The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[Cross_T2A]

I'm now realizing how lucky I was to have come upon the main story when it was already nearing completion. Your efforts are tremendously appreciated, lady frog, but each update merely whets my appetite for more!

As a man, I sympathize with Fulk tremendously. After getting his father killed and failing his first love the way he did, his relationship with Eleanor must be more than simply the love between them, but a chance at atonement. She's asking him to betray not just her and their marriage, but his redemption in his own eyes. Yes, the problem of an heir is a real one, but surely Eleanor must realize what her solution must be doing to Fulk?

I eagerly await the next installment!

[frogbeastegg]

Adele had been eating tidbits and rambling on about her luxurious life before she fell from her husband’s grace for … Eleanor wasn’t sure. How long did she need to sit on this over-cushioned chair before her spine began to ache?

“And I set such a fashion for wearing silks with delicate little floral patterns on them. Oh, people fairly fought over who could find the most tiny little patterns!” Adele reached for another handful of honeyed nuts and Eleanor idly wondered did the food fuel the stories, or did the stories demand the eating? If her sister continued at this rate she would soon lose that underfed look; running an eye over Adele Eleanor imagined her with a few more pounds to her flesh and found the result depressing. Adele would become one of those gently rounded, soft, wide-hipped creatures able to walk with a hypnotic sway, and illustrate manuscripts Christendom-wide as an ideal beauty. “Oh, it shall all be the same when I am married again, I do not doubt.”

“I do not believe Hugh intends you to marry again.”

It appeared that Eleanor had not imagined the dismal undertone to her words, for Adele reacted to this repetition as she had not to the previous ten or twelve. She pressed a hand on her sister’s knee. “Oh, do not be cast down for my sake, dearest Eleanor. I just know Hugh will find me a husband. How could he not?”

How could he, one might better ask. Eleanor cautiously began, “Considering your reputation-”

“Oh, pish!” Adele dismissed that with a flourish of her hand which came dangerously close to blacking Eleanor’s eye. “Lies! It will be proven.”

“If it could not be proven at the time then how-”

“Because the credulous cretin I was shackled to is dead!” Dead silence followed that exclamation, even the gentle music stalled. Adele placed her fingertips over her lips and tittered nervously. “Oh dear! I fear that the frustrations of so very many years of wrongful imprisonment and slander and all my other trials have had an undue affect on me. Well, it is quite true. Most honestly, completely true! My late husband did not once give me chance to speak on my own behalf. He listened to his firstborn son, and cast me aside without a word. And for that,” A sharp edge came and went on Adele’s face, so fleeting one would have missed it with a blink. “For that I shall never forgive him.”

By this point Eleanor had no doubts left – the soft, silly sister was a façade. Under it lay a full-blooded member of her family. Time to attempt drawing it out. “That does not answer the how as to the proof. What proof is there after all this time?”

“The proof of deeds. One need only examine what my stepson has done to see that he cast guilt on me in order to strengthen his position.”

“I am not aware of any such telling deeds.”

Adele smiled and this time it was not soft. “I doubt you would. Forgive me, dear sister, but why should you? Your husband’s interests are all centred firmly on the border between England and Scotland. You have told me so yourself. You are seldom at court, again you tell me, and none speak of you having any engagement in Hugh’s rule. Indeed, and again forgive me most dear sister, you appear to have most pointedly isolated yourself from anything larger than your husband’s earldom, perhaps as a reaction to that unsightly bid to place you on the throne in our brother’s stead?”

Eleanor returned the smile with a bland one of her own. “I always keep up with family news, and anything relating to it. Did you know Matilda has another child now?” Yet another girl, glory be.

Adele clapped her hands like some kind of performing bear. “Oh, how wonderful! I am an aunt again! All of our little family are so blessed with our children.” At which she blushed furiously and added with haste, “I am certain your own time will come as God wills. Yes, I am certain indeed. It would be most strange if you alone out of all of us were not blessed.”

It was almost too easy to fixate Adele on these pathetic little digs. Eleanor made a small, emotional show of accepting the sentiments at face value, suitably chastened by the reminder of how insignificant and ignorant she was. “Please, tell me of these deeds which will prove your innocence.”

Adele went still save for her hands which worked at each other in her lap. “Oh, it is all so very dreadful I do not know if I should speak of it in such kind company. None with conscience could rest easy on hearing it.”

“And none with conscience could rest easily not hearing it.”

“My two little boys. That – that monster my husband spawned in his first marriage manipulated him into having them cut from the succession, written out as bastards.”

So everyone knew, right down to the humblest swine herd living in a cave. It was a sensible precaution under the circumstances.

A single tear slid down Adele’s cheek; she dabbed it away with the back of her hand and them covered her face. “They were confined in a monastery. My eldest was not even six at the time and his brother two years younger. Such innocents, harmless little angels. And … and, oh, I can hardly stand to speak of it! He came and boasted of it to me! The monster came to my prison and told me what he had arranged and he brought proof! He cast it at my feet!”

This was not making any sense. Eleanor suggested, “He killed them?”

“Worse!” Adele wailed. “I carry what he brought always. I had them dried, preserved, so the truth could never be buried. It is all I have left of my little boys!” She drew out a little pouch worn around her neck and tipped the contents onto the palm of her hand. The two small, shrivelled objects took a while to click into recognition. A ripple of oaths and outcries ran around the room. Adele broke down completely, clasping the tiny pair of manhoods to her heart and howling in unrestrained grief.

Eleanor dropped to her knees beside her sister and made comforting noises, mind elsewhere and working rapidly. Castration to remove a male rival from the line of succession was old, outdated and barbaric, yet merciful compared to murder. It was in no way, shape or form proof of Adele’s innocence. A deeper part of Eleanor’s mind pointed out that the pair of artefacts were of comparable size, and so either the younger brother had been very gifted compared to his sibling or they had come from boys closer in age. She would have to ask someone more knowledgeable on the matter.

Eventually something approaching calm was restored. Through her final tears Adele had been hinting heavily at other, equally horrific deeds committed by her stepson, but refused to be drawn with gentle enquiries, saying only that she could not bear to speak of them.

“And I had been so happy too,” Adele said, wiping her eyes on a square of linen one of the ladies had found for her. “Remembering the good days. I have not been so happy for many, many years as I have been this afternoon!”

Sometimes, Eleanor had learned in the past three years, it was best to play into someone’s hands. Risky, always risky. Over her sister’s head she met Trempwick’s eyes and raised an eyebrow. The former spymaster hesitated, nodded.

Eleanor placed a breezy expression on her face and said, “Well, we cannot rival a king’s court here, and do not have days to spend on arrangement, but I do believe we should manage a tolerable grand diner for tomorrow.”

Adele went into raptures and Eleanor knew that her reading had been correct: Adele wanted a large audience. For what reason she would have to wait and see; better to find out while the circumstances were limited and tightly controlled than wait and risk learning when at a disadvantage.











An update at last. Not sure if it’s fully coherent; I wrote it while extremely sleep deprived and ill. I wanted to include the follow up feast scene with this, the ‘flu says otherwise.

Is anyone else mildly disturbed by the notion of Adele wearing two sets of severed balls et al around her neck? Sign of lost marbles, or a substitute for them? :p

For anyone wondering about the house, it’s still dragging on. Doubt I shall be there before the end of March, and it’s becoming a question of which will happen first, my getting the keys or my exploding out of sheer frustration. One of the parties in the sale left the paperwork untouched on a desk for 3 ½ weeks, another lied about having all of their part done, and one of the ‘searches’ my solicitors need to perform before the sale can go ahead has jammed up on some petty bit of bureaucracy which involves a tiny gap in some records about the land’s use before the house was built. Naturally I can resolve this snag with a cheque made out to such and such and yet more time.

A simple, straightforward sale that should be done in a month, they told me. Ha! Try 3 months!

The last month has been nothing but overloaded amphibian. The house sale, a massive stack of books I had to read in short order, Mass Effect 2, work, interruptions and a whole bunch of other things. Took about that long for my wrist to stop hurting, too, and now it's started snowing again so I have the chance to have another go at breaking bones. Predictably enough, now the busy is easing back a little I've picked up a very nasty dose of 'flu. You know, the delightful kind where you can barely speak or breathe, consequentally can't sleep, and generally understand why 'flu used to kill people in significant numbers. I'm getting better.



Thanks, Death is Yonder. The sentiment worked until Thursday and the 'flu, anyway :gring:

Cross_T2A, I'm mostly in agreement. As Nell ideas go, that one is ranking near the bottom of the smart chart. Despite everything she says about examining everything from each possible angle, she's not. She's steadily become more desperate to find a solution that she believes will make Fulk happy. On the other hand, if Fulk had shown some responsiveness during those earlier conversations instead of doing a handwave and "We don't need to think about it now." things almost definitely wouldn't have grown to this point.

They need their heads banging together. :yes:

[Ludens]

Is anyone else mildly disturbed by the notion of Adele wearing two sets of severed balls et al around her neck?

:yes: Something tells me they are pigs' testicles.

I am going through a similar bureaucratic mess at the moment, so you have my full sympathy. Good luck sorting it out, and get well soon.
:bow:

[Death is yonder]

Is anyone else mildly disturbed by the notion of Adele wearing two sets of severed balls et al around her neck? Sign of lost marbles, or a substitute for them? :p

Not terribly so :yes:

Adele seems to be akin to Nell when she's not being herself (spy work), except that whilst Nell uses nonchalance or mock diplomacy and politeness to throw people off guard, it appears that Adele uses false happiness, and that endless prattling. There's more than meets the eye with that woman :inquisitive:

Sets the suspense for whats to come next. I thought I've seen it all when the Trempy matter was closed, and this seemed like a "quickly get rid of the noisy disgraced sister!" matter.

Yet now it seems like the stage for something big to come again, excellent job once again :2thumbsup:

Really enjoy the way the story is picking up its pace again :driver:

Once again, hope that your paperwork issues can be resolved quickly. Its just terrible when you pay people to do things and they slack off on the job. :dizzy2:

And best wishes for a speedy recovery :bow:

That's all I can do I'm afraid :laugh4:

[frogbeastegg]

3 months. My simple, straightforward "It'll be done by the end of January" sale is now at the 3 month stage. Problems. Nothing wrong with the house, just with the people I'm paying to work on my behalf. Sorry 'work' on my behalf, since it takes them 3 working days to send a ultra important simple fax, and two entire freaking months to fail the certification on a house which should pass. I don't see any end in sight even assuming the whole thing doesn't fall apart.

I am completely stressed, worn out, drained, and harrassed by the accursed process. It's incredibly hard to summon up the right state of mind to write anything at all. And then I get interrupted. Endlessly. Repeatedly. If someone were intent on preventing me from writing then they couldn't do a better job. Most of the time I can't so much as manage to think about what I need to write, never mind actually put words on the paper.

The flu was swine flu. Bad swine flu. Thanks to our amazing healthcare system I couldn't get any of that super effective tamiflu medicine they made such a fuss about because my doctor doesn't work weekends and you only get it if you're diagnosed within the first 2 days. So it settled on my lungs. Yay, chest infection. I'm still coughing all these weeks later.

Then there's all the other bits of crap not related to the house doing their best to get me down.

I need a long weekend. Time where I can do something brainless like play a light game and do a bit of reading for a couple of days, relax, recover, and then hopefully perk up enough to start writing again on day 3. I'm trying for an extra day off this weekend. Doubt I'll be allowed it because of the strikes which took place on Monday and Tuesday (yes, I thought about using that as 'free' time off but it would have cost me over £100 so I couldn't). We'll see. If not this week then next.

2010. One quarter down, and it's one of the crappiest years of my life. Nothing but problems, setbacks, stress, sickness, and going nowhere with great amounts of effort. Huh, and I thought the first half of 2009 would take some beating!

[Brandy Blue]

I hope things get better soon. I'm sorry to hear that someone who has done so much for us is suffering.

[gollum]

Sorry to hear of your suffering ladyfrogg, i hope you get better and things get better too.

However, at the cost of sounding like an idiot, bad times teach one more than all good times combined. Find ways to relieve the stress, say meditation works wonders. Find also ways not to depend emotionally on what's happening and learn to accept it rather than wanting to bend events to your will. Finally wash your hands regularly, and be proactive and exagerating with the nhs.

:bow:

[Death is yonder]

Sincerely hope that a turn to your fortunes will come about soon, best wishes to a speedy recovery.

Take the time to engage in some sedentary yet meaningful activities :yes:

If only to distance yourself from the stress of all the turbulence at the moment.

:bow:

[naut]

3 months. My simple, straightforward "It'll be done by the end of January" sale is now at the 3 month stage. Problems. Nothing wrong with the house, just with the people I'm paying to work on my behalf. Sorry 'work' on my behalf, since it takes them 3 working days to send a ultra important simple fax, and two entire freaking months to fail the certification on a house which should pass. I don't see any end in sight even assuming the whole thing doesn't fall apart.
Estate agents? You don't have any other options?

[frogbeastegg]

I am alive. I am mostly sane. The house sale continues. It has to be near the end now - only the drawing up and signing of the contract, and the transfer of the money is left.

This coming weekend is Easter bank holiday in the UK. I get 4 days off instead of the usual 2. I am hoping to do some writing then, if people will leave me in peace and quiet. Should I be successful in this daring ambition a new part will be posted by Monday evening. If nothing is posted by that time, please picture me huddled in a corner tearing my hair out by the roots and screaming "GAAAAAAH!!" continuously.

[gollum]

The Machiavellian adventures of the patchily hairless Princess Estaterealnor.

[Ludens]

:laugh4:

[frogbeastegg]

The pumice scraper tore a hole in the parchment; Eleanor cast the stone down on the desk and cursed. Holding the sheet up to the light she could see that the entire centre had worn dangerously thin, never mind the hole. It had been reused one time too many. With a disgusted sigh she dropped the parchment onto the floor and reached for another. Dipping quill in ink she wrote out the beginning again.

Her Highness the Princess Eleanor of England to her beloved husband and lord, Sir Fulk Fitzwilliam de la Bec, Earl of Alnwick. Greetings.

And yes, he knew all of that! Eleanor dabbed the last mark of the sentence onto the sheet with an aggressive flourish.

I trust you are well and that God keeps you in the best of health.

Too pious. She let the words dry and then attacked them with the pumice until the parchment beneath the opening was once again clean.

Having heard nothing of your business, I trust that all goes in your favour.

Too reproachful. Again Eleanor expunged the words.

I am presently in Dover. Hugh, may God watch over him and guide him, requested that I attend our sister on her return home to these shores, reasoning that, amongst strangers though she must be, having been absent so long from this her home, there would be comfort in shared blood where there would not be in total unfamiliarity.

Yes, that worked tolerably. Eleanor tapped her left hand against the sloped surface of the desk.

My sister is

Is what? Mad, bad, and dangerous to know? A smile quirked Eleanor’s lips; better that than insipid.

is I believe most glad to be safely home amongst us once again, bearing no kindly feeling for her people-by-marriage or the life she led there.

Well it was difficult to miss a prison.

I intend for us to travel to join our royal brother, the king, shortly, whence decisions about her future may be made.

Eleanor recharged her pen at the inkwell and pressed the nib against the glazed pottery sides to bleed off excess ink. No, it would never do – should the letter be intercepted it would give an enemy a fractional insight into her plans and that could not be allowed. One unwed royal lady and one whose husband was estranged, the most tempting of targets for any with an surfeit of ambition and a dearth of loyalty. The words were erased; the parchment grew incrementally thinner.

I hope to be reunited with you shortly, if that please you, my most dread and worshipful lord.

Eleanor pulled a face and hacked away everything after ‘please you’. Given their recent difficulties Fulk might not read that with his usual humour and take it for an insult … or overly seriously. Now which would be worse?

please you, my most dearly beloved lord.

Perhaps not. Eleanor reached for the pumice.

please you, my luflych little knight.

That brought a pang to her heart.

If it does I pray you send me word to come to you, or come yourself to me. I do not wish to displease you further by attempting to rejoin you where you do not wish it.

Too desperate. “Damn the crook-nosed menace!” Eleanor muttered as she scoured every word relating to reunion away. “He is supposed to scatter roses on my path, not thorns!” Resuming the letter at the part about taking Adele to Hugh, Eleanor tried,

It is my plan to reside at court for a time.

No! That sounded as though she were refusing to return to Fulk.

I expect I shall be required at court

Should she attempt to join Hugh’s entourage he would send her away, and then she would look as though she had been making excuses to avoid Fulk. When Eleanor set the stone down after removing these latest words she noticed a tinge of pink on the smooth grey. Sure enough her right thumb was bleeding slightly, the tender skin torn by the number of words worn away. Eleanor sucked her injured digit and gave her next words more thought.

Thereupon it is my intent to remove to Woburn.

There. He could take that as an invitation to join her or not as he desired. Blood continued to ooze steadily from her thumb; Eleanor watched it without paying much heed. She needed to reach out a hand to Fulk, that was the entire point of the letter and thus far precious little of its contents served that. There were things that needed to be said and as she could not speak them to him needs must she write.

Eleanor licked the fresh blood from her thumb and took up her quill once again, this time committing each word to the parchment as rapidly as they came into her head.

It grieves me to have caused you such hurt as I did, and to be apart from you as we now are. Equally it grieves me to have had no word from you in all this time, not a single word be it kindly or harsh. Nor a single indication you recall my existence. I have reached out my hand towards you and it seems this displeased you further. I beg you, then, tell me what you would have me do to mend what has broken between us and I will abide by your will. I love you as ever I have and pray God that you find the same, my own best-beloved knight.

“Your Highness?”

With a guilty start Eleanor jerked around to check the door; her knee smacked into the desk’s leg with eye watering force and the resulting tremors overturned the ink pot. The dark liquid flooded all over her letter and she could do nothing other than shove her stool back before the mess caught her skirts. “Hellfire and damnation!”

That brought the idiot from outside the door bursting in with an anxious, “Your Highness, is something wrong?”

Eleanor limped forward, “I am fine. My letter is not! Did no one teach you to knock before shouting?”

Ranulf flushed. “Your Highness, I did knock; I spoke only because you didn’t reply. I beg pardon if you did not hear.”

“Why do my household knights persist in arguing with me?” Eleanor plucked her letter from the desk by one ink-free corner and held it dripping. It was beyond saving.

“What man would not follow the example of the greatest knight?”

“Ranulf, do not.” Eleanor let the letter go and it landed back in the puddle of ink on the desk. “I have no wish to be … jollied.” Or humoured, teased, courteously flirted with, or anything else save for being left alone.

The knight bowed contritely. “Jolly you shall have to be, I fear. I came to inform you that the hall is prepared and people will begin assembling shortly. If your Highness wishes to dress fittingly …”

“Very well.” Eleanor waved him out and surveyed the wreckage. There was no clean parchment left, these had been the last two sheets whose contents were safe to scour away for a new message. Now one had a hole and the other was blacker than the sheep it had originated from. She must write to Fulk now, while the urge was still on her, and get the message travelling. Left longer she would decide it a poor idea and do nothing

Drawing one of her knives Eleanor cut off a hand-sized section of the holed sheet. It would have to do. Aware of time pressing on her, she scribed the introduction as quickly as she may. With dismay she saw that left her barely half a sheet. What could she say in so little space? The final paragraph of her original letter would not fit.

Outside she could hear footsteps hurrying to and fro. There was not much time; if she did not leave of her own volition someone else would be along to remind her – as if she could forget this wretched banquet she had suggested for her sister! Snatching up the quill she considered, and scribbled down three words before she could change her mind.

Mea maxima culpa.

“My most grievous error,” she murmured as she rolled the tiny letter up and reached for a ribbon to tie it with. Mostly heartfelt, partially an invitation for a response – any response – from him. “What he is supposed to say,” Eleanor informed the sealing wax as she pressed her personal seal into it, “is ‘It was my fault also.’ But so long as he says something …”

Leaving the room, she called for one of her couriers.







I couldn’t get enough peace and quiet to do much, and I was struggling to get anywhere with the intended course of the story. So I wondered about writing a single, small scene that wasn’t meant to be there. A bit later I had this vision of Nell trying to write to Fulk and being interrupted all the time, exactly as I am being. It would have been funny, a nice little comedy with a hint of poignancy to it. A gooseberry does not have to take constant bothering quietly! She can build up to a marvellous tantrum involving such delights as an inkwell lobbed at the latest intruder. Except I couldn’t get enough peace to manage comedy. So I had to give up on that go play it straight, ending up with the above.

How many times would Nell have had to scrub words away in order to end up with a hole in her parchment and fingers so chafed by the pumice they bleed? Depends how many times the parchment had been reused beforehand. We can safely say she must have been writing for a long time on that first sheet before we arrived and she wore a hole in it.

I should have the keys for my house just in time for next weekend. Then I need to find carpets for it, get my furniture delivered, buy the multitude of bits and pieces which I have not already, and move my possessions on over. And then I will finally be able to write in peace and quiet, surrounded by a couple of thousand nicely displayed books.

Thank you to those who voted for this story in the hall of fame awards. If anything it’s been a more difficult journey than the main story; I confess that if I’d know about the house and the many stresses of the sale before I started writing I would probably have waited until I’d moved before starting. Or pushed harder to complete it before finding a house I liked.

[furball]

Thanks for the update, Ms. Frog. Nice compact way to show us what's going through Nell's mind. And congrats on the home!

[naut]

I don't know how you manage to compartmentalise all that stuff with the purchase of your house and still manage to write. I could never manage it, as soon as something like that happens to me I simply can't write. I can come-up with ideas yes (in fact my best ideas come in times of heartbreak), but I can't actually write, I get fidgety and distractible.

[Death is yonder]

Interesting insight into the thoughts of a gooseberry :yes:

Congratulations on the house! And many thanks for the story written despite your circumstances :bow:

[frogbeastegg]

Quick note to say that I got my keys last Friday, and moved in on Sunday. I absolutely adore the place - it's a perfect frog pad indeed. Peaceful, quiet, bright, airy, and above all mine.

The place is still rather skeletal. I'm not having most of my furniture delivered until my carpets are fitted, and without my furniture I'm not moving much across from my parents' home. So no PC, no internet connection (I'm at my parents' to pick up some stuff), barely anything at all. Hehe, if I say the entire house only has 3 books in it then you'll understand! :cough: Ok, I also have my sony reader with 72 ebooks on it but it's not the same thing at all :cough: I've still got quite a lot to do.

So there's not going to be a new chapter for at least a couple of weeks, maybe as many as three. It depends on how long it takes for various things to be done. Thought I'd let you know.

[furball]

No worries, and congratulations! I hope your home is wonderful for you and yours.

[Death is yonder]

No worries about delays in plot progress :bow:

Enjoy turning the new house into the house of your dreams :wink:

[frogbeastegg]

Finally got an internet connection at home; it was sorted out today.

The good/bad news is that it’s still going to be a while before I can post more of Third Sister – my laptop is still at my parents. I had to leave it behind as it was the best way for me to get my sporadic internet access. Not sure when I will be able to collect it, and I shall have to pick up the loose threads and feel my way back into the story.

The good/good news is that I moved my desktop PC over to my house several weeks ago, and it’s still got everything I used to use to write on it. One evening I had a certain mental image and wrote the following brief, self contained story. Since it follows up from something mentioned in Sister3 (sister to the power of three – that’s one scary sister :p) it’s relevant and doesn’t spoil anything because I’d carried that particular side line as far as it was meant to go in Sister3.




The first born

“Let me pass. You – and no men – will deny me my right.”

The men – ten of them, wearing his brother-by-law’s livery, second-born sons the God-bedamned lot of them – closed formation before the massive wooden doors leading deeper into the palace. Drawing his sword one of them said softly, “You – and no man – will cause us to break faith with our sworn lord.”

Ten. Ten men to stop him. Malcolm might have laughed at it, might have thrown back his head and roared with gut-shaking laughter until he spewed. Might once have, might yet in the future did he survive the day. Setting hand to his own sword he stepped forward from his companions, his gore-spattered armour on clear display. “I am Malcolm, called Nefastus or sometimes Rufus, first born son of the King of Scots, and it is my lord father who is dying – or dead! - behind you. Your lord tried hide his dying from me.” He drew his sword, relishing the clear song the steel made as it cleared the sheath. He kept his words level, matter of fact, knowing that made them far more menacing than any amount of shouting. “You will get from my path or I will gut the whole fucking lot of you, as I’ve done with every other son of a whore who’s tried to stop this day. I will hang your corpses from trees for the ravens to make sport with. I am the first born!” He gestured with his free hand at the knights at his back, not turning one instant from the dangerous sons of bitches in front of him. “We are the first born! None will stop us.” He advanced another step, playing with fire and floating so high on a tide of battle fury that he fucking gloried in it. “Get from my path,” he growled, levelling his point at the man who’d spoken.

That knight batted Malcolm’s sword away with his own and spat on the ground. “Go back to hell, Nefastus.”

The fight was ugly. Balls for polishing up a façade of bravado – how else could any right man describe it? The eldest sons of the nobility slaughtering their younger brothers, and all because the king was a pissing coward who’d sooner tear his realm apart than let his son inherit. Because a sister had always possessed more of an ear for the lies of others than eyes to see the truth. And because, Malcolm admitted as he wiped the blood from his blade before sheathing it once more, six years out of a lifetime of twenty wasn’t damned near long enough for a man to learn to be a man and to distance himself from the scared little brat that lashed out at everything and everyone because he was too God-cursed stupid to see anything other to do with a world that rejected him.

Rufus some of them called him now. The red. Red hair, red hot blood in his veins, and red blood on his hands. Malcolm sketched a cross over the pile of corpses. “May you do better in the next life than this.” Rufus: the red; blood and fire and violence and glory and ambition and passion and an unlucky colour for hair, and sufficient improvement over Nefastus that he tacitly encouraged it wherever possible.

There was another set of guards at the next door. A smaller set at the door beyond that. Malcolm strode down the halls of his father’s palace, boots ringing on the tiles and leaving crimson prints. The jingle of his friends’ armour and his own gave counterpoint to the implacable advance.

“I am the first born!” he bellowed, brandishing his sword in the air. “I will wade through blood and trample the dead underfoot, and I will have my right! Who will stop me? Let him who thinks he can come forth! I am Malcolm Rufus, first born son and lawful heir of Malcolm the Elder - Malcolm the milksop! Who will fucking stop me?”

No one. That’s who.

At the final door Malcolm put his weapons away once more. His palms filmed with sweat inside the mail mittens of his armour. For a space he did nothing more than stare at the door, closed and barred against his entry. No time for this, no fucking time! He would look weak and that would kill him more surely than anything else.

“Wait here,” he commanded his companions. Come what may, better or worse, he’d settle this alone. He wouldn’t have others drawing blades on family. Family! Malcolm spat to clear the taste of bile from his mouth. He reckoned that Eleanor the Gooseberry had the right of it when she’d said that when it came to family royalty were fucked up at the very foundations – not that she’d phrased it so forthrightly.

He twisted the handle and gave the door a push. It didn’t move. He tried again, harder. Nothing. Laid his forehead against the wood; of course they’d locked him out. Even now, even after all this, they couldn’t just shut the fuck up and let him do something with a hint of grace. Stepping away he ordered, “Break it down.” He would not beg those on the other side to open it for they would not.

After the second touch of the makeshift battering ram the door swung open, a worried face under a mitre appearing in the gap and – one assumed- an equally priestly body wedged behind the rest of the door to keep it from being pushed further open. “How dare-”

Malcolm punched him in the face. Hard. The man went down, and he applied boot to door to open it the rest of the way, stepping over the stunned bishop as though he were a turd in the street. Let no one say he didn’t know how to make an entrance!

Inside the king’s sickroom faces turned to stare. This one and that one and some of the others, they were important. The rest were so much nuisance. Malcolm noted the names that matched the faces for future reference and then sidestepped to clear the door. “Anyone who does not want to be involved in high treason should leave. Now. You will be forgiven and have my word no reprisals will follow. Stay, and die.”

If he’d laid a wager on who’d speak first Malcolm would have won. Won twice over if he’d bet on the gist of her words, too. “You monster!” spat Anne. “How dare you! Our lord father is dying and you-”

“And I was not informed,” drawled Malcolm, “because you, dear sister, did your damnedest to keep the news from reaching me. Then you filled my path with idiots loyal to this revisionist shite which says a first born son has no better claim than any other. And then you barred the door.” Almost he choked; he turned it into a harsh laugh. “You forced me to wade through blood to get to my own father’s deathbed, and you call me a monster?”

He could see the calculations running in the minds of those gathered. If he was here then he’d won. Here and now there was nothing left to stop him save this little gathering, and if he fell there was a large collection of armed men outside who’d be mighty pissed off. All it took was one man breaking for the door to set an exodus in motion. Within a minute there were but five of them left in that chamber. Malcolm. Anne. Her husband. Their father. And little brother James. Naturally. Hard to shove a crown on his head if he wasn’t present.

The laboured breathing coming from the canopied bed paused as a dry old voice rattled, “Get out. Nefastus.”

Malcolm crossed to the bed side and stared down at the man lying there. Illness had stripped Malcolm the Elder down to the very core. Bones, yellowed flesh than hung as loose as over-large clothes, dulled hair, and eyes from which pain had long since eaten the sparkle. Malcolm bowed his head. “I did not know,” he breathed. Kept in the very north of the kingdom by his feud he’d been entirely reliant on news sent on and someone had seen to it that word of his father’s sickness did not reach him until very late. Someone? Anne. Always Anne. Always her and this withered remnant of a man conspiring to ruin him.

“Good,” Malcolm the Elder rasped. “Wish you still did not know.” He laboured for breath and with visible effort gathered himself to snarl, “Devil spawn.”

Malcolm let out a sharp puff of breath as though he’d been punched. Swiftly he disguised it as something more sardonic. “Aren’t the dying meant to make peace with their enemies to set their soul in better standing for the hereafter? Guess one day I’ll see you in hell, old man.”

The dying man attempted to reply but no sound came out and the shapes formed by his lips weren’t something Malcolm could make sense of.

Malcolm turned away from the bed brusquely, before he could do whatever the fuck it was that was burning away below his heart and crying for release. “Well, looks like he’s done and out of the game. Now it’s just us. A happy little family waiting for the corpse to stop breathing so we can squabble over a circlet of gold.”

James resumed his place at their father’s bedside, holding his hand and looking solemn. Nice for those who were cared for, cherished, Malcolm thought bitterly. Nice to be losing something this day. Poor little Jamie.

Sister Anne didn’t move to the bedside like a pious daughter should. Oh no, the conniving bitch knew that she’d no longer got an advantage in that direction. She knew it was all about the here and the now and the fine line between which of the grown men in this chamber could kill the other. She moved in closer to her husband, taking up position at his left as though guarding his weaker flank in battle.

The red fire no longer coursed through Malcolm’s veins. In its place was a weary kind of inevitability. “Anne. Stand down. Walk away now. I swear I will leave you in peace.”

She tilted her chin proudly. “And my husband?”

The husband she had taken in order to bring his strength into line behind the bid to deny the rightful heir his throne. “Oh, I doubt he will leave,” Malcolm answered glibly.

“Victorious or dead,” confirmed Robert, Earl of Fife and the muscle behind the figurehead they’d made out of poor wee Jamie. He was a man of few words and thank fuck for that – Malcolm could do without him joining in the blathering.

Anne touched her husband’s arm briefly. “I pray victorious.”

Malcolm’s lips twisted in a sour line. “Bollocks’ sake, sister, you don’t even like the damned man! You never have!”

“We stand together.”

“It isn’t the standing that counts, sister.” The devil was rising in him and Malcolm battled to control it. “Can’t you see? Why won’t you see? It’s the other things that count – and it’s for those that I intend to kill the son of a whore this night.” She tried to say something but Malcolm spoke over her, relentless. “He won’t listen to you. He doesn’t ask you for council. Doesn’t respect that you have a mind. Won’t leave you in control of his lands when he’s away. Won’t let you have control of your own household, even. Won’t let you spend a clipped penny without his say so, and grudgingly then. He beats you for amusement. He whores frequently, without care whether your miles away or standing within reach. And don’t try to tell me for one heartbeat that you enjoy having him in your bed.” That tearing feeling rose in his heart; reaching out his right hand – the armoured hand encrusted with the drying blood of her cause’s followers – he implored, “Anne, you must see that he brings you nothing but misery and an army.”

She regarded the hand as though it were a viper. “An army is enough if it destroys you.”

The devil was clawing at its cage; Malcolm clenched his hand into a fist and let it drop back to his side. “I will find you a new husband. One worthy of you. Not an old man like your first, and not a steaming shit like this one. You’re two years short of twenty – you have your whole life ahead of you.”

“And what manner of fiend would you choose?” she cried. “You, whose only knowledge of women comes from rape! You know nothing of what I want!”

Malcolm laughed. He had to. It was laugh or rend into bloody chunks with his bare hands. “Since I’ve been raping women – and boys and various animals – since before I was old enough to get a hard cock I’d say I’m an expert.” Shit! He grappled with his devil and won a measure of control back over it. “Anne, I’ll find you a good man. One like in your romances. One like Fulk of Alnwick, or …” He spread his hands helplessly, no authority on what females liked in a man, “Or whatever you want. Just tell me. Only stand aside.”

“What I want is for you to die so you may never again inflict yourself on our kingdom.” She folded her arms in a pose that he recognised from elsewhere, hands tucked inside her dangling sleeves. Almost casually she twisted the knife of her words by adding, “Or on another woman. Or boy. Or animal.”

So that was it. “The problem with you, Anne, is that you always put too much store in stories. Stupid romances, and tales about monsters.”

A cry came from the bedside. Young James followed it up with, “Father is dead!”

Anne rushed over with a shout of grief. Grief which didn’t stop her from prising the crown from the body’s hands, Malcolm noticed. She held the crown out to Jaime. “Take it, brother. It was his wish, and our realm’s.”

The moment stretched out forever. Then the boy took the crown in his awkward teenager’s hands. He gazed at it as though there were nothing else in the room, turning the band of bejewelled gold over and over in his hands. Anne and her husband formed a wall between Malcolm and his young brother.

The Earl of Fife drew his sword. “Come die, Nefastus.”

Malcolm drew his sword as he’d known he must since he’d made the decision to come here. Against the earl he was outmatched, as he’d known since before he sent his men away. Twenty years old and still growing into his full strength, against a man in his prime. Years of battle experience versus over a decade’s. Weariness from days spent travelling and then fighting opposed to rested freshness. Why?

Because the Nefastus had an unholy pact with Satan, cared nothing for his life, and loved nothing more than to slaughter and wound with his own hands. Because he was a monster, an unholy terror placed on this earth to wreak the devil’s work. Because killing his own family was one of the few affronts not attributed to his name.

Or because he believed a king’s duty was to execute where possible with his own hands. To bear the responsibility himself, to see firsthand the result of his orders instead of sitting safely distant from blood and sin both. Because he needed to prove he wasn’t a coward and a weakling like his father, may God rot his soul.

Whatever the liars said, it had always been the latter. In England he’d learned how to make people see it. Well, some of them – it’d be a fucking miracle on high if everyone had opened their eyes.

Some was a start.

A start had enabled him to stand as leader to some those who opposed his father’s reform of the inheritance system. To grow his reputation gradually. To attract other followers. To begin the shift from Nefastus to Rufus in the minds that were open. His enemies had erred by making the battle a legal one which upturned the rights of inheritance across the entire kingdom; they should have focused on removing the Nefastus alone.

It was a bad fight and he’d been a fucking idiot for putting himself in so much risk! Malcolm drew his sword and went into a ready stance, mind speeding through everything he knew in desperate search of something that might give him an advantage. An equal chance of victory wasn’t enough. Fuck it – a three in four chance wasn’t enough! He had to win. If he didn’t he’d be rotting on a spike and Scotland – his fucking kingdom! - would be pissed further down the privy chute.

There was a thud, loud and at the same time very dull with a hint of an echo. The earl dropped like a poled ox, revealing wee Jaime stood behind him, crown still in his upraised hand.

Maybe not wee Jaime any longer. He’d done a man’s work in this. That was what they always missed: James had a mind of his own. Open eyes and the ability to form his own judgement; unlike Anne he’d seen the brother behind the angry front which pushed the world away. They’d been quiet allies for years.

Solemnly James stepped over the unconscious earl and knelt before his brother, holding the crown up on open palms. Bits of blood and hair stuck to the gold from where it had smashed into the earl’s skull. “You always did bite off more than you could chew, Malcolm.”

Malcolm set his hand on his brother’s head. “So long as I’ve you to guard my flank.”

“You promised I would be ordained.”

And that was the thing they always wilfully ignored: James’ desires and destiny lay in the church. He had no wish to be kept in the secular life. “I will start the arrangements tomorrow.”

A blur of movement over by the stricken earl caught Malcolm’s eye and he hurled himself to the side. The knife caught his arm instead of his chest, and landed so badly that it delivered hilt instead of blade to his body. Rolling as he contacted the ground, Malcolm came gracefully back onto his feet and immediately closed the distance between himself and Anne. Her second dagger she held on to, and tried to plant in his belly. A short struggle and she was disarmed.

Keeping both of her wrists tight in his hands Malcolm let her kick and thrash at him. “You didn’t learn such sloppiness from Eleanor of England, sister. You might have learned the general idea from her but never the rest. She wouldn’t have given herself away by placing her hands near her weapons earlier on – she only did that as a warning to those who knew she was armed. You’re not fucking meant to be! And she’s bloody good at throwing knives so they land point first.”

Anne alternated between shrieking curses and accusing James of base treachery.

At last he could bear no more – and the noise was beginning to waken her husband – so Malcolm called for his companions. While they bound the earl’s hands and feet Malcolm continued to hold his sister. “I should have you killed,” he said in a low voice, right by her ear. That shut her up right quickly. “You plotted against me. You incited others to treason. You supported our father in his lunacy while he tore our kingdom apart. You tried to murder me. You refused my mercy.”

She spat full in his face. “I always knew I would die if I lost, Nefastus.”

For the sake of his men he could not appear weak. Restoring Scotland to glory would take a strong sword. He cast her from him so forcibly she fell, and commanded his men to bind her also.

At last he placed the crown upon his head.





The next morning news of what had happened spread, and people flocked back to the palace to ingratiate themselves with the victor of the struggle. Malcolm had Robert of Fife taken to the courtyard and tied to a stout wooden post. Before an audience of hundreds he proclaimed his charges against the man. Treason. Corruption of others in the realm. Misguiding the old king and leading him down paths contrary to the welfare of the realm and God’s own laws. Conspiracy to prevent the lawful succession. Attempted murder of the lawful heir. Concealment of the king’s state of health from his people, preventing them from praying for his restoration.

He pronounced his verdict of death. He himself, alone. No court of peers, no trial, none of that. There would be time for niceties another day and with less important prisoners. Today it was most important that his brother-by-law die as an object lesson. Unlike Hugh of England he would not be forced to let his enemy live, he would not be pulled around by his lords. Here and now and today he held all the power.

“I will not have you hanged, drawn and quartered,” he informed the prisoner in a voice which rang across the courtyard. “I will not make you a martyr to your chaotic cause. I will not give you a horrific, honourless death which nevertheless carries some dredge of honour in it because it recognises you as a danger and lets a man show his courage.”

He’d given a lot of thought to this. Took his mind off his damned sister.

“Your lying words misguided our former king. Your treacherous breath polluted this entire realm. So your death will cure them.” He indicated he was ready, and the two men he’d chosen to be his aides stepped forward. One offered him a hammer, the other a thick iron nail. Thus equipped he waited for his comrades to hold the earl’s head steady; the man had no idea what was to happen and concerned himself with attempting to incite rebellion amongst the crowd. He’d got some balls, Malcolm would give him that.

He lined the nail up and drove it half way home in a single, swift movement before anyone understood what he intended. A second, stronger blow finished the work.

With the hollow of his throat nailed to the post behind him the earl found it a lot harder to talk.

Malcolm leaned in close to the stricken man, whose eyes were filled as much with confusion as pain. “For what you’ve done to my sister, you son of a shit.” He wrenched open Robert’s mouth and cut out his tongue, and nailed it to the post above his head. Standing back he said loud enough for the crowd to hear, “If he hasn’t suffocated or drowned in his own blood by sundown, open his stomach and let him die that way.”

He’d blamed all of Anne’s crimes on this man and let him suffer for them so she could skip away free and innocent. She’d call him a monster. He’d keep her in genteel imprisonment until he could find a trustworthy, decent man to marry her to. Someone who would treat her well and keep her from dabbling in anything else dangerous. She’d name him a monster for that also. Fucking ingratitude!

Malcolm wiped the blood from his hands on a square of linen and began to walk towards the exit, his bodyguards falling into place around him. “Send word throughout the realm. I require all who hold land or who owe fealty to Scotland to present themselves and make their oaths to me within the next month. Any who do so will be counted friends. Any who do not will find their heads on spikes. And make arrangements for my coronation; I require it as soon as possible. There’s a lot to do before this kingdom’s reunited, never mind rebuilt into strength, so let’s not fuck about wasting time!”








The thing with Anne is that she was always an incompetent plotter. Her young age helped her a lot before because people overlooked her, and the company she kept compensated quite a bit. Alas, she’s grown up and learned very little about that line, which hasn’t stopped her from diving in head first. Too naive, too idealistic in a blinkered way, exceptionally blind in certain areas because she’d rather listen to others and attempt to turn the world into a romance. One wonders where she will go from here.

As for Malcolm, he’s still not someone I’d invite around to tea but he’s getting somewhere.

The mental image that started it all? Malcolm nailing a man’s throat to the stake he was tied to. Ulp! :sweatdrop:

[furball]

Yay! Something new to read from the Frog! Always a pleasure.

And yes, great job on counterbalancing Malcom's Nefastus side with his growing statesmanship and maturity.

Glad you're back!

[Death is yonder]

Great to have you back Froggy :thumbsup:

Awesome update, I loved how underneath all that devilish behavior, Malcolm has that maturity to accept the responsibility of his actions. Also loved the undertones of his real caring attitude, like how he wants his sister to be absolved of blame despite her part in the treachery. Particularly like his desire to disassociate himself with his father's style of ruling, willing to take the blame if things go wrong, do the dirty work himself, responsibility all on his shoulder :yes:

[Wasp]

Gah! Did anyone remember where I left off? :(

[frogbeastegg]

I'm experiencing considerable difficulty in picking the story back up. It's been so long it's hard to get anything working at all. Well, anything except for this insanity:



“So I kick my horse into a charge – right from the stand still and all – and extend my arm like this,” Fulk thrust his arm straight out in front of himself with a clenched fist, “and I’m screaming my warcry, and bam! I punch the idiot right in the face.” He looked about his small audience expectantly.

“No,” said the frog, as flatly as a piece of paper that’s been through a pressing machine specially designed to produce ultra-flatness.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s stupid.”

“Why is it stupid?” Fulk snorted. “I mean, it’s better than what you’ve got now – nothing.”

“You’d break every bone in your hand. And your wrist. And probably most of your arm.”

“Yeah, but ...” Fulk rubbed the back of his neck. “Can’t you make it so I don’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I refuse! I don’t bend reality like that, and besides, you’re not punching York in the face. You don’t meet him. At all. So no. No. Just no.”

“But it would be neat!” Fulk scrambled to his feet and began pantomiming punching George of York in the face, complete with sound effects. “Action! Adventure! That kind of thing!”

Curled up in her own corner of the room Eleanor muttered, “Overgrown child.”

The effect was explosive; Fulk whirled on her and brandished a finger, “Oh don’t mention children! Just don’t! In any context!”

The gooseberry made a moue of bitterness. “How terribly sensitive we have become, rust for brains.”

“You’re not the one who has to put up with the ‘barren baron’ jokes.”

“No, I’m the one who has to put up with the ‘failure as a wife’ remarks.”

The frog pressed two fingers to her forehead and said to herself, “And I’m the one who has to listen to all of this, apparently forever.”

“If you got on with the story,” Eleanor and Fulk parroted in perfect unison, “you wouldn’t!”

“Yes, well I’m stuck.” The frog sank down in her chair. “It’s been so long that I can’t pick the threads back up. I know what happens but I can’t get the minor bits, the life, the flow, the weave …”

Again the reply came united, “We know.”

Eleanor smiled in a way which Fulk usually described as ‘burning’. “I have been stuck with my idiot sister about to do something of some sort for three months. Three months! Waiting to go to some accursed banquet which I don’t want to with company I don’t like to watch a disaster I want no part in and see if I can unravel it!”

“And I,” cried Fulk, hammering himself in the breastbone with a fist, “have been stuck midway through some decidedly ambiguous action for three months! Last anyone saw I was off to fix my heir problem and that means either I’m off to get her back,” he pointed over his shoulder at his wife, who scowled at this decidedly casual treatment, “or I’m going to find myself a mistress. I mean, just think about it. Either I’ve been stuck thinking up pretty words and wondering what type of chocolates to get for three blasted months or I’ve been trying to decide if I should go taller and blonder this time around for three blasted months!”

“Oh, nice!” snarled Nell. “Blonder. Taller. Another woman. Great. Fantastic.”

“It was your idea, oh worshipfulness. And I said I might be going to collect you. Might, maybe, if I feel like it, which maybe I might not.”

Hastily the frog interjected, “And let’s not get into that. Again. I think we’ve exhausted the subject as it stands at the present point of the story.”

The happy couple returned to their wedded bliss of ignoring each other.

“All I’m saying,” said Fulk, hitching at his belt in a pose he probably thought was all manly … either that or his hose were falling down. “Is that the story needs some action. Any action. And it would start the ball rolling again, might help you find your way to picking things up and so on. When I agreed to sign up for this sequel I thought I’d be advancing my career a bit. I’m 28 and now you’re making it look like all my best action days are behind me!” He sliced a hand through the air. “Rubbish! I’m still the greatest knight, and I can do better than in the main story. Just one action scene, that’s all I ask.”

The frog enunciated very clearly, slowly, for the hard of thinking to understand, “You can’t punch a guy you don’t meet in the face while charging full tilt on a warhorse. You’ll break your hand. You’ll break his face. And you don’t meet him.”

“In any case,” Eleanor interjected, “you cannot have a broken hand at that point. It conflicts with later scenes.”

Fulk threw his hands in the air. “Later scenes? I barely have any! I’m a bit part thrown in in a bid to balance out all of the waily ‘Oh Fulk’s such a mean husband!’ stuff!”

Having heard this a hundred times before the frog merely sighed and said, “That’s nonsense and you know it.”

“Well what? What can it contradict? I don’t get to fight, I don’t get to do anything except talk, talk, talk.”

“Maybe,” Eleanor suggested brightly, “I break your hand in a later scene? You did hit me, after all.”

“And you admit you provoked me so badly you deserved it,” returned Fulk with saccharine set to kill.

The frog began to bang her head against the wall next to her chair, gently, persistently. “Oh God! I need help! That pair need to get sorted out before I murder them myself!”

“What about if I used something other than my fist?” Fulk suggested. “I could chop him clean in two with my sword if you prefer. Or stuff a dagger right through his throat.”

Eleanor poked her husband in the back to attract his attention. “You are turning into Jocelyn. Is it something to do with age?”

“I am nothing like that twisty madman!”

“Or is it pent up lust?”

“I don’t know. Is that why you’re so acidic?”

The frog sank lower in her chair, and lower still. “Oh Christ.”

At which point the door crashed open and Adele wobbled in, wine sloshing from the goblet she held in her hand. “Hey kids! What’s up?” She staggered over to the bickering couple and leaned forward, coincidentally – or not – nearly falling out of the top of her dress. “Did I ever tell you about the guy with the codpiece shaped like an enormous penis?”

The frog had to make a rapid grab for the wall to prevent herself sliding off her chair altogether. “Oh Christ! Who let her lose?”

“It waggled around a lot as he walked, you know. Could have used it as a hat stand really.” Adele downed most of her drink in one go and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “Where’s the booze in this place anyway?”

Eleanor had her face buried in her hands which made her words a tad muffled. “Cupboard. Someone please put her back in the cupboard. And this time tie her up as well as gagging her and locking the door.”

Fulk pulled a face. “I’m not going anywhere near her. I don’t care what you say or how much you offer – she’s loaded and about to go off.” He looked at the bouncing bosom in a manner which suggested he’d rather not. “And I don’t necessarily mean she’s about to be sick.”

Adele giggled and launched herself at Fulk, who deftly dodged and began to run away. Adele staggered along in wobbly pursuit yelling, “Come back here sweetie! I got us a nice drink! It’ll be fun, I promise!”

At which Eleanor drew one of her knives and began stalking her sister with a view to coshing her unconscious with the weapon’s pommel.

Spoke the frog: “Oh Christ!”




Yeah. Not going so well. :help:

[furball]

So nice to find something new to read from you, Froggy! Just got a new (old) XP machine to replace mine that finally gave up the ghost in the machine.

Maybe you could try taking Jocelyn's point of view in your mind's eye and imagine what Fulk's/Eleanor's realms and predicaments would look like from his point of view. Or just go back and reread the prior installments and sleep on them for a week or two. . .

In any event, I know life gets in the way, but I hope you can continue to share your wonderful writing with us online.

[naut]

I'm experiencing considerable difficulty in picking the story back up. It's been so long it's hard to get anything working at all. Well, anything except for this insanity
Nothing wrong with a bit of insanity. :wink2:

Seriously though, inspiration comes through play, not work. Go enjoy yourself and you may develop new ideas, or simply you may choose a different direction and path entirely, whether that be discontinuing a story or re-inventing a story. What route you end up choosing only you can say. :yes:

[frogbeastegg]

I’m feeling a little more pepped up. Still no progress on the main story. I did wind up writing this today though …





“Papa, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Jocelyn lavished another layer of beeswax onto the wooden arm of his hunting crossbow. “Certainly, my dear,” he cooed. Anyone Mahaut wanted him to meet had to be a right damned good upstanding person and well worth the time. His daughter only associated with the best.

Mahaut ducked out of the armoury and returned arm in arm with this smart looking chap. Nice sort – well portioned, fit as a knight should be, good looking in that open and cheery way some fair people had. Polite too, since he ducked a bit of a bow.

“Papa, this is Guy.”

“It is an honour to meet you, sir.” The youth bowed again, more deeply, his long hair dipping forward to conceal his face.

“Nice to meet one of my daughter’s friends,” replied Jocelyn. He dropped the wax covered rag and settled his crossbow comfortably on his knee. “Something you wanted?”

“Actually, yes.” Mahaut took a deep breath and clasped the young knight’s hand. “We want to get married.”

Jocelyn’s finger tightened on the rigger of his crossbow; only the tragic lack of a loaded bolt saved that bloody little smarmy blonde toad from dropping dead! The action had been purely instinctive – if any thought had been involved the bow would have been loaded and aimed fat square at that slimy git’s manhood! “WHAT!? NO!”

The colour drained from that ugly, treasonous, devious little whelp’s face and he placed a hand over his heart as his idiot mind lumbered its slow way through working out what would have bloody well happened if that bow had been loaded. “Urg,” he croaked.

Mahaut stepped protectively – what kind of a man needed a girl to protect him!? – in front of the scumbag. “But Papa! He’s the heir of a count, a knight already, educated, gentle, graceful, courtly, rich, a skilled warrior-”

Jocelyn wailed / whimpered, “And he wants to marry my little girl!”

Mahaut placed her fists on her hips. “I am not a little girl any more! Most girls my age are married already.”

Yeah, true. She wasn’t. She was all … tall, and golden, and had the best parts of her mother and father – mainly Jocelyn’s parts if he was honest – and looked, well, put it this way: absolute golden goddess. She went in at all the right places, stuck out at all the others, and had that manner which dripped allure effortlessly. Not that she led men on or even gave a hint of interest – no sir, she was a proper chaste and well brought up specimen on the nobility and a credit to her father in all respects.

While Jocelyn’s brain ticked over she continued, “And you did say I could choose my own husband.”

Jocelyn laid down the law manfully as a man could be. “Er, well … yes? But not him.” Or anyone. “Now.” Or bloody ever. “Your mother and I want you to be more mature when you do marry.” Like ninety. “We want you to have the best chance of happiness.” By not getting involved with any men. They were dubious creatures, the damned bloody lot of them, Jocelyn knew. After all he was one and let’s not talk about that. “And besides this limp specimen can’t even pluck up the spume to ask for your hand himself. So he’s girly. And rubbish.” There. That told them.

The offended (offending?) article scrambled his way out from his protective shield. “Sir! I must protest!”

“Oh bugger off, girly-boy, and go shop for a new frock to match your eyes.” Jocelyn patted his crossbow and purposefully uncoiled onto his feet. “Real men don’t ‘must protest’. They punch people’s noses off. And you’re not going to manage to get near me, little skinny child. So run along home and don’t go near my daughter again or I’ll have you handing by your undeveloped scrawny manhood from my castle walls. Understood.”

The oh so blue eyes considered the crossbow and the parent behind it – still every bit as fine a specimen of perfect manhood and knightly knight-ness as he’d been the very day his daughter was born – and took a step back. And another. And ran out the door.

Mahaut stamped her foot. “Oh Papa! I liked him!”






“Papa, this is Simon.”

Jocelyn looked the youth up and down and raised his eyebrows. “Do you find my daughter attractive?”

The Adam’s apple bobbed and the young man admitted, “Yes, sir. I do.”

“So you’re looking forward to bedding her?” he asked bluntly, ignoring Mahaut’s mortified squeal. Some things had to be settled clear and fair for the good of all involved.

“If we’re honourably married, sir, yes.”

Jocelyn punched him so hard the foul-minded rag of filth dropped to the ground unconscious. Not that it improved his wits any.




“Papa, this is Pierre.”

This one was all lanky and dark. Dark hair, brown eyes, tanned skin like some peasant. Nice clothes though, very expensive and what-have-you. Must be rich.

Since that last test had been so productive Jocelyn was going to repeat it and get his damned money’s worth from it. “Do you find my daughter attractive?”

“No, sir,” came the instant reply.

“No?” What in the name of salted cod was wrong with this limp stick? The only male over the age of 10 not to find Mahaut attractive would have to be blind, deaf, dead, castrated and into young boys! Christ on a pony!

“No, sir. I consider her warmly and chastely.” A ray of hope glowed from his face. “Almost like a sister, actually.”

Jocelyn set an arm around the youth’s shoulders and began walking him slowly away from his fantastic and amazing daughter. “So, has your father had a talk with you? The talk? Or any other male relative? Or any other man? Or a priest, even?”

“Well-”

Yeah, Jocelyn didn’t actually care about the answer to that – if they had they’d fouled it up – so he kept right on talking, “Women have these desires, you see. Needs. Insatiable. The best a man can do is try to keep up with their endless cravings, and satisfy them until they’re too tired to move in the hopes of gaining a bit of respite. Because if you don’t they’ll find someone who will. Got that?”

“Well, I know-”

Evidentially he didn’t know or he’d be a bit hotter under his tunic, by Christ’s cross! “And you don’t get anywhere by looking at them like a sister.” Not unless you’re a right damned twisted sort and there was no way whatsoever anyone with any least minor hint of any type of perversion was going to get within a county of his precious little darling daughter. Yup.

Pierre confessed in a very urgent voice, “Sir, I know. She told me to say that. Said you punched the last one who said he did lust after her.”

“Ah. I see.” Jocelyn delivered such an uppercut to the suitor’s chin that he went flying backward like a tossed log, landed in a sprawl and didn’t move again. A liar and a pervert and a creature who took instructions from women because he didn’t respect his own bloody damned manliness. What a bloody trinity of sins that was! “Chuck him out the gates,” Jocelyn shouted to the stunned bystanders. “And gather up his teeth. Put them in a bag for him – he might want them.”






“Papa, this is Ricardo.”

Jocelyn paced to stand directly eye to eye with the young hopeful and said in his best, kindliest nice guy voice, “Son, you have to the count of one hundred before I get my sword and come after you to cut you into tiny little chunks. And I can’t count to one hundred ‘cus I get all confused around thirty. Understood?”

The “Yes, sir!” came drifting back on the wind as the smart young lad did a runner.

“What was wrong with that one?” pouted Mahaut. “He was really nice and I was so sure you’d like him.”

“Mahaut, my dear, my little cherry, my precious,” cooed Jocelyn, smoothing his daughter’s hair with a loving hand, “I’m not letting you marry anyone with a name that can be turned into a crude joke. Ricardo. Ri-car-do. Or for short car-do. That’s only one small step from hard-o. And I hope to God and his entire assembly of blessed angels you don’t understand that joke. Ok?”



“Papa, this is Hughes.”

He had a lute. The bastard actually had a lute. On a strap. Slung over his back. And he wore a short tunic that showed off his shapely legs in their tight hose. Jocelyn gestured at the lute. “Do you play that?”

“Yes, sir.” The lad unslung it and strummed a few bit, warbling some bilge about love.

“Might I see it?”

The lad handed the instrument over, chattering away excitedly about materials, tuning pegs and stuff. Jocelyn turned it this way and that admiring the construction. “There’s two things I’ve always had a particular hatred for,” he imparted in a nice friendly tone. “Lutes and men showing off their bloody legs. Or just troubadours of any sort, really, and anything remotely connected to them.”

“Ah …?”

“Right bunch of bloody pansies, you see. Ponce around doing things no actual man would, useless at everything which counts, showing off and stealing the favours of otherwise honourable ladies.”

The lad could see that he was in some deep swamp here. Very, very carefully he ventured, “I wouldn’t know about that, sir. I’m a noble, born and bred. I only play a little, that’s all. And follow fashion a bit.”

Jocelyn pressed the instrument back into the lad’s hands. “Here you go. Looks like it’s very strongly made. Your skull would break before it would and I’ve no wish to be a murderer.” He smiled. “Today. Tomorrow I might feel differently.”

The lad executed a quick bow and scuttled off with a hurried, “Goodbye, sir. Been nice meeting you.”





“Papa, this is Roger.”

The latest puppy in Mahaut’s collection was a big, strapping type wearing armour and a sword. His nose had been broken and he’d got a few other knocks and scars visible, though Jocelyn supposed if you were one of those idiot women who gushed about macho and rough men and all of that you might find him attractive.

“No way in hell,” Jocelyn snapped. “You’ll be a widow before you’re married.”





“Papa, this is Christopher.”

He looked like a bloody escaped novice monk, minus tonsure and guilty look. Crucifix on prominent display, all pious in pose and expression, and just … priestly somehow.

“No.” Jocelyn turned and started to walk away.

Mahaut ran after him. “But why not? He’s not interested in fighting at all so you can’t say he’ll die like you did the last one.”

Jocelyn paused, sucked his teeth, deliberated, scratched the tip of his nose which was set itching by the line of his thoughts, and then elaborated, “Because he doesn’t look like he’d know what to do with a woman if you gave him nine highly practiced professional, a large bath tub, and an instruction manual.”





“Papa, this is Henry.”

It was, was it? It being the important word.

“No. Absolutely not. Never.” When the suitor would have protested Jocelyn raised a finger. “No! God knows what my grandchildren will be like but I’d prefer they didn’t look like a toad farted them out and then a horse trod on them. Which they would if you’d had any part in their making.” To his gorgeous, beautiful, angelic daughter Jocelyn appealed, “Can’t you find someone better than this?”

“Yes.” She tossed her head. “You sent them all away.”






“Papa, this is William.”

“He’s a child.” He was. About five years younger than Mahaut, making him all of eleven years of age.

The child bobbed a polite greeting. “An honour, sir. Your charming daughter has told me much about you – I’m in awe!”

Jocelyn repeated, “He’s a child.”

Mahaut gave her little pet a hug. “It means we’ll have plenty of time to get used to each other before needing to do anything that you’ve objected to with most of my other suitors.”

“It means I’ll have to wait a decade to see my grandchildren,” Jocelyn countered. “It means my grandchildren will probably belong to the first passing troubadour.”

Scandalised colour flooded into Mahaut’s cheeks’ “Papa!”

Yep, it was embarrassing. Shouldn’t have said that maybe, just thought it, oh well ,too late but then he never made mistakes with his lovely daughter now did he? Always struck the right balance between keeping her innocence and teaching her realism. Yes, That was it. Not a mistake at all. “Face it, the most honourable lady in all of Christendom – which, naturally, you are - would get bored waiting for him to get useful. No, and that’s final.”





“Papa, I think you’ll like this one. He’s called Philippe and he reminds me of you.”

A white hot bolt of panic blasted through Jocelyn and his world collapsed in around him into a black tunnel filled with jagged tears of bright light. “Nnnooooooooo!”

Breathing like he’d run a mile at top speed in full armour Jocelyn sat bolt upright in bed. “Jesus’ nipples!” he gasped.

Richildis turned over and glared at him through sleep-bleary eyes. “What is the matter with you?”

“How long do we have until Mahaut’s of marriageable age?”

She gave him a flat, patronising look. “She’s seven months old.”

Jocelyn flopped back down onto the mattress and wiped his brow on a forearm. “Thanks be to God’s mercy.”

[furball]

Wonderful! And to quote Homer Simpson, "It's funny 'cause it's true!"

In "real life," I can imagine Richildis making Jocelyn's life quite miserable if he were to turn down a good suitor. Before the final "exposition" I was hoping for a scene where Jocelyn was "in his cups" and decided to have a heart to heart discussion with Mahaut, only to screw it up despite his best intentions. (I know whereof I speak.)

The week's always brighter and the pond's always nicer when the frog has a tale.

[Ciaran]

Absolutely brilliant. And somewhat typical for Joecelyn, too.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk held up his hand to signal his party to halt. Blocking the road was a party under banners he knew all too well, still advancing at a comfortable pace towards him.

“Our beloved Earl of Alnwick,” drawled George of York. “Well met, oh most well met.”

Fulk narrowed his eyes against the sunlight, anxious to read his rival’s expression more clearly. “This is the king’s road, and all are entitled to travel it under the king’s peace.”

“Am I threatening you?” York appealed to his retinue for support, all open smiles and glee, for wont of a better description. “I do not see it if so. Are you becoming a coward, oh greatest of all English knights?”

“Accept one of the many challenges to combat I have issued you, and see.” Always York insulted to the point where an offer to fight was the only way for Fulk to maintain face, and always he refused to accept citing reasons still more insulting. The infamy of cutting down a defenceless man inferred immunity unless Fulk cared to ruin himself for good; some murmured that York was a coward for taking advantage of this, more thought well of him for pressing the hated upstart as hard as Hugh would permit.

George waggled a finger in the air, back and forth back and forth. “I think not. Oh no, I do think not. I would not sully my blade by dipping it in the steaming cattle shit that you call your blood.”

“One day your excuses will fall flat and you will have to back your words with your blade.” Fulk patted the workmanlike sword belted at his side. “I’m waiting for you and I remember every last word. I’ll take the lot out of your hide and whatever’s left they can scoop into a coffin for burial.”

The Earl of York inhaled with every appearance of heartiness. “I too have been waiting, and shall not be waiting much longer. I came here to give escort, as I see it to be my honour bound duty to my sovereign lord, such is my respect for his business.” He beckoned someone forward.

Fulk shaded his eyes with a hand and saw the rider emerging from the centre of York’s party wore royal livery. The pit of his stomach went cold and the taste of acid burned the back of his throat.

“Yes,” gloated York. “The day has come – and would not miss it for all the gold in Christendom! You have taxed our king’s patience too far.” He clapped his hands together once, the sound sharp like a miniature peal of thunder, and pointed at Fulk. “You are going back down into the gutter from which you crawled!” The man could barely contain himself, the words were coming so rapidly and so loud that he snatched his breath in ragged pants. “Got too high and mighty for your own good, didn’t you. Sending your wife away like a thieving servant. Ha! Thought to see no reprisal? Thought you could treat her like a nobody? Thought her brother – our king! – would sit still for it? You fool! She was the only protection you had, her and the bond of blood she brought. And you sent her away!”

That joyful display of teeth was so wide it made a perfect target for Fulk’s fist; with effort he restrained himself. “She is my wife and I am free under law and custom to do with her as I see fit, with no interference for any, high or low or God himself!”

“Tell that to our king, only let me be there to witness it.” York waved at the messenger again. “Give the man his message.”

Fulk took the sealed letter from the rider’s outstretched hand; aloofness washed over him like icy water as his fingers touched the parchment. “Pray to all the saints it is not what you hope, York. Else I will have nothing to lose and will slaughter you here and now.” That silenced the Yorkist party’s gloating for a space; in its place began jeers and catcalls. Fulk ignored their noise as he read the curt letter. Folding it back up he stuffed it into his belt. “You live another day. It asks nothing of me that I was not already engaged in – you see me now on my way to court to speak with the king.”

George of York urged his horse into a sidestep to clear the road, expecting his followers to do the same without further prompting. “I shall follow a day behind. Alas I can come no sooner, so I shall miss your reception. Your execution, that I shall be there for.” He touched his brow in a cocky salute. “See you on the scaffold, Alnwick. Noose or axe, do you think? Commoner’s death or noble’s?”

Fulk leaned over in his saddle to clap George on the shoulder as he passed. “Our king doesn’t have it in him to issue a man with an assurance safe conduct to call him to his death. He’s too honourable. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Alnwick,” York called at Fulk’s retreating back. “A riddle before you go. For sport and merriment, that we might part in good cheer. If a eunuch is not a man, and a man who is impotent is half a man, what fraction is a man incapable of siring children?”

Fulk twitched as though he had been struck between the shoulder blades by a dart. “That,” he said through a rictus grin as he dragged on the reins to halt his horse, “is simple. Two thirds. Assuming he fills the other two basic functions required of a man: honour, and the ability to support his family.” He applied his spurs to his palfrey and set off at a cantor.

Behind him, above the hoof beats of his own men, Fulk heard another speeding to catch him up. George of York drew level, unwilling to let Fulk have the final word. “And how goes your work on an heir? Will you finally sire a child before you depart this world?”

Unwilling, Fulk’s mind snapped back to the decision he’d made. Too late to unmake it. What was begun could not be undone. “Tolerably.”

“Must be difficult with your wife at the far side of the country.”

“You need not concern yourself on my part. I expect to be announcing my heir in the next months.”

“Truly?” York plainly didn’t believe it. “And the barren baron was such a good name for you. A pity.” Then something in the set of Fulk’s face must have convinced him for he repeated, “Truly. Well, well.” They rode side by side so close their knees jostled and were in danger of doing each other an injury; George seized hold of Fulk’s arm and pulled forcefully enough that Fulk turned to look at him. “Manage the happy event before you hit her and threw her out, did you? Or are you passing some other man’s spawn off as your own because - for all of the swagger and handsome looks and reputation – you are not much of a man? Your seed is dead and you are cursed by heaven, a mere two thirds of a man and a most pathetic creature because it is the one out of the three which cannot be gained through effort in order to create a whole being.”

In a level voice Fulk instructed, “Take your hand off me and get out of my sight before I knock you off your horse.”

“There is only one thing more pathetic than a man who cannot sire children and that is a man so desperate that he passes other men’s off as his own.”

Fulk’s elbow crashed into York’s ribs at the same time his right fist connected with the underside of his jaw; as the other earl reeled in his saddle Fulk’s boot came up to catch his rival’s horse in the belly, sending it careening away at a gallop. “Rest assured I will die before doing that!” he shouted after York. Holding his hand up in the air Fulk clicked his fingers and pointed forward down the road in a harsh manoeuvre; as commanded the party moved into a canter. He had to be away from York’s cloud of stinging flies before he did murder. Although looking at the forming bruises on his fist Fulk wondered if it wouldn’t be worth it.










Humph. Not the giddy heights of punching prowess Fulk had in mind; not the non-existence of the scene that I had in mind. Overall unnecessary for the narrative as the few details of note are covered later anyway. At least it’s progress of a sort, and I’ve managed to elbow it into a shape which has some very minor function in terms of dangling fish before your minds in terms of what is going on in Fulk’s half (two thirds? :p) of the story. Thereby diluting the theme of the story, namely the mirror of the two sisters. Sigh.

Anywho, while it’s working I’m going to keep on writing. I don’t anticipate having anything more postable today so I thought you may as well have this bit, then it’s clear and out of my way laving me free to concentrate fully on the bothersome next part, aka the bit which is proving so hard to pick back up. Back to the ... keyboard?

[furball]

Just a quick note of encouragement.

[Peasant Phill]

I quit reading this when the original story ended. I like my stories to be done when they end. Open ending or lose knots don't always need explaining while prequels and sequels tend to be of lower quality as they, for the most part, weren't planned for as the original story.
On the other hand I did really like the story, your skill as a narrator, ...

All this just to say, I'll be followingyour story again with all the same anticipation as I did months ago.

[frogbeastegg]

Managed to find a way to pick up enough of the thread to carry on at last! It's something of a clumsy job, not least because it involves adding Adele's POV instead of letting everything about her be picked up from outside.

I'm still not quite there with Adele - I can't find the right background music to write her properly. She needs something of a sort I don't listen to, and so I can't quite manage the right tone to bring her to life. She needs something with a lot more loud than I like. Hmm. Hopefully that will fix itself as we go.

You may also like to be warned that this bit is .... er, boring. Sort of. Mostly. Well, I think it is, anyway.

There's one tiny change that needs to be retrospectively edited in to support the new order. Last time we saw Nell it was shortly before the banquet she's throwing for her sister. Now it is not; it's the morning of that day. Since this merely involves tweaking a single, almost throwaway reference in that scene that's no big problem.

A re-read of 'The Third Sister' so far might be in order. It's been a hellishly long time! It begins in post 982.

With no further ado, on with the story.






There - that cherry red! Adele pulled down the dresses hanging before the one that had caught her eye and cast them behind her, not looking to see if they made the distance or fell short onto the floor. Cherry red, and it filled her eyes. Cherry red! Gorgeous.

Clasping the dress against her breast Adele danced a step, right, left, right again, and spun a twirl. Oh, gorgeous! The colour, the cut, perfect for her; it would set her off to perfection. Her steps faltered. It was only wool. Fine wool, but wool. Any common lady might have fine wool. A great lady would have finer. A princess - nay, a queen dowager! - she ought have far better. Doubtless it was common English wool from some common English sheep somewhere on a dismal hillside; dreadfully common, no matter how highly English wool might be regarded.

With a frown Adele let slip the dress and returned to the clothing pole that held Eleanor's entire wardrobe. A harsh snort escaped her at the thought - her sister's entire wardrobe occupied a single pole!

By the time she reached the back of the collection she had found nothing comparable to the cherry red. Oh, there was the odd item that might serve well enough until she could get some proper clothes made up. Too much was wrong; wrong cut, wrong size and too hard to alter, wrong colour - well what else could be expected when one was reduced to rummaging through the clothes of a short, shapeless pauper?

Turning away from the clothes Adele cast a guilty look at the door. Good, still closed. Wetting her lips with her tongue she practiced her excuse again in a whisper, "Oh, I only wished to find something for the banquet and Eleanor did say I could take what I needed, and I did so hate to bother anyone. I know I am a burden ..." Her lips parted in a smile that contained years of bitterness. Oh yes, she could play that game.

A pair of shoes caught her eye; Adele snatched them up only to cast them back down again. The embroidered pattern on the fronts was pretty, a tastefully restrained bit of leave, stem and flower design. Alas, a gooseberry plant. "Gooseberry," she derided under her breath.

Standing in the middle of Eleanor's chamber Adele looked around. There had to be something else! How could she hope to shine to so brightly she blinded if all she had to work with were these rags?

There was a travelling chest. With another glance at the door Adele moved to crouch before it. It wasn't locked. A swift over-the-shoulder look at the door again, and she lifted the lid. Bah! An assortment of bits of pieces, not more clothes! Although ... Adele leaned forward and breathed deeply. Yes, a hint of herbs to keep moths at bay.

The first items she dumped onto the floor with scant regard. A bundle of waxed hide held letters; Adele caught her lip between her teeth as she balanced them on the flat of her hand. Dare she? Abruptly she snarled a smile - dare? Had she not dared more and plenty in the past? Shifting position so that her back blocked all view from the doorway in case she was disturbed Adele took the top letter in her other hand and opened it. Reading was difficult and slow; so many years since she entertained her friends by reading extracts from her books of romance. How long? Abruptly Adele's eyes filled with unshed tears; she bowed her head.

No - that way lay madness. Years. Let that suffice. Years, all too many of them. She could count the cost later, much later, hopefully not so much later, when all was back as it should be, should always have been. Closing her eyes she summoned the tableau that had sustained her through her imprisonment. The beautiful clothes, the music, the company, the light, the space, the laughter, the taste of wine and fine food, the colour, the joy, the wind in her hair, the feel of strong arms about her. Her hand began to shake; the parchment made quiet rustling sounds. The paired image; humiliation returned to the giver tenfold. Every little, last one.

Opening her eyes she drew a cool breath. That vow she would keep. She would not fail. Not even if the world itself burned because of it. Vengeance. And at last the resumption of her life.

Focus! Another deep breath; she must work for what she desired, and that work was underway here and now. Misstep here at the beginning and her hand would be weakened, perhaps to the point where she could not pick up the dagger never mind drive it home.

Adele resumed her reading. Midway through the letter she folded it back up and dropped it into the chest; it was nothing more than boring drivel about household accounts. She moved on to the next. Discarded it. The next. Discarded it. The next. Ah - this one was from Eleanor's husband; Adele began to pay closer attention. It was all formal. Not a word of love, not a dredge of personality, little sense that this was a communication between two people who knew each other. It talked about purchasing new crossbows for Alnwick's garrison.
Sick with the injustice of it Adele slammed the letter back up into its folds and chucked it onto the pile of rejects. This was the great love story?! The mixed blood bastard and his princess who loved each other sufficiently to marry and make themselves near-outcasts!? "Mule-brained bitch!" she spat. Her little sister had gained such a man - handsome, a great knight, willing to fight and die for her! - and she had let it all slip through her mundane, plain little grasp! She, Adele, would never have allowed that with a man she liked. A man had died for love of her! Loved her enough to court her in secret, and to come to her bed, and again, and again. No matter that he proclaimed she had not been worth it when he stood before his executioner - she had been! He had known the risk and taken it again, and again, and again.

Adele bundled the letters back up in their wrapping and dumped them to one side. She would read no more; there were no hidden depths to Eleanor to be found here. More belongings were dug through and placed to one side.

The chest was halfway empty before she found another item to catch her interest: a handsome purse that could be worn on a girdle. Adele's hand rose to the pouch she wore about her neck. The knot in the leather thong had been irritating the skin at the back of her neck. Might she not transfer the contents to a purse and carry them comfortably?

Adele pulled the pouch from about her neck and tipped the contents into her hand. The usual pang struck her heart as she beheld the two shrivelled objects that were supposedly her underage sons' manhoods. Hastily she tipped them into their new home, revulsion crawling across her flesh. Whether they came from her boys or not, it did not matter. Done was done. Her sons were dead, lost to her, no matter whether their physical shells continued in this world, be they whole or maimed. They would be years older, shaped by others, strangers taught to hate her and despise their legacy. Castrated in spirit as well as in body. No longer anything of hers. That, too, would be part of the reckoning.

Having fastened the purse onto her girdle Adele continued to dig. A pouch drew her attention. Opening it she found a hank of raw fleece and a small earthenware bottle. Pulling the stopper she sniffed delicately; vinegar? The wrinkles on her brow smoothed as understanding dawned; she had to slap her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

Did Eleanor's husband, this Fulk, know? He must, surely - it would be impossible to overlook a chunk of wool soaked in vinegar inserted in his wife's passage. But was it for use with him? No, no, surely not. Adele stoppered the bottle and dropped it all back into the pouch. No husband in need of an heir would allow his wife to use these to prevent his seed from taking root. And why would she bring them here, when her husband was absent, and reportedly she had not seen him in some time? Perpetually hopeful? No, surely no one could be that pathetic. Eleanor must have a lover whose child she did not want to catch. Or a lover she hoped to acquire. Hidden depths indeed. This could be used!
At the bottom of the chest, sprinkled with fragrant herbs, lay an outer dress. Pure white, lined with rich blue silk which showed at the lining of the wide sleeves. Hem, neck and cuffs were embellished by two inch thick bands of embroidery. Lifting it out and standing up to appreciate it better Adele found it was far finer than anything else in this room. A matching under-dress lay in the chest, a lighter blue than the silk lining yet still close to sapphire. Beautiful! Oh, she would turn heads in this! Clasping the dress to herself Adele danced those old steps, humming the matching music. The years fell away, and she was young, beautiful, carefree, the highlight of the entire court; the centre of every man's eye and the envy of every woman's. Despite herself she laughed with sheer joy.

"There's someone in here!" someone shouted from the other side of the door, and a bolt slammed home.

The sound echoed inside Adele's skull; a thousand bolts going home across years she would not permit herself to count. Dropping the dress she stuffed her fist inside her mouth to stifle her scream. Locked in! She was locked in! She tasted blood. No! She must be calm, get a grip on herself. It could not be allowed to unravel now. She was locked in! Locked in! No, she must think, and quickly. She did.

Adele let the screams come. She ran to the door and beat on it with her fists. "Let me out! Let me out! I have done nothing! I am innocent! Let me out!" Blood trickled lazily from the bite marks on her right hand; she beat harder, hard enough to spit the skin where it met the wood of the door. "Let me out!" Sobbing she slid down the door to rest in a crumpled pile on the floor, and there she stayed until she heard the bolt being drawn back.

The door opened and Adele was talking before she saw who was coming, scuttling back across the floor away from them without attempting to get to her feet. "I did nothing, I did nothing, she said I could borrow things! I did not want to be a bother! It was supposed to be a surprise - just a surprise! I am sorry, so sorry! I did nothing. Please don't lock me away. Please! Don't lock me away!" She continued that last line in a broken, nonsensical, manner, letting the horror come gibbering up out of her.

Someone crouched at her side and put an arm around her. "Shh, all will be well. It is of no matter."

Adele seized her sister's arm in a grip so tight she felt her finger joints groaning. "Don't let them lock me away. I did nothing. I never did anything. I am sorry. Please."

"It is alright. Only a misunderstanding. My guard was passing and heard a sound from within. He thought it was a thief."

If the hysteria sounded good that was because half of it was real. "You said I could borrow - you said, and I did not want to bother you, or be a burden, and I am so sorry-"

"It is alright," Eleanor repeated.

Adele allowed herself to be calmed slowly. Wiping her face she stood up with Eleanor's help, looked her dead in the eye and said, "I wanted something to wear for the banquet. I wanted it to be a surprise - I did not want anyone to know what I had chosen. I thought ..." She glanced away as if uneasy. "I thought it might make me seem less of a ... well, less of a helpless ex-prisoner."

Eleanor smiled like a gullible fool, heedless of her belongings strewn about the chamber with scant respect. "Of course. I understand. Did you find anything?"

"Yes." Adele retrieved the white dress and turned back, holding it up against herself. The look in Eleanor's eyes - Jesu Christus, that look was the mirror of their dead father's! Adele recoiled despite herself.

"Not that one," Eleanor said and there was steel in her tone.

Adele's hand's opened reflexively and the dress fell to the ground.

Eleanor reclaimed it, folding it over one arm. "This is my wedding dress."

"Oh." Adele managed a shaky laugh. "Oh, yes, I see. I am so sorry. I should perhaps have known - it is so much finer than the rest you have here. It only makes sense that it would be your very best wear."

"I wear it at most formal court occasions," Eleanor said, by way of apology for her harshness.

There was nothing unusual in wearing one's wedding clothes on other occasions. After all, one married in the best finery one possessed. Poor as her sister obviously was, that dress and its matching under-dress was likely the only court-worthy clothes she had. Adele felt a spike of pity, or was it contempt? "The cherry red, then. If you do not mind?"

Eleanor acquiesced with a nod.

Clutching her second rate prize Adele made her way past the pair of guards standing just inside the doorway, careful to shrink visibly from them when in close proximity. Just outside the door was the priest.

"Your Highness," he said, offering a bow.

Adele offered him a stiff inclination of her head, mortified that this dignified man witnessed her display and must think her cracked.

"If I might escort you back to the solar?" He offered up his arm in a gesture too courtly to be entirely priestly.

Hesitating, then deciding, Adele took it.

As they walked, once away from the cluster at Eleanor's chamber, the man said in a low voice, "Meditation and prayer can bring inner peace and help banish certain demons."

"I have no demons," Adele stated.

The priest cocked an eyebrow at her. "And what, then, was that scene?"

Her step faltered. "Very well," she allowed. "I have some demons."

"I know them." They were nearing the solar door; he slowed his pace to grant them more time. "I have spent some years as a prisoner myself. I was not always a priest." No, from the look he slanted her he had spent long in the world! Adele's heart sped a beat despite his age, his forgettable features. It had been long and long since anyone had looked at her like that. A brief twist of a smile to inform her that he had noticed her reaction, and he offered blandly, "I find myself in my advanced age sympathetic to those in a similar plight. Let me teach you something of what I learned the hard way. It will bring peace to your soul." Anticipating her objection he said, "Whatever I was in the past I am now a priest, and I'm getting on in years. I do not seek any ... advantage."

"I will manage."

He halted; they were now at the solar door. "You will feel that fluttering panic each time you hear a door lock. You will battle panic every time you set foot outside because there is no roof, no walls. You expect your life ordered for you down to the times you eat and what food you consume, and you have little idea where to begin in regaining control for yourself. You have dreamed of what you will do when you regained your freedom and now you wonder how to begin - it is difficult, even, to remember how to dance to music you loved - the steps have faded from your memory, the music played is different. Shall I continue?"

Mutely Adele shook her head. Years. All of them spent in the same room, alone or with companions who were jailors in friendly guise. No comforts. No luxuries. Her son in law's visits; she slammed a mental door in the face of those memories. She would find herself a decent man and use him to put an end to those nightmares. And there would be vengeance, sweet vengeance. Oh yes, and at the end of it all she would stuff his severed manhood down his throat until he choked!

"Prayer and meditation. A cleansing of the soul, and a way to still the mind." Almost seductively he uttered, "Peace."

Adele raised her chin. "I accept."







Eleanor waited until Trempwick and Adele were safely out of earshot before asking Ranulf, "Did you hear anything else before you raised the alarm?"

"The odd noise now and then. I believe she had a good rummage."

Eleanor glowered at the disarray her sister had left behind. "Oh, she did that and no doubt about it. But did you hear anything to indicate she found anything particularly ... valuable?"

"A burst of quickly stifled laughter. Others were quieter, hard to make out."

"Hmmm," said Eleanor, absently. Adele had gone through the chest. That meant she would have found the letters and the pouch, and both must surely have been investigated. Inspection proved her right; the single, shortened hair that she had woven into the thong binding together the bundle of letters was gone, as was the one from the fastening of the pouch. "Good."

"Your Highness?"

"Dismissed, Ranulf. Thank you." Eleanor picked her wedding dress up and began to pluck away the rushes clinging to the fabric with tender care. She could not bear it would be fouled with detritus from the floor a moment longer. As an afterthought she enquired, "She did not see you following her?"

The knight turned back. "You wound me, your Highness."

"Good." Eleanor waved him away.

By the time Trempwick returned she had made a decent start on restoring her dress. She asked her question with a quirk of an eyebrow; he answered with a single nod.

Dropping another rush to the floor where it belonged Eleanor mused, "Too easy."

Trempwick clasped his hands together in a very monkish pose. "We have learned some things, and are set to learn more."

"Too easy."

"I think not. Your sister is a prisoner, for wont of a better description. Here," He set his hand to his temple, "and here," and to his heart. "A hint of rebellious freedom, baited with something that intrigued. The result was predictable."

"The reaction was ... enlightening." Eleanor's hands fell still; she had come as soon as quiet word reached her that Adele had sneaked into her unguarded chamber. It had been she who had given the command to bar the door. Those cries; it would be cruel to lock Adele away once more. "The greater good," Eleanor murmured.

"Always," answered Trempwick promptly. "A good guide even in the murkiest of grounds."

“How did you stand it, Raoul? How did you keep yourself sane?” After a hesitation, “How could you bring yourself to pass the burden along to me? I would not pass it to my worst enemy.”

Trempwick smiled faintly. “I should hope not, for they would have you murdered within the hour.” The priestly mask he had maintained so carefully fell away; a subtle shift of posture, a change to the set of the face, so many minor things it was impossible to say precisely what changed. Once again he was the Trempwick she had met at Repton; an aging man who was letting his guards slip through disuse. “If I am truthful, sweet Nell, the answer is in the main apparent by simply looking at ourselves.”

“You have grown softer.” This was Trempwick she was talking about; Eleanor corrected herself, “Appear to have grown softer.”

"Less 'appear' and more 'have' than perhaps I would like." He looked so tired, so terribly tired; he massaged the fingers she had broken for him three years ago, and she thought it an unconscious action. “And you harder. Harsher. More focused on getting the result you need without concern for bruised feelings along the way." His hand fell still, something of the weariness lifted. "And also more confident, more assured that you have power and can wield it. That is by no means a bad thing."

There was a break in conversation so prolonged its weight was near-physical.

"It is the way things have to be," said Trempwick. "You armour yourself or you break under the load. You do what needs to be done, however unpleasant, because if you do not then you are a failure. And Nell?"

She looked up from her wedding dress.

"You have been doing that since the very day I met you. Before that." He made a one-shouldered shrug. "For rather childish reasons, admittedly, but that does not discount it entirely."

She had turned her chamber into a elaborate trap. Everything in it was something she wished seen. The lock that fastened on the outside as well as the in. The lack of a guard where previously there had always been one, where one had never been needed and both presence and absence were notable. The banquet. The hints about fabulous clothes and wondrous secrets, designed to appeal to the character Adele had displayed thus far. The convenient excuse given when Adele first borrowed her clothes without asking, that permission to take whatever she liked without need of further permission. The companions so easily pursued to remain behind as Adele came to rummage around. The man set to follow her, unnoticed; a handsome young knight who would claim infatuation if discovered by his target.

Eleanor picked a rush from her dress and twizzled it between her fingers. "You will encourage her to believe I long for a reconciliation with Fulk so badly I half believe he will come for me every day when I wake, and go to my bed heart-broken that he has not. If she queries anything related to my fertility you will refuse to discuss it; insinuate that I am doing something ungodly to prevent conception, and it horrifies you and you battle to bring me back into good Christian practice. Perhaps suggest it was originally forced upon me by Fulk. He loves me too much to risk losing me in childbirth, and I him so badly I will barter my very soul to please him." Eleanor snapped the rush in two. "Make her think me a weak, pathetic fool. I am so desperate for my husband to look kindly at me that I have little space in my mind for anything else. I am play in her hands, and will be desperately grateful for any advice or sympathy she might give. Grateful to the point where I will be willing to speak on her behalf to Hugh for whatever she wishes."

"Perhaps your clinginess is what lies behind the breach with your husband?" Trempwick suggested. "You smother him, leave him no space. Embarrass him."

"Yes. That will aid."

"And I will see what can be gained from her."

"I need to know where to target." Eleanor laid her dress aside and rose; the dreamy tone disappeared from her voice. "I must know where to press in order to get her to misstep so badly I can remove her with all seeming innocence. Locking a door behind her so Hugh can hear her scream will not be sufficient!"

[furball]

Hmmm. . . this seems like it will take more than 5 parts. :) For which I'm grateful!

[Peasant Phill]

Now I know why I started reading this in the first place.

1 remark though:
IMHO this story seems to have lost some of it's tension with this last update. There were 2 questions that really drove this epilogue. Firstly, the whether or not Adele was innocent. It gave the reader the possibility to feel sympathetic towards Adele. With her guilt confirmed, she clearly becomes the antagonist of this story. This is not a bad thing per se but this robs her of all the full character that Raoul for example did have. Without the mystery Adele isn't as interesting IMHO.
The second question was who was winning the mental game between both sisters. I realize that the game isn't anywhere from finished but showing Eleanor in such control does hint at the outcome. I'll draw the parallel with the main story once more where the uphill battle to the end made for a great page turner.

[frogbeastegg]

I don't particularly like the story has ended up. Compared to the original vision it's a shadow. Makes me a sad froggy. Better a sad froggy with a finished story than a sad froggy without.

The enforced wait at the start has ruined it as it broke the flow of the story. When I finally had everything settled I couldn't pick it back up again; all of the subtle, quiet stuff was too quiet for me to hear. If I can't hear it I can't write it no matter how hard I try. For months I have been struggling to find a way to pick it back up and continue as it should be, no success. After a while I began to look for any way at all to pick it up and continue. After lots of work and stress this seemed the only functional answer.

Adele's thoughts are loud, you see. I can pick them up. I can pick up Nell's overt stuff. What I can't pick up is the lowest levels of conflict, the stuff that's spider-silk fine. Without that, and limited to Nell's POV only, nothing makes sense and very little happens. Adele says a few things and does a few things, Nell does and says a few other things, but none of it connects, none of it comes alive, and none of it has any real reason for being there. Showing both sides on the louder levels lets things progress because the stuff that should have been demonstrated through the quiet and subtle is there, shown off more clearly than originally intended but at least present.

Whether Adele or not is innocent ... let's say that a simple yes or no to the question of adultery is terribly black and white in a froggy world. Circumstances, lead up, fall out, motivation - far more interesting stuff. Or so I hope! Otherwise we're kind of doomed on that particular subplot. In black and white Trempy betrayed his king and friend, lost his civil war, and thus was an evil traitor; it's everything else which makes it interesting.

Adele's major problem right now is that I can't find the right music. Having the right background music to ignore is strangely important to my writing process. Without that I don't have the final spark for her in these scenes. Oh, I've got plenty suitable for the younger Adele, but nothing good for the current Adele because it needs to be the right kind of loud and fast, somewhat reckless and adrenaline filled. I don't really like that kind of music so I've got nothing. The closest I have is this J-Pop song from a game soundtrack, Everlasting love (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mbuCjS0s20). It's not quite right somehow; I think it needs to get rid of the random bits of English, or be entirely in English. Too jarring when it swaps. Aside from that I've managed to find the you and me song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zx5HuAPd6RM) from the 50 second mark onwards, discounting the brief quieter period around 1:30. Or maybe the awful J-pop song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OirD56xD18s) used for Final Fantasy X-2's intro from 2:41 to near the 3:20 mark in that video. Heh, back in the day when I first loaded FF X-2 up and found that intro I nearly died of embarrassment! I only have it because the rest of the game's soundtrack was better.

This one was always written primarily as a character piece. Adele's working from a massive position of weakness; too long out of the country, too long in prison, and she's not been trained by Trempy and hardened by war. The best she can hope for against Nell is to score points in ways which she finds meaningful. Away from Nell, now there the game is more even. Adele knows what she wants and can work towards it; Nell has no idea and so cannot move effectively to block. If Adele's wise and keeps her cards close to her chest on that aim then Nell can do little to stop her. Question is, even assuming Adele gets to do whatever it is she wants, will it work? Far from guaranteed. She can (and is, and has been) work to make success more likely ...

[Prince Cobra]

Perhaps I can help you with the music. I need to catch up with the story, though. Several variation of "I want Candy".

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8KsvfTQRFY

or another variation of the same song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CirN2bd40Zc


Or maybe this?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9uKMJ3T8Ko

(Play it loud please)

[frogbeastegg]

Thanks for the suggestion. :bow:

Hmm. The third version is the closest and it's still not quite there. It's more of a younger Adele, right before the big fall from favour. It needs more ... I don't know exactly ... more oomph, I guess.

I hate it when this happens. I'm not much of a frog for music at all; I can happily live entirely without it unless I'm writing. When I need something and my existing library doesn't fill the need I'm left listening randomly to stuff until I find something. Sometimes I don't manage to find anything. It would help if I knew how to describe what I'm looking for better; too little knowledge for that.

[naut]

dele's major problem right now is that I can't find the right music. Having the right background music to ignore is strangely important to my writing process. Without that I don't have the final spark for her in these scenes. Oh, I've got plenty suitable for the younger Adele, but nothing good for the current Adele because it needs to be the right kind of loud and fast, somewhat reckless and adrenaline filled. I don't really like that kind of music so I've got nothing. The closest I have is this J-Pop song from a game soundtrack, Everlasting love (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mbuCjS0s20). It's not quite right somehow; I think it needs to get rid of the random bits of English, or be entirely in English. Too jarring when it swaps. Aside from that I've managed to find the you and me song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zx5HuAPd6RM) from the 50 second mark onwards, discounting the brief quieter period around 1:30. Or maybe the awful J-pop song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OirD56xD18s) used for Final Fantasy X-2's intro from 2:41 to near the 3:20 mark in that video. Heh, back in the day when I first loaded FF X-2 up and found that intro I nearly died of embarrassment! I only have it because the rest of the game's soundtrack was better.
The right music? Must be:

- Loud
- Fast
- Reckless
- Adrenaline filled

Hmm. Motorhead? :wink2:

Suggestions off the top of my head.... I have THOUSANDS of songs, I'm sure I could find something appropriate.

Foals - Cassius (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3lWbPEOJp0)

Foals - Two Steps, Twice (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkrYuNiHKYU)

Bang! Bang! Eche! - 4 To The Floor (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgR0_eXERu8)

The Press - Pattern Mill (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRrCIa8OIeo)

Motorhead - Ace of Spades (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iwC2QljLn4)

Crystal Castles - Doe Deer (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9L2G32EkoVg)

The Dead Weather - Treat Me Like Your Mother (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyYh2BlSHOA)

Tubelord - Propeller (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWgPtPy7IYE)

[frogbeastegg]

Got her. Angels (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwTmqPMjlPM) from Within Temptation. Thanks to Prince Cobra for linking me to some other songs from this group; they weren't quite right so I followed the about youtube until I landed on this. The lyrics manage to be mostly relevant too.

Been looping it for about twenty minutes now; it's working. Oh yes. I can feel that edge which she was missing before, and the other, more complex feelings which are buried behind it. I'll give it a bit longer so I can fully assimilate it in my mind (easier to ignore when I know it well) and then it's time to get writing.


Foals - Cassius (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3lWbPEOJp0)
Listening that that once spontaneously created a character currently living under the label of Cassius the Inept Roman. :help:

Dark comedy, should I ever write it. Oh dear. Don't know whether to thank you or send a hit squad of ninjas.

[frogbeastegg]

The wine had been sweetened with honey, and flowed like nectar over her tongue. Adele drained half the goblet in a single go, relishing in the sharp tang of fruit married with the burn of alcohol and the lingering kiss of the honey. The warmth of the alcohol hummed through her blood; Adele sighed in contentment. Finding her sister watching her in a quizzical manner, she explained, "The first decent wine I have had since ..." Since her dead husband's armed guard had demanded entrance to her private rooms and announced her arrest. The sharp crack of the flagon tumbling from her maid's grasp and shattering across the floor rang again in her ears as she remembered. "In a long time," she finished, managing a weak smile.

"None of our other vintages have met your approval, then?"

This castle's wine cellar was filled with barrels of cat piss. Cheap swill fit only for the men at arms who filled this grim pile of rocks. "In Spain we could grow our own grapes. I had my own vintages, made from grapes grown on lands I owned through my husband's gift." The first time she had seen them, the rolling green expanses filled with neatly ordered lines of vines ... ah, she had been but a child, newly wed and filled with dreams. "Sweet grapes, and a sweet, light flavoured wine."

"I suppose imported wine cannot compete with that."

"I lost it all." Adele dipped her forefinger into her wine and sucked it clean, lingeringly. "Everything. By rights I should have kept it after his death. That was the bargain written before the marriage." She flicked the rim of her goblet and listened to the dull ring the vessel produced, then downed the remaining contents, placing the cup back down a trifle too ungently. "If that mistrustful old fool had not believed the slander-" She bit down hard on her words. The trick was to reveal enough and not too much. "He wrote everything away from me, in law. Did not even leave me the things I took with me." Adele held up her goblet for a refill.

"It is not so surprising, considering."

"Considering?" spat Adele. "Considering what?"

Eleanor's eyes slid away from Adele's furious gaze. "Considering you were judged guilty of treason," she mumbled.

"Judged? Judged? For that there would have to have been a trial!"

"Kings do not always abide by niceties."

"You think I am guilty." She did, it was there in the way Eleanor wouldn't look fully at her since the change of topic. Burn them all in hell! Could no one have faith? Could no one believe the better of her?

Eleanor's reply, then, was surprising. "Are you?"

"No." The reply came quickly, smoothly, with the ease of long practice, with the urgency of survival. "One who wished to destroy me spread the lies." That, at least, was truth. "I was never given chance to defend myself. The first I knew of it was when they came to take me away to my prison. I swear it on God's mercy." And God had none so it was no false oath.

Eleanor gave a slow inclination of her head. "Then I believe you, my sister."

Adele watched the man juggling daggers in the space before the high table, picking away at the portion of sauced trout on her trencher. "Why did no one ever stand up for me?" she asked, not wanting or intending to and hating how broken she sounded. "Not even for the honour of our family. Why did they abandon me?"

"Our father tried." Eleanor set down her eating knife had placed that hand over Adele's. "I swear he did. I wrote to you myself, many times. Hugh did also. Always we were turned away. Your husband would not listen. Our letters were returned with the seals unopened."

Adele looked up, hardly able to believe it. Eleanor sounded sincere.

"It is the truth. I swear it on my lord husband's soul, which I hold more precious than anything else in this world or the next."

"I heard nothing from the outside. And when he came he always-" Adele realised her nails were digging into her thigh fit to draw blood. No, she would not think of the times he had come. "They lied to me. And why not? Anything to make my misery more wretched. They told me I had been disowned."

"Were that so, would you be here now?"

"No," Adele realised. "No, I would not." They had not abandoned her. It was as though the ground had trembled beneath her feet, her world rendered unstable. And then she understood that her task would be that little bit easier in light of this.

She ate in silence, and drank more of the wine, and listened to the music, and watched the entertainments, and felt her heart grow lighter once more.

"When I was queen," she confided in Eleanor as the next course was served, "I once organised a banquet themed around the reconquest of Jerusalem. I imported musicians from the Holy Land; they played all day and on for half the night. Such music, so different from anything we had in our own halls at the time. Strange, and quite wonderful. We danced a few in oriental style, though I admit most of us agreed that the steps were too outlandish for true grace, and we returned to our own soon enough. And the food, ah I swear the cost of the spices alone would have funded a banquet in any other court in Christendom! Rice, with raisins and cloves. Mutton with apricots - that is a fruit - nutmeg, cinnamon, the juice and skin of oranges. So many dishes I forget, save that there were two hundred and thirty nine in total." She laughed, a certain memory springing to the fore. "Midway through I arranged for a group of knights dressed as Muslim warriors to break in and kidnap certain of the ladies. We required rescue by some of our own brave heroes."

Eleanor swallowed her mouthful of chicken. "Did your husband rescue you?"

Adele's lazy smile died an unhappy death. It was alright for those who had husbands whom they desired to rescue them, though Adele wondered if this famous Fulk would now bother to rescue her sister. "Yes. Of course. I had informed him of the jest beforehand, and he accepted his role with good grace." The same good grace with which he acceded to her every whim, year after year, from the first day of their meeting to the very last she had seen of him. The same boring, spineless good grace. Always clear that he was indulging her. Always putting her first. That time, oh that time he had played the part and the entire time it had been clear that he had been uneasy and unsure of how best to play the game, like an adult unfamiliar with children attempting to lower himself to their play. An image flashed into her mind; her husband with his sword drawn, holding it as though he wasn't able to decide between brandishing it or keeping the sharp point safely down.

Adele sipped her wine. "I wore silk, nothing but silk. Layer after layer of it. I gave my veil to my captor; he demanded a token of honour." Now he had been a man worth bothering with, young and fit and with a gleam in his eye. He had laughed as he swaggered about in his heathen armour, and learned a few phrases of the language so he could shout threats convincingly. And one other phrase, whispered in her ear as he'd held her, translated only by a lingering, longing glance when no one else was paying attention. Chaste, ardent, perfect love. The worship a true knight owed his lady. "We had an archery competition too, using those strange bent bows they favour in the Holy Land. They lined up at one end of the hall and shot at targets clear down at the other." She laughed. "One of the servants was nearly hit - the fool did not stay out of the way as instructed. The way he squealed and ducked!"

"It sounds fantastic."

Adele regarded her sister. She made an acceptable foil, Adele would give her that. Similar in looks yet inferior, inferior in taste, inferior in experience, inferior in her ability to keep what mattered, inferior in her understanding of true love - the perfect black background for Adele's star to shine against. "It was. Fear not, dear sister. Once I come into my own here I shall hold similar parties, and you shall be invited." Adele smiled warmly, not letting the daggers that lay behind it show through. "I shall even help you find something to wear." It was a sad truth: Adele displayed Eleanor's clothes far better than did Eleanor herself. The poor dear had come wearing the green that Adele had discarded with no more than a cursory glance. Against the cherry red it had no chance. She should have worn her wedding clothes if she had wanted to appear anything other than faintly impoverished, plain, forgettable. Poor Eleanor indeed. Someone should take her in hand, teach her some essentials.

Eleanor reached for a bite of cheese. "I only hope Hugh gives you that chance."

That poured acid all over Adele's warm thoughts. "Why would he not, pray?"

"As I have said, I do not think he intends for you to marry again."

"He is a man," Adele countered sharply. "Who knows what goes on in the minds of men, save other men? He will think to his gain, and to his gain I will be used. Marriage is the biggest gain he may make of me." Here, at last, was a good natural opening. Adele returned her attention to picking at her food, as though a little uncertain. "What manner of man is our brother? I have not seen him since he was but a child."

"A deeply honourable one," was Eleanor's immediate reply. "Dutiful, almost to a fault. He is devoted to maintaining peace and justice in his realm."

And from that Adele was meant to gain ... what? "That almost sounds like an epitaph. What of the man?"

"He is a good father," Eleanor offered at last. "There is nothing he will not do for his children, or for his wife." With a tiny, self depreciating quirk of the mouth she said, "I am afraid I am not the best person to offer an image. We do not spend overmuch time together, and, as you said, he is a man and who am I to know what is in his mind?"

"Hmm," growled Adele. Useless! There were some meagre areas of promise though; honourable, just, family bound - yes, that may well be made to work. If only she could find where best to set her hooks! Another thing she had wondered about, "I heard some few rumours ... strange things, truthfully. From my captors, and while travelling."

"You are going to ask me whether Hugh is in truth our brother." Eleanor attracted the attention of a page and indicated she would like him to carve her some of the roast duck which had just been borne into the hall.

Adele blushed at having her intend mistaken. "That I do not doubt! I meant ... More to the point ... That is, did our father never doubt? It cannot purely have been the invention of that man who caused the war, whatever his name was."

"Trempwick, if you refer to the man who began a war in my name."

What?! Adele nearly spat her wine across the table. A bid to place her sister on the throne!? And Eleanor spoke of it so matter-of-factly!

Eleanor must have noticed her sister's difficulties as she hitched a shoulder in am embarrassed shrug. "Oh, nothing at all to do with me, I assure you. I was but a figurehead, unwilling and unwitting, and I stood at Hugh's side throughout. Indeed, I fled to him for protection, and married Fulk to disprove Trempwick's claims that I was his wife. It was all very unpleasant, especially when an army turned up and laid siege to my husband's castle. Thousands of men, all using my name as a war cry. Most disconcerting."

A war had been fought in her name, with thousands of men using her name as a war cry? Who did she think she was - Helen of God-bedamned Troy!?

"Anyway," Eleanor continued in that maddeningly light tone, "to answer your question, no, our father never doubted. To consider that Hugh was a bastard would first mean considering that our mother was unfaithful, and that he would never do."

It was not fair - the injustice blinded Adele with sheer rage. Her mother had presented her husband with a bastard - what else could a fair child in the midst of a brood such as theirs be? - and had been defended for it, while she, who had never stooped so low, had been condemned out of hand!

Unable to eat another bite for fear she would be sick, Adele drained the remainder of her wine and rose. The world swam a little; it had been a long time since she had drunk much and evidently her tolerance was weaker. "I am going to join the dancing, if you will forgive me for withdrawing my company?"

"By all means."







A hand took hold of her elbow - and twisted until her shoulder felt it would pop free of its socket, forcing her to twist and bend as she begged - and Adele's own hand contacted something hard, covered in warm flesh. Blinking in confusion she realised that she had struck the man, and then secondary realisation struck home - he had not been harming her. That was over and done. Everyone was staring. Everyone. Panic welled up in her breast. "How dare you touch me," she screamed. "How dare you! Common churl, how do you dare think yourself worthy to touch a princess? And such rudeness!" And she would not start to cry, and she would not start to cry, and she would not start to cry.

The man bowed low. "Forgive me, your Highness. I was not in awareness of doing anything wrong. I did speak, more than once. You did not hear. It was but the lightest of touches." Straightening and brushing his long hair away from his face he added with a dose of pride, "And I am no churl - if you will forgive me for contradicting you - save perhaps in feeling for having caused a lady distress. I am gently born, of noble, if Scottish, stock, and thus feel the pain of your distress far keener than any churl might."

They were still staring. Everyone. She had done it again, given herself away, just like when the door locked behind her. They would know! How could they not work it out? Then they would whisper behind their hands and call her worse names than they did already, and she would have no defence for some things she could not manage to lie about even to save herself and in some crimes there were seen to be no victims. If people knew she would never, ever be able to forget, not truly. She would spend the rest of her days wondering what they thought about it, if they blamed her, if they thought she deserved it, if they thought she falsely accused to ruin an innocent man.

So with every ounce of will she had she managed a chill smile. "Forgive me. The mistake is in part mine. It was not custom at my husband's court for any man to touch a lady." A most minor lie, feasible enough for one in the lofty position of queen.

The man bowed again, this time coming back up with a set to his jaw and a devil may care glint in his eye which was not altogether unpleasing. "Forgive me, your Highness, if I say must have made it a trifle difficult to dance, or a serve a lady at table, or indeed escort her."

"There were certain exceptions to the manners." Finally, finally, finally people were returning to their business.

Everyone except that priest of her sister's. He was watching her. His very attention chided her with "What did I not tell you?" Did he know? Had he worked it out? No, no, he could not have, not from such a small slip.

The youth was regarding her with some solicitude. "Your Highness? Are you unwell? I apologise most profusely if I have caused you upset, and am eager to make amends in any way which I might."

The words and courtly manner behind them should have been meat and drink to Adele's soul. Instead she felt tired, tired and sick and dizzy. "What did you wish to say to me?"

"I wished to beg for the honour of dancing with you, if in your mercy you can show pity to this unworthy knight."

All day she had been looking forward to this, wondering which of the courtly men would pluck up his courage first. The meal taken with her sister, some dances gone through with unpolished local lords, chatter with their passé ladies; it had all been borne in anticipation of some real culture. Now it had finally presented itself all she wanted to do was hide in a corner and cry. But people's eyes were on her tonight as she was the glittering heart of this gathering, and she would never regain her life if she allowed unwelcome memories to intrude. She would reclaim her life, if the doing so killed her! She accepted the knight's offered hand and smiled at him; the touch of his flesh on hers made her want to vomit. "I shall pity you for one dance, and perhaps more if you prove yourself worthy."






From the high table where she sat mostly forgotten, Eleanor watched Ranulf begin his charm offensive on Adele. The initial reaction was particularly intriguing.

Some time later Trempwick made his way up to the table, as if realising that she was on her own and in need of formal company if she was not to look disowned in the eyes of the gathering. "Revealing," he murmured, seating himself a proper distance from her and reaching for a crust of bread.

"Indeed."

"Mad?"

"Damaged?"

In the same heartbeat they voiced identical conclusions, "Both."

"Only a little mad."

Equally softly Trempwick replied, "Very damaged."

"Better off away from the world. It would be a kindness." With a blunt, open talk Adele herself might agree.

"Most will not realise."

"She covered well," Eleanor agreed. "She is an accomplished liar."

"She has to be. If anything were suspected she would be deemed instigator, not victim."

"Yes."

"Altogether a series of very particular reactions. All pointing to the same source."

"Added to the way she behaves during certain conversations ..." Eleanor turned her head fractionally so she could see Trempwick while still appearing to watch the crowd on the floor below. "How many times have we seen those particular betraying signs?"

Again they answered in unison, "Too many." Alone Eleanor added, "Even once was too many, for my taste."

After a long pause Eleanor said, "We might be incorrect. About how much damage."

Trempwick said nothing. That was his answer.

"The task changes."

This time Trempwick turned to look at her.

Down in the cleared space at the centre of the hall Adele danced with Ranulf, to cursory inspection as happy and carefree as any other lady. Only a keen observer would spot the occasional, not-quite-concealed flinch that escaped sometimes when the knight set his hands on her, or the smile which every now and then seemed decidedly fixed.

"It now gains a secondary part. Learn what you can from her; I want to know who abused my sister, and I want their heads."






There's only two parts in all of that which I don't dislike. Adele's reaction on learning of Nell's part in the civil war, and the conversation between Nell and Trempy at the end. I like the way they get so much said with so few words, it shows how well they know each other. Aside from that, ho hum.

[frogbeastegg]

The wine had been sweetened with honey, and flowed like nectar over her tongue. Adele drained half the goblet in a single go, relishing in the sharp tang of fruit married with the burn of alcohol and the lingering kiss of the honey. The warmth of the alcohol hummed through her blood; Adele sighed in contentment. Finding her sister watching her in a quizzical manner, she explained, "The first decent wine I have had since ..." Since her dead husband's armed guard had demanded entrance to her private rooms and announced her arrest. The sharp crack of the flagon tumbling from her maid's grasp and shattering across the floor rang again in her ears as she remembered. "In a long time," she finished, managing a weak smile.

"None of our other vintages have met your approval, then?"

This castle's wine cellar was filled with barrels of cat piss. Cheap swill fit only for the men at arms who filled this grim pile of rocks. "In Spain we could grow our own grapes. I had my own vintages, made from grapes grown on lands I owned through my husband's gift." The first time she had seen them, the rolling green expanses filled with neatly ordered lines of vines ... ah, she had been but a child, newly wed and filled with dreams. "Sweet grapes, and a sweet, light flavoured wine."

"I suppose imported wine cannot compete with that."

"I lost it all." Adele dipped her forefinger into her wine and sucked it clean, lingeringly. "Everything. By rights I should have kept it after his death. That was the bargain written before the marriage." She flicked the rim of her goblet and listened to the dull ring the vessel produced, then downed the remaining contents, placing the cup back down a trifle too ungently. "If that mistrustful old fool had not believed the slander-" She bit down hard on her words. The trick was to reveal enough and not too much. "He wrote everything away from me, in law. Did not even leave me the things I took with me." Adele held up her goblet for a refill.

"It is not so surprising, considering."

"Considering?" spat Adele. "Considering what?"

Eleanor's eyes slid away from Adele's furious gaze. "Considering you were judged guilty of treason," she mumbled.

"Judged? Judged? For that there would have to have been a trial!"

"Kings do not always abide by niceties."

"You think I am guilty." She did, it was there in the way Eleanor wouldn't look fully at her since the change of topic. Burn them all in hell! Could no one have faith? Could no one believe the better of her?

Eleanor's reply, then, was surprising. "Are you?"

"No." The reply came quickly, smoothly, with the ease of long practice, with the urgency of survival. "One who wished to destroy me spread the lies." That, at least, was truth. "I was never given chance to defend myself. The first I knew of it was when they came to take me away to my prison. I swear it on God's mercy." And God had none so it was no false oath.

Eleanor gave a slow inclination of her head. "Then I believe you, my sister."

Adele watched the man juggling daggers in the space before the high table, picking away at the portion of sauced trout on her trencher. "Why did no one ever stand up for me?" she asked, not wanting or intending to and hating how broken she sounded. "Not even for the honour of our family. Why did they abandon me?"

"Our father tried." Eleanor set down her eating knife had placed that hand over Adele's. "I swear he did. I wrote to you myself, many times. Hugh did also. Always we were turned away. Your husband would not listen. Our letters were returned with the seals unopened."

Adele looked up, hardly able to believe it. Eleanor sounded sincere.

"It is the truth. I swear it on my lord husband's soul, which I hold more precious than anything else in this world or the next."

"I heard nothing from the outside. And when he came he always-" Adele realised her nails were digging into her thigh fit to draw blood. No, she would not think of the times he had come. "They lied to me. And why not? Anything to make my misery more wretched. They told me I had been disowned."

"Were that so, would you be here now?"

"No," Adele realised. "No, I would not." They had not abandoned her. It was as though the ground had trembled beneath her feet, her world rendered unstable. And then she understood that her task would be that little bit easier in light of this.

She ate in silence, and drank more of the wine, and listened to the music, and watched the entertainments, and felt her heart grow lighter once more.

"When I was queen," she confided in Eleanor as the next course was served, "I once organised a banquet themed around the reconquest of Jerusalem. I imported musicians from the Holy Land; they played all day and on for half the night. Such music, so different from anything we had in our own halls at the time. Strange, and quite wonderful. We danced a few in oriental style, though I admit most of us agreed that the steps were too outlandish for true grace, and we returned to our own soon enough. And the food, ah I swear the cost of the spices alone would have funded a banquet in any other court in Christendom! Rice, with raisins and cloves. Mutton with apricots - that is a fruit - nutmeg, cinnamon, the juice and skin of oranges. So many dishes I forget, save that there were two hundred and thirty nine in total." She laughed, a certain memory springing to the fore. "Midway through I arranged for a group of knights dressed as Muslim warriors to break in and kidnap certain of the ladies. We required rescue by some of our own brave heroes."

Eleanor swallowed her mouthful of chicken. "Did your husband rescue you?"

Adele's lazy smile died an unhappy death. It was alright for those who had husbands whom they desired to rescue them, though Adele wondered if this famous Fulk would now bother to rescue her sister. "Yes. Of course. I had informed him of the jest beforehand, and he accepted his role with good grace." The same good grace with which he acceded to her every whim, year after year, from the first day of their meeting to the very last she had seen of him. The same boring, spineless good grace. Always clear that he was indulging her. Always putting her first. That time, oh that time he had played the part and the entire time it had been clear that he had been uneasy and unsure of how best to play the game, like an adult unfamiliar with children attempting to lower himself to their play. An image flashed into her mind; her husband with his sword drawn, holding it as though he wasn't able to decide between brandishing it or keeping the sharp point safely down.

Adele sipped her wine. "I wore silk, nothing but silk. Layer after layer of it. I gave my veil to my captor; he demanded a token of honour." Now he had been a man worth bothering with, young and fit and with a gleam in his eye. He had laughed as he swaggered about in his heathen armour, and learned a few phrases of the language so he could shout threats convincingly. And one other phrase, whispered in her ear as he'd held her, translated only by a lingering, longing glance when no one else was paying attention. Chaste, ardent, perfect love. The worship a true knight owed his lady. "We had an archery competition too, using those strange bent bows they favour in the Holy Land. They lined up at one end of the hall and shot at targets clear down at the other." She laughed. "One of the servants was nearly hit - the fool did not stay out of the way as instructed. The way he squealed and ducked!"

"It sounds fantastic."

Adele regarded her sister. She made an acceptable foil, Adele would give her that. Similar in looks yet inferior, inferior in taste, inferior in experience, inferior in her ability to keep what mattered, inferior in her understanding of true love - the perfect black background for Adele's star to shine against. "It was. Fear not, dear sister. Once I come into my own here I shall hold similar parties, and you shall be invited." Adele smiled warmly, not letting the daggers that lay behind it show through. "I shall even help you find something to wear." It was a sad truth: Adele displayed Eleanor's clothes far better than did Eleanor herself. The poor dear had come wearing the green that Adele had discarded with no more than a cursory glance. Against the cherry red it had no chance. She should have worn her wedding clothes if she had wanted to appear anything other than faintly impoverished, plain, forgettable. Poor Eleanor indeed. Someone should take her in hand, teach her some essentials.

Eleanor reached for a bite of cheese. "I only hope Hugh gives you that chance."

That poured acid all over Adele's warm thoughts. "Why would he not, pray?"

"As I have said, I do not think he intends for you to marry again."

"He is a man," Adele countered sharply. "Who knows what goes on in the minds of men, save other men? He will think to his gain, and to his gain I will be used. Marriage is the biggest gain he may make of me." Here, at last, was a good natural opening. Adele returned her attention to picking at her food, as though a little uncertain. "What manner of man is our brother? I have not seen him since he was but a child."

"A deeply honourable one," was Eleanor's immediate reply. "Dutiful, almost to a fault. He is devoted to maintaining peace and justice in his realm."

And from that Adele was meant to gain ... what? "That almost sounds like an epitaph. What of the man?"

"He is a good father," Eleanor offered at last. "There is nothing he will not do for his children, or for his wife." With a tiny, self depreciating quirk of the mouth she said, "I am afraid I am not the best person to offer an image. We do not spend overmuch time together, and, as you said, he is a man and who am I to know what is in his mind?"

"Hmm," growled Adele. Useless! There were some meagre areas of promise though; honourable, just, family bound - yes, that may well be made to work. If only she could find where best to set her hooks! Another thing she had wondered about, "I heard some few rumours ... strange things, truthfully. From my captors, and while travelling."

"You are going to ask me whether Hugh is in truth our brother." Eleanor attracted the attention of a page and indicated she would like him to carve her some of the roast duck which had just been borne into the hall.

Adele blushed at having her intend mistaken. "That I do not doubt! I meant ... More to the point ... That is, did our father never doubt? It cannot purely have been the invention of that man who caused the war, whatever his name was."

"Trempwick, if you refer to the man who began a war in my name."

What?! Adele nearly spat her wine across the table. A bid to place her sister on the throne!? And Eleanor spoke of it so matter-of-factly!

Eleanor must have noticed her sister's difficulties as she hitched a shoulder in am embarrassed shrug. "Oh, nothing at all to do with me, I assure you. I was but a figurehead, unwilling and unwitting, and I stood at Hugh's side throughout. Indeed, I fled to him for protection, and married Fulk to disprove Trempwick's claims that I was his wife. It was all very unpleasant, especially when an army turned up and laid siege to my husband's castle. Thousands of men, all using my name as a war cry. Most disconcerting."

A war had been fought in her name, with thousands of men using her name as a war cry? Who did she think she was - Helen of God-bedamned Troy!?

"Anyway," Eleanor continued in that maddeningly light tone, "to answer your question, no, our father never doubted. To consider that Hugh was a bastard would first mean considering that our mother was unfaithful, and that he would never do."

It was not fair - the injustice blinded Adele with sheer rage. Her mother had presented her husband with a bastard - what else could a fair child in the midst of a brood such as theirs be? - and had been defended for it, while she, who had never stooped so low, had been condemned out of hand!

Unable to eat another bite for fear she would be sick, Adele drained the remainder of her wine and rose. The world swam a little; it had been a long time since she had drunk much and evidently her tolerance was weaker. "I am going to join the dancing, if you will forgive me for withdrawing my company?"

"By all means."







A hand took hold of her elbow - and twisted until her shoulder felt it would pop free of its socket, forcing her to twist and bend as she begged - and Adele's own hand contacted something hard, covered in warm flesh. Blinking in confusion she realised that she had struck the man, and then secondary realisation struck home - he had not been harming her. That was over and done. Everyone was staring. Everyone. Panic welled up in her breast. "How dare you touch me," she screamed. "How dare you! Common churl, how do you dare think yourself worthy to touch a princess? And such rudeness!" And she would not start to cry, and she would not start to cry, and she would not start to cry.

The man bowed low. "Forgive me, your Highness. I was not in awareness of doing anything wrong. I did speak, more than once. You did not hear. It was but the lightest of touches." Straightening and brushing his long hair away from his face he added with a dose of pride, "And I am no churl - if you will forgive me for contradicting you - save perhaps in feeling for having caused a lady distress. I am gently born, of noble, if Scottish, stock, and thus feel the pain of your distress far keener than any churl might."

They were still staring. Everyone. She had done it again, given herself away, just like when the door locked behind her. They would know! How could they not work it out? Then they would whisper behind their hands and call her worse names than they did already, and she would have no defence for some things she could not manage to lie about even to save herself and in some crimes there were seen to be no victims. If people knew she would never, ever be able to forget, not truly. She would spend the rest of her days wondering what they thought about it, if they blamed her, if they thought she deserved it, if they thought she falsely accused to ruin an innocent man.

So with every ounce of will she had she managed a chill smile. "Forgive me. The mistake is in part mine. It was not custom at my husband's court for any man to touch a lady." A most minor lie, feasible enough for one in the lofty position of queen.

The man bowed again, this time coming back up with a set to his jaw and a devil may care glint in his eye which was not altogether unpleasing. "Forgive me, your Highness, if I say must have made it a trifle difficult to dance, or a serve a lady at table, or indeed escort her."

"There were certain exceptions to the manners." Finally, finally, finally people were returning to their business.

Everyone except that priest of her sister's. He was watching her. His very attention chided her with "What did I not tell you?" Did he know? Had he worked it out? No, no, he could not have, not from such a small slip.

The youth was regarding her with some solicitude. "Your Highness? Are you unwell? I apologise most profusely if I have caused you upset, and am eager to make amends in any way which I might."

The words and courtly manner behind them should have been meat and drink to Adele's soul. Instead she felt tired, tired and sick and dizzy. "What did you wish to say to me?"

"I wished to beg for the honour of dancing with you, if in your mercy you can show pity to this unworthy knight."

All day she had been looking forward to this, wondering which of the courtly men would pluck up his courage first. The meal taken with her sister, some dances gone through with unpolished local lords, chatter with their passé ladies; it had all been borne in anticipation of some real culture. Now it had finally presented itself all she wanted to do was hide in a corner and cry. But people's eyes were on her tonight as she was the glittering heart of this gathering, and she would never regain her life if she allowed unwelcome memories to intrude. She would reclaim her life, if the doing so killed her! She accepted the knight's offered hand and smiled at him; the touch of his flesh on hers made her want to vomit. "I shall pity you for one dance, and perhaps more if you prove yourself worthy."






From the high table where she sat mostly forgotten, Eleanor watched Ranulf begin his charm offensive on Adele. The initial reaction was particularly intriguing.

Some time later Trempwick made his way up to the table, as if realising that she was on her own and in need of formal company if she was not to look disowned in the eyes of the gathering. "Revealing," he murmured, seating himself a proper distance from her and reaching for a crust of bread.

"Indeed."

"Mad?"

"Damaged?"

In the same heartbeat they voiced identical conclusions, "Both."

"Only a little mad."

Equally softly Trempwick replied, "Very damaged."

"Better off away from the world. It would be a kindness." With a blunt, open talk Adele herself might agree.

"Most will not realise."

"She covered well," Eleanor agreed. "She is an accomplished liar."

"She has to be. If anything were suspected she would be deemed instigator, not victim."

"Yes."

"Altogether a series of very particular reactions. All pointing to the same source."

"Added to the way she behaves during certain conversations ..." Eleanor turned her head fractionally so she could see Trempwick while still appearing to watch the crowd on the floor below. "How many times have we seen those particular betraying signs?"

Again they answered in unison, "Too many." Alone Eleanor added, "Even once was too many, for my taste."

After a long pause Eleanor said, "We might be incorrect. About how much damage."

Trempwick said nothing. That was his answer.

"The task changes."

This time Trempwick turned to look at her.

Down in the cleared space at the centre of the hall Adele danced with Ranulf, to cursory inspection as happy and carefree as any other lady. Only a keen observer would spot the occasional, not-quite-concealed flinch that escaped sometimes when the knight set his hands on her, or the smile which every now and then seemed decidedly fixed.

"It now gains a secondary part. Learn what you can from her; I want to know who abused my sister, and I want their heads."






There's only two parts in all of that which I don't dislike. Adele's reaction on learning of Nell's part in the civil war, and the conversation between Nell and Trempy at the end. I like the way they get so much said with so few words, it shows how well they know each other. Aside from that, ho hum.

[frogbeastegg]

"Tell me, what do you see?"

Adele made a show of looking around the castle garden. "Trees. Flowers. Grass. Sky." Walls on all four sides. A guard by the gate.

The priest smiled gently. "I was torn. I half expected you to answer with that, half with simply 'walls'."

Adele did not answer. It felt too much like a trap.

The priest reached up to touch the leaves on a nearby tree. He stroked them as fondly as he might the fur of a favoured dog. "The sky unnerved me. At first, and for some time afterwards. But plants, somehow they were different. Calming." With a smile that said he knew he was being foolish he confided, "Like friends."

"You asked for permission to speak to me in this charming setting. I had assumed you would have something of worth to say."

The priest released the leaves, and the branch sprang back to its natural position. "Here, we may talk with no one to overhear, observed though we are to guard propriety. Here, you may say whatever you wish - or need - without fear. We are but two fellow prisoners."

"You are eager to say that," Adele challenged, "yet so very reluctant to provide any substance to support the claim. You know my story; I know nothing of you."

"As to that, I respectfully beg to differ. I know very little of your story, I think. It is a lack I hope to correct. As for the other ..." The priest executed a proper courtly bow. "Ezio, at your service. Forgive me if I do not add my lineage or birthplace to my name; you will shortly understand why." Ezio seated himself cross-legged under a tree. "My story ... keeping it shorter in the telling is better, I think. It captures the essence. More words wound it somehow - some things are cheapened by expression as no mere language can contain them."

From her superior position on the garden's only bench Adele looked down on him. "How very poetic," she said contemptuously. Did this priest think to win her with half-told tales and excuses?

"Listen, then judge. Not the other way around. That is how people are condemned for crimes they did not commit."

Adele's heart skipped a beat at those harshly spoken words, setting off a medley of pains in a head still recovering from last night's wine. Could this man understand something of the injustice she had suffered? If she could convince him then he might in turn convince others, and then ...

"I was my lord father's heir. Handsome, well reared, all a knight was expected to be in my part of Italy. My future was assured." Ezio sighed. "Shortly before I was to be married, I fell in love, and not with my bride."

"How tragic," Adele muttered. How boring. A common tale of someone falling in love and still marrying their pre-chosen, practical spouse.

The priest looked at her from under his brows, a wry cast to his features as though he knew what she thought. "Yes, I married. But to the right woman, or the wrong depending on your view. I married my love, scorned my betrothed."

Adele sat up a little straighter. "You did?"

"I did, some weeks before my arranged match was to take place. We were very happy in our time together." Ezio clasped his hands in his lap and concentrated his gaze on them. "Then I had to tell my family what I had done. My father had barely begun to vent his rage - for she was deeply unsuitable, being of merchant's blood - when my betrothed's father arrived. Father - and brothers, and uncles. Quite a powerful family, and numerous, and vengeful." He looked up again, his eyes filled with pain and unshed tears. "I will not speak of what followed. My family was destroyed. And I, I was taken alive and thrown into a room converted to a prison at the favourite residence of my would-have-been family. A living reminder of what happened to those who crossed this family. And there I stayed until the father died, and his eldest son took the mantle. It had been years, and he wanted me out of the way. I was given a choice: church or churchyard." Ezio indicated his priestly garb with a wave of his hand. "As you see, I chose to survive."

Headache quite forgotten, Adele savoured the words. What love had this nobleman had for his mysterious low-born wife? He must have known the danger, even if he had under-estimated it. A child with a head full of stories would have recognised the danger. Stories - her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What happened to your wife?"

"I do not know," he answered simply. "Knowing the anger my decision would cause, I did not take her home with me. I thought to calm the waters a little first, spare her some of the storm. I like to think that she escaped notice, found another love, and lived - lives - happily in all safety."

"Your captors never told you?"

"They told me many things. I chose not to believe them. They brought no proof, and while there is room for hope I will hope with all my heart."

Somehow ... somehow it rang true. The way he spoke, the way he looked as he said the words - as though a piece were taking flight from his soul, pained and uplifted both at once. And, for all the resemblance to a romantic tale, it differed enough in ways that felt right. The heroes in stories always set out to discover what happened to their wife - or the villains brought grisly proof - took their vows because of whatever form of truth they found.

His voice broke into her thoughts, "You will not ask me the same question that all of the others privileged to hear my tale have asked?"

"And what is that?"

"Was she worth it?"

Worth it. The words echoed through Adele's head in twin voices. One man's voice, distorted by distance and dulled by the assembled crowd waiting to see him die, shouting "She was not worth it!" only he must have really said, "She was worth it!" and only the distortion made it sound otherwise. Another man, dismissive voice muffled by her head being buried in her arms, "All that bother, and so very not worth it."

"My lady?"

Adele came back to the present to find the priest regarding her with some concern. It appeared this was not the first time he'd tried to gain a reaction. "I am sorry. I find I do not feel well." Suddenly it was very important to go, to get out of here and away from all of this - the flowers, the openness, him.

He accepted his easily enough, though continued to look at her as though he expected her to faint. "Was it something I said? Did my story distress you? If so I apologise -"

She couldn't bear another word; she could hear him, that hateful, disdainful voice that first visit after the execution, "He told the crowd you were not worth it. I hope he was wrong, considering how much I have done to get you." Taking a moment to shut the voice out and centre herself, Adele managed to force a laugh. "No. No, rather too much wine and good food at yesterday's banquet. I fear I am no longer used to such pleasures."

"I understand." Ezio offered his arm. "Shall I escort you?"

They made it midway across the garden before Adele stopped, needing to shed part of the weight she carried before it crushed her entirely. He said he could help her, and she knew he did understand some things, and to shed a safe part of the burden could surely do no harm. Gripping his arm tightly she confided urgently, "We are damned. My entire family, past and future. Because of the first William. He drowned this kingdom in blood when he stole its crown, and drowned it again to keep it, and all those dead innocents went straight to God's side and He knows all. The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons - it is in the bible itself."

"The bible does say that-"

Adele cut through his careful platitude, "If you knew our history you would not doubt. None of us are ever happy for long. We have the temper of demons. And so many troubles - always, every generation since that first William's sons. All we can do is size the good when it is available, and beg God's forgiveness our entire lives in the hope that one day it will be enough and the punishment will end."

The guard was paying them more attention than before. Ezio noticed as well; he pressed her hand reassuringly and began to walk once again. "This we may speak of another time, if you wish, in the chapel and before God."

[frogbeastegg]

"Well?"

Trempwick put down the records he had been reading, struggling to mask his surprise. Either Nell's movements were getting quieter or his hearing was fading. He had not heard her enter the room at all, though granted he had not closed the door. "God's blessed mercy, I am getting old," he breathed.

"What was that?"

Trempwick allowed himself a hint of a smile. It seemed youth and the ability to move like a cat didn't gift supernatural hearing. "How may I help your Highness?"

"You have something. I can tell." Nell settled herself next to him in the window seat and leaned forward with elbows on her knees. Scrutinising him. "When you last spoke with my sister you came back pensive. I could all but see your mind working over the pieces. Now you are occupying yourself with other things," she gestured at his reading, "and I know that means you are letting something settle."

"Quite correct." With that admission Trempwick's mind clicked back into sharp focus, the looseness his reading had allowed vanishing like mist before the sun. Too soon. He'd not yet found best way to put it to her. Utmost caution needed else he would doom himself.

"And you have not yet seen fit to inform me of whatever it is you have discovered."

Frowned at the tone of rebuke. "You did not inform me that I must come to you the very heartbeat I identified the possibility of something I could think about, dearest Nell."

"I commanded that you keep me well informed."

"And indeed I shall."

"I would know what you have found that is so worth consideration." She sat up. Those eyes cold. Suspicious. Not good at all. "I would know why it has taken you near all of the day to admit to me that you found something. Why you still do not tell me, so I may think on it myself." She leaned in, said softly. "A spymaster must know every strand of the web. Particularly when dealing with untrustworthy agents."

Not good at all. Summoned his own version of that chill regard. "A spymaster must know when it is best not to interfere with what she has set in motion."

She sat back. Cocked her head to one side. "An entire day, Raoul. What have you learned, and what are you plotting?"

No. It could not work like this. Would be requesting something ungrantable. Would further promote suspicion. Sat back. Relaxed his aggressive front as much as she had hers. "Beloved Nell, you make my position rather difficult. I have ... little to speak of. Unconnected details which begin to come together. I feel I am close to seeing a way. Close - not yet there."

"Then tell me these details. Give me a reason to be less wary of you."

Closed his eyes, slumped back against the wall. Let his mind loosen again. Let his thoughts wander, let them slow down, let things unrelated to the problem of Adele re-enter his mind. Trempwick let the inner spymaster go back to sleep; it took wilful effort. His hand stroked the records resting in his lap, the parchment's fine grain making his fingertips tingle. "I found these amongst the castle's stores. They relate to the original castle, do you know? They are the construction order. William the Bastard's mark is on them, his seal too. A great wooden fortification -"

Nell interrupted, "And I would care precisely why?"

Almost he laughed; why indeed? She had never been one for history. But then once nor, truly, had he. "I write a history of the Kings of England, remember? And here, in my hands, is one piece of that history. The start of one of the most important castles in this land. The mark of the first king of your line."

She scowled. "A dead man, a castle long since built over, and nothing at all to do with my sister."

"No," he corrected gently. "It has a little to do with your sister. The loosest, littlest bit." He arranged the parchment so that the seal and cross-shaped mark that was the illiterate William's signature were oriented towards her. "This." Reverently he touched the mark. "Him. Your four times great-grandsire. Your most famous grandsire, the man who took the crown in battle and held the country by the strength of his sword."

Nell spared the mark a moment of attention. "He is more a legend than a man."

"Yes." Trempwick rolled up the parchment with brisk, efficient movements. "And no. There is a man who may be glimpsed from time to time in records like this. In events. Hastings. The Harrying of the North. Think on what would cause a man to do such things, and there indeed one can see a shadow of the man who was your many times great-grandsire. An iron will. A great confidence in himself and those who stood at his side. A degree of justice, harsh and hard yes, but neither of those actions were taken without great provocation to him-"

"My sister," she promoted, though with less of her earlier severity.

"One great battle, the total destruction of the northlands, not to mention his many wars in Normandy and, later, against his own son. The deaths of many thousands, untold suffering for many thousands more. The English, for their treachery in giving their crown to another against William's right, had their way of life trampled underfoot. Some remains, much more was lost if earlier records -"

"My sister!"

This time Trempwick did allow himself a smile. "But you already know what was said in the garden, dearest Nell."

She betrayed no reaction. "She believes our family cursed by his deeds."

And in the back of Trempwick's mind the pieces came together with a click. He could see how to approach this. "You wish her to take vows. She believes there is a sin to atone for. The two may be made to work together. To prod her along the path, the unexpected revelation your knight so helpfully provided. And an offer of trade; guide her to ask for manageable things in exchange for doing as we wish." He let that sit for a heartbeat, then added quietly, "But Nell, it must be me who does this. I will prod, and I will guide. She will heed me in a way she will not any other."

She took a deep, slow intake of breath. "You expect me to allow this? To leave you a free hand and trust - trust! - that you do not betray me in some way?"

"A trade, dearest Nell." Trempwick set the rolled parchment to one side and extended his hand to her. "In return for managing your sister to your satisfaction you will give me something I value greatly. Something I want far more than a chance to try my hand once again at removing that ignoble bastard who squats on my dead friend's throne. Take my hand on it and I will consider myself bound."

"And what could you possibly value so greatly?" She regarded his outstretched hand as though it were a viper.

"That I shall tell you once our work is done."

"You know I will make no blind bargain."

"Naturally. So, I say this: you will promise to listen to my request and give it fair consideration, and you will grant it unless you find some grave danger in it." He extended his hand another inch or two towards her, insistent. "You will not deny me from spite. You will not deny me from suspicion. You will not deny me because you cannot understand why I would ask for this thing. You will not deny me, in short, for anything save a good reason."

"So you would ask for two gains from this."

"No," he said quickly. "No. What you offered me before, I no longer want. Occasional, limited access to correspondence - no, I do not want that. All I would have of this is what I will now request. Deny me that and I will take nothing."

"And why not simply tell me what you want now? Why make such a mystery of it?"

In this the truth would serve him best. "Because, my most dear Nell, you will view any bargain struck with me as one struck with the devil. Were I to simply state my desire you would dismiss it and search for something more hidden behind it. Whereas this way you may believe there is some honesty when I finally do ask."

She quoted a popular saying, "When one sups with the devil one should bring a long spoon."

Now to add the second truth to round matters off. "Should you choose to deny me I would be grateful to be spared the humiliation of keeping your company with the awkwardness of my having bared a portion of my soul to ill effect hanging between us. So best it comes shortly before we part ways."

Her eyes narrowed. "I mislike the sounds of this request of yours."

Trempwick set on hand over his heart and held the other up in an attitude of taking an oath. "I swear that I shall ask for nothing which will impinge on your honour, threaten the realm or yourself, bring harm to you or any you consider under your ward, place you in a difficult position at court or with your brother or husband, or otherwise knock apples from your little cart." He lowered his hand and once again extended it to her.

After a long gap Nell said, "I will agree to nothing more than listen to this request of yours. If you work to my complete satisfaction. I will deny it utterly if I see fit. And should you give me cause to think it the best course, I will still have you killed, so beware. I will see you dead before I permit you to use her as you tried to use me." She took his hand to seal the pact. "Knock apples off my little cart?"

Trempwick shrugged. "A turn of phrase which occurred to me and I found amusing." God knew he needed amusement from somewhere; there was none to be found in this work. Twisting a damaged soul to turn from the life she had dreamed of during captivity in favour of another kind of prison. He muttered, "Getting old."

Nell raised an eyebrow in askance.

"No matter." He rose. "I will say this: your sister and yourself have one main thing in common at present. Most disconcerting - trying, really. A trial"

She looked up at him from under her brows, amusingly wary. "And that would be?"

He took a moment to decide how to reveal this to maximum effect. "My dearest, most beloved Nell, simply, to those rare few with eyes to see, you both exude a degree of desperation for someone to be close to you. Though you hide it far better than she." Taking advantage of her stunned silence he brushed his fingertips across her cheek. "Simple human contact to keep the gnawing things at bay." He placed two fingers over her heart. "Things which gnaw there." Trempwick patted Nell on the shoulder and began to walk away. “Retrieve that husband of yours soon. I blame this high level of tetchiness – even for you and that is saying something! – on prolonged abandonment.”

Utterly flabbergasted she couldn’t managed any reply better than “Urk!”

He winked, tapped his fingers to his forehead in a salute, and sauntered off. Something impacted the doorway near his head as he passed through; he didn't pause to find out what.

Once safely away he slowed down. He let the trace of mirth drain away on a lengthy sigh. A trial indeed. One he cared for too deeply to allow her to sink into the bleakness that came from horror endured, the other he must cast into that selfsame abyss. It ate at him. His pace quickened, carrying him towards the castle's records and the reading he could find to aid his writing. His own answer to the gnawing now his friends were dead and Elgiva barred from seeing him again. No human contact left for him now. "Too damned old, and soft in the head to add to my penance," he muttered.






"The king will see you now."

Fulk had been waiting in attendance for so long that at first the words did not register. He looked up and found a page waiting with an expression of carefully concealed awe. "Now?" he asked stupidly.

"At once." The boy turned away and pulled open the door to the chamber where Hugh had been holding audience.

Rising from the wooden bench with difficulty - he'd been sat there since early this morning and had only moved to go to the privy twice - Fulk strode through the empty hall. He was the last person waiting for audience; every single other who had presented themselves today had been called in before him. Every single one had seen him, the king's brother-by-law sat there passed over as a mark of disfavour. They had avoided his company, leaving distance as though he carried a disease. When the light began to fade he was the only one left waiting, and only a minimum of torches had been lit to prevent his sitting there in total dark. He had passed the time reading the letter Eleanor had sent him from Dover, a message which had only reached him by the good fortune of his party running into her messenger on the road. She had sent him three words only, 'Mea maxima culpa' - my most grievous error. If this went well he would be able to go and find her. Then he would have something to say about those three words.

The door closed behind him. Blinking in the brighter illumination that filled Hugh's chamber Fulk made his obeisance and held it, thinking it best to act humbly.

"Rise."

Fulk did so, and waited.

Hugh positioned himself so they stood face to face, and clasped his hands behind his back. "I always endeavour to keep the man alive as well as the king," he said, almost conversationally. "I will not repeat my lord father's error and allow the crown to swallow those aspects of myself which do not belong to power and ruling. Sometimes it is difficult. The crown is demanding. To rule well I must be more and better than a man. Sometimes. To be impartial, to make difficult decisions. At other times it is the simplest thing in the world."

The next thing Fulk knew he was reeling backwards fighting to keep his feet, stars exploding across the left side of his vision. He clapped a hand to his face even as he raised the other into a defensive position.

"You arrogant churl!" shouted Hugh.

Fulk brought his hand away from his face; already he could tell he was going to have a stunning black eye. "I-"

Hugh brandished a finger. "Silence! Let a man have his say. Then we will come to the king and to your excuses, whatever they may be."

This would be the easier part of the interview, Fulk knew. Compared to what he had come to do his brother-by-law's rage was a mere rainy day. All the same it was not easy to stand passively.

"I told you when you married my sister that you had best take care of her. I told you, did I not?"

It seemed that an answer was required. "You did, and I said-"

"I expected better of you than this. I am gravely, deeply disappointed." Hugh clenched his fists and held them up before Fulk's face. "I tell you this, I would pulverise you if I did not know it would grieve her more deeply!"

"I can respect a man for standing up for his sister-" Fulk raised an arm to guard his face, thinking that Hugh was about to punch him again. Fortunately the other man didn't act on the impulse that a twitch of his muscles had betrayed. "I can respect it. I would do the same had I a sister of my own and felt she had been wronged." Again he saw that telltale indication that Hugh was tempted to strike him. Moving back a pace Fulk appealed, "Is it any more right to attack a man you know cannot fight back? You may say you act as a brother and not a king but this is no brawl on the village green!"

"That is not an argument I expected to hear from you."

"Or is it one you did not wish to hear?"

Hugh's lip curled with contempt. "You are not half so smooth when you are in the wrong and called upon it."

Tempted to show his brother-by-law precisely how smooth he could be, Fulk instead massaged his swelling eye. "Were we on the village green I would tell you that it is nobody's business to interfere between a man and his wife, least of all one who has no real idea what's happened. And if you came for me again I would break your nose."

"I had considered that option," Hugh said, his manner surprisingly friendly compared to before. "I understand that my sister finds the current set of your face to be attractive. She would have been terribly vexed with me had I broken it."

Fulk found himself grinning. "We wouldn't want that, would we?"

"Arthur is not yet old enough to assume the throne," Hugh said dryly. "I believe the man has had his say. Remember in future that, difficult as our relationship is and much as I deplore her many foibles, I will stand by my sister to the utmost in private family matters. As an elder brother should." He examined the knuckles of his right hand for damage. "Should the brother be called upon again I will nor restrain myself. Not for my sister's preferences, and not for your feeling that you cannot defend yourself." He lowered his fist. "I pray that is understood most clearly, and taken to heart."

Well, that meant there were a whole two occasions now where Hugh had acted like a brother Fulk could respect instead of one deserving a sturdy punch to the balls. The first, of course, being the time he'd told Fulk he'd better be a good husband.

"And now for the king." Hugh settled himself in the high-backed chair he'd been using as a makeshift throne. "On your knees, Alnwick, and explain what you mean by threatening to destabilise my realm."

Suppressing a groan Fulk lowered himself to his knees. "It is not easy-"

"Because there can be no good cause!"

"With respect, sire, that is not entirely true."

"Oh?" Hugh began to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair. "There is a sound reason for walking away from your wife, whom I remind you happens to be my sister, the only sister then present in England and the selfsame sister about whom a civil war formed in a treacherous bid to steal my throne? Because honestly I admit I was not aware of one."

When had Hugh become such a sarcastic bastard?

"After all," Hugh continued, his voice flat as a tabletop, "you have only announced far and wide that my royal sister is not good enough for you, a baseborn bastard. Thus throwing her into humiliation, and tainting the family as a whole. You have also ensured that everybody is aware that the marriage which moved her away from my throne is now endangered, and thus, I fear, sparked ideas amongst certain minds. Ideas concerning finding a new, more suitable husband for her." Hugh stopped tapping his fingers and pressed his hand flat on the chair's arm. "Yes, I would much like to hear this most excellent reason for recreating certain of the conditions which led to civil war a mere three years ago."

"It is a private matter, sire."

"When it touches upon the safety of my realm it cannot be."

Fulk would be damned before he discussed the details of his marriage with Hugh. It was none of his business. "Sire, I came here with a request-"

"You came here because I summoned you."

"I was already on the road when your summons found me."

"Very bold of you, to think of requesting anything of me having caused me so much discomfort."

"I have a solution to the problem which caused strife between Eleanor and myself. It needs your blessing."

Hugh left him to stew for a bit before saying, "Then get up and tell me. And I warn you, whatever you may believe to be the solution and whether I grant it or no, you will return to her and you will resume living under the same roof, to all intents and purposes a perfectly happy couple. Or I will have you destroyed and find her a new husband myself."

"The lack of an heir causes difficulty between us." Back on his feet Fulk felt better able to face what he needed to. Hard enough without grovelling on the ground.

"I will not change my decree. I will permit no child born of your mismatch to threaten my own."

"I did not come to request that." Fulk cast about for a way to make this bearable, then decided that the best way to pull an arrow was to do so quickly. "With your permission - and a decree to support it, make it legal - we could take a child not of our joined blood to be our heir. One close enough to be family, but one who under normal circumstances would not be considered in the line of succession."

Hugh's gaze pierced Fulk to his core, made the shame boiling there threaten to consume him. "And whose child would this putative heir be?"

It was the only way. To get Eleanor back he had to put the question of an heir to rest. It was too late to go back, much too late, had been too late since that night when he'd got drunk enough to stomach making a decision. Tense, almost shaking at the ignominy of it, Fulk answered and in so doing revealed his sin against his wife.










A couple of weeks ago I had this feeling that if I started writing and kept on going I'd finish the entire story in one go and manage to get it quite close to how it was meant to be. Unfortunately I was at work. By the time I got home the feeling had gone. I waited to see if it would come back; it hasn't. So we plod onwards.

Quite amusing how Hugh unbends enough to play big brother for a bit. Especially considering his attitude to Nell when they met at the start. Thing is, while it's rather unexpected for him to punch someone, it's exactly what you'd expect if you gave it a bit of thought. He's so concerned with doing the proper thing, and what else is a big brother meant to do when his little sister gets upset by a boyfriend? :p

NB: Elgiva was Trempy's long-standing mistress from the main story. Each time he went on what Nell dubbed 'a spymaster's holiday' he went to see her and spend some time with his guard relaxed, his mind free of plans, and no work to bother him. That's how he used to cope when the responsibility, stress, deaths, and what have you.

[The Stranger]

are you publishing?

[Peasant Phill]

To bad you really have to work for it to be able to finish this piece. But know your fans are patient.

[frogbeastegg]

Ugh. It's been an unpleasant few months. First problems at work, then the death of a very good friend. For a while I feared I had lost the spark to write at all. All this time I have been trying and failing to get anywhere. Then today ... it worked.

So if anyone is still reading, here's the next part.





"We might continue our discussion another time, you said. In the chapel. So here I am." Adele tilted her chin aggressively, expecting the priest to protest that now was not the time.

Eleanor's priest clambered to his feet, bracing one hand on the edge of the altar as if uncertain that his knees would cooperate. He made a reverence to finish his interrupted prayer and turned to face her. "Your Highness. I had expected you sooner than this. I had expected you on that same day as our interrupted discussion."

Adele waved a hand dismissively. The crossroads approached, that much she could tell, and it had taken more than a day to gather herself to the point where her purpose was once more cold. Safely cold. Rigid as ice. Like ice, able to burn without the blaze growing past controlling.

"Permit me to speak freely. Time runs short for you."

"Tomorrow we leave for my brother's court." Adele was gratified at how remote she sounded. As if nothing touched her. Regal.

"And from the moment you leave this castle's gates you must be resolved on your future else you risk control of your life slipping through your grasp once more."

Burn, he would burn! Burned by ice. Everything he had visited on her returned a hundredfold, a thousandfold. Him and all those who had aided him! "I am resolved."

Something flashed across Ezio's face, something Adele incredulously identified as irritation. "No! No, your Highness." He closed the space between them in several rapid strides. "You are resolved on dreams. Useless dreams at that! Marriage?" He laughed harshly. "Your brother will never permit it. Even should he do so, no one will have you. Even should some fool step forward, you will find no joy."

At each pronouncement Adele recoiled as if slapped. Something broke inside her. "No," she cried. "You are wrong. I will-"

As she backed down the priest advanced matching her step for step. "You are a known adulteress! No man worth considering will have you. You will bring no honour to your family, no alliance worth having-"

"Lies!" she whispered. "All lies."

Ezio flung one arm out towards the altar. "Then tell me so as part of confession, your Highness. For otherwise I do not believe you - the guilt lurks in your soul, it betrays you." He let his arm drop to his side. "You lie well. Not well enough to fool me."

Adele shook her head, hands pressed to her ears to blot him out. She'd faced worse and denied the charges. Much worse.

He pointed to the altar once again. "Lie to God. You have lied to man often enough. Finish it - lie to your creator. He knows all. He understands and is filled with sympathy for those who stray. But not those who lie to Him."

Adele snarled, "I will not be bullied!" She should leave. Walk out and have no more to do with this - this madman!

Suddenly the priest was blocking her exit. "I tell you again, your thoughts are not closed to me."

"I thought you an ally."

"I am. The kind you need most, the kind unafraid to drag you to reality while you might yet salvage something of your life."

"Reality?" She tried to laugh and aborted the attempt when it came out closer to a sob.

Then all threat from the man was gone, like a hunting hound slipped back onto leash. In the most normal of tones he asked, "Who raped you, your Highness?"

Her mouth worked and no sound came out. No words formed inside her head. Moments later his words ripped through her and she found herself staggering backwards, hand pressed to her mouth repeating, "No. No. No."

"More than once, I would guess. Your jailors?"

"No. No. They never - no one ever-"

"Someone else then."

Her knees felt weak; she leaned against the nearest object for support. His voice saying, 'You refused me. Me! And you a whore! Your lover is not fit to be mud on my boots, and you refused me. So I had to make this possible. It is your own fault, whore.' and his breath thick with wine and that swagger as he came towards her.

A hand caught her elbow; Adele's hand was up and her nails slashing for his face before her conscious mind had registered the fact. A hand locked about her wrist before she could catch skin. Very softly, gently, almost regretfully the priest murmured, "No more lies." He released her wrist and stepped back.

Adele realised that she was halfway sat on the altar, and that he must have caught hold of her to stop her from collapsing. "I do not lie," she said in a broken voice.

"Small details betray you, your Highness. You do well yet not well enough, not for those who have sharp eyes. Your reaction when that unfortunate touched your shoulder at the banquet-"

Like drops of water spilling into a cup it became too much and overflowed. "No. You misunderstand." She forced herself to raise her eyes, let his reaction be seen in full. Every last shred of disgust. "It is said I am an adulteress. No better than a whore. You cannot rape a whore."

Instead she saw ... boundless sympathy. "And so no accusation can ever be made. The perfect crime."

He had known that from the start. That was why he arranged for her fall. And from spite, because she had refused his advances. "No one will ever believe me."

"I do."

The undisguised honesty in those two simple words made Adele break down and cry.

"Others will. Those with eyes to see. But they will not be many. Highness, you were right to conceal your secret."

Adele started to laugh through her tears and could not stop. Accusing any man of rape would destroy her. Accusing her own son-by-marriage! The perversity of his lust would be thrown right back on her, his sin would become hers in the eyes of the world.

She became aware that the priest was cautiously shaking her shoulder and saying, "Your Highness, calm, I beg of you. Please, control yourself. Should anyone be passing and hear this ... mania they will wonder."

With an effort Adele bit down on the laughter and dug her fingernails into her temples, digging in hard. After a bit she felt able to say, "I want justice. Simple justice. And I want my life back."

"Highness, the first may be possible with some difficulty depending on who he is. The second? This is the reality you must face: it is impossible."

"All those years I dreamed-"

Gently he interrupted, "All those years you were imprisoned alone with this wound, trying to find a way to heal it with no help, no escape. Imprisonment itself for such a length would harm most people." He dropped into a crouch at her side so he could look up into her lowered face. "You might recover in some measure and pick up something of a normal life with the right husband and right setting. But you will not get that husband. You will get a man brought and paid for, willing to take you only for the benefits you bring. You will not get that setting. You will be flung back out into the world and expected to take charge of a household, to act the noble lady, to bear more children. And you will be surrounded by suspicion and gossip; your husband would never trust you."

Those cherished dreams were fracturing, falling to dust which slipped through her fingers until only a core remained. A burning core of ice. Revenge. He must be destroyed! "I want justice."

"And that might - might! - be possible, should your Highness only aim for that and nothing more."

Very slowly Adele lifted her head. Her eyes felt like they were on fire, her face was taut. "And whom do I request justice of? Given that I may not speak of the crime, have no allies, and now cannot even consider having a husband to take my side."

"Your Highness must make a trade. Your brother is determined to have you take vows; demand a price. A quiet, subtle price that none will know of."

Adele considered this for a very long time. "It is impossible. The man is ... highly placed. And Hugh - how could I tell Hugh?"

"Your brother is an honourable man. Family is something he cherishes, and duty, he will always do his duty by his family down to the very final detail whether he finds it agreeable or no. I believe he would see the truth when you tell it."

"Your belief is not enough. If you are wrong I will have nothing - nothing!"

Simply he replied, "If you do not try you will have nothing."

"It is too big of a risk."

"Speak of Hugh to your sister on during your journey. Learn what you can of him. Let Eleanor help place your mind at ease."

And yet, and yet, and yet ... she could twist the story a little, could she not? Use most of the story she'd planned on the journey to England. Demand her son-by-marriage's ruin as justice for her sons and her cruel, false imprisonment. No need to mention the ... rest. No need to reveal the lowest depths.

The priest interrupted her thoughts, "You need not fear he is out of reach either. Hugh's spymaster is excellent, truly one of the greatest to hold that position. Once the decision is made he could bring down ... oh, he could bring down kings! Slowly, yes. Steadily. It would take years in all likelihood. But sooner or later," Ezio clicked his fingers. "And those years would be filled with tiny misfortunes."

Kings - Adele's heart sped. Could that be coincidence? Surely not, not with this man. No, no, it must be. It had to be. How could anyone possibly suspect? The perverted creature would have been careful, careful not to besmirch his own reputation. "You speak as though you know this spymaster."

The corners of his eyes crinkled as the priest smiled. "I know him very well. The true spymaster, not the man officially granted that title. He is a cover, you see. The true man is quite paranoid of his security. Understandably."

"I find it hard to believe he is as good as you claim."

"You remember the famous Trempwick? Your father's spymaster?"

"He was considered very skilled," Adele recalled. "Dangerous."

"When Trempwick turned to treason this new spymaster brought him down quite handily. Without that help Hugh would have stood no chance and Eleanor would sit upon the throne this day, with Trempwick at her side dictating her every move."

Adele made a thoughtful noise to show that she had heard, but otherwise made no reply.

The priest rose from his crouch. "If I may offer some consolation, the church is not so bad a destination for people like ourselves. There is time and peace to heal. In time, there are resources. Influence in the right places can achieve a lot. You may be assured that your brother would seek to place you in a position of prestige; you would be placed in a comfortable location with access to the luxuries which make life bearable. After a time you will have chance to gather power if such is still your wish; abbesses can command considerable respect."

"But it will be so ..." Adele shook her head, at a loss for words to describe the drab tedium of a convent compared to her old court.

"Fine clothes, fine food, and fine music are still very possible."

Adele searched for an alternative for a long, long time. She found none.






Several hours later Trempwick made his brief report to Eleanor.

" Did she name her attacker?" she asked, drumming her fingers on her thigh as she worked through the implications.

"She did not. She said only that he was highly placed."

"I begin to wonder ..."

"Access to her was very limited," Trempwick agreed.

"A highly placed man, she said."

"Yes ..."

"One might almost think ..."

"Yes, one might ..."

"Especially in light of her fall. Considering who accused her."

"Yes."

"And there were those very few stray rumours."

"At the time I thought the reports were of a hopeless, meaningless infatuation. The variety every youth suffers, with a different object of desire each month."

Eleanor scowled. "How am I to kill the King of Spain?!"

"Painfully," Trempwick suggested, most seriously.










So there's the big Adele revelation. It might have had some impact if the story hadn't had a massive gap in posting. :(

Her husband's son by his first marriage was a similar age to her. After some years he developed an attraction to her. Adele had a lover by this point, the chap she occasionally references as dying. The prince approached her, got rejected, and attraction turned to spiteful hate. He knew about the lover - hence part of his certainty that he'd be accepted - and set about orchestrating Adele's downfall. A bit of real evidence and a lot of arranged testimony, one accusation from a dutiful son weeping for his father's shame and the cruel necessity of tearing his family apart like this, and that was it, Adele was done for. The king refused to see her because, as suggested in those brief thoughts Adele has of him, he cared for her very deeply and did his best to make her happy. She was able to manipulate him due to this, and shamelessly did so. Poor kingy knew he had to put her aside, the accusation was too public to be waved away. It's not in the story but he actually suspected her already; he'd chosen to turn a blind eye. And so off Adele goes to her prison, and along comes a triumphant prince. He lost interest rapidly, hence those flashbacks where Adele remembers someone saying she was not worth the bother she'd caused. From there she was left to years of imprisonment in spartan conditions and with no real chance to mentally recover.

Hence the vengeful, traumatised, marginally insane Adele of this story.

BTW, in case no one remembers, Nell and Trempy already decided to kill whoever abused Adele. They agreed on that in the same scene where they both figured out she'd been raped.

[Peasant Phill]

I occasionally check the mead hall in case you added a new chapter. I may have forgotten some details but I always get sucked in right away.

[frogbeastegg]

When the banners of the approaching cavalcade could be clearly identified Fulk knew a moment of panic. Could this be planned? Rubbing the place where his nose had healed crooked, he laughed at himself for a fool. He was leaving Hugh's court and heading south. She'd been in the south for weeks, and of course would need to head to court sooner or later. Devious as his wife was, she would not have a travel party drawn up and waiting so she could run into him.

Some fifty paces distant Eleanor's party halted and a single figure rode out ahead, reining in once the distance was halfway closed.

Fulk held up a hand to call his own entourage to a halt. What could he do? The time for avoiding her was past, by his own decision and by his king's orders. But to talk in the middle of the king's highway with some hundred or more people looking on? Absurd! Even before the consideration she'd be unhappy with the first half of what he had to say - by design. If their marriage as a whole was to survive certain things needed killing once and for all.

"Wait here," he ordered, setting his spurs to his horse and riding out in front. He'd keep this to a minimum. No audience laughing behind their hands as his wife flattened him in righteous fury. Or the audience making her keep that fury in check. That talk must wait for another day.

After an uncomfortable moment she was the first to speak, bowing her head in meek greeting, "Good day, my lord."

Fulk was content to merely sit there and drink in the sight of her.

"You are still angry." Then she looked up from under her eyelashes, and then looked him fully in the face all trace of meekness gone. "Christ's bones, what happened to you?!"

"Ah." Fulk gingerly touched his black eye. "That."

"Yes, that."

Your brother thinks I'm scum and unbent from his lofty throne long enough to punch me, Fulk thought. "Oh, nothing much. Minor mishap. Looks more dramatic than in truth it is."

"I hope you returned the mishap and with extra." Eleanor cocked her head to the side. "It does rather spoil your looks, you know. Perhaps you should wear your full-head helm for a while in order to maintain your stature as a dashing knight?"

And that was why he loved her. He tightened his grip on his horse's reins so he wouldn't reach out to her. "I have missed you, my gooseberry."

"And I you, my luflych little knight."

This was impossible. He could not stay without getting over-friendly and then it would be harder still when came the time to tell her what he'd done. "I assume you are on some business. Very well; meet me at Woburn when you are done." He began to pull his horse around.

Eleanor leaned across and caught his mount's bridle. "That is all?"

"I will not discuss the particulars of my marriage in the middle of a road, my lady, no matter how content you may be to do so."

"Of course not. Why not accompany me?"

"It will help nothing. You are about your work and I-" Fulk broke off at the sight of a lone female rider heading out to them as some haste. "Who is that?"

Eleanor turned to look. "Adele," she growled. "My sister. And I may guess why."

The lady who drew her horse to a stamping halt next to them could never be taken as anyone other than Eleanor's sister. Fulk found himself fascinated; should you ignore the facial differences it was like looking at Eleanor with curves and a hand more height. Softer, gentler, and with the physical maturity which came from motherhood.

"And you must be my sister's husband," Adele said, smiling radiantly and making a polite inclination of her head which was unnecessary from someone of her rank to his.

Behind Adele Eleanor scowled.

And like that the moon eclipsed the sun. "Yes, I do indeed have that great pleasure." Fulk kneed his horse so it sidestepped, clearing Adele from his view of his wife. "If you will forgive my rudeness, we were making our goodbyes. I know you're pressed for time." He reached out for Eleanor's hand, and once he held it he pressed it tenderly to his lips. "My lady."

Adele exclaimed, "Oh, but of course you must accompany us! I have heard so very much about you, and besides we are family and must become acquainted." She smiled most prettily; Fulk's stomach lurched and not in a way he appreciated.

He smiled tightly. "No, I regret not. I must be leaving."

Then she pouted, such a appealing little pout which made the mind consider how it would feel to kiss those lips. "You simply cannot leave us to make the remainder of our journey alone; a bold knight such as yourself would ensure our safety against all perils."

Fulk repressed a shiver. He bowed in his saddle. "I wish you a good journey." He turned his horse and rode away, breathing a sigh of relief. That had been damned uncanny. From this day on it would be harder to laugh at tales of succubi.

He reined in, angling his horse so he could see back down the road. All this time apart and there she was, riding away back to her own group. All he needed to do was continue back to his own and leave, and he'd be free of all temptation.

"God's blood," Fulk cursed under his breath. He knew what he was going to do. What had been the point of pretending otherwise? He sketched a small cross over his heart and prayed softly, "Look kindly on this poor soul heading into a fight he fears he is unequal to." He dug in his spurs and galloped back down the road. The thunder of hooves made Eleanor look over her shoulder, and pull to a halt

Making sure he looked into Eleanor's eyes as he spoke, he said, "I will accompany you." He placed very slight emphasis on that last word.

Ignored to one side, Adele clapped her hands and exclaimed, "Oh, I knew you could not possibly abandon us. And now we shall all ride together as one happy little family within this group, just the three of us. You must tell me all about yourself. I have heard so much!"

Fulk felt his neck go stiff. He managed to smile almost graciously at his sister-by-law. "Might I beg a very great favour of you? One I have no business asking, and one, which I must honestly admit with penitent heart, is beneath you?"

She fluttered her eyelashes and practically glowed at him. "Have no fears, my dear Sir Fulk. We are family, are we not? Anything you might ask, I will listen to."

Fulk snapped a bow. "My thanks, your Highness."

"Call me Adele, I beg you, and I shall be pleased to call you Fulk. No need for formally between us, I hope?"

Fulk dismounted and pressed the reins of his horse into Adele's stunned hand. "Please mind my stallion doesn't follow his lesser brain and stray after some mare." With his most charming smile as a parting shot, he turned and held up his arms in invitation for Eleanor to dismount into them. "Never fear, my wife. I'm sure your generous sister will mind your horse also." Said generous sister appeared to be lost for words.

Once he had Eleanor in his arms it proved difficult to let go and place her hand on his arm ready for a stroll, but he managed it. He whisked her away from the mess on the highway. "We ride hard and arrive at court tomorrow before dark. Then we dump her on your brother and leave for Woburn the very next morning. This is possible?"

Eleanor slanted a questioning glance at him. "I would think so."

"Then that is what we do." They were far enough away that there was no need to continue walking; stopping he turned to face her. "We shall resolve your sister and then at Woburn resolve ourselves. Until then ..."

She raised an eyebrow. "Until then?"

Fixing his mind firmly on the speech he'd been working on since he decided he was no longer willing to live without her, Fulk managed to take a half pace back. "Until then we live amicably but with no great closeness. Not until I have said what I will say and you have heard it." When she parted her lips to speak Fulk placed a finger over them. "No. Not here, nor anywhere until it is only we two on our own land. There is too much between us to mend it if we're forced to behave like we're mummers in a miracle play."

She nodded and the motion made his fingertip caress her lips. Fulk's throat constricted; a fight he was unequal too indeed. He slid his hand around to cup her cheek where he'd slapped her all those weeks before. "That was not well done."

"It was my own fault. I should not have kept pressing you."

And if he hadn't been avoiding the matter she wouldn't have needed to press. Fulk let his hand drop, looked away. "Another time. All of this for another time."

Eleanor closed her eyes; he knew how she must feel. So long alone and then that brief contact ...

She said, "My sister. Do not touch her. Do not allow yourself to be alone with her."

A spike of raw anger burst through Fulk. Of course she thought that. She thought him so base he could be ordered off to sire a bastard in violation of his vows; why wouldn't he look with lust at whatever beautiful women he encountered? "You need have no worries on that count," he said harshly. "Not interested. Aside from it being incest, I've had more beautiful. Curvier. More alluring. All varieties - you forget the years of my life with you have been the exception, not the norm." Because of the unfairness of that, how hard it had been to keep that change and how easily she'd disregarded it he added, "Damn it, I've had women who make her seem bland as can be. She's no more than a spoiled girl toying with my privy parts to see if I can be made to jump."

Eleanor drew a long, steady breath, held it and let it out. In a level voice she said, "I intended to warn you that she is unstable."

And now didn't he feel like a complete idiot? "Oh."

"Her experiences have damaged her. Treat her with caution or you may find her shrieking the palace down around your ears."

Fulk ran his fingers through his hair, pressing hard enough to scratch his scalp with his nails. "My dear gooseberry, is there a single member of your family who might be described as normal?"

"There is one other thing you should know." She shifted her feet uneasily. "Trempwick is amongst my retinue."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He is disguised as my confessor. I am using him to deal with my sister-"

Fulk held up his hand to stop the words. "I don't want to know." All this time he'd been alone and she'd been trotting around the country with the man she came within a gnat's breath of marrying? The man who had tried to leverage her onto the throne? "Keep him out of my way, and get rid of him when we get rid of your sister. You can explain yourself once we have shed this - this spectacle."

"I can leave Adele with him and then we can ride alone together if you wish."

Aware of how much these measured responses must be costing her, Fulk took her hand and tucked it on his arm once again. "What a mess we are, my dear little wife. I'm sorry."

Eleanor leaned her head on his shoulder. "The sooner we start moving the sooner we 'dump my sister on Hugh', as you so quaintly worded it. Then we can think of ourselves."

"Quite right." He chuckled, looking at the sulking figure sat preventing the escape of two horses. "She's not entirely without use though."

He felt a tremor run through Eleanor's body as she fought not to laugh. "I cannot believe you used my sister - a former queen! - as a groom!"

"I did warn her the favour I wanted was beneath her."

"Will you ask her to wipe the mud from your boots next?"

"You're being very remiss in your duties, oh dear gooseberry of mine. Where's the appreciation for my play on words?" For effect he deepened his voice to a heroic rumble as he intoned, "Please mind my stallion doesn't follow his lesser brain and stray after some mare."

"Yes, yes, very good for someone who has been hit about the head with blunt weapons for much of his life."

"There should be more appreciation. It works on so many levels. Stallion being slang for, well, you know. And 'please mind', isn't that part excellent? It's the bit which makes the entire thing work. "

Eleanor poked him in the ribs. "Please mind labouring a joke becomes tiresome."

"Now you're so jealous of my wit that you're making inferior copies."

"Oh no - that was a warning. 'Please mind' as in 'take note'. So do take note, lest I suspect your already simple wit far simpler than I had given credit for."

"Deep down you're impressed. I can tell. Practically swooning with admiration."

"No, that is the strong stench of unwashed knight which is making me light-headed."

"Don't worry, beloved. Healthy manly sweat has that effect on most women. Quite the passion-starter."

"I would not know for you stink like your horse, and I believe you may have trodden in something on your way out of the stables."

They were almost back to the road. Fulk stopped and pulled her around. "Then you had best give me a bath when we find lodgings."

"I might condescend to empty some buckets of cold water over you in the yard."

"Make it very cold water."

Fulk noticed the cheering only after the kiss had been going on for a while. Startled he broke away and looked up to see most of his retainers and Eleanor's watching appreciatively.

After a beat Eleanor murmured, "Well I suppose we must have been difficult to live with, you dragging your people hither and thither to avoid me, and I moping."

"One of them just threw his hat in the air," observed Fulk. "This is distinctly weird."

"Quite."

"It's rather embarrassing."

"Let's head back and shout at them until they reorganise into a single travel party?"

"Good idea. Put the fear of superior rank into them."

"Shout in a manner politely appreciative of the sentiment, I meant."

"That was a joke, dearest gooseberry."

"I know. It was so feeble it was not worth treating as such."

"I get no support."

They started walking again, this time Fulk had his arm around her waist and was luxuriating in the sensation of her body touching his. Directing his eyes heaven-ward he thought ruefully, "Thanks for the help, oh Lord - battle well and truly lost!" Now it was going to be even harder to tell her.









Put the two back together in a scene and the instantly writing regains some bounce. Shows very clearly why, way back in the beginning, my attempts to stop them having a romance failed abjectly. I never had a chance; they work too well together. :grumbles about how she just wanted to do politics and civil war:


Good to see you are still here, Peasant Phill. :bow:

[Prince Cobra]

Hmm, I was just skimming and saw the name of Fulk again. Not quite the most favourite character in the story but definately reminds me I have not read this for ages... If I remember well, he and Nell have certain problems. Hmmm... I will need to catch up. :book:

[Death is yonder]

A wonderful read :bow:

All is well in the world when Fulk and Eleanor finally reunite :smug2: has a really nice flow to it, especially the dialogue.

[furball]

Very happy to see more chapters! Sure hope the next ones don't take as long to appear!

(And when and how did I get that picture over there to the left? Yikes.)

[Marshall Louis-Nicolas Davout]

A seriosuly epic tale,Pacy read totally convinicing.The Sheer might of your storytelling is so damned hard to resist!

I loved it,This brings back history to life

Overall a great story,aggressively good,but a geuinely thriiling one,top drawer story,heart pacing read,one of the most exciting stories I've read in a long time,another real sorcher

A briliant read

[frogbeastegg]

Rain? Pour? Flood? Torrent? Deluge? Yes, deluge. The rightness of the word thrummed through Trempwick's mind. "Never does it rain save in a deluge," he muttered. No, no, not one to write down. Not one for public use. Not quite right, missing something which would lend the phrase the right ... savour. "When one has left one's cloak at home it never rains save to deluge." Better? Better.

Adele announced her return by snarling, "It is not fair!"

"When Heaven urinates on you it falls as a deluge," muttered Trempwick. "No, not quite there." Perhaps deluge was not the word after all? That must be a problem saved for later. With a weary sigh he abandoned his attempts at a witty turn of phrase and permitted that state of mind which best allowed him to compose his writing to slip. So much for completing William the Third's reign in his grand history of England.

"He is not even that handsome anyway. Not with that ugly crooked nose. And so much for the great warrior - someone got through his guard well enough to black his eye! He is nothing but a talked-up story."

Trempwick massaged his brow. Complication. For once - just once - could he not do without it? Could not his life follow a simple path?

"Why did people cheer anyway? It is pathetic."

"Needs must when Satan breaks wind in your face," Trempwick concluded. Yes - that was it!

Adele broke out of her sulk with a stunned blink. "I beg your pardon?"

And now to begin clearing up the mess caused by Fulk's appearance, insofar as he could. He drove his horse close to hers so that they could speak without all and sundry hearing. "People cheer because they are happy. Your sister and her husband are both well regarded by their retinues. But more to the point, a lot is invested in that couple. For these people it means an end to an unhappy division which has made their lives difficult. Consider that these households are used to functioning as one; your sister and her husband are not often apart. Now think of how many families and friendships were slit when each had to follow either their lord or their lady. Consider how many feel loyal to both and had to choose."

Adele made a moue of distaste. "What matter the feelings of servants?"

Considered saying it. Said it. "It is readily apparent that you have lacked attendants, companions, even friends for years, your Highness. Any noble worth their salt pays attention to their followers and takes all reasonable courses to maintain their happiness."

She flushed. "I was a queen-"

"Servants?" Trempwick interrupted. "Rather sworn knights of the household. Men at arms. Men of status who will give their lives for their lord or lady. Lady companions, of noble blood themselves. Then the servants in truth, the folk responsible for making their lord's life comfortable-"

Adele flapped a hand at him to silence him. "Yes, yes. As you observe it has been a long time, and your effort to remind me is wasted since I shall never again have servants."

"Playing sleight of hand to disguise your true reason for complaint achieves little."

Adele rode in malevolent silence, glaring ahead to where Fulk and Eleanor rode together. "She has everything," she said eventually. "She has had the easiest of lives, and she has everything. It is not fair."

Trempwick resisted the urge to rub his head again. A quiet day to compose his history. Had it been so much to ask for? "What matters, Highness, is your own goal. Focus, remember? You must not do anything which might cost you your sister's support."

"I do not need her. I need only Hugh."

"She knows your brother far better than you, as he knows her better than you. She will be a valuable ally if only you make her so!"

Softly Adele said, "I will use every tool ..." Sounded saner than she had for the rest of this conversation. Then a tear tracked its way down her cheek. "He was not interested! He stared and then - then it was as if I were barely there! He looked through me. She is so plain and he ..." She wiped a second tear away on the back of her hand. "It was as though I am the plain one."

"Love affects the eyes of man," Trempwick quoted.

"She has everything and I only wanted ..." She closed her mouth and refused to say anything more.

After several minutes of silence Trempwick gave up on her and turned his mind to the other difficulties presented by this reunion.






Dinner presented the next opportunity. Adele took the seat of honour, at Fulk's right hand. Although he shared his platter with Eleanor, and Adele hers with the priest, there was ample occasion for talk. So talk Adele did, seizing every chance to pull his attention towards her.

He listened politely. Barely. On occasion he came close to being rude.

She worked through various subjects. When asked about his past his answers were curt and gave little away. Requesting tales of his more famous deeds won a little more, though far from the boasting loquaciousness to which she was accustomed from other knights. Asking about how he met Eleanor returned them to the first two subjects. Trying to get to know his personality he mentioned that he enjoyed reading, and so she managed to carry a laboured line about the romances she used to read with her ladies. When that died out Adele tried talking about herself, about Spain, about the dashing knights and glamorous court; again barely polite interest was the best she managed.

The entire time his face remained guarded, closed. He kept his physical distance, was careful not to touch her even when she created moments where such an accident would have been natural.

He did find her attractive. She knew it. She knew it! Why else was he so guarded? What would it take to see that frank admiration in his eyes again? To get that open admission that she was more beautiful than Eleanor? The other men did not trouble to hide it, but this one, this one would have far more meaning. That he fought only added value to the eventual victory.

Disaster! A moment's distraction and he had turned back to Eleanor, and was now talking with all the engagement that he would not give her. Under the table Adele clenched her fists so hard her nails cut her palms. Was it so much to ask? To have proof that she was still desirable? Still young and beautiful after all her suffering? To know that she could still play men, still have them hang on her every breath and stuck at arm's length where they were safely frustrated, wanting her all the more because they could not touch? To have something her sister did not? To have some little fun before she was shut away from the world once again?

Ezio engaged her in conversation and so she was stuck talking to the priest until the meal broke up and everyone left the table.









There was supposed to be another scene. Unlike these two it isn't short and relatively unimportant; it adds some potatoes to the Fulk soup. It's important that they boil to al dente and no more. It's not quite there yet.

I feel rather sorry for Trempy-in-disguise in these two.


Thanks, all. Good to see that people are still reading :bow:

[furball]

You know, when it's been so long between chapters, the cleverness of the writing stands out even more.

You brighten my days, Ms. Frog.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk heard footsteps behind him, too soft and too close for anyone meaning well. A fraction before he could throw himself into an evasive roll the person spoke, "If I had her waiting for me I doubt I should be in a church." Trempwick.

Fulk did not rise from his knees, did not move. "She is engaged in matters of her own. Eleanor has a life outside of me, as well you know."

"That would irk some men." Trempwick stood at Fulk's right, a good arm's length away.

"If her life centred on me and had nothing more to it, that would be irksome."

"I never did understand the men who want a shadow for a wife," Trempwick agreed without rancour. "But considering today was a reunion, even an indulgent husband might be irked by coming second in priority."

Fulk let his hands drop from his prayerful pose. He would not rise, he refused to give the former spymaster the satisfaction of prickling him sufficiently that he felt the need to assume a more equal posture. "That is not how things are, and you know it."

He felt Trempwick staring at him, and for a long time.

With a rustle of cloth the former spymaster knelt at Fulk's side, crossing himself and bowing in respect to the altar. "Three years I have not seen you. Now you are thrust back into my life I find it difficult to regard you with loathing. Do not flatter yourself - you have not proven yourself admirable, or any such thing. It is more such things seem far away, beneath my notice, trivial. Part of another world I care not to rejoin."

"It sounds almost as though you have discovered a religious vocation," Fulk said sarcastically. "Saint Raoul Trempwick."

"Nothing of the sort. More a matter of irrelevance, I suspect. You are irrelevant to me, to my interests, to my life. Save for where you concern Nell. And there ..."

Fulk turned his head; the evening light edged Trempwick's profile, highlighting every curve and line of his brow, nose and lips. "And there?"

Trempwick shook his head. "So I shall no longer call you knight, or bodyguard, or any other such dismissal," he said, avoiding Fulk's question. "I shall give you your name, for I no longer find it within me to care otherwise. Fulk."

Hearing his name on the man's lips made Fulk grimace in distaste. "Why are you here? I told her to keep you out of my sight."

Trempwick's lips curved in a slight smile. "I came to pray. You are in my way."

"Saint Raoul indeed. You were not formerly one for devotion, not more than the acceptable minimum."

"And you, Fulk?"

"I came to pray. You are in my way also."

"And you see, that is what puzzled me when I first arrived. For you were not one for devotion, either. I could see you waiting for Nell, passing the time in many ways. In prayer? No, that I do not see."

Fulk turned his attention back to the altar and raised his hands, locking them together before his face and resumed his prayers. Forgiveness. Strength to do what was right. Forgiveness. Guidance. Forgiveness. Blessings for his wife and those he cared for. Forgiveness.

When his knees began to ache and his run of prayers exhausted itself, Fulk asked, "Did you seduce her?"

A pair of rapid blinks gave away Trempwick's shock as he ceased his own prayers. "Now what manner of a question is that?"

Fulk waited and kept his expression impassive.

"You know Nell is no silly fool to be lured unless she chooses to be." Trempwick ticked a point off against a raised finger. "She is loyal and so unlikely to choose such." He ticked off another point. "Thus you know you can trust her and the question appears moot. However it cannot be, else it would not have been asked. You wish to discomfort me, perhaps?"

Fulk kept his gaze steady, meeting the other man's eyes.

"No. I do not think that is quite the crux. That ship long since sailed, all three of us know it."

Fulk waited.

"So perhaps you wish to discomfort another? There are but three candidates, two after I am removed." Trempwick's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Yourself?"

Still Fulk waited.

The former spymaster shifted so he was no longer kneeling upright, resting his weight on his heels. "Then I shall tell you. Were I younger I would try my hand. Alas that I am past the point where I care to concern myself over rivals. She is lonely, starved of affection, made to doubt her worth, craving simple human contact, longing for an equal to spend time with. Her status isolates her. With most people she must hide the power she possesses. Those trusted few who know the truth of her are servants and she the master, no matter how close the friendship that is true and always there in the background. Isolated by the stigma of marrying you, and also of you leaving her. I would try my hand, knowing that I would be refused and still compelled to attempt to rescue her from the mess you have made. Because, caring for her as I do, how could I not? That is what you wished to hear, is it not?"

Fulk inclined his head. Who better than Trempwick to give him an accurate description of Eleanor's state? A rod to beat himself with. A view of what he needed to mend.

"Quite a mess indeed, Fulk." After a heartbeat the man added, "But the doing is not all yours."

"That is remarkably generous of you." By now his knees were screaming in protest. Fulk rose, and moved to sit at the base of a nearby column, leaning his back against the carved stonework. He rested his arm on an upraised knee, looking at his wedding ring as the gold gleamed in the dull light.

"Oh, an impartial view is not so hard. To ignore half of the blame is to ignore half of the solution. If one truly wishes to help then one must know the depth of the problem." Trempwick resumed his prayers.

Fulk watched. When the other man left he would recommence his own prayers, it was too distracting having another nearby.

A while later Trempwick said, "The resemblance is uncanny, is it not?"

He could only be referring to Adele. "Yes. Eleanor, but more ..." Fulk shrugged, it didn't need saying.

"Yes. And so very needy, too." Trempwick glanced back over his shoulder, his expression wry. "You cannot imagine what I have suffered! The woman I thought to marry, all but crying out for some love - in a very tasteful and quiet manner which few will notice, I hasten to add. And her prettier sister, the same minus the subtlety."

Fulk snorted. "A thirsty man betwixt two ale flagons, indeed."

"I must be getting old. All I wanted to do was make them stop bleeding hurt at me."

After a bit Fulk declared, "Strange how things work."

Trempwick tilted his head in askance.

"Adele is more beautiful, there is no question or doubt about it. Knows how to use that too."

"In a faintly deranged fashion, yes."

"She's the one to gaze at, enjoy, and to consider what bedding her might be like. A sort of speculative interest, nothing unique or personal, the same you do with most attractive women."

"Quite."

"But it's strange how things work, the things you find attractive in a woman. One or two details about her which fire the blood. The graceful line of a neck, or a dainty ankle, or ..."

"The lobe of an ear," Trempwick suggested.

"Or a scowl which feels as though it will char."

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. "It is an odd one, I will admit."

"It's the way she does it. Something about the attitude, and the shape her eyebrows take, and the fact she's too short and ends up menacing my collar bone." Fulk basked in the memory of that very scowl, one he'd been enjoying for nearly four years. "Adele can't scowl, not like that."

"Whatever works, works, I suppose." Trempwick eased himself to his feet, his joints clearly stiff. "I made enquiries into your background when Nell brought you to Woburn."

"I know. You made no secret of it." Had, in fact, thrown certain dubious acts in Fulk's face.

"Everything that could be found. The full weight of my network brought to bear to determine the threat you posed. Amongst many other things, every relationship you had was investigated, however brief. All of them as far as I can tell."

Fulk's heart sped; Trempwick knew, he had to know. If he'd been as thorough as he claimed then he couldn't fail to see. Cold blooded bastard that he was, Trempwick was certain to use it to the full. He rose, needing to be on equal footing now. "I have made no secret of anything I did before I met Eleanor."

"No, you have not," Trempwick agreed mildly. He spread his hands. "Nor did my investigation reveal anything you are unaware of. You left no children behind."

That bald statement crushed a hope Fulk had not known he possessed. His muscles were so taut with strain that his neck and shoulders and lower back ached. "Get to your point."

"That is my point. Fulk." The former spymaster folded his arms and tucked his hands inside the loose sleeves of his monkish garb. "To ensure that you are aware. What it means and how it is used, that is yours to determine." Trempwick began to turn away. "There is too much missing for me to make any but the wildest of guesses ..." At the church door he looked back. "If that guess is accurate then it is past time you told her, for she will not heed it from any other."

Fulk remained as he was for a long time after Trempwick left, unable to believe that the other man had not voiced his guess, let alone used it as a weapon.

"I did tell her," he informed the empty building. More than once. Fulk combed his hair hack from his face with his fingers and sighed. She would not follow the path to the next step, and the Lord knew he hadn't managed to force the words out.

He knelt once again in prayer.









Memory aid: the "dubious acts thrown in Fulk's face" are from quite early on in the original story. He told Nell that he was betrothed to be married to someone he loved, slept with her, and then shortly after abandoned her because he made a terrible mistake in his first battle, leading to his father's death, his own near-death, and lots of general humiliation which he felt he could not face. Early Fulk was quite self centred, concerned with preserving his fragile ego and gaining some status better than 'base born bastard man at arms', simultaneously struggling with the awareness that he was not the honourable person he dearly wanted - and claimed - to be. Very important scene for his character: before telling the story he had begun to act with the honour he claimed to possess, because he realised that the act was close to becoming reality if only he stuck to it, and breaking his oath of loyalty to Nell would be another of those acts for which he would never forgive himself. Trempy found out via his network's investigations into the bothersome man at arms' past, and later threw it him during one of their quiet battles of will.


Pleased that you think so, furball. :bow:

[furball]

The dialogue from Trempwick's, "The resemblance is uncanny, is it not?" to his, "It is an odd one, I will admit." is wonderful!

[Peasant Phill]

Glad there's another chapter added to this epic story.

[frogbeastegg]

"Highness." Trempwick went down onto one knee as the bedchamber door closed behind him. "If I might, I would claim the reward you promised in return for my aid."

"Reward?" One boot on and reaching for the other, Fulk froze. "You promised him a reward?"

It was going to be one of those days, Eleanor could tell. "I agreed to listen to a request and give it fair consideration. No more."

Jamming his boot onto his foot, Fulk declared, "He owes you his life, swears fealty to you, and in general owes you the greatest of debts in return for what he's done to your family." He fastened the leather thong which kept the boot tight at the ankle with a decidedly ungentle yank. "He should be grateful for any chance to set foot outside his prison - never mind asking for more."

Trempwick's kneeling pose dragged his priestly robe askew, leaving his trailing leg half exposed. Lacking secular hose, his limb was bare and prickled with gooseflesh in the early morning chill. It made him seem oddly vulnerable; ordinarily he was so meticulous. Eleanor's eyes narrowed; was it a conscious addition to his pose? As quickly as the thought came she dismissed it - there was such a thing as too much paranoia. "True," she admitted. "And yet any leader worth a grain of salt knows that reward is half of what keeps men loyal."

Dressed, Fulk stood and shook his tunic to ensure it hung evenly. With a pointed look at Trempwick he reached for his sword belt. "That one had rewards and enough from your father. Didn't stop him rebelling."

Very mildly, Trempwick said, "Fulk, might I suggest you attend to matters more important than lecturing your wife? Or, at least one presumes you do not wish anyone to know you slept on the floor last night. In which case it would be advisable to finish concealing the evidence." The former spymaster pointed at the spot on the floor where Fulk had slept bundled up in his cloak. "The rushes are still slightly disturbed, as if they have been quickly kicked about to cover a disruption. And I can see a few bits clinging to the cloak you have so casually thrown over that stool."

"It was my own choice." Fulk drew his dagger and began to check the edge. "Decency. You wouldn't understand."

Truth be told, Eleanor hadn't made much sense of his jumbled declaration that she'd be sleeping alone until he'd said whatever it was he intended to. Something about temptation and making things still more difficult than they already were.

Trempwick did not know that checking his weapons was part of Fulk's morning ritual, and plainly took it for a threat. "I will not bandy words with you, half-man."

Fulk's hand slipped and he gashed his thumb. With stilted deliberateness he lowered the weapon to his side. "You were named nithing by our king for your treachery. A half-man is still half more than you."

Time to take control of the situation. Outside the room, the household was preparing for the day's travel. Hugh's court was but a half day's ride away, and Eleanor was determined to reach it today. "As amusing as this sparring is - and in all honesty it is not remotely so - my maids have still to attend to my hair, and I should like to eat before we ride out. Time is limited."

Fulk shrugged, and turned his attention to testing his sword's edge. Trempwick bowed his head in mute acceptance.

She addressed Trempwick, "Make your request."

Trempwick nodded curtly. He took a moment, then dampened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "I know I must go back to my imprisonment at Repton. I accept that. Almost I welcome it - I have seen what you intended me to see. I was a lord and am now nothing; the world have moved on and I am left behind, despised. There is no place left for me, none that I care for." For several heartbeats he went silent, unfocused and seeming lost. Then he gathered himself. "I have tried many variations, many different words and sets of words. None felt quite satisfactory and yet there was a certain pleasure in the exercise. I find that ..." Again he halted, shaking his head. "You do not wish to hear my ramblings." Under his breath he told himself, "Concision." Trempwick shifted, lowering his other knee to the ground in the humblest pose a petitioner could adopt. "Highness, by your request I wrote for you a life of your father. Were you displeased with it?"

Surprised, it took Eleanor a beat to answer. "No, I was not. It seemed a fair and balanced view of the man and his works." In truth the chronicle deserved a more appreciatory verdict; in reading it she had finally begun to understand the man who had been her father, seeing him as something more than the tyrant she had known. "Would that you had shown the man in life the care which was plain in the written words."

Trempwick's smile was a sad one. "Would that he had remained the man I had that care for." He filled his lungs with a deep, slow breath. "And my second work? My 'Princess'?"

The treatise he had taken it into his head to write for her on leading men, ruling, and sitting at the centre of a web. "Presumptuous." With a scowl Eleanor relented. "Useful."

"And the parts you have read of my current incomplete work?"

"Reasonable enough if one cares to read the history of my family." Feeling the pressure of time, Eleanor seated herself on the bed with her ribbons in easy reach, and began to work her hair into a single long braid. "Do these questions have some point?"

"I wish to write," Trempwick blurted. "To dedicate myself to it."

The rasp of Fulk's whetstone fell silent and Eleanor's hands fell still; both stared at the former spymaster.

Amazingly he blushed - there was no dressing it up with other, more generous descriptions. Eleanor could hardly remember seeing him so discomforted. Trempwick pursed his lips and hunched his shoulders a bit. "What? You make it feel so unreasonable!"

"It is so ..." Eleanor foundered. It was like hearing he had ambition to become a travelling minstrel.

"Unlikely," Fulk filled in for her. He ticked points off on his fingers. "Man enjoys intrigue. Man tries to take control of kingdom. Man fails and takes up scribbling with a quill instead." He closed his fist and winced as it placed pressure on his cut thumb. "Not the most natural of progressions, you must admit."

Trempwick cleared his throat with a dry little cough. "On the contrary, history has long interested me. Nell, you know that to be true. How many times did I try to instil the same love in you? It has much to teach people like us."

Eleanor admitted the truth of that with a nod and then wished she hadn't as it dragged her partially formed braid awry.

"For the writing itself, I admit I discovered that only because I had no recourse other than to sink myself into it. I found that ... Words are - I can play with them." Trempwick raised his hands as if weighing something in his palms, curled his fingers around the imaginary contents. "I can play with them, arrange and rearrange each time subtly changing what I am imparting, and find better ways to phrase the same, and - and there is a flow when I have the right words, this amazing feeling that ..." He looked down and then swiftly back up, meeting Eleanor's eyes with naked sincerity. "I have used this talent to manipulate, control, to apply my will, and it destroyed me. Now I have discovered a restorative use for them, and it - it makes my soul glad," he concluded simply. "No, it makes my soul sing."

Eleanor waited until she had completed her braid and tied it off. "I almost believe you are sincere."

"Highness, send me back to my prison, only let me have some works to research from. I have exhausted Repton's small library. Let me compose my histories and submit them to you for approval as I have thus far, and then should you find them worthy let them be copied and released so others can read them. Do me the honour of being my patron, and allow me to dedicate them to you."

Try as she might, Eleanor could not find a hidden dagger in this request. Everything he did would be closely vetted; there would be no danger of him sending messages or spreading poison to undermine Hugh's status. Should she feel like it, she could lie and tell him his work was in circulation when it ended up in a fire. A hand settled on her shoulder and interrupted her musing; she looked up to see Fulk standing at her side.

"Should this be agreed, I will be your patron," he stated. "Unless this is displeasing to my wife."

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow in askance.

"The full I will tell you later, as promised. For the sake of my soul, I intend to found a religious house." Fulk gave a crooked smile. "Thought we might as well get some worldly use out of it, so I'm intending to have a sizable school included. Locate and train the intelligent boys and then put them to use. Becoming a patron would tie into that very well."

"Your soul?" Eleanor enquired.

"Yours too, if you wish. I didn't wish to imply anything, oh gooseberry mine."

Eleanor snorted in amusement, and leaned against him. The contact felt so good. She said to Trempwick, "And the matter of Spain?"

Trempwick's face set and his voice resumed the controlled spymaster's tones. "I will render every assistance, whether you grant my plea or refuse it in entire. Despite how things fell out, I always strove to be a good friend to William and a loyal servant to your family. Vengeance is demanded and I would be most remiss if I failed to lend myself to your efforts."

The faint beat of hooves drifted in through the shuttered window; the grooms were beginning to saddle the horses and lead them out. Time was all but gone. Eleanor stood. "Raoul, you will not come with me to court. Today we part ways. Your disguise will not pass muster amongst people who knew you. Fulk, I must ask you to escort him safely to Woburn. Wait for me there."

"Had enough of being at court to last me for a while," Fulk said, touching his black eye.

Trempwick asked, "And my request?"

Eleanor retrieved her knife from the bedside and began to strap it into place on her forearm. "Will I find a dagger concealed in this request of yours?"

"You shall not, Nell."

Eleanor slanted him a look and pulled the second set of fastenings tight. "Naturally, I do not trust you."

"You trust me sufficiently to make use of me."

"Incorrect: there is no trust involved. It is a calculated risk." She drew the knife, checked the edges, and slammed it back home into its sheath. "I am what you made me."

"I have made you into a fine spymaster."

"And a more mistrustful, calculating, cynical person than you ever were."

Trempwick inclined his head. "But not so heartless, I believe."

Eleanor strapped on her second knife, checked the blade on it. "Books you may have, and write you may. Circulation, if you produce something worthy of it, though I will only permit that if you use a false name. I doubt my lord husband wishes to be seen as the patron of a traitor who abducted his wife."

"I don't," Fulk affirmed.

"And I will not allow people to think of you as something other than a failed traitor."

Trempwick knelt and bowed his head. "My most heartfelt thanks, your Highness. You will not regret this."

"If I do, I shall ensure you regret it far more," Eleanor assured him. She gave her husband a kiss, and left the bedchamber.

The man she needed to speak to was controlling access to Adele's chamber, ostensibly an honour guard. She gave Peter a tap on the shoulder and he obligingly leaned down so she could whisper her instructions into his ear. "You are to ride ahead at full speed. You will request audience with Hugh; make sure it is granted swiftly but do not cause a scene or allow any to form the impression that something out of the ordinary is occurring. You will inform my brother that Adele is potentially dangerous to us. That her imprisonment and poor treatment has broken her mind, rendering her unpredictable. That one minute she may seem perfectly normal, and the next she has screaming fits or makes wild accusations or threatens to weep. Tell him that I must speak to him before he sees her, and that is of the greatest urgency. Adele must be moved to a safe location as soon as she arrives, with companions who will not repeat what she says. I suggest she is sent to visit Constance with much declaration about the Queen being eager to meet her sister-by-law; that will appear perfectly normal. Tell him that she is planning something and I cannot be certain what, so she should be given as little chance to act as possible. Go, now."







The court was but a morning's travel away. So close. Adele's stomach refused to settle. Anticipation; nerves. The time was almost at hand. She'd never understood the way men restlessly checked and re-checked their weapons before entering a tournament - until now. "Eleanor?"

"Yes?"

"Hugh is very honourable, is he not?"

"He is."

"Deeply so?"

"Yes. You have nothing to worry about, he will do his duty by you and ensure you have a living."

Adele returned her sister's vapid smile. "It is so nice to know that someone will be concerned about my honour, after so long being scorned and slandered." He wouldn't have a choice, she would ensure that. Vengeance.

She would kneel before him, or perhaps they would embrace warmly. Yes, the latter. Then, as they parted she would say how pleased she was to be home after her trials. It would be good to talk about her brother's strength as a king and high honour. When the moment was right, a touch to that pit she kept sealed in her heart and the tears would begin to flow. Then she would declare that she wished to take the veil because ...

Adele smiled and began to hum, a lively tune which had been amongst her favourites in Spain.

"You sound happy, sister."

Adele laughed. "Oh! I am, dear Eleanor. I am! I am coming home and my brother is waiting. An honourable man so very different to our father, and he will make me welcome, and at long last the wheel of fortune turns so I rise after my fall." She laughed again. "Yes, today feels like a new beginning."

She remembered the smile when he tore her apart, would never forget it. Adele fought to keep her smile from revealing her upper teeth; even Eleanor would notice a feral snarl. She remembered his smile, and soon would return it with her own. England could not muster a thousand ships. A pity. A modern day Helen of Troy should be more impressive.










It's been that long? Gah! I've been working on a project dedicated to the memory of a friend who died and it's eaten up most of my writing time.

And so some mysteries are revealed, and some more hints delivered on other mysteries. Big hints, one of which surely has to give away the answer to its mystery. The other is pretty darn blatant if you are looking, and will give the strongest evidence yet for something which has been hinted at throughout the story.

Two more updates should finish this story off.

[Peasant Phill]

My lady Frog, where do you find the time?
I'm eagerly awaiting the big finale.

[frogbeastegg]

Considering how long it is since the last part, I guess the answer to that is "I don't." :sweatdrop:

[furball]

Well, I was a latecomer here, but still, what's it been? Well over four years? Yes, WELL over.

Then there were all the wonderful Froggy posts and stuff about Shogun whateveritsincarnation was.

It feels as if we've seen Ms. Frog grow up in more ways than one. (Note: "as if" not "like")

That is to say, not only have we seen her writing mature and expand in depth and character; she, too, has undergone the trials and . . . er . . . expansions? . . . of aging.

What saddens me is that the joy, spontaneity and sheer volume of her writing has diminished so.

These are probably more reflections upon my own aging and passing than those of the person who coined the term "Frogbeastegg." After all, consider: Frog? Ok. Egg? Well, maybe. Beast? Wha?

"Frogbeastegg?" Come on. You've got to be young or perspicacious or devil-may-care and pretty darned confident to choose an online name like that. (Or tormented by demons I don't even want to consider.)

Be that as it may, we're witnessing the passing of a fellow gamer and writer from adolescence to maturity. And sadly, we're seeing her youthful exuberant posts and fiction give way to the real-world pressures of job, boy-friend, apartment and weight of aging.

I could be wrong, of course. The persona we know as "Frogbeastegg" could be dancing around Trafalgar Square and blowing bubbles from a pipe shaped in the fashion of the Golden Hind even as I write this. . . and leading a young, smiling waif into thralls of medieval and future tales of love, adventure, heroism and passion.

But I doubt that.

I wish it was only a shortcoming of mine that gives voice to that doubt. Unfortunately, I've seen it echoed far too often in people my own age and those younger and older.

DEAR Ms. Frog: Please know that your writing, and your comments on it - and your other posts here over the years - have evoked my emotions, whetted my wonder, pricked my passion and made me look forward to logging in. I thank you humbly and truly.

It's the wrong metaphor, but in the words of CINCPAC to Rockwell Torrey in "In Harm's Way," . . . "May success follow your flag."

And may you always find compulsion, compassion and comfort in writing. (Yes, I just made that up. It's yours.)

furball - Tim

[NightwindKing]

Well, I was a latecomer here, but still, what's it been? Well over four years? Yes, WELL over.

Then there were all the wonderful Froggy posts and stuff about Shogun whateveritsincarnation was.

It feels as if we've seen Ms. Frog grow up in more ways than one. (Note: "as if" not "like")

That is to say, not only have we seen her writing mature and expand in depth and character; she, too, has undergone the trials and . . . er . . . expansions? . . . of aging.

What saddens me is that the joy, spontaneity and sheer volume of her writing has diminished so.

These are probably more reflections upon my own aging and passing than those of the person who coined the term "Frogbeastegg." After all, consider: Frog? Ok. Egg? Well, maybe. Beast? Wha?

"Frogbeastegg?" Come on. You've got to be young or perspicacious or devil-may-care and pretty darned confident to choose an online name like that. (Or tormented by demons I don't even want to consider.)

Be that as it may, we're witnessing the passing of a fellow gamer and writer from adolescence to maturity. And sadly, we're seeing her youthful exuberant posts and fiction give way to the real-world pressures of job, boy-friend, apartment and weight of aging.

I could be wrong, of course. The persona we know as "Frogbeastegg" could be dancing around Trafalgar Square and blowing bubbles from a pipe shaped in the fashion of the Golden Hind even as I write this. . . and leading a young, smiling waif into thralls of medieval and future tales of love, adventure, heroism and passion.

But I doubt that.

I wish it was only a shortcoming of mine that gives voice to that doubt. Unfortunately, I've seen it echoed far too often in people my own age and those younger and older.

DEAR Ms. Frog: Please know that your writing, and your comments on it - and your other posts here over the years - have evoked my emotions, whetted my wonder, pricked my passion and made me look forward to logging in. I thank you humbly and truly.

It's the wrong metaphor, but in the words of CINCPAC to Rockwell Torrey in "In Harm's Way," . . . "May success follow your flag."

And may you always find compulsion, compassion and comfort in writing. (Yes, I just made that up. It's yours.)

furball - Tim

That was...different.
Im going to be watching this thread now just to see how this relationship develops ;-)

[Peasant Phill]

Don't just watch this thread, read the story. It's well worth it.
You can grab the designated eye drops at the bar.

[furball]

Night, I've already fallen all over myself in an earlier post to Ms. Frog. Hopefully this one won't weird her out too much.

(Though why did someone have to repost the entire thing so that if I reconsidered and wanted to erase it, I couldn't?)

[NightwindKing]

Night, I've already fallen all over myself in an earlier post to Ms. Frog. Hopefully this one won't weird her out too much.

(Though why did someone have to repost the entire thing so that if I reconsidered and wanted to erase it, I couldn't?)

Sorry dude. I cant edit it out if you like :-(


lol likely not. It was nicely-said, tasteful and intelligent :-)

@Peasant Phil
Ill need those. My eyes are already dry enough. ;-)

[edyzmedieval]

It's been quite a while since someone posted in here but I will do so, in the spirit of keeping this wonderful piece of work available for everyone - I have stickied this post so any future visitors can easily see the marvel of the Adventures of Princess Eleanor.

Thank you dear Froggy for your fabulous work! :bow:

[CharlesPAS]

It's been quite a while since someone posted in here but I will do so, in the spirit of keeping this wonderful piece of work available for everyone - I have stickied this post so any future visitors can easily see the marvel of the Adventures of Princess Eleanor.

Thank you dear Froggy for your fabulous work! :bow:
Thank you for everything you have done for us.

[edyzmedieval]

I've let our dear frogbeastegg known that she's now top of the page (again!), as it should be, I hope we manage to catch her soon around here. :bow:

Our joyous Adventures of Princess Eleanor are clocking almost 160.000 views now, which is spectacular!