

“I am your lord. If you harm me you will all die. If you get in my way I will kill you. Leave.”

The leader said hesitantly, “She is our lady …”

“She is my wife. Will you interfere?”

The man bowed his head. “We cannot,” he acknowledged in a whisper.

“Then go.”

They did.

When he turned back Richildis seemed to have calmed herself. It was she who spoke first. “I’m returning to my dower lands. I never want to see you again.”

Jocelyn inhaled long and deep; the air might steady his spinning head. He’d have some answers before he wrung her wretched bloody neck. “You cannot leave me.”

Richildis raised her chin. “I can and will.”

“See how easily I have fetched you back?” They stared at one another for a time. Yes, he’d show her how easily, since the stupid cow didn’t already see it. He seized her ear and yanked her towards him, took a step back along the way he had come, and another, and another, pulling her with him. “How are you leaving?” One last brutal twist and he released her. “You’re not,” he sneered.

She spun on her heel and walked away.

Jocelyn wasted a heartbeat gaping before diving after her and grabbing her shoulder. “You’re my wife! You cannot leave me! It is not possible!” Leave him?! Christ on a sway-backed donkey with diarrhoea! How could she possibly even think about it!? why?! It was not right – not fair! “We are one flesh, joined in the eyes of man and God. We cannot be parted; there is no grounds.”

“I will not stay with you. I cannot stand the sight of you. There is that ground.” Entirely too bloody calm; unnatural!

“Even if you did get to your dower lands everyone would say you must return to me. You wouldn’t be permitted to stay away, whatever I damned well said about it.” A prime weapon dropped into his hands; Jocelyn said triumphantly, “And you’d never see the children again. Leave me, Richildis, and you’ll never see them again, or hear from them. They’ll be as good as dead to you.”

She flinched, looked away. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you would be so cruel. To them as well as me.”

“I would never be cruel to them!” Anger, oh yes now he was right bloody angry! “I would never harm them, you evil-minded bitch!”

“You said you would not let them see me again. That is cruel. They need their mother.”

“You’re the one who wants to abandon them – they don’t need a mother like that.”

Richildis touched a hand to her sore ear. “Jean speaks a few new words since you left. Damn. Bloody. Bitch. And others. Where might he have learned them?”

Like the blow to the stomach that left Jocelyn gasping.

“Thierry asked why we fight so much. Mahaut asks as well. Asks if her marriage will be the same.”

“But …” But …. But …!

“Better that they remain with me. Away from you.”

“NO!” The cry was wrung right from Jocelyn’s heart. “No! They need me – I love them!”

Richildis said wearily, “You’ve taught our baby to swear.”

But! And how had she managed to turn this about on him in any bloody case! This was about her, turning up from nowhere and running away, humiliating him so badly he would never, ever in a hundred years be free of the shame. “I love them. I brought them back gifts. I brought you gifts.” Why in the name of a miraculous plum had he added that last bit?! “I love them. I cherish them. I do everything I can for them.” In an anguished cry, “I went to bloody war for them, suffered things you’ll never damned well understand, placed myself in danger, got hurt, nearly damned well died, was homesick, got travelsick, felt like a right bloody twat, and a whole lot damned well bloody more, and all to see that they have something to set them up in life! Something to inherit! Something to dower them! Something to bloody well feed them, clothe them, shelter them while they grow, damn it!” He filled his lungs again. “And, God damn it, I did it for you as well!”

“So I believed.” Richildis’ lip trembled; she put her back to him and started walking again.

Swift strides saw Jocelyn ahead of her; he planted himself in her path. “What the damned hell do you mean? What the bloody hell is all this about? What are you doing here, in the name of the Pope’s blessed underwear!?”

Richildis started laughing, choked, and burst into tears, still laughing like a madwoman.

“I don’t!” Bloody women! Entirely incomprehensible, and that was when they were making sense!

So long passed that Jocelyn began to shiver; it wasn’t a warm day. The blood-soaked patch of his shirt caught the breeze and amplified it, chilling him to the very bone. A man could drop dead waiting for an answer to perfectly reasonable questions.

Richildis’ mouth twisted into a shape he didn’t like, all derisive. “You asked me to come and meet you on your way home.”

“What!?” he exploded. “I did no such thing!” And why the hell would he!?

“You sent me a letter.”

“I did not!”

She reached into the purse she wore on her girdle. “I have it here.”

“I didn’t write to you, damn it!”

“This letter is from you. It asks me to come and meet you. It tells me your planned route.” The sneer grew, and he wondered if there wasn’t a trace of self-derision in it. A teardrop dripped off her chin. “It says you miss me.”

“I didn’t bloody well write it!” Jocelyn snatched the letter from her hand and squinted at it, muttering under his breath about the delusions of women. The handwriting was quite distinctive: it looked as though a drunken spider with three badly broken legs had crossed the page while having a fit of some sort. “Alright, perhaps I did write it,” he admitted. “I must have been drunk.”

“Of course,” she spat. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And what did I find when I arrived? You about to bed your latest whore.”

Christ! “You’re wrong. She was there to treat my wound.” He gestured at his bleeding shoulder.

“Ha!”

Hold on a minute here – he was missing something. Something important. Jocelyn wracked his brains, realised what it was. “There’s still something in your purse. Empty it out.” Was it? Could it be? Or was he being a prat? Had his eyes deceived him?

“No.”

“Empty it out, or I’ll do it for you.” Christ, pleased, please, please, please!

“Burn in hell!”

Jocelyn shrugged. “So be it.” Once he moved towards her Richildis pulled out that which she’d kept hidden and hurled it at him. Jocelyn retrieved the letters from the dirt. Not a prat after all. By God, it was a miracle, and truly his heart flooded with light. With a gentle hand he brushed dust from the folded bits of parchment. “You kept my letters. Love of God, you kept them close to you.” He cradled the letters in a cup made from the palms of his hands, and offered them back to her with reverence. Unbelievable. Voice filled with wonder he said, “That’s the real reason you came. Because I asked, and you wanted to. Because of these.” Blood was soaking his shirt, the waist of his braes and she didn’t care at all.

Richildis started to reach for the letters, stopped and then dashed them back into the dirt. “I will be a fool no longer.”

A fiery angel descended from on High and informed him that he’d been given this one last absolutely final chance to sort things and that if he screwed up now he’d lose everything. Or at least one would have if God didn’t know Jocelyn was smart enough to catch on without wasting Gabriel’s precious time. Buggering hell, what should he do? Jocelyn sent up a prayer, and collected up his letters again. “I wrote that letter while so drunk I don’t remember it.” Damn, she was turning away again! Couldn’t she give him chance!? “Why don’t you ask yourself what that means?” he called after her. “Think about it.” The stakes were so high his voice cracked like an adolescent’s, and damn it she wasn’t stopping!

“Tildis!” She was getting so far away that he’d have to bellow to be heard. Christ, why couldn’t someone send her a fiery angel too? Jocelyn started to jog after her. “Tildis! Ask why, damn it! Please, think about it! Please!”

“I no longer care.”

Jocelyn got ahead of her and turned so he was walking backwards, not attempting to block her and praying for all he was worth he wouldn’t fall down a pothole. “I was so drunk all my guards were down, and I was asking for you, damn it!” Bugger it – there was a pothole and down he went, landing hard on his arse. “I wanted nothing but you!”

Richildis gathered her skirts and stepped around him as though he were a pile of filth.

Jocelyn scrambled after her on his hands and knees, struggling to get back up without losing time. “I wrote to you all those times because I thought you’d like it. Tildis, please! I learned a lot of Anglo-French! I learned some poetry, almost! I wrote myself, with my own hands and no help!” Was she slowing down? No, not a chance, just wishful thinking. “I asked for advice, even! I brought you presents everywhere I stopped! I learned some courtly manners!”

If his words had any effect on her Jocelyn couldn’t see it.

“Tildis, it’s dangerous out here. You can’t just walk off alone! Tildis!” Damn, the world was so wobbly, black specks nibbling away at the edges of his vision. Stupid crossbow wound. That fiery angel must be leaning on his giant two-handed sword shaking his head in disgust. Jocelyn stumbled to a halt and fell to his knees. He’d said everything he could think of.

Except one thing. One final burst of effort brought him back to her side, he gasped the bitter words, “Come back to the inn with me to collect your escort and then I’ll let you go.”

That stopped her, so suddenly he collided with her. “You’re lying.”

Jocelyn shook his head and wished he hadn’t as the world spun crazily. “I can’t stop you going, not without locking you away under guard. You can have a week with the children every second month.” The dark patches were increasing and his ears rang so loudly that he could barely hear; damn, how bloody humiliating. He didn’t even hear himself say, “I brought a wedding ring for myself …”, just felt the shape of the words in his mouth as he collapsed.








Jocelyn would be mortified if he knew most of his scene was written to the sounds of Ever ever after (http://www.metrolyrics.com/ever-ever-after-lyrics-carrie-underwood.html) from the film Disney’s Enchanted. It’s hideously appropriate on metaphorical, literal (“your head feels it’s spinning” :p) and ironic levels. He wants ever after, he’s been pretending he has it for years even though he blatantly doesn’t, and now …? Good film BTW, about the only Disney one I’ve liked since I was 11. It’s very Disney meets Princess Bride.

Fiery angels. Lol.





Funny you should mention a pic of Trempy. I started to watch the DVD of series 1 of The Tudors (yes, yes, I know: I’m the last person in England to watch it) a couple of days ago and, while browsing an episode guide to get an idea of who was supposed to be who I saw a good resemblance. I saved the pic to my HD. Make his hair brown and cut it in the correct style, give him a more obviously hooked nose, and age him to his forties and ladies and gentlemen, this is Raoul Trempwick, king’s spymaster and trainer of gooseberries.

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v298/frogbeastegg/trempy.jpg

That's a pic of him posing and looking handsome. The resemblence would be keener if he were behaving naturally. You could put him in any crowd and he wouldn't stand out; he's nicely average and non-descript in all the ways which matter.

That's 3 characters in as many years; always shocking when I find myself face to face with someone.



Forogt to mention: Edward was one of the servants at Woburn, the steward. Highlights of his time on screen include him introducing Fulk to the Woburn tradition of betting how how long Nell would manage to survive each time William came for a visit.

[furball]

Froggy, my computer has been getting "fixed" since late April. I just got it back and have caught up with the story. Splendid, as usual! And what a wonderful scene with Jocelyn and 'Tildis! (Yes, Trempy and Hugh and Malcolm have good scenes, but I guess I empathize with Jocelyn the most.)

Your story has been the best part of my computer's homecoming and I eagerly look forward to more chapters.

Congrats and be well.

[frogbeastegg]

The road into Waltham was a blaze of bright colours. Banners – his coat of arms, his feather of truth badge repeated over and over – flew on each side of the road for the last quarter of a mile. Well-wishers thronged, held back from the road by soldiers in immaculate liveries. People cheered, called his name, shouted blessings. Pretty young damsels had been stationed on hastily built towers; they threw flower petals over him as he passed.

It dazzled. Hugh rode home blinking his eyes, half believing the spectacle would vanish if he did so a sufficient number of times.

He went through the motions with the grace that came from years of hard practice. Over and over he raised his right hand, saluting his people. He smiled beatifically. He inclined his head at this person and that selected at random from the multitudes. On hearing God’s blessing offered to him Hugh never failed to cross himself.

His personal companions did likewise, many unable to hold back broad grins of pleasure at the welcome waiting for their lord. Pleasure too, Hugh did not doubt, at their own triumph. They had chosen a side, supported it, survived and won. Further back in the marching column, and ahead in the advance party, his soldiers let their discipline crack to wave, to smile, to snatch up the trifling little gifts offered them, to kiss a girl or ruffle the hair of a child.

Malcolm Nefastus seemed more overawed than any of them. Not for him the easy acceptance of the peoples’ adoration. Not for him the small gestures which acknowledged their love and returned it. Each time Hugh glanced at the youth he saw him looking this way and that, face shining with incredulous wonder. Once Hugh saw the boy’s lips move, and thought they formed the words, “One day …”

Before Waltham’s gates a huge party awaited. Constance, Hugh identified her instantly, his heart knowing her before his eyes. The Archbishop of Canterbury and his retinue of clergy. The lords he had left behind to guard his wife and others who had not come to his side by the time he had marched away to the North. The men who formed his administration. Others, many others. A choir of boys sang hymns in the sweetest voices.

All these people, swarming in their hundreds, hailed a great man. A victorious general who had destroyed the rebels and restored peace to the realm. A king about to be made. Hugh wondered what would happen if they knew the truth. They would not cheer for him then.

He dismounted before the reception party. At once they all began to bow and curtsey. Hugh caught Constance’s hands before she got more than halfway down, and raised her back up. “I am heartened to see you well,” he said, pulling her into an embrace. Perhaps this was not the most princely of acts here, now, on such an awesome occasion, yet his caring for that had been burned away on the field of Alnwick. Had he not earned the right to bend protocol a little and hold his wife? Was it not, another part of his mind suggested, the behaviour expected of those of poor birth?

This lapse appeared to be to the approval of the soldiers, as a cry was taken up, “God save lord Hugh!”

Constance stood back a little once he let her go, examining him as he did the same to her. Praise the Lord she brimmed with health – seldom had he seen her look so well. As for their child, he had felt it kick while he held her. Praise God.

Hugh went through the lengthy official welcome with but half his mind on the matter. The remainder focused solely on Constance, on the matter which he had brooded upon for the entire trip south. However was he going to tell her? What would her reaction then be? It was to end that overhanging misery that he had headed to Waltham before Wales, though there were sound strategic reasons too. He could firm his grasp on England, go to collect the surrender of Trempwick’s mother and the castle she held and then march on the Welsh with a peaceful country at his back.

As he led the notables into Waltham for the waiting feast Hugh reviewed the collection of explanations he had carefully worked on during his trip and endeavoured to select the best way to tell his wife that he was nothing more than a bastard, disowned by the man he believed to be his father and occupying a throne at the sufferance of his sister.











I have been struggling a bit with the end of Jocelyn’s scene. It won’t quite come out in a form I like. Then my Granddad died and I haven’t felt much like writing. I tried today and that scene isn’t working at all, I’m not in the right frame of mind. So instead we have Hugh and Hugh alone.

Granddad, this story is now dedicated to you. I thought you were invincible.




Welcome back furball. I wondered if you had picked the wrong spot to watch the battle at Alnwick and had been trampled :winkg:

[furball]

I'm sorry to hear about your loss, Ms. Frog.

Meanwhile, I thoroughly understand not wanting to write the end to the Jocelyn scene until it comes out "just right."

[Kommodus]

Froggy, I'm sorry to hear about your grandfather. You have my condolences.

This story has been a truly remarkable effort, and I sense it coming to a brilliant end.

[Ciaran]

I am truly sorry to hear of your loss, you have my deepest sympathies.

[frogbeastegg]

When Jocelyn opened his eyes it was to discover he was in a room, and it was dark enough to be late at night. The day’s events came flooding back; he covered his face with his hand. Expelling the air from his lungs he said, simply, “Bugger.”

Tentatively Jocelyn sat up, giving his head time to settle so he didn’t fall over. Something was binding his shoulder up tightly; careful exploration proved it to be some highly competent bandaging. Who’d done it? More to the point who’d fetched his carcass and dragged him back here – wherever here was? Well, there was only one way to answer that, and damn it if he’d lie tamely back down and wait for his captor/benefactor to show up.

Jocelyn stood up - and nearly dropped from shock when a voice remarked, “If you fall down I’m not picking you up.”

One hand pressed to his thumping heart, sagged back against the edge of his bed Jocelyn swore, “Bloody hell!” Then, a half-second later, “Bloody hell!” He looked about the room until he spotted her, a silhouette sitting in the corner near the empty fireplace. “You’re still here.” Quite probably the most inane statement ever made in the history of the world, ever. At least it matched his equally idiotic grin.

“Your men won’t let me depart without your say so.” That tone was usually found hand in hand with that expression which said - faintly and with perfect noble breeding – that someone as crude as Jocelyn shouldn’t be allowed to foil her but, thanks to the world being a bloody unfair place, he had. Good thing it was too dark to see her properly.

“Oh.” Jocelyn gave up on his attempt to stand. Now he’d gathered his wits a bit he recognised the room; he was back at the inn.

“They won’t believe you said you would let me go.”

Nor did she, from that ever so acid tone. Ah, God! Jocelyn fingered the bandages over his wound; this was her work. “Bring my captain up here and I’ll tell him. Then you can go whenever you want. Just … wait until daylight. Please. It’s dangerous out there.” Jesù, could he sound any more like a whipped cur?! Actually, sod that! A spike of energy burned through Jocelyn’s weary veins. “And what the damned hell were you thinking just running off out there anyway!? Anything could have happened!” Jocelyn stabbed a finger towards the shuttered window. “There’s a war out there!”

“There was a whore in here!”

And now his shoulder was aching like some cruel bastard has stuffed a red hot poker into it, damn her! “If there was,” Jocelyn spat, “I wasn’t making use of her, but it will rain frogs before you believe me, so shut up and fetch my captain. If that’s still what you want.”

Didn’t take her more than a moment to go, no hesitation or anything. And there it was again, that tugging pain inside his heart, rather like someone had fastened a hook to his vitals and was tenaciously trying to pull them out. Maybe all that wailing and warbling about broken hearts wasn’t all so much pretty-fancy wordage. Maybe they did exist. Damn the woman!

The captain entered the room bowing. “Good to see you recovering, my lord.”

Why prolong the agony? “My wife and her escort are free to leave whenever they like.” Jocelyn dismissed the man with a pained wave before he could ask questions. Answering them was more than he could face. He, the handsome and dashing absolutely courageous and heroic rich and powerful Count of Tourraine, recently from the royal court and known to be a staunch support for the old king’s children, the great lover and awesome father, he, Jocelyn de Ardentes, had been left by his wife. And he’d let her go. Like a wimp. A thousand heroic deaths couldn’t win him enough acclaim to blot out the hideous infamy of it.

She was still here. Lurking. Wanting to revel in her triumph, no doubt. Bitch.

“I hope you’re happy now,” he growled.

Richildis bumped the door shut and didn’t take the polite suggestion to sod off and leave him to his misery. Gloating cow! Taking the single candle she lit a couple of others, bathing the room near his bed in soft light. Still holding that first candle she looked so damned beautiful; her eyes sparkled, her skin the colour of fresh cream, her golden hair shone in the light like – like gold! And if he’d had the pretty words to make those thoughts sound decent then maybe he’d have told her years ago, and maybe they wouldn’t have ended up here.

She set the candle down on the room’s tiny table. “I can’t believe you. Coming chasing after me like that, half-dressed and wounded. How incredibly stupid – and look what you did to yourself.”

Jocelyn lay back down, hand over his eyes. How long was he going to have to listen to this?

“All to stop me leaving. And then – after all of that - you let me go.” A pause.

The hand dropped away; Jocelyn craned his neck to look at her. Something about the way she was talking was making his innards flutter like he’d eaten a moth.

“It’s by far the most romantic thing you have ever done.” She sounded … surprised, more than anything.

Romantic? But wasn’t that all; about flowers, singing, stupid words and dying in agony because the blasted female wouldn’t give you so much as a kiss? “Um ..” What to say? In response to a comment like that? It was kind of like a compliment, sort of, in a backhanded way, if you squinted. Jocelyn didn’t think it would be smart to admit he’d intended to kill her.

If there was a thing where you could look at words as pictures then Richildis right now would make the perfect template for that fancy word ‘inscrutable’. “Why?”

The fiery angel was still lingering, and he gave Jocelyn a nudge. Or he would have if God had actually sent him, but he hadn’t because He knew Jocelyn was smart enough to get by without all the flash fanciness which probably cost heaven quite a bit, if you thought about it. But the problem was Jocelyn’s wound ached, his brain felt like curdled cheese, and last time this damned angel had interfered he’d fallen down a pothole.

Richildis repeated, “Why are you letting me go?” Pah! As if she thought Jocelyn didn’t understand the question or something.

Uh, right. Yeah. There was something about this … something … “Well …” Yes, that was a good start. Now what next? Should he say that if he got rid of her then he could pick a nice amicable young beauty who didn’t hate him, and install her in his castle to keep him company? Yeah, that would show her! “I can-” Uh, actually no, forget that!

“Is it so difficult a question to answer?”

Bloody yes it bloody well bloody was! Jocelyn scowled so hard it made his face ache. Intuition hit him like a punch to the face – maybe his aid Up There had gotten impatient – and this silly idea started jiggling away in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, it was possibly one of those things where you saw a dirty old man lying in the middle of a road and then you either kept on travelling and got killed by divine vengeance or stopped to help him and then discovered that actually he was the only one in the entire world capable of saving your favourite dog from choking to death during that night’s feast? A test. Yeah, one of them things.

Let’s assume it was and proceed accordingly. Well, it wasn’t like he’d got anything left to lose, not after turning himself into Jocelyn-who-couldn’t-even-keep-his-wife. “Well … It’s … That is …” Smooth and eloquent – not! Jocelyn mentally heaved himself up and chucked himself over the parapets, and said in the tiniest, most ashamed voice he’d ever heard coming from his own mouth, “I want you to be happy.”

And watched bewildered as the daft creature burst into tears. This was just embarrassing. Completely, purely, excruciatingly embarrassing. No other word for it. If he could crawl to the window and manage to wedge himself through the narrow gap he’d probably dive out of it just to get away from the humiliation, second storey drop or no. Slapping a hand over his face Jocelyn admitted that people were right – it did take a big strong manly man to admit to stuff like feelings. Christ, a lesser man would have melted into a puddle by now!

Right. Yes, right. Right. Take the blow, roll with it, and come back for another strike. Just like sword fighting, this. Take the pain, push on into it, and make sure you bloody well won so no one could laugh at you for the indignity of getting there! But he left his hand covering his face so he didn’t have to look, because really that would just crumple up his amazingly masculine courage, and that couldn’t be allowed. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Sort of. Kind of. In a way. I mean, that is to say … Bugger!”

Jocelyn levered himself back up into a sitting position. Some things just couldn’t be done lying down. “Look, Tildis, all I’ve ever really wanted is a wife who likes me, maybe even loves me. I just want to go home to someone who’s missed me and is glad to see me. Someone who I’ve missed and am glad to see. Someone who wants to make me happy, and who I want to make happy. Someone who appreciates my efforts. Someone who-” and God, he was blushing like a virgin on her wedding night! “wants to go to bed with me. Because, you know, actually, really that’s all I’ve ever wanted from life, pretty much. Except for children. And a nice castle, and title and lands and such. And wealth. And importance.” Um, but maybe he was straying from the point here? “It was damned obvious I wouldn’t get that with you, right from the start and that’s why I didn’t want to marry you. You didn’t like me, and you made me feel like a crude barbarian, and I bloody hate that! And I hate feeling off-balance, and ignorant, and damn it if you don’t also make me feel like I’ve been castrated and turned into some helpless sod who isn’t a man at all and I damned bloody well hate that too! And I hate the stress of having to prove I am a proper man after all!” And something somewhere here had gone a tad wrong … Too much shouting and accusation, maybe, and not enough of the nice and fluffy stuff?

Jocelyn gathered himself with some effort and stabbed home the final blow on this flurry of … whatever it was. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve tried my damned hardest since I’ve known what’s what, and I thought that it was working, but no, obviously not. Now you want to leave me, and all because of something which isn’t true. It’s not fair!” And hadn’t he heard his eldest son whine like that when told he couldn’t have a proper sword yet? Jesù! “But no, that’s that and it’s over. You’d rather believe ill of me and end it all then so bloody well be it – go. Because there’s nothing else I can do but lock you up, and I don’t want that. I never have, damn it, whatever you think of me. So go! Leave me alone, and believe the worst of me, but know this – I was trying and it was working otherwise you wouldn’t bloody well be here in the first damned place, and now you’re leaving me because you got the wrong impression!” He gasped for breath, panting slightly. Felt like he’d run a couple of laps of Saint Maur’s training yard.

After a while Richildis said, “I’m not sure if you’re trying to tell me you love me or hate me.”

Jocelyn blinked, thrown entirely. He thought about it. “Both, I think.” A bit more thought and he added, “But I’d rather not hate.”

Well, she’d stopped it with the crying, which was something. What wasn’t something was the fact he couldn’t bloody well even guess what was going through that mind of hers. But then when had he been able to? “Jocelyn …” She shook her head and said no more.

Slowly it occurred to Jocelyn that for the very first time ever he’d managed to knock her off-balance with words, stun her and leave her utterly at a loss. He mentally pumped a fist in the air and yelled, “Yes!” She just sat there like someone had knocked all the wind out of her, like she couldn’t begin to think of where to start. Made a change for someone other than him to have that problem. Struggling to grasp it all.

And you know there was maybe one last thing to add. Like he’d thought earlier, before he’d chucked his pride in the chamber pot. “Tildis?” he said honestly, “I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Then why,” she said, voice gone all screwy because of crying and shock and stuff, “didn’t you say so?”

Because he just did say so? Once he’d have snapped that back as an answer and delighted in maddening her. Now he kept it to himself. “Because you want fancy words and that’s plain. Boring. The sort of thing any idiot could say. You’d have laughed.”

For the first time in ages she looked directly at him instead of past him or around him. “If you had said it like that I would not have laughed.”

Calling her a liar would be rude, so Jocelyn just shrugged with his one sound shoulder. “Tildis, the thing is all those things I’ve done recently which you liked, well I did do them. They were real. I did them. You liked them. So I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You and that maid-”

Jocelyn placed his hand on his heart. “I swear on the lives and souls of our children that I didn’t touch that damned girl, didn’t intend to, and wouldn’t have even if you hadn’t turned up!”

Slowly Richildis said, “You wouldn’t lie … Not with such stakes.”

“Doesn’t that mean you owe me an apology?” Jocelyn asked smugly. Ah – something altogether more important occurred to him. “And doesn’t that mean you’re not leaving me now?” Finally, a question which had plagued his bemused brain for years, “And anyway, why do you care? You don’t like me coming after you, damn it, so you should be glad I turn elsewhere half the time.”

Oddly he had the impression she was about to go pop like a bubble, only without any of that nice jolliness. A bubble of anger, or hate, or something like that, exploding into a wave of anger or whatever it was made out of.

No answer was offered so Jocelyn poked a bit more. “I mean, it’s true. You won’t come to me willingly, you try to make excuses most of the time, you complain and make me feel guilty when I force you, and then you go all sulky every time I so much as look at anyone else!” He threw up his hands. “Damn it, Tildis, what am I meant to do?! I’m not made out of bloody stone!”

She still didn’t answer, and Jocelyn had a feeling that somehow he’d gotten onto the high ground in this battle. He was running about naked, so to speak, with all his bits on show and flapping about while she was still refusing to take her shoes off. Who’d have thought he’d manage to do so well with just words, only words, and nothing but words, and mostly honest ones at that? Not her, that’s for sure. He should do his duty as a husband and set an example and make sure she damned well followed it. “Come on, Tildis. Whatever you’ve got to say can’t be any more God damned embarrassing than any one part of what I’ve managed to get out.” He tried to sound encouraging, and did his best to smile nicely.

Tildis jerked her chin up and spat, “Because I hate being reminded I’m the only woman in Christendom who doesn’t enjoy being mauled by you!”

Ok, some answer was better than none, and while that wasn’t the one he’d been looking for it was better than silence. Mostly. And anyway, it wasn’t entirely unexpected, if he were honest. She’d mentioned something similar once or twice in the past. Ok, dozens of times. And it was kind of sort of slightly his fault, in a way.

It turned out she wasn’t finished with the angry-word-spitting. “Or that I’m defective because I don’t like it!”

God, Christ, and all the saints, the dratted creature thought she was broken. He could have wept. Jocelyn nervously wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Tildis … I never knew.”

She made a harsh sound that accused him of lying. He noticed she was still crying, and thought it might be nice if she’d do so on his shoulder. His good shoulder, not the wounded one. If only.

“I mean, I didn’t know you thought that.” Damn, but it was bloody obvious when you thought about it. What else was she going to think, being a sheltered type who’d had nothing but lousy treatment from the same man others swooned over? Jocelyn buried his face in his hands. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Well, mostly.” He dragged his head back up and attempted to meet her eyes – suddenly it was very important that she understand and believe. “No one bothered to tell me! They just got me drunk, and let despair that you hated me and told me it didn’t matter because you were mine, and told me that it would be the best night of my life because you’re so beautiful and a proper noble girl instead of the lowly sorts I’d had. They didn’t warn me you wouldn’t know what you were doing, or that I’d have to do everything, or that you would be hurt, or-” He choked on the lump in his throat. “And I didn’t know how to win you over after that. You hated me. And I hated you for making me feel like I wasn’t any good.”

Richildis had gone as white as a fresh linen shirt. “What are you saying?”

“I thought you knew I’d made a botch of things and didn’t want me because you thought I was rubbish in bed. And because you hated me,” he added, because he was an upstanding honest type. “Damn!” The more he thought about it the more bloody stupid he felt for not thinking of it himself. Jocelyn d’Ardentes: a man who couldn’t even keep his wife and who was as thick as frozen mud. What a complete tosser! “But then how were you supposed to know it can be different?”

She pressed her lips together and said through clenched teeth, “You make me sound foolish as well as defective.”

Foolish? Her? “Tildis? For once in your life trust me, damn it. There’s nothing wrong with you. Or at least …nothing which started that way.” Jocelyn scratched at his earlobe, foundering. “Look, woman, I got something beautiful and I broke it and I didn’t even know I was doing it, and maybe – maybe I can prove that some day. Given chance.” Uh, yeah, could even a lover as amazing as he was undo the damage he’d done to her? Um, and did he even know how? Right, whatever and so what. Time to hammer at the iron while it was hot and hope he didn’t burn his fingers or whack the hammer into his eye-watering spot. “Look, you’re leaving me over something which didn’t happen. We’ve got that bargain we made before I left for England, and it was damned well-” She hated cursing! “ Er, that is it was jolly well working. You liked my letters and stuff, and I’m glad you cared enough to come out here, even if I don’t remember asking it. We’ve … I guess we understand each other a bit more now, too.”

Jocelyn groaned his way to his feet, tried not to fall down as he crossed the ground between them, and dropped gratefully onto his knees at her feet. He took her left hand tenderly in both of his. “I don’t want you to leave me, Tildis. Please stay. And note that I’m being all nice and stuff, and I’m kneeling so it’s probably romantic.” Bugger, if only he’d thought to get that stupid ring out of his bags. That would have shoved the romance stakes through the bloody roof! “Look, maybe it won’t work. Maybe we’re so dam- er very messed up that there’s no fixing it, or maybe we’re just destined to hate each other, but I swear if it doesn’t work I’ll let you go if that’s what you want. But we should try. Please?”

Richildis gazed down at him, traces of tears still damp on her cheeks. For the longest time she didn’t say anything. Then her head dipped into the shallowest of nods.












It’s time to bid Jocelyn goodbye – and good luck. That’s his final scene. Turns out that the big solution was cutting off all the stuff which followed Richildis nodding. Even a single line more was too much; the thread departs the tapestry here, and here it must depart.

Now you will begin to understand what I have said about loose endings which will probably make people want to hurt me. What’s going to happen from here? He could fail, he could win her over, they could manage to rub along in many varying shades of tolerant (un)happiness. … The seeds for all of these possibilities are scattered throughout the story. I know what happens; you will have to decide for yourselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of you decide they manage to struggle through and end up in Happily Ever After :winkg:

Remember how occasionally I have said that the story writes itself and that I have very little influence? Also that occasionally a small chance here will have huge consequences there? Originally Jocelyn died. He was supposed to die. He was created purely to be a view on the other side of the channel, to view William’s accident and death, and to carry the news to England. His secondary mandate was to provide an alternative to all the happier couples and the courtly men. We should have seen him for the final time lying on the littered field at Alnwick with a lance snapped off in his guts, lying propped up against his dead warhorse, slowly dying in agony and alternately cursing his fate and mourning his lost chances.

That fate changed long, long ago, as he attended the wounded, then recovering, then dying William. All those things he began to realise about himself, his family, and the very problematic royal family of England subtly changed his path to one where he walked and lived. The cumulative effect of the many microscopic changes added up to him not being a hot-headed idiot and leading a mounted charge out of Alnwick’s gates in search of glory. He went on foot with the shaky faith that following Nell’s instructions was the right thing to do.

Jocelyn d’Ardentes, hail and farewell!



Thank you.

[Prince Cobra]

So that's it. The end. I will beg for some time to relax and to order the rambling thoughts in my mind. Excellent story!!!!

The end I read in one breath. I'll await the "end" of the other character's story :bow:

[furball]

THANK YOU!

(Truly, I was beaming as as I read that. Anything else I say would be superfluous.)

[Ludens]

Jocelyn d’Ardentes, hail and farewell!

Hail and farewell, indeed.

I don't agree this is a loose end, though. Not unless someone expects a happily-ever-after ending for everyone apart from Trempwick.

Did you intend for Jocelin and Tildis' arc to have a moral?

[frogbeastegg]

Stephen, you made it at last! You've been patiently chipping away at this mass of words for what feels like most of its lifetime. :gring: My PM box is as open as always; I look forward to the next to add to my collection.

Furball, I thought you would like it. ~:)



I don't agree this is a loose end, though. Not unless someone expects a happily-ever-after ending for everyone apart from Trempwick.
It depends on your tolerance, at least somewhat. Some people class a story which doesn't have every last "what happens for the rest of the characters' lives" pinned down in detail as having a loose ending. Others do so when the entire ending is so open that it's as if the book got cut into two and one part left out.

I've heard of people throwing books at walls for endings less open than Jocelyn's. Scary.


Did you intend for Jocelin and Tildis' arc to have a moral?
I don't intend for anything to have a moral. Writers who set out to include morals and educate their audiences should go write pamphlets instead IMO. I have never read a work of fiction which sets out to contain morals which worked to my full satisfaction. The common mistake is making the story, characters and world secondary to the message. Hence the tendency to end up with less than lifelike characters, convenient happenings, a preachy tone, and other things a frog terms to be disastrous.

IMO if an author does their job well then people will naturally take bits away and think about them. How many and which parts are up to the reader and will be very personal. You can increase the likelihood that a certain bit is taken away for thought by writing it well; make people care about what's happening and why. People wanted Jocelyn to make peace with his wife because they like him, not because I'm telling a story about how men should try to stop swearing and write love poetry. Because they like him then at least some will have been thinking about the various things he has done, how, why. If you're thinking about something then ... well, you're thinking. Next time you're riding through a battle you might recall Jocelyn and his tendency to get shot, and head in the opposite direction when you see a man with a crossbow.

Writing with a moral in mind also suggests to me a certain sense of fear and uncertainty on the author’s part. A distrust of the readers. Certainly a sense of superiority and condescension.

There are some groups which would condemn me for condoning domestic violence and rape via Jocelyn. He's a popular, likeable character. The wife he has treated so poorly agrees to stay with him of her own will. Worse, the overall tone is that she’s equally responsible for the difficulties they have. There's no punishment of him for engaging in such behaviour. He's not viewed as a scumbag by his peers. The scenes where he commits these acts are frequently written in a humorous way. So on and so forth.

I have long found that fiction which sets out to be nothing more than the best fiction it can be is better than fiction which sets out to be anything else, and tends to have a better rate of success at being more than ‘just’ a story. Want to explore the causes behind the fall of the Roman Empire? Go write a history book; I’ll read it and be happy. Want to tell me about the holiday taken by this fascinating clerk who happens to live during the last years of the empire? Let’s go.

(Your mileage may vary. I’m a heavily character oriented writer, and that influences a lot. An event or theme oriented writer would be spitting up blood at the above.)

[Peasant Phill]

And so the curtain falls over one of my favourite characters.
Jocelyn, I bid you a fair adieu.

And thank you Lady frog for not including a happy ending.
To many stories are squandered because the writer felt the need end everything nicely and to explain everything.

[Ludens]

It depends on your tolerance, at least somewhat. Some people class a story which doesn't have every last "what happens for the rest of the characters' lives" pinned down in detail as having a loose ending. Others do so when the entire ending is so open that it's as if the book got cut into two and one part left out.

I've heard of people throwing books at walls for endings less open than Jocelyn's. Scary.

I'd say that anybody who has gotten this far will realize your narrative is too complex for clear-cut endings.


IMO if an author does their job well then people will naturally take bits away and think about them. How many and which parts are up to the reader and will be very personal. You can increase the likelihood that a certain bit is taken away for thought by writing it well; make people care about what's happening and why. People wanted Jocelyn to make peace with his wife because they like him, not because I'm telling a story about how men should try to stop swearing and write love poetry. If you're thinking about something then ... well, you're thinking.

I didn't mean moral as in moralizing. That obviously does not apply to your story. I rather meant that you could draw certain observation about, say, male-female relations from your story. I was wondering how much of that was intentional. Thank you for the explanation.

[frogbeastegg]

I didn't mean moral as in moralizing. That obviously does not apply to your story. I rather meant that you could draw certain observation about, say, male-female relations from your story. I was wondering how much of that was intentional. Thank you for the explanation.
IMO moralising is stronger version of making observations. From my own writer's perspective the process of purposely engaging in either is very similar. The difference is that the moralising tends to be crass, less subtle, more heavyhanded.

I write about the people, who they are and what they do during a period I identify as particularly interesting. I write about Jocelyn's relationship because it's an important part of his character and his journey through this story. Doing that sets up a lot of food for thought without me having to pay it any mind, and with what I feel to be far, far better results. Letting the characters be their natural selves is what makes them rich and realistic, whereas if I tried to encourage the reader to make certain observations via Jocelyn it would impede his flow onto the page. He wouldn't be quite himself. The focus would have subtly altered; you would be looking through a differently shaped lense.

[woad&fangs]

Fare thee well, Jocelyn:bow:

[Ludens]

IMO moralising is stronger version of making observations. From my own writer's perspective the process of purposely engaging in either is very similar. The difference is that the moralising tends to be crass, less subtle, more heavyhanded.

Then I guess moral was simply a bad translation on my part.

[furball]

<deleted, redundant>

[Wasp]

I still have to catch up! :embarassed:

[frogbeastegg]

Constance eased the small of her back with her hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You do not need to tell me about the other child.”

“I am sorry,” Hugh murmured. Jesù! Logic, duty, the demands of his position – they had all seemed adequate motivations at the time. Here, now, they paled. His faithlessness was such poor payback for his wonderful, pregnant wife. “I am so sorry.”

Constance waved a hand dismissively. “If I am going to be jealous of her I might as well be jealous of your chamber pot. You had a need, you used her to fill it – as people expect you to do. She will not take my place in your heart, or your life.”

“No one could.” Hugh fidgeted with the hem of his tunic; if it mattered little to her then why had she brought it up the very instant they were alone together?

“Regarding it logically, it was a wise enough course for you to take.” The twitch of Constance’s shoulders as she inhaled suggested she might not be as sanguine as she endeavoured to appear. “People would find it odd if you did not have another woman while away from me so long, especially now.” She laid a hand on her swollen stomach. “That murdering bastard planted doubts enough about your ability to father children – they must be laid to rest once and for all. Two children will achieve that, where one might not. The timing was good also; it can be seen as God’s blessing on your reign.”

Hugh pressed his hands flat against his legs and attempted to match her rational manner. “This child can be trained as a support for our own heir. Should it be a boy, naturally. A girl would be of less use. He will be taught from birth that his purpose, his duty, is to aid his legitimately born brother. Having a faithful, stalwart aid of close blood can be invaluable for a man of power.”

“The idea has considerable merit,” Constance agreed. “Great care must be taken. The two boys should be run together from an early age. The bastard must not be allowed to develop a sense of ambition, or to consider a future where he does not stand at our son’s side.” She spread her hands and made an effort to smile. “There. You have seen I am not angry with you. Perhaps now you will relax? You have been on edge all day.”

So she thought he struggled to find a way to confess his adultery to her, and sought to spare him the struggle. Such things as this ensured that no other could ever take her place in his heart. Hugh ran a hand through his hair. The moment was here. Cowardly delay must not be entertained. “Alas, my heart is greatly pained that I have other, worse, news to impart.” Then, all in one great rush, “I am not the heir. The old king disowned me on his deathbed, and named me bastard. I have no right to the throne, none! I am nothing, son of nobody, not a prince, merely the bastard of a harlot and her traitor of a lover. I am not worthy of you – there is not a drop of royal blood in my veins!”

Constance took all of this very calmly. “Then who is the heir?”

It took Hugh a painful amount of time to relay all that had happened. Constance pressed him on multiple points, questioned him, made him repeat parts, and all the while Hugh burned anew with the humiliation – the injustice! – of his rejection.

When the account was rendered to her satisfaction Constance held out her hand to him. Hugh took it, and allowed her to pull him down to sit next to her. “Hugh,” she said, gently grasping his chin and making him look at her, “I am going to say two things, two things I believe with all my heart. Firstly, a lifetime’s belief counts for far more than a last minute doubt. William owned you as his son for a quarter of a decade. Secondly, you will be – are – England’s king because you deserve it. You have laboured for it, bled for it, given up much for it, and done your all to be worthy of it. That is more than most would consider, let alone do.” When he would have spoken she laid a finger on his lips. “The whole country knows the battle cry you used at Alnwick. ‘God aid us.’ Do you not think your appeal heard favourably?”

Hugh’s answer was as velvet-soft as her own words, “Victory could have been granted me in order that I might rescue my half-sister, the true heir.”

“If such were so, then you might have died in the final stages of the battle, once Trempwick had been captured. That would fill your function and clear the way for her. You did not die; you lived.”

“It does not do to second guess God,” he chided.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “No, it does not. So cease attempting to.”

“I do not attempt to!” The tug of the scab on his eyebrow reminded him not to scowl. “And, whatever you might believe, my course is set. I will take the throne, with the blessing of the rightful heir. I am not the rightful heir, and will not suffer you to name me as such. Not here, not in private. I can stomach the fiction where I must; I will not have it inflicted upon me where it may be avoided.” Once more he looked her in the eye, with, he suspected, a trace of desperation, willing her to understand. “It hurts. It hurts, Constance. You might as well brand me with irons each time, for surely it would pain me less than being reminded again and yet again of what I am.”

At last she relented, bowed her head. “You must not allow Eleanor to control you. Hugh, you must not! For our own safety. For the good of your mind – knowing you are little more than her slave would destroy you.”

“We have our agreement,” Hugh stated stiffly. Aware of the unfairness of leaving her in the dark on a matter which touched her almost as deeply as it did him, Hugh detailed the settlement he had made with his half-sister. All of it, down to the downright unflattering part where he had promised to kill her children so they could be no threat to his.

Constance let out a breath. “All very well and good, but will she keep to it?” She tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowing. “Will you keep to it? All of it?”

Hugh felt his face go hard. “My half-sister and I will do as we must.”







Got loads more after this. Every scene but 2 requires a tweak, an addition, a revision, something, before I feel them passable. Didn’t like this one until I got rid of the pair of dialogue recaps and replaced them with a simple ‘so Hugh explained’ deal instead.

You’ll have to excuse me; I should have headed to bed 20 minutes ago. I stayed to finish and post this. Delay much longer and I will be like a zombie tomorrow.

[Peasant Phill]

Thanks for those 20 extra minutes of dedication then.

[Numerius]

Add one more to the list of people who became a member just to comment on your story. I have been following this for months, and do hope there will be more. You have a very entertaining style and an immagination that I truely envy. Your occassional POV style only serves to move the story along, and certainly intruduces a change in cadence. Thank you for hours of pure entertainment. When you publish, I will be standing in the line at the bookstore.

[Prince Cobra]

Ahem, an intrigue between Constance and Eleanor has been forming for a very long time. Yet it is now when it becomes a focus of the story... Inquisitive how this will develop in the very end of the story...

P.S. I have not forgotten about my letter. It is half typed but I've had busy weeks recently. :bow:

[frogbeastegg]

The armoured man clipped bow in his saddle. “We’re in pursuit of rebels. My lord.” The last was added with a certain emphasis. “Pray clear our path and leave us to it.”

Fulk let these slights slide, intent on the meat of the matter. “You entered my lands with neither warning nor permission.”

“Are we not on the same side, my lord?”

“Nonetheless.”

York’s knight put his spurs to his horse; the animal sidled forward, hooves churning up the earth. “We’re pursuing rebels. My lord commanded me to hunt them down wherever we found them, out of obedience to our king. Do you obstruct us?”

Sueta stood his ground before the display, as unperturbed as Fulk himself tried to appear. “It is impolite to enter a man’s lands without first notifying him and asking leave.”

“What has politeness to do with hunting rebels?” scoffed the knight. “Now let us pass.”

“It might be taken as a declaration of hostility.” Fulk let his voice drift closer to hardness. “Or a failed attempt at a sneak attack.” Fulk surreptitiously attempted to ease his left shoulder; the weight of his shield was beginning to tell on his healing flesh.

The man slapped his hand to his sword’s hilt. “What do you accuse me of?” he demanded. “Any accusation you point at me carries to my lord, and he will answer it in full!”

With close to thirty men at his back – his entire contingent of mounted men – Fulk didn’t feel threatened. He outnumbered this provocative band by five. “I accuse you of being overzealous in following your lord’s commands, and of bringing disrepute to his name – something your attitude now is compounding.”

“And I, sir, accuse you of obstructing our hunt for the king’s enemies! Are you a traitor, sir?”

Behind his helmet’s face plate Fulk almost smiled, wearily amused at the thought this man believed he could be goaded into foolhardiness by failure to accord him his title. “I have scouts all over the land for miles. They have not reported any trouble in this area.”

“Then they missed something. I tell you, we came in pursuit.” The man’s horse snorted and danced forward a few more steps.

Too close; Sueta’s ears went up and he displayed his teeth in warning. Fulk ran a hand over the destrier’s neck, playing his show of dispassion to the full. There were no rebels, of that he was certain. York’s party had been spotted and report of their intrusion had been running to Alnwick before they reached Fulk’s lands proper. If they had been chasing stragglers from Trempwick’s army then the alarm would have been sparked by the fleeing party. No, this was deliberate, no doubt at York’s own order. Should trouble flare as a result the earl could claim innocence as he rode at Hugh’s side at the opposite end of the realm.

Fulk offered the man a chance to climb down with honour intact. “Then let us search together. Twice as many men will make it a faster job.”

He could see the knight thinking, quickly weighing his options. He could continue to press in the hopes of causing an incident; he’d come off worse in any fight so it didn’t recommend. He could turn and ride back and report Fulk for obstructing him; the accusation of protecting the king’s enemies wouldn’t stick if the offer of a dual search were refused. He could back down and leave; that would as good as admit they’d been attempting to cause him trouble. He could accept, waste a few hours in a pointless search and leave with appearances mostly intact.

“Very well,” the knight said. “But they’ve probably got away thanks to your interference.”

Fulk gave his men a pre-arranged signal and they fell in around York’s party, ostensibly to escort them. “You should have sent a messenger on ahead. Then we could have scrambled to meet them and caught them between our two parties.”

“You wouldn’t have arrived in time,” was the sulky reply.

This time Fulk did smile in the privacy of his helmet. “Oh, I don’t know. We managed to meet you before you’d gotten seven miles past my border.”








I had a persistent scene which takes place between the previous one and this one. I had to write it in order to get some peace and quiet from it. Being as it was entirely superfluous, I then deleted it. We don’t need a scene as long as this one simply because it has one neat line from Malcolm and a notification about something Hugh is doing which can easily fit into any of his next scenes. Without that scene barging its way into my mind as I try to work on material more useful I can progress. Too late to be much good; the scene which should have gone with this one and the prior one to make a single update is still a work in progress.


Peasant Phill, the 20 minutes gained me safety. Nell would have been glaring at me if I'd let the story sit around any longer :tongueg:

Welcome, Numerius. Here's the traditional eyedrops to help you recover.

Stephan, I'm busy too, so it's no problem. Christmas. :shudders: Worst period to work in retail.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

To her highness Lady Frog,
My name is Olaf Blackeyes. I have been trying to read through your titanic stroy for almost two months now. I am still only at page fifteen of this thread. You are en epic storymistress i must say. I am having a hard time following all of my suspicions of your characters. If you were to write this as a book to sell i believe you would become famous.But enough praise for now. i must get back to reading
:laugh4::laugh4::yes::beam:

[frogbeastegg]

On the way home from work today I got hit by the idea for a scene, and when I say hit I mean it thudded into me like a truck steamrolling a hedgehog on a motorway. I nearly started giggling on the bus! It was too good to let slip – it demanded to be written – and so I hit the keyboard on getting home. An hour and a bit later here we are, a short story featuring Jocelyn. I thought this one might go down well with the Jocelyn fans here, and it does give you something to read.




A baby which isn’t a boy is a … girl?

Jocelyn swept in through the gate like a conquering hero. He was: he was a glorious conquering hero who had achieved incredible things, leaving all men in his shade.

His sons came rushing over, all six of them. Strapping, handsome lads with fair colouring and sturdy grace – they clearly took after their father. They clamoured about his destrier, asking questions and pouring out worship for his prowess. Like the excellent father he was he humoured them, telling them this and that about his latest feats. About how he’d killed twenty men in a single battle. About how he’d won his own weight in gold at the king’s tournament. About how he’d awed his royal lord and been awarded another manor.

His wife waited for him to dismount before flinging herself on him in a display of emotion. Richildis weeping with joy, telling him how very proud she was of him. Jocelyn flashed his sons a bright smile to say “Watch your old man in action!” then devoted his attention to kissing his wife most thoroughly.

Richildis drew away, blushing most becomingly. In a throaty murmur she said, “I had the servants warm the bed sheets …”

“But I haven’t had a bath,” Jocelyn exclaimed.

“I don’t care.” Richildis took his arm, oh so very demure to those who were watching and couldn’t know that she was leading him off towards the keep. Yowzah! “I’ve been waiting for you to return for long enough.”

Being a right proper courtly man Jocelyn didn’t protest further, calling back over his shoulder instructions for his sons to take care of his horse.

At that point, right when things were getting to their most interesting, someone elbowed him in the ribs and Jocelyn woke up. “Bloody hell …”

Richildis thumped him again. “The baby!”

“What about him?” Jocelyn turned over and put his back to her. Thierry was sleeping peacefully in his crib – pity the same couldn’t be said of his poor tormented father.

The damned woman just elbowed him some more and cried, “The baby! It’s coming!”

Oh. That baby. The second one. Jocelyn sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Couldn’t you have picked a better time, damn it?” Remembering that there tended to be all kinds of hellish mess involved in birth, it seemed like a damned fine idea to get out of the danger area immediately.

Richildis snarled, “No, I could not!” God’s bones, what was her problem anyway?

The bedchamber was coming to life; Richildis’ maid stumbled away in search of the midwife while young Alain, Jocelyn’s page, handed his shivering lord his shirt.

Jocelyn tugged the linen over his head, aware that his cock was half up and bobbing with his movements like a drunken peasant on the way home from the pub. Virile? Nope, more like pathetic. How totally at odds with his awesome male machismo!

All the bother woke Thierry up. The poor lad instantly started to scream his wee little head off in protest. Jocelyn beamed like a proud daddy even as he winced at the volume. No one could doubt his son had a healthy pair of lungs.

For no reason at all Richildis screamed, “Ooooow!” Then the stupid cow hurled the bolster at him. “This is all your fault! I hate you!”

Ordering his page to bring the rest of his clothes Jocelyn exited his bedchamber before anything else could go wrong. Last thing he needed was to listen to Richildis whinging about pain or dying or whatever, and as for mess and all that … stuff, well frankly it was female business and best left to them. He’d done his part months ago and it was time to be off!

Once through the doorway he remembered Richildis no doubt needed his encouragement to keep her fragile spirits up during the lengthy ordeal. Besides, she was about his give him another son and well, he’d be a scummy churl if he didn’t do his best to support her. Jocelyn ducked back around the doorframe and called, “Good luck!” There. What more could a woman ask for? With that he retreated to dress.






By the time he reached the main hall most of those who’d been slumbering there had been woken up by the commotion going on above. Excellent- if he had to miss his bloody rest them then everyone else damned well could too.

One of Jocelyn’s knights saluted him with a wine cup. “Here’s to another crop from our lord’s ploughing!”

Others bellowed their approval.

Jocelyn brandished a fist in the air, grinning. “Another fine son to follow after me.”

“Might not be. Might be a girl.” The man who’d spoke this ridiculous thought met the scores of eyes which centred on him with a defiant shrug. “Just saying, that’s all. It might be. Babies do come in two sorts, after all.”

“It will be a son. Of course it will – why wouldn’t it? All my children are boys.” Jocelyn stood with his feet planted, thumbs thrust through his belt. His pride in his abilities didn’t quite run far enough to tastelessly thrust his crotch out, but damn it if the suggestion of incredible virility wasn’t there! “My seed runs to boys and nothing else! One legitimate, two bastards. How many others can say they’ve had so many boys in a run?” And he wasn’t yet in his twenty-second year, by God’s balls. Sometimes he amazed even himself! “Now will someone get me a bloody drink? Or do I have to wait like a novice monk finding out what his penance will be?”

Goblet filled, emptied, filled and drained once more Jocelyn swayed to his feet. Better go and put in a prayer or two for the safe delivery of his son. His wife too. Nagging, whinging blight that she was, at least she was pretty. Useful too; good administrator in his absence. Be tragic if she died and he had to marry some ugly thing that wasn’t any fun to bed, or a giggling empty-headed trollop who spent his money like water. Hmm, well, the trollop part of that wouldn’t be so bad. Um, if she confined her enthusiasm to him, anyway. Nothing worse than wondering if your son was your son, and if Tildis was as cold as ice well at least he didn’t need to worry about her scampering off after some ninny with nice legs and a tuneful singing voice!







Second children didn’t take as long to arrive. That’s what everyone had told him. Thierry had taken the best part of an entire day to show up. Second children usually showed up within a matter of hours, or so they insisted. He bloody well hoped so because the entire birth process thing was torture. Richildis probably wasn’t enjoying it much either. The time crawled by. Jocelyn drank. He prayed. He wandered about his chapel. He reconsidered names, returning as always to Jean. A good name, that. His grandfather’s name. A strong name. He wondered again if he should endow this son with a bit of land, direct him to life as a landless knight, or put him into the church. Best to see what the lad shaped up like, really. Be a crying shame to put a natural fighter into the church. With Jocelyn for a father the boy would be no milksop, that was for damned sure!

And still he waited. This was all because of Tildis’ agitated state at the start, no doubt. If the damned woman hadn’t gotten over-excited and starting hollering and throwing things then little Jean would be here already. Damn her! And may God and the Blessed Virgin watch over her and bring her safely through her labours.

Jocelyn headed back to the hall for another drink, and passed the time regaling the assembly with his plans for Jean.






At long last his wife’s maid appeared in the doorway which led up to the private chambers. A cheer went through the hall, a drunken kind of cheer which was all happy and good because everyone knew that he had a second son and the future was as secure as secure could be like gold in a box which was locked up and stored in a locked up room inside a castle with hundreds of guards who were as honest as honest could be. Yes.

The maid began, “Mother and baby are both hale and well.”

Jocelyn raised his goblet. Some of the wine slopped onto his wrist. “My son! Greet my son! Hail Jean!”

Voices called back, “May he prosper!” and other such blessings which were really very nice and just the sort of thing you want for your lovely new boy.

The maid said, “No, my lord. Your daughter.”

“What?” Jocelyn gaped at her. Must be the wine. Yes. Drank too much. Was drunk. Yes, imagining things and not hearing properly and oh my God this couldn’t be happening to him! A daughter!?

“You have a daughter, my lord.”

Nope. Wasn’t the drink. Wasn’t his hearing. She’d actually said it. Buggering hell! “What!?” he repeated.

“A daughter. A girl. One of those children which grow up to become women.”

Some folk tittered at that bit of disrespect. Jocelyn tottered towards the maid with the intention of clouting her. “But I don’t want a daughter!” he said, completely bewildered at how this had happened. It was Richildis’ fault. It had to be. She’d done it on purpose, just to spite him.

“None the less, that is what God has given you.”

Jocelyn finally reached the maid and thumped her upside the ear. “Show more respect to your lord, damn your hide!”

The maid clutched her injury and cowered a bit. That was better. “My lady wonders if my lord will come and see his daughter?”

When Thierry had been born he’d shot off up those stairs to greet his son before they’d even finished telling him. A daughter. A daughter! “No,” he snapped. “I won’t.”

The maid swallowed hard, and it wasn’t hard to see that she dreaded taking this news back to her mistress. Yeah, well, sod her. Shouldn’t have brought him such dreadful news, and anyway she was plain and Richildis had only chosen her because she thought that Jocelyn wouldn’t touch such a dull creature and maybe she was right but then maybe she wasn’t because Jocelyn would do what he damned well pleased and if he wanted a plain girl to play with then he’d bloody well have a plain girl to play with, thanks very much and if it was all the same! “What name does my lord wish to give the child?”

Jocelyn turned away, in dire need of another drink. “What do I care? It’s no interest to me what the thing is called. Damn it, it’s not even of use to me! Tell my wife she can name it whatever she pleases.”

“And when she asks when you will come to see the baby?”

Jocelyn turned back, bleary with wine and disappointment. “When I please, and not a bloody moment before.”






He had to see the baby. Duty, fatherhood and all that. Alright, more than that: he couldn’t go twelve years never coming into contact with the thing until the day he started to arrange its marriage. Not enough space in the castle for that, for one thing. Better bite down and get it over with. It wasn’t a complete disaster after all. Other men had daughters. Good thing, otherwise no one would ever have anyone to marry. Women were wonderful, marvellous creatures, and his life wouldn’t be the same without them. It was just that he’d never seen himself as producing them. Marrying them, seducing them, dallying with them, passing them in the street, seeing them in daily life and all that, yes, but making one of his own? No way!

Jocelyn delayed some hours, doing his best not to drink any more so he’d at least be mostly sober when he went to look at it. Mostly. Important detail there.

The baby was small. It was still squashed from passing out of Richildis’ body. It had gone a normal colour instead of the freakishness of the very newly born, that much at least could be said. It was … what? Holding the baby in his arms Jocelyn wondered what to do. Thing was, it was a girl. With boys it was easy. You held them, you admired them, you listened to their lusty bellowing and knew it meant they would be fine and healthy men in a couple of decades. You prodded your finger into their palms and foretold a strong grip on a sword. You looked at their balls and exclaimed how lucky their women would be. And so on. Girls … Honestly, what could you say? That it would be good at sewing? That its nether parts were nicely shaped? Christ almighty and a barrel of pickled figs, however comfortable Jocelyn was with that end of a woman it really was quite not the same thing at all and totally, completely icky to even contemplate looking at that bit if it was related to him, which this one was, and not only that it was a baby and less than five hours old!

Richildis prompted, “Her name is Mahaut.”

He’d not said anything for entirely too long. He’d better come up with something fast or Tildis would go into some kind of sulk about him not appreciating her efforts or something. Jocelyn went through the words carefully. He should say he was glad she was safe and well. That the child was well. That he was pleased. He started to speak. “Damn it, this is your fault! You didn’t eat enough beans or something, or you’d have had a boy! My seed always runs to boys! I told everyone it would be a boy! This is going to cost me a fortune later when I have to marry it on!”

The baby started to cry. Thierry started to cry. Richildis started to cry. Jocelyn had take all he could stomach; he handed the baby back to the wet nurse and stormed out. He’d be damned before he’d stay there and let them make him feel ungrateful and guilty.






Jocelyn spent the day hunting. Bastard stags and such probably did nothing but spawn endless parades of sons anyway, so they deserved to be killed.

He’d gotten rather muddy so he headed up to his bedchamber for a change of clothes. Yeah, well he could hardly hide forever, could he? This was his life now. Every time he went near his family the girl would be there, lurking, waiting to remind him again how little Jean had failed to appear. Tildis would be all glowering and miserable, blaming him for not being happy. Females! They made his life wretched and it was not fair!

Blessed peace reigned in the chamber. Thierry was asleep, so was Richildis, and the new one was being held by its nurse and staring blankly into space like babies tended to do.

Jocelyn stealthily crept across the floorboards, dodging the ones he knew creaked, praying to any kindly heavenly force which might still care for him that nothing would disturb the scene and make his life more awkward.

He stripped off his hose without second thought for the nurse. If she looked then she could admire, if not then who cared? Not like he could do anything with her anyway, what with her being a recent mother herself. Ah, and there was a new gloomy thought: he’d still got forty days left to run before Tildis was churched and he could begin work on young Jean. He’d be buggered if he was going to hang around that long; he’d have to pass near Jeannette’s soon. Last week’s visit already felt like a long time ago. Damn it, that wonder knew what to do with a man!

He straightened up from fastening the cloth strips which wound around his shins to keep his legs warm and hose clean, and found a fresh tunic. As he pulled his dirty one off he heard the baby made one of those strange snuffling, choking noises the very young frequently made. Damned thing wouldn’t let him forget about it, would it?

Oh, sod it. Let it not be said that he neglected the child. He hadn’t wanted it but still, he’d got it and had to make the best of it. It wasn’t right to leave a child to grow up ignored.

Tightening his belt Jocelyn stalked over to the nurse and thrust out his arms. “Hand it over then.” He kept his voice low. Better not wake anyone up or there’d be more crying and bother.

The nurse silently placed the girl in his arms and withdrew to a discreet distance.

“So. Mahaut.” Where had Tildis got that name? The baby stared up at him with the unfocused, myopic gaze of the very young. Big blue eyes, just like all his sons had had shortly after birth. What colour would this one’s eyes settle to? Light Jocelyn thought, and fair colouring. “I suppose you’ll be beautiful. With parents like us how could you not be?” Well she had already been contrary enough to be a girl instead of a boy, so he wouldn’t be that shocked if she was ugly too.

Christ’s cross, that nurse kept watching and it was off-putting, and trying to be quiet so he didn’t wake anyone up was just as bad. And it occurred to him that he hadn’t made his parentage of the child publicly known, which kind of sort of boded trouble maybe because then people might whisper that it wasn’t his after all, and that wouldn’t do. He’d fair burst with pride when he’d held Thierry up to display him to his people! Not so this time.

Jocelyn headed towards the door, still carrying the baby. The wet nurse protested, “You can’t-”

He snapped, “Is it mine or not? I can do as I please with it.” Did the damned woman think he intended to lob it off a tower or something!? He wasn’t a monster, for crying out loud!

Jocelyn took the stairs slowly, careful not to fall or lose his balance. Tildis would complain if he dropped the baby down three flights of stone steps and he couldn’t be bothered with that. As they neared the next floor the baby began to fuss and thrash its arms about. Jocelyn paused. “You’d better not be about to throw up on me or something. You’ve caused me enough trouble already, damn it.” He shivered a bit; it was cold on the unheated staircase. “Oh. I suppose you are cold. Don’t suppose I can expect you to tough it out like a boy.” He gathered up the trailing edge of his cloak and wrapped it around the blankets already covering Mahaut. “There. Better?”

Still the baby stared at him. Well, maybe not stared. At this age they just looked blankly in the direction of any noise. How very flattering.

He continued his descent. “You’re going to cost me a fortune. Dowries don’t come cheap, you know. Then there’s all that business about dresses and such, and I can’t just give you Thierry’s old toys. There’s no way I’m letting you loose with a wooden sword when you’re able to walk, bloody hell no! No daughter of mine is going to be a hellion. Take notice of that, baby.” He tapped her gently on the chin, marvelling at how massive she made his fingertip seem. Sternly he warned, “You’re going to be very well behaved.”

Not much of a reaction. Disappointing, really. Maybe she’d be more interesting when she was older. Able to smile, laugh and all that. Right now he might as well talk to a log. At least a log would be useful. You couldn’t use a baby to keep a fire going. Well, ok, you could if you were an evil son of a bitch, but Jocelyn wasn’t and would never so much as think about it.

“You had better be a credit to me. Gracious, pretty, and all that. I’ve been put through enough embarrassment because of you already.”

The fussing had stopped, and she was still gazing up at him. Kind of an adoring gaze, actually. She liked him? Of course she did – he was her father and an all-round stunning chap. “You’ve got good taste to work that out so quickly,” he told her. “Guess you inherited that from me because it can’t have come from your mother.” Wonder what else she’d pick up from him? Interesting thought, now he looked at it. With boys it was fairly easy to think of a miniature version of himself, but what would he be like as a girl? “I wonder …” Jocelyn paused again. “Beautiful, that goes without saying. Charming too. And smart. But that’s not a person, not really, is it? I mean, are you going to end up with a sturdier build – and I don’t mean fat or chunky because no blood of mine could ever be like that! – or will you be all slight and willowy? Going to have fine fingers like your mother, stronger ones like mine, or something midway between the two? My eyes or hers? My nose or hers?”

A myopic blink was his only answer.

“You like me, don’t you? That’s why you’re not wailing. Got to be. Yes. You like me talking to you, don’t you?” He tickled the baby under the chin and got something that passed for a laugh. “You’re a cunning little bundle, you know that. Yes, you are.” Jocelyn realised he was cooing and cleared his throat. In a more manly tone he continued, “You’re trying to charm me. You know that I’m no good at resisting charming women, don’t you? You know I can’t dislike any woman who adores me, don’t you? Cunning little thing.” And he found himself beaming. “You’re going to love me. Your mother won’t like that but so what, she’ll just have to live with it.”

When he reached the main hall Jocelyn stood in the middle of the dais with Mahaut in his arms and waited for quiet. Carefully he held the baby up so all could see her. “This is my daughter, Mahaut. She is perfect in every way and without blemish, and of my blood. Greet her.”

Everyone in the hall responded with a hail of some sort, recognising their lord’s latest addition to his brood.

The noise upset the baby and she began to bawl. Jocelyn rocked her in his arms and made shushing noises, waving away the half-hearted attempts to take her off his hands. “Quiet, quiet, it’s alright, I’m here. Daddy’s here. I’ll buy you a rattle, would you like that?” As he started back up the stairs the wailing slowed. He kept up his efforts, determined not to be proved lacking as a father. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? Yes, you would. If you’re a good baby and stop crying by the time we get to the top I’ll buy you a nice toy to chew on too. Even though you’re much too young to have teeth, you’d like that. Yes, you would. I saw this lovely one in the shape of a bird, just right for tiny fingers to clutch, and it had seeds inside it so it rattled, which will make it almost as good as your rattle, won’t it? Then you’ll have both. Won’t that be nice?” The crying stopped, see what an excellent parent he was? Outstanding!

“I’ll get you a blanket. A nice one. Something in deep blue to match those eyes of yours, at least until we know what colour they are going to be when you grow up. How about that? Yes, that’s nice, isn’t it.” And damn it if somehow he hadn’t been caught. He couldn’t say why and he couldn’t say when it started, but he loved this little girl with all his heart. He recognised another fundamental truth. “Daddy’s going to go into debt over you, isn’t he?”

Mahaut cooed in agreement.

“I’ll get you a pony when you’re old enough to ride, and lots of nice clothes, and some little shoes made out of red leather because I always thought they looked cute but you can’t put cute clothes on a boy. And a ball, and a toy horse, and …”





Welcome Olaf. You will be in need of the famous Eleanor eyedrops by now, to help your eyes survive the marathon read :hands them over:

[Olaf Blackeyes]

:takes eye drops: My thanks your highness. These will come in useful for this read and future reads as well. I finished your story up to the current installment about a week ago. Once i got started i read through it REALLY quick. I seriously think you should consider getting this published. I know id buy it:beam::beam::smash::beam:.
I can only wonder what gonna happennext now that Trempy is in chains or is this truly the End? I have to admit that for while there i was expecting the Germans to invade England or Eleanor to get exposed and executed or something like that. :2thumbsup:
GJ plz keep it up.

[furball]

Wonderful tale, Froggy! Thank you! You write Jocelyn so very well. <insert more gushing praise here>

Two little things: I realize Jocelyn would think it without question, but I was surprised you used the "c" word - then again, I guess we've all grown older, eh? And I was startled to see Jocelyn's age referenced as 22. (I realize this story need not take place in the time frame of Eleanor's tale.)

Anyway, strong and compelling writing; thanks again.

[Death is yonder]

I see many things have progressed. Trempwick i feel will still have a major role, despite his intended fate. I was rather sad to see Jocelyn go as he gives the story a certain depth IMO. Glad you gave him a final go, was a great idea indeed. Don't overwork yourself updating or grinding your teeth to nubs to give us a quick respite from the want of more gooseberry stories. I'd personally prefer if you gave yourself a respite from the hectic life you have before continuing to write, refreshed. I sense the end is near...still, keep up the good job:2thumbsup:.

[Peasant Phill]

Thanks to let us give a last good-bye to Jocelyn. He'll be missed.

But now, on with the story.

[frogbeastegg]

They cut his hands loose. What chance now of his escape? Slender to none. Mewed up inside these walls … Grant him time and mayhap. Mayhap. Repton was no fortress. Was but an abbey incrementally dwindling away at a site which had once been royal. Once. Long, long ago. Before the Conqueror.

Dwindling. Trempwick smiled oh so very slightly as he rubbed his wrists to ease away the imprint of rope. Dwindling – with high stone walls and a layout easily covered by a handful of guards. A nearby castle. Patrols. And, of course, royal connections.

“You smirk.” The abbot stood, folded his hands into his dangling sleeves. “You find something in our situation humorous?” The guards left.

Ah, forget it. Once caught a man might let go a little. Trempwick admitted himself caught in more ways than one. Still amazed by it. Delighted. Infuriated. Disgusted. He let the smile bloom. “I do. Indeed I do. My dear Nell has such qualities – one must appreciate them.”

The abbot sank back into his seat. Posed like the stern old twig he was. “I could not comment.”

Trempwick tutted. “Come, man. She has handed me, her former tutor, to your care. You, who applied for that very same honour, and failed to win her. It is quite … delightful. So delicate. Like the merest touch of a cat’s claw to warn against importune movement.” A form of purgatory for both men.

“I do not recall that I failed to win her,” bristled the other man. “I recall that you obstructed me at every turn.”

Polite motion with his right hand. “Naturally. Having found her worth the bother of teaching I could hardly hand her off again, could I?”

“You do not appear to have taught her well.”

At this Trempwick did laugh. “Roger, take it for the honest truth and not exaggeration when I say that if I had not taught her well I would not be here.”

“Forgive me when I say that if you had taught her well she would now be a credit to her family, not married to some …” The abbot’s lip curled, “thing dragged from the Lord knows where, and may he soon be returned to those dunghills from which he emerged. Touched by scandals. Implicated in the centre of a civil war! A princess of the blood, ruined.”

“Views you have made no secret of,” Trempwick shot back. “The comments you have made on her these past months … Well, let us say they are akin to jutting your head above the parapet and begging to be shot, my dear man.”

The words seemed to goad rather than cow Roger. “It is my moral duty as a man of God to comment on such obscenity!” Stabbed a finger at Trempwick. “Even you will admit this one has landed herself in a disreputable position.”

Cautiously, “I admit there are aspects of her present state which fall outside my hopes for her-”

The abbot interrupted boldly, “You mean she is not warming your bed and providing you a crown!”

Continued smoothly, “However I believe that if you had gained your way, then yes, she would have been ruined. You would made of her some pious nun, or a docile wife.”

“Precisely!” Roger jabbed at Trempwick with a forefinger. Again. Tiresome, overused gesture. “A credit to her blood.”

Shaking his head as he spoke, “And such a dreary waste of talent. The world has a thousand thousand docile wives and another hundred thousand boring nuns. It has precious few capable of proper thought.” Trempwick made himself chuckle, and seated himself on the edge of the abbot’s desk. Earned a glare by it. Good. “Does our situation not prove what I say? What docile wife would conceive this?”

The abbot massaged his greying temples. “This placement came as royal command. I was duty bound to accept it. I make no secret of the fact I do not want it – I would prefer you anywhere but here, Trempwick. I fear I shall not have a single restful moment as long as you remain within these walls.”

Bared teeth, show that the wolf is not yet vanquished. “Then open the gates and let me go.”

Roger lowered his arms to the table top. “I am commanded to do all in my ability to keep you here, and so I shall.”

“Indeed you shall, for you are far from favour and would do well to fear for your future should you fail.” Widen that feral smirk a touch. “Hugh. Nell. Neither will forgive you for letting me loose. Nor will those in affinity with them. Fail and you are finished. Is it not as beautiful as I said? She has achieved vengeance and security in one move.” Lose the smugness. “And I, fortunately for you, gave Eleanor my solemn vow that I would attempt no escape.” More’s the pity.

“And what value has this?” Roger snapped hid fingers. “That! None but a fool or a child would trust your word, traitor.”

“And so we shall all be on our toes, each minute of each day. On our toes and at each other’s throats, if I might be so bold as to make that prediction.” Stroked his lower lip. “Ah, has she not worked a thing worthy of respect?”

Roger slouched back in his chair. “Huh. And so you too are pushed from the wagon. It’s a wonder you lasted so long. That girl acquired early a reputation for running through tutors.”

“Oh, very much so,” Trempwick admitted easily. “If anything I think the general gossip understated. One man went to Ireland rather than remain with her. Got himself killed. Spear in the face during one of the many ambushes the locals were inflicting on our men.” That damned fool had tried to beat her. He should have known royal pride would not tolerate it.

Richard morosely crossed himself. “One wonders if it is a hatred for all tutors, or just those she came into contact with.”

Trempwick decided to laugh. It was almost a reasonable bit of humour. “Only those she has personally met, I think. That is to say, I do not know of her causing bother for any who did not attempt to touch her life.”

The abbot laughed too. Perhaps this captivity might be endurable after all.

Said, “I have given some thought as to how I might pass my days.”

“Bored?”

Thin smile to acknowledge the foray. “I am requested to work on an instructional piece.”

“Requested by whom?”

“By my lady Eleanor. Who else?”

Drew the immediate response, “You will do nothing until I have prince Hugh’s permission.”

Trempwick shrugged. Nell would ensure permission came. Her desire – need – to learn the remainder of what he had to teach was too great to allow the bastard to interfere.

Roger steepled his fingers. “Were I you, Trempwick, I should spend my time in prayer. For the good of my soul.”

A certain gentle tone conveyed more threat than any amount of posturing. He used it. “Try to cut a tonsure on my head and I will break both your arms.”

“For myself, I should be pleased enough to let you burn in hell for all eternity, traitor. My position as a churchman demands I make the effort to save you.”

“Spare me.” Touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. “Higher authorities than those on earth will judge me, and all that is in my heart will be known to them.”

The abbot’s eyes narrowed. “We shall debate matters of religion, it appears.”

“As you like.” Stood up, looked down at the other man. “I will read. Everything you have, and all that you can request from elsewhere. I shall play chess. I shall do stretches and other simple exercise to keep myself limber – I abhor the idea of growing soft and fat.” Like a cleric. “I shall keep abreast of news from the world, if only that you may be assured I have no links with outside other than those you grant me. I shall find sundry other ways to occupy my days, I am sure. The prospect of an idle life is not one I have previously faced. As a boy I had my training. As a man my work.” And he would wait. Above all that.

Tone one of overstated reasonableness which mocked, “Is there anything else you wish to make your stay more enjoyable, Raoul?”

Considered. “Yes. I noticed on the ride in that you have a good herd. I presume you have a dairy to match? I shall learn to make cheese.” A man of his age heading into semi-retirement might be permitted some whimsy.










That brings us to the end of what should have been one part, not many.

Another Christmas survived. Number 4. Each year has been worse than the last. I wonder if that is related to my being promoted to a higher position each year, or if it’s merely down to Christmas in this company getting nastier? Bit of both, I’d guess. Never had to worry about stock levels before. Never had to stay after the shop closes on Christmas eve to set up a sale before either.

I have a persistent, nagging vision of a short story. It has been dogging me for days. Weeks. It’s an event I have known about for years and not been bothered by until now. There’s a problem: it’s set years after my intended cut off point for this story. It would make a lovely epilogue scene, actually. Alright, there’s more than one problem. I absolutely do not intend to have an epilogue, and will not add one. It works well as a stand alone and fits my vision better as one. The final problem? It’s after this ends, so you can’t read it :p That means the wait for the next postable piece would be longer. I’ll see if I can keep it smothered until I am done with the main story, then there won’t be a delay. Not going to be easy - I close my eyes and I see the boy nicknamed Silent staring at me and I get shivers down my spine because I can’t ignore that there’s a form of beauty in the way it echoes.

There’s another vision after me, too. A far lengthier tale, though definitely short by my standards as it would ‘only’ run to ~50 pages. I have said previously that I could do the story of Fulk’s parents. Alas, there’s a scene in their story which they have weaved before my nose and it’s quite … striking. And as such, persistent. Fulk’s father is a man I find I like quite a bit. It doesn’t help that the song he starts to sing is one of the authentic medieval ones on my most common Eleanor writing soundtrack. The instant it appeared on tonight’s playlist I was no longer with Trempy in Repton, but with two others in an altogether different scene!

Threes are so often considered important. Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that there’s a third. This one doesn’t chase, doesn’t fight for attention. This one stands leaning against a stone wall, arms folded and this sardonic smirk on his face. All tall, lean and lanky, not good looking and a bit gaunt in the cheeks, a sword on his belt, wearing a white tunic with red and deep blue border decorations and possessing the name Guyon. I don’t know who he is or what he has to say. He might tell me. He might push off from that wall and saunter back off into the shadows with that almost whip-like manner of moving he’s got. He is getting more defined … I didn’t know he was called Guyon until this afternoon. I admit I am deeply curious about his story so I hope he doesn’t go away.



(You may stop reading now. What follows is a frog writing to straighten thoughts. It helps sometimes. :shrug: Might be of interest, probably not.)

Hehe, I’m overjoyed! After all these long months of weariness and exhaustion I began to fear I had written all I was intended to. The fire was gone. The spark, the zest, the ideas, the scenes and characters which plagued me day and night and demanded to be put down on page, and which flowed down effortlessly as fast I could type. The flame still burns: Jocelyn’s scene above wrote itself in a flash, and multiple scenes battle in my head for my full attention. It’s like learning you could fly, then finding you could barely skim the ground … then waking from a dream to find you are soaring.

Soaring gives you a different view. That frog’s eye view of the story has been sinking lower and lower to the ground. Now I’m back up here I can see why I’ve been struggling a bit, feeling that the flame was gone. It’s not simply exhaustion from work, though that has played a part. For me the story is over. I’ve told the bits which strike my passion. All that’s left – all I have been doing for a while now – is the necessary business of bringing it to a point where it can end respectably. For me the story ends where Trempwick is brought before Hugh’s court and admits he lied. Jocelyn’s final scene burned, but it’s not part of the story. It orbits it, but is not part. It’s nice to see Matilda’s messenger get slapped down, or Hugh reunited in victory with Constance, or Malcolm refusing the place of honour at the victory feast in order to sit with Fulk They are pinpricks of light in the sea of grey, things I can write but do not burn to.

For you it cannot end at that scene – that wouldn’t be a loose ending so much as a great big fat gaping hole the size of a third world nation. All of the Eleanor scenes which burn for me are in the past or in the future from here. This is the grey land of necessity. I know where it has to end for you. I’ll get there.

Each time I have seen writing discussed I have seen my own … style described as the rarest, the luckiest, and not infrequently as the one which produces the best work. The closest thing the literary world has to people born as natural musicians or artists. Scary, to find myself near any of those labels! That’s critics, writers with other styles, and writers who share my style, all talking about something I honestly give little thought to. What oh so very few of them ever mention is the caveat. Yes, my characters, worlds and stories form themselves with no effort from me. Yes, they flow onto the page with frightening speed and what seems like little effort. Yes, writer’s block is unknown, or other such hindrances. Yes, it’s all instinctive, natural, not something I have had to consciously labour at. I’ve needed to refine, experiment, learn, but never labour.

The caveat which goes hand in hand with this style? When there’s no burning light you fumble along in the dark. When everything provides itself it’s incredibly tough to manage alone when you need to. It’s … hard to describe. Think of those times when you have been very ill indeed. So ill that when you finally crawl out of bed you can barely stand, and have to work hard not to fall over. When everything you took for granted is suddenly a huge labour – and you know it shouldn’t be, and can’t help but remember that where you now stagger and grow tired quickly you used to sprint.

Time to get labouring. There will be a way to get better results than I am now. If I don’t have a flame then surely I can find myself a cheap battery powered torch?

Merely being able to close my eyes and mentally dive into the sea again is a boost. The flames are burning, not for what I’m writing here, but burn they do, and a little light is cast, and I’m reassured to know that they are there.

It’s 10:30 at night and I’m still recovering from the craziness of Christmas … yet I can see Silent staring at me in an unrelenting demand and I want to write and I do not care how late it is, because it is here and now and burning so brightly. As I’ve written this the image has grown sharper. It’s been a long time since I felt this way, defying all tiredness and time and sense. Silent is going to talk and if I try to walk away I will not sleep because he will be there. So I shall sit here and write until at last it is done, and I realise it's 1am, my back aches from this chair, I'm shattered, and my eyes are sore from overwearing my contact lenses.





Furball, the c word is a Jocelyn thing, part of what makes his voice his own. I could swap it for another word and each time I read it the dialogue would drop out of his voice. It's the same as Malcolm and his endless swearing. Personally I would much prefer he didn't.

When we first meet him he's noted as being 28. Thierry is 7, Mahaut approaching her 6th birthday. Therefore he's around 22 when she is born. You know what's truly amazing about this? I did not think about his age at all, not for a second. I just threw in "not yet 22". I was too tired, too deep in the grip of what I was writing to care. It's only when you mentioned it that I went back to see how old he is supposed to be. Character's ages aren't something I conciously think about once they are established, unless they somehow become relevant to the story again. I got the ages right here by pure gut guesswork :stunned:

Death is yonder, too late about the tooth grinding. I'm pretty sure I wore them all out when a customer decided to climb (yes, climb!) on the shelving in my shop because she couldn't reach a book. These shelves are free hanging and only a complete and utter fool of a lackwitted idiot would think they could support a human's weight. She ripped it right off the walll. Most of the wall came off too. The 9 foot long metal shelf bent like a banana. Books everywhere. She didn't apologise. She acted as though it was a common everyday occurance for her. I nearly smacked her over the head with the shelf when she cheerfully asked, "You'll be able to put it back on easily though, won't you?" Through extremely gritted teeth I informed her, "The shelf is ruined. The wall is ruined. There is nothing left to attach to anything!" That shelf made up 1/5 of the space in my most profitable non-bestseller section! Let's not forget the hours I spent filling in forms and wailing at people over the phone in order to get it fixed ASAP, time I urgently needed to be spending on other things.

That tale is mundane compared to some of the other things which happened at work in the past 6 weeks. :sweatdrop:

Peasant Phill, such is my hope. We'll get there.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Queen Frogg:
I must admit that uponhearing this excellent tale was soon to come to an end i felt really sad, how the story of Silent sounds like a good read and i will eagerly await it. The Gray area that you are going through right now is a common thing amongst writers, its no surprise that you have lost focus at the end. I can only hope that you recover and bring this epic saga to a favorable end.
As for the amounts of praise, dont let it get to you. This just means that you are doing your work WELL. Honestly i simply cant write anywhere NEAR as good as you, just read my AAR for proof of that (But i still chug along dammit and thats good enough for me:beam:).

Heres to another great tale (I hope) that will be of Silent or Guyon. :Che ers:

[furball]

Holiday greetings, and best of luck to you, Ms. Frog.

[frogbeastegg]

The herald flourished a showy bow so deep the dangling sleeves of his outer tunic scraped the floor. “My lord, the King of Scots, conveys his sincere congratulations on your victory.”

Fulk replied, “The congratulations are due to my lord, the future King of England. It was his victory, his plan that carried the day, and his cause that God favoured.”

“Yes, this is true and my lord, the King of Scots, sends warm greetings to his noble cousin, the future King of England, by way of this humble messenger. The defeat of a would-be usurper is an occasion for celebration for all righteous folk.”

“Indeed.”

“It must be said, your modesty does you honour. My lord, the King of Scots, has heard a full account of the battle, and knows of your heroism. It is his firm desire to applaud you, and to recognise your deeds.”

Fulk bowed his head as a man should when his lord praises him. This conversation was so flowery it could form a herb garden. “I thank him. He does me a great honour.”

“It is the truth that you, yourself, captured the traitor Trempwick?”

“He surrendered to me, yes.”

“My lord, the King of Scots, has heard also that you were at the very forefront throughout.”

“I held the place assigned to me by my king.” If the Scottish thought to lean his loyalty in their direction with flattery it wouldn’t work, and best they know it – politely.

“Those who fought alongside you hail you as the greatest knight on the field, is this not so? The section of the line you led pressed far into the enemy, and caused much slaughter amongst the rebels. We have heard it said you were a lion on the field, invincible and fearless.”

A lion? Was this some snide swipe aimed at Hugh and his family’s coat of arms? “If any were a lion then it were my lord, the future King of England. He fought with matchless courage.”

The messenger smiled a courtier’s pleasantly empty smile. “This too is in my lord, the King of Scots, message to his noble cousin, the future King of England.”

Again noble cousin, not royal cousin as it should be. Fulk realised he was tapping his fingers on the arm of his great chair, and pressed his palm flat. This was not an exercise he had any skill in; he’d sent for Eleanor as soon as he realised he could not delay meeting the emissary. The sooner she arrived the better. “Prince Malcolm acquitted himself with valour. His lord father must be proud.”

The reply was a beat away from fully natural timing. “Yes, my lord, the King of Scots, is aware of his son’s participation in the battle.” The messenger beckoned forward one of his attendants. “With your permission, my lord?”

Fulk waved his fingers to grant it.

“My lord, the King of Scots, commands me to bestow upon you, his valorous Earl of Alnwick, greatest knight on the English field, and staunch support of all that is right and just, this token of his appreciation for your skills in battle.”

The aide came before Fulk with a wooden case laid flat across his arms. It was made of a rich, dark wood, about a hand span wide and eight spans long. The corners were reinforced with gold binding, and on the lid a snarling wolf’s head had been carved. The man knelt, proffering the case to Fulk.

Fulk stepped down from his dais and lifted the lid. Inside, pillowed on silk of cornflower blue, lay a sword. And what a sword! Holding his breath Fulk lifted it out, one hand on the hilt and two fingers of the other under the middle of the blade to give it balance. The grip was bound in braided black leather with strands of gold wire mixed in, tasteful in its ostentatiousness and unlikely to slip in a sweaty hand. Pommel and crossguard were gilded, the dot and line patterning on them picked out with black. The blade itself didn’t need close scrutiny to display its worth; it was of the very best steel.

The emissary smiled slightly. “My lord, the King of Scots, heard that you had broken your own best sword, and sent this to replace it. He hopes that it will be worthy of your ability.”

Fulk stepped back so he was clear of everyone and shifted his grip to wield the sword in a light middle guard. The balance was perfect, the blade lightweight, and the whole from grip to length was ideal for his build. He wove through a few simple exercises, seeing how it responded. By the time he lowered the weapon he was grinning and unable to help himself. “It is a very fine weapon. I thank its giver for his generosity.”

“It is very handsome.” Eleanor’s voice came from the stairs leading up to the solar. She walked to Fulk’s side with unhurried grace. “A princely gift indeed.”

Fulk grin shifted to a gentle smile of welcome. Reinforcements, and already she was proving better than he in this non-battle. Shouldn’t it have been a kingly gift?

The King of Scot’s man bowed to Eleanor. “Your Highness. My lord, the King of Scots, sends you his greetings and felicitations.”

Eleanor inclined her head. “I thank him, and return them with all the warmth of my heart.”

From the way she was hovering near the lower chair placed at the side of his Fulk inferred that he should sit back down. He did so, sword resting across his knees, and she settled into her own chair, slowly enough that it looked as though she were following his lead.

The emissary clapped his hands and the second of his attendants scurried forward, this one bearing a scabbard and belt made to match the sword. “There is also this to accompany the sword. My lord, the King of Scots, knows that even the greatest of knights will spend much of his time at peace with his sword idle at his side.”

Fulk accepted this offering, slid the blade home into the black and gold scabbard, and propped the weapon against the arm of his chair. “I pray for peace now that Trempwick is defeated, and see no reason why I shouldn’t find it.” No reason save any tit for tat posturing between the two kings, that was.

Eleanor said gracefully, “Peace is my brother’s highest priority. He attends to the final stages of its restoration even as we speak, and will ever afterwards devote himself to its preservation.”

“It is likewise dear to my lord, the King of Scot’s, heart.” The emissary touched his breastbone to imply that the belief lived within him also. “It has been heard that Carlisle will be yours if you can but take it. This gives me lord, the King of Scots, cause for great hope, for surely with two of the keys to the border in the hands of a man such as yourself, a man with ties to both courts also, there cannot but be peace.”

Fulk wasn’t certain how to answer that, so he repeated, “Peace is all I want.”

“My lord, the King of Scots, knows well how strong Carlisle is, and offers you his aid if you have need of it.”

“That will not be necessary.” That sounded too rude. Fulk set his hand on his new sword. “This beauty is worth a hundred men.”

The Scotsman laughed politely. “In the hands of the greatest of English knights how could that not be so?” He made a slight show of scrutinising Fulk and Eleanor together. His eyes lingered on the fact that Fulk’s left hand rested on top of Eleanor’s right. “My lord, the King of Scots, bade me to enquire as to how your own good selves fare. He wonders whether you are enjoying the wife he found for you?”

There wasn’t much option but to let go the implication the King of Scots had possessed the right to arrange Eleanor’s marriage “We are both very happy, thank you.”

“It is the wish of not only my lord, his Highness the King of Scots, but also of all those whose acquaintance you made while attending our court, to express regret that you have been torn from those pastimes right and proper for a newly married man by the strife and struggle of war. It is now all of our hopes that you may turn your attention to those matters right and proper.”

As far as Fulk could decipher he’d just been told to spend half his time in bed. To his great relief Eleanor fielded that one. With a hint of a blush she answered, “My lord husband has neglected nothing which should have his attention. Indeed, but three days ago he was in the field aiding our neighbour, the Earl of York’s, men in a search for some fleeing rebels. He has sat in court often, and granted justice to all who have asked for it.”

The men gave the merest hint of a nod, recognition of a good answer perhaps. “My lord, the King of Scots, and indeed all of us, pray that our dear lord of Alnwick is engaged in ploughing a fertile furrow.” The man leered – with exquisite politeness. “Indeed, I am instructed to enquire if my lord, the King of Scots, wedding gift to you, his beloved Earl of Alnwick and his most noble lady wife, has proven satisfactory?”

In other words, did they like their bed. Somehow this oh so very courteous teasing was harder to bear with composure than coarser stuff. “Yes.” There was a trace of a growl in that solitary word. Fulk knew it would be better to play along, to turn it all back with a look and a smirk and some choice words. Alas that he couldn’t think of any under the strain of all this nicety.

“My lord, the King of Scots, and all of your well-wishers, will be relieved to hear this, for they one and all await the news of an heir to Alnwick with baited breath.” Another oh so polite leer. “They remember the blessings they bestowed upon you at your wedding, to that end.”

Eleanor’s finger’s tightened their grip on Fulk’s. “We remember them also.”

“I think, my royal lady, that all Christendom will remember them for lifetimes to come.” Half hidden by the folds of his long over tunic the emissary rubbed one palm against the other like a merchant recalling a particularly good sale. “Such a unique occasion. It was my lord, the King of Scot’s, most sincere desire to do full credit to it.”

Fulk answered, “It is a debt we cannot hope to repay, but nonetheless shall try.” Let that be taken however the listener liked.

The Scotsman dipped into another flowery bow. “There is a matter on which I am instructed to speak with yourself and your good lady. In privacy. If I might prevail upon you …?”

Fulk rose. “We shall move to the solar.”

Once the three had relocated the emissary wasted no time. “My lord demands to know what his devil’s spawn of a son and heir is up to!”

“In what way?” Fulk enquired dryly. The younger Malcolm was dabbling his fingers in multiple father-upsetting pies.

The other man grimaced, drew a deep breath, and blasted, “Where did he gather that army? When? How? What did he intend to do with it? Why did he get involved in that battle? Why did he refuse that place of honour at the victory feast – most out of character for the hellion. And, above all, what in the Lord’s blessed name is he doing with my lady’s brother?” He bowed to Eleanor, slightly, and otherwise showed no reduction in his tenacity. “Is he a hostage?”

Eleanor instantly replied, “No, he is not.”

“Then what is he and how did he end up there instead of returning home?”

“He is my brother’s squire, an honourable position. Malcolm himself requested it.”

The emissary snapped, “Why?”

Eleanor glanced sideways at Fulk, clearly wanting him to answer that one. An indulgent husband even when confronted with strained dignitaries, Fulk did so. “The boy thought he could learn from Hugh.”

“About what, pray?” The Scotsman scowled and added less harshly, “I mean no disrespect to prince Hugh. Rather, I wonder what the Nefastus could seek learn from any decent person.”

Fulk made his suggestion in the mildest of tones. “Decency?”

“Might as well suggest the wolf will learn to eat grass by living near sheep.”

“He came to prince Hugh’s aid to honour his father’s pledge of alliance. He is not fully dishonourable.”

“Came,” the emissary exclaimed incredulously, “in direct violation of his father’s order!” He shook his head violently. “Honour? No. The accursed boy likes killing and has been hounding for permission to enter what he terms a real fight. Bloodlust, as base and simple as that.”

“There’s more to the boy than that,” Fulk insisted.

“I must go south.” The Scotsman turned to Eleanor. “Your highness, I must meet with your brother and speak to him on this matter. And Malcolm. See if I can figure out what poison is in his mind this time. Will I require a letter of safe conduct?”

Eleanor arched her eyebrows. “Do you represent an enemy of ours? Are we a people of lawless brigands?”

He lowered his eyes. “No, your Highness.”

“Then you will not need one.”

Sizzling, but the fool had asked for it. Fulk readopted the role of courteous host. “Please, rest here overnight. Set out for the south tomorrow.”







Flowery enough to be a herb garden. One decent line in 4 pages. :sigh:

Olaf, I have written part of Silent’s short story. If the completed article turns out to my satisfaction I might post it once Eleanor is complete. Then those who want the glimpse into the future can have it.

Practice. Practice! Loads of it, and then some more. That’s the main tool in improving one’s writing. You should see my early work and contrast it to what I do now. In my case my difficulty was in shaping the words to get the result I could see in my mind. I’m dyslexic, and back then I couldn’t spell and knew only the rudiments of grammar. Imagine knowing the words you want and not being able to mangle together a spelling your word processor could use to offer the correct spelling, or not knowing how to punctuate dialogue.

Keep writing and then after 6 months or more look back at your older work. You will see improvement. At that point you realise you aren’t chugging.

Furball, you’ve been playing peek-a-boo with your posts again, hehe. The text which is now gone was an excellent read and I found it good food for thought. I was hoping to read it again now I’ve had several days.

[Moros]

Please stop writing this!

I have exams soon and now I've been up all night reading your marvelous stories. It's 6:20 AM now!

[furball]

I'm not sure which line you thought was good, but, "The younger Malcolm was dabbling his fingers in multiple father-upsetting pies," jumped right out at me when I read it. I think of lines like those as Froggyisms, and they are part of the joy of reading your work.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

To her Highness Frog:
Many thanks for the advice and its good to hear that you have so much other story written. Should make for an excelent new beggining. Also the dyslexia, that makes me sad but happy for you at teh same time. Sad cuz disabilities are hard of those whom have them. However i have found im my experience as a person that ppl with disabilities tend to fight MUCH harder against the woes and pains of life the those of us whom are "normal" (HaHaHa). The fact that you write with said disability only proves that you REALLY love what you do so i will ALWAYS read your work before anyone elses on teh .Org :bow::bow:~D So please keep it up.



@Moros I know what u mean buddy. Ive failed maths tests because i read books all night rather than study:laugh4::laugh4::laugh4:. Fanantascism FTW!!!!!!!

[Ludens]

Please stop writing this!

I have exams soon and now I've been up all night reading your marvelous stories. It's 6:20 AM now!

I know that feeling very well :shame: .

Froggy, please post Silent's tale once you've finished with Eleanor's :bow: .

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick’s mother cast the castle’s key onto the ground before Hugh’s feet. “There. As my son commanded, we surrender. Scrabble in the dirt for it.”

Once, in what felt like a different life – what had been a different life, sheltered as he had been from the maelstrom which had caught him since – Hugh would have been confounded by that simple action. He would not have known what to do. There was no precedent for it, no suggestion as to how a righteous prince should act when an old lady made of her surrender an insult. And Hugh saw, from her triumphant, bitter leer, that this mother of his worst enemy knew it. She did not credit that he had been plunged into the flames and, by the very necessity of survival, had altered.

She looked down her nose at him, as though he were the meanest peasant. “I will retire to a convent. This world is nothing but sorrow and disappointment, and I cannot bear to live in anything such as you might call yourself lord of.” With that she took advantage of his bewildered paralysis to brush past him and march away.

Or so it would have gone were he still the man who had been secure in his insecurities. A single, sure step to the side and Hugh blocked her passage. “Yes, my lady. You will withdraw to a convent. I have one in mind. It is remote, on an island, and it obeys the strictest interpretation of the rule. There, in such conditions, you may gain some grace for your immortal soul to weigh against your sins.”

Trempwick’s mother stepped back to preserve her dignity, sweeping her skirts with her. “You cannot send me to such a place.”

Can and would. Thus isolated the old hag would be able to work no further mischief. There was a strong possibility – sinful to consider it? – that she may not survive the first winter she passed in the Spartan conditions. “My lady,” Hugh said softly, “I think you will find, should you ask many of the persons here present, that I am king. Thus it follows that I may place stipulations on your request, and, indeed, dispose of you as I will.”

“I am of noble blood, from an established line. I should be treated with honour!”

Hugh might have enjoyed suggesting that he would treat her with as much honour as she had shown him. “Placing you where you may best redeem your soul is an honour, lady. Especially when compared to the alternatives.”

Trempwick’s mother appealed to the many bystanders, “Will you stand for this? Think! What if it were your own mother? Once he has been able to do this he will do it again and again!”

There was a silence which made Hugh’s nerves jangle. The pestilential woman raised a pertinent point, and his lords were reluctant to allow him any measures which would make him overly strong.

York answered a drawl, “Lady, were you my mother I would insist on accompanying you on the crossing – and throw you overboard midway!”

With that the last bastion of Trempwick’s rebellion fell.





I woke up this morning with half of a short story. It’s really quite damned good. Problem: I have the beginning and the end, and can’t figure out how to join the two together yet. I have written the parts I do have and am pondering what I can do with the middle. Should I complete it then this tale will be postable, and of interest to a certain faction of readers.


Moros, I might be too late, but good luck with those exams!

Furball, that one is close to being good IMO. The “father-upsetting” is clumsy. Each time I look at it I know there must be a better phrasing or word. I liked the line about being flowery enough to be a herb garden.

Olaf, I’m honoured. :bow:

Ludens, I think I shall. I do like Silent’s tale.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

:2thumbsup:

[Ludens]

~:thumb:

[frogbeastegg]

On arrival at Carlisle Fulk commanded his army to take up siege positions around the walls. It had taken him no small amount of difficulty to arrange the battle-weary forces he had into a power that could tackle this fortress, and he was determined his labours would not go to waste. Besides, from the groundwork he had laid he knew it should not take much to make both garrison and nearby town both surrender.

Shading his eyes from the sun with a hand, Fulk inspected the ramparts. “Doesn’t seem to be many men.”

Waltheof said, “True. Looks like our scouts were right – half the garrison has fled.”

“We won’t take any chances.” Fulk dropped his arm back to his side. “People were seen leaving. None have been sighted returning, or hiding close by. There are fewer people on the walls than there should be. None of that makes us safe. Have the catapults begin the bombardment as soon as they are assembled.”

Fulk had completed half of his tour of the forming siege lines when the main gates opened a procession of unarmed men walked out in single file. “Wait until they are out of support from the walls, then surround them and bring them to the centre of the camp,” Fulk ordered. “Make certain every last one of them is unarmed.” Being stabbed by a concealed dagger didn’t recommend itself.

As he walked forward to rendezvous with the escorted garrison, Fulk did a rapid headcount. Eleven men. A third of the number reported to be in the castle by all of the sources they’d questioned.

The man at the front of the party stood with his shoulders hunched in, fairly quivering with pent up emotion. On seeing Fulk he clenched his jaw, nodded to himself, and went down on his knees as though the effort tore every muscle in his body. “My lord,” he grated, “We surrender.” The other men followed his lead in fits and starts, some dropping swiftly, others with obvious reluctance.

Fulk asked, “Where are the others?”

“We are all that remains.”

“That seems unlikely.” Fulk set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If you are misleading me I won’t be happy.”

Another of the garrison, this one shaven-headed and built like an ox, offered in surprisingly well-spoken tones, “Prince Hugh has no more mercy left – it’s common knowledge that his patience is gone. Those surrendering now won’t be welcomed with open arms. Our lord took his family and fled to the coast two days ago. Most of the others went with him.”

The first man twitched his shoulders back, raised his head, and stated, “We’re the ones who decided to gamble that a prince wouldn’t want the heads of lowly men at arms. We’re not worth killing, surely.”

A third man interjected, “We didn’t choose. We’re paid. All of us hired long before the old king died, none of us able to walk away from our lord. A man’s got to eat. Some of us have families.”

“But our lord, he got to choose,” the bald one pointed out. “He chose poorly and lost, and he’s fled the country in fear of his life.”

That was Eleanor’s work. She’d had word spread that Hugh intended to use the harshest of measures against those in the north who had failed to take the opportunity to come to him after Alnwick.

Shaven-head cocked his head to one side with a faint smile. “You must know how it is. You were once a household knight yourself, so we all hear. We had a lord, we followed him where he led, kept our word to him for the sake of honour and our stomachs, and now are abandoned.”

This one was interesting – too educated to be the simple man at arms he appeared to be. “And you’re gambling on that more than anything, I suspect.”

Shaven-head bowed, still kneeling in the dirt. “Yes, my lord, we are.”

“What is your name?”

“Ranulf, my lord.”

“You are very courtly for a simple man at arms.”

“I was to be a priest, my lord.” Ranulf stroked the top of his head. “Alas, I had pride in my hair and couldn’t stand the tonsure.”

Fulk idly ran his thumb back and forth the cross guard of his sword, the feel of the engraving making his skin tingle. This man was nothing he had expected to find. “Indeed.”

“Or perhaps my sense of humour didn’t go down so well with the monks.” Ranulf shivered in the breeze which was rippling his tunic. “Or maybe I discovered I like killing.”

“Or perhaps you have been neither monk nor man at arms, and seek to hide?” Fulk suggested.

“I’m being too obvious to hide. If I’d wished for that I’d have kept my mouth shut and my head bowed, my lord, and you know it.”

“Often the best way to hide is in clear sight.”

“I did used to be a monk. Well, a novice one at least. I ran away and found a living as a soldier. My reasons for it are my own. If you like none of the ones I’ve offered dream up one which you do.”

The leader still held himself as tense as a drawn bowstring. “Are we going to die or not?” he demanded. “It’s ungodly to keep us waiting, unknowing!”

“If you give me the honest truth I shall take you all south to stand before prince Hugh. He will pass judgement on you. I expect he will let you go – if you cooperate fully between now and then. If any of you are other than you claim there will be people at court who recognise you. Play me false and I shall hang the lot of you.”

Fulk watched the leader sag with relief. “Anything we can do, name it.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I have five children. Without me … Thank you, my lord.”

It wouldn’t be too hard to win the loyalty of at least some of these men. Fulk decided to covertly assess them over the next few days and see which – if any – were worth employing. “And you are?”

“Bertold, my lord.”

“Then tell me, is the castle emptied of those who can bear arms?”

“Yes, my lord. We’re all here.”

“And no traps await me?”

“None.”

Fulk instructed Waltheof to take twenty men and search the castle from top to bottom, and to take possession of it if all was clear. As the men marched away Fulk warned his captives, “The slightest difficulty and you will all hang.”

The men told the truth. Fulk was thankful that he’d claimed the catapults used in the siege of Alnwick rather than paying for his own.











I shall have more time to write starting from Friday. My shop is being closed and we’re all being made redundant. Bastards. :(

I read Stephan King’s “On writing”. He’s not an author I read, and he writes in genres I don’t like. I don’t read books which claim to tell a person how to write since, at least for me, it is something that must be learned through experience. I got fed up of people recommending the book to me. Well. I can’t say I learned anything about how to write, or why, or anything like that. But. Ah yes, the all important but! It’s amazing – or creepy – how many similarities between his way of working and my own I spotted. Particularly with regards to characters, and to finding the story you are going to tell.

Guyon’s story is blooming like a bunch of daffodils in a mild spring. I have roughly 2/3 of the personal part of it, and a good glimpse at the background. It’s a straight up historical, much smaller than Eleanor in every way. I know I will be writing this one once it finishes growing. I am going to suggest a name change at Guyon while he’s still malleable … Ancel fits him better. Hehe, he’s the only character in the entire thing who has a name and I want it altered; typical frog. It’s one of the very few things I can change, and I need to do it while it’s all taking form. I shall keep nudging the name at him and see if it sticks. I think it shall; Guyon just does not suit …

Having ideas burning for one story appears to allow me to steal a bit of the flame to spend on something which isn’t. Sort of. For a short time. In a roundabout way. I’m still fumbling around with how it works. Looks like I can swim about in something which does burn brightly in my mind, then skip sideways and write some of the scenes I don’t care about. The effect doesn’t last long; after fifteen minutes or so I’m mired back on the ground and need to step away again in order to get the oomph back. Sort of. I don’t claim the above scene to be any great work however it does contain one or two lines with a faint glimmer of sparkle to them, and that saves it from being a dead ugly mass in my writer’s sight. Ranulf is the type of thing which provides itself or doesn’t appear at all, and he wasn’t around in the plan for this scene until I found him there as I put it on paper. His presence gives a bit of hope this might work.





:bow:

[Olaf Blackeyes]

DAMN YOU WALL STREET!!!!!
That has to suck. Im sorry Queen Frog.:thumbsdown::furious3::furious3:
But it is great to hear that Guyon's....err Ancel's story is coming along swimmingly.
As for Ranulf's one You will get there. After all you have done a near Epic novella with Elanor already. I eagerly await the new story whichever one it might be.
Plz dont let life get you down. This world is messed up in ways indescribable. All that we cant do is get through it until we are allowed to pass on.

[Peasant Phill]

I'm sorry to hear about your shop. As someone who's been there (unemployed that is) I can only say that with credentials like yours and a bit of effort it shouldn't prove to hard to find another job.

On the up side you'll now have time for things you like to do instead of things you have to do.

[frogbeastegg]

“Her Highness’ party has been sighted, my lord.”

So soon! Fulk’s heart sped. Carlisle wasn’t ready – he wasn’t ready. “Finish scattering those herbs with all speed,” he ordered. “Clear away everything else. Make sure all the servants turn out presentably. Remember, the bed needs taking off her baggage train and setting up immediately, and try to do it without her notice.” Oh Jesù, how bad did that sound?! Fulk brazened his slip out, gesturing at the fireplace. “Put some sweet smelling logs on the fire, and more in the basket. And-”

The steward bowed slightly and suggested, “And otherwise do all else to make this place fit for a princess in the least time possible, my lord?”

Fulk caught himself, and smiled ruefully. He must look like a panicking bride groom. “Yes. That would be appreciated.”

“Very good, my lord.” The man bowed and, after delivering a flurry of orders, departed the chamber. His voice could be heard echoing down the stairwell, still demanding this and that. The town council had not been wrong when they recommended Godfrey to him as suitable for his needs.

Carlisle’s castle had been on a war footing for a month. That did not make for the most pleasant of environments. Until new people had been drafted in from the nearby town the castle had been severely understaffed, hampering Fulk’s efforts to make the place as presentable as possible. Eleanor would not mind if the place were still rough around the edges. She would not complain. She would bear it with the same stoic acceptance that she had borne his announcement that she would have to remain in Alnwick with all its ghosts while he claimed Carlisle. Knowing how much that unquestioning obedience had cost her, Fulk was adamant that all would be as good as he could make it now she could join him. More than that, Carlisle was his in a way Alnwick could never be. Alnwick had been a politically motivated handout, a gain for the King of Scots. Carlisle had been offered to him - in good part - in recognition of his abilities and loyalty. He wanted to be proud as he displayed it to her.

Any amount of preparation would do him no good if he were still standing here like a sheep when Eleanor arrived. “I will buy you some time to finish setting all up here once my lady arrives,” he promised the servants as he settled his new cloak about his shoulders and fastened the brooch.

By the time he reached the gatehouse the heavily guarded party was within hailing distance, and it was not long before he was helping Eleanor down from her palfrey.

“Greetings, my lord,” she said, regarding him from under lowered eyelashes. “I thank you for your help.”

Fulk placed one hand at his back and made a courtly bow. “Greetings, my lady. Your presence brightens my life.”

“You exaggerate most kindly, my lord.” She shot him another demure look – this one with a spark concealed in it. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to be back under your guiding hand. Now I can resume my proper place, following in your wake, thinking no thoughts but those you have given me, living only to make you happy and bear you copious amounts of sons.”

Fulk knitted his brows. “Have you taken a knock to the head?”

Eleanor affected an expression of pure horror. “Blessed Jesù, no! Worse – I have been the unhappy host of a extremely pious abbot trying to scrounge money for his foundation.” She caught hold of Fulk’s arm none too gently. “I swear, the hours of well-meaning preaching I had to endure would have sent a lesser soul quite mad!”

Fulk began to walk her towards the hall. “I hope you were polite to him.”

“Very,” Eleanor growled. “And after he had prattled on about how women should behave I demonstrated my attentiveness by informing him I could grant him nothing, not so much as a promise to bend your ear favourably on the matter.” She smirked. “It is not a wife’s place to influence her husband nor dispose of goods. It is for her to listen to his wisdom, and abide by his decisions.”

“I shall have to speak to this abbot, ‘loved, and have a word with him about placing dangerous ideas in your head.”

“Please do.” Eleanor leaned her head on Fulk’s shoulder as they walked. “I have identified another abbey nearby which he considers to be his rival. I began work on a new altar cloth for them.”

“My heart, have I told you that you’re devious and vengeful?”

“Not in the last week,” she answered. “But then I have not seen you these past eight days.”

Fulk stopped, cupped her cheek in one hand. “I love you, my dear little wife.” After a kiss he turned to the keep with a flourish. “Now, let me show you Carlisle.”

The tour he gave was a condensed one, avoiding areas he knew were still a mess and keeping far away from the private rooms. His new people had done worthily by him, and it was a pleasure to introduce them to Eleanor. She liked what she saw, he knew it, and in that knowledge was able to relax. As the tour progressed it became less about showing what he had won for her, and more about the future potential.

Reaching the end of what he had planned, Fulk halted at the door leading out onto the keep’s roof. “Close your eyes.”

Eleanor quirked an eyebrow. “You wish to make it easier to push me off the parapet?” She obeyed with the warning, “If I start to fall I am pulling you with me, and you may be sure we shall land with you on the bottom to cushion my landing.”

“Heartling, we only cleaned the bailey yesterday. No one wants to do so again today.” Fulk opened the door and guided her carefully out onto the parapets. He led her to the eastern side. “There. Open your eyes.”

This view was one he’d been entranced with since his arrival. The town was visible, sitting within its walls, smoke drifting lazily from hundreds of cooking fires. On past that was clear land, and the road. Here and there other fuzzy lines of smoke rose to the heavens, tiny settlements scattered about wherever people could make a living from the land. Acres of land, all attached to the castle and his new lordship. On many miles further, invisible to the eye, and after a large tract of land under the control of others, lay Alnwick and Fulk’s other holdings.

Fulk said softly, “The sum of our achievements. Peace. Wealth. A position of power and very great trust. Safety, of a sort.”

“Not bad for a crook-nosed knight and a gooseberry.” Eleanor returned her attention to the view, mantle pulled tight about her against the wind. “Not bad at all.”

Fulk stood behind her, wrapping his arms and cloak about her, resting his chin on the top of her head. “When I think of where – and what - I was but a year ago, I cannot believe my fortune. Even three months ago.”

Eleanor leaned back into him. “And all because you swore service to a woman you did not believe was a princess but knew to be an assassin, in the hopes of being well-paid.”

“It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed.” As he said it he wished he hadn’t. It still astounded him what she had done to save his life. A princess of most noble lineage, pleading for his life and paying for it with blood. Eleanor still flinched from letting him see her back despite her promise to try not to, but he’d seen the curved, buckle-shaped scar on her shoulder and knew without doubt that it was definitely from one of the wounds he’d tended that first time in Woburn.

“I think you saved my life more times than I yours.”

Fulk forced a jovial tone. “Who’s counting?”

Eleanor twisted to look up at him. “So, who did you steal that cloak from?” She fingered the edge near her shoulder. “Juniper green wool, and wolf skin lining. Very nice. Very warm.”

“I didn’t steal it, thank you very much!” As the chance was there Fulk kissed her on the forehead, and on the tip of her nose, and finally on the lips. “The previous lord left it behind in his hurry to flee the country.”

“Well, that is alright then. I should hate to think the north had corrupted you into becoming a robber baron.”

“It’s corrupted you into being polite to clergymen.”

“No, I was always like that.”

“I suppose you were,” Fulk agreed. “It was everyone else you were sour towards.”

“No,” corrected Eleanor, “it was you, you great rusted lump! No one else annoyed me quite so much.”

“Ah well.” Fulk judged that sufficient time had passed to finish turning the private rooms into the haven he wished to present. In any case, it was cold and the view would be here later. There remained one thing it would be well to settle before they returned inside. “There is a man amongst the prisoners I took. He’s … unusual. I want you to find out what he is. In fact, look the whole lot over. It’s possible he is drawing attention so someone else can hide in the group.”

“Who is he and what makes you suspicious?”

“His name is Ranulf. He is too well-spoken, too educated to be a simple man at arms. He claims he was a novice and left before taking vows; he reasons for why are varied and unbelievable, and he makes no secret of knowing them to be so. It’s probably nothing; I swore they would all die if one of them attempted to decide me. Someone would betray one who put them all at risk.”

After a bit Eleanor nodded, once. “I shall do what I can.”

Fulk stood back from Eleanor. “Come. Let’s go inside. There’s one last part of the tour.”

Eleanor dug him in the ribs as she caught hold of his arm. “You mean you think your servants have finished clearing the whores out of your bedchamber, correct?”

Fulk pulled a face. “It’s the scent of their perfume I’m worried about. That lingers.”

“Well, at least that shows you are using a more exclusive class of whore.”

“If I’d known you would be so forgiving I’d have kept a couple of them on permanently.”

“Oh, stop it! Before I begin to wonder if there is a grain of truth in it.”

Fulk opened the stair door and bowed as he held it for her. “My lady gooseberry.”

Eleanor went past in a swish of skirts.

“Where’s my thanks?” Fulk asked as he hurried after her.

“I believe I left them in my luggage.”

Fulk planted his fists on his hips. “I shall beat you later if you keep this up.”

“You are all talk.” Eleanor spared him a backwards glance – and stuck her tongue out at him.

“One of these days,” Fulk sighed.

“So long as it is not today,” came the rapid interruption. “Tomorrow never comes, after all.” Eleanor stopped by the door to the solar. “I expect you want to go first?”

“Yes.” Fulk cleared his throat with a self-important cough. “Right. My lady, my most dearly beloved wife and gooseberry, scion of most noble blood, light of my life, heart of my heart, source of my woes, fountain of my troubles, emptier of my treasury, and warmer of my spacious bed, it is my honour, nay privilege, to present to you our rooms.” Fulk opened the door, silently vowing to hang the servants from the battlements if they had failed to follow his instructions.

Eleanor stepped in. She looked around. She looked around once more. “I am afraid I do not see anything special,” she apologised. “It looks like any other solar.”

Fulk breathed a private sigh of relief. “That, ‘loved, is the point.”

“It is?”

“You did not see the place when I arrived,” he said darkly.

Eleanor turned away from the hanging she had been inspecting. “If you do not tell me I am going to be busy finding out for myself.”

“It looked like a thieves’ den which had then been ransacked by a professional gang of looters, caught fire, hosted a brawl which splashed blood up one wall, and finally become the lair of a pack of incontinent hounds.”

“How … homely.”

Now it looked like any other solar. Fresh rushes with scented herbs mixed in scattered over a clean floor, quality furniture, a couple of hangings on the freshly whitewashed walls. The sole flaw in the set-up was the shield that had been propped in one corner. Ostensibly it displayed Fulk’s coat of arms in a touch of warfare-for-all-the-family pride. In reality it hid the dark patch where blood had sunk into the flagstones and resisted all attempts to scrub it away.

Fulk opened the door into the other room and took a quick peek to be sure all was well. “The bedchamber is similarly commonplace. Except for the waiting meal, steaming bathtub with space for two people, and a certain very comfy bed bestowed upon us by a king.”







That’s it, I am now unemployed a full time writer. Reading. Writing. Gaming. As much of all three as I want, and I have several years worth to catch up on. Weee! The last month was so bad I don’t miss my shop or job; I’m simply pleased it is all over. It was like watching a loved one die of an incurable disease.

That worked quite decently. A few more weeks and I expect Eleanor will be complete. Updates should come more rapidly now I have more time to work.

Ancel has taken to the name so well I have to stop and think to remember what he used to be called. I have the names for most of the other important characters, know nearly all of the storyline, and am mainly doing research while waiting for the remaining loose ends to sort themselves out. I might be able to begin writing as early as next week. Should I write with the same oomph that I’ve currently got in its early phases I should have the whole first draft done in several months; this one’s going to end up the same size as a normal book, not War and Peace. I have decided this one is going to be written from the very start with the intention of sending it to agents once it is complete. It’s perfectly suited to getting a new writer a foot in the door. Unlike my other sprawling, hard to categorise works. Straight up historical fiction, one of those ‘real events and people as seen through the eyes of an invented character plus obligatory romance’ types. Whether it gets into print or not, I know this story is going to work! It burns brightly, has life, verve, takes everything I have learned and applies it, uses everything I like doing and takes them to the next level, is controllable, restrained, focused, and really, completely and totally is froggy writing™ on taken to the next level. Not to mention this will be my first major chance to play with editing, revisions, chapters and other such finish touch tools. It’s impossible to convey just how excited I am by ‘Ancel’. But … it’s probably unfair to talk about it much. I won’t be posting any of it on the internet.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Nice digs!:laugh4:
Man that is a pretty good set up for the middle ages, even a comfy bed.:2thumbsup:

[Ludens]

unemployed a full time writer. Reading. Writing. Gaming. As much of all three as I want, and I have several years worth to catch up on. Weee! The last month was so bad I don’t miss my shop or job; I’m simply pleased it is all over. It was like watching a loved one die of an incurable disease.

That worked quite decently. A few more weeks and I expect Eleanor will be complete. Updates should come more rapidly now I have more time to work.

Commiserations on losing your job. Congratulations on finding more time to write. I shall look forward to more frequent updates.

Reading your last update, I laughed out loud several times. Now that's something that doesn't happen often :thumbsup: .

[furball]

"......................… it’s probably unfair to talk about it much. I won’t be posting any of it on the internet."

Nice setup for the bonk on the head at the end, Ms. Frog! :)

[DemonArchangel]

Still going strong Froggy?

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk watched the prisoners exercising in the yard with a keen eye. At least three of them looked worth taking on, Ranulf and Bertold amongst them. None of the men were allowed weapons, not even blunt training ones, so they alternated between wrestling and simple exercises. All of the men were drilled to the point where they could manage stretches, cartwheels, rolls and other such agility based exercises with ease.

As Ranulf caught his opponent in a bear hug and threw his weight forward in an attempt to send the man crashing to the ground Fulk called, “Ranulf, why did you leave your monastery?”

It was pleasing to see that, although caught off-guard by the unanticipated question, Ranulf did now allow it to affect his performance. Still working to bear his training partner to the ground he panted, “Prior took a liking to my arse so I ran.”

“Really. Still doesn’t sound believable.” Fulk had left Eleanor at a window in the nearby tower so she could observe and listen without revealing her presence. “Are you sure that’s the story you want to stick to?”

“What’s not believable?” With a grunt Ranulf twisted, simultaneously pushing forward. His struggling partner went down on one knee, fighting with everything he’d got to keep from being pressed down flat on the dirt. “It was because I killed a thief.”

Fulk raised his eyebrows. “The prior lusted after you because you killed a thief?”

Startled, Ranulf looked up. His opponent seized the chance to regain his feet and push back. “Damn you!” Ranulf cursed, regaining his wits and struggling with his partner. “Don’t play dumb!”

“But you make it look like so much fun. I wanted to try it.” Fulk sauntered away to pay closer attention to one of the other sparring sets.






“I recognised none of them,” Eleanor said. “None fit the descriptions I have gained of those who are of note around these parts.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Could he be a bastard son?”

“Not a noble’s bastard. Or not one from around here – there is simply no talk of one which fits his build. A wide assortment of bastard daughters, yes. Skinny boys, yes. Older men, yes. Men with scars, yes. Shorter men, yes. Fatter men, yes. All sorts, in short, except for one built like a wall, shaven head or not.”

“So then what is he?”

Eleanor sighed, exasperated. “I rather suspect he is what he claims to be. Is it so unlikely? I shall send someone to the monastery he claims to have escaped to make enquiries.”

Fulk paced back and forth. “If he is a runaway novice then why not offer the simple truth about it?”

“Maybe he finds the reason embarrassing?” Eleanor suggested. “Maybe he has offered the truth and you have dismissed it?”

“None of it sounded honest,” Fulk grumbled. “Send someone to make enquires as you said. I want to know the truth before we have to head south for your brother’s coronation.”






The situation along the Welsh border had been a complete disaster on Hugh’s arrival. Now, after days of labour, it was merely a mess. The Earl of Chester, ever-faithful, had done his best in the task Hugh had allotted him. Alas that his best had been undercut by the other marcher lords, and finally ended by his capture by the Welsh princes. Some marcher lords had sided with Trempwick, and had actively aided the Welsh as they overran the west. Others had seen no compelling reason to side with Hugh until it was much too late for them to put together effective resistance; many lords were now clinging on to their own lands and praying the tide did not drown them.

The midlanders Hugh had commanded to support Chester had likewise failed. The support sent was piecemeal, ill-equipped, under-strength, or in all too many cases entirely absent. With raiders running across lands which were normally miles from the worst of any border fighting, most lords had opted to hunker down and defend what was theirs with little concern for their neighbour.

Worse, some amongst the marcher lords and midlanders had sighted the opportunity to expand their lands at the expense of their fellows, and had launched into private warfare for their own petty gain.

Hugh had thus far managed to drag together the scattered loyalist forces, and extract the men and resources he required from the midlanders he had met in person. New, sternly worded summons had gone forth to all those who were not in his expected path of travel. Any who failed him now would be considered in defiance and would be treated accordingly.

Groups of mounted men, varying between fifty and one hundred in size, had been formed and sent out to hunt down the raiding parties swarming about the land. Whether the men they encountered were English or Welsh, the men were authorised to kill and take no prisoners. Order would be restored, Hugh promised all he met, and men were grudgingly coming to understand that the emphasis meant that Hugh would do more than posture. After the first few skirmishes ended in victory for Hugh’s men the English raiders began to head towards Hugh’s banner, and the Welsh started to retreat to lands better suited to their style of fighting.

Which was how the present situation had, finally, been reached. Judging the time to be ripe to meet with the Welsh leaders Hugh had extended safe conduct for them to meet him at Weobley, on the church grounds.

Demonstrating a lesson learned while campaigning in the north, Hugh had chosen to meet the Welsh princes in full armour. Armour, furthermore, that had not been cleaned back to a pristine state. Armour that proved him to be a leader of men in the field, a successful general. As there were three princes ranged against him, Hugh had brought two of his lords with him to the parley grounds. Then, as this occasion presented an opportunity he would be a fool to miss, he had insisted each side bring a further ten men of account to witness the talks. This presented his best chance to augment his proven capability for mercy with implacable harshness towards those who angered him past reconciliation. A king must be seen to have both aspects if he hoped to rule successfully.

On his arrival Hugh swept into the church, stalked past the Welshmen without acknowledging them, and, with a swish of his cloak, seated himself in the chair he had demanded be placed for him. Thus enthroned he deigned to notice those he had come to meet. “You are in defiance of the oaths you gave to my father, and which are now owed to me by right of my inheritance.”

“So,” declared the prince who fitted the description of Idwal, “you do not bother with pleasantries. That sits well with us. We have nothing pleasant to say to such as you.”

Hugh took this impassively. “What I have to say is this: surrender, bend your knees and renew your oaths to me. Or I shall make you do so.”

The second prince, Owyn, snorted. “And I suppose you want us to swear by the same terms as we gave your father?”

“No.” Hugh raised his chin so he could look down at them. “You will return every last step of land you have taken, pay compensation for the damages done, and release my Earl of Chester and all those taken with him immediately.”

Once one man laughed the others decided it was the appropriate thing to do.

As a reaction it suited well enough. Hugh had long since decided to play the hard line when dealing with this border. A softer line would leave him with a weaker position here in the future. He rose swiftly. “If that is your answer, so be it. There is nothing now to talk about.”

Idwal held up his hands. “Haste serves nothing. There are things to speak of yet. I, myself, would not be averse to an end to the fighting.” He held up a finger. “What I am adverse to is the swearing of oaths or anything which puts me at a lesser position to you.”

Hugh did not sit back down. “I have more men in one fraction of my army than you do in your entire holding, and more riches in one palace than you have in all of your lands. You are not my equal.” He looked about the gathering. “None of you are. Even did one man of you hold the entirety of Wales, you would be less than I.”

“Can you bring those men to bear? Can you dedicate your riches to crushing us?” Idwal shook his head. “You cannot.”

Hugh answered softly, “I can bring enough.”

“Is it worth the bother?” Cadfan, the third prince, countered. “Come to my lands. I will kill you, I promise you.”

“I will not relinquish the least part of what is due to me.”

Owyn said, “You are not crowned king yet.”

Hugh, hand idly resting on the hilt of his sword, gave the man back look for look. “No man now disputes my right. I choose to be about the work of a king, rather than sitting safely in Westminster allowing them to crown me.”

“A poet’s answer,” mocked Cadfan.

Hugh replied, “Better than a lawyer’s.”

Owyn stepped forward. “The problem, here, is this. We’re honour bound to make you answer for blood spilled. You murdered our hostages. Kinsmen, given in good faith-”

Hugh overrode him, “To stand guarantee of the oaths you had given with their very lives. You broke your word; their lives were forfeit. You knew that when you chose to rebel.”

“We did not give them to you. We made no oaths to you!”

“At the time you rebelled my father was thought to be yet alive, therefore you broke your oaths and, as the designated regent of England at that point, it was my duty to my father to act as I did.”

Cadfan started forward, only to be grabbed by his fellows. He shouted, “You killed my sons, you murderous son of a bitch! At least admit it!”

Hugh shook his head. “You killed them with your faithlessness. Their blood is on your hands, not mine.”

“I will see you dead!”

Hugh folded his arms. “Let us make one thing very clear. You all made a gamble and it failed. You thought me weak. You thought I would not kill the hostages, though the agreement demanded it and all good sense called for it. You thought I would shy from killing a score of innocents, preferring to court the disaster that would come from being known to be squeamish. You were wrong.” Hugh drove the last three words home by stabbing at the gathering with his finger. “Let me tell you this: better that five times their number had died than one single lord think he can give me his word and safely not keep it!” Hugh marched past the stunned gathering, his own men scrambling to follow him. “This meeting is over. You have refused my mercy. On your own heads be it.”

When he reached the door Cadfan’s voice called after him, “Wait, oh lord king. There is one thing you forgot.”

Hugh halted. “And that is?”

“Your Earl of Chester.”

Hugh turned about. “Do you intend to threaten his life if I continue to fight? If so, that would not be wise, I assure you.”

“You should know how he is.”

Owyn caught his ally’s sleeve and hissed something urgent in Welsh. The Welshmen turned inward and held a brief, heated argument in their native tongue.

Finally Cadfan slapped his friend’s hand away and stated proudly, “What is the use of a thing done in defiance if we then hide it in the dark like children afraid of being called to reckoning? You may shake in your boots if you wish. I will not!”

There had been a rumour, persistent, that the Welsh princes had maimed their noble captive in part-payment for the deaths of their hostages. Hugh had prayed it was not true. If this were the news they were about to give him it was vital he carry this through well; a misplaced word or emotion would unravel much of the good he had done these past days. “Tell me swiftly or tell me not at all. I do not have further time to waste.”

Cadfan crowed, “We have left him in the crypt here for you. What’s left of him. The stubborn old beast took some killing. But then men do – unlike my boys!”

Hugh took a steadying breath and battled to keep his features like stone. “Then,” he said, his voice flat and harsh in his own ears, “I suggest you start running. Your safe conduct expires one hour after this meeting finishes, and I declared it over some minutes ago. Or stay, and we shall see how long it takes for men to die.” This time his men were ready, and had the door open by the time he reached it.






True to their word, the Welsh had left Chester lying in the crypt. His body had been boxed up into a respectable coffin, perhaps an effort to defuse anger caused by actions which went against the codes of war.

Hugh viewed the body privately, and spent a while in vigil at his faithful lord’s side. As he prayed he planned, and found he could now use circumstances to strengthen the course he had decided to take. Numbers counted for little in the forests and hills this campaign would now be based about. A part of the substantial force now under his control could be settled to besieging Shrewsbury and the other captured strong points. The remainder of the force was a liability; the men were neither trained nor equipped for warfare in Wales. If he took their supplies and sent them home then he would be able to keep a smaller force in the field for much longer before starvation, the other great hazard of fighting in this area, threatened. The local lords needed to prove themselves, and they were every bit as apt at border warfare as their Welsh counterparts. The attack force could be divided into three, and sent in to press the Welsh on their home turf. This would make it harder for the sieges to be broken, and put the enemy on the defensive. The plan was rough, still needing detail; he would consult with his lords for that.

Vigil completed, he summoned his marcher lords to him. Once the group had assembled in the crypt Hugh called for torches, and had the chamber flooded with light. Resting a hand on the coffin’s lid he said, “At the start of this I called upon each of you to fight according to the oaths you gave. I asked you to do your sworn duty, to protect the kingdom from traitors and rebels. I designated a man for you to follow, and commanded you to give him your every assistance. Some of you declared for Trempwick. Others did nothing. Not a man of you did as I commanded. Not a man of you aided Chester, and for that alone you stand condemned as dishonourable, for he was one of you, known to you all.”

Hugh glanced about the shamefaced gathering. “Now you have come to me. Now, when it is late in the day. Now, when I have defeated Trempwick. Now, when the situation here is a mess. Now, when better men have died. And I have granted you all mercy. I have allowed you to keep your lands, your titles. I have not diminished you, nor exiled you, nor levied heavy fines on you. I have demanded nothing of you save for a renewal of your oaths, and payment of a fine for your failure.”

He heaved the lid off the coffin and beckoned over two torch bearers so all could see clearly what had been done. For once he made no effort to hold back his tears; there were times when it was right and proper for a man to cry. “This man was loyal to me. This man stood at my side in my darkest hour. This man never stinted in his efforts for me. This man was exemplary.” Once, in the space between learning Trempwick was a traitor and Eleanor marrying Fulk, Hugh had considered marrying her to Chester. Her refusal to countenance it had been the only thing which had stopped it. “You will step up here one at a time and look at what those Welsh barbarians have done to him.”

Chester’s eyes had been burned out, his ears cut off, a thief’s mark branded into his forehead, his right hand severed, and all over his visible skin there were bruises, cuts and small burns, distinguishable even through the mottling of death. His lower right leg was mostly hacked off and remained attached only by a sliver of skin.

As the men gazed on what was left of their companion Hugh continued to talk. “This is what the Welsh have done to a nobleman, a knight, a man of great standing. He should have been ransomed, unharmed. He should have been treated with honour. This man, who I counted amongst my most faithful, has been treated worse than the meanest man at arms. Worse than a thief caught stealing in a marketplace. Had you supported him this would not have happened. Had you supported him my kingdom would not have been ravaged. Had you supported him I would not now be fighting a war instead of being crowned and attending to the business of my realm. Had you done the smallest part of the service you owe, this situation would not be.”

Hugh loosed a fraction of the anger he felt and shouted, “You have made of me a liar! I promised peace to the people of this realm and you did not support me in giving it! Some of you broke it yourselves! And you left this man, who came in my name, to fall into enemy hands and suffer this!”

Walter De Clare knelt on the ground. “Forgive us, my lord.” Others quickly followed suit, raising their hands to beseech Hugh’s forgiveness. They were still unsure of their standing’s security and that gave Hugh added power.

Hugh reined his temper in. “In Saxon there was a word for a man who was such an abject coward, a vile and dishonourable wretch, such a failure of as a man, that he was beneath all notice and considered not to exist. Nithing!” That made faces pale. As well it should. The word had fallen out of usage long ago, but was remembered well enough that it – and the lack of status it conferred – was still feared.

Hugh moved to stand between the coffin and his lords. “The Welsh princes have rebelled, and treated me with contempt. They have ravaged my lands, carried off my goods, and done harm to my people. They have sized towns and castles which belong to me. They have done all of this also to those who do homage to me. They have murdered and dishonoured one who was my friend, and to whom I owed my protection. You, each of you, will lend you fullest aid to addressing this, or you shall be called nithing wherever people gather.”

The lords bowed their heads and swore they would avenge their king or die in the attempt.









Olaf, I always wanted a medieval fancy curtained bed. They’re so neat!

Ludens, so far life is very literally all fun and games (and books and writing) A spot of redundancy could turn out be to what I needed. Made me realise how nasty the last year and 4 months have been in terms of little time for myself.

Furball, it’s hard to stop gushing about Ancel. I thought I’d better add that to the end to make it completely clear it won't be posted. I don’t want anyone to wait in vain for it to appear on the internet.

Still going, Demon. Still going. Not for much longer though; the end is nigh.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Honestly i am praying for the Welsh rebels.
Yes blasphemous i know, but i have a soft spot in my heart for the rebels and the little guys.
I know that they are ****** but i cant help but still cheer for them, pissed off drunk and out for revenge for a massacre of their blood, and even defending their homes due to their killing of Lord Chester.
This has the makings of an epic sub-story all on its own.
:2thumbsup:Keep it up.:2thumbsup::2thumbsup:

[Vuk]

lol, I was told that this was a really good story worth reading (and I remembered that you played Thief and liked it, so you had to have good tastes), so I thought that I would check it out. I read your first post on this page, and I have to say, you do a very good job, but it is certainly written from a decidedly female perspective. :P "Liquor, sex, power! I happy!" That seemed to be the guy's train of thought through the whole thing. :P

[furball]

We're winding down, Froggie, aren't we? On the one hand, you have to wrap up Eleanor and Fulk in a tidy and editorially correct manner. On another, you have to say "goodbye" to your online readers. On yet another, you have to say "goodbye' to the innocent and juvenile way you have written until now.

You know what I mean. Chapters can no longer be a one-night passion for the storyline or a desire to provide substance to your fans online.

Now you have to create a coherent, cohesive story that stands within the pages of a finished "book."

Ack.

You can do it. I've seen ALL the elements necessary for success in your writing. You have the characters, the point of view and, most importantly, the VOICE, to be able to tell a good story to your readers.

You need editting. Spelling, and minor stuff like that, of course, but in some instances tempo and story-arc. But don't let that stop you. WRITE!

WRITE!

Editting is easy (once you let your editor tell you anything.) It is your writing that drives the vision and creation and the ideal of what story-telling is about, and you already have that!

Please keep writing, froggie. I like your characters and your voice, and I want to hear more.

[Wasp]

So I still haven't caught up with you, miss Frog! I wonder if I do that before you write the end of it all..

[frogbeastegg]

Three weeks, four days, and with some work Trempwick could tell the hours too. Since he had arrived in Repton.

Three weeks, four days, and some hours – probably eleven, as he’d arrived late in the afternoon and now it was early morning.

Three weeks, four days and eleven hours. He knew the layout of the buildings to perfection. He was acquainted with the name, face and routine of each individual. The daily schedule held no secrets from him on any day of the week. At any given time he had a reasonable idea of where to find any person. He could tell anyone who enquired that his room was precisely sixteen and one fifth flagstones long and eight and two thirds wide. He knew the cook liked to add three cloves of garlic for every hand-sized piece of beef, or two for a similar amount of mutton or chicken. A light conversational relationship had been struck up with certain of his guards; they would permit him simple liberties cheerfully enough yet thought nothing of rendering him near-unconscious with a single blow if they felt the merest shade of threat.

His broken fingers had healed. They still ached.

Naturally, he had completed studies on more relevant issues first. Trempwick knew which way to run, where to hide, for best chance of success. He knew where to find makeshift weapons, and how to access real ones. A patrol from the castle came to check all was well twice each day, at times which were supposedly random but may yet prove to hold a pattern. The time between William’s departure for Normandy and the present had been submitted to meticulous examination, to the degree that he felt himself enlightened. The true intellectual embraced the revelation of their own flaws as joyfully as all other sources of learning.

The bastard had headed to Wales. He had been able to gain no newer information. Had gained none about Nell.

Three weeks, four days, eleven hours, and by the blessed torments of Jesus he was bored! What was there left to do? Other than await the call back into service?

Time stretched out before him, filled with the same selection of events as the time which rolled out behind him. A lesser man might find contentment in it. A lesser man might go mad. Trempwick rejected both: a man of his capabilities would fall into odd little things to keep himself going. Things which staved off the madness. Things which distinguished the days. Odd little things? A man of his training did not pass his days whittling bits of wood. No. A man of Trempwick’s ability passed his time by … was it not sufficient to say that over the first meal of this day he had worked out numerous ways to poison the wine supply?

Three weeks, four days, eleven hours – he needed a purpose. A true purpose. A true hope. Something better than the one Nell had given him.

Trempwick stepped into the abbot’s room, giving thanks to the monk who had announced him. “I need to send a message,” he said bluntly once the door closed.

“That is not possible.”

“To Nel- to Eleanor.”

“And what would be the contents?”

“I must have something to do. She can give me a purpose, one which will discomfort no one.”

Roger laid down the roll of accounts he was perusing. “I see no need to bother her.”

Trempwick set his hands on the desk and leaned down to Roger’s level. “Then tell her that I made the request. Tell her I said I was bored, against my better efforts. She will understand. It is … important. More than you would understand.”

The abbot regarded him thoughtfully for a space. “You may assist in the garden. Turn your hand to nurturing life; you may find it makes a pleasant chance from ending it.”

“Gardening!” Control. Control. Don’t let this maggot of a man gain. Calm. Trempwick pushed away from the desk. “Why not. Perhaps I might examine the rudiments of cookery while I am at it. The two combine, do they not? Just-” Calm! “Send my message.”

“I might. There again, I might not. I do not work at the bidding of a traitor.” Roger pointedly turned back to his accounting.

Perhaps Nell would forgive him for killing this fool? Just a tiny hint of poison? A small accident? No one would miss him. It would alert her to the problem. Then she could do something. Yes, it would not be so bad.

NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed.

Trempwick crushed the notion from his mind, applied every bit of control he had. “As I said, it is of the utmost importance, and a message she will want to receive.” Now, take the control so far it presses into the flesh like needles, brand it home to make it stick. “Thank you for your time, and for your suggestion about the garden. I shall begin tomorrow.” Sounded most courteous; perfect. A most minor fraying at the edges did not damage the fabric of the whole.

He bowed slightly. He left. He walked another seven circuits of the walls with two guards in tow.

Three weeks, four days, twelve hours.









I am engaged in a battle with Hugh. It’s one of those rare occasions where I am attempting to shift the story a little. He wants to say some dialogue. I refuse to let him say it in the form he wants to. Nothing inherently wrong with it, and it’s not revealing too much. The problem is each and every time I see the words in the form they are in it brings to mind absolutely, abjectly, hideously cringe-inducing mental comparisons with a story which I hated in so many ways it’d take me a gargantuan post to scratch the surface. I cannot have it in the story in the form he wants it because that connection is overpowering, and instantly kills any connection I have to what I am writing. It’s like having a powercut in the middle of the film. We’ve been fighting for days. So far neither side has budged. I will win in the end; he wants the rest told, as does Nell and co, and so eventually he will have to give in.

So in the meantime you get Trempy to entertain you. The next part will appear as soon as I get Hugh to alter or drop the offending dialogue. All it will take is a slightly different choice of words, you stubborn lump! :gnashes teeth at the frustration of being stuck for days because one man will not change a couple of words!:



Olaf, I doubt I could do justice to a lengthier story featuring the Welsh. I would need to do a lot more research. There were many differences between them and their Anglo-Norman neighbours, differences in law, society, custom, everything. I don’t understand them fully enough to produce something with much authenticity, so I can’t see it being very satisfying. The knowledge I have is just about sufficient to write them from the other side of the border, provided the view is from a person who does not live in the marches.

Vuk, hehe, read on and you will find it changes a heck of a lot. Fulk is hiding things behind his idiot veneer. There are plenty of point of view characters waiting further in; Nell is the only female one and the rest are rather more … ah, oomph than Fulk. Especially Jocelyn. Oh boy. He’d rip the :daisy: off anyone calling him feminist.

Furball, :bow: It’s all so exciting! So many things I will have to change, so much more I will have to learn – it’s going to be a great experience for me as a writer. I’m very comfortable with the world and characters now; there are some scenes which make me burst with writing energy each time I think about them.

I don’t think it will quite be goodbye yet. There’s Silent’s tale, and the Trempy one which needs a middle.

Wasp, about 10 scenes left. Not long at all. (Disclaimer: we could end up with fewer or more than 10 scenes depending on how things fall out. Some scenes might join together, others might split, and I could stumble across another Ranulf* hiding in the mists and end up with a bit more than expected. But yes, really close)

*I’m going to call all unexpected discoveries which appear as I am writing a Ranulf from now on. The name … fits.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Honestly there are always way to deal with sure idiotic men in this world. If Hugh will not budge just threaten him with an upset of his precious order. For instance, whos to say he may not meet with an "accident" in Wales. This "accident" being lethal, his newborn son is elevated to the throne with the "Great and Noble Sir Fulk as Crown Regent". This of course frees our Gooseberry up from any deals she made with Hugh, since he told no one and they are all under the table. Having massive influence over her husband and therefore the throne. Just as Trempy trained her to do.
I think the though of his son being a slave to his half-sister for the rest of his life is enough to persuade him.:eyebrows::scared:
(Insert supremely evil laugh here.)

[furball]

"NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed."

If we agree on the meaning of "ergo," should that last phrase be, "ergo he would not be killed." ?

I hate to nitpick such fine writing, but that edit makes quite a difference. :)

[Olaf Blackeyes]

As long as ur not a ****** GR4MM4R N4Z1u can nitpick. Its cool.

[Vuk]

So Frogbeast, are you gonna be writing anything to get published? You seem to certainly have to knack for creating entertaining and captivating bits of reading, but did you ever consider getting them published? I think that you probably could.

[frogbeastegg]

In the early dawn light the banners were muted, armour did not gleam. The army Hugh watched advance was a grey mass mottled by darker patches which in daylight would have proved to be a riot of colours.

The ramparts on the keep filled with men; Hugh strained his eyes but could not manage a count. It mattered little; it was too late for the defenders. On the outer wall the gates were wide open; of the towers only two remained in Welsh hands.

As a paltry scattering of arrows rained down at the advancing army the lead banner was thrust high in the air, and the soldiers around it started to sing. It was a crude piece, all about what the men would do once they had won, a verse dedicated to each activity. It served its purpose: it kept the men marching in time, kept their morale up, and intimidated the enemy.

“Don’t you wish you were down there?” asked Malcolm.

The first verse of the song reached its end, and the men roared and beat their weapons on their shields as they advanced. Hugh’s answer was curt. “Not particularly.”

Suffolk looked sidelong at the young prince. “What my lord is too good to say is that only disposable men should lead an assault, however foregone the conclusion.”

Malcolm looked thoroughly baffled. “But an earl is leading.” A light dawned. “You hope he dies?”

“No!” snapped Hugh. “God’s teeth, no!”

The boy choked back his first, instinctive answer, and gave thought to producing something other than a torrent of venom. “It would be good if your Earl of York died. He’s got a bee in his tunic about his slowness to join you, and a whole damned swarm of them about earl Fulk. There’s going to be nothing but trouble there.”

Somewhere in the mire of venom filling this youth there was a sound politician; Hugh had to acknowledge that even as he recoiled from the suicidal folly it suggested. “Suffolk. Explain to him.”

The older man gave the young prince a smile that was at once friendly and faintly patronising. “Only a blind man would fail to smell treachery should my lord do as you say. Betrayed by our lord, what should we do? Tell me that, Nefastus.”

Malcolm’s mouth tightened, the gleam died in his eyes. “You’d rebel.”

“Some might. Others would not go so far; they would take their followers and leave the army.”

“And that would put them in defiance!” Malcolm interrupted hotly. “They would be traitors and rebels!”

Hugh said, “And I would have them for open enemies, along with those I was fighting at the start. My army would be smaller. I would lose the trust of those who remained. My position would be far weaker.”

“Oh.”

The advancing army was pouring through the open gates, half the men setting up a cover with their shields as others rushed forward with sacks filled with earth. The keep was in the old style with the entrance on the second floor. The wooden staircase leading up to it had been burned by the defenders during the night’s fighting. The sacks would make an improvised hill leading to the door, and then battering rams could be brought to bear.

William of Suffolk prodded Malcolm’s shoulder. “You should have known better than to suggest it. York requested permission to lead the assault – you were pouring wine for us at the very meeting!”

The prince rubbed his shoulder and glared at the old man. “You think I listen to what’s got nothing to do with me?”

“I think you should! Might learn something.”

“Damn you!” Malcolm balled his fists up. “Since I put myself in service all I’ve heard is that I must be more mannered, and now you’d bloody well telling me that I shouldn’t be! Make up your fucking minds!”

Hugh held up a hand to forestall the earl’s response. “Peace.” To his squire he said, “I have warned you to mind your language and speak to others with respect.” He slapped the prince across the mouth, hard. “Nor am I pleased to see you acting the idiot. If you cannot tell me the difference between ill-manners and paying attention where you aught now, then you had best put your mind to it. I expect an answer before nightfall.”

For a heartbeat Hugh thought the boy might fly at him. Then the boy swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaning away the dribble of blood from a split lip. Through clenched teeth he answered, “Very well. My lord.”

Amazing. The Nefastus was definitely – gradually - growing tame.

A many-throated cheer from the battle drew Hugh’s attention. The battering ram had been brought up and had delivered it’s first blow. Owing to the difficulty of bringing a ram to bear on the raised door, this one was smaller and wielded by hand by eight men. It would take time to do its work. As it thudded into the reinforced timber for the third time one of the crew went down clawing at an arrow protruding from his throat.

Hugh offered a salve to Malcolm’s wounded pride and continued his lesson at the same time. “You had some part of this right. York cannot abide my brother-by-law and there will be nothing but trouble between them. That is why he volunteered to lead here, and in such a way I could not refuse without implying doubt of his courage. He desires to build glory of his own to rival that gained by Fulk.”

“He can’t.” Malcolm gave his lip a final dab and lowered his hand. “Not here. There’s not going to be a battle. There’s not even going to be any skirmishes like the one where Fulk forced that crossing.”

“Victory here gives him something to hold up. Previously he had no other experience on campaign save the battle at Alnwick, and there many won more renown than he.”

Another man working the ram fell, hit by a rock dropped from a window. Immediately another took his place.

“Maybe.” Malcolm licked his clotting cut, and dabbed it again with his hand. “But wouldn’t he do better to join the Marcher lords? They’re the ones heading into enemy lands and doing most of the fighting.”

The Earl of Suffolk laughed. “That would mean placing himself under one of them, and dear George’s ego would explode at the thought. He will follow a king, none other.”

Hugh tuned out the conversation which continued from that. He had a decision to make, and soon.

By the time he spoke the door had splintered from its hinges and royal troops had poured into the keep. “I am thinking it must be Cadfan.”

“My lord?” Suffolk enquired.

Hugh smiled faintly. “Wait and see, my friend. Wait and see.” Best that none knew what he intended before it was too late. Chance was small that any would try to stop him; small chance was too great.





On the Welsh side there was but a single survivor of the siege. Every other person had been slaughtered without pause for age or sex. Hugh waited in the bailey for this last man, watching as men at arms dragged the bodies into rough piles. They would be counted, stripped and buried. It was a relief to see that logic had been correct: there were very few women here and no children. The heads of this garrison would be shot over the walls of Chester castle, which was already pinned down by siege lines. That fortress would prove much too costly to assault and Hugh knew he could not take the time to starve it into submission.

The last man crossed the bailey, eyes fixed rigidly on the sky so he would not see the corpses of his comrades. He stumbled; his guards let him go down into the gore which puddle on the dirt. After cursing him and delivering a few kicks they hauled him back up. When they reached Hugh they sent the prisoner to his knees with a shove.

Hugh stared down at the man kneeling before him. “One would suppose it is too much to hope that he speaks a civilised tongue?” Getting no answer he called forward the translator, and addressed the prisoner again. “You will be the sole survivor and thus you will serve my purpose. You will return to your people and we will not hinder you. I do not care which lord you scamper to. I care only that you tell all you meet about this. Any who stand against me will die. Only those who submit will be spared.”

Hugh paused to give the translator time to catch up. When the flow of Welsh ceased he continued, “You will tell this to your lord. The King of England will not be insulted. He will not be defied. He will have what is his. He does not care how many he must slay to get it. He will not pause, will not waver, and will show no mercy. I will have the submission of your lords if I have to turn your lands into a graveyard to do it.”

Lastly he delivered the pronouncement which had taken so much thought. “And above all I will have the one who harmed my man. There can and will be no peace while Cadfan lives.” Hugh was aware of his lords sucking in a breath and murmuring – he had just pronounced death for one who could be considered on equal standing to them. The question was, would they permit it?

The objection came from the least expected quarter – the prisoner. In clear French he stated, “You have not been anointed. You are no king.”

Hugh said, “Should I come again in my regalia having been anointed, and say the same again? Or does this,” he gestured at the corpses, the broken doors, “hold more power?” Not waiting for an answer, he commanded the guards, “Untie him and throw him out.”

The bailey was eerily quiet after the prisoner was removed. All eyes were on Hugh; the noble ones weighed most heavily. “It will cause division amongst them,” Hugh rasped. “The other princes will begin to see Cadfan as a liability and think about bringing him down to save themselves.” Cadfan was the strongest individual prince, and the one who had behaved most offensively at the meeting. By far and away he was the best target.

Earl Wymar of Derby said, “We see the wisdom in it, lord.”

“Chester must be avenged,” agreed York.

The space which followed was heavy with the unspoken qualification. A droplet of sweat trickled down Hugh’s back.

“Welsh are barely civilised.” Serle, earl of nothing and baron of a most unspectacular fief, idly rested his hand on his sword. “Amongst more honourable men this would never be possible.”

Immediately all others of rank voiced agreement, whether a simple affirmation or a lengthier speech. So there it was, couched in terms which made it sound like an assessment of the plan’s chance of success. They would allow him the death of a prince but refuted any possibility of his having the same right over them. It was enough; one did not reach Jerusalem in a single step.

“Of course,” Hugh agreed, adopting a humble attitude. “Any reasonable foe would held Chester in honourable captivity. They did not, and it is that I use against them and that I strive to avenge.”

The moment passed; movement resumed.

Hugh publicly granted the entirety of the plunder to the men who had stormed the castle, giving his own share to George, Earl of York in recognition of his service.








Furball, as I understand it ergo means therefore. “He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, therefore he would be killed.” What do you think?

Vuk, I have been considering taking a shot at publication for a few years. For an assortment of reasons I haven’t tried. I’ve now got the idea for a story which is perfect for attempting it – it’s on a smaller, more contained scale than my previous two works, more tightly focused. It contains many elements which I know sell, but all with my own twist on them so it’s not derivative. It’s currently code named ‘Ancel’, the name of the main character.

I have written a bit down, and have found that it has shifted and redefined itself a bit compared to the story I had before I wrote anything. The changes are good – they narrow the focus and sprawl even more, and build up the remaining material to a high degree.

[furball]

The relevant sentences:

"Perhaps Nell would forgive him for killing this fool? Just a tiny hint of poison? A small accident? No one would miss him. It would alert her to the problem. Then she could do something. Yes, it would not be so bad.

NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed."

The first paragraph argues in favor of killing him, ending with, "Yes it would not be so bad."

The second paragraph refutes the first, because he would lose Nell's trust, therefore he would *not* be killed.

If the first paragraph means, "yes, it would not be so bad to kill him," and the second paragraph means, "NO, therefore he would be killed," the argument makes no sense.

EDIT: Froggy, I assume, "He would lose the last shreds of Nell's trust," because he would have killed the guy Nell set up as his keeper. Is that assumption incorrect?

[frogbeastegg]

In outline form Trempy's chain of thought runs:

I'm bored and very tired of having my dignity bruised - I want to kill that guy!

Yes, surely I could get away with it. He's an idiot and won't take my warning seriously. It would alert Nell to my difficulty in keeping the agreement I made with her.

No, wait, get a grip on yourself man and stop daydreaming! If I kill anyone that will break the terms I agreed to and Nell will have me killed.

He's arguing with himself like a dieter debating an ice cream. He knows he shouldn't but he wants to. One gets the feeling it is an argument he has been through a few times already.

Yes, the abbot/Roger is the man Nell designated as his jailor.

By the terms of the agreement he made with Nell, Trempy is not supposed to be killing anyone, or otherwise doing anything which might draw on his skills. He is supposed to be sitting in Repton doing nothing. Anything else will be taken as an effort to escape and/or regain some of his lost power.

[furball]

I hate to belabor the point, but given what Frog has described, does anyone else thing it should be, "ergo he would not be killed" ?? Or have I gone whacko and am missing the obvious?

[Ludens]

I hate to belabor the point, but given what Frog has described, does anyone else thing it should be, "ergo he would not be killed" ?? Or have I gone whacko and am missing the obvious?

That fragment did jar me when I first read it, but the "he" is Trempwick referring to himself, not Roger.

[Molbo]

Hello, esteemed readers, and our glorious writer, frogbeastegg.

I started reading this novel about 3 years ago or so, but i fell out of it a year later. Now i see the incredible amounts of text, so i wondered if there were some kind of index somewhere. If there isn't i guess i have to go through the whole damn thing, cos i want to see what happens!

[frogbeastegg]

“And I assure you he is not here under duress,” Hugh concluded. How many times had he stated that in varying forms this past hour? To think, he’d halted his day’s march to speak with this man.

The emissary bowed yet again. “Most assuredly my lord, the King of Scots, would never accuse his most esteemed ally, the King of England, of such a thing.”

His lord, the King of Scots, had by proxy accused his most esteemed ally, whom he finally granted the title of king after using every possible alternative, of precisely that repeatedly during this interview. Hugh tried not to let his irritation show. “Then I am afraid I still do not see what troubles my ally, the King of Scots.”

“My lord, the King of Scots, has but the concerns common to every father.”

Hugh smiled thinly. “I have taken his son and heir into a place of honour in my household. I train him myself, in all that befits a prince. Prince Malcolm’s position here strengthens our alliance, I believe. It fosters understanding and goodwill between our families.”

“Yes, yes, this is true,” the man hastened to agree. “However my lord, the King of Scots, has those concerns natural to a father.”

It was an effort not to cover his face with his hands and groan. The man would not speak plainly. Hugh could not answer plainly without appearing to consider the very things he denied. Polite answers failed to satisfy the man. They would be here until dark! Mustering his patience Hugh tried once more. “It was the prince’s own request.”

The emissary dipped into a shallow bow, hands clasped before his chest. “Yes, yes, truly we understand that, myself and my great lord, the King of Scots, and place no blame whatsoever upon you. The prince is, well, he is what he is, and let that be all that needs to be said.”

Which said precisely nothing. Hugh rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and propped his chin on his fist. “I still fail to see the cause of my noble ally’s concern.”

Prince Malcolm shifted restively at his place in the background, perhaps contemplating braining this plague in fancy clothes with the pitcher he held. Hugh stilled him with a single glance.

An exquisite fluttering of hands made up half of the man’s reply. “I am most distressed at my inability to make my lord, the King of Scot’s, thoughts clear to you. The failing is mine alone, and I take full responsibility.”

No, the failing was in the instruction not to accuse Hugh of anything while simultaneously accusing him of everything. Very nearly he permitted himself to sigh. “There is no need to apologise, please. Be at ease. Perhaps some more wine?” He waved to Malcolm, and the prince stepped forward to refill the man’s goblet.

Malcolm had made considerable progress in this simple art which, by rights, he should have mastered before the age of seven and had not been introduced to until last month. He managed to pour the wine in a graceful arc, and did not get so much as a droplet on the emissary, purposely or otherwise. That, too, was a kind of progress.

The emissary sipped at his drink. “If I might be so bold as to offer a suggestion of my own?”

Hugh indicated that he should.

“Perhaps all would be smoothed if the prince were returned home, and then the arrangements made in the traditional manner?”

Malcolm caught his breath, and he didn’t retreat back to his place near the wall, instead lingering of the edge of Hugh’s vision.

Traditionally meaning that Hugh would approach Malcolm the Elder and offer to train his son. A face-saving measure, allowing the King of Scots to give his blessing to something which had been arranged without him. “I can see some merit in this,” Hugh said carefully.

The emissary visibly relaxed. “I am pleased to have been able to be of this most very slight service to you, and to my lord, the King of Scots. Perhaps, then, the prince might accompany me as I return?”

“No!” Malcolm dumped his pitcher onto the cloth-covered floor of the tent and hastened forward. “No.”

The emissary regarded him from under hooded eyes. “I do not recall you being a named participant of this meeting, prince Nefastus.”

A muscle in Malcolm’s cheek spasmed. “I will speak where I will, by virtue of my rank. I know you, Duncan FitzDuncan. I know where your lands are, I know who your family is, and I know you’re a bloody sight more than a glorified messenger who can’t get his point home because he’s too busy spewing pretty words!”

Hugh bolted to his feet. “Malcolm!”

The boy dipped a curt bow. “With all respect, my lord, this is a matter more than this fucking flowery-boy would tell you. It’s a matter of home, of politics. It’s more between us than you and he.”

This much Hugh had known since the opening minutes of this most private meeting. Why else had he fetched the prince here to wait upon them? Still, appearances must be met, and now they had been. After a show of hesitation he resumed his seat. “Very well. I see this is so.”

Duncan blazed, “You will allow him to threaten me?”

Malcolm bared his teeth in answer. “That wasn’t a threat. A threat’s when I say I’ll fucking gut you and hang you with your own entrails, you lanky stream of piss!”

This time Hugh did allow himself to sigh. “Language. Please. Perhaps all business in Scotland is conducted in such terms, however here we are in my dominion and a more civilised mode is the norm.”

Malcolm strode up to Duncan, one hand resting carelessly on his dagger. “I’m not going back now, not with you and not with anyone else. I know I’ll never leave again if I do. I’m a smart lad, see.”

“Scotland is your home.”

“And it’s currently occupied by a bearded old coward who’s terrified I’ll take his place. So he’ll keep me stuffed away again, making sure I don’t learn what I need to. I’m not having it.” Malcolm raised his voice, “I’m not fucking well having it! I will not get fucking killed because that old shit lost his balls along with his beauty in his first fucking battle!” He leaned in closer and shouted in the other man’s face, “Do you understand?”

Duncan turned his face away deliberately. “Your breath is as foul as your words.”

Nefastus nodded slowly, one lip curved ever so slightly. Right next to the man’s ear he said with utmost gentleness, “Mint does not make a man’s breath foul.”

Now it was Hugh’s turn, and he played it to the best of his ability. “This is news to me,” he exclaimed. He fixed the prince with a glare. “You said nothing of this!”

Malcolm abandoned the emissary and dropped to his knees before Hugh, head bowed. “Forgive me my lord. I didn’t want to deceive you but I knew you’d never take me if you knew the truth.” He raised his head, wretched with hope. “I’m in fear of my life. I came to your aid for the honour of my blood and realised too late that it’d make my father see me as a threat.”

Not bad, not bad at all. He’d given the youth an guideline for what to say but hadn’t expected anything so convincing. “You deceived me – you could have caused bad feeling between your family and mine.” Hugh gripped the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles shone white. “You could have caused a war!”

Malcolm’s head went back down. “Forgive me.”

Hugh turned to the emissary. “I had no idea. Of course he must return home immediately.”

“They’ll kill me!” Malcolm threw himself forward and clutched at Hugh’s feet. “They will kill me.”

“That is a serious charge.” Hugh said, at the same time as Duncan exclaimed, “Nonsense!”

“They will kill me. I won notice at Alnwick and now he fears me even more – he’s bloody well said I raised an army without his permission, even though I went to your aid and for the honour of our family.” Still clutching at Hugh like the most desperate of supplicants, Malcolm said, “I’ll disappear into the background and one day fall from my horse or some other such shit. Doesn’t matter how – I’ll be dead, and they’ll have arranged it.”

Hugh addressed the emissary, “Is there any truth in this? I demand a fair answer – should I return the prince and find myself to have been deceived there also there shall be no limit to my fury.”

To his credit Duncan hesitated before answering. “Through his own nature the Nefastus is not popular.”

That said far more than it did not; Hugh’s estimation of the man increased mightily.

At Hugh’s feet the prince cried, “I claim sanctuary!”

Hugh laughed. “I am not a church!”

“A man might claim protection from his liege lord. You’re by rights my father’s lord, and so mine.” Nefastus raised his chin.

Duncan leapt in instantly, “With regards to that, the lordship, I mean-”

Hugh interrupted softly, “In the time of William the Bastard Scotland’s king did homage for his lands, and thus it has continued until our own day with but the most minor break here and there. The right of the King of England still stands.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the chair to appear nonchalant. “Do you deny my right?”

That gave the emissary pause. Here, scant miles from where men fought with merciless fury in pursuit of Hugh’s rights it would take a foolhardy man indeed to deny them. Duncan dipped his head. “No. Of course not. Neither I nor my lord, the King of Scots, denies your right.”

It was all Hugh could do not to sag in relief and let out his pent breath. He waited a time, as though giving the matter considerable thought. “I have a right, and with it a duty. I shall mediate between the prince and his lord father. It will be my greatest pleasure to restore harmony.”

Malcolm kissed Hugh’s shoe. “Thank you.”

The emissary said very carefully, “While your offer is most generous, my lord, the King of Scots, would be distressed to have you bothered by such a triviality. Especially at such a time, when you have a great many more pressing matters to attend to.”

Hugh held up a hand. “Not another word. My beloved ally, the King of Scots, is close to my heart, and I owe him a debt for the aid he has given me. It would be to my lasting shame if I did not lend my attention to this matter, and do my all to restore his relationship with his son.” He set his palm over his heart. “It will be my pleasure to return a small part of what I have been given.”

Seeing he would make no headway there, Duncan turned to the prince. “We have no liking between us, there is no point in pretending otherwise. But please, heed my words. If you insist on staying here - however right or wrong it is – your father will consider you to be in rebellion.”

Malcolm scrambled to his feet, flushing. “He has no bloody reason!”

“He has asked you to come home and you have refused, claiming he threatens your life.” Duncan spread his hands. “He may even express a desire that you no longer be considered his heir.”

“I will fight for my crown if I have to – I’m not a fucking coward like him.”

“Fight with what? My prince, you will have no lands, no money, no followers.” Duncan raised his eyebrows. “Unless you mean English aid? But I think the King of England too honourable to lend his support to an effort to overturn the rightful succession.”

“Rightful?” Malcolm pounded his chest with a fist. “I am the firstborn! I am the rightful heir! No other can be while I live!”

“Whatever my lord, the King of Scots, wills is rightful.”

Malcolm spat on the floor. “Stop repeating his fucking title like that – we all know who the fuck he is and that he’s important. We don’t need fucking reminding every fucking five words! Makes the conversation take for-fucking-ever.”

This was getting out of hand; Hugh rubbed at his scarred forehead. “Peace. Please. The more words spoken between you the greater the harm grows, or so I see it.” He lowered his hand and resumed his most regal posture. “Thus is my will. The prince will remain with me for the time being as I cannot with honour send him away if there is but the slightest chance his words have truth in them. If there is not, well then it gives both time to reflect and cool from their present temper. It will be my pleasure to mediate, as I have said, and thus I invite his father, my beloved ally, the King of Scots, to meet with him on ground neutral to them both, to discuss their complaints and settle in peace. I offer myself as guarantor of the harmony of this meeting, and suggest that the meeting be held on church land some days before my coronation, which of course my ally, the King of Scots, shall attend.”

The emissary said regretfully, “Ah, with that there is a problem. My lord, the King of Scots, cannot possibly leave his realm for any prolonged period. There is much there which demands his presence, and an absence would overtip all to the detriment of his people, to whom he has a sworn duty, as my lord, the King of England, will understand.”

In short: they recognised he had gathered enough power to make him dangerous, but did not fear him sufficiently to accord him the full dignity that had been granted to many of his ancestors. It would have been unrealistic to expect anything else. Hugh inclined his head graciously. “I understand, though I grieve that my beloved ally will not stand at my side on my great day. I had suggested this as it brought us together sooner. However, recognising that this is not possible, I suggest instead that the meeting be held on the border. I intend to tour the north once again in the second week after my coronation. Lord Fulk is known and trusted by both of us, and thus I propose we meet on his lands, and that there peace be restored between the prince and his father.”

Duncan bowed. “I expect this will be acceptable. I shall indeed mention it to my lord, the King of Scots, with all haste on my return.”

Good. “At this time also it would be my pleasure to receive the homage owed to me.”

“Yes,” he replied after a moment, bowing once again and with obvious reluctance. “Yes, I expect this shall also be so.”






After many more pleasantries the Scottish emissary departed, quoting a need to relay Hugh’s words to his lord with all speed.

“That didn’t go too badly, did it?” Malcolm asked, faintly smug.

Hugh agreed, “Not so badly.” Another step along the way completed, countless thousand steps left to go. “Who was this man? From your first words there was something more to him than one might assume.”

Malcolm sloshed some wine into an abandoned goblet and drank it down. “He’s in thick with my father’s spymaster. Apprentice, right hand, best friend, something like that – I can’t get the details.”

Hugh found that he needed a large dose of wine himself. And Nell had let the man walk on in, uncommented! He would have words with her about this at a later date.

Malcolm refilled Hugh’s goblet, and then his own. “I am grateful. For what you’ve done.” He swirled the liquid around in his cup, watching it flow and eddy intently. “I mean, I know it plays to your benefit too. But it’s not like you had to do any of this.”

“It is the things a man does not need to undertake but chooses to which indicate his quality.” Hugh took a mouthful of wine. “And also the way in which a man grasps the opportunities presented.”

Malcolm set down his drink, and stood before Hugh. “They say I’m demon’s spawn. They see what they want no matter what I do, so that’s what I’ve been and become. Maybe it’s what I really am. My father’s done his best to keep me ignorant. He fears me because he knows I will replace him unless I die first, and the damned fool makes so many mistakes-” Malcolm caught his breath, held it for the count of four, and let it out slowly. More calmly he continued, “I’ve the passion for it. The talent. I appeal to those who want a proper king, not a coward who stabs with words and hides behind ceremony.” He grimaced. “Or I’d appeal if I weren’t the Nefastus. And now I’ve proven my valour. Faced the same trial which broke my father, and I’ve passed. If the lords won’t accept me they’ll kill me, and right now they’d gut me happily. I’ve a much younger brother to fill my place, to the cheer of many.” Malcolm gave Hugh a bleak smile and perched on the edge of the small table. “Even my own sister thinks I’m evil. She heard the legend and never looked further. I’ve always tried to be nice to her. So I’m pretty much fucked, and not by a pretty girl, more’s the pity. My only hope is to stay away for a few years, learn everything I can, and gain a reputation for changing.” He snorted, half in amusement. “Saintly king Hugh making a decent man out of the Nefastus, eh? Should do wonders for your own reputation. Then I’ll head home and start gathering support.”

In the time he had known him, Malcolm had said very little about his position at home, his reputation, or any of this. Hugh took it as a sign he had gained some of the prince’s trust. “I will not help you overthrow your father,” he warned.

Malcolm Nefastus downed another few swallows of his wine. “I don’t ask it. The opposite, really. I’ll do it myself. If I don’t then I’m still royally fucked; I’ll just die later instead of sooner.”

“Stop swearing,” Hugh instructed. Then, because this felt poor reward for the boy’s extended trust, “I thank you for your help. This would have been more difficult without your aid.”

Malcolm drained the last of his wine. “I told you they’d be happy to blame me if given chance. So. Now there’s little chance of them accusing you of nasty things, and you don’t need to wage war to get them to recognise you, and I get to stay. Everyone’s happy.”

“Will your father do as his emissary agreed?”

“Oh, he’ll bitch and whine and try to wriggle out of much of it, but he’ll give in. At least on most points. He’s terrified of war, and you’ve made a pretty demonstration here of what will happen if he doesn’t.”

Hugh grunted something akin to an agreement. In the North he would not be able to inspire his lords with the excuse of vengeance. He would be hampered by Fulk’s position as a Scottish lord. Above all he would be facing a larger, richer and more unified enemy than the Welsh. “I need to get across the Narrow Sea. I do not have time to spend on the north.”

“You won’t have to. My father will shit himself at the first sign of an attack.”

“Whatever may be, it will be some weeks from now. Close to victory is not yet victory, and then I must be crowned. The north is some way down in priority.” Hugh stood. “You will help pack this away; I will be outside Chester’s walls before dark.” Hugh strode from the tent, calling orders that his force of knights should prepare to resume the march.







You may or may not remember that the King of Scots has been behaving like Hugh’s superior and then his equal, and generally wringing as much as he could from Hugh’s uncomfortable situation.

Heh, I got a little absorbed in a few things and didn’t realise how long it had been since I’d last written some Eleanor. Then I got a nudge from Hugh.


Molbo, if you remember where you left off I’ll see if I can find it in my manuscript. That should give me a rough ideas of where in the topic it is.

[shinderhizzle84]

i have been reading this story for quite a long time, now. I think it has been since early september. Let me tell you that it is just phenomenal. I am a writer myself, although I focus mainly on screenplays, seeing that my dream job is writing a comedy on television. Either way, i have found this story highly enjoyable, and whenever i am bored (i can't play total war games ALL DAY LONG!) I come here to read your story. It is well written, funny in certain places, and quite enjoyable. all of the characters are so deep, in my opinion, that I feel a very strong attachment to them, especially jocelyn, because of his peculiar position with his amiable wife. sometimes your grammar ruins a sentence or two, but then again, your excellent writing skills easily make up for this, and actually, if anything, it makes the story for me more fun, because it makes me think that i can write a story as good as this!!

I must admit that i am a bit dismayed not to see an ending yet--after four months or so of reading, i found myself getting closer and closer to page 31, and since i hadn't been keeping a close eye on the amount of pages this topic was, i had, for some reason, thought that the topic had been 31 pages for quite a while. because of this, i assumed the story was finished. However, since it is not, I would like to tell you to take your time with the ending--i'd rather have an epic ending to an epic tale than an ok ending to an epic tale. In other words, the ending better be good...or else :laugh4:

but seriously, i cannot tell you how many school days i've slept through because the night before i had stayed up past 4 AM reading this story. It has been so enjoyable, and I don't think I've ever been able to enjoy a book this much!! I hope to oneday see this book, or maybe another of your works, on a display case at the local Barnes and Noble. I honestly think that you, NOT JK Rowling, deserves to be the richest women in England. Thank you so much for writing this incredible story, and I eagerly await the next chapter, and soon, the ending.

I have no idea what I will do for the rest of my life without this book. Without this book, there will be a large, gaping hole in my life!!! :help:

[frogbeastegg]

“Some messengers have arrived,” said Hawise. “Fulk requests you join him. He’s in the armoury.”

“Some.” Eleanor reluctantly rolled over so she could see her maid. “Define ‘some’.”

“Three.”

“Three.” Eleanor pushed herself up; immediately the dull ache in her lower belly intensified. “It is a conspiracy.”

Hawise placed Eleanor’s shoes at the side of the bed ready for her to step straight into. “One is from your brother, one from Repton, and the other is here in response to the message you sent to Wosthorne abbey.”

Eleanor glowered. “Why could they not have arrived yesterday, when I felt fine? Or tomorrow when I might feel better?”

“Consider the bright side,” the maid advised as she sorted through Eleanor’s meagre collection of girdles for one which would go with the dress Eleanor was wearing.

“Bright side.” Eleanor slipped her feet into her shoes and stood. “I know I am not with child. Down side – I have rarely been one to suffer from aches and illness and it would have been a damned sight better if I had ended up feeling rotten in one of the months of my life where I do not have a lot to do.”

Hawise passed over a plain braided silk girdle. “That in and of itself is a blessing. I once knew a girl who spent the entire time she was bleeding queasy and retching with the most dreadful headaches.”

Eleanor wrapped the length of silk loosely around her waist twice and tied it. “That would cheer me up if only I did not currently feel as though I have been kicked by a mule.”

“Go take your wrath out on the messengers. I’ll make something to ease your stomach for when you return.”

“If it is as effective as the last lot you can save your bother.” Eleanor ran a hand over her hair making sure he braid was still neat. “How do I look?”

The maid considered for a bit. “Pale, faintly sick, crotchety.”

“Charming,” Eleanor snarled, and exited the room wishing heartily she could return to lying down in a huddled ball. It was the only thing which eased the ache.

The three messengers awaited in the armoury, where Fulk was inspecting the castle’s stocks and having them recorded by a clerk. Two monks and one man in Hugh’s livery.

Eleanor surveyed them swiftly. “Which of you is here from Repton?”

The shorter of the two monks bowed. “I am, your Highness.”

“Your message?”

The monk replied, “It is verbal. Shall I state it now?”

“Unless it contains something others should not know.”

“It does not, your Highness.” The monk’s eyes fell half closed as he called the words to mind. “These are the words spoken by my abbot. I thought it of import to inform you that Trempwick has made requests to send you a message. I have denied them, as instructed. This denial he countered with the plea I inform you of his request. I have given him no reason to believe I would do this, though having a respect for his intellect I know he will be aware that my failing to do so would be a failure in the duty you have left me. Trempwick claims to be bored, and this I do not doubt. He says this is of such import that you must be made aware; I fail to see the relevance. I have made suggestions for gainful employment to him, and thus far he has taken them.” Recital complete, the monk reopened his eyes. “That was all, your Highness.”

Fulk looked up from counting a sheaf of arrows. “And what would a bored spymaster do?” It was a rhetorical question; Fulk’s appreciation for Trempwick’s abilities was a damned sight keener than the abbot of Repton’s.

Eleanor had been expecting this since she condemned Trempwick to imprisonment and isolation. It was, simply, half of the point. Once bored he would be grateful for any chance to work, however slight or simple. At that point she had his attention, fully and wholly, and he knew what he could be plunged back into if he displeased her. “Tell your abbot that he has done well to bring this to my attention, and to deny Trempwick’s request. He is to watch still more closely, and alert me of anything out of the expected run, no matter how slight it might appear to him. It is my wish that Trempwick be put to work now. This will not be conveyed to him directly; he is to think it is the abbot’s own idea.” Her former master would not be fooled for a second. The implications of her working this way was what mattered, not a successful deception. “I wish him to write a history of my father, recording his deeds and his acts.” Again, Trempwick would see that this request fell into two halves. The first a formal history of the reign, the second an account of a man by his close friend.”

The monk bowed. “It shall be done.”

Eleanor dismissed him to food and rest, and turned to Hugh’s messenger. “Well?”

The man bowed. “Your Highness, this was sent in addition to the message for your husband.” He pulled a small letter out of his belt pouch.

Eleanor took it and inspected the seal; unbroken. As it was Hugh’s private seal the message couldn’t be that important; Eleanor dismissed the messenger.

Fulk set aside the coil of bow string he was checking for damage and dismissed his clerk. “And you are here to solve the mystery of Ranulf,” he said to the third and final messenger.

“I hope so, my lord.” The monk tucked his hands in his dangling sleeves. “I will look at the man to be sure he is whom we believe, if such is your wish.”

Fulk nodded at once. “Yes. It would be best if he did not see you, I think. The prisoners will be brought out for exercise this afternoon; you can observe him then.”

“As my lord wishes,” the monk agreed with a gentle bow. “Would you hear of the Ranulf we did know, or do you wish to be sure it is the same man first?”

“Please tell me.”

“The Ranulf we knew was with us from an early age. A bright child, his parents knew that he could do better than spend his life working the land as they had. They managed to raise the money to fund his acceptance, and the boy took to the life well. When he was some months short of taking his vows, a thief slipped into our church and tried to steal the candlesticks from the altar. Ranulf was one of a small; group who spotted him, and he blocked the thief’s path.” The monk sighed and bowed his head. “It was a good thought, and with tragic consequences. The thief fought, and Ranulf killed him. By accident, of course! During the scuffle he fell backwards and broke his head on the cornerstone of a pillar. God’s judgement on a sinner.” The monk crossed himself. “Some of our number did not share this view; they said Ranulf had blood on his hands, and that he had desecrated holy ground more than any thief could. It tore our peace apart. It tore Ranulf apart, for he was fundamentally a good man.” The monk paused. “Two weeks later, he left. It was a thing of some bitterness. He said he would not stay in a place where people cast doubt on him for acting righteously. He had not taken vows so he was free to go; we have no claim on him. Nor was he charged with murder.”

Fulk said, “I suppose I can see him not wanting to tell this story. It must be painful.”

“He was deeply hurt by the fact some of his brothers rejected him.”

Eleanor did not see any need to be present for more of this discussion, not when she could return to curling up to ease her stomach ache. “If you need me for anything else, send for me. Otherwise …” Otherwise don’t bother, and if Fulk needed her for something it had better be diverting the apocalypse and nothing else!

The message from Hugh she read as she walked back through the keep. It was brief, and instructed her to see to the relocation of her father’s body. Now the country was settling back into peace there was nothing to prevent the arse in the crown from lying in Westminster along with his father and grandfather. Eleanor rolled the bit of parchment up into a tube which she tapped on her thigh as she walked. Hugh was known as a dutiful son; a dutiful son would see to his father’s burial. Hugh had done what was required of him during the original funeral, which would make his passing the job on to her all the more notable. Understandable as his refusal to do more for a man who had disowned him was, it could not be allowed.





Fulk waited as the prisoners were let out into the bailey, waiting to see if the monk would recognise Ranulf without any clues.

“There!” The monk bit back his rapid identification. “At least … I think. He’s shaved his head.” In the bailey Ranulf turned to say something to a comrade and inadvertently gave a better view of his face. “Yes. That is him.” The monk smiled faintly. “He used to have dark hair, all loose curls and unruliness. He looks so different without it.”

“Well, then. Mystery solved.” Fulk decided he would hire Ranulf along with the others he had marked as good soldiers, provided Hugh permitted it.










Boring boringness which is not interested in writing nicely. It’s had as long as I’m willing to give it; I’m moving on because that’s where the better scenes are.



Welcome, shinderhizzle. You will need the famous Eleanor eyedrops :hands them over:

Hehe, you make me think I should do a reading list for recovering Eleanor addicts. Books which I have read, enjoyed and feel have something which would make them enjoyable to Eleanor readers. I could definitely post the historical books I have used for research at various times.

[shinderhizzle84]

thanks for the eye drops. i've always wanted eyedrops as a birthday present from my parents, but now that you have given them to me, i have no idea what i will ask for come august...hmm....maybe a car, now that i'm going off to university....*begins plotting evil, greedy ways to bankrupt his parents while cackling maniacally*


thanks for the chapter. i had come back to check up on this story every day since i made my post, and when i saw that you still hadn't posted a reply, i began to worry that i said something stupid, or ignorant. but then again, my forum name is something that a 10 or 11 year old would make, so i shouldn't have been shocked if i DID say something stupid or ignorant. Shinderhizzle.....don't ask....i was 11.


either way, i've been home from school all day today, i'm sick....now that i've read this new installment, i already feel much better. *jumps out of bed, puts on jogging clothes and goes for a 5 and a half mile jog around town*

I wish there was a smiley face for THAT!! Anyways, i must say, it's probably me being stupid again, but something about ranulf doesn't sit right with me....i can't quite place it....maybe, before he died, the thief convinced him to join "the dark side" and become his apprentice....and he faked the thiefs death all along!!

Sorry...i just finished my fifteenth game of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. i'm not too big on the series, but it's a great game.

now, this is going to come off kinda weird, but from my perspective, i think it would be kinda cool if eleanor actually had a child with fulk...and survived. it's your story, of course, but to me, it would just be another check on the list of things where people said that Eleanor CAN'T do it, and she ends up beating expectations yet again. Or it could go the other way, where she would die in childbirth, and everyone was right about her, and the story can end off really depressing and sorrowful. or...she may just not be pregnant. if she is pregnant, the story, at least to me, would have to continue on for another 9 months. and while i, personally, would love to see more of eleanor's adventures (or rather, lack thereof, once she starts getting REALLY pregnant), i'm not sure how you would feel about that, especially since you've previously stated that you don't like kids. eh, but just ignore me, i'm rambling. i'm just a poor poor 18 year old with a severely immature, yet still smart, mind.

:dizzy2:

[Olaf Blackeyes]

As always 1337 chapter.
This is the best drug i have ever taken:2thumbsup:, i wish there was more:shame:.

[frogbeastegg]

i had come back to check up on this story every day since i made my post, and when i saw that you still hadn't posted a reply, i began to worry that i said something stupid, or ignorant.
Heh, the answer is much more mundane. I try not to post in the topic unless I have a new story update. I don't want people to see a post by me, come rushing in expecting a new chapter, and end up disappointed. Sometimes I make exceptions, usually if my reply can be posted within a very short space of the last story chapter ...


Sorry...i just finished my fifteenth game of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. i'm not too big on the series, but it's a great game.
... or when I can offer something readers might like, such as now. Jedi Therapy (https://forums.totalwar.org/vb/showthread.php?t=27883), a very old short story of mine. It's a comedy based on KOTOR. The writing is very rough; it shows how far I have come in the last 5 years.


now, this is going to come off kinda weird, but from my perspective, i think it would be kinda cool if eleanor actually had a child with fulk...and survived. it's your story, of course, but to me, it would just be another check on the list of things where people said that Eleanor CAN'T do it, and she ends up beating expectations yet again. Or it could go the other way, where she would die in childbirth, and everyone was right about her, and the story can end off really depressing and sorrowful. or...she may just not be pregnant. if she is pregnant, the story, at least to me, would have to continue on for another 9 months. and while i, personally, would love to see more of eleanor's adventures (or rather, lack thereof, once she starts getting REALLY pregnant), i'm not sure how you would feel about that, especially since you've previously stated that you don't like kids. eh, but just ignore me, i'm rambling. i'm just a poor poor 18 year old with a severely immature, yet still smart, mind.
The answer to that one lies off in the realm of things which won't be seen in the story proper. There's an answer of a sort to be found in the short story I speculate about posting after the main story is complete, and it's one of the reasons why I consider not posting it. Without 'Silent' people will be able to make up their own minds.

I don't mind writing children, I just don't like being subjected to them in real life. Noisy, messy, illogical, boring - even when I was a child I didn't like them. The work I consider to be my best bit of short fiction is based around a child. It's the one I posted a while back, about Nell's first meeting with her father since Trempwick accepted her as his apprentice.



As always 1337 chapter.
This is the best drug i have ever taken:2thumbsup:, i wish there was more:shame:.
You could always head back to the beginning and start reading again. :hide:

[frogbeastegg]

Cadfan was not sneering this time. Much care had been lavished on his appearance; his hair was freshly washed and combed, his skin flawlessly clean, his features composed. Fashionable clothes and a body to wear them upon were his only lack.

Hugh waved the casket away after giving the severed head inside a showily prolonged inspection. “Where is his body?”

Two Welshmen had come under flag of truce to deliver the grisly prize, one to represent each of the surviving princes. Each waited for the other to answer, and when the silence drew out to an uncomfortable length each started to speak. A look between them settled the matter, and the older of the two was the one to continue. “Sire, it lies in our princes’ camp. It can be brought here within the day, should you require it.”

Now that the rebel alliance had broken and its remaining leaders were willing to submit Hugh saw no need to press Cadfan’s destruction further. He was not a vengeful man, at least he prayed so. “No. Let him be buried wherever it is traditional for his family.” Not vengeful, and not weak either; Hugh directed his marshal, “Boil the head in tar and mount it on a spike above the main gate of Chester so that all who come and go may see for themselves he price of harming one who swears allegiance to me.”

The younger emissary spoke, “Our lords hope you might find forgiveness for them in your heart now they have purged themselves of the ill-council which led them astray.”

Naturally Hugh would find forgiveness – it was part of the endless cycle of border politics. He was as incapable of conquering Wales as the locals were of fully throwing off English influence. That prevented neither party from trying their hand when opportunity was perceived; it was such a long-standing state of affairs as to be traditional. “If your lords will submit themselves before me tomorrow, give me fifty hostages to guarantee the peace, and attend my coronation to pay homage along with the rest of my lords then there shall be forgiveness.” Hugh raised a hand to still the murmur than ran through the chamber. “It is my decree that all that my lords have taken while fighting in defence of my rights shall remain in their hands. The Welsh must forfeit all claim to those lands and goods.”

The younger man nearly rose from his abject position on the floor. “That is unjust!”

Hugh slapped his palm on the arm of his great chair. “It is just! The word you seek is harsh. Which, given the numerous offences your lords have given me, is none so applicable as it might be. Am I to fund the struggle to regain what is rightfully mine? Or shall the cost fall to those who began the war, maintained it, and wrought the devastation?”

The man made the mistake of countering, “The very lords you now reward gave many of the same offences-” His remaining words were cut off in uproar; the marcher lords were most displeased at this reminder of their sins.

Finally Hugh came to his feet, stilling the shouted abuse with a roar of, “Silence!” He got it. Seated once more he said, “The difference is thus: when presented with my person my marcher lords knelt before me and asked my forgiveness. Your princes scorned me, and heaped further insult on me as they made a show of their defiance. My lords have proven themselves to me in this war, and have avenged the slights your princes visited upon me.”

The elder of the pair stilled his companion with a hand on his shoulder. “We will take your words to our lords. We cannot say what the reply will be.”

The reply would be acceptance. There would, inevitably, be some haggling over which lands were lost and, equally inevitably, some would be returned to sweeten the deal. Hugh had faith that an accommodation satisfactory to all would arise from this. He would have his rights restored and his strength proven; his lords would have forgiveness and a reward to encourage; the Welsh would have an end to a conflict they could no longer gain from.

Time to turn his mind to setting a date for his coronation.






Two works had been requested of him. An official life of William, a mere trifle to fill his days. Perhaps a scattering of people would read it. A means to get some use from a fallen man, to rehabilitate him to a small degree. Trempwick felt no zest for this one.

A private work on the man, for the eyes of his daughter and no others. A means for Nell to find familiarity – and possibly peace – with the man. A means also, he dared hope, to hold a variety of conversation with her former master. Were it not presently impossible, he could have spent long hours telling her of William and answering the inevitable questions. This one did spark something inside Trempwick’s heart, and he had faithfully occupied the last few days with its beginning.

The thought that the second, private work might be a form of conversation had done more than spark that something in his heart; it had sparked something in his mind. A third work, more private yet. This one had awakened in him a kind of burning, a need to put words down in ink and as soon and perfectly as he could manage. While his jailors believed him working on his assigned histories, much of his time would be devoted to this work. The subterfuge necessary to achieve this gave a kind of hope: he would not rot here until he went mad. He would think.

Trempwick selected a quill from the sheaf on his desk, dipped it in the inkpot and addressed the blank parchment before him. A hesitation. The beginning? Why not this.

Those who wish to win favour frequently gift that which they themselves value. Riches, horses, fine arms and armour. What of a man such as myself? I value that which you have commanded me to labour at, and so hope that my additional, unrequested work may be taken as a gift by you, my most magnificent Lady.

Yes, that felt a worthy beginning for the work which would be the sum of his career.

Trempwick dipped the quill again, and inscribed in the space he had left above his opening paragraph

Sir Raoul Trempwick to Her Highness, the Princess Eleanor, daughter to William, sixth of that name, by the grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, Count of Anjou, Lord of the Welsh.

Trempwick regarded what he had written. Title was dictated by the nature of the work, a personal address from himself to Nell with the pure intent to instruct her in everything he had not yet passed along, mainly rulership. It was … too wrong. Too grand. Too lengthy. It was, in short, entirely out of character for their relationship.

Some minutes later another title occurred to him, and he wrote it at the very top, squeezing it in where there was not quite space.

The Princess.











Raoul Trempwick, hail and farewell. That’s his last scene. I wrote that more than 3 years ago; today I finally brought it out from storage and gave it a brush and polish to bring it inline with my current style. See, told you I had planned the ending long in advance ;)

I like that scene a lot. Trempwick, secluded in Repton trying to find a meaning for his life and a way back from his fall. Trempwick, starting work as a historian and writer and finding something in the prospect which appeals to him. Trempwick, trying to bridge the gap between William and Nell when it is both much too late and the perfect time. Trempwick, meditating on his life and that of the friend he came to murder, and on the rule he helped to shape and on what the one he views as the successor to that reign needs to know.

I contemplated adding some more scenes to this part; ending with Trempy’s final scene felt better. It took a while to decide on that.

Trempy’s writing has two loose parallels with real historical works. One was been spotted in the previous part, and named on the other forum: the Alexiad by Anna Comnena. This part contains the second, easier parallel; can anyone spot it?

[Moros]

Seems I have some cathing up to do. It's middle of the night again anyway.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

So sad to see him go.

[Ludens]

Trempy’s writing has two loose parallels with real historical works. One was been spotted in the previous part, and named on the other forum: the Alexiad by Anna Comnena. This part contains the second, easier parallel; can anyone spot it?

I missed the Alexiad, but this one I did spot.

[Peasant Phill]

Would it be by any chance 'the prince'?

I know, I know, ... It's so obvious that no one else found it necesarry yet to blatently name the work, but still.

All in all a worthy ending for a man like Trempwick.

[SSJPabs]

So I was checking to see if FBG had updated her Kingdoms guides (I find your specific advice in them unhelpful to me but still find them worth reading for a good overview). As you can tell I'm not someone who posts here and prefers the company boards and TWCenter and ended up stumbling across this story and caught up with it today at last after about 2 weeks of heavy heavy reading.

It met the most important criteria for a story: it made me willing to keep reading to the end!

But I have to agree with Vuk, it strikes me as very obviously written from a female perspective. There's nothing wrong with that of course, authors I enjoy (like Melanie Rawn) do the same thing, but you can never quite get away from the hmm, genderness, of the work in male POV scenes. Other than that, there were parts I thought were well written, and parts that were definitely less well written and I think with a good editor the story could really go into sharp focus.

I'm sure you might be a little annoyed when I say (I think how I would be if some yahoo whose sole interaction with you thus far consisted of criticism suddenly popped up) that my fingers were twitching with a desire to re-arrange and hack stuff out in certain posts. Mostly towards the end of the early parts and the middle part but there are a few places later.

Finally, something I always struggle to avoid in any of my own original fiction, is anachronistic terms. Basically a reference in to something the characters cannot possibly relate to due to temporal differences, like describing a charging knight like a freight train (bear with me on the simile). This struck me whenever you used the term 'git' as at this time the character would almost surely use the full version 'beget.' So every single time I came across I thought "20th century term!" it and broke the spell of the writing. A similar thing happened with words like "prat" (though as an American I have no idea what that means) and on a few other occasions with other words.

Look temper some of this with the knowledge that this is not my particular genre, (romantic historical fiction is probably how I'd class it) so perhaps there are things that I am not getting or missing due to a non-positive beginning.

Well thanks for listening.

[SSJPabs]

PS: Apologies for the spelling errors and other minors errors (i.e. FBE and characters using "get" not "beget). I was (and still am) quite tired when I wrote this and I cannot seem to find the edit post button.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor said, “You asked to speak with me?”

Edrik doffed his hat and bowed. “Ah … With your husband, in truth, your Highness.”

“He is not available. I take it you have come to make your recommendations with regard to the land clearance?”

“Yes, your Highness. It needs only his lordship’s decision and then work can begin.”

“Well then.” Eleanor settled herself in the nearby window seat and indicated the reeve should stand at her side. “Tell me your thoughts and a decision shall be made.”

Edrik’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Ah … his lordship …”

“My lord husband has gone hunting. This is the first day he has taken entirely to himself in more than a month – he will not be disturbed for anything less than full scale invasion. I am authorised to deal with things here in his absence.”

“No doubt, your Highness.” The man tortured his hat between his hands. “Only, I was not instructed … That is …”

Hawise stepped in before Eleanor could say something pithy. “You fear to get into trouble.”

Edrik’s shoulders eased, and he nodded. “I would not wish to upset my lord.”

It was not the reeve’s fault. He meant no slight. If she believed otherwise Eleanor would have unleashed a smidgeon of royal wrath on him, a touch sufficient to send him scuttling back from whence he came with his ears on fire. “If you prefer to wait until tomorrow to present your findings to my lord husband, that is acceptable. However, I say again that he has all matters here in my hands.”

“Ah …” The poor man’s hat had lost all dignity; its jaunty trio of feathers were now bent and the velvet was sadly creased. “Well …”

“Allow me to place it bluntly. You may delay and possibly incur my lord husband’s displeasure for that delay, for refusing to deal with me, and for increasing his workload. Or you may speak now, and possibly incur my lord husband’s displeasure for not waiting for him.” Eleanor caught Hawise’s slight frown and knew she had sounded sterner than intended. More gently she added, “Whichever you choose, be assured my lord husband is a most reasonable man. You will not suffer or find your decision held against you in the future.”

Edrik went down on one knee. “I am a humble man, your Highness. I’m reeve of my village and consider that an honour, though it’s nothing to any of good birth. I confess I am overwhelmed. I …” He scratched at his scrawny neck, as though in his mind he could already feel a noose fitted about it. “I am not sure which way to turn.”

Eleanor twisted her wedding ring about on her finger as she thought rapidly. The problem was a common one. A princess on the one hand, a newly raised lord of dubious origins on the other, and the age old question of who controlled whom and which dignity would be trodden on by what. “Come back tomorrow,” she advised in the end. This way she was seen to defer to Fulk, which protected his dignity, and in turn Fulk could assure the man he was not having his power stolen by his wife.

Edrik bowed, and stood. “Thank you, your Highness. I’m sorry. It’s just … Well, normally it’d be clear.”

“Your conscientiousness does you credit.” Eleanor waved him out of the solar before she said something altogether ruder. When he’d gone she slumped back against the wall and massaged her temples. “You know what is most infuriating about this?”

Hawise suggested, “The fact you and Fulk together run into this several times each day?”

“No. Well, nearly.” Eleanor leaned to look out of the slitted window at the bustle down in the bailey. A wagon was making its way through the main gates, piled with sacks and with two youths walking at its flanks. “Were I somewhat lower in rank, or Fulk somewhat higher, there would be no problem. Narrow the chasm but a little – and it would still be wide indeed – and people would not baulk.”

“Your marriage works the same as any other; people are slowly coming to see that. Each person you convince is one less.”

Eleanor scowled. “Easy for you to say. People are not afraid to speak to you in case you are using your husband like a puppet!”

“That,” Hawise said with an infuriating amount of seriousness, “is because I do not have a husband.”

A cushion was at hand and really it was too tempting; as the maid ducked Eleanor sweetly informed her, “I shall find you one!”

Hawise bent to retrieve the cushion and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you, but I should prefer to find my own.”

“That sounds suspiciously as though you have someone in mind.” Eleanor suddenly remembered Hawise asking after Waltheof after Alnwick, and a hundred other such tiny signs which had gone unremarked during the stresses of the past months. Serious maid and serious knight; what a perfect match. “Well, I am sure you will tell me should you find someone,” she said, mindful of her friend’s feelings. What if Waltheof showed no matching interest? This demanded further investigation …

At that moment Aveis burst in, shutting the door behind herself and leaning on it to catch her breath. “I believe this is what you were waiting for.” She hurried across the room, still breathing heavily, and held out a section of cloth with a sample pattern embroidered on it.

Eleanor inspected the pattern, deciphered it, and couldn’t hold back her beam of triumph. “The Welsh are suing for peace. Dated five days ago. Not bad, not bad – but it can be better. It must be better.” She was on her feet, pacing from one end of the room to the other, unable to keep still in her excitement. This was the first proper result from the network she was working so hard to forge out of the remnants of Miles’ and Trempwick’s old systems. “Now, we must see how long it takes for official word to reach us, and we must check the veracity of this.”

Aveis took over the seat Eleanor had left vacant and fanned herself with one hand. “It came with a chapman. At first I thought he was bothering me to buy his rubbish.”

“We hardly want him to stroll up to the gates and announce he has a secret message for me,” Eleanor said absently. Word from Wales to Carlisle in five days! And carried across a network patched together out of two shattered halves. It was a start. A good start. Three days had been the usual time for such a run under Trempwick, two if the people passing word pushed themselves remorselessly. Eleanor ran the cloth through her hands. “You will go back to him and say I am interested in buying sufficient of this border to edge the hem, collar and cuffs of a dress.” As Aveis opened the door Eleanor called, “And Aveis? Be more circumspect, please. I am not so interested in a sample from a mere trader that you need to come running.”

The older woman blushed. “I shall take my purse down with me and buy some things myself. Let people think that’s why I became over-excited.”

“Success.” Eleanor stopped, staring sightlessly at a wall hanging. “The main difference is in birds. We have not as many …”

Hawise looked at her blankly. “Pardon?”

“Messenger birds. Trempwick had many of them. In most instances word flew from one part of the realm to another, literally.” Eleanor broke away from the hanging and from her thoughts to smile at her friend. “At the moment there are large gaps in that coverage; this message here was carried more by horse than wing. It will take money to breed and train more, but it must be done. Hugh will have to fund it; heaven knows I could not afford it myself. And, perhaps, if he will fund certain other things I shall be able to spare enough to give you a dowry so you may pursue your mystery man.”






Eleanor covertly inspected Fulk for damage as he dismounted. He was very muddy and a large splash of blood soaked his left leg, but he was not obvious damaged. He did stink to high heaven, so she kept a tactful distance. “Welcome home, my lord. Was your hunting a success?”

“I took a deer myself. A single spear blow.” He thrust an imaginary spear down at a target, doubtless a faithful recreation of his feat. “And between us we took several more, and a wolf.” He waved at one of the huntsmen. “Hoi! Show my lady the wolf.” Fulk ran a hand over his chaotic hair as if he now realised he looked as though he had been through a hedge backwards. “You may have the skin of that one for whatever you will.”

Eleanor made appreciative noises over the carcass trussed up on a spear shaft, and added a few more in praise of his heroic deeds. Once that was out of the way she was able to ask, “The blood is not yours then?” without appearing to smother him.

“The deer’s,” he replied. He stretched his arms and worked his left shoulder, which Eleanor knew was still prone to stiffness after its wound. “I should do this more often – it’s been an age since I last had chance to hunt. When money permits I shall get a hawk.” He gave his horse a final pat and started towards the keep. “Perhaps you’d like one too, my best beloved?”

“I have been hawking but once in my life-”

“I remember,” he answered, with a sidelong glance. “You were afraid the bird would eat your fingers. It’s part of what you should have had and weren’t allowed by Trempwick. It’s yours if you want it now. Well,” he amended, “ in some months when we can afford it.”

“If it will be in some months then I hardly need make a decision now.” Eleanor softened her words with a smile. “I thank you. I will give it some thought, I promise you. But I have not had chance to give you my own news.”

That got his attention. “Oh?”

Eleanor raised her voice so she could be heard by many of those in the bailey. “We are cordially invited to my brother’s coronation. Those who threatened the peace of the realm have been vanquished and God’s favour for Hugh is now clear for all to see. He shall be crowned two weeks from this Wednesday.” Hugh’s messenger had brought the good news half a day behind her network.

“Two weeks?” Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We had best sort ourselves to leave the day after tomorrow, or we’ll be hard pressed to make it in good time.”

Eleanor laughed. “See? I told you that if you did not take your chance to relax today you would not get another soon!”

“Victory.” Fulk turned to face the people gathering in the courtyard as the news spread. “Victory!” he roared, raising his fist in the air. “God save the king! God save lord Hugh!” The response was of satisfactory enthusiasm and volume. When it died away Fulk declared, “A feast tonight to celebrate! Food and drink for all who come, right down to the humblest dog boy!” That gathered a louder cheer. Resuming his walk to the keep Fulk asked quietly, “We do have enough for that, don’t we?”

Eleanor gave him an exasperated look. “If we feed the bog boy the wolf and let him drink the worst ale, yes.” Relenting she kissed him on the cheek. “It was well done. A fine gesture which will win hearts for yourself and for Hugh.”










Gah! I had a bunch of unexpected calls on my time, including a lengthy and crappy exam resulting from that job application. Still waiting to find out if I passed …

On the positive side, I think I may have found a way to get the time between the awesome beginning and the equally awesome ending of that Trempwick short story to work. Shall have to see once Eleanor is complete and I try to write it.

The next part will be very long and will be the final part. After 4 years the prospect is quite similar to peering over a cliff edge and knowing you must jump.



Peasant Phill, it is indeed ‘The Prince’.

SSJPabs, let’s tackle the easier bits first.


So I was checking to see if FBG had updated her Kingdoms guides
Ah. Those. :hide:

Basically, my boss got addicted to dumping the crappy shifts on me at work so I barely had any time to use for the project. Then I got promoted to manager of my own store, and by the time travel was included I was doing 12+ hour days. Now I finally have time it’s much too late.


This struck me whenever you used the term 'git' as at this time the character would almost surely use the full version 'beget.'
Get is northern English. Git is midland and southern English, i.e. the more prevalent. This kind of variance isn’t uncommon in British English.


A similar thing happened with words like "prat" (though as an American I have no idea what that means)
Brace yourself. :winkg: Prat is a venerable old word, it’s in written documents over 500 years old and would have been in use long before that. It referred, originally, to the buttocks. Nowadays it’s more often taken to mean idiot. It’s like a medieval version of calling someone an arse.


Finally, something I always struggle to avoid in any of my own original fiction, is anachronistic terms.
I take the view that, as long as there are no freight trains, it doesn’t matter. It’s in modern English therefore it’s anachronistic whatever I write. To be fully correct it needs to be in Anglo-French, middle English, Latin, Langue d’oc, and Langue d’oil. Anything else is a compromise. If I start hurling around words like waltrot no one will know what I mean; context only does so much. As the above shows, accuracy can be present and still considered out of place.

I use the correct words as far as there’s a decent chance of people understanding the meaning. We’ve got braes instead of underpants, a guige strap instead of a shield’s shoulder strap, and so on.


my fingers were twitching with a desire to re-arrange and hack stuff out in certain posts. Mostly towards the end of the early parts and the middle part but there are a few places later.
Your fingers can’t twitch more than mine do. It’s a 4 year long collection of quickly produced, minimally edited scenes designed to tell a novel’s story in an episodic form. The constant need to remind people of things alone accounts for a couple of hundred pages which could be cut right out if the work was to be read in a shorter time. I shall indulge myself after those final scenes go up. :rubs hands gleefully:


romantic historical fiction is probably how I'd class it
Lucky you added the disclaimer about not being familiar with these kinds of stories or I’d have had some kind of breakdown there. A historical romance is a bodice ripper repackaged so the name doesn’t sound so tawdry. Cardboard characters, ultra-basic plot which serves no purpose other than shunting romance and sex scenes about, predictable, usually badly written, often filled with nonsense like people eating potatoes, and just downright bad.

Historical fiction is the term you’re looking for.


But I have to agree with Vuk, it strikes me as very obviously written from a female perspective. There's nothing wrong with that of course, authors I enjoy (like Melanie Rawn) do the same thing, but you can never quite get away from the hmm, genderness, of the work in male POV scenes.
Here’s the tricky one. When Vuk made the same comment he was reading work from an eon ago and the part of the story which is mainly told via Nell’s perspective, so I attributed it to that. You say you have finished the whole thing. Bang goes that idea.

I’m going to have to say I don’t understand what you mean. I can think of a few possible meanings; I don’t want to pick one at random. Especially since one happens to be my second most hated literacy ‘concept’ (and I use that term very loosely) after the idea that fiction has absolutely no value.

So I shall ask you to explain. Give examples if possible.

[SSJPabs]

Will reply more later, but in terms of romance, I was thinking more along the lines of this (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Historical_romance#Medieval) crossed with this (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romance_(genre)) in contemporary language. That said, it actually can't be historical fiction, but it can be alternate historical fiction.

[Prince Cobra]

Welcome SSJPabs. This is a nice alternate fiction indeed. ~:)

Wow, I have to catch up again. :sweatdrop: :bow:

[frogbeastegg]

Should she climb over the wall? Eleanor’s course strayed several steps from the path leading to the garden’s only gate. In those several steps the yearning was mastered; such behaviour was beneath her now, and seemed infantile. There were better ways to gain surprise, to throw off the shackles of expectation.

And so Eleanor presented herself at the front gate of Waltham’s walled garden. “My brother wished me to attend him,” she told the liveried men standing guard.

The wooden gate creaked as Hugh’s men pulled it open, its iron hinges in need of attention. The men at arms did not bow to her, or show deference greater than the holding open of the door. Eleanor raised an eyebrow at this. “You forget your manners.”

“Highness,” murmured one of the guards, dipping his head fractionally.

Hugh would hear of this, at whatever length it was necessary. Leaving her own bodyguards outside, Eleanor stepped through. The door was closed behind her, the world shut out from a space where it had no place. The scent of late spring enfolded her; she took a moment to breathe deeply the promise of summer.

She followed the narrow gravel path which led to the garden’s heart. It was as though she had stepped into the past. An unescorted, uncared for princess seeking refuge from a court she did not belong in, going to meet a man. That thought raised a smile, wistful. It seemed a lifetime ago that she voiced her suspicions about Trempwick to Anne and Fulk here, and another lifetime since she had exchanged that second - and third and more - kiss with Fulk here, thrilling in the discovery that he cared for her. Today’s purpose was not pleasant dalliance.

Hugh sat on the stone bench under a clump of trees sporting tender new leaves. At her approach he rose.

Eleanor made certain she got the first word in. “You will remind your men that discourtesy to me is discourtesy to all of our blood.”

Hugh stepped to one side and indicated the empty bench with a graceful sweep of his arm. “I am mindful of such things, I assure you. What has caused this distress?”

“I had to rebuke your men outside to wring so much as a nod from them.”

“That was not at my order. It will not happen again.”

“Good.” Eleanor settled herself in the middle of the bench, meaning there was no space left for Hugh to sit without him being uncomfortably close. Let him stand. “You summoned me, brother dear?” Summoned, acceptable. Summoned within hours of her arrival after riding from one end of England to the other, less acceptable. “I barely had time to change to fresh clothes.”

He accepted her denying him a seat by clasping his hands at the small of his back and shifting into a balanced stance, as though it were his preference to remain on his feet. It did enable him to look down on her, and heaven knew well his love of that! “For some of us it is a way of life. Some of us must even go so far as to consider business while travelling.”

Eleanor snorted. “Brother dear, kindly do not be asinine. My meaning was that this had better be important. It was not an invitation for you to bewail your lot.”

“I see you are in a sweet temper today, Nell.”

She bared her teeth at his usage of the pet version of her name, the version which she was increasingly coming to believe no longer fit. “Not half as sweet as you.”

“I have cause!”

Eleanor deliberately rolled her eyes. “And sometime perhaps you might enlighten me, since I presume that is the point of this. Or do you intend to dither on until I expire of age?”

Hugh’s nostrils flared. “You let an important Scottish agent past the borders. Worse, you sent him straight to me to skulk about! He could have been an assassin!”

Well, that was indeed news, and it was important that he not know it lest he think to use the weakness to his advantage. Eleanor quickly added one and one together, and come to the conclusion he must refer to the Scottish messenger she had referred on to speak to him about Nefastus. “Brother dear, one does not – one cannot – turn away a messenger sent to see if his king’s son and heir is being held hostage.”

Hugh ticked off points on his fingers. “You could have warned me. You could have sent him with an escort to limit his scope for mischief. You could have-”

Eleanor slapped a hand on the stone beside her. “Could is all well and good! But could with what? I have the tatters of Trempwick’s network and of Sir Miles’, both of which have been heavily purged, neither of which is designed to work in harmony with the other, and both of which are riddled with gaps which will take me months, if not years, to completely fill.” She slapped the bench again. “Who should I send as escort, Hugh? The boy who empties the chamber pots?”

He snapped his hand back to his side, tightly formed into a fist. “You should have warned me. That at the very least!”

“How?” Eleanor folded her hands in her lap, trying to ease the tingling pain in her palm without being too obvious about it. “Hugh, your messenger was only a few hours slower in bringing me word of your victory than my people were. That is how bad the situation is. What was possible under Trempwick is no longer so.” She stressed, “For now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is so. As you must slowly build your position to stand where your forerunner did, so too must I build to stand equal with mine.”

Hugh breathed out heavily, and his anger left him. “I expect you will now request more money.”

Eleanor had to smile at that; was she so transparent? “Trempwick had an income of hundreds from his estates, and hundreds more from our father. I have … Well, I do not have the first hundred, let alone any of the others. I must have resources if I am to be of use. And then next time I should be able to send warning to you, at the least.”

“You are always asking me for money.”

“And you know I do not do so without reason.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I know that once you were barely able to get the words out through choking on your pride. A difficulty you no longer seem to feel.”

Eleanor gave him a level look. “I am not begging for charity now. I am requesting a portion of what is mine, out of the whole I allow you to husband for me. I do so for our mutual benefit. Why, Hugh, should I be ashamed?”

“You should not,” he allowed eventually. “I will get you what can be managed without causing remark. Even have you changed your mind about being thought of no great import, I have not. Your being known as Trempwick’s successor would cause all manner of harm.”

“I have not changed my mind, never fear.”

“I must balance your needs against many others,” he warned. “The rebellion has proven costly; repairing the damage will be moreso.”

“Give me five hundred, and soon. That will make a good start.”

“Five hundred marks?”

Eleanor corrected her half-brother’s wishful thinking, “Five hundred pounds.”

Hugh’s mouth thinned into a line. “I shall be leaving for Normandy at the end of next week. This will go to Constance. I am certain she will do what she can in my absence.”

“Speaking of absence …” Eleanor plucked a flower from the grass at her feet. The petals were recently opened, the bloom delicate with the freshness of late spring. She twirled it about in her fingers as she considered the best way to broach this. “I have made the requested arrangements for our father’s reinterment. All that remains is for you to take your place at the head of them and see it done.”

Hugh flinched as though she had slapped him. “No.”

“Hugh, you must. It will be remarked upon if you do not.”

“I have no right to be there, nor any wish.”

Eleanor laid her flower down on the grass, tenderly. Then she stood and set her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I understand. Others would too, which is why you must be there.” When he did not reply she took it for acquiescence. “It can be done several days after the coronation. One of the first acts of your reign, laying your father to the dignified rest which was denied him by the rebels. It would be taken well, I think.”

“How many times,” Hugh said slowly, “did we hear the story of this garden? Near to a legend in our family and those close to us, a gentle story of the harmony between William, sixth of his name, and his queen. An example of the lengths a man should go to in order to please his wife. That our mother asked for it to be planted and walled, that she even detailed the section of wall where it is easy to climb over. So she could meet our father in peace and pretend at romance in a marriage where she was more often than not alone.” Battling to keep his face blank, Hugh stepped back and away from her. “There it was, in front of us all the time. You had but to alter a single word. Not our father, but my father. She merely misled one man in order to meet the other.” He held is arms out to the sides and slowly turned a circle. “This place might very well be my beginning.”

Eleanor pulled a face. “Now you are trying to be unpleasant.”

“Am I? You do not spawn bastards in a bed, after all.”

“You would have far better knowledge of that than I,” Eleanor snapped, revolted. It was hard to believe that her stuffy brother had just made such a suggestion. “Christ’s wounds, our mother was civilised!”

Hugh snapped around. “She was a whore and capable of any wickedness! And think, she would have needed secrecy or I would never have been made.”

Eleanor checked her first reaction, and then after a moment’s thought surrendered to it anyway. Her palm cracked across Hugh’s cheek and he made no effort to block or dodge. “You insufferable ingrate! I am sick of this! Sickened by it! You owe her respect for your life, and damn you for judging her based on – on nothing but rumours and your filthy imaginings!” Unable to stand the sight of his unrepentant face she turned away.

“Since I more than any other save your father am touched by her failings, I have more right – more reason – to be judgemental. You?” Hugh laughed harshly. “You are blessedly untouched by all of this. You have not lost everything you believed you were. You will not spend the remainder of your days living a lie. You …” He tripped into silence, and Eleanor heard him walking on the gravel behind her. “You come here and see nothing more than a garden. I do not. I see … possibilities which torment me, and from which I shall have no peace.” More softly still, the admission, “I used to like this place.”

Eleanor turned around to find him standing by the bed of fragrant herbs on the far side of the path. “Damning her will not bring you any peace. Nor will damning my father. Or rejecting them. Hate only seems to simplify matters.”

“And you would know?” He made no effort to hide his scepticism.

Eleanor picked her flower back up and gently teased its petals apart so it was fully opened. “Do you think it was easy to be reviled, only to suddenly be accepted as an heir for the very traits which saw you rejected as a daughter? And Trempwick murdered my father and beloved brother, and tried to use me. He saved my life and taught me much of what I know. How should I unravel that?” She looked to see if her words were sinking in at all; Hugh looked a touch less angry. “It is a simpler task to make peace with a lonely woman who was unable to resist temptation than it is to go through life labelling her a whore.”

“If the name fits,” Hugh recited.

Eleanor flung the flower in his face. “I hardly think she would have charged people! The name does not fit – all you do is throw out insulting words to avoid thinking about anything!”

“You inflicted this conversation on me, and you do little but lecture me on that which you do not like. I say again, Nell, you are blessedly untouched by this muck.”

Helplessly Eleanor shook her head. “She was my mother too.”

Hugh said nothing for a long time. A fat bee clumsy after long hibernation took a liking to him and flew drunkenly about his head, returning each time it was brushed away. Eventually Hugh resorted to moving away from the herbs, swatting at the bee as he went. It took the hint and went to bother the rosemary instead. “I will attend the ceremony,” Hugh announced, settling himself at one end of the bench. “Because I must, not out of any desire to do so.”

Eleanor sat next to him, and voiced a thought that had been tickling at the back of her mind for a while now. “Does it not seem sad to you? That he should end up so unloved?”

Hugh raised his head. “He rejected me, not I him.” His eyes slipped away from hers, and his head went down again. “I was the truest son I could be.”

Eleanor thought that was more of a yes than a no.










(Note from the present, all else contained in this post being a couple of days old. I came to post this section only to find the forum broken. It was fine when I visited an hour before hand. That old feeling that someone somewhere said “I hope this story never ends!” and invoked a genie with a bad sense of humour has returned.)

As you might be able to tell, that’s not the end. I split it up – it’s been ages since the last post, I still want to tweak most of the following scenes, I am not quite happy with something in another scene, and the world will not leave me alone to work in peace and quiet! Gah!

Every time I sit down to write it’s the same thing. Interruption after interruption after interruption. There appears to be a stupid belief that I need to be talked at about pointless things I don’t care about every 6 minutes. Hurray, a car 7 streets away has had one tire stolen, thanks for running up here to tell me that. My life is far richer now and I’ve totally lost sight of what I was trying to write, but never mind, now I know some more pointless, useless, tedious information about something I never wanted to hear about in the first place, and that’s far better than wasting my time actually achieving anything or working on something I enjoy. I absolutely cannot write if I know other people are nearby, no exceptions. The interruptions thing is now so bad I get jarred out of my train out thought each and every time I hear the downstairs door open, regardless of whatever I get bothered or not. Considering it takes me a good half hour or more to sink into what I’m writing deeply enough to get a good flow going you might now be able to work out that this whole interruption thing makes it a non-starter. Then there are the useless phone calls. The minute the house is empty of other people the phone starts ringing, and I can’t ignore it in case it’s someone offering me a job interview. Clue: no, this is not a hospital nor a car repair centre, try reading the numbers in the phone book and then pressing the matching ones on your own phone! Then there is the idiot with the broken car alarm. And the idiot neighbour and his hammering at brickwork. And …

It’s taken me 20 minutes to prepare this for posting. I’ve been bothered three times, and the phone has rung once. ARGH!!! :has nervous breakdown:

On the positive news front, the people I did that exam for remembered I exist. It only took them 5 weeks. I had an interview yesterday. I do not hold my breath; the first thing they asked me was to confirm I had received the pack of information to help me prepare for their questions. My reply was, “No, I haven’t received anything at all and this is the first I have heard about it.” So yay, my chances of passing that interview are crippled from the start. I shall hear if I was successful “In around four weeks …”

Hmm, there’s an interesting thought. Once the final part goes up there should be a roll call to see just how many – and who – made it to the end. Possibly with each stating roughly how long they have been reading for.



And now let’s wind time back to some point last week, when I posted the below on the other forum in response to a gentle enquiry as to how the final part was coming along. Just so you know as well.


The difficulty is that this is the end. It's proving far harder than I imagined to let go. Once that final part is posted years of work is done, characters I love will slip into the background, and my writing habits will have to change dramatically. As much as I want to edit, and to write Ancel, I recognise that my writing is going to become a lonely thing. I shall have no readers, no comments, and no one to share with. It will just be me, writing and reading alone. That loneliness is not something I look forward to.

Eleanor is the first 'big' story I wrote - as I've previously mentioned there was a version before this one. Before that I did nothing but individual brief stories. Ending Eleanor is ending an era. It's ... scary. Exciting too, but definitely scary. There's the two short stories left, Silent's and Raoul's. That's not much, and it's not Eleanor.

Plus this final part is very long.




SSJPabs, I always say, half joking and half not, that if Conn Iggulden’s Caesar books are classed as historical fiction then Eleanor has no problems. With its made up cast and altered world history Eleanor actually manages to be more accurate than Iggulden’s monstrosity.

The second of those two links is a variety of literature I devoured as a child, and still love today. I feel unworthy of being compared to those works; they are true classics.

The first of those two links is the argh-awful bodice ripper romance. I admit that there’s resemblance between their canned description of the genre and this story; this is why I didn’t want any romance between Nell and Fulk. It clouds over the thematic links I did want to be seen. I fought them; I lost in very short order. This is the disadvantage to characters who write themselves.

The difference between a trashy romance and Eleanor is that the trashy romance sets up cardboard characters on a generic faux medieval stage and, with a minimal plot, shoves them together for the sole purpose of showing them fall in love and several sex scenes. It doesn’t aim to do anything else. The whole point of them is to present variations on a limited collection of themes which the audience find sexy; it’s pretty much a female equivalent to porn. Each period setting plays to a set collection of desires, for example regency is all dancing, balls and stilted dialogue which wants to be Jane Austen but is a fifth rate imitation. It’s formal, based on the rich and fabulously dressed, and features a male lead who is suave and cultured, and often so 'passionate' (their definion, definitely not mine) that in real life he'd be sat in prison for sexual assault.

While some of the wiki page’s labels fit, the execution and intent behind it is a world apart. Females are in a subordinate position in Eleanor because that’s the historical reality. Trashy romance does it because it plays to themes of wanting to be dominated, or of wanting to battle society and stand out. Because the romance is intended to be light reading and cheering the whole issue is usually watered down, even when it’s supposed to be nasty and shocking it reads like a children’s edition. Marriage has given Nell a lot of good, and it’s given her new limitations – Fulk will not accept being a cipher. Trashy romance marriage sets the woman up in a position to do whatever she wants because her husband is there to agree with her and make her life fluffy. Trashy romance knights save the heroine from everything for ever and ever, (except when the heroine is decided to be spunky and saves herself for giggles) and the whole motivation is to use the protective male concept a lot of women find attractive. Fulk protects Nell because that was his job, and now he’s actually made her life more dangerous than it was at the start by the simple combination of being loathed by the nobility and removing Trempwick’s own protective influence. And so on.

Yes, this means I have read some trashy medieval romance. I’m embarrassed to admit I have slogged my way through something like 20 of the wretched things under the theory that a writer should read absolutely everything, especially the things she would not read by choice, in order to learn more. I learned plenty – about what not to do.




Every POV character here, and most of the story itself, is a twist on the standard that readers are taught by the bulk of books. That’s only going to be noticeable by someone who reads a lot of historical or fantasy type fiction, and only if they decide to think about the story as an overall once it’s completed. It’s in no way a big part of my reason for writing this, more like a neat bonus feature for those who, like me, read so much that they see the same things over and over and over again.

Nell the unexpected heir marked by destiny (scar on her face from the royal ring) who doesn’t become ruler. By convention she should be queen, ruling over a society that’s headed rapidly towards modern equality and acceptance. As the main character the effect is further strengthened; she is practically bound by fictional law to become queen. She’s the wilful heroine who doesn’t manage to turn the world upside down, and who ends up more trapped than before. She should be free to do as she wills, not having to ask more people than before for more things than before. She's much more bound by concepts like duty than before, and the role she has fallen into is one which allows her less freedom in terms of things like choosing what to do with her life and time. There are others which apply to her, lots of minor ones like she’s the assassin spy type who isn’t. She should be a female version of James Bond by now, killing left right and centre in improbably cool ways, usually while dressed in black. I won’t go into them all unless people want me to.

Fulk is the lowly man who rose high and didn’t change the world. Convention would have him accepted, and society would be reconsidering its ideas about the superiority of noble blood. Yet more modern equality being railroaded in where it doesn’t fit.

The romance between them muddies that because it drags in that comparison to trashy romance. Still, it works in some ways. Fulk is the tolerant pushover husband who isn’t really.

Jocelyn is the character who gets the trashy romance convention twist. He’s the rapist and bigoted type who isn’t the villain. The knight of noble birth who isn’t courtly. The devoted father who is a bad husband. And quite a few more. In short, he’s a trait of the hero matched each time with a trait of the villain; he’s a genre paradox.

All of the characters are a lot more than their respective twisted cliches. It's always right near the bottom on their list.

But as I said, that’s all a side theme. The core of the story, as far as it has one single thing that can be called that, is the very historical theme of small, seemingly insignificant things making the most impact in the long run. For all the grand events, such as the death of a king, it's the smaller ones, like a man being seasick, which have the most impact.

[furball]

Your stories and commentaries are always a joy to read, ma'am. I shall miss them terribly.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

High Goddess Frogg:
You should be commended for this epic. It is a masterwork and an eyeopening experience for all that read it and can understand what the **** is actually going on. I love how you have made almost every Archetype into a true bastardization of all fantasy novella characters and at the same by, by the same virtues, a FAR truer and more accurate representation of how those characters would be in a Real and Fleshed-out world, rather than the pages of a comic book and child's story.
I also love how i didnt take you a lot of fancy words, writing, plot twists and character corruptions to make this happen. All that you really did was take our modern conventions and turn them against us.
For You:bow:
:balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2:

[Peasant Phill]

As always, this bit of liturature made the waiting for it all worth it.

I'm going to have to find something else to look forward to once this book of yours is finished.

[shinderhizzle84]

glad to see you made another update.

i was beginning to fear that the last update before this one was really the end, and that i missed something incredibly important.

also, while everyone seems to be offering their final compliments, i must offer one, as well:

i love how everyone seems to be more realistic. The depth of each character is astounding, and I can feel Hugh's pain when he was in the garden in this last post. I also like how each character has different moods, and isn't always either really happy, or really dark, or whatever their archetype claims they are. Eleanor, although she is the protagonist, is often very angry, and I especially like that, because in most novels today, the protagonist is usually some "Golden boy/girl" who is nice to everyone, and is always the epitome of goodness. This has more balance, and it is refreshing to see it done so well.

i, too, will be missing this when it comes to an end. Hopefully one day I'll be able to buy it in the nearest Barnes & Noble, though!

[frogbeastegg]

Say one thing for having bodyguards, say they made getting through crowds easier. Edric took the lead, shouting for people to make way for the princess Eleanor. Hubert and Edward flanked Eleanor, encouraging people to keep their distance with a combination of glares and hands on sword hilts.

Say one thing for a coronation, say it brought half the country together into Waltham. Even with her honour guard it took Eleanor a ridiculously long time to make the trip from garden to inner bailey. The palace had never been so busy in her lifetime. Every notable in the realm was here, including quite a few from across the Narrow Sea. Roughly half those men had brought family with them; an eldest son, favoured younger sons, more than a few wives, sisters and daughters. The making of a new king was the single most important occasion which could occur in any person’s life. Men needed to witness it done, to see with their own eyes that all had been done correctly and that thus there was no grounds to question. They needed to give their homage. Heirs should be introduced, both to mark them clearly in that status and to ensure that they, too, understood that the man they would one day serve was God’s own chosen. As for the female relations, well what better chance for them to deploy their social skills on behalf of their men?

With the exception of a few honoured cases – Eleanor being one - Hugh had declined to relax the arse in the crown’s ruling that each man might bring only three retainers to Waltham. Even so Waltham palace and the nearby town fairly teemed with servants. Three multiplied by several hundred came to a literal army, and that army filled the streets and buildings, rushing to and fro in a bid to settle their masters in to whatever cramped quarters they had managed to arrange.

Well over a thousand people. Four times that number of horses. Hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of finery. Weeks of preparation. A timetable of festivities more rigorously planned than the campaign which brought down Trempwick. Eleanor bit back a grin – all of this for her brother, a man most found difficult to imagine as the source of any good party.

Eleanor and Fulk had been assigned the same quarters she had occupied during her previous visit to Waltham, and whether that was Hugh’s own idea or a simple continuance of her father’s she had to approve. The building best known as the royal nursery: what better way to honour someone and mock them in the same breath? In practicality she had more space than any but the royal couple, and the rooms had proven themselves defensible.

When she finally made it back Eleanor was relieved to see that servants no longer hurried in and out of the doorway, and dared to hope that all had been set up in her short absence. Organising which objects went where was all part of a wife’s duty and could not be neglected were she present, whatever more important things she had to consider.

That hope was dashed the instant she set foot across the threshold. A liveried man tugged his forelock. “Your Highness, we were wondering where we should put-”

Eleanor held up her hand, listening to something other than him. “Is that my sister-by-law I hear?”

“Yes, your Highness. Her ladyship – that is, her Majesty, arrived some short time ago. She’s speaking to lord Fulk at present.”

Saved! “Then I had best go through. Continue to ask Hawise about where things should go; she knows my preferences.”

Eleanor turned into the first ground floor room which had, once again, been set up to act as an improvised man hall. Constance’s voice grew louder, sufficient to pick out a word here and there above the clamour of unpacking. As she crossed to the far end of the room she heard Fulk’s voice saying, “I am sensible to the honour, please don’t misunderstand. It’s only that … it’s not my place.”

“Your place is where your lord and king wishes you to be.”

“With all respect, I am not my lord’s squire.”

The conversation cut off as Constance noticed Eleanor in the solar’s doorway. “Ah. Eleanor, at last. I had expected you sooner.”

Eleanor stood by Fulk. “It is very busy out there. One can scarce move faster than a cripple’s shuffle even with guards.”

Constance stood, easing her back with one hand. “I wish to speak with you. Without all of this.” She indicated her maids, Fulk and the servants with a wave of a hand.

“As you wish.”

The rooms other occupants silently filed out with the exception of Fulk. He started to leave, changed his mind and turned back.

Constance’s eyes narrowed. “You have been requested to serve your lord in a capacity and so you shall, unless your loyalty is lacking.”

“He knows it is not.”

“Then I see no need for you to linger here. Report to the master of ceremonies before the end of the day and have him educate you as to what is required.” She turned her face away from him, signalling a definite end to the matter.

Yet still Fulk didn’t withdraw. Eleanor looked at him in askance; he ignored her. With the utmost care he said to Constance, “I am not a boy.”

Constance’s head snapped back around and she marched right up to Fulk. A inch or two shorter than he, she was able to stand toe to toe with him and make him appear faintly preposterous - somehow uncertain of how he should stand or react. With razor-edged enunciation Constance said, “I am sensible of the loyalty you have shown my husband, and of how hard you have fought for him. That gives you a modicum of license. Do not let that make you overbold or encourage you to forget what you are and on what sufferance you are permitted to be here! Must I remind you that Hugh would have been entirely within his rights to make of you an exile within your own homeland, in reality if not in name? Or to cut his sister off without a word or coin to her name?”

Through gritted teeth Fulk ground out, “I am aware of that my every waking moment.”

“Then be grateful that you are to be more than a spectator, whatever the capacity. It is an honour you would not get close to sniffing if Hugh did not think it unjust to leave you out where all others who came to his side are recognised. Now get out and if you say but a single word more I shall have the honour withdrawn and your invitation to attend here at Waltham revoked.”

Fulk bowed very stiffly and marched out.

Constance said to Eleanor, “Now for the love of God, shut that door!” Once Eleanor had done so the elder woman relaxed with an expelled breath. “Next, for Christ’s sweet love, teach that husband of yours some sense. He should never have questioned me where others could hear. Had he not I would not have needed to crush him in front of those same itchy ears.”

Eleanor’s feet ached from the slow walk out to the garden and back; she sat down in one of the window seats and eased her new shoes off. Flexing her toes and enjoying the freedom from leather that, while soft, still managed to rub at her heels, she asked, “What was that about?”

Constance slumped down into cushions. “He is to be included in the procession to and from the coronation. Hugh desires the lords who fought for him to occupy the traditional roles in that procession, as a mark of his gratitude to them.”

“And what is Fulk to carry?”

Constance had the grace to look embarrassed as she answered, “Hugh’s banner.”

“Ah.” That task traditionally fell to the soon-to-be king’s squire. To assign it to a grown man … “I have to admit to a degree of respect for the mind behind that.”

“It is no more than expediency on our part. To grant him a more prestigious role would have provoked an outcry. To leave him out entirely would encourage the wolves to circle closer in the hopes he will become prey.” Constance smoothed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “There is a need for someone to take the place; Malcolm will be attending as a prince not a squire.”

“It is not the easiest thing for Fulk, this balance between rejected and accepted.”

“Then he should not have married you,” Constance replied simply.

That delicate point blunted, Eleanor tried a stronger approach. “You shamed him before his own servants. Before your nobly born companions. Word will spread throughout Waltham within the hour, and within the day there will not be a soul within five miles who has not heard. A man hated by the queen is halfway to finished.”

“He should have displayed more sense. I am under the impression he usually does; it is a part of why Hugh chose not destroy him after your marriage.”

“You know how much pride and honour matter to men of rank. To accept a boy’s place without objection would have made him seem weak-”

“Yes, yes,” Constance interrupted. “I have a great many other things to do today, and I do not wish to waste further time on this. You have some small point, though it pales when stood next to my larger one. I shall say something pleasant to the man as I leave. My current state has made me famously ill-tempered.” She caressed her swollen stomach, all signs of temper gone and her face glowing with love. “I confess that I use the poor little darling as an excuse. It is astonishing how much more one can do with a few hard words and a show of irritation.”

Despite herself Eleanor laughed. “One may only hope that the child does not absorb the trick for itself. I am not sure another bad-tempered William is needed.”

Constance’s hand fell still. “Not William. No more of mine shall be William.”

Eleanor felt her face burn; she should have remembered that the son murdered within minutes of his birth had been christened William.

Constance smiled sadly. “So few remember him. There are those who think I have never carried a child longer than a few months.”

“It is not uncommon to use a name again if the child bearing it died.”

“No, it is not. When a family wishes its names to live on.” She placed slight stress on the ‘when’.

Eleanor blinked slowly. “William is the family name; the eldest son is always William. With the exception of my own eldest brother.” The arse in the crown had wanted to break from tradition and establish his own: Stephan after his favoured saint.

“William is a declaration of continuity. That would leave Hugh as a hiccough in the otherwise smooth procession. Something other than William is an announcement of a break with that past, with all the varied interpretations people will place on that. We could have another Hugh.” Constance pursed her lips. “I do not want another William. Nor does Hugh feel it right. We had that time – child, idea, vision of the future - and it was murdered.”

“It could be a girl,” Eleanor suggested, coming at the matter from a different angle.

“A girl would be Constance, after myself and my own mother. Hugh will not countenance Joanna.”

“He could come to change his mind. Perhaps for a second daughter?”

Constance had been tapping her fingers on her leg; now she pressed her hands flat to still them. “Let us save the pleasantries for another day, when we can appreciate them.”

Eleanor shrugged. “As you like.”

“I came here to speak with you about Trempwick.” That relaxed, motherly glow died a swift death; Constance leaned awkwardly forward and said in a low, matter of fact voice, “I understand the reason why he is still alive. I understand the prison you have made for him, and can almost reconcile myself to his living because it must be a special kind of hell for him. If that man sets a single toe outside of that prison I will have him torn to shreds, and those shreds will be burned, and the ashes scattered into the sea. The only thing keeping me from doing that is the fact that it would place Hugh and myself in the most perilous of positions. All I need is for him to give me an excuse and I will avenge the murder of my children.” She paused a moment for that to sink in. “So make sure he stays in Repton or get out of my way when the time comes.”

Eleanor considered a moment. Trempwick’s standing was as low as it could get, he had no lands, no status, no friends. Hugh’s position was growing slowly stronger. Should he be fool enough to attempt treason a second time it might be possible to hustle him onto the scaffold for a traitor’s death without causing uproar. “If he breaks faith I shall sit beside you as they burn his entrails.”

“Then we have an understanding.” Constance struggled back to her feet.

“A moment?”

“If you are quick. As I have told you, I have much to do.”

Eleanor said bluntly, “Hugh is falling to pieces.”

“Is that surprising?” Constance pressed both her hands to her stomach, one stationary and one working to soothe the child within. “Hugh has long worked to follow the pattern laid out for him; to be dutiful, righteous and follow the best of examples. He built his life on foundations based on an understanding of who and what he was, and built towards those ideals. Now his foundations are gone and his ideals in conflict, and he is hurt, deeply and badly hurt and betrayed.”

“I know-”

“A dutiful son honours his mother. A righteous man abhors an adulteress. Go on, resolve the conflict between the two in such a way that you remain both dutiful and righteous.” Eleanor barely had chance to take a breath before Constance snapped, “That is right – you cannot. It is an impossibility. Instead choose which is more important out of the two virtues.”

Again Eleanor had no chance to speak.

“Impossible. Now think how many such conflicts he is suffering under. What he knows points in one direction, what he wishes to be in another, no way to find a settlement and no way to chose one direction. You might say it is a simple matter of turning away form the ideal and dealing with the reality. That would be a disaster for Hugh – the ideal is what makes him move forwards. He knows it is seldom possible and yet as long as he thinks there is a chance, no matter how slender, he will keep working towards it. To admit that there is no chance is to give up.”

That confirmed Eleanor’s worst fears; Hugh would never pick his way free of his demons. “The conflict will destroy him.”

“No. The conflict is one he has lived with for all the years I have known him. It will settle itself eventually. Where others failed he will not, and where he has failed he will do better. And so on.” Constance rubbed her brow and sighed. “No. The difficulty comes from the heart. How hard and for how long did Hugh strive to be a good son? A son his father could be proud of? Out of all William’s children, Hugh was the only one who cared something for him. The rest of you were – at very best – indifferent to him. Hugh loved him.” After a moment Constance qualified, “In a way. Not the foul-tempered bully, the kinder parts. To be rejected … Do I need to tell you that it tore out his heart?”

“He hates our mother for placing him in this position, and he hates my father for setting him up for this disappointment.”

Constance corrected softly, “‘Our’ father. Whatever he claimed at the end, William was Hugh’s father. There is more to the matter than blood. And if I am honest, I believe the blood is William’s. Why else did he spend twenty-six years calling Hugh his son and raise him as heir? The tune only changed when he was on his death bed and it looked as though Trempwick would succeed in setting you on the throne. I believe William was motivated by the belief Hugh was a complete failure; we both know he had no tolerance for that.”

“I tried telling Hugh that, more than once. He would not listen.”

“One minute he is filled with anger, the next he is close to weeping. It is not something which will resolve quickly. Or easily, though heaven knows if I could make it easier for him I would. “ Constance sighed again. “He does not really know who or what he is any more. Many of the ways he used to define himself he will not use now. Even the most basic: Hugh, son of William.”

“Hugh, husband of Constance, father of as yet unnamed, king of England?” Eleanor suggested.

“With time, I think so. It will be a little easier once he is anointed; it is harder to doubt one’s worthiness when one is a member of God’s own chosen elite. And easier again once he is a father. A healthy child will do much to repair the holes torn in him by Trempwick.” Constance squared her shoulders and let her hands drop to her sides. “But you are wrong in one thing: he is not falling to pieces. No. He is letting his true feelings show on those limited occasions where it is safe for him to do so. No one can maintain a façade so opposed to what he in truth feels every moment of every day. Should he attempt it, then he would crumble under the weight of it. No, no person alive could keep such turmoil contained every moment of every day for weeks at an end.”

That was well and good – and not entirely what Eleanor meant. “He refused to attend my father’s-” At a glare from her sister-by-law Eleanor amended, “Our father’s reinterment.”

Constance tilted her head to one side. “Did you honestly doubt he would refuse to go once the arrangements were made? Whatever protests he made, it was always obvious Hugh would be there to play his role.”

“I all but had to twist his arm to get him to agree.”

“But his agreement was inevitable.”

“Which makes the whole matter a waste of my time – and a risky one at that. If a whisper of it had escaped-”

Constance raised her eyebrows. “You think a few minutes of Hugh uttering some heartfelt curses so he does not go insane is a waste of your time?”

“That is a cruel way to twist my words,” Eleanor said quietly.

“Hugh will do his part. He will find a way to recover his harmony, with time. He will maintain whatever act is necessary – do whatever is necessary – to safeguard his family. You and I will do whatever we can to aid him in that, whether it means ‘wasting’ time as he expels some anger or shouldering a part of the load so he has less to carry. And that is all there is to be said.”

Eleanor gave up the battle; she would have to trust Constance to prevent Hugh from making any more potentially dangerous moves. “He is my brother. And I do worry. And so much depends upon him that it cannot but make matters worse.”

Constance touched the crucifix she wore at her neck. “May I be forgive for thinking it so often, but you could have prevented this had you only killed that messenger. Then no one but yourself would have known of a dying man’s cracked wits.”

“And would that not make me that much closer to becoming a second Trempwick, ready to kill any who get in my way?” Eleanor spread her hands. “How small is the step from removing inconvenient adults to removing inopportune children?”

Constance blanched, and snapped, “Quite a large one.”

“I would prefer not to find out.”

“What is done is done. The situation before us is the one we must live with. And now, I must go.” In the doorway Constance halted, and said over her shoulder. “We currently favour the name Arthur.”







Fulk returned from his trip to the master of ceremonies, pensive, his fingers absently stroking the braided leather grip of his sword.

“What is it?” Eleanor enquired. This was not the state of mind she’d expected him to be in after hearing the fine details of his humiliating honour. Fit to murder people, yes. Thoughtful, no.

He wandered across the solar to the fireplace and bent to throw another log onto the flames. “There is to be a small tourney the day after the coronation.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. “You are thinking of entering?”

“I rather think I must.”

“Everyone will be out to crack your head-”

He turned to give her a faint smirk. “It’s team based. Only half of them will be after me.”

As if that helped! “They could kill you and claim it to be an accident!”

“I don’t think so.” Fulk against the wall next to her window seat, one foot raised to rest on the stonework. “Your brother has made it clear he won’t look kindly on any such mishaps, in tourney or out. It’s all going to be quite peaceful. Whalebone swords, blunted lances, full armour – even ransoms are to be friendly. Half a mark, no more. No one will be indebted because of capture.”

Eleanor knew that if she made this a matter of courage or ability she would have the reverse of the effect she wanted, and encourage him into it. “If you are fighting, who will I have for company? I am less popular than I was at my father’s wedding, if you can believe such a low exists.”

“You have Hawise and Aveis, and Constance won’t shun you. If she lets you into her circle then others must accept you.” Fulk flashed a grin and raised his sword arm in a pose to show off his biceps. Not that you could see them through his loose tunic sleeve. “And you’ll be the lady of the dashing knight sweeping the field with his prowess, which’ll make you the envy of every woman there.”

His silly pose had left his ribs exposed so Eleanor poked them. “Clod-brain, you have too high an opinion of yourself.”

“Dearest gooseberry, I know you’re fond of me, but to the point where you can’t survive an afternoon without me?”

“I need someone to rest my feet on; we neglected to bring a foot stool.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I shall have paraded before all in a place that belongs to a boy. I will have been derided and mocked a thousand times behind my back, and a hundred times politely to my face. Folk will be busy hashing over that greatest knight business, assuring themselves that I don’t deserve it. People will suggest its cowardice that keeps me from entering, or a lack of skill.” He set his hand on her shoulder and said without looking down, “I cannot have that. My reputation for skill at arms is most of what I have to defend us with. I need to be too dangerous to risk challenging in combat – we can’t rely on your kinship to the king alone. People will bite at us if they think Hugh will not notice, but not if they know I shall challenge them to combat and likely win.”

Eleanor bowed her head. “And you want to enter.”

“And I want to enter,” he confirmed. “I am a fighting man, for better or worse. I enjoy it.”





“Eleanor!”

She had, of course, been warned that Anne would be waiting in London. Given the distance the girl had to travel, and the timescale, there had been no point in her coming on to Waltham only to turn around and plod back to Westminster with the coronation party. The simple message had failed to do justice to the gale of words and energy that was the dowager queen. Eleanor extended her arms to receive the girl’s embrace. “You shall have to tell me how you escaped Scotland.”

“It was easy. Well, mostly easy. Well, not that hard, anyway. I just reminded my father that he needed a representative here and that Malcolm cannot count now they have fallen out, and that as the last king’s wife I’m perfectly suited to the job. I already know most of the people, and the places, and everything, and I hinted that I might be able to spy a bit and get him some information and maybe wring some concessions out of Hugh, since he is my son in the eyes of the law and such a nice, good man as well. And since William is being moved to join his first wife at the cathedral I should be here to witness that, since he was my husband too. I do miss him, even though it has been a quarter of a year since I last saw him. Oh, it is impossible to believe it has been so long! ”

“Breathe!” Eleanor implored.

Anne laughed. “You always say that.”

Eleanor unfastened the brooch pinning her cloak, and folded the garment a few times so it could hang comfortably over her arm. “You always talk too much and too quickly. I swear I do not know how your lungs cope.” She stepped to one side in order to permit two men bearing her clothing chest to rush by. Giving Anne a wry look she said, “This is the second time in four days I have arrived somewhere, so one would hope that this time they have practice enough to set our chambers up without putting Fulk’s armour by the bed and his clothes in the solar.”

Anne laughed again. “Did they really do that?”

“Sadly, yes. They got the chests mixed up.” Eleanor felt a pang of guilt; if she’d been doing her duty instead of talking then the mistake would not have happened. “My second best shoes were lost as well.”

“Oh dear.” Anne hooked her arm through Eleanor’s and started to walk her down the colonnaded passage. “Well, my rooms are all nicely set up and calm, so you must join me there until yours have been settled, unless you want to oversee the servants, but then we would not have chance to talk and that would be such a dreadful shame. You can recover from your journey, and tell me all the news and everything, and I can tell you more about how I got away from home.” She craned her neck to look about the teeming mass of humanity that had descended on the palace. “Where is Fulk?”

“Seeing that the horses are given proper stabling.”

“But shouldn’t his grooms be able to do that?”

Eleanor grimaced. “How many people do you think there are, fighting for the best? Fulk can use his rank to gain what is our due. Alone, our grooms would be pressed out of the way by those belonging to better known lords.”

“It is not really what an earl should be doing.”

“No,” Eleanor agreed curtly, “he should not have to do it.” Having been negligent once Eleanor was not about to allow Anne to tempt her into repeating the mistake. “I will oversee my servants. Come with me,” she urged. “We can talk at the same time.”

Anne stared. “Gosh, how very normal and proper of you! It is something of a shock to think of you doing something so mundane and unimportant, and I know you did not used to like to bother with such boring things. I suppose it is true what they say: marriage does change people and make them grow up.” Anne clamped a hand to her mouth. “I did not mean it like that!”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and said with exaggerated seriousness, “It is hardly unimportant; I only have so many shoes.”

“Well, you will have to tell me all about everything, and about Alnwick, and I hear you have Carlisle as well now. Do you have them nicely furnished or are you still finding the right items? What are the people there like? I want to hear about the battle; was it as dreadful as it all sounds? And about Trempwick’s capture, and about when he was brought before Hugh and confessed his crimes, and all of that. How I wish I had been there to see it!”

“Truly, you do not.”

“And you absolutely have to tell me about your marriage. How is it? Are you both still happy? Have you managed to settle together or are you still a bit awkward about being seen together and settling disagreements and stuff? Do you disagree, for that matter? I do hope not! Is Fulk still all kind and charming and gentle and everything? What does he do with his days? Is he managing to find his way with his new title and powers and stuff? Is he treating you considerately? And is that actually fun? Because I remember the day after your wedding …”

Eleanor kept walking and let the chatter flow over her like water over a stone. It was good to see Anne again.









That’s 8 pages. There’s around 12 pages left, still in need of work here and there.

I admit that the banner bearer bit is entirely my own invention. Much searching of historical accounts of English medieval coronations didn’t turn up a position which offered the required potential for (dis)honour; it’s not too much of a stretch to believe there would have been someone carrying the king’s personal banner somewhere in the procession. That’s the known anachronism in the event.

That first scene is possibly the single most revised in this entire story. I wrote and rewrote, tweaked, adjusted, fiddled, honed and played with it, and hated it each time. Then I deleted close to 5 pages of content and rewrote it so the conversation about Hugh took its present form. Much better! Far less of the “wah wah sob!” air that the other attempts had. I played delete with Anne too. Paragraph by paragraph that scene got hacked back to 1/3 of its original length, and I told her that if she did not cooperate then I would bin the entire thing. It’s nice to have in there; it’s not vital. 4 pages of Anne chattering on about everything she has been doing and interrogating Eleanor is not tolerable at this point in the day. Or perhaps any point in any day.

Conversely, the scene after this needs a bit more wordage. It’s too light, and it is important. So that one you shall have to wait for. A few of the others need some polish too; can’t have a coronation sequence which sits badly on my writer’s sense. Hopefully that one won’t take as long. :glares out of window at morons having a noisy barbeque less than 12 feet away under her open window: I hate summer. It’s too hot to keep the window closed, and too noisy to think it with open.



Furball, I shall miss posting them. No reason to write commentaries without an audience ~:(

Olaf, thank you :bow:

I recently read a trilogy which took the fantasy clichés and turned them upside down quite nicely. Joe Abercrombie’s ‘The First Law’, comprising of ‘The blade itself’, ‘Before they are hanged’ and ‘Last argument of kings’. It starts out amusing, lightweight and typical of the genre. Book 2 is mostly harmless but shows clear flashes of upturned clichés. Book 3 is something of a bomb. Pretty good, if not amazing.

Peasant Phill, if we’re talking about waiting for reading material then there are two famous examples you could join in order to preserve that “When will I have something to read? When? And will this part be good, or will it be another lump of text which does little to advance the story?!” feeling.

There’s the last book of The Wheel of Time. What’s supposed to be 1 book has now become 3, what was supposed to end this year will now end in 2011 at the soonest, but will probably take a couple of years longer than that. Added fun comes from the death of the author, and the fact that the guy chosen to take the notes and complete the series is working himself to death and is a popular author in his own right and thus has contracted material of his own he needs to write and submit while working on this series.

Or the next book in the ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ series. Book 4 got split into 2 after a long wait, then there was a long wait for the first half to be published, and now there’s a long wait for the second half to be completed and published. Then there are several more volumes to wait for, any of which could be split further.

I’m waiting for both :blankg:

[/light froggy humour]

Shinderhizzle, :bow:

I hate Goldenboys/girls. They are no fun to read about because they are not human. Worse are the ones who are clearly meant to be golden but behave like selfish idiots or scum. Nothing wrong with selfish idiots or scum, provided you don’t claim and/or have the world behave as though they are otherwise.

[Death is yonder]

No reason to write commentaries without an audience


An audience you still have milady frog, albeit a silent and respectful one, who stays in the shadows peeping out of the bushes to witness the bards telling of the amazing tale.

It is sad that there are no more Trempwick scenes, I really loved his character, at first a spymaster who is the epitome of deception, then a man who is akin to the loving father the Eleanor never had, following that, a man who believed in what he fought for, not easily swayed, yet honorable in the end, with how mundane his life had become portrayed very nicely.

With your story soon drawing to a close, I wish it wouldn't end. I have loved the plot outlines and all the plot development in this story, along with how the characters have progressed, from being a figment of an imagination with some historical backing blossoming into real personalities of their own.

[furball]

After several re-reads, this chapter isn't as "hurried" as my initial reading led me to believe. Maybe it seems rushed because the writing's tighter than I'm used to? I can't put my finger on it.

I neglected to say that it's still a pleasure to read.

[HopAlongBunny]

I started reading this some years ago.

RL and a grueling schedule got in the way; haven't laid eyes on it since at least 06 I would think.

Now I'm back up to pg. 9 and loving it. I like how you pay attn. to details of class, economics and to some extent culture. The way your characters weave out their skeins amid the conflicting demands of the above, and their own personal frailties has me hooked all over again.

I bow to thee WonderFrog and thank you for this gift.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

To Her Majesty Frog:

As ever awesome work. You will always be a far better writer than i am. While it is sad to see this masterpiece of a story go, i am happy at the same time that you shall have more to work on. :beam:
I would also like to thank you for the mention of the WoT series, for truly Robert Jordan was a master author and he was taken from us far too soon.:shame:

I can only hope to see more of your work in the future.

Your servant,
Olaf

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh crossed himself and genuflected to the altar, and knelt on the cushion placed in readiness for his vigil. Hands clasped before his breast he closed his eyes, cleared his mind and began to pray.

Once he had completed the prescribed prayers Hugh opened his eyes and let his thoughts empty, waiting to see what would emerge of its own accord. Thus as a youth he had kept his vigil on the eve of knighthood and so thus would he pass his vigil on the eve of his coronation. Attempting to guide his contemplation to specific subjects had felt wrong back then, and would feel wrong now.

A thought formed, more of a concept and a recognition than words, something grander and deeper than could be captured with a label for communication. It was … posterity, legacy, history, what he would seek to shape with the divine rights granted to him. As if someone not in this room, not in this mundane world, asked him what he had it in him to be. What end would he use his authority for.

It was on his lips to utter the ambition he had clung to for much of his life, and say righteous. The prayer did not form, and Hugh realised that his soul did not resound with it. Not this time. Not for a while now.

What else might he seek to attain above all else if granted the honour of kingship? Strength. Wisdom. Intelligence. Cunning. Success. Conquest. Wealth. Piety. These words and more passed through his mind, and he knew all came from his own speculation of what kings before him had mediated on being. They were not him.

He waited.

After a time he saw that there was something else, something as large and solid as a vein of granite within the earth. Strong like the stone, and like the stone a bedrock which gave foundation for all built above.

“Blessed Lord,” he prayed, lips moving silently, “Help me to be just. Guide me to bring justice to all under my hand. Aid me to destroy injustice in all its forms within my lands, and to stand against wrongdoers everywhere. Lend me your strength that I might be tireless in the pursuit of justice, and the wisdom that I might judge well and fairly in all matters for all people whenever I am called on. Clear my eyes so I might see inequity and corruption, and stand with me as I strive to purge them from my rule and reform for the good of all. Grant me the courage to stand by what is right always, in the darkest hour and in the most difficult case.”

Hugh bowed to the altar, so deeply his forehead touched the flagstones. “That is the virtue I would guide my rule by, Lord. It is what I understand to be the cardinal obligation of a king. From justice comes peace, and from peace prosperity. Justice brings forth the best in we sinful men: compassion, wisdom, fairness, discipline. It drives back our weaknesses and checks our excesses.”

He straightened to sit on his heels. There was no feeling of answer, only of complete peace. Tears pricked at the corners of Hugh’s eyes and he bowed his head in gratitude; peace was blessing enough for a man who had felt none in weeks.






The doorway of Westminster loomed before Hugh like a mouth eager to swallow him. As he advanced to the abbey door he lowered his eyes to the red cloth which formed a lengthy pathway from his chambers to the stage where the throne awaited.

Crossing the threshold a sensation of sheer panic struck Hugh, and it was all he could do to continue his stately pace as though his mind was filled with the serenity of God’s own chosen. The entrance lay several paces behind now, and one more with each heartbeat. Close, and as unreachable as the sun. Hugh knew the man he was would never leave this place; each measured step took him closer to the end.

A choir sang, beautiful enough to break the heart. They sang for God and for him – a mere mortal placed close to the Almighty! Hugh’s heart pounded fit to shatter his ribs; he continued to advance with majesty to the fate which awaited him.

To the sides of the vast abbey hundreds – many hundreds – of people filed into place. Lords, ladies, notables, near-nobodies, shoulder to shoulder and in their finest and with their eyes fixed upon him. Upon his every move. Expectant. Hungry, almost.

Abruptly Hugh remembered a section from one of the histories he had read as a youth. Certain pagan tribes had ritually sacrificed their kings. Crowned them, robed them, cherished them, and slaughtered them. Was that so different to what was to be done to him? A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of his throat; Hugh sank his teeth into the soft inside of his lip and let the jolt of pain wash the madness away.

All too soon the procession reached the foot of the stage. Those ahead of Hugh split to the left and right to clear his path, and stood holding their glittering burdens in readiness for the ceremony.

Then the stairs were behind him, and Hugh stood before the throne. With a sweep of his arm he swung his mantle to the side and seated himself in a manoeuvre he had practiced rigorously, careful that the fabric fell across his knees in such a way that it formed pleasing folds with his robe.

The Archbishop of Canterbury moved to stand at Hugh’s right side. He voice rang out clearly, addressing the gathering to the right. “Is it your will that this man, Hugh, son of William, who was our former lord, be consecrated as our king? Do you give this man your consent?”

Hugh stood and faced the people the Archbishop had spoken to, letting them scrutinize him and see that he was sound of body and indeed the man they knew and not a substitute.

Hundreds of voices called, “So be it!” and “God bless King Hugh!”

As one Hugh and the Archbishop turned to the left and repeated the process, and again Hugh was acclaimed. Hugh moved to stand behind the throne, facing the half of the crowd that had been forced to stand behind the stage due to the lack of space. Once more the Archbishop’s ritual query rang through the building; Hugh realised that the fear was gone. In its place was acceptance. Part of him would die here, today. The sacrifice was necessary. He would not flinch from his obligation.

The firmetur manus tua filled the building, soaring to heaven on the pure voices of the choir. As the hymn concluded the bishops of Durham and Bath took Hugh’s arms and guided him down from the stage, through the abbey to the high altar for his blessing and a sermon.






Hugh knelt before the altar, one hand on the bible and the other on a relic of Saint Edward the Confessor. He took a deep breath and prayed his voice would come without catch or tremble. “I, Hugh, swear by these relics and by my immortal soul that I will keep peace, honour and duty towards God and the holy church and all her customs, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to exercise fair justice and equality amongst all the people of the realm, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to abolish any evil laws and customs that have been introduced to this realm, and to make good laws, and to keep those laws without fraud or evil intent, all the days of my life.”

Now it was time. He regained his feet and allowed himself to be stripped to his shirt and breeches. The fear had returned. His noble attendants seized the collar of his shirt, one on either side, and tore the linen so it fell from his body in rags. Hugh paid little attention. Just a man, just an ordinary man, nothing more and nothing less, now and never again, not in this life and not in the next. Minutes left. Only minutes, slipping by like sand rushing through the gaps in his fingers. Would the world be the same afterwards? Would he be the same? His life would not – could not be. Shoes covered in gold work decoration were placed on his feet and time ran out.

Hugh swallowed hard, took a slow breath and knelt beneath the canopy set up close to the altar. Waiting was agony; like the condemned prisoner wishing the axe would never fall and wishing it would so the wait was over. Oh God, was he worthy?! How could he possibly be worthy!? Hugh’s stomach clenched, and the prayers still murmured on.

Then he felt warmth on his scalp and perfume filled the air about him. The chrism trickled down his forehead; Hugh clenched his eyes shut to keep from being blinded. It was done. He was no longer simply human: he was more, and ever would be. One of God’s chosen on earth, selected to rule over men and lands, elevated by God through mortal hands, closer to the Lord than any save the highest of the church.

Hugh risked opening his eyes; the oil had spread sufficiently that it no longer threatened to drip from his brow. The Archbishop drew a cross with the chrism on Hugh’s breast, and on each of his biceps. The linen cap which Suffolk had borne in the procession was placed on Hugh’s head lest anything remove the holy oil before seven days had passed.

As he pushed himself up from the cushion where he’d knelt Hugh thought a brief prayer for the part of his being which did not rise with him; the ordinary man he had been lay, in his imagination, sprawled like a corpse at his feet. But … he was anointed. Anointed! He had not been struck dead by God for daring to take what was not his. He was King of England and it was heaven’s will. King, and no earthly power could undo it.











Only one scene left to write now. The noise and interruptions continue unabated, and have in fact grown worse. Hurray for idiots doing noisy DIY, road works, thunder storms, and sundry other loud nuisances. And here I am, trying to write a nice touching funeral bit and touch up a few other scenes. Is it evil to hope that certain offenders drill through a live power cable?

You may recall me mentioning sitting an exam as part of a job interview. I was successful and got the job. Now I have to wait goodness knows how long for them to complete background checks so I can start. Froggy: civil servant for the Department of Work and Pensions. From bookshop manager to this – talk about going down in prestige ;) Ok, it’s far better pay, hours and benefits, and realistically is far better in every way except for the sad lack of books and the fact that bookshop manager is a far sight cooler

I’ve been fascinated by the human implications of the medieval theory of sacred kingship since I discovered it last century (sounds neater than saying “when I was very young” :D). A drop of perfumed oil which took a normal person and turned them into a +1 human, to steal an RPG convention for the purposes of short illustration. Different personalities would react to that upgrade in different ways. The average personality would produce a fairly dull reaction, the pious one a little more interesting, the megalomaniac a far better one, and the one with self worth issues has the most potential of all. The same principle can be seen at work in some sci-fi. That cybernetic eyeball is one man’s cool upgrade and another’s loss of some tiny fragment of humanity.

For those wondering why we get to see the anointing but not the crowning, the oil made the king, not the crown and not the rest of the fancy ornaments. The anointing elevated you, the rest reminded the world you had been elevated.

Hugh entered this story proclaiming he wished to be a righteous king. Now the day has come he finds he would rather be a just king. That’s a good change; righteousness is at its heart of hearts a very selfish thing.


I’m going to use quotes; it’s been so long and the board has had so many problems recently that it seems awkward to reply the usual way.



An audience you still have milady frog, albeit a silent and respectful one, who stays in the shadows peeping out of the bushes to witness the bards telling of the amazing tale.
Never fear, I know you're all here ~:) I was referring to when the story is completed; if I'm not posting anything for readers then I have no audience to prompt and read commentaries and so won't write them. I shall miss that.


I have loved the plot outlines and all the plot development in this story, along with how the characters have progressed, from being a figment of an imagination with some historical backing blossoming into real personalities of their own.
:bow:



After several re-reads, this chapter isn't as "hurried" as my initial reading led me to believe. Maybe it seems rushed because the writing's tighter than I'm used to? I can't put my finger on it.

I neglected to say that it's still a pleasure to read.
I kept the email copy of the original as it's a good set of thoughts to keep in the back of my mind, regardless of what I'm writing. So thanks.

I think the reason the last post (and this one, if I'm honest) feel different is because everything is clearly winding down. There's less to happen, less to say, less which leads forwards, more tidying up. We know our characters and know what they will do, and know the course events will take from here on; there's no space left for surprises, or nice observations, or those other little prompts which have kept the story flowing. While the story is winding down, I suspect we're not. We want another little twist, another nice observation, another good joke. Hence my tendency to write a lot and then delete a lot, and your feeling that there should have been more.


Now I'm back up to pg. 9 and loving it. I like how you pay attn. to details of class, economics and to some extent culture. The way your characters weave out their skeins amid the conflicting demands of the above, and their own personal frailties has me hooked all over again.
Thanks. I do try :bow:



I would also like to thank you for the mention of the WoT series, for truly Robert Jordan was a master author and he was taken from us far too soon.:shame:
If you're interested, I wrote a series of brief comments on the Wheel of Time back when I read it. One of the readers on the other forum had read the series. According to my diary I finished reading the series on 19/03/06(!) so it shouldn't be hard for me to find. Let me see ...

Found it. post 978 (http://forum.paradoxplaza.com/forum/showthread.php?t=156016&page=49) contains books 10 and 11. Work backwards from there to find the others; they are always at the bottom of my posts. The first books are several pages back; it looks like I took a short break midway thriough the series. I suspect my opinion would be different now; a greater appreciation for the things he does well, such as battles as viewed from the grand scale, and a greater hatred of the childish characters and bloat.

Wow, looking that up brought back memories. I used to post a lot more about the books I read while writing. It's a trifle odd to see my comments about my job, knowing where that went in the next 3 years.

[frogbeastegg]

The unbelievable has happened. My computer's primary hard drive failed on Tuesday evening. I've lost everything. Everything. Unless somehow I can access the data on a drive which the computer doesn't recognise any more, it's all gone. All of my writing, everything. The backups I had on my memory stick have vanished. I'd hoped to post the final part yesterday.

I can still finish the story - I'll have to reconstruct the last scenes in a new word document. But ... it's all gone. The two work in progress short stories, the notes, my manuscript, all of my other writing, everything. Years of work, gone. Backups, gone. Everything, from my hand-made background to my music.

I've installed a new hard drive and am searching for a way to dredge files from my old drive. I don't know if there's any hope or not; it's beyond my tech know-how.

Damn it! It was a Western Digital server grade hard disc with well over half of its stupidly long expected lifespan left! It should not have failed! I'd done drive maintenance on it mere hours beforehand! And my backups shouldn't have vanished either!

I don't know when I'll be writing again. Right now I still want to cry. The priority is trying to get that data salvaged.

I just can't believe it. ~:mecry:

[Death is yonder]

Wish you luck in salvaging the situation, had a similar situation a few years back, now I've learned to keep actual hard copies whether printed or handwritten as well as soft copies for really important/ treasured data.

External hard disks as back ups help too :bow:

Try consulting the tech savvy experts at IT shops or the mechanical equivalent. With some luck and money, it is possible :bow:

Best wishes in recovering all your hard work (not just novels) from all these years.

Try consulting with the people in the hardware and software forum, hopefully they have a solution.

~:grouphug:~:grouphug:

Take all the time you want to recuperate and relax. A boggled and stressed mind does little to help in the creativity department.

[woad&fangs]

That is truly terrible news, Lady Frog :stwshame:

I hope you find some way to recover your lost work.

[HopAlongBunny]

Ack!

Very sorry to hear that :no:

I know there are companies that specialize in data recovery; generally focused on a business clientele. I have no idea how pricey their services are, but I'm willing to bet they aren't cheap.

I wish you a speedy and complete recovery (data and emotional):2thumbsup:

[frogbeastegg]

Some good news. I hooked up my old C: drive this afternoon and, while there's damaged data and missing files, my writing has survived. I've transferred it over to the new drive, and am in the process of opening each document up to check everything's as it should be. Most of my other important stuff looks intact too.

It will take me a while to transfer everything to safety, check it all over, and get it put in the correct locations on my new setup. Plus I start my new job tomorrow. I'm hoping to get the final part of Eleanor posted at the end of this week.

[furball]

THANK GOODNESS! And good luck!

[HopAlongBunny]

Yippeee!

Data transfer, error-checking, new job, ...:juggle2:

Your readers will be patient ~:)

[Death is yonder]

Hurrah! Huzzah!

Lets hope it never happens again :sweatdrop:

Good luck in your job :smash:

Take as long as you want, we can wait :wink:

[Ludens]

Great news. Still no ideas about how it happened?

[The Brave Sir Robin]

Good morning your Frogginess!

This story has been great! :2thumbsup: I really hate that it is coming to an end. :end:

I am estatic to see that I have actually caught up with the postings for the story. :surprised: I had only just started reading this story a month ago and frankly when I saw the date of the first posting I figured that by the time I finished reading the story the thread would have been long ended.

It is interesting how since I was able to read the thread straight through it seems that I have actually been following two stories in the thread, the primary one of the Gooseberry and then the other showing the Lady Frogs crafting of the story and her valiant struggles with the real world interferring with the creative process. I am so thankful that you allowed us to be a part of your process. It was very enlightening to me as an artist to see a fellow artist having very similar struggles in the production of their craft and how they coped with their personal tribulations.

I am very sorry to hear about your most recent computer woes. Have you been able to salvage all of your data? If you are still having issues with the old drive, I have a computer application that I have used several times at work to extract data off of damaged HDs, it may be helpful to you as well.

Thanks again and good luck. :daisy:

PS. Congrats on the new job!

[frogbeastegg]

I'm not dead.

Long story cut short, I've taken the drastic step of buying a macbook pro with the intent of making it my sole platform for writing. My desktop will remain in service as a gaming, internet and everything else platform. The macbook gets a dedicated writing program - current favourite looks to be scrivener - and nothing else. A totally closed system. That way there is reduced scope for problems, and I'm using a more suitable programme than Word. The desktop is back to normal, and has been behaving itself nicely (fingers crossed). A macbook will be less vulnerable to two of the problems which hampered my desktop in the time after that windows reinstall - heat and thunder. The temperature here was so hot that nothing could keep my desktop cool enough, despite it having a good cooling setup. Then it started thundering a lot and I will not use my PC during a thunder storm - I had one melted by a power surge during a storm in the early years of Eleanor. I had it plugged in to a surge protector and all -_-

MS Word and I have fallen out. Years and years we have worked together, and I've tolerated its increasing short comings cheerfully enough. Until now. I have been fighting since before that last post to get the programme to set itself back up how I want it, and to get on with writing without it whinging at me. I'm still trying. It usually takes a long time to get everything just so, and this time I'm out of patience. When I do finally get it all right I shall still have problems navigating my massive manuscript, and the shortcomings of the toolset are really digging in. Did I mention it ate Silent's short story? Total loss, right down to the last character. Don't ask me how or why, I have no idea what Word did.

By contrast scrivener and most of the other mac specific writing programs offer a whole host of features I could make good use of. Imagine being able to reference research and notes in the same window as your manuscript! Currently I have to swap between an entire folder full of separate documents and doing that too often makes Word throw a tantrum. Then imagine having a full overview of the work, scene by scene, easy editing, automatic backups of save files, the ability to resurrect old versions of scenes, a clipboard where I can stash bits I like but don't want to use yet, and so many other things!

Anyway. The macbook arrived today, I'm learning my way around it now and doing scrivener's tutorial. Once I have found my feet I will import my writing, set it up, and pick up where I left off. I hope to have a good old writing binge over this weekend.

Heh. I was actually pondering doing this in the weeks before I was told my shop would close and I would lose my job. Now I'm back in work it has become possible again, and due to circumstances it's far more appealing than it was half a year ago.

Well I have managed to type all of this without any problems, so I guess I am adapting to the new keyboard. That's a good sign.

[Death is yonder]

:2thumbsup:

Best of luck in your new computer froggy.

Good Quality Work takes a Good Quantity of Time.

We can wait :dizzy2:

:book:

[furball]

Yes, best of luck. Hope the new machine helps lots!

[frogbeastegg]

“They look so - so regal!” enthused Anne.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied slowly without looking away from her brother and his wife enthroned in state on the dais, “I suppose they do.”

“Suppose?! But they do!”

Both crowned, both dressed in their coronation finery, both seated on gilded wood thrones, both endeavouring to be prime specimens of noble deportment, both in the prime of their lives - those responsible for organising the homage ceremony hadn’t needed to work hard to create the aura of God-given regal authority that hung about the couple. There was something about being young, healthy and garbed in the wealth of a nation which could make anyone seem special. That Hugh naturally looked regal was a happy bonus. Eleanor conceded, “Very well. They do. That is, after all, the entire point.”

Anne scowled. “If you are going to be so tiresome then I will leave to find more cheerful company and then you will be all alone for the rest of the homage taking, and it’s going to last for hours so you cannot want that. At least try to enter the spirit of the occasion! After all, how many times do you expect to see your own brother crowned?”

It was too tempting to pass up. “Only once. Should he require more than that he can do it without me.”

“You are entirely impossible!”

“So people say.”

“I meant it - I will leave.”

Eleanor smiled at her companion. “No, you will not. You would not leave me to the humiliation of being entirely shut out. You are much too kind.”

Anne’s scowl reappeared, deeper this time. “Now that is purely manipulative!”

“And true.” Eleanor grinned impishly, something she hadn’t noticed herself do in much too long. “Now if I were aiming for manipulative I would point out that it is partly your fault that I am shunned. After all, it was thanks to you that I was able to marry Fulk.”

“I agree,” Anne muttered, “That is devious.”

Eleanor patted her on the shoulder. “Never fear, I shall not say it. I shall rely on your good nature instead.”

Anne gave her a look promised to grow into something mildly scary in another five years and pointedly shifted conversation back to her preferred subject. “They are a handsome couple, are they not? I never realised before how well they look together - properly matched in height and everything, and so glorious! And there is the baby too, you can see it will not be all that much longer and then there will be a prince - or a princess, I guess - and there will be no more of this talk about Hugh being cursed or whatever because he does not have a living child.”

“So we pray.” In truth the topic suited Eleanor as well as Anne; simple and in need of little aside from occasional murmurs of agreement during the lulls, it left her attention free to monitor the crush of notables. Much was revealed during gatherings such as this: alliances, enmities, and all of the shades in-between. Watching who people chose to talk to, even who they stood near, could be educational.

Her own status was clearly apparent; no one was willing to talk to her unless approached first, many regarded her with concealed curiosity when they thought she would not notice and quickly looked away if she happened to meet their gaze. They talked behind their hands or with their heads close together betraying hushed voices.

Over in the queue of nobles soon to perform homage, Fulk was receiving similar treatment. Those close to him positioned themselves a pace further away than was strictly normal, as though he carried a disease, and all formed up into knots which shut him out with shoulders and turned backs.

Further afield, now that was where matters became interesting. Hands waved in gestures, laughter was frequent, heads nodded or shook in emphasis. There was an energy, a freeness, to the hundreds of individual gatherings filling the cavernous hall.

“Hope.”

Eleanor said, “Pardon?”

“Hope.” Anne indicated the hall with a wave of her hand. “I know you are doing your spymaster thing of hiding in a corner and watching everyone else while they forget you are there, so I thought I would ask and see if you agree with me. I think you can almost feel the hope in the air.”

No, hope was not the word Eleanor would have chosen. Confidence would have been closer. These people had been freed of the threat of drawn out civil war and from a king with the power to trim their heads. New power was in their hands and they scented the possibilities. In and of itself this was no bad thing; Hugh would steadily build his power and, for the time being at least, it was unlikely that anyone would get drunk on their boldness and do something … regrettable.

Anne didn’t wait for an answer. “You have a handsome young king and his lovely wife, and they obviously love each other, and there is the baby too, and the war is over, and Hugh is a decent sort and turning out better than anyone expected - of course it must be hope. It is all so glorious!”

Something about the words made the hair on the back of Eleanor’s neck stand up, she could not say what.

Anne tapped her on the arm to gain her attention. “Look - it is Fulk’s turn.”

The last with an earl’s rank to swear, Fulk was stepping up onto the dais to kneel at Hugh’s feet. He placed his hand’s between his king’s and recited his oath in a clear voice which, like all the others Eleanor had paid no heed to, carried above the hum of soft conversation. Ceremony completed Fulk rose, bowed, and stepped off the dais without turning his back to the royal couple as the others had done before him. Unlike the preceding four earls, Fulk stopped there, five steps from the foot of the dais, and waited. Those who had fought for Hugh were being granted their rewards as part of the homage ceremony, to reinforce the links between fealty and reward in the minds of a nobility which had been found lacking when it came to the trial.

A page came forward bearing a charter on a red velvet cushion. Hugh said, “In recognition of your services to me and mine during the recent difficulties, I grant you the castle and environs of Carlisle, to hold from me in my name, and the revenues from said lands, on the condition that you service me henceforth with the same loyalty that you displayed during the campaign against the rebels.”

Fulk bowed deeply and picked up the charter. “My gratitude, sire.”

As Fulk made to leave Hugh spoke again, “In all else matters shall be as I previously decreed. Your means have increased; I expect to see a matching rise in the payments against your fines.”

Anne hissed, “Tactless!”

“Necessary,” Eleanor corrected.

The first of the barons without an earl’s title was moving forward ready to perform his own homage when Hugh called, “My sister next.”

When a couple of thousand people turned in one scattered motion to stare at you, it was quite something. As was the death of general conversation. Eleanor wound her way through the throng, away from the wall where she had been lurking and out into the full glare of attention. By rights she should not have featured in this ceremony, her lands had been stripped from her after her marriage and she did not feature on the list of persons to be rewarded. Expecting the summons, and the stir it caused, did little to help with the feeling that all the eyes were burning holes in her skin with the intensity of their curiosity.

She reached the dais and started to kneel; Hugh was supposed to catch her before the motion was completed and raise her back to her feet. The damned double-crossing bastard didn’t! As her knees touched wooden planking Eleanor glared daggers at her half brother.

“My dear sister,” he pontificated according to the script, “your loyalty to me has been, I think, the greatest out of any on this green earth. Many would have succumbed to the temptation to usurp this throne should the crown be offered to them, yet you stood faithfully at my side from the very first.” At long last he seemed to remember she should not be kneeling to him, and he raised her up with his own hands in one of those displays of magnanimity he was getting so good at. “I will not permit you to give your oath to me as you did following our lord father’s sad demise. Your faithfulness is implicit, and,” he swapped to the tone which informed everyone a royal joke was following and polite laughter was expected, “in any case you have no holdings for which you owe service.”

A polite titter ran around the hall on queue.

Hugh pressed Eleanor’s hand between his own. “Recognition is owed. Rewards are more than due.”

“Nonsense,” Eleanor protested as per the script, while thinking quite differently. “We are family.”

“I confess I have some difficulty in deciding what to bestow upon you. That which you truly desired you obtained for yourself.” He gave a pointed look to Fulk. “It is clear you judge all else to be secondary in value or you should not have made that decision, and thus it seems mean to bestow upon you lands and material wealth knowing that you do not prize them.” This time the public amusement owed less to politeness, excepting those who preferred to be disapproving of the mere mention of the scandalous match.

Eleanor’s smile was becoming so false it could be lifted from her face like a mask. Whatever the occasion, whoever the person behind it, regardless of the intent, the jabs and pokes over her choice of husband burned like bile in the back of her throat.

Hugh gave his audience time to settle before resuming his little speech. “This being said, much is due. I am aware you have a fondness for the manor where you grew up, and so shall grant it to you in its entirety, and in your own right.” He was enjoying this more than he had a right to, that much was plain. “Indeed, I shall stipulate in the charter that all pertaining to, and stemming from, the manor is to be yours, and that your husband cannot touch or influence any of it.” He did a good impression of a benevolent monarch, all smiles and open expressions and welcoming body language. “Is that not unheard of in this realm? No other lady might say the same of whatever such lands as she holds, and many would envy the freedom.” He said to Constance, “Is that not right, my dear?”

Constance lowered her eyes demurely. “There is some truth in that, however content we are to be guide by our husbands.”

Eleanor managed to thank her half brother, and bent to kiss the ring made to replace the one concealed in her girdle. As she beat a retreat she was aware of carrying a bubble of silence about her, the whispering cut off as she approached and resumed as she passed by.

“That was not nice either,” Anne declared as Eleanor rejoined her. “He does it over and over to both you and Fulk - reward paired with insult.”

“Yes. He is becoming quite skilled at it. ” Eleanor resumed crowd watching. “It is a necessary price, one we agreed to pay. Had Hugh less talent for it, we would be paying in larger, cruder forms. Subtle mockery is less arduous than many of the alternatives.”

“Maybe it will not be necessary for all that much longer?” Anne suggested hopefully. “It is already better than it was right after you married, so perhaps in a year or two-”

“No,” Eleanor interrupted softly. “Some prices are paid for life. This is one such.”

“It is not fair! If only people knew what the two of you have done-”

“We would stand condemned still.” Eleanor diverted her attention from the gathering to her companion. “The important thing - the only thing which matters - is whether the price buys something of equal worth.” She looked at Fulk, handsome and dignified in his best clothes, talking - a dredge of acceptance at last! - to the third bastard son of the Earl of Derby. “It does.”









No, not the end. Not yet - I wanted to test my ability to transfer text out of scrivener and onto the internet. It's all quite different to my old Word/firefox setup. Heh, I feel like cvi4 , tempting with "Just one more turn ..." only with "Just one more post ..."

It took me a week to get Eleanor set up in scrivener. Dividing it up into chapters too a very long time, and gave me chance to re-read the entire thing start to finish. That combined with the new tools and overviews scrivener provides, and I felt I could do a better version of the ending than the one I had written. It was all dry and dusty, like the scene above. All of the best parts of this story thrum with gentle humour and life, and I want it to end in the same way. I'm doing a complete re-write, everything excepting this one scene. I didn't want to redo pages of work and then find myself with no way to post it.

I shall leave it there. I'm not entirely sure my plan to copy/paste text from scrivener to TextEdit, space it out for posting, and then copy/paste it onto the forum will work. There's scope for formatting problems and characters turning into garbage during one of the transitions.

:tries to post, crosses fingers:

Gah! Took several efforts before it would allow me to paste into the forum. I don't know why. This may cause trouble :(

[furball]

Glad to have another post to read. Perhaps you should consider writing another story for us so you can get more practice with your new tools? :)

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Completely awesome as ever. :laugh4::yes::beam::beam::beam::beam::beam::beam:

[frogbeastegg]

Perhaps you should consider writing another story for us so you can get more practice with your new tools? :)
Such as? Genuine curiosity; from time to time I do wonder if there's anything people would like to see me write about.



Olaf :bow:

[edyzmedieval]

Froggy, one simple question - do you plan on publishing your book?

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Such as? Genuine curiosity; from time to time I do wonder if there's anything people would like to see me write about.

Can you do high fantasy? Or sci-fi?:laugh4:

[furball]

Froggy, as an admirer of your style and ability to put words into interesting sentences, I'd be happy to read just about anything. If I had to make a suggestion, it would be to write about something that truly interests you - or maybe something you'd like to learn more about so you get the added pleasure of doing the research.

You excel at conversation and points of view. Perhaps a novella-length quest or travel piece. To break the mold a bit, two women on the journey instead of a male and female. Perhaps one is the novice and the other a teacher or elder helping to channel knowledge on the trek. They meet "others" on the way, of course. We could get contrasting POVs of the novice meeting them for the first time while the elder may have interacted with the "others" in several different ways in the past. Though a common goal or story line would interconnect them, each chapter could be a different meeting, allowing you to focus on the interplay of the characters without having to spend a lot of time on exposition. This would also allow you to explore novel ways for how the meetings occur or are conducted; that is, the narrative style could change for some of the meetings, etc.

Ideally, once you had come up with the general theme, arc and goal of the story, you could then concentrate on each chapter as a separate entity. This would allow you freedom to concentrate on each in turn and, if RL needs dictate, you could allow yourself as much time as you need between chapters without the need to worry quite so much with a binding narrative thread. Each chapter thus becomes its own mini-story - some happy, some romantic, tragic or what have you. You could write it at your own leisure and explore different styles as you let ideas percolate between chapters.

Depending on your own personal ambitions, the "trek" would not have to be culturally or even chronologically linear. Some of the meetings could be medieval, some epic, some ancient, etc. This would also allow you an excuse to research any milieu you desire.

Of course, feel free to ignore this completely if there's some other idea that you'd rather write to us about. I just want to have more Froggy stories to look forward to! :)

Most of all, best of luck to you in whatever endeavors you choose,
Furball

[The Brave Sir Robin]

:thinking: I personally would love to see you write about the adventures that Eleanor and Fulk have later down the road. I have come to love these characters so much that I hate to see them go.

Your writing style works very well with intrigue, :idea2: maybe a fast paced medieval spy novel.

But I guess as long as you are writing it, it doesn't really matter what the specifics of story is, I'll still be reading it. :book:

[frogbeastegg]

Wymar - named for his lord father - ushered Fulk to one side, away from the main gathering of lords, saying, “You shall forgive me and accompany me, I am sure. You shall find it to your gain.”

“Really,” murmured Fulk. He followed the other man easily enough, alert all the while for the barb which might strike.

“I shall be brief.” Wymar chose a spot near the wall and made himself comfortable by slouching against the stonework. “Let’s be honest - I do not wish to be seen taking overmuch of an interest in you. Nor do any of those I represent. That is the advantage of bastard sons, you know.” He snapped his fingers in Fulk’s face. “We are so much less weighty than true bloods. We are almost expected to associate with the wrong types and such like. Thus I can speak to you without beginning rumour that my lord father seeks friendship with you.”

“And does he?” Fulk enquired.

The reply was as blunt as could be, flippant enough to make Fulk flush with anger. “No. Why the devil would he?”

“Then one wonders why you are wasting my time.” Fulk stepped away.

“I said brief. Evidently you want briefer.”

“Quite.” Fulk nodded towards the hundreds of nobles. “I have a whole host of people I can be belittled by, near all of them of better standing than you.”

The young man snorted a laugh. “Well enough. The point, then. You are going to be the target of half the field in our gracious king’s tournament. Everyone not on your team will be after you, wanting to beat you into the mud for the insult of your existence. And,” he said, a wry tilt to his brows indicating the words to be a compliment, “for your reputation, oh greatest knight. You have no friends - no one to stand shoulder to shoulder with. You shall be felled in the opening minutes however good you are.”

It was a problem which Fulk had identified within a day of entering his name for the event. In hindsight it had been a mistake to put his name on the entry list; losing would crush the budding reputation he had laboured to build, and as his companion said none would stand by him from choice. Had he not entered he’d have been called a coward, a true case of being damned whatever he did.

“However,” Wymar the younger continued, “while none want to associate with you, some would like to see those most like to target you take a fall, shall we say? Call it an alliance of mutual interest. You need allies. Those I represent want to see certain folk take a thump on the helm. Those folk will be coming straight after you - it’s all but certain.”

Fulk crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall himself. It was important not to seem too eager. “Names, or leave me be.”

“As for those who would fight with you, well recall my earlier words. We bastard sons are so suited to dirty tasks, and there are already some of us enlisted on your team. As for the remainder, there’s a fourth son and a disfavoured second son. In short, men of an age and status where we are expected to be tasteless, to the vast distress and embarrassment of our families, who can, nonetheless, decry our deeds and claim complete innocence. For noble relatives, let us say names like my lord father, my lord of Suffolk, and many of their affinity.”

Fulk acknowledged the point with a slow nod. “And for the other?”

Derby’s son leaned forward conspiratorially. “Our dear earl of York is a bird which flies too high and makes overmuch noise in the mistake of its own import. And, let us merely say, certain others of his close alliance.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose and wondered what to do with this latest mess. “I do not seek to get involved in existing feuds between families.”

“Have you not heard the expression ‘the enemy of your enemy is your friend’? York wants you ruined; he has set himself against you and you must decide if you wish to stand or if you’re happy to be slowly ground down.”

“That is true,” Fulk said carefully. “But it does not mean I must place myself in the centre of anything.”

“We don’t want you in the centre,” Wymar interrupted scornfully. “Blessed Christ! Do not get over an high opinion of yourself! We seek to make a simple arrangement that lasts all of an afternoon. York and his will come after you. I and mine will stand at your side. Together we will beat them into the mud. You gain by not getting your head staved in. We gain by their minor humiliation. Neither of us have to listen to them crowing about defeating the greatest knight and hero of Alnwick. They lose. Or,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “we can wait until after they have you on the ground, and then we can attack them while they are distracted by your unconscious carcass!”

Fulk decided upon the lesser of the two evils. “I do not appear to have much choice. Very well.”

Derby’s bastard son gave a curt nod. “Good. Now I am also instructed to say this: mutually beneficial agreements do not need to be all show and intermarriage and so on. Quieter arrangements might be forthcoming. The enemy of my enemy, after all.”

“You may tell them that I will listen to any honourable proposal. But I shall be no man’s dog or front to hide behind.”

Wymar raised his brows. “I wonder how long you shall last. You do not have the delicate touch for weaving through court life.”

“I do not intend to be much at court. That would suit everyone, I believe.”

“Yes, it would.” Wymar touched two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute and sauntered off.

Fulk breathed out, long and low, and decided it was time to reunite with his wife.






When Eleanor spotted Fulk making his way across Westminster’s great hall she couldn’t hold back her smile. “My luflych little knight,” she greeted him, holding out her hand. “Come to keep an outcast company?”

Fulk clasped her hand tightly and bowed over it in best courtly manner, brushing a kiss onto her knuckles. “Oh sour one, I came in search of someone who’s obliged to speak to me and not be condescending.”

Eleanor made a show of looking around. “Oh? Who would that be?”

Fulk turned a winsome smile on Anne and bowed deeply. “My lady.”

Anne giggled. “However do you two manage?”

Eleanor and Fulk’s eyes met; he smirked. “Quite well, I think. I just threaten to beat her and that keeps everything under control.”

“One of these days I shall strangle you, crook-nose.”

“Only if you can reach high enough, oh diminutive little wifelette of mine.”

“Yes, well,” hedged Anne, edging surreptitiously away, “Now you both have company you like I shall leave you to it and go and find some fun.” She clamped a hand to her mouth and turned bright red. “Er not that I am saying I did not have fun talking with you, Eleanor, or anything like that!”

Eleanor assisted in the effort to get the girl’s foot out of her mouth. “Go on. Go and enjoy yourself. You have been more than kind keeping me company, though it meant you shared my exclusion.”

That Anne didn’t remain long enough to make more than a token protest spoke volumes; Eleanor felt slightly wounded. Abandoned so easily by a girl who had once been near-impossible to be rid of.

Fulk said, “You look grim.”

“There are times when I begin to feel old,” Eleanor answered vaguely.

“You’re not yet twenty.”

“Not so far off. A few months, that is all. And that was not what I meant.” Watching the gathering from the background. Considering motivations, noting the comings and goings and the least gestures of the realm’s notables. Marking the activities of the handful of servants who worked for her so that she might be all the better prepared when they made their reports. Eating little, drinking less, socialising not at all - though she might have headed out to impose her presence on people who would have no recourse to be rid of her. All of it, at once familiar and strange. A situation passed through several times before, only this time she had no companion in her watchfulness and she stood in the master’s place. “When did I become Trempwick?”

Fulk’s face fell; he tried to joke the sudden heaviness in the atmosphere away. “Heartling, I hadn’t noticed any such thing. For one you’re a sight more feminine than him. He’d have looked dreadful wearing that dress, whereas you look quite gooseberryish.”

It was true Eleanor’s outer dress was of a rich green. “Thank you for that,” she said dryly. “Now I shall never be able to look at this dress in quite the same way. A pity - I had liked it.”

There was a lengthy silence. Fulk broke it with a question asked in the same tone as her earlier one. “When did I become a man who, if not seeking fights, is not able to walk away as often as he should? When did petty insults begin to reach me again? I thought I had grown out of it all.”

Eleanor settled herself inside his arm and leaned against his body. “I suppose the answer to both is: when we had to.”

“Had to.” Fulk’s arm tightened about her shoulders. “We’d do a damned sight better without other people.”

At which point Eleanor decided that the grander game played over the coronation and following days could be damned. “Tell me, my luflych little knight, do you still rescue damsels in distress?”

“I retired from it. Caused too much trouble with my wife - she didn’t like me bringing all those beautiful young maidens home.”

Eleanor looked up at him, able to see no more of his face than the underside of his chin and lower planes of his jaw. “I think you are a liar, sir.”

“And you, my lady.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re no damsel. Distressing, yes, perhaps more than ever, but damsel, no. Damsels don’t have husbands.”

“If I repudiate him will you rescue me then?”

“Mayhap. Mayhap not. But if you offered a good enough reward I would consider it, husband or no.”

Eleanor affected outrage. “Mercenary!”

He grinned. “I have to pay for repairs to my armour somehow.”

She became more serious. “The request is simple. The reward … well, you may name your price. If it is reasonable I shall pay. Take me away from here, and then tomorrow take me home. I do not think I can stomach any more.”

“The first I can do, if you don’t mind starting a fresh round of gossip.” His fingers tickled the small of her back in a most agreeable manner. “The second … I cannot. I will not have it said that I fled because I knew most in the tournament would be seeking my capture.”

Eleanor wound her arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. “I can handle that. You shall have excuse to leave that none can throw scorn on. Indeed, you shall be commanded to go.”

She felt his body tense. “What mischief are you plotting, oh cunning one?”

“No one will begrudge you being sent back north to deal with a pocket of rebels escaped from the battle and now located, and causing damage to your lands.” She anticipated his protest and headed it off. “Do not worry about being proved misled. There is a small band of outlaws I have been saving for such an occasion.”

He did not say anything. When he did speak the words came ponderously, each like dropping a pebble into a pond. “That is very … Trempwick.”

“I know.”

“Always have an escape route, eh?” Forced nonchalance made the words fragile.

“I shall not be trapped again. Or not easily, at any rate.”

“I confess I want to be gone from here badly enough that I’d walk the distance from here to Carlisle. What must I do?”

Eleanor looked up at him, aiming for coy. “Nothing. Only be ready for a restless night.”

Hi eyebrows shot up and he pretended to be horrified. “Wicked creature! Such propositions!”

“I meant you should expect a messenger to arrive around the middle of the night.”

“Ah. Doubtless I shall find some way to pass the time.” He was playing with the end of her braid now, his hand occasionally brushing against her back.

“Now who has sinful ideas?” she teased.






They paused on the road around a quarter of a mile out from London and looked back on the waking city nestled within its walls. The tournament ground was visible, a collection of stands set in the clear land outside the city. Already people were gathering, claiming the spots with the best view of the melee ground; the tournament was not to begin until the late morning.

“Well?” Fulk asked, impatient at her holding their party up now he was past the point where he could turn back.

Hugh planned to make a minor statement as he opened the tournament; Eleanor was one of the few who knew it. Most would find it a surprise, one akin to being stung by a wasp one had mistaken for a harmless fly. An informal pronouncement which would nevertheless hold weight, nothing important and yet nothing that could honestly be called trivial - a claiming of a traditional crown right some had hoped Hugh would neglect to reinforce. Only the king could lawfully hold a tournament within England. Thus only the king could create a well-loved entertainment rich with occasion to promote one’s prowess at arms and gain wealth; only the king could permit large numbers of armed men to gather for the purpose of combat; only the king could add the entry fees to his coffers. The king’s right and privilege, and Hugh did not intend to let any slip from his grasp which he could safely hold.

She supposed he would do well enough.

Eleanor touched her heels to the flank of her palfrey. “Let us go home.”



Finis.







The end. I feel ... lost. So many years work, completed.

I changed the ending. It took me more than 2 weeks to get it to change, and I wrote all of this in under 3 hours. I had to suggest it to the characters and let them stew on it, see if they would accept it or not. It's not a major change and nothing it altered further on down the timeline. It's just that doing things this way felt more in keeping with the overall tone , and, somehow, it brought back some of that bounce which filled the earlier parts of the work while keeping a faintly melancholy tone. I'm amazed they did accept it; changing anything is incredibly difficult to manage without it crumbling apart because it feels false and won't support weight.

As you can tell from my earlier comments, originally the tournament was shown and Fulk did take part. He fought with the disreputable sons who approached him in the first scene. Predictably enough York came after him, got disarmed and refused to surrender to Fulk. So Fulk smacked him in the balls with his wooden sword and had him carried from the field! Awesome little bit and I do regret its loss. York marched off in a hunched, crab-like manner to complain to Hugh as soon as he could and there was a rather boring bunch of back and forth which ended up with York being told he had asked for it, and Fulk being told that - although acting in correct form for the provocation and insults he had received - he had disturbed the peace and should leave for the north. We then ended up at a mildly different version of that final scene - no bit about Hugh asserting his kingly rights over tournaments because we'd witnessed that for ourselves. Eleanor herself hardly featured which was wrong IMO; it's her story.

No matter how much I worked on the original ending it just would not spark to life. It sat there like a dead, dull thing in my writer's sense and I did not want the story to end on such a low.

So. There you are. The end. Lots left unsaid, lots left open, lots hinted at, lots of things which could go multiple ways - in many ways it is more of a beginning than an ending.

I have 'found' two more Eleanor related short stories I could write. I'm not sure what to do, or if anyone wants to read any of them. I have:

1. Silent's story. Something of a loose epilogue. I'd have to start from scratch as it got destroyed during my recent computer woes. It's about 10 years on from this.

2. Raoul's story. Just a shortish piece that gives some insight into how he became the man he did. It sets up a nice echo of symmetry with the start of this story and with Silent's story.

3. A shortish piece about Eleanor going to retrieve her disgraced sister Adele from Spain. It's several years on from this.

4. Fulk's parents. This one would turn out quite long - though not nearly as long as Eleanor did! - and would be more of a romance type thing. I have certain scenes very vividly and I'm not sure what I'd do about the rest. Discover it as I write, I guess.


I shall return to answer comments tomorrow. It's growing late and I need to be up early for work tomorrow.

I can't believe how lost I feel.

[woad&fangs]

It was an excellent ending. I loved the banter between Eleanor and Fulk as well as the overall tone of "good bye". I'm not sure what else to say. I'll miss checking this thread every day, hoping for a bit more.
:bow:

[Ludens]

The tone was very well judged. I like it. I agree that it makes for a better end than the one you described.

Farewell Eleanor and Fulk. It's been a long journey, but it was worth it.

:bow:

[furball]

At a loss for words. Will miss you.

[Death is yonder]

A piece of literature that drags me out of the stressful world at least temporarily, masterfully crafted, the wonder of words. The whole personality of the story summed up in the last few tens of lines.

Farewell.

:bow:

[Peasant Phill]

And so ends the daily task of checking for updates.

I liked this end better. Angering York wouldn't feel like an ending, merely an indication for a sequel.

[Ciaran]

So that is it, the epic is at the end. And an epic it is, in more than one sense. 775 pages in Word, almost 4 million characters :shocked: and almost five years of writing. That, however, pales compared to the sheer brilliance of the story itself.

My congratulations for actually finishing this story - a feat I yet have to accomplish, actually :book:.

I honstly wonder what you´ll be doing next, and what it feels like, after five years of plotting, designing, imagining, to finish.

[frogbeastegg]

Heh. I forgot to come back and post the day after. Bad froggy! Perhaps I can blame it on my feeling somewhat lost without the story to work on? It's more a product of my sieve-like memory I think.

Thank you all :bow:

Picking up from a while ago, I did consider the two comments about what I might write. They sort of merged together into one very neat paragraph ... and then petered out. A lady mage nearly setting her host's hall on fire because she reflexively fireballed a spider that crawled into view on the table. I like it and I can't for the life of me find anything to do with it. I have a vague notion that she acquires an apprentice from this incident somehow, and resumes her travelling - wherever it was she was going and for whatever reason. The section is sat on my macbook, written and waiting to see if anything comes of it.

I want to write something with a Saxon setting. I have had a seed of a story for a long, long time now. A Saxon lord, most kindly described as an anti-hero and more honestly as a right nasty piece of work, dying in a bloodfeud as the opening and then the story loops back to explain how and why that happened. That would require a lot of research (neat; I already have most of the books and need an excuse to bury myself in them) and a more mature writer. As a story it's as hard as steel and coloured by blood; I'm not at the level where I could do it justice.

And of course there is Ancel. He's not destined to appear on the internet. There must be something I can work on at the same time, else I shall be left writing in total solitude.




Returning to those potential short stories I mentioned at the end of the last post, the story about Nell and her sister is the one which is currently prodding at my attention. Might have it in a state where I can start to write this week. It's a short one by my standards, three posts at the max. It's got a name too: The Third Sister.

I'm just not sure. We've got an ending here, loose as it is. It works, it fits. 'The Third Sister' gives a glimpse several years into the future and it contains things which thus far are left totally open to the reader's own imagination. You can imagine whatever you like about Hugh's two pending children at present; do you want to be told? Ditto about Nell and Fulk's relationship. About whether Trempwick set Adele up or not. And other things - once you've got the official answer then you have got the official answer.

Silent's story is the same thing but far stronger as it's set further ahead and based on more important events.

I don't know if it's a good idea or not.


Karolus, Stephenson's 4 books are amongst the top 50ish books of my to-read pile. Sounds bad until you remember that I have ~700 books yet to read, probably more. The top selection of books are the ones I would like to read soon; it's a very flexible category to say the least. I could read any book from it tomorrow, and on the other side of the coin some have been there for years now. Books get added in all the time, sometimes titles slip out into the general mass, and frequently I skip over those urgent books in favour of one that I previously wasn't expecting to read for a long time. I confess I am something of a chaotic reader; try as I might to plan ahead I always choose my books based on what I feel like at the time.

[furball]

Are short stories from Eleanor's past totally out of the question? I realize she was only late 6 or early 7 when she went off with Trempwick, amd I realize it's the grown-up Eleanor that probably talks to you these days. But she's so cute in the Prologue and first chapters!

[Ludens]

The third sister sounds intriguing, but I think it would be better to close the story here and now, and start on something else.

[frogbeastegg]

Furball, the difficulty with young Nell is that she doesn't do much which I can write about. Day after day, year after year of the same thing with few good events about which to shape a short story. After Trempy's very early victory in their battle of wills matters carry on along the same pattern until Fulk appears and the familiar pattern no longer applies. She or Trempy need to tell me about something special; I've already used the scant handful they have already imparted.

The difficulty with that, Ludens, is that the only other ideas I have are either intended for a publication attempt, embryonic, or somehow unsuitable. Anything which looks like it will turn out to be large is right out - there is no way I am doing anything even 1/4 of the size of Eleanor as a serial!

[Braden]

Froggy, this really needs to be somewhere stored as either a word or .pdf document.

I started copying your works to .pdf a few years back but lost my PC and have only just got back here...so how many pages are we talking about now?

Mainly for my wife, who is a significant English History buff and avid reader thereof, any chance this could be put out there?

[frogbeastegg]

Third Sister is growing decently in my mind. A few more details to pin down and I shall start writing. I'ver been taking a bit of a break and spending more time on my reading and the odd game or two; after 5 years of constant writing a couple of weeks off seems fair.

There have been some requests on the two forums for a PDF or similar of the story. I've taken a bit of time to look at what I have and the result isn't much use.

I have a partially complete Word manuscript that weighs in at 6MB, is missing the ending, and is full of forum code and other junk that makes it hard to read unless you're a frog. It also contains a batch of my notes and lines I didn't use.

I have a fully complete Scrivener manuscript. It's only going to open with Scrivener and it's also a large file, split into many different sections, full of coding etc etc.

I can export the Scrivener doc to a different format. That puts the seperate chunks back together in order, and leaves all of the coding and odd formatting. Again, it's always a large file size for a document.

Some pieces of the story are scattered around in seperate files. This applies mainly to the short stories and comedy bits I posted in between segments of the main story.

I don't have any PDF software and that wouldn't help with the state of the text anyway.

I don't have any kind of file hosting, it's too large for me to email to anyone, and I don't want it on some public download site because then who knows what will happen to it.

Removing the coding and formatting it so its readable for someone other than myself would take me crazy amounts of time. I'd have to re-do the format job I did on every single post of this story, basically. Months of work if I dedicated several hours to it each day.

Not the answer people were hoping for, I know. My best suggestion is to go through the thread and make a saved version of each page, then number them in order and store them in a dedicated main folder. The version on the org is only 33 pages long compared to Paradox's 96 because there are fewer comments.

[Braden]

No problem Froggy. Plenty of dedicated Eleanor fans here to put that work in!

As for PDF software, not needed...I use websites that convert word docs to PDF for free. Plenty of them out there, we'll use them.

The old copy i have in PDF is all prettied up and has Eleanors likeness on the front (from your own suggested rendition).

Will try and upload it tomorrow as a zip file somewhere so you can have a look, not complete as you've kept writing whilst I've been away...for shame...but it'll give you and others ideas I hope.

I'll finish my copy when my workload slackens

[Braden]

I’ve retrieved the Word version I have on file from…erm…2 years ago and that stood at…

In Verdana 9pnt font…

SEVEN HUNDRED AND SIXEEN PAGES!!

…and it would seem I’ve got a few more entries to add to that Froggy. Once I’ve done, I will move it to a PDF version (thank you Office 2007 for free “on site” Word>PDF conversion) and find out where I can store it off site for people to download free of course.

Now, I’ve just got to find out where I stopped copying ! lol

[Beskar]

I think after all the sentences Eleanor speaks, they should be ended with: " 'kay. "

*runs away from the Frogbeastegg*

From what I read so far, has been good.

[frogbeastegg]

Heh, for those who didn't/can't get the reference, Beskar's post is a dig at an arena discussion. I was playing Star Ocean: The Last Hope and one of the characters was driving me utterly batty with loathing. Saying 'kay at least one per line of dialogue was but one of her many irritations!




Anyone still around and still interested in reading 'The Third Sister'?

I think the break from writing combined with the fresh material has done me a power of good. It's flowing onto the page like the main story did in the old days and the prose is more varied and more lively than the leaden stuff that comprised large parts of the wrapping up.

[Ludens]

Anyone still around and still interested in reading 'The Third Sister'?

If you've decided on writing it, sure. I would like to read it.

[furball]

Definitely interested.

[Death is yonder]

:yes:

[Peasant Phill]

Write away.

I'm sure many of the Eleanor addicts check this thread now and then to see if nothing was added.

[frogbeastegg]

Good to see people are still around :gring:

At this moment in time I have 1 opening scene at 5 pages, finished except for one or two tweaks I thought of on the way home from work, and 1 half finished follow up scene at 4 pages. The ending scene is concrete in my mind and only needs writing. The parts in-between are present in varying degrees of detail in my mind; the missing parts will fill themselves in as I go.

I'm considering how to post it. It's definitely not going to be that long, there's simply not enough material to support anything more than a few posts long. I'm currently thinking 5: 1 opening and set up, one meeting, one doing, one settling, one ending. A sedate, measured posting pace would be nice. I'm doing a lot of reading at the moment, and Dragon Age: Origins is now out and needs to be played to death. One post every two weeks maybe. Or I could wait and post the whole thing in one go. Seems a bit wasteful that way.

[frogbeastegg]

Those of you who wish to keep your own idea of what happened after the end of Eleanor should look away now. Don’t peek. The very first line settles one of the big hanging “What will …?”s of the of the main story, and the answers only keep coming after that. They are not answers that some of you will like, although at this point in The Third Sister each answer raises a dozen more questions.

This is part 1. I still believe 5 parts will handle it, the same outline I posted previously. The plan is to post one part each Sunday … we’ll see how long that lasts. Fingers crossed all will be well as I do have good amounts of the story ready written.

And now, with no further ado, it’s roughly 3 years since the end of Eleanor and the third of the three surviving sisters is about to re-enter England after more than a decade …




The Third Sister


The King of England bore a whooping golden boy-child on his shoulders and was himself letting voice some exuberant war cries as he trotted about the nursery, his son lashing out left and right at imaginary foes.

Eleanor paused in the doorway, resting one hand on the stonework for support against a weight which struck her in the heart.

As Hugh turned in his loop about the room he caught sight of her and halted abruptly. Young Arthur’s cries of joy faded. The boy pointed at her with his wooden sword. “Who’s she, Daddy?”

Hugh lifted the boy down and set him on his feet, one hand resting possessively on the child’s back. The lines of care and responsibility that time was starting to etch into his face returned as the last traces of light-heartedness cleared from his features. “Arthur,” he chided gently.

“Who is that, father?”

“This is your aunt.”

Eleanor stepped into the room proper and tried to smile. “You will not remember the last time I saw you, you were but a babe then.”

Arthur raised his toy sword again and looked up at his father, his expression as grave as only a child could manage. “Is she the bad German one? I won’t let her say anything bad!”

Hugh ruffled his boy’s angelically blonde locks, his hand so large in contrast to the small skull yet so gentle. “No. This is your aunt Eleanor.”

The wooden sword drooped to the floorboards and the young prince enquired, “The one we don’t talk about?”

Yes, the one they did not talk about. Eleanor took a step back. “I came at the wrong time. I shall go and change to fresh clothes and rinse away the dust of my journey. Call for me once you are ready.”

“My summons was urgent, therefore there is no wrong time.” Hugh knelt before his son and braced a hand on his shoulder. “I must go now. Can you finish the battle yourself?”

The boy drew himself up to his full height and saluted with his sword. “Yes, father! I’ll defeat all our enemies!”

“I shall come to hear the report when I am able.”

As they left the room the prince’s attendants stepped out from the shadows where they’d been keeping out of the way, clucking and fussing over the boy. Arthur himself watched them go, his gaze full of curiosity and Eleanor heard him start to ask questions about this aunt of his.

“He is growing well,” Eleanor offered. Praising children to their parents was one of the safest conversational gambits mankind had invented.

Several paces later Hugh answered softly. “He is the core of my heart. He and his siblings, and their mother.”

Safe? Safe as the track through a marsh! Truly there was a curse on their bloodline. Eleanor asked the tactful question, “How is Constance?”

“Well,” Hugh replied immediately. “She is recovering her strength gradually.”

There grew an uncomfortable gap in the conversation. Should she ask after the twins born last month? Should she pursue the ‘but’ that hung on Hugh’s words like a funeral banner?

Hugh clutched the proverbial nettle himself. “They say she will bear no more children. It was far from an easy delivery and she was damaged on the inside somehow, that is why there was so much blood. She was blessed by Heaven to survive, and both children also, and for that I thank God with each breath. I will not ask for more.”

Rumours had flown wild about the country about the lengths the lord king had gone to seeking intercession on the behalf on his labouring wife once it became clear matters were not going easily. Most common were those Eleanor placed some credence in. That he had knelt and lain in unceasing prayer for nearly an entire day and a night, refusing to eat or drink or relieve his discomfort in any least way. That he had promised the building of a hospital for the poor with beds for five hundred in London and another with room for two hundred in Winchester. That he had torn his clothes from his back and mortified his flesh with a lash until he was beyond hope of healing cleanly.

As Hugh pushed open the door to his solar he blocked her path for a heartbeat and examined her face. “My back is now a match for yours,” he said, “and I would have carved out my heart with my own hands had I thought it would aid her.” He stepped to the side and let her pass. “And they are both mine. Do not doubt that for an instant. I know my own flesh and blood when I behold it, and I know my wife. Constance would never betray me.” He waved the servants away and closed the door hard enough for it to slam. “Never!” In a shaking, quieter voice, “I will kill any man who says otherwise.”

Waltham’s solar had changed little since her father’s day; Eleanor took the seat near the fireplace that she had occupied on previous visits that would – God willing – be more momentous than any she would see again in her life. “Only ignorant fools place any credence in that old nonsense. I have had my agents busy saying as much wherever there is an audience to hear.” Folk wisdom had it that twins were made when a woman lay with two different men and conceived by both. A queen rendered barren and more dubious blood - a cursed family indeed, and that with saying nothing of her own marriage.

“One fool is one too many.” Hugh covered his face with his hands. “I nearly lost her, her travail was such that she will not conceive again, and for gratitude they cast doubt on her honour!” His words were muffled, the pain in them was not.

Was this why he had summoned her? Eleanor hoped so, the other possibilities were so much less appealing. “Then you must place the matter beyond all doubt.”

Hugh’s hands dropped to his sides. “I will. Indeed I will. Once her strength is fully recovered I intend to swear before full witnesses the most binding holy oaths that they are mine, and she will swear likewise. My son and my daughter, and I will not have them doubted. The planning of the ceremony is in the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“Will I see them?”

The heaviness lifted from Hugh’s features. “Yes. Constance rests in our bedchamber, Edward and young Constance with her. She will not let them far from her side.” A smile had grown on his face bringing with it an echo of the joy as he’d played with his son and heir. “They are beautiful and perfect, and thriving, and no one beholding them could say other.”

Again pain struck Eleanor in her heart. The love radiating from her brother, the delight, the fulfilment piled fuel on the fire of her own failure, and the light of that fire illuminated sharply the condition of her marriage. “I am glad for you,” she murmured.

Hugh settled in the chair near hers. “I summoned you here because I require something of you.”

And that … could not be allowed. Eleanor pinned him with a glare that had been sharpened by years of commanding.

Eventually he dipped his head and conceded the point. “I would ask for your help. I know I have no right to command it.”

Eleanor prayed that he would not say anything that related to their sister Adele as she answered, “And that would be?”

She might have saved herself the bother for he immediately replied, “Someone must meet Adele when her ship lands and I would have that be someone I trust to make an assessment on her condition. I can make no decision on her future until I know if anything may be salvaged.”

“Why me? You have others who could do this.”

The corner of Hugh’s mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile had it not died in the moment of its birth. “Are you not the expert on troublesome sisters?”

Eleanor slouched lower in her chair. “I did not marry a king, get caught in adultery, resulting in both of my sons declared bastards and barred from the succession, and spend a decade locked away in the dreariest castle in my husband’s kingdom.”

“No,” Hugh agreed. “You did not.”

“She would be a prisoner still had not her husband died.” The heir was an adult son sprung from the king’s first marriage and his loathing for his fallen mother-by-law was virulent enough to be well-known throughout half of Christendom. Shoving her on a ship and pointing her back to England had been one of the first official acts of his reign. Warning of this intent had reached Hugh’s ears by urgent courier, dispatched when it became apparent that the old king’s illness would be his last. The period before the new king’s coronation and assumption of his full power had brought just enough time for the message to arrive and this meeting to be arranged; the ship might land any day now.

Hugh crossed his legs and stretched them out towards the fire to warm. “You will do it because you are the only one available for the task who is aware of the … Trempwick connection, shall we say?”

Eleanor sighed. Trempwick. Not quite three years since he entered Repton’s gates and still he influenced matters often enough to make it feel as though he had not been caged. Always the influence came from the past – that much she had achieved. “You believe I can learn if Trempwick did arrange her fall to keep her and her sons from consideration for the succession? I should love to know how you think I might manage this.”

“I have faith in your abilities,” he answered blandly. He ran a fingertip over the scar that sliced through his brow, a habit when disquieted he had never lost after acquiring the wound at the battle of Alnwick. “Tell me, who else would you deem able to judge in so delicate a matter? And who fit to judge one of our blood?”

No one. That was the sad, proud answer. “Very well.”

Hugh nodded. “Good. Meet her ship when it lands, escort her to me and learn what you may. I intend to remove to the county of Warwick; it is time and past time for me to hold court and sit in justice in those lands again.” He held up a finger. “Mark that I shall not meet her before I know what I shall do with her. She is in disgrace and shall not be blessed with admittance into my presence until fit judgement may be delivered.”

For all that Hugh had changed he hadn’t changed one whit. “If you say so, brother dear.”

He scowled at this long-disliked epithet. “Having you meet her will do her no honour either. Your low standing again makes you suitable again in addition to the other qualifications.”

Eleanor smiled tightly and rose. “As you say, brother dear. I shall leave you free to return to your son; I must make arrangements if I am to travel again so soon.”

“Wait,” Hugh commanded. He paced a ponderous circle about her, brows furrowed as – no doubt- he laboured to wrangle unpleasant thoughts into words which would not break his sense of protocol. “Your husband did not accompany you on the journey here.”

Again the stab of pain. “No.”

He came to a halt between her and the door, hands clasped at the small of his back. Always a bad sign. “It has reached my ears that you no longer live with him.”

Try as she might Eleanor could not look him in the eye. “Not recently, no.”

“You will explain why.”

Using anger to smother the guilt and the heart-soreness she forced herself to look back up. “Must I be subjected to your meddling?”

“You must, my darling sister!” He took hold of her shoulders – the first time he had touched her since that difficult day when he had learned she had been named heir by the arse in the crown. “What you do affects us all. Rumours are spreading like fire in dry grass, each more unsavoury than the last. Tell me, or I shall learn for myself!”

Eleanor slapped his arms away from her, bitterly aware that he allowed her to do so. “You may assume the rumours are lies.”

“Did he mistreat you?”

“No.”

“Has he dishonoured you in some way?”

“No,” Eleanor answered again, through gritted teeth.

Hugh threw up his hands. “Then what possible reason can you have for not living under his roof?”

The oldest reason and the hardest. “He left me.”

Hugh’s eyes glittered dangerously. “That low-born churl dared?! I shall kill him for this insult!”
As if that would help! She choked out the admission, “It was my fault. Not his. I displeased him.”

Brows knotted together, Hugh took a sharp breath. “Then you will go back to him and you will please him, oh sister mine. I will not – cannot! – have it said that you were unable to keep that wretch contented, or that you grew bored of him and seek a fresh toy, or any of the other foul spewings that fill the air each time you or he are mentioned! This marriage of yours cost us too much in the making and more in the maintaining; I will not permit it to do us yet more harm in its faltering!”

He had hit her. She had angered Fulk badly enough that for the first time in their marriage had he raised a hand to her in full earnest, slapping her once and then walking away. She had not seen him since. “I cannot go back,” she said, half pleading and knowing he was right.

“You can. You will. By the end of this month you will be living under his roof and you will both make an appearance of normality or you will both face consequences you will have no taste for.”

To say a word more would only display her wounds further and that she would not do. Not to this man and his brood of perfect children and his radiant fatherhood and all his loving contentment. He would understand nothing. With an effort she mastered herself and when she opened her eyes they were dry, and her posture disdainful. “I will leave today. There is still some hours’ light to travel by and I must move swiftly if I am to have what I need before I meet Adele.” Scornfully she added, “I do have your leave to do I deem fit in this matter most intimately tied with my business, brother dear?”

“Should you intend those vague words to refer to your spymaster’s dealings, then yes, you may assume so. Should you mean instead the matter of your husband, no, you may not. We cannot afford it.”

Eleanor gave him a filthy look. “The former. Of course.”

“Good.” He shifted sideways and cleared her route from the room. “Your husband and yourself will attend court no later than one month from today. Everyone will see that you are amicable and that the rumours were over nothing more than a brief-lived quarrel such as may be found in any marriage.”

“And you, brother dear, will have your bastard son at court for that time. I desire to see what he is like.” With that she stalked from the room.






“It was William, third of that name to rule England by God’s grace, who first took an interest in Edward the Confessor. This interest culminated in the canonisation of the king as a saint, and his adoption as the patron of the royal house. The cathedral at-” Trempwick’s dictation cut off once he spotted her, and he dropped into a bow that was deeper than required for a humble man meeting a princess of the blood.

Eleanor moved to the writing desk and took the work in progress from the scribe, and flipped through the pages. “Still engaged in history, I see.”

“It is a labour I have found some pleasure in,” Trempwick replied modestly. “Shall I send my scribe to fetch refreshments for your Highness?”

“You may.”

Time had provided Trempwick with the beginnings of the tonsure he had refused when first sent to Repton. His hair had silvered, his face gathered a multitude of fine lines, and there was not quite so much spring in his step. Other than that … “You have changed little enough since my last visit, Raoul.”

“Little and much, as do we all, dear Nell. You too have changed much … and little.” He smiled across his manuscript at her as he tied the work away. “For one, you said the same the last time you were here.”

“Like the last time I am here because I need something of you.”

The former spymaster bowed again. “How may I serve, my lady?”

Nowadays it was easier to keep a feel for Trempwick when she did not look at him; when working from voice and words alone there was less conflicting information then when one could see the scholarly man standing on the edges of graceful old age. Voice alone he might be as he had always been. Eleanor moved to the scriptorium’s window and looked out at the herb garden blooming with late summer splendour. “Adele has been sent back to us.”

“So time has done what quiet diplomacy could not.”

“You will not convince me that my father tried to rescue her.”

“I shall not,” he replied, a touch of humour in his tone. “Because he did not.”

“He attempted to mitigate the harshness of her captivity.” On each of her rare visits to Repton they had spoken a little of her father, and she had read Trempwick’s life of the king and the private work on the man underneath the crown. She had a greater acquaintance with her father in death than she had ever had in life.

“Yes.” A soft rattling indicated Trempwick had begun to gather up the quills lying on the desk. “For a second point on the same matter, rescue implies she was a victim.”

“And was she?”

“That depends greatly on one’s point of view.”

“A simple answer as ever, Raoul.”

“I should hate to disappoint your Highness.”

Eleanor looked back over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow. “I should hope so. Consider the consequences the last time you disappointed me.”

“Ah, Nell, I disappointed myself. Although I still maintain that I came that close to victory,” he held up thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “I should have managed it if I had not-”

“Lost,” Eleanor interrupted. “Blundered. Made many mistakes. Grown over-confident and blind. Reached too high for your position. Dabbled with things you aught never have touched.”

“But should I have discovered my enjoyment of writing histories had I not ventured my hand?”

A tap at the door, and the monk let himself back in. He set his tray down, bobbed a courtesy and left them again at Eleanor’s dismissal. She poured herself a goblet of wine which she raised to her lips and then set down again untouched. “I desire to know the truth of the matter.”

“Should I give it will you believe it?” Trempwick poured his own drink and settled himself in the window seat, denying her that escape from the truth that this particular lodestone in her life was growing old and that the day would come when he would no longer be here even for these limited meetings. “You have held a view to be truth in your heart for these many long years. Events at your father’s death only reinforced that.”

“Tell me and I will judge.”

“From the day you first heard the news you have believed Adele to be innocent, have you not?” Trempwick picked at the rim of his goblet with a thumbnail. At last he said, “Nell, she was not. All I needed do was make certain the letters were discovered.”

Eleanor bowed her head. That belief she had indeed held all this time, a flickering candle fighting a gale. Best that the light be extinguished now. “She was always idealistic, and there was such a difference in ages.”

“Sweet Nell, all my information indicated that Adele’s husband treated her with the utmost consideration and kindness. He may have been a mature man but he was no dotard or unfit glutton. She shall not be allowed that excuse. Unless there was something hidden behind closed doors I could see no reason for her to betray him as she did save motives like base lust.”

“Would you say the same of my mother?” she challenged.

“You know I would not. I have said many times that William gave her cause and enough, though he was my friend and it still after all this time pains me to say it.”

Trempwick had become too comfortable, Eleanor decided. Locked away in the same place with mostly the same people, wasting time on his histories and subject to the occasional demand for information from her. It was time and past time to shatter the pattern of his existence and exact something more of him. “You will shave your head into a tonsure and pose as my personal confessor when I go to meet my sister.”

He was quiet for a very long time. “What if I am recognised?”

“Who is there to recognise you? We shall encounter no notables on this mission, and I shall not take you to court. And, master,” she said the honorific sarcastically, “do you expect me to believe you can no longer stand in the background if you so wish?”

“No, your Highness. I do not.” He spread his hands, a gesture of helplessness which oh so very nicely displayed the two crooked fingers he had to remember her temper by. “But your Highness knows I have found a place here and am content in it.”

“Her Highness knows that your joints creak and ache in the cold and a lengthy journey may not hold the relish it once did. Her Highness knows you must protest in order to preserve your seeming of having grown harmless.” Eleanor moved to stand over him, placed her hand under his chin and pressed his head back so she could see his face. “Her Highness knows you are afraid to return to the world, to face what you have lost and have become accustomed to blotting from your mind. Do you think they still talk of you Raoul? Do you fear they do not? Can you stand to see the peace Hugh has brought this land? You will leave and taste the world which you have lost, and know that you must return here and in the returning experience once again the sense of confinement that you had when first you arrived.” She released him.

Trempwick smoothed a hand over the bald patch on his crown. “Can you not believe it is the tonsure which comes hard, dearest Nell? A man’s hair is precious to him when it begins to thin.”

“I can believe you have evaded a tonsure for long enough that it would now be a humiliation to wear.”

“There is no mercy in you, sweet Nell.”

“Should you attempt escape, my guards will kill you without hesitation. Play me false and you will find yourself dead the instant we are away from questioning eyes. Serve me well and I may find other work for you.”

Trempwick’s back straightened a touch. “Work?”

“You might put your penchant for the written word to use decrypting and encoding messages.” A minor concession yet one which would grant him access to the flow of information … information she wished him to see. It went without saying all of his work would be checked down to the last quill-stroke of the final letter.

“And what do you require of me?”

Eleanor did not hesitate, the journey here had provided all the time for consideration that she needed. “Adele must take vows and enter a convent in penance and it must appear to be of her own will. You will help me to expose my sister, should she insist on her innocence as she did while imprisoned.”

“You wish her out of the way.”

Eleanor answered that with a level look. Words were unnecessary. The variety of cut-price husband that represented Adele’s sole chance at remarriage would bring no good and much potential complication to their house.

Trempwick gave a low whistle. “No mercy indeed.”

“She made her bed and lay in it and now must needs live with it, indeed as do we all.”

“Speaking of beds, how fares your own?”

“The feathers are in wont of replacing,” Eleanor said tartly. “Make such preparations as are needful for your disguise. When I see you at dinner I expect to see a harmless old priest, as unremarkable as a sprout of wheat in the middle of a field.”

[furball]

Thank you! So great to have more to read.

I just have one kind of major problem, and one minor one:

1) Hugh has a bastard son? "'And you, brother dear, will have your bastard son at court for that time. I desire to see what he is like.' With that she stalked from the room." I can't find the page in this forum's story where this is mentioned.

2) Bear with us, Froggy. This is a long story that was told over a long time. Some of us don't remember much specific about Adele, so anything you can exposit for us during this new tale will be much appreciated.

Thanks again, and all the best to you in your new dealings with these characters who must be crowding your mind with their lives and desires. :)

[frogbeastegg]

There's going to be a lot of 'catching up' information seeded throughout the story. If there's anything people want to know as they read I'm open to questions. Most should be answerable without spoiling something.

Hugh’s bastard son is about 5 months younger than Arthur, give or take a couple of weeks, and was conceived during the civil war. When Hugh headed out into the field to start besieging Trempwick's various supporters he decided it would be beneficial to his reputation to take a mistress. Remember at that point it looked like he could not produce a living child thanks to Trempy murdering his newly born son and inducing abortions for the other, unborn ones. After a couple of months campaigning together Hugh was perceptive enough to notice the lady was showing signs of early pregnancy, whereupon he made promises about the child's future and hers and settled her in a household where she could live in peace. He's kept those promises; Hewelin and his mother live in good style in a quiet manor, and the boy has been acknowledged freely by his father.

The boy's name hasn't (yet) been mentioned anywhere. He's been lumbered with the name Hewelin by his mother, a name which is a diminutive form of Hugh and might as well mean 'little Hugh'.

Adele is the sister who stands between Eleanor and Hugh in terms of age. Older than the executed John, and the child born after Hugh. She's the third surviving sister out of the original four; Rowena died long ago. A dreamer and idealistic, as devoted to the concept of courtly love as Scottish Anne, she was sent off to marry a Spanish king at a young age and infamously got caught in an adulterous relationship thanks to the discovery of some letters. The scandal exploded across the court and nothing could be done to hush it up. Consequentially she was locked away, her two children declared to be bastards and sent to a monastery, and that was that. In the original story Eleanor was torn between believing her sister innocent and thinking her guilty but justified; she had no real information to go on, only memories and scandalous rumours. Outside of Eleanor's POV Adele was always mentioned in an ambiguous manner.

From time to time the idea that the women in this family have bad blood was held over Eleanor's head, and Adele was part of that proof. Very early on her fall was partly responsible for Eleanor's dim view of men, love, marriage and anything relating to them.

Was she set up by Trempwick? Was she a poor young thing married to someone old enough to be her father, looking for a bit of love and zest? Or was she a more knowing player?

[Prince Cobra]

Well, there is no need to restrict yourself to only 5 updates. I see big potential in this story. It is clear Eleanor took much from Trempwick and if there is a man, who played the role of a father, it is him. With the predictable gap between her and Fulk, I think the relations with the ex-spymaster will be more mature. Hmm, I wonder if Eleanor will find a lover... For obvious reasons, it won't be Trempwick. The story with the 'slut' sister is an interesting hint for that, I think.

[Death is yonder]

Well, there is no need to restrict yourself to only 5 updates. I see big potential in this story.

:yes:

An update full of suspense indeed. The story looks like a beginning of something anew though, as if the first chapter of another flowing tale.

Also, it is nice to get back to reading a sequel of sorts to the story, it fits in very nicely, although some things were not instantly clear, such as the mention of Hugh's bastard son, which was pointed out earlier.

[frogbeastegg]

Well. The schedule’s kind of, er, shot. :embarassed:

You see, I went to view a couple more houses and unexpectedly found one that’s pretty much perfect and affordable and in great condition! So I’ve found myself taken up with working out what furnishings I’d need and how much I need to set aside for that, council tax bills and other misc necessary expenses, deposits, mortgages, research to ensure that there’s no hidden disaster about the property, and all the other things it’s wise to do before making an offer.

So, um, I’ve not written much in the last half of this week, and when I sit down to try my mind is full of plans for where I can put bookshelves. Gah! The house even has this little 3 walled room off to one side of the living room which will fit a computer desk and chair and nothing else. Perfect for writing in when I don’t want distractions like shelves full of tempting books to read. It’s like they knew what I would need …

I have most of a scene written for the next part, most of my work thus far has been on later scenes so I’m a bit stuck. I can’t say when I’m going to be able to post something next. Hopefully within the next week. It’s going to depend a lot on how tomorrow goes; I expect to be making an offer for the place and formally requesting a mortgage so I might get buried up to my eyebrows in forms and stress, or I could be left hanging around waiting to hear what’s happening, or I could be left bidding against another buyer or heaven knows what. This first time buyer business is rough.

Bookshelves galore, and peace and quiet, and a little writing room, and a nice view over fields. What more could a frog ask for? Other than some ninjas to send in so no one else can buy it first!

Sorry ~:(

[furball]

Good luck! Home-buying is exciting! (and scary)

Never bought a house in England, so I can't offer much advice, but I noticed you mentioned a mortgage. Shop around and read the fine print. :)

[frogbeastegg]

The man Eleanor met for dinner bore himself humbly with his head down and his shoulders curved, and dressed for that fine line between rich and poor that rendered one unremarkable. His hair had been cut short so it made his cheekbones more prominent, his jaw-line stronger. To solve the discrepancy in tanning between his natural bald patch and the freshly shaved scalp he had rubbed a light brown die into his skin, and carried the effect to his hands and all areas of skin which might be revealed if his cassock fell awry. Posture made him seem shorter, smaller. Combined with the natural effects of age the disguise would pass muster provided he met no one who had known him in his former life, which was the most which could be hoped for at such short notice. He bobbed a courtesy and drew a cross in the air. “God greet you and bless you, your Highness.” His accent was faintly Italian, that of a man who had left his country as a youth and not returned.

Eleanor indicated that he should serve her at table, and that she would like to begin with the chunky vegetable soup. “You will do. It is most fortunate that we shall encounter no one who knows you, however.”

Trempwick filled her bowl with the thick wheat porridge and set about slicing bread for her. “Had I more warning I should have grown a beard, and perhaps my hair. It has been long since any saw me with hair to my shoulders, and it grants a better appearance of change to my features.”

“I pray it does not rain and wash your dye away.”

“If it does then you may rest assured that God does not wish me for a clergyman. This particular blend stains the skin persistently; I shall be scrubbing thrice daily for a week to be rid of it.” He carved slices of beef and scattered the bits over the top of her plain wheat pottage. Once he had finished preparing her meal she gave him permission to sit and organise his own meal.

The exchange of information had one dominated, or perhaps characterised, their relationship. Restrictions, exchanges, misdirection, outright lies, and the occasional bit of truth. Still did in many areas. Others, yes in others spymaster’s games had become entirely absent. Together they had realised that if there were no straight honesty in their meetings neither would trust a word the other said. And so Eleanor said openly, “Fulk left me.”

Trempwick deliberately placed his spoon back down in his bowl. “I said I would kill him if he made you unhappy. I meant it.”

“Hugh said the same yet now he is most concerned with pressing us back together.” Eleanor knew she was being unfair; Hugh had only taken that line when she said she had not been mistreated.

“Nell, I suspect your brother knows the same truth I do.” He reached across the table and clasped her hand. “If you wished him harmed then he would be. Should we be so bold as to take the wretched man’s correction into our own hands you would be furious.”

Eleanor gave his fingers a squeeze and winkled her hand out from his, not without a shade of regret. Since Fulk had left she could count the number of times someone had physically touched her without needing double digits. Lonely was an understatement. “That he left is my fault. One should not insist on telling a man something he does not wish to hear, and then be fool enough to repeat it a second time.”

Trempwick made a quirky, funny little noise in the back of his throat. “Dearest Nell, change man for person and I shall agree. Otherwise, not so much.”

Almost she smiled. “I love him. I miss him. I want him back. He is avoiding me and …” She shrugged helplessly. “I do not think it wise to catch up with him before he is willing to allow it.”

“So that is the end.” Trempwick sat back and adjusted his belt to rest more comfortably on his midriff. “Return to the beginning for me, darling Nell. It is not polite to make a man my age imagine his way through the intricacies of your quarrels.”

“We still have no heir.”

Trempwick pressed his fingertips together and held his hands up to his face, covering nose and mouth. His index fingertips pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have this unfortunate inkling …”

“Fulk refuses to discuss the matter at all. He makes excuses, says we still have time before we need to find an answer, that it is not important.”

“And you, aware of the fragility of life and succession, beg to differ.”

“He needs an heir to his title, I to my work. All we do might as well be for naught without one.” Eleanor twisted her wedding ring around on her finger, not really aware that she was doing so. “And he needs a child. I see the way he looks at our friends’ children – the longing he tries to hide. The lack of a child is – is like a lack of some piece of his soul.” That restrained hunger reminded Eleanor of the way Hugh had been before Arthur had been born, and look at her brother now. When with his children he was a new man entirely.

“I do have this terrible inkling.” Trempwick dropped his hands. “Nell, please tell me that you did not suggest ignoring the agreement you have with the bastard and risk throwing your life away merely to produce some mewling bundle that fouls itself.”

“I am a failed wife in more than one sense.” After so long of keeping silent finally speaking her suspicions felt almost therapeutic, like the draining of pus from an infected wound. “Either I have been most fortunate or I am barren. It has been three years. Those methods are not fully reliable – if they were I would not have a husband, for his mother was using the same when she conceived him.”

Trempwick’s mouth pressed into a flat line. “Nell, you do not want to die to find out. Or so I most deeply hope!”

“No, I do not want to die. And I would never ask that of him. It would be less cruel to ask him to cut my throat. At least then he would not spend months worrying if I would live or die.”

“Well, that eliminates my worst fear. That leaves my second worst.” Trempwick placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Please tell me you did not suggest that the man get himself a bastard.”

“It is the sensible solution,” Eleanor replied stiffly.

The former spymaster promptly buried his face in his hands. “Christ.”

“Tell me a better answer and I shall adopt it gladly.

“Nell,” Trempwick interrupted softly, “Nell, beloved Nell, that is an astonishingly bad idea on account of the tiny little fact that the man loves you!” He grew louder as he went until he was close to shouting the last part and halfway out off his stool. With a deep breath he sat himself back down. “You must have known what that suggestion would do to him. And to you!”

Eleanor slapped the tabletop. “And I know what the current state is doing to him – to us! We have been arguing for months, and with every day of it the injuries build and it becomes harder to let go and be glad of each other. He refused to consider all else more reasonable.” Eleanor’s voice quavered, “Tell me what else I am supposed to do.”

Trempwick let out a very long breath. “I do not know, my dear.”

“There must be an heir. Moreover he will not be truly happy without a child. When he is unhappy so am I on his behalf, and only more so when his unhappiness comes through marrying me. He will not consider taking another man’s son as his heir. I cannot give him one. Our marriage is slowly being torn apart by the lack.”

“A bastard cannot inherit. It goes against the law.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “Inherit, no. Be named as the successor to lands and titles, yes.”

“And you believe you could bring this about?” Eleanor’s answer was in her lack of one. Trempwick grimaced. “Well, one supposes there is a certain theme. I sought to make a queen, you an earl.”

“The first time I suggested it he bade me to never speak of it again. The second he walked out.” Eleanor was once again toying with her wedding ring. “I should not return to him until he wishes me to, and until there is an answer there can be no true healing between us.”

Trempwick countered, “The longer you are apart the harder it is to return – and the more others will interfere. The church will get involved, your brother, eventually everyone you speak to or go near will start to give their opinion. It is not acceptable for a married couple to live apart, still less so a pairing so unusual.”

“I know.” Eleanor heard the frustration in her own tone.

“And so you do,” Trempwick agreed, somewhat apologetically. “You will have gone over everything in exhaustive detail, and gone over it again after that.” He ate a bite of meat and chewed thoughtfully. “Nor shall I tell you what stresses the breeding and existence of a bastard would place on your marriage.”

“No, you shall not.”

“But I shall tell you this: such things are never as bearable as one might think where care – let alone love! – is involved.”

Eleanor placed her cup back on the table with a thunk. “How many matches are blessed with complete fidelity? And how many are happy? I think you will find the latter figure to be far higher than the former.”

“Nell, dearest Nell …” Trempwick sighed. “No, you do not want to hear it. You already know and have no patience left for repeats.”

“Wives are expected to tolerate wandering in their husbands.”

Trempwick kept his peace for many minutes, their meal was all but complete by the time he said in a low voice, “You might stand people sniggering behind their hands at your inability to keep his attention and to provide a child. You would gradually crumble under the personal aspects. Wondering what he thought of the other woman, what they did, how they did it, how much he enjoyed it, how you compared, whether his feelings for you had altered-”

“Enough,” Eleanor commanded. She knew

“And each time you set eyes on that child you would be reminded that he had strayed, broke his solemn vow to you and set you to one side-”

“Enough!”

“You would wonder how that child would look if it had you for a mother, if he would love it more or less. And what if it were not a son? Then there would be need for another. What if Fulk decided he could not return to fidelity?”

Eleanor slammed a hand onto the table, making the dishes rattle. “Enough!”

Trempwick subsided with a faintly smug expression. “You see? You are not so sanguine, and at this point it is a mere suggestion and not a reality you must live with.”

“The reality I must live with is one of a man I love being unhappy because of me.”

The former spymaster laced his fingers together. “Nell, my dear Nell, have you considered how deeply this suggestion prickles a man’s pride? To be told to break his word, discard the honour he has worked to guard-”

“Raoul,” Eleanor interrupted softly but in a tone which brooked no argument, “I know. And you may be assured that the very fact I give the possibility more than the fraction of a moment’s thought that it would take to dismiss it speaks of how very concerned I am.”

Trempwick conceded defeat with a nod. “Give Fulk time. He is not a complete fool, and he is aware of the need. Give him time to come to his own conclusion – and then respect it. Remember, he married you knowing children were unlikely.”

“I wish he would talk to me.” Eleanor saw Trempwick’s hand begin to move as though he’d once again touch her; she rose and wandered away from the table before that could happen. Human contact and warmth was not a longing she was prepared to give any rein. “About anything else, he will talk. About this subject, I am fortunate to get a curt dismissal.”

Trempwick looked ruefully at the hand marooned midway to where her own had been. “Likely because he himself is struggling and does not know what to say. Give him time.”

“I have little option at present save to wait.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “I have a sister to greet and remove.”

Trempwick turned about on his stool so he could sit leaning back against the table with his elbows resting comfortably on its edges. “If I had said Adele was as innocent as driven snow it would have made no difference, would it?”

“My sister, to spare us both the mincing of words, is by reputation a feckless, selfish adulteress and a traitor to her adopted country. She is a mother who abandoned her children - sons no less - and who gambled their futures away for her own carnal gratification. She is a lousy judge of men, her lover proving unable to die with any semblance of courage or dignity. What is more she is a failed plotter, a loser in the grandest of games, someone with no understanding of the scale of risk against potential reward.” Eleanor frowned. “Or so the world has judged her, and so she will be known until the day of her death and long after. What does it matter what manner of person she is? Like a smashed pot which is missing a piece, there is little to be done with her save tidy her away and attempt to salvage some little use from the sound parts.”

Trempwick touched his fingers to his brow in a salute. “So speaketh the spymaster.”

“She is my sister,” Eleanor said vaguely, attention mainly returned to Fulk. “I shall do what may be done to make the inevitable tolerable - should she cooperate.”









That’s part of what was intended to be the second update. I shall have to move on the same ‘when ready’ basis as I did for the main story from here on. Exhibiting uncanny timing (the very week I started posting again! What were the odds?) life’s got too busy for me to predict writing time.

I got the house. Now all I need to do is hire a solicitor, get a mortgage, have the place surveyed, pay for it, furnish it – a little list which will take weeks, much running about, and untold stress. And here I was, looking forward to my first quiet and lazy “I’m not working in retail so I’m safe from Christmas” December in over 4 years, hehe!

Oh yes – WOOHOO!! :jumping:

[Ludens]

Congratulations!
~:thumb:
Good luck on getting your house ready. I am guessing you'll need it.

[Death is yonder]

Congratulations on the house froggy :2thumbsup:

And a great update too :yes:

[frogbeastegg]

There, in the centre of that scrubby field that looked like … Were his aging eyes summoning ghosts? Trempwick slipped down from his mule and set off on foot along the raised earth walkway that ran through the field. Blind to all else except what stood in the field, he ignored the man at arms who plunged after him, hand on sword’s hilt and the others who sidled their mounts to give a better line of chase should he attempt to flee.

Trempwick halted some paces away from the curiosity and drew a cross over his breast. “My God,” he breathed.

Years of exposure had robbed the woollen cloth of much of its dye and had tattered the tunic past wearing by any respectable man. A slit over the breast surrounded by dark stains bore witness to the fate of its former owner. Once this garment had been forest green paired with a deep orange, and the fox’s head badge would have its details picked out in gold thread.

The man at arms imposed himself between Trempwick and the scarecrow. “Her Highness will wish to leave as soon as the horses have been watered, father. We should return now. She will not take kindly to being kept waiting. You know she wants to get another 10 miles out of today, at the least.”

Did any of his watchful escort know the truth of the man their lady kept under subtle guard? He could not leave yet! Not until … until … Trempwick brushed his fingers over the hole in the livery tunic’s breast. “A moment longer will not harm.” The fug in his mind cleared sufficiently for him to add, “A prayer for the man who died wearing this, at least.”

“Father, our lady has a royal temper so the merest heartbeat can harm! Especially with that rag hanging on those there poles! Don’t expect you to recognise it but that’s Trempwick’s livery, that is.”

Trempwick found himself pressed back a pace – it was that or be trodden on. “All the more reason to pray for the man’s soul!” He grasped the large crucifix which hung around his neck and began to mutter a simple prayer, hoping it would buy time. He needed to gaze on this sight a while longer – his livery! His banned livery! Three years since he’d last seen it. Three years since Raoul the lord had been destroyed. Three years since a loyal man had died wearing this. His livery! Some rotting wool with the dye bleeding out and green rot growing on the shoulders. Once men had been proud to wear it. Once. And he had been surrounded by loyal men wearing it; confident, secure, powerful. Then, so different to now it might as well be another man’s past instead of his own. His livery, a bundle of rags made mock of by peasants with all the sophistication of a swine in mud!

A hand settled on his shoulder and insistently turned him around and started to propel him along the muddy path back towards Eleanor’s group. Trempwick snatched one last backwards glance at the scarecrow before the necessity of keeping his footing fixed his eyes on the ground. It was then he noticed a peasant heading towards them. From the simple band of decoration on his tunic hem and collar he was of some import in this village.

The farmer called, “Is there a problem, sirs?”

Before his guard could answer Trempwick took the advantage. “That is an interesting crow-scarer you have.”

With a proud tilt of his head the man replied, “I took it myself when I followed my lord king to battle at Alnwick. Marched from one end of England clear to the other, stuck a couple of the traitor’s men with my spear and took one of their’s through my thigh.” He patted a spot on the outside edge of his left leg. “Greatest day of my life.”

“Something to tell your children of,” Trempwick murmured.

“Aye, and grandchildren, should God so bless me.” The former soldier clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “I tell you this, if I’d got my hands on that Trempwick bastard I’d have his bones to scare the birds from my fields! Lord of Alnwick should have gutted him when he had the chance. He’d got every reason to do it so none would have looked at him squint-wise for it.” With a tug of his forelock he added, “Meaning no ill of yon lady’s husband, of course.”

Had Nell brought him here to see what he had seen and hear what he was now hearing? No, no, the tunic had plainly been there for years and Nell’s touch had never been so crude as to contrive this display. Then the question should be: was this indicative of the mark he had left on the realm, or was it a local flavour? He feared he knew the answer and that it was the first of the two. “The king decreed the traitor should live.”

“The king was pushed to it by his lords, damn their eyes!” The farmer spat into the dirt. “Worried for their own necks. Whole army knew it.”

Trempwick’s guard grunted something that might have been agreement. More clearly he said, “The party’s reassembling – better get a shift on.”

By the time Trempwick and his escort reached their animals the rest of the party was mounted and waiting. Trempwick dragged his aching bones onto his mule, eyes humbly downcast so he could escape from the glare Nell directed at him.

She snapped, “You have delayed me when you know I have need of speed. Delay me again and I shall find another priest to minister my sister’s soul! There are enough and more to choose from.”

“Forgive me, your Highness.” Did she know what he had seen? What he had heard? As Trempwick kicked his priestly mount into motion a turn of phrase bloomed in his mind; he gave voice to it quietly, testing it out on his tongue to see how it sat.

Nell twisted back to pin him with a shrivelling look. “What was that?”

“Forgive me, your Highness. A notion I had, I was but testing it out.” The look advanced from shrivelling to positively burning. Trempwick attempted to explain, “Words occupy me much these days. Since I began to work on my histories. I …” He made a vague gesture, aware of a hot sensation creeping across his cheekbones. “Sometimes phrases come to me and I need to test them out.”

“You sound cracked in the head,” she observed with the greatest of tact.

The flush consumed the rest of Trempwick’s face. “I must do the bulk of my composition in my head. And the way the words fit together, and the different words which can fit a situation, and the way the finished article sounds when read …” He strangled himself into silence, aware that he was blushing like a tremulous virgin at a wedding party. Alas that he knew himself to sound insane. Those who had conviction in their mad notions could voice them with fiery passion that could convince others. “I am often considering lines for my work,” he finished with what he hoped was an air of dignity. At his age a deep absorption into words and their many mysteries might be taken as the onset of senility.

“And what is this latest … treasure, might I enquire?”

“For one of my histories, a part of the introduction perhaps.” Trempwick rolled the words in his head once again, tasting them anew and finding them to be good. “The past is as a different country, strange and yet familiar. As knowable as the back of your hand and as unknowable as the back of your neck.”

The look Nell gave him was a strange one. “I begin to wonder if you belong in a scriptorium.”

Trempwick answered with a wistful little smile, “I wonder the same.”











There’s the appetizer. I shall either do the main meal and desert together or in two separate courses, depends on how much I get finished and when. I’m going to continue writing today and absolutely, definitely really actually will have another part for you before I return to work on Tuesday. Got a lot of it written already, just need to hone and polish, and add in some very brief scenes at various points. Watch this space closely.



You will have noticed Trempy’s POV voice has changed. He’s slowed down, no longer thinking at break-neck pace in fragments. He has become more wordy, more inwardly focused.


Thanks, both of you. If you're really lucky I'll post some pictures of my library when it's completed. (this is your cue to look interested in that same pained "Oh help!" way as when someone threatens to show you pictures of their holiday, pets or children). I've had a couple of book lovers at work ask me to take pictures to show them.

[furball]

Book lovers? <ponders Frog's new job> Well, at least you get monday off. :)

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor heard footsteps coming up behind her and slipped a hand inside her sleeve to grasp the hilt of her knife while maintaining her prayerful posture as though she had heard nothing. A lone person, probably a man as the stride was wrong for someone who’d spent a lifetime in skirts, shuffling slightly as though in discomfort with the joints. Each footfall was soft yet placed to make some sound.

Without looking to check her guessed identification of her visitor she called, “Priest or not, it is not mannerly to interrupt someone at prayer.”

Trempwick’s voice answered, “I am amazed this little shed of a townhouse has a chapel.”

“Do not insult my host’s generosity.” Truth be told she was fortunate to have this pokey little townhouse to rest in overnight. Few wished to be closely associated with a disgraced princess whose reputation was sinking faster than a bottomless boat. Royal blood reduced to being grateful for hospitality from a middling merchant in a dull little town like Barley, oh how great an encouragement to reunite with her husband at the first opportunity!

“It is on the part of your host that I have come.” The footsteps ended and Eleanor heard Trempwick getting down onto his own knees about an arm’s length behind her. His voice dropped to a much lower level. “He has been busy thinking.”

Eleanor glanced back over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow in query.

“In any coupling there are two who can be barren.”

“And I would wish to hear my host’s opinion on this because?”

“He is sat in his hall below, sotted with drink and expounding on his theories to all within earshot.” Trempwick’s voice become softer still. “And he is full of solutions.”

“I see.” Unfortunately she did. Eleanor snorted. “An occurrence so predictable I have a long-standing countermeasure.” She rose from her devotions and made an obedience towards the altar and called for her guard.

The man entered through the open, pointy-arched doorway with a deep bow. “Your Highness?”

“Tell Walter our host requires his special talents.”

“At once, your Highness.” The man disappeared with a grim expression.

Walter could drink most men under the table and still stand up half-sober. Walter could punch a hole in a barn and had the excellent self-taught habit of always aiming for soft parts where no permanent damage would be done. Walter was an affable, friendly chap who could insinuate himself into any gathering except those of the highest rank. These talents combined into a most healthful solution for a whole gamut of problems.

When the man at arms had departed again Trempwick cleared his throat. “Well, that all sounds most interesting indeed. Might I enquire …?”

Eleanor straightened her cushion before the altar and knelt back down. “A year or two ago people began to decide that a lover would solve all of my problems at a stroke, pun intended and very much an indicator of my opinion of their prowess. Those egotistical enough to think they can resolve anything with their manhood generally do not have the talent to wield it to anyone’s satisfaction but their own.” She heard Trempwick make a strangled noise, and glanced back at him. “Come, I inherited dozens of brothels worth of spying whores from you. One learns a deal about the sins of the powerful, both private and political.”

“You used to be so innocent,” Trempwick observed mournfully. “Once you would have blushed to make such a remark. It is a shock to see how much you have changed those rare times I see you.”

“Innocence does not last when one makes the mistake of saying ‘Tell me everything’ to one of those agents.” After that educational experience she had arranged for filtered reports but minor details still slipped through. “Anyway, Walter is one of my countermeasures.” She adopted a tone very much baffled at the foibles of soldiers. “Poor man, he has such a bad habit of becoming drunk and beating people that I have docked his pay to such a level he should actually pay me several pounds a year, and I believe I have thrown him from my service at least twice.”

“And naturally his victims cannot say why he attacked them and so cannot press their outrage. Ingenious.”

“Naturally. It is one of my ideas, after all.” With a hint of a smirk Eleanor crossed herself and rose.

When he saw that she meant to leave Trempwick said, “Wait. Please, if you would.”

Eleanor waited expectantly.

“Your host is correct in one part.”

“You think I need to be told that Fulk may be barren, not I.”

He chose his words with some care. “I think you need to be reminded of it. You take too much to your own shoulders.”

“Hips,” she corrected. “Shoulders have no relevance.”

The former spymaster snorted with laughter. “Droll.”

“The truth. I am not built for childbearing. That is the start and end of it. And regardless …” Eleanor realised she was playing with her wedding ring again and willed her hands to stillness. “Regardless, Fulk is in the prime of his life. He is fit, healthy, and, dare I say it, an excellent specimen of manhood. I can assure you he is not diseased. He is definitely virile.” And because of the way Trempwick was studying her that admission caused her to blush. “There is no reason for his seed be weak save that he causes it to be for my sake.”

Trempwick moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Dearest Nell, he has no known children after years of different women.”

“He took care, and the only one he has spent a lot of time with is me.” Seeing he was about to speak again she held up a hand to forestall him. “And let us be honest, it is by the by. The only way to prove the hypothesis one way or another is for him to attempt to father a child on someone else and he will not consider it. So what difference does it make?”

Trempwick laboured to his feet; the succession of long days in the saddle were playing havoc with his joints, Eleanor knew. Three years without so much as touching a horse had utterly ruined his riding condition. “It makes a difference to the burden you carry, and that is my concern.” And likely that was his only concern, unlike the others who had felt compelled to speak on the matter with her.

“It makes no difference,” Eleanor said firmly, struggling to keep hold of her temper. Why must he do this to her? Why press her to examine facts she had already stared at to exhaustion and far beyond. “Whatever the reasoning, whatever the excuse, it must always return to the fact that my husband has left me because of the disharmony caused by our lack of a child, and the reason for that, however you dress it, is me.”

“And the man knew all this when he agreed to wed you!” Trempwick growled. If not for the semi-public location Eleanor believed he would have been shouting fit to wake the dead. “As did you! That is my very point – this should never have arisen and there should be no blame, no guilt, none of it! That it has, that is his fault! His! Not yours! By your own admission he is the one moping about -”

Once Eleanor might have raged back at him; the temper was still there and burning to be released. “Be silent.” That cold command shocked him enough it was as effective as stuffing a gag down his throat. “If this is the sum total of the advice that you can give me, keep it between your teeth and choke on it. By God, I can tell you have sunk to become some variety of historian – you obsess over what has gone before and how it is viewed rather than turning your energies to a solution for what is faced in the here and now. I care not whose fault it is, I care only for mending it.”

Trempwick’s face went utterly blank save for a certain set to his mouth, a mode that had once promised impending unpleasantness but now only reminded her of his powerlessness. “Eleanor, you are determined to bury yourself under guilt.”

“And you are set on raking over old wounds until I bleed to death instead of helping me find a way to heal them.” She snatched up her cushion from the floor and headed for the exit.







The ship had arrived yesterday. Dover’s castellan had taken Adele under his wing as instructed, and had kept her bundled up in her assigned rooms with little outside contact under the guise of helping her recover from her arduous journey.

Eleanor took the time to wash after her lengthy ride and to change into good clothes and send word that she would meet her sister in the castle’s great solar. That did not prevent messages from Adele arriving seemingly each time she blinked, begging her to come at once so that they could be reunited and take joy in each other’s presence.

“Joy,” Eleanor muttered as she attacked her hair with a comb to clear out the tangles before she redid the braid. “Huh! We never did get on, so heaven knows what joy she expects to find!” She was adamant she would not jump when her sister said frog.

Presentable again, Eleanor summoned the castellan’s second in command to give her a report on everything that had happened since her sister’s ship had docked. The knowledge she gleaned was promising for her intention of bundling Adele out of the way, and rather mortifying on a family basis. It seemed that she’d turned into a pale, too thin creature who jumped at loud noises and possessed an air of impending doom. No fire, no spirit, no brains.

And so, prepared as she could be without additional time and resources, Eleanor swept into Dover’s large solar with Trempwick and the three knights of her bodyguard behind her in full best dress.

The very first thing Eleanor found herself thinking as she exchanged a formal embrace with her sister was that the castellan’s underling was right – Adele’s clothes did make her look like a collection of blocks stacked atop each other. Her second was that Adele was taller by a good two or three inches!

Eleanor ended the embrace first and held her sister at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.” Then, because it was the sort of thing you were supposed to say when meeting family you have no seen since you were a small child, “Have they been feeding you properly? You feel like skin and bone!” True; their embrace had revealed that Adele had far less flesh than her clothing implied.

Embarrassingly Adele burst into tears. “Oh! Please, I do not speak of it.” She spoke in strongly accented, somewhat rusty Anglo-French.

Not for the first time Eleanor wondered if her sister’s imprisonment had been harsher than her estranged husband had claimed. With help from the various ladies maids in the room Eleanor got Adele sat down and, while they made some headway in stemming the flood of tears, cast a speculative eye over her sister.

Adele was dressed in what was probably the height of fashion somewhere in Spain. She wore a voluminous outer dress with great dangling sleeves cut off at the elbow, decorated with fur at collar, cuffs, and hem. The dress was cut wide in a way which should have flowed artistically but on Adele it just made her middle vanish so she went straight up and straight back down again like the sides of a squared doorway. Below the outer dress she wore a tight-sleeved shift in silk and it had a high collar which came up to the chin, a chunky concoction which looked just like a square. Her hair was dressed into two braids which had been pined by her ears, each folded up a few times so that they hung level with her jaw. That gave the effect of two squares placed next to a face neatly turned into – what surprise! - a square by the combined efforts of collar, hair and headdress. It was the kind of costume designed for a much larger woman, or perhaps some ill-conceived marriage between Christian and infidel fashions.

There was family resemblance in the facial details; the line of the nose or the shape of the eyebrows, and of course in the deep blue eyes. Otherwise Eleanor couldn’t spot much in common with Hugh and the reflections she had seen of herself in her polished silver mirror.

When the tears had finally subsided Adele seized hold of Eleanor’s hand as though she were the only thing to prevent her from downing. “I am so glad to be home. I want to forget the time I was away. All of it! Oh, I am so happy.” Promptly she started bawling again.

Eleanor heaved a mental sigh – how could she be related to this feeble display!? Once again she reminded herself that she had little idea of what Adele had gone through during her imprisonment, and that she should be patient. “I am certain you will feel better in a few days.”

A grateful if watery smile was her reward. “I know I will.” Adele suddenly looked abashed, and started to dab her eyes with a square of silk she produced from somewhere in her square clothes.

It was an attitude Eleanor recognised from when they were children; it had accompanied pleas for sweets, trinkets and other treats. “What did you wish to ask?”

“Well, I hate to be a burden, and I only just arrived as well. It is only …” Her lower lip trembled and the eyes filled up with more inexhaustible tears. “I do hate to impose.”

Stomping on her impatience Eleanor coaxed, “You are safe amongst your own people now. Say as you will.”

“Well, it is only that I would dearly love to be rid of these horrible clothes!”

A ripple of laughter ran through the room.

Adele tore her headdress off and dashed it on the floor. “That for Spain! And for all of those who persecuted me! I will burn everything I brought from that land of injustice and cruelty!” She trampled the finely embroidered silk underfoot. “I am English again! I have a new life and this time the envious will not destroy it!” Once again she burst into tears.

The various maids and the castellan’s wife and two daughters removed Adele to see if they could improvise an outfit for her. Eleanor breathed a hefty sigh of relief as her sister’s alternating exclamations and sobs faded into the distance. “Tell me,” she said to the castellan, “is she always that bad?”

“No.” He retrieved the trampled headdress from the floor and looked at a loss as to what he should do next. “Like a scared mouse, yes. Like a leaking water barrel, no, thank the Lord, or we should all have drowned by now!”

“Hmm,” observed Eleanor. Adele would have a bright future ahead of her as a prioress weeping for the world’s sins. Who knew, they might make her a saint if she cried enough. It had happened before. She passed over the huddle of fireside seats in favour of a window seat where she could watch the entire room. Her little party obediently trooped over and dispersed themselves around the area so she didn’t look lonely.

When Adele came back the effect was not dissimilar to the sound of a whistle on a pack of dogs – the gaze of every last man in the room snapped around to look at her and lingered for rather too long to be polite. Under her breath Eleanor muttered a very lady-like, “Bollocks!”

English fashion had, though some perverse sense of humour, worked its way around to a rough copy of the formerly out of date style Eleanor had worn for years with a few different touches so people could pretend it was bold and new. Over a simple linen shift in red Adele wore a deep blue outer dress, with sleeves which reached the wrist and which were cut very loose so that they hung gracefully to reveal to the tight sleeves of the underdress. The body of the dress had laces so that it hugged the body between hip and armpit, and was worn with a new style of girdle which wrapped a band of gauzy fabric the width of a hand tightly around the waist to tie on the left side into a bow from which fell the trailing, fluttery long ends of the sash. Over that went the older style of girdle, wrapping a single high loop about the body near the top of the slash and then crossing over into a looser, hanging loop which then tied into a knot and left decorative ends to hang down the front of the dress nearly to the ground. Adele’s dark hair had been redone in a single braid and she wore a simple veil on top of it, held in place by a band of braided silk. Eleanor recognised the clothes – they were hers, hastily modified to fit.

Adele clapped her hands in delight and scurried across the room to pull Eleanor to her feet. “Oh, do we not look like sisters now? We are dressed the same.”

The room made agreeable cooing noises, and Eleanor could tell what was going through every single damned mind. There were three distinct differences between Adele and herself. Firstly Adele was a deal taller. Secondly she had proper hips. Thirdly she had the soft, rounded frontage that only came with motherhood. The contrast was girlish dawn to womanly midday sun and dawn’s light was not going to grow any brighter.

Adele turned on Eleanor. “I am so sorry for borrowing your clothes without asking but you are such a good and generous person you could not possibly object. As soon as I have my own new ones made I will return them.”

Eleanor managed a smile. “Nonsense. You must keep them.” She was not about to admit how ill she could afford to give the garments away.

“Oh, you are too generous and kind.” More tears welled up and for the merest heartbeat Eleanor thought she saw a gleam of something else in Adele’s eyes. “I shall pay you back the very day I take charge of my incomes.”

Eleanor parried the bid for information with a ‘we women never get told anything’ helpless façade. “Hugh has not yet said anything of his intentions.”

“I will marry again.” Adele smiled broadly, and nodded. “Yes. A good husband this time. Someone with faith, who will not listen to the whispers of those who are jealous.”

Best to kill any thoughts of marriage early on. “I do not think he has plans for you to marry again.”

“Oh, but of course I must! What else might I do?” A gasp, more tears, and a horrified Adele was hanging off Eleanor’s arm pleading, “Oh, not a nunnery! He could not be so cruel! I am innocent, I always was! I have spent so many years locked away that I could not abide it! I swear I would positively die of horror on hearing the words!”

Eleanor tried again, carefully trying to prise herself loose from her sister’s claws, “I do not think-”

“You will talk to him. I will talk to him. He is not cruel and so he will listen. There.” Having made up her mind on that score, Adele released her hold. “Oh, I do only have this one set of clothes. I wonder where I might get others? I cannot ride to meet Hugh in these, and I will need fresh clothes to meet him in also.”

“I doubt I have anything you can borrow …”

“Yes,” said Adele, a fraction too quickly, “I cannot possibly borrow anything else or your kindness will leave you with much too little yourself.”

Eleanor gave her sister a measuring look; had that been thoughtless or pointed? “I travelled lightly.” A good excuse and she would stick to it. Admitting that she and Fulk did not have the money to waste on endless parades of rich clothing would cut no ice.

“Oh, well, there is the thought that I might have something made up before we leave, is there not?” Again that abashed look with the threat of tears. “But I have no money or anything,” she confided in a low voice.

“I am sure you can have several tasteful outfits made at Hugh’s expense if the castellan here will draw a little from the funds our brother provides.” Eleanor turned a winsome smile on the poor man, and there was little he could do except agree to hand over money intended for maintaining his soldiers. Hugh could afford to pay the money back, and would do so within the month. He never neglected the needs of his royal strongholds.

With that settled Eleanor pleaded weariness from her journey and withdrew. She needed time to mull over what she had learned, and to formulate a battle plan. Something told her that she would need it. She could recognise when she’d been manipulated and would have to be blind not to see her sister scoring petty points at her expense, the question being to what end? And how best to make her compliant?

“Well,” said Trempwick dryly, walking close in at Eleanor’s elbow, “Now we know where your share of,” he made a complex gesture which illustrated height and bodily build, “went!”







Hands up everyone who trusts Adele. Anyone?

Turns out the tiny scenes incorporated nicely into the larger ones with a bit of amphibian magic. A few bits don’t appear here and are saved for later big scenes. How very … environmentally friendly?

NB: I know ‘Spain’ did not exist at this time. Same as Germany in the main story. It’s just a lot easier from a storytelling point of view to bundle those distant, barely mentioned countries up under the modern label – I don’t want to specify which of the smaller kingdoms the two sisters were married off into. As for Adele’s Spanish fashion outfit, it’s a load of nonsense cobbled together out of parts of other medieval fashions and purposely designed to be horrible. Or did Adele choose it to be purposely horrible? ;)


I know, furball. It’s silly. Work in a bookshop for 3 ½ years, hardly meet any other employees who read at all. Work as a civil servant for a matter of months, meet 2 others who read a lot and a smattering of others who read a bit.





Someone on the other forum observed that Trempy seems to be portrayed in a more favourable light now whereas Nell seems harsher and crueller. I thought my reply might be of interest to the readers here so I include it below:

You’re right. Nell is harsher and more, let’s say focused, now, while Trempwick has apparently mellowed. It’s primarily the spymaster job. Trempy has spent the last 3 years isolated from the world and its pressures, discovering that he likes playing around with books, writing and histories. And, presumably, thinking of ways to regain some of what he lost.

Nell has spent it seeing the worst of a realm that’s emerging from a troubled period, and working to counteract whatever troubles she can. Not to mention the difficulties she and Fulk have faced as a couple in a society that didn’t approve of such mismatched marriages, and that’s beside and separate to the more recent strain on the matter of children. You could see hints of this at the end of the original story; the Nell walking the world after the siege and battle of Alnwick was a harder person than the one who had nightmares after killing a single person.

[furball]

A late Christmas gift! Really, Froggy, it's a joy to have more to read.

[frogbeastegg]

Posted something else on the other forum which might be of interest to readers here:

Adele, children and the lack thereof, and themes.

If you look at what Adele has got, physically and otherwise, and what Nell has got, you will see that there's a certain degree of matching. What one has the other lacks and vice versa, it's like a negative and the developed photo. Already, before they even met, each sister finds the other standing in her way, using the things they possess and the other lacks as the foundation for their position. So yes, Nell's lack of children is a key part of the theme, as is Adele's lack of power.

The difficulty is in setting this up gracefully in a relatively small amount of words. Either it gets mentioned a lot in a relatively small number of scenes, or we wind the starting point back by months and let it play out naturally ... while very little else of interest happens.

Themes in the main plot thread aside, one might note that the break up - temporary or otherwise - of this weird and unpopular marriage is something of a bomb going off in society. Without Nell and the grudging approval of Hugh, Fulk's vulnerable. Remove Fulk and Nell is once again marriageable. Thus the concern for a certain collection of characters is to push Nell and Fulk back together as soon as possible and as firmly as possible. For others it is the very opposite.

So far we've seen almost everything from Nell's POV. If you look at what she's devoting most time and worry to, and what she reveals in passing, you'll see that she's more confident as a spymaster than as a private individual. She has systems in place to thwart nuisances like would-be Romeos. She is personally alert and wary. She has agents who watch those of high enough rank to come within her orbit and who thus might pose a threat. Her bodyguard in what should be considered safe conditions is noted as being 3 knights where in the main story she only had 1. It's going to take a concerted effort to kidnap her assuming she's made into a widow, and she's not allowing anyone to link their name with hers in an intimate way. What she can't do is solve the root problem, and said root problem hits her in a whole collection of vulnerable places.

At this point you should all now be going "But Nell fished Trempy out of prison and has him in her close company!"

Yes. She did.

It's a frog story; I'd get bored if only one straightforward, plain plotline were happening. :gring:

[frogbeastegg]

A second attempt at the words proved that Eleanor had not made a mistake. “A tame squirrel?” She looked up from the list of needs that her sister had drawn up and repeated to her company at large, “A tame squirrel?!”

There was a general shuffling of feet and avoiding of her gaze.

“My sister considers a live, tame bit of fur more generally seen deceased and stitched onto clothes as an essential she cannot live without.” Eleanor skimmed through the list again. “And a lap dog, which will surely eat the squirrel. And five outfits suitable for riding. And six for everyday wear, and two grander ones for special occasions, and fifteen – fifteen! – changes of linen, and sundry jewels, and more jewellery than is owned by my sister-by-law the queen!” And that, amazingly, was but a part of the requests Adele had made.

The castellan wrung his hands. “It cannot be afforded, your Highness. I know you bid me pay for what she needs, but with all the will in the world I cannot! Not even were I to take every last penny in the entire castle, including those in the purses of others.”

“You need have no fear,” Eleanor said as she strode over to the writing desk and gently encouraged Trempwick to remove himself before she sat on him. Taking the quill from the departing man’s hand she dipped it in the ink and began scoring through lines and amending numbers. Once the document was altered to her satisfaction she waved it in the air to dry the ink. “One outfit for riding, two for every day wear, five changes of linen, shoes as appropriate, and no squirrels.”

With a bow Peter the castellan accepted the reduced list. “And what shall I tell her Highness, your sister?”

“Why, that you will not endanger your men or your castle by depleting funds to such a degree in order to outfit her.” Although she needed the man to act as a front to conceal how much power she had when it came to her sister’s fate, Eleanor did not wish his life to be made uncomfortable by a hostile guest. “Say nothing until the day she receives the goods, for that will be the day we leave.” She picked up the document that Trempwick had been writing before she ousted him. “Take this also. It records and confirms it was by my command that you used your funds to outfit Adele, and that you will be repaid in full.”

Peter set his hand over his heart and bowed deeply. “As you command, your Highness.”

He had been gone a mere matter of minutes when one of the castle’s pages arrived with yet another message from Adele requesting her sister’s joyful and most beloved company. Eleanor dispatched Emota, her second lady’s maid, to carry a message pleading that her mistress was busy and would attend as soon as she was able. Naturally Emota would draw whatever useful information she could from Adele; unceasing chatter was her one great talent.

When page and maid had left Aveis remarked over her sewing, “It shall be my turn soon, I think.”

Eleanor propped her chin on her fists and absently nibbled at the knuckle of her index finger. Aveis, still refusing to remarry three years after her last husband’s death, would be ideally placed to commiserate with Adele about the cruelties of marriage. She was nearer in age to Adele and that too might yield benefits. “Soon,” Eleanor confirmed. “Focus on the freedoms she has gained as a widow, and speak much of your own unhappy marriages.” But it wasn’t Aveis’ role Eleanor was thinking of so deeply, and it was not Adele her unfocused eyes lingered on. “Ranulf,” she mused.

The knight ceased to lounge against the wall with a start, nearly cutting himself on the dagger he was wasting time sharpening. “Might I serve?”

Eleanor crooked a finger and when he stood before her she said with a degree of satisfaction, “Yes, I think you might. For one, accentuate that Scottish accent of yours. For another, I expect the greatest heights of courtly behaviour of you.”

Placed his hand over his heart as the castellan had done Ranulf swept a deep bow, his grey eyes lingering on hers the entire time. In a husky murmur he asserted, “Anything for my beautiful lady.”

Pleasing. Too pleasing. Eleanor rapped her knuckles on his golden-haired head. “Not aimed at me, you dolt!” Linking her arm through his, she walked him over to the quietest corner of the room. “Aim your charm at my sister. Allow her to believe you infatuated – and something of a brainless sort. Let slip that your ancestry, and build up that accent of yours. I want her believing a young knight of excellent background and little wit might be willing to do something foolish on her behalf.”

“Ah, amour!” Ranulf proclaimed, striking his breast three times with his fist. “In the name of devoted love I shall flee with the beautiful lady to safety, rescuing her from her family’s cruel plans!”

Only the sharp-witted won a place in Eleanor’s retinue. “Yes. You will be one half of my last resort.” The honeycomb, the temptation for Adele to make a break for it. The other half, Trempwick the irate priest with evidence of Adele’s sinful past, would be the stick driving her away. Pray it did not come to that.

The knight considered for a moment then nodded once. “I shall begin my approach at dinner, if it please you. Have me serve you both at table.”

Knowing full well the effects of having titbits and attention lavished on one by a handsome knight Eleanor couldn’t help but smile, somewhat wistfully as it had been long since her own crook-nosed knight had done that for her. “You may begin sooner. Let her find your eyes shyly on her as you stand in the background at our next meeting.”

And that concluded the assignment of roles. Trempwick would play the stern priest as previous agreed. Hawise would ‘attempt’ to keep her fellow lady’s maids from gabbling ‘pointlessly’ with Adele. Her other two knights and all the minors of the household would behave as normal. It would arose suspicion if too many of her people were to engage with Adele.

Eleanor addressed her entire company. “Any questions or advice?” There were none. “Then let us be about our work.”




“Oh, dear sister it is so good to see you once again!” As she broke the showy embrace she’d launched on her sister, Adele began to steer her towards the fireside. “Oh, I do find this country to be so cold. That is the one good I can say of Spain, it was warm.”

“This is a mild summer.” Eleanor allowed herself to be pressed down into the mound of cushions that had been piled onto the chair. Even with the fire built low she was going to roast at this proximity. With an apologetic smile she moved her chair back a few feet, swinging it around so it was still close to Adele’s. “You will forgive me for moving a little, I hope? I have rarely left England and so am used to our colder lands.”

“Oh, I could never be unhappy with you for such a small thing.” Adele took a goblet of wine from a nearby servant and placed it in her sister’s hands. “There! How cosy. There are sweetmeats and other such trifles also.” Another servant hurried set down a small table within comfortable reach of the sisters and a third set on it a selection of dishes filled with food.

“Pray allow me to contribute.” Eleanor beckoned over her three knights. “Have a boy fetch your instruments and then play in the background for our entertainment.” While all three were as accomplished as good breeding demanded, Ranulf had a particularly pure singing voice.

Adele clasped her hands in pure joy. “Oh, the delights of genteel company! Oh, how I have missed such comforts, such marks of noble life.” Her face set, and she took a deep breath and said more levelly, “No, I shall not speak of it.”

“Did they treat you so very badly?”

“I shall not speak of it,” Adele insisted. “I could not bear to be so diminished in your eyes.”

Eleanor said honestly, “Nothing you tell me of your imprisonment could diminish you in my eyes.”

“Oh sister, if you but knew …” She shook her head. “But no. I shall not speak of it.” She picked up a bowl with small squares of marzipan and offered it to Eleanor, taking a piece for herself. “We shall speak of happier things. Oh, it is so long that we have been apart we are near to being strangers!”

“Yes.” Eleanor chewed her bit of marzipan, thinking back to the girl about to leave the country, dressed in the very height of finery and loaded with jewels, comparing her future husband to the heroes in her romances and fearing she might be kidnapped by pirates. “Do you still enjoy your reading?”

“I do not know.” Adele looked down at her clasped hands. “I have not seen a book in … many years now.”

“But why keep such harmless things from you?”

The expression on Adele’s face was almost pitying. “The church took the chance to rail against courtly romances, saying that they had encouraged me to stray. Why, then, would I have been permitted to continue enjoying them in my prison?”

“I see.”

“I doubt you can. Many other of my pleasures were condemned at the same time. My choice of clothes. My taste for lively music. My love of dancing. So very much, all fodder for the bile of dried up old clergymen.” Adele’s full lips had pressed into a thin, bloodless line. “No, you cannot understand, I think.” Draining her wine at a scandalous rate, Adele changed the subject. “But enough of gloom. I hear you are married, and to an earl no less. Is he not here?”

“Fulk remains on our lands. The dispute between the King of Scots and his son makes the border an uneasy place.”

“Oh, well, but surely I shall meet him? He sounds most fascinating.”

“It is possible you shall,” Eleanor allowed. The knights’ instruments had arrived and Ranulf began to sing softly in the background accompanied by citole and psaltery.

“Do tell me about him.” Adele popped another square of marzipan into her mouth. “I heard he is the bastard son of the de la Bec family, of a churchman no less!”

“That is true.”

“Oh, he must be so – so rough, and uncourtly in all his manners and bearing!”

“No, not at all.” Did Eleanor detect a trace of excitement in her sister’s manner?

“Truly? Not at all? But, then, all the same he must be a man who knows what he wants and takes it. Fearless, decisive, and, well, somewhat dangerous to cross.”

“Fulk is a fine example of the virtues expected of a nobleman. Far more so than many of better birth.”

“And, having set his heart on you, nothing would do but that he take you for his wife in defiance of all if need be.” Yes, there was a definite keenness about Adele, a colour in her pale cheeks which had not been there before. “And so that shows that deep down, however well he conceals it on the surface, he is ruthless.” She caught Eleanor’s hand. “Oh, I absolutely must meet this fascinating husband of yours!”

In that moment Eleanor resolved that husband and sister must never meet; there was something entirely too difficult to discern about Adele’s interest. Whatever it was, it was sufficient to make Eleanor feel unnerved. “You make him sound like the hero of a romance,” she teased, hoping to gain confirmation that that’s where her sister’s intensity came from.

“Oh no, he sounds much more …” Adele seemed to realise she had clenched her right hand into a fist and broke off with a nervous laugh. “Let us say that he sounds more like a real man.”

Driven by this itching feeling at the back of her mind Eleanor said, “He is the kindest, gentlest man I have met. Truly the best mannered, most courtly and noble man, and I am fortunate indeed to have someone to tolerant of my many faults.”

Adele laughed again. “You make him sound incapable of asserting himself.”

Again driven by whispering instinct Eleanor replied, “He is more patient than I have any right to expect.”

“Oh. Oh, well, I should simply love to meet him.” Was her smile now a trifle artificial? The keenness had dulled, that was for certain. Eleanor had found something and she was damned if she knew what. Adele shifted in her seat to regard the trio of knights. “They are most accomplished. Do you have them play for you often?”

“Yes.” Then Eleanor added, “My lord husband and I believe it is important to encourage the gentler arts in fighting men.”

“Oh. Well, yes, that is important, indeed yes.” Adele picked out a handful of sugared almonds and started chewing through them one at a time. “Although you must admit that it is important for men to be able to fight, and to stand their ground with courage, and other such areas of prowess.”

And with that Eleanor found she had the outline of an idea. What if, far from liking courteous men, Adele had a proclivity for the more uncouth sort? “A man should be a man, with all that entails. Else what is the point?”

“What indeed?” Adele reached for another handful of nuts.









The problem with Adele is that all of her exclaiming and wailing takes up a lot of space and still feels like it’s getting very little of worth across. She’s so much more tolerable when she drops the histrionics and speaks normally. I had hoped to get rather a lot more done but Adele drags back each scene she’s in, and in particular the other half of the second one posted above. There comes a point where she sounds too stupid to be convincing, and she needs to have a smart enough core underlying the “Oh!” and the exclamation marks to … well, do what she does. ;)

Oh well. We shall leave the sisters in literary limbo, chatting about boring, pointless things until I can finish the next part and pick their conversation back up at the part where it gets really interesting.

And just who is Adele? We’ve been told a bit, and shown some more, and there’s hints, and none of it adds up. The only thing that seems clear is that she does not like Spain one bit.

[Cross_T2A]

Thanks for the update, lady frog! This is my first time checking back since finishing the main Eleanor story a few months ago, and I'm delighted it hasn't ended at the end.

[frogbeastegg]

This particular argument had been going on for entirely too long; Fulk’s temples pounded with a headache which he felt it fair to blame on his squabbling vassals.

“You were seen!” Thomas of Embleton pounded his fist into his palm, a gesture which he’d repeated so many times Fulk would not have been adverse to having the offending hands removed with an axe.

The man he was attempting to sue for compensation, lord of a neighbouring fief, roared, “By a worthless-”

Instantly the situation devolved; Thomas launched himself at Stephen bellowing, “How dare you call my daughter that!” while the other man raised his voice – and his fists – to finish, “witness not admissible in any court!”

Men at arms ran forward from their stations at the side of the hall, ordering the two knights to separate. Before they arrived Fulk dashed the cup of herbal tea he’d been sipping onto the ground – it hadn’t helped his head anyway – and emptied his lungs with a single word that set the roof trembling, “ENOUGH!”

The hall froze into a collection of men midway through various motions which now struck them as faintly embarrassing; for the sake of their own dignity most lapsed into a neutral standing posture.

“You.” Fulk pointed at the plaintiff. “You knew full well that your case was faulty when you brought it before me. You wasted my time.” Thomas began to answer; Fulk overrode him. “The word of your daughter alone is insufficient – where were her attendants, I might ask? Why did they not witness Sir Stephen and his party hunting on your lands, if indeed he was doing so?” He was not interested in any reply to that, and turned his attention straight to the other knight. “And as for you, I have sat there listening to you snap and snarl at the very frayed edges of courtesy for this entire plea! You sought to goad your accuser.”

Both knights began to protest his statements, becoming more vociferous with each heartbeat as they attempted to drown the other out. Fulk let them waste their breath for a bit, increasingly determined to charge both with a lack of due respect for his authority.

Taken in the heat of his argument, Stephen spat in his rival’s face, “And if I’d seen your daughter in the woods all alone it’d be a different crime you’d be accusing me of!”

With a shriek Thomas aimed a punch at Stephan’s gut and then began to rain them down on his face and head, completely heedless of the blows the other knight was landing in return.

Fulk ordered grimly, “Separate them. Now!” Without Eleanor this was what he’d become: a man whose authority was palpably crumbling as men anticipated his final fall from royal favour. A month ago this pair would never have dared put on such a display. And so Fulk had to stamp and stamp hard.

The two panting knights stood before him, dabbling blood from minor injuries and looking pure murder at each other. This time the men at arms did not back away, they lingered menacingly at the pairs’ backs.

Fulk stepped around the mess of shattered cup and resumed his seat, a quiet reminder that every single person on this hall stood unless given permission otherwise because they were inferior to him. “You will both be fined two marks for breaking the peace of my hall. To be paid in coin. You, Thomas, will pay me one mark in coin or in goods for wasting my time with a case you knew to be flawed. You, Stephen, will likewise be fined one mark in coin or goods for displaying such contempt of my justice that you feel able to taunt your accuser. I bind both of you over to keep the peace and if you break it then you will both be held accountable and suffer equally. Both,” Fulk stressed. “And, sirs, should you fail to render a minimum of one half of the due amount by the end of the month I shall be investigating why.”

Stephen said, “I’ve been slandered and not offered recompense - I will appeal this to the king.”

Instantly Thomas added, “And I to my higher lord.”

And therein lay the true crux of the matter. Thomas supported Malcolm the Elder and his bid to make his much younger second son his heir. Stephan supported Malcolm the Younger, more commonly called the Nefastus. The state of restrained hostilities between father and son had Scotland and the borderlands on edge as men were forced to choose which side to back for the future. Fulk made a dismissive gesture. “Either will support my ruling. Waste your time if you will.”

The knights were cleared out of the way and the next petitioner began to come forward. Fulk shook his aching head and rose. “No more for today. Tomorrow morning I shall hold court here again, and the day after I shall leave. Let it be known.” He’d spent half of the day on the road travelling here, they’d take that as his reason rather than seek another.

As he left the hall he was aware of one of the petitioners coming after him. When the mystery follower’s footsteps continued after the guarded doorway Fulk set his hand on his dagger ready to draw and turned, only to see a monk hurrying after him with a letter in his hand. “Willim, if this is business for your abbey it must wait.”

The monk flashed the seal on the letter as he closed the remaining distance. “Alas not. It’s the prince’s business.”

Fulk took the letter and inspected the seal. Sure enough it was the design used by the Nefastus. “He must know my answer will be the same as always. My primary allegiance is to my wife’s brother.”

“And his is the same as always: you hold this earldom from Scotland and so must make your say known.” The monk tucked his hands into the dangling sleeves of his habit. “You might owe loyalty to the current king, but what of the law? What of higher things? Would you see the rightful heir unjustly cast aside for no reason save his father’s unnatural hatred for him? It is every honourable man’s duty – given by God himself – to safeguard the well-being and order of the land.”

“I give the same answer I always do: until the hour of his death my fealty for Alnwick belongs with the elder Malcolm for he is my lord and it is to him I swore my oaths. After that, we shall see.”

Willim lengthened his stride to keep pace with Fulk, refusing to be left behind. “That is known, accepted and good. It is the after that Malcolm the Younger would secure. He implores you to do as many others have, and say that you will have no new king save him when the time comes. He asks nothing more than that simple confirmation.”

Fulk halted turned on the monk. “I will not be involved in a rebellion. You know that.”

“The prince is not in rebellion. He has never raised arms against his father, and will not. He has but withdrawn from court and stated his refusal to accept his younger brother as crown prince.”

All that and more Fulk knew; his protest had been made more for the sake of being heard.

Willim tapped the letter Fulk still held. “Open it. Read it. The prince offers you honour and a good position should you come to his side on the day his father meets his natural, blessed end.” As Fulk did as bid the monk continued, “You are a man of honour. This is known by all. Your loyalty is as solid as steel, and your siding with law and right is as inevitable as the rising of the sun. Thus the prince only wishes you to confirm that you will act as your nature demands you must, for the encouragement of others.” The monk spread his empty hands. “You are not a great lord, no, nor a powerful one, nor even a liked one. Yet your integrity is unquestioned. If you say the laws of succession cannot be overturned by bad blood between father and son, others will find their resolve strengthened, and will also come to stand on the side of what is right.”

Lands. Wealth. A title which granted proximity to the younger Malcolm. It was quite a pretty offer. Fulk folded the missive back up and placed it in Willim’s hand. “You know what my answer must be. I will not be bribed.” He sighed and rubbed at his forehead in the futile hope it might relieve the pounding. He could not continue this dance between sides for much longer. “I hear the prince hopes to gather his supporters and present a formal petition before the king’s court indicting his proposed changes to the law of succession.”

The monk inclined his head. “Just so. He has many supporters; where the succession for the crown leads inheritance amongst the lesser follows. Many sons have much to lose, and many fathers much to be concerned about with these changes.”

“And far more sons have potential to gain,” Fulk countered. “Younger sons outnumber firstborn ones.” All the same he knew the effort to be doomed; those who stood to lose were the ones who held the power. Aside from that, the Nefastus was approaching his eighteenth birthday, hale and hearty and quite the budding warrior king. His brother was not yet ten, and would be a puppet for the ambitious lords helping the king press this disinheritance forward. The only way to assure the younger son took the throne was to remove the eldest from the picture. When Willim would have spoken Fulk shook his head. “I must give the matter more thought.”

“My friend, there must be an answer by the time the petition is presented. The prince will count those who did not support him by then to be in support of the reform.” The monk set his hand on Fulk’s shoulder. “Think, and then give the prince your answer, whatever it may be. But remember: if the change is barred with peaceful means like petitions then the realm will be spared the fighting which is inevitable should the prince find himself required to secure what is his by right.”

Fulk gave the monk’s forearm a squeeze. “I know.”

Willim gave him a faint smile. “Tread carefully. You and your lady wife have been good benefactors to our abbey. It would be a crying shame to see you in danger’s way.”

Fulk had never had the heart to tell his friend that they’d chosen his abbey for their patronage because the other nearby one had placed Eleanor’s nose out of joint with a bundle of lectures coupled with a crass attempt to get her to manipulate her husband. “I shall as though walking barefoot on hot coals. As always.”

As he tried to leave Willim followed once again. “Forgive me, but I must ask. Your lady wife and yourself are still apart?”

Fulk’s back stiffened. Yet another one who could not leave well enough alone! How many meddlers did he have to fend off each day?! “Yes,” he answered curtly. Jesú, in all likelihood Eleanor would sooner knife him than greet him and he couldn’t blame her.

“Is there anything we might do to help?” The monk quickened his step, almost scurrying as he battled to keep up. “We – I – should be glad to be of service in any way, great or small.”

Fulk came to such an abrupt halt that Willim nearly collided with him. For a long moment he simply looked at the monk. “I do not think you could help,” he said at last.

“You are one in the eyes of God. It is not right for you to be so long apart for reasons of disharmony.” Willim pulled a face at how awkward his words had sounded. “You are unhappy. She will be unhappy.”

Unhappy. Fulk snorted, unable to contain his disgust at the complete understatement. Doubt had begot conjecture out of which grew misunderstanding, from which had flowered guilt and further misapprehension, and grown a harvest as poisonous as hemlock. Would that they were only unhappy!

“I could take your lady wife a message,” Willim suggested. “And at the same time speak to her, try to soothe the troubled waters. Or merely go and see what she would like to say to you.”

Surely not even Eleanor would tell a monk to hurry on back to her husband and tell him to get on with the business of fathering a bastard? The ache in Fulk’s temples abruptly grew. “No. Thank you, but no.”

“Anything, then?”

The offer had been kindly made; Fulk knew he owed it a better answer than this. Pressing some warmth into his voice to melt the ice that had sprung up the instant his wayward wife had been mentioned, he said, “If truth be told I doubt any but Eleanor and myself could mend our difficulties. It is now more a matter of …” Of choosing between two bitter brews. “Of opportunity. You will have heard her sister has returned to England? Her brother the king wished her to go and meet Adele, and keep her friendly company for her first weeks here.”

“Then go to her,” urged Willim. “You have been dashing around your lands for what, four weeks now? Five? Holding court and wasting time, and if rumour is correct some of that was spent running away from her as she tried to reconcile with you. Go. There is nothing left to hold you here.”

“Nothing? My lords bicker amongst themselves, my authority is being called into question seemingly once each week-”

“And you know the solution to that.” Willim folded his arms and raised his chin. “And admit it: you miss her. You are one split into two and that is not right.”

Unable to deny both truths Fulk bristled. “What do you, monk, know of marriage? Or women? Or even of a man’s feelings or needs?”

A faint smirk was the real answer, the words were needless. “Quite a bit, it appears.”

“Bah!” snarled Fulk. This time the monk did not attempt to follow him as he strode swiftly away and began to climb the stairs up to the private rooms.

Slamming the door behind him Fulk cast Malcolm’s letter onto the half-assembled chair and said to the flurry of servants assembling his chamber’s furniture, “Out. Someone bring me some wine and food, other than that leave me be.”

He took over the work himself, threading the last ropes through the bed frame to make a web which would support the mattress and tying them off. It wasn’t his grand marriage bed - that was with Eleanor, ironic considering that she was the one who dishonoured it – but it was more than comfortable. He was working up a fine sweat manhandling the mattress over and attempting to heave its uncooperative mass up onto the frame when Gilbert returned; the servant swiftly placed the food to one side and came to his lord’s aid.

As the feather-filled pallet settled into place Fulk stepped back, moping his brow with his sleeve. “My thanks.”

Left alone he sank onto the bed and glowered at the meal. The simple fact was that he could not face Eleanor again until he had resolved the problem which had caused them to fall out in the first place. Otherwise they would repeat the same old arguments until once again they broke apart. Fulk drained the goblet of wine in a single go and refilled it with an unsteady hand; the gaping hole in his still-bleeding heart threatened to swallow him, as it did each time he allowed himself to dwell on what had happened. He wanted her back. He needed her back. Damn it, earldoms and royal approval could rot for all he cared! He just wanted her!

And there was only one way to manage that.

Fulk drained a second goblet of wine, then a third. Was he at last desperate enough to stop flinching from his choices? Was he? Well? As he turned to grasp the pitcher and refill his cup a fourth time he found himself staring at the empty pillow next to his own. The entire empty half of his grand bed. Empty and cold. For a month. At his meal for one, eaten alone, like every other meal he’d taken outside of the public hall for a month. At the room and its partly assembled furniture. Cold, uncaring, uncared for. At the half empty wine jug, and the lack of anyone chiding him for drinking like a drain, and the fact he’d done it, and the fact he’d spent many nights in the last month drinking more than his custom. At a life lacking in her quirks and influences. At the brittle and depressed man he’d become. At the nagging presence always chasing her own goals with scant regard for his feelings she’d distorted into. At everything. Now. Recently. These last months.

“God’s blessed bollocks!” He tossed away the partly empty cup, hearing it land on the floor and spill its dregs across the boards as he stood up rather too quickly for the amount he’d drank. Crossing a gently wavering world he shouted for his squire, one word pounding over and over in his head in time with his migraine:

Enough.











I fell over in all the ice and snow England has been afflicted with these past weeks. Nearly broke my wrist; the first aid chap at work said it was something of a wonder I hadn’t snapped it like a twig. Delightful phrasing. Instead I bruised it rather badly, and it still hurts more than 10 days later. All the tendons across the back of my left hand, and the ones running up to my elbow. Makes typing painful and something I can’t do for long. It’s a lot better now but I don’t want to overdo it. Hence the short part delivered later than intended. This scene was already mostly complete.

The continuation of the Nell/Adele scene is too long and complicated for me to do with a dodgy wrist so I’ve done the first Fulk scene instead. It takes place on the same day so the order doesn’t matter. If anything placing it here helps to add to the impression their conversation has run on for hours of what Nell would delightfully term pointless drivel.

Before anyone feels sorry for me, I should add that I narrowly avoided a terrible fate: it was my birthday the day after I fell. If I’d broken something all the inevitable jokes about getting plastered in celebration would have caused me to replicate Nell’s hairpin of doom assassination technique!





Welcome back, Cross_T2A. This story’s a lot shorter and in a quieter tone than the original but I guess it’s interesting reading for the glimpse of the ‘future’.

[Death is yonder]

A belated get well soon for her lady frog :bow:

And many thanks for the latest updates, especially for posting despite your wrist. :yes: