Dragon's Tears

I can assure you that this story will be completed; I have nearly finished writing it before I posted anything. Chapter I is complete, Chapter II is finished and being polished, Chapter III is finished and being polished, Chapter IV is half done, and Chapter V is sketched in. I will post one chapter every third day, so the next part is due on Tuesday. I’m taking a slower pace with this one; I’m busy working on Red Hand and this is just something I scribble when I need a break and change of subject matter.

I wrote much of this in just one day; I already had my ideas set out well enough. Unlike Red Hand this has not spawned so many ideas I am forced to throw 90% of them away, and so it is in no danger of being turned into a manuscript for a book http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ishatongue.gif

Again this is loosely based on Crusader Kings, but this time the resemblence goes about as far as the three pictures at the top, it is the story I want to write without any concerns at all for sticking to the game; in fact as a game it could be summed up in one single line. The characters are all my invention, the situation is my invention (though easy enough to imagine) and the ending is my own invention; basically no link to the game whatsoever.

Dragon will be about 20 pages long when done, so you won’t be here for months. I'm posting both here and on Paradox again, at the same pace and with the same content.

https://img78.photobucket.com/albums...ars/Dragon.jpg Dragon’s Tears https://img78.photobucket.com/albums...Tears/Lion.jpg




https://img78.photobucket.com/albums.../Wales_map.jpg

Chapter I
A wise father

Wales: June 3 1267

   The messenger knelt on the cold stone floor in front of his liege, waiting, along with the rest of the court, for his verdict. The tension was so thick it could have been cut with a knife; men and women growing more anxious by the moment, for they all knew what this letter meant. The king of England was turning his ambition to their homelands; now they had a choice that was no choice, surrender and foreign rule, or open war against a superior foe.
   Huw ap Rhys, duke of Gwynedd and count of Powys and Perfed-Dwlad, was a heavy set, powerfully built man. His raven black hair and beard were dashed liberally with silver, although it made him look dignified rather than old. No one could call him handsome, but nor could they call him ugly; his majestic bearing and quiet dignity made people forget that he was actually a half hand shorter than most men. In the three and a bit decades he had been duke Huw had earned a reputation for being a fair, thoughtful man, one always as active and sprightly as a boy. Now he rose to his feet, his forty-seven years suddenly weighing heavily on him, and his people knew their situation was worse than they feared.
   Huw spoke quietly, but with authority, “It is my decision…that there cannot be a decision, not here and now; not like this. I stand as good father to my people, but a wise father will listen to his family. I cannot say peace or war alone in this; the balance of loss to gain is too great. I will withdraw along with my council, and we will talk on this.”
   The chamber filled with the hushed murmurings of a concerned audience; it was rare indeed for Huw to consult with his council before deciding the course of action. Now, as Huw and the four members of his inner council left the audience chamber, speculation ran rife.

   In the small council chamber of the stone castle the five sat down at the table. Huw looked at each member in turn; Idwal the marshal, a tall and stocky man of thirty-one years with cornflower blue eyes and darkish blonde hair, he would advise war. Teleri, a dark haired, plain young woman promoted to spymaster at the tender age of sixteen due to her outstanding skill; she would advise war too. The old, white haired man to Huw’s left was Pwyll, the steward; even though Huw had known Pwyll all his life it was hard to predict his council. Finally there was the chancellor, Meurig, a softly spoken man in his mid twenties; he would council caution and peace.
   “I think you will all be able to guess at what the English king wants.” Huw ran a hand through his shoulder length hair, sweeping it back from his face, “He demands my immediate submission and homage, with my son and fifty other high ranking nobles to go to his court as hostages ensuring my good faith. He stipulates that as part of the kingdom of England we adopt their laws and culture, and as vassals we owe him control of our armies, payment of scutage and other taxes. He claims my titles, though he says he will leave me as count of Powys if I submit without bloodshed. Finally, he says we have only this one chance, if we defy him he will muster against us and we will have no other chance for a peaceful resolution.”
   “He would stamp our culture out of existence.” said Meurig, “He’d turn us into Englishmen. We cannot allow this.”
   “You would say war, then?” asked Huw, the heaviness on his heart growing. If a peaceful man like Meurig thought bloodshed was the only way then there was little hope of an alternative being discovered.
   “I like it not, but I like the prospect of being an Englishman far less.”
   “Perhaps there is an alternative?” Idwal looked significantly at Teleri; the others in the room did likewise.
   “I don’t know why you’re all looking at me, unless…my new dress must have worked wonders and made me as beautiful as the lady Elen. I should pay my tailor more.” Her eyes flicked about the room, resting for a second on each face, calculating the mood by each person’s reaction to her jesting; the result was even more depressing than she had feared. “You want to know if I can assassinate the English king? To make things certain we would also have to kill his three sons, his bastard, and his grandson; I think that is a few too many for even the best of spymasters, don’t you?”
   “Will no one offer a view that avoids war?” asked Huw. None of the four spoke.
   Pwyll avoided his lord’s eyes, and said, “Our alliance with Scotland will help; they must come to our aid, they must. It’d be a fool indeed who stood idle by while England expanded, sparing his armies now only to face greater numbers alone later.”
   “We can refuse them battle.” contributed Idwal, “Fight them in the hills and trees, pick them off at our leisure. We may be outnumbered but that’ll not matter if we avoid pitched battle. With the northern border under attack from Scotland the king will have to split his force, and that will help us. Scotland will take the larger of his two armies to quell."
   “Then it is war.” Huw crossed himself, “War; may God have mercy upon us.”

   Huw had scarcely opened the door to the solar when Cynan yelled, “Papa” and ran over, flinging his arms about his father’s legs, nearly tripping him. Huw laughed, ruffling his golden hair with his free hand.
   “Take me with you.” begged the boy, “I want to fight too”
   “You’re too young.”
   “I’m five years, three months and twelve days old now” Cynan puffed up proudly, “I asked Mama.” ‘Mama’ kept sewing, sitting in the window seat to benefit from the fading evening light; Elen was a universally acknowledged beauty and the soft lighting only improved that, outlining her oval face and making her ivory skin seem even closer to that ideal of pure white. Her waist length hair, so blonde it seemed silver, was bound up in a long plait; a simple style that was unfashionable but suited her.
   A poet with uncommon honesty would have said her face was currently marred by a small frown but Huw would have argued; he seldom understood what she was thinking but in this case he was certain he knew and that made the frown rather likeable. “I doubt she said you were old enough to go fighting, and from the look on her face she’s thinking the same about me.”
   Cynan tugged on his father’s tunic hem until he leaned down, “She’s been like that all day.” confided the boy seriously.
   “I think she’s going to shout at me.” replied Huw equally gravely, looking at his wife out of the corner of his eye; she ignored him and kept working away at one of Cynan’s tunics, repairing a ripped hem. Huw pushed his son gently towards the door, “You’d best run along, your mother knows some choice swear words that are not for young ears.”
   Cynan’s eyes went wide, “Really?” he gasped, all sudden admiration for his mother.
   Elen neatly threaded her needled through the tunic material and laid her sewing to one side, “Where would a well brought up noble like me learn to swear?”
   “Some bad influence or other.” Huw grinned, “Like me.” He encouraged Cynan out the door, “Tell Idwal I said you could look at my armour.” he said, a bribe to forestall any protests his son might make. The boy whooped and ran off down the spiral staircase, headed to the armoury.
   “Me, swearing and shouting?” Elen shook her head, “I don’t know where you get your delusions.”
   “A little awed respect goes long way; you’ll need all the help you can get - that boy will not be happy at being left behind.” Huw regarded his wife; even after more than six years of marriage he still didn’t understand her half the time. Still, he told himself, she was only twenty-two and there was half a lifetime between them, so that was to be expected. “I thought I might leave Idwal here to handle the castle’s garrison while I lead the army; our capital must be protected.”
   “I doubt that is a good idea.” said Elen carefully, always wary of contradicting Huw to openly; he had a habit, she often decided, of doing exactly what she didn’t want him to.
   “Why?”
   “Because your marshal worships the ground I walk on. Because I am too fond of him for my own good. Because I remember what happened last time, six years ago.” Elen noticed Huw staring at her, and realised she had a small, dreamy smile on her face; she quickly removed it, “Wales will need all the fighting men available.”
   “Our capital still needs guarding; we can win great victories on the field, but if the capital falls into enemy hands, and my family along with it, then we will have lost.” Huw crossed the room and sat down next to her at the window; taking one of her hands and clasping it between his own he looked earnestly into her clear blue eyes, “I can’t bear to think of anything happening to you or our son; I must know you are safe.” he didn’t add that he knew this war was going to be finely balanced between victory and total defeat, and that he expected Idwal to get her and Cynan away safely if the worst should happen.
   "You are more concerned about Cynan than me.” She didn’t mean to say that; one thought that had lurked at the back of her mind for years now, finally out in the open.
   Huw looked uncomfortable, “It’s true in its way; the boy is the future of Gwynedd. After two barren marriages I thought I would die childless, but then…he is a blessing in answer to my prayers, seemingly a singular blessing. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you; you know better than that.”
   “I care about you too.” “Slightly, in a business like way.” “I wouldn’t worry as much if Idwal was with you.”
   “And I will worry too much if he isn’t with you; I’m the one who’ll be fighting a war, so I think my peace of mind is more important. I’ll be back sooner if I fight with a clear head.”
   “Stop tempting me” Although inwardly she was screaming, outwardly she was as calm as a lake on a summer’s day, “I know how to run a castle under siege.”
   “Idwal stays with you and that’s my final word.”

   Later that evening Huw sought Idwal out; he found the marshal in the armoury, going through the castle’s stores of arrows and crossbow bolts. “I always keep things well stocked” he explained, “ but we still need more; there are so many English soon to be headed our way we’ll run out of arrows before we kill them all.” It was a poor jest and both men knew it.
   Huw didn’t know how best to break his news, so he put it bluntly, “I’m leaving you behind; you’re to guard the capital.”
   “And your family?” guessed Idwal shrewdly.
   “Yes…I want you to look after them as if they were your own; this is as likely to go sour as not, I want to be sure you’ll get them safely away if things go badly.”
   “I will look after them as if they were my own, you may be sure of that.”

England: June 16 1267

   William Fitz Roi entered his father’s private chamber and began to kneel before him, only to be stopped when the king clasped him warmly by the shoulders.
   “No need for that, son, no, none at all.” king Lionel the Cruel stepped back, holding his son at arms length, “Let me look at you; the sight of my finest son always makes this old man glad the Lord has let him live on to see you grow.” William patently stood while his father gazed at him, knowing that he would see the same he always did; a tall, strapping young man with blue-green eyes and black hair cropped close in a style some had named a ‘bowl cut’. At twenty-five he was the youngest of the king’s sons, and he looked every inch the regal lord; even if he had dressed in a beggar’s rags William was certain he’d still be taken for a noble. For the first time William looked back at his father, really looked, and what he saw shocked him; an old, frail man who looked ill.
   His thoughts must have shown; Lionel smiled sadly, “Yes, I am growing old and infirm; that is why I am determined to settle matters for you and your half brothers now, before it is too late. You know I’m sixty-nine now? A rare age, few live so long.”
   “Sit down, father.” William was ashamed to hear his voice crack, he covered it with a cough, as though there was something in his throat, then repeated more clearly, “Sit down and rest, England needs you still.” He helped the old man over to his fireside chair and got him settled.
   Lionel kept his hand on William’s arm, refusing to let go, “I remember your mother…so long ago now; she’s so pretty.” he smiled, his fragile mind wandering, “You know her eyes are the same colour as yours? Yes, I always liked her eyes, I tell her that, you know? Yes, Every time I see her I tell her…”
   A lump rose in William’s throat; his mother had been dead more than nine years now. Lionel knew that…once, and sometimes he knew it still.
   As abruptly as the old man’s wanderings had begun they ended, once again his eyes focused on the present, “I cannot make you my heir; you are my favourite and most capable son, but it cannot be.”
   “I know, father.”
   “The Welsh, they have strange laws; they care not about the legitimacy of a son, only that he is acknowledged by his father. By their laws I’d make you my heir, I’ve acknowledged you, you bear your parentage in your name.” Lionel paused, and looked his son in the eyes, begging for understanding, “I cannot make you king of England.”
   “I know; it matters not.” William meant it; as a bastard he had known all his life he could never inherit. Unlike some men he had been able to make his peace with that; letting go his dreams of what never could have been with scarcely a second thought.
   “I cannot make you king of England, but I can put you in a position where you can become king of Wales; that will be your inheritance. You will forge that scattered country into a kingdom, civilise it and bring it to our fold. As king you will be independent of your brother, Henry; but I ask of you both that you remain close allies.”
   William considered; he and Henry got on well enough, “I give you my word that I will start no rifts with my brother.”
   “Good…good.” the king’s eyes began to droop, “I’ve started a war with Gwynedd, you will lead my armies, you will take all of Huw ap Rhys’ titles and lands in England’s name. Go, claim your kingdom’s start, and remember your promise once you have your crown.”
   William waited until his father dozed off, and then crept to the door, slipping out silently.

Very little I can say about this that I haven't said about Red Hand. Seems different to that, though. This is much darker, I guess that's because the beginning of Red Hand (you said you were rewriting from scratch, IIRC) is rather light hearted, at least comapred to the last few installments you posted.

an excellent story dude-i'm hooked already just a quick question-have you read Sharon Penman's Welsh History novels-if you havent this story is very similar...and i mean that in a good way-a very good way indeed-look forward to next installment

Axeknight, Dragon will be much darker than Red Hand, the dragon of the title is crying for a reason. Red Hand is being rewritten from scratch, and in its proper from it is darker and less funny than the version I posted here; Dragon is still darker though, thought I’d try my hand at tragedy.

Ashantiwarrior, I have Penman's Welsh trilogy and her two Eleanor of Aquitaine/Henry II books; I've read the first Eleanor and I'm halfway through the second. I will be reading the Welsh books next; I thought I'd read in chronological order, also I'm more interested in the subject of the Eleanor/Henry duo. She is a great author; I have ordered the rest of her books and I am reading her work very slowly, taking it apart and learning what I can. I do that with any author I find to be excellent.

Chapter II

Bright Banners

Wales: June 17 1267

   Elen stood atop the main gatehouse of the castle, watching the snake like column of soldiers lead by Huw vanish into the distance. The pounding feet of the soldiers and hooves of the horses stirred up a great dust cloud that hung over the army, only the glint of light on metal and the brightest of the large banners were visible through the cloud at this distance. Idwal walked past her, travelling in a circuit about the castle’s outer walls, checking on sentries. As he passed her he said something she only just managed to catch, “Atop the keep in half an hour.” Then he was gone.

   Elen hugged her mantle closer about her, while it was a balmy day on the ground it was a different matter on the roof of the tall stone keep; a strong wind whipped about her, tugging at her clothes and hair, making the large banner with the dragon of Gwynedd snap and strain at its fastenings on the flagpole. She had been walking about aimlessly to pass the time and keep warm, but now she stopped at the eastern wall, sheltering from the wind in the shadow of the nearby tower. Carefully she leaned forward, looking down over the ramparts to the small patch of clear ground outside the castle where Cynan was learning to ride; the boy was seemingly having a great time, trying to encourage his placid pony to do more than plod sedately about in a circle on a leading rein.
   Elen heard footsteps behind her, and a man’s voice began to proclaim like a minstrel:
“Crown me king of the world
Shower me with riches
I’d count it cheap if offered
Just one single night
With the lady Elen”
   Elen glanced over her shoulder, “That was terrible – none of it rhymed, and somehow you even managed to mix up two themes. It doesn’t even make sense; if you were king of the world no one would dare complain if you stole a duke’s wife, so you wouldn’t have to give up anything in payment.”
   Idwal stood behind Elen and wrapped his arms around her; anyone on the ground who chanced to look up would see the outline of just one person, “I thought you might like some bad poetry as a change from all the good that’s written about you.” he paused, then admitted, “I wasn’t certain you would come.”
   “Nor was I.” Elen leaned back against him and rested her left hand on his arm, “Nor was I, but I have been stood here for quite some time.”
   “I worried for nothing then.”
   “I wouldn’t say that; I decided I would stay away, then found myself up here anyway. Heart and head don’t seem to be able to reach an agreement.”
   “In that war I’ll back the heart” Idwal kissed the hollow where Elen’s jaw joined her neck.
   “You would; looking out for your own interests as usual.”
   Idwal grinned; he knew that for what it was, one of her rare jokes. “The boy’s growing up fast.”
   “Yes; Huw dotes on him, he’s so proud.”
   “Any father would be proud of Cynan, that much is clear, though I see very little of him. I am trying to become his arms master; he’s of age to begin learning the basics.” Idwal felt Elen go tense against him, “Don’t worry, I’ll not saying anything daft; he doesn’t need to know his father isn’t a duke after all.”
   “How very generous of you.” said Elen dryly.
   “Don’t mock.” chided Idwal, giving the lobe of her ear a tug, “It’s not nice to mock people.”
   “Now you remind me of Huw.”
   “Heaven forefend” exclaimed Idwal, “I don’t know how you put up with him.”
   It was a rhetorical question, but Elen answered it anyway, “Easily; we both play our parts as expected and we even like each other in a rather business like way. Since we both know what is expected of us we find life runs smoothly; I am the pretty young ornament who dutifully fills all those nice wifely roles, he is my security and future. As long as nothing rocks the boat we will remain perfectly amicable.” Elen hesitated, “It is a pity, then, that he somehow got me to say I know he cares more about the boy than me, that had the disastrous effect of causing him to proclaim he does care about me. At this rate he’ll decide he loves me, or something equally ruinous.”
   “Elen, dearest, a man would have to be inhuman not to love you.”
   “I know you only have a small capacity for thought, but I thought even you couldn’t confuse love and lust; apparently I was wrong.”
   Idwal mock grimaced, “Well that put me in my place” he tightened his embrace, resting his chin on the top of her head, “You are in rare form today; a joke and now an insult – I begin to wonder if you are my Elen’s evil twin.”
   “I am not your Elen; figure of speech or not. Huw and I … our relationship works perfectly precisely because it is free of volatile, unpredictable emotions like love or hate; if that changes there could be trouble.”
   “Oh yes, loads of trouble; Huw may start following you about like a dog or start killing any man who looks at you”
   Elen stiffened, pulling her head from Idwal’s shoulder, “Don’t say such things, not even in jest – Huw is a good man, a very good man, and it is unfair to malign him so.”
   “Dear Heart, did no one ever tell you not to praise your husband to your lover, or your lover to your husband for that matter?” She pulled away from him, rounding on him, plainly furious. Idwal stopped fooling about, “Alright, I shall stop joking before you throw me off the ramparts Huw is so upright it sets my teeth on edge; if I wracked my brains for a week I’d be hard to put think of a single, tiny character flaw.”
   “He has his flaws, like any other.” Elen didn’t volunteer any information as to what those faults might be. “You hate him because of me; there’s one of your flaws – you are envious, and allow that to cloud your judgment.”
   “I doubt there’s not a man alive who isn’t jealous of him because of you.”
   “So I am always hearing, and it bores me no end.”
   “We didn’t come up here to waste our limited time fighting over Huw’s virtues, what matters is that he is gone. I think you’ll agree that gives us a rare opportunity.”
   “His absence changes little.”
   Idwal caught her left hand, interlacing his fingers with hers; he tapped the thin gold band that was her wedding ring with a finger, “’It may not alter this, but it changes enough’; that’s what you said last time he left on a long trip.”
   “I am no longer sixteen and married to a man twice my age.”
   “No, you’re twenty-two and married to a man twice your age.”
   “I am not so reckless now - think of how many people are in this castle; there is a reason we usually go somewhere deserted”
   Idwal stared at her, incredulous, “I can’t believe you’ll let this chance slip After all these years of stolen, furtive moments we now have entire nights where we are guaranteed peace, and you’ll let it go?”
   “The risk is too great.”
   “There is little risk; I simply wait until everyone is asleep then sneak up to the private rooms, and leave early in the morning before anyone wakes up. The only person who will know I was there will be your maid, and she’s been keeping quiet for years; she always sleeps in the solar anyway so it’s not as if we’d be putting her to any inconvenience.”
   “Huw could get home at any time without warning, he’s done it before; if this war goes badly then he’ll be running here in retreat, if it goes well then he’ll be back here to settle things. Either way he won’t be predictable and there is no certainty that he will turn up in the day. He could even drop by for an unexpected visit, and I do doubt he would travel through the night to arrive here in the day.”
   “There is always a risk that someone will stumble across us at a rather inopportune moment when we are away from here, you don’t seem too bothered by that, so why worry now?”
   “I don’t think we can use a pair of false identities if we get caught in my room by people who know who we are; it is easy to claim a peasant is slandering us, but not a trusted servant. I am not interested in testing just how far Huw’s benevolence will go – you know the law; if we get caught here, in his home, it is grounds for an instant divorce, regardless of what the church may say. There is a big difference between being disgraced and out of favour because of rumour, and divorced because of incaution And then there’s Cynan, although Huw would probably keep him as heir I would rather not put him in the impossible position of having a scandalous mother.” Elen pulled her hand free, “And now I should go; it is not wise to stand here like this all day.” She left without a single backwards glance, ignoring Idwal’s quiet protest that he was risking his head and Cynan was his son too.

June 28 1267
   The rain hammered down on the canvas roof of Huw’s tent; looking through the partially open door flap he could see a sheet of water rather than individual droplets. A man gratefully pushed his way into the shelter of the large tent, soaked right through to the skin. He fell to his knees before Huw, “My lord, betrayal Scotland has refused to join our fight; they’ve left us to die.”

July 1 1267
   Pwyll looked from Elen to Idwal and back again, uncertain as to whom he should address his query; while Elen was technically the lady of the castle and therefore the right person to ask, Idwal was the marshal and that put him in charge of military matters. Not for the first time since Huw had left Pwyll wished he was young enough to join the army; anything would be better than sitting in this half empty council room, feeling as though he was trapped in the middle of a private quarrel with just the spymaster for friendly company.
   “You wished to speak, Pwyll?” prompted Teleri, looking neutrally at the gap between Idwal and Elen.
   Pwyll gratefully took her hint and studiously looked in the direction of his audience but directly at neither, “A decision must be made on the civilians fleeing here for shelter; do we let them in or turn them away?”
   “Let them in.” said Elen instantly.
   “Turn them away.” Idwal spoke at the same time, just as resolutely.
   “I thought” though he looked politely in Elen’s direction as he spoke, Idwal’s eyes were focused a few inches above the top of her head, “that we had decided against taking even the slightest risk?”
   “Not at all, only foolhardy ones; offering protection to those unable to defend themselves is part of our duty.”
   “That is strange, for I thought differently – you said no to any slight risk; now tell me that adding stretching our food stores is not a risk?”
   “It is a risk we must take, I do have some idea of duty and what’s owing because of my position as Huw’s wife.” She spoke quietly; forming each word so carefully you could all but feel the ice dripping from each syllable.
   “How very politic; ignoring reality to follow some code that will only make things harder for us.”
   “Unlike some I have a good grasp of reality, I do not lightly brush away the consequences of my actions because I would rather live in a dream world.”
   Teleri shuffled in her seat, she had a good idea of what they were fighting so carefully and politely about; at this rate they were likely to say something so obvious it became common knowledge, and Gwynedd was hardly in need of more trouble. “So we let the civilians in?”
   Elen and Idwal both answered at the same time, once again contradicting each other. They exchanged glares, their body language so cold Pwyll actually shivered involuntarily.
   “I am the lady of this castle and I say we will let them in.”
   “And I am the marshal, and I say we will not.”
   “It is a poor decision.”
   “It is a military decision; I would not expect you to understand it, lady.” Idwal’s lip curled up in a smile as he spat that last word. “The day you know more about military matters than me is the day pigs will sprout wings and fly.”
   “Since pigs are already wandering about on two legs dressed in armour and purporting to be marshals I doubt that day will be long in coming.”   Pwyll cleared his throat, but neither paid him any heed, so intent were they on their quarrel. Idwal gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white, “Pig, am I? Well, what does that make you then? Lady swineherd, perhaps?”
   “You might think of many things to call me, but stupid, reckless, faithless – they will not be among them”
   “Really? How about cold? Heartless? Paranoid? I think they will be suitable.”
   Elen leapt to her feet, knocking her chair over, “Huw must have been insane to leave such as you here You belong on a battlefield – as a carcass”
   Teleri decided things had gone far enough; she pounded her fist on the table and yelled, “Enough When we called this a council of war it was not because it was intended to be a battlefield.”
   “We let them in.” snapped Elen; with one final glare at Idwal she stormed away. Idwal waited until the door had safely slammed behind her, “No, we turn them away and that’s final. I’m going to go and give the guards their orders now, before that…bitch has chance to do likewise” He too stomped out of the room.
   Pwyll and Teleri sat in the sudden peace; the chancellor looked at the spymaster out of the corner of his eye, “Care to tell me what that was about?”
   “What makes you think I know?” she asked serenely.
   “If you don’t then no one does.”
   “Your confidence in my abilities is flattering.” Teleri easily summoned a credible lie, “She is not happy Idwal has been left here, she thinks it reflects badly on her, as if Huw doesn’t trust her abilities. Idwal’s upset at being left behind, he’s still young enough to think it a slight.”

July 12 1267
   With a hundred of his best men Huw lay in ambush for a party of English knights; crouched in the bushes off the road, his mail tunic covered by a cloth surcoat to prevent any light from glinting off its rings. His helmet had been coated in matt black paint, as had all the other bits of solid metal, such as his sword hilt.
   For weeks he’d been springing traps like this, picking off patrols and small forces; cautious, always cautious and wary of being trapped himself. He had long ago given up any hope of victory, now he was simply fighting to cause damage, hoping and praying that if he killed enough the English would retreat and offer a peace he could stomach. Without Scotland, without aid, it was the best he could hope for.
   The column of knights came into view, Huw sucked in a ragged lungful of air – at the head of the column, his banner and surcoat proclaiming his identity proudly, rode William Fitz Roi If only they could kill or capture him, it would bring that ending much closer. Huw offered a quick prayer of thanks; certain this was the deliverance he had been asking so devoutly for. Excitement spread amongst his men as the other Welshmen saw their target, but the men were careful to do nothing that would waste this God given opportunity.
   When the English party was solidly in the middle of the ambush area Huw leapt to his feet, yelling “Now” and flung his spear. It didn’t take long for the others to react; the road filled with a rain of spears and arrows. Men and horses fell, dead and wounded, as the Welsh began to break cover and run at them with drawn weapons.
   Huw ripped his sword from its sheath and targeted a group of men at arms, leading his small band of close followers in a charge that smashed into the shocked English, knocking them back in disorder. He hacked one man down, stepping over his body to slash at his friend. On the other side of this melee Huw could see William, he began to cut his way over to meet him, his sword a never ceasing pattern of movement. A blade sank itself deep into Huw’s guts, slicing through mail and gambeson; he felt the tip of the blade grate on his spine, then the strength left his legs and he fell. The blade pulled free, and sliced down again, this time biting into his right shoulder; a spear point jabbed at him, unable to dodge or defend himself Huw could only watch in detached horror as the point cut into his left thigh. It was strange, he thought, as the sword came down again, how his salvation had been his ruin. The world went black.

   “The duke is dead Run, flee for your lives” The words meant nothing to William; he couldn’t understand so much of a word of Welsh, but the tone and effect made the meaning clear, the duke was dead, somewhere in this mass of bodies. A spear hit his shield, tearing a ragged gash in the leather facing, right through his coat of arms; William encouraged his horse to turn so he could reach this tenacious foe, but the man simply dropped his weapon and ran away, joining his friends. William didn’t have the heart to pursue this abrupt rout; he knew these men wouldn’t take up arms again in the near future, and he wanted to have a kingdom of living souls to rule, rather than a fly ridden pile of corpses.
   Seeing there was no enemy left standing, William slammed his gore covered blade back into its sheath and released the hand loop of his shield, swinging it back out of the way to rest on its shoulder straps. He dismounted, and tied his horse to a convenient corpse, then fumbled to untie the lacings of his helmet with his mail mitten covered hands, before impatiently giving up and starting to search the field for the fallen duke through the narrow eye slits of his bucket like helm.
   A knight, Fitz Aimery according to his coat of arms, jogged over and bowed, “My lord.”
   The words were muffled by the helmet and its padding, William had to strain to make them out; he swore, and pulled his hands out of slits slashed in the leather palms of the mail guards, freeing his hands to untie his helm. He pulled it off, grateful for the sudden rush of cool air on his face, tossing the helm to the ground; he then pushed his mail coif back from his head. Finally he stripped off his arming cap, bearing his head and clearing his ears, “What?” he demanded.
   “The duke, my lord, we have found him.” Fitz Aimery’s words were still muffled, this time by his own helm, but William didn’t have the energy to reprimand the man.
   “Take me to him.” he ordered. Fitz Aimery led him over to a small pile of bodies near the middle of the road. The duke’s mangled remains had been pulled clear and unceremoniously dumped in a clear bit of space, ready for inspection.
   “Shall we claim his head, my lord?” asked Fitz Thierry, a grizzled, experienced veteran of many campaigns, “It’d look a treat on a pike.”
   “No.” snapped William in disgust, “The man fought bravely and we’ll treat what’s left with respect. Take him away and give him Christian burial along with our own fallen.”
   “But my lord” protested Fitz Thierry, “when we’re calling for the surrender of his castles displaying his head will prove we speak the truth when we say their lord is dead.”
   William took a step towards Fitz Thierry, trying to intimidate him; he couldn’t afford to be defied, while none doubted he was an able commander there were some high ranking men who rankled at serving under a bastard, helping him carve a kingdom of his own. “The day I need a skull to help me negotiate with a widow is the day you can nail me into my coffin. I said bury him.”
   Fitz Thierry didn’t move, “There’s more than a widow left, or do you think this war’s won already?”
   “You are dismissed from my army, get out” When the man didn’t move William gestured at the audience that had gathered to gawp at the body and watch this unexpected argument, “Throw him out, don’t bother about giving him his goods back, just toss him out like the rubbish he is.”
   A couple of men stepped forward, but before they could lay hands on Fitz Thierry he spat on the ground at William’s feet, then turned and marched away, calling to his men to follow him.
   William clenched his jaw so hard his muscles were beginning to ache; now he had lost the twenty men Fitz Thierry had brought with him, along with any others who cared to take this as an excuse to leave. Not for the first time he wished he had been able to prove himself before this campaign; as a green commander, all but unknown to the great lords under his banner, he could never afford to let anyone to question his authority, no matter who they were or how small the doubt. He glared about him at the crowd, “Don’t just stand there, this isn’t market day – bury the dead and get the wounded treated” An idea stuck him, “No, wait – get me scouts; I want those fleeing men tracked, they may lead us to more of their army. Send word back to our main army, get them under arms and ready to go; if we do find the Welsh I want to crush them before they have time to react.”



No, it isn't Tuesday but I was in danger of overworking this chapter because I kept going back and tweaking things. Apologies for the bad poetry, I've never been any good at it and I don't even like poetry; that was supposed to be a medieval style poem. Good thing Idwal is a bad poet http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...geishawink.gif

Why do I create two varieties of female characters, the ones I like and the ones I want to hit with a cattle prod? Elen is a cattle prod candidate, and I think I may zap Idwal too.

Dragon is beginning to show its true colours now.

EDIT: I got the wrong chapter name; it should have been 'bright banners' not 'blood and soil'. I always pay more attention to the content than the label, oops.

Chapter III

Blood and Soil

July 12 1267

   William looked about him at the carnage, unable to suppress a small twinge of conscience. His men had fallen upon the Welsh division, formerly lead by duke Huw, without mercy; those who had not fled now lay dying in the dirt. His heralds were still taking the tally of bodies, and his men were moving through the tangled mass of bodies finishing off those who still lived and looting whatever they found on the corpses. Now, still clad in his body armour but without helm or shield, William picked his own way through the human wreckage, looking for someone…specific.
   He found what he searched for after several minutes, a man in good armour whose gear spoke of wealth and status, bleeding his life out in mud created by the fusion of his own blood and the soil. “You speak French?” demanded William.
   “The man looked up at William, grimacing in pain, “Some.” he replied grudgingly in poorly accented French.
   “I want information, do you understand?” The man just stared back; William went down on one knee at his side, “You want to save the boy-duke’s life? Then help me – is it true the maimed, deaf or blinded can never inherit or rule under your laws?” Still no reply, William wasn’t certain he had even been understood. The man’s eyes focused on something in the distance; William checked over his shoulder, the corpse counters were approaching. “Better missing a hand and fair captivity than dead.” he implored, “You owe him your loyalty, no? Then do what you can to help him now.”
   “It is true.” admitted the Welshman, biting the words out through clenched teeth. William moved to stand up, but the man grabbed his arm and held him back with surprising strength, “Not finished by a commoner. Not me.” William nodded, it was a simple request and understandable too, for nobility being killed by a lesser person was deeply humiliating. The Welshman let his arm go; William stood and drew his sword, wishing he had a dagger handy, as it would be more suitable for this. The man muttered a quick prayer with his eyes shut; when he reached the end William cut his throat with the tip of his long weapon.
   He wiped the blood off his sword blade, using the silk of his befouled surcoat, and put the weapon away, his cheeks flushing pink as he remembered he had failed to take proper care of his sword in his excitement on hearing about the duke’s death; he would have to clean the dried blood from the interior of the scabbard himself before turning his equipment over to his squires, if word got about that he had forgotten some of his most basic training there’d be hell to pay.
   Now the duke was slain and a rough quarter of his army dead it was time to begin collecting the castles that guarded the roads to the capital; if the rest of the Welsh army dared to put in appearance, well by God he’d kill them too.

July 13 1267

   William had split his army into three divisions, one of seven thousand to accompany him on his way to the capital, one of four thousand to clear out the coastal castles, and one of five thousand to handle those castles left.
   After half a day of rapid marching through empty countryside – the civilians had grabbed what they could carry and fled before the advancing army - William’s group arrived outside the walls of the first castle on their road; it was a small stone tower surrounded by earth ramparts topped by wooden walls, a small castle village huddled in its protective shadow. It had a garrison of some eighty men, William expected an easy surrender; there was no way this castle could hold out under assault and there was little hope of relief arriving for them. As his men straggled into place encircling the walls William directed a messenger to ride out under flag of truce to demand the garrison’s surrender.

   The messenger sat on his horse below the wooden gatehouse, nervous, as he’d heard tales of the savage Welsh killing messengers even under flag of truce; he fervently hoped this was just an exaggerated rumour, for if not he’d likely soon find out. “My lord, Sir William Fitz Roi, asks that you surrender now without bloodshed. Your duke is slain, your army defeated, your situation hopeless; he is a fair man, and will abide by the rules of war and decency, you need have no fear of honest surrender now. He has been send here by the king, his father, to bring Gwynedd and its attached lands under English sovereignty; he would rather do this peaceably but he will fight as he needs.”
   The castellan turned out to be a quiet looking, non descript man with a surprisingly loud voice, “Tell your English bastard he can shove his claim up his arse” he leaned forward over his ramparts seemingly fearless of enemy archers, “There’s not a man here who’ll not fight to the death to keep Wales Welsh, duke Huw may be dead, but we follow Duke Cynan still.”
   “You will follow a child to war? Think again, surrender now and receive my lord’s mercy; if you insist on holding out there will be no clemency when the castle falls, and make no mistake – it will fall.”
   “The only lords we care about are beyond your English bastard; God and our duke. We’d rather die than live on in what you’d create.” the castellan beckoned contemptuously to the waiting army, “Come, my fine English lords, come and try our resolve, unless you’re afraid of mucking up your tunics?”
   “You’ll live just long enough to regret this.” warned the messenger, departing rapidly for his own lines.

   The assault was short, sharp and bloody. William’s men battered the main gate down and poured into the courtyard, overwhelming the tiny garrison easily, though the Welsh put up a fierce fight, with none surrendering. By the time the battle finished there were bodies in every part of the castle; although some of the defenders died fighting many did not, instead being wounded, or forcibly subdued, and taken prisoner.

   “My lord, we have taken fifty-seven men, they await your pleasure.” reported Fitz Gerald, one of William’s most trusted subordinates.
   “Execute them, all of them.” The order made William sick, but he felt he had no choice; these men had openly defied and insulted him and he had promised retribution, now he must make good his threat. In this world the garrison of a castle who had refused their chance to surrender could seldom expect anything other than a miserable fate, no matter how much the church preached forgiveness and mercy. “I want them all beheaded, dump the bodies in the main hall of the keep, then fire it. The floors and furniture’s wood, even if the walls are not, so it’ll burn well enough. Burn the wooden walls too, and the village.” William sent up a private prayer of thanks that the villagers had all fled before his army arrived. “This castle must be destroyed, none will use it again. Did we capture the castellan?”
   “No, my lord, we have found his body.”
   “Sever his head and put it on a pike over the ruined walls; I want the world to see the price of defiance.”
   The first of the prisoners were brought out to the clear patch in the bailey of the castle, and there in full view of their comrades, they were beheaded. As each set of ten men died another was brought out, the pile of bodies growing ever larger and blood began to flow in rivers. Some men begged for their lives, others were to terrified to even walk to their end, but a surprising number went defiantly to their deaths, shouting unintelligible slogans in Welsh. William watched all this impassively, sick to his stomach; this may be reasonable military practise, but this was his first campaign and he had not yet developed a veteran’s hardened heart.

July 25 1267
   William received the surrender of another castle without much emotion; after word of the first castle’s fate every garrison had surrendered as soon as he arrived at their gates. Though the memory of those executed prisoners still haunted him William had to admit his father had been right; killing some men now will save you from needing to kill a lot more later. The knowledge was a poor salve to his conscience; killing in battle was very different to calmly ordering men’s heads removed.
   William didn’t wait long enough to inspect his latest acquisition, he only paused to detach a garrison from his army and see them through the main gate after the Welsh had marched out under the flag of peace. He kept on travelling, leading the main body of his army around in a winding path that led from castle to castle to the Welsh capital.



I'll post the next chapter as soon as I am done polishing it; I am beginning to wonder if this is too medieval for its own good, and I am rather tempted to water it down. Instead I'll post as I finish, get it over with before I chance my mind and make it yet another case of modern sensibilities inflicted on medieval characters.

Very good chapters. I didn't expect Huw to die so fast http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg.../gc-hanged.gif

Don't water it down - please http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif

Chapter IV

To the Victor the Spoils

July 29 1267

   Idwal ran up the spiral staircase to the solar and private rooms, taking the steps two at a time. The solar door was shut, as he’d expected – it was late in the evening after all. He tested the door and found it unlocked, though as soon as he entered the solar a furious Nest barred his path, “She doesn’t want to see you; she’s been quite plain about that.”
   “She has to – this news cannot wait.” Idwal firmly but gently pushed her out of his way, and stepped into the solar.
   “What on earth are you doing here?” Idwal turned to find Elen emerging from her bedroom, her hair loose and her girdle missing; she’d evidently been getting undressed to go to bed. “Get out”
   “Is the boy here?” asked Idwal urgently, crossing the room rapidly, “Well?”
   “No; now get out”
   “Huw’s dead and there’s an English army rapidly approaching – they’ll be here tomorrow morning, and that’s assuming they don’t march through the night.”
   Elen went as white as a sheet, “Nest, call the council – immediately.”

   It was a sorry council that met that night; four weary people, three of them dragged from their beds, all trying to hide their apprehension. They sat at the great table in silence, as if by saying nothing they could hold off the moment where defeat became reality.
   “We may as well get on with this.” said Teleri, her fingers nimbly rebraiding her loosened hair into a simple plait, “Delay only makes what must be even harder to bear.”
   Pwyll rubbed a hand over his balding pate, “We all know…well, as the spymaster says all that is left is the inevitable. What will we do?” A brooding silence descended on the room; Pwyll sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “Since none want to say it I’ll take the honour; which ways and how are we going to flee?”
   “I can’t flee.” Elen was playing with her wedding ring, she had taken it off shortly after hearing about Huw’s death; ever since then she had been twisting it about in her fingers. Now she stopped and looked curiously at the ring as though she had never seen it before, “Huw’s protection died with him, now his legacy is a burden, tying me here.”
   Not even Idwal disputed what she said; they all knew that the invading English would hunt high and low for her. Elen was both Huw’s widow and Cynan’s regent, so anyone marrying her would gain lawful control of all the lands and titles Huw had held, they would also gain a means to ensure the boy duke never posed a threat, and control over the widow who may become a rallying point for future Welsh resistance.
   Teleri tied off her long plait with a bit of ribbon, “Then let me be the first coward to squeal; my rank is not sufficient to protect me if I remain here. I may avoid becoming a political peace prize, but I won’t be ignored completely. I’ll be leaving before the hour’s out, whether this council is done or no.”
   “If an old man like me won’t slow you down, I’d like to join you.” Pwyll’s self-depreciating humour had too much of an edge to ring true, it sounded more like a rant against his advancing age, “I’m willing to bet you have plans to do more than find a cottage and tend flowers for the rest of your days; I may be of use in whatever you have planned.”
   Teleri bared her teeth in a wicked grin, “You know me too well, tag along if you must.”
   That only left Idwal, and the eyes of all in the room turned on him expectantly. He took a deep breath and said to Elen, “I pledge thee my troth.”
   Elen considered what he was offering – a way out. If she were engaged to him then any marriage she might be forced into would be invalid as long as Idwal was still alive; if he returned to claim her then they stood a good chance of having any existing marriage declared invalid, but then she would have no choice but to marry Idwal instead. They would have to wait until it was safe to declare themselves, but a way out was not to be taken lightly; aside from a prior claim on her the only other remotely possible way to shed the husband the English would choose for her was being widowed a second time. She didn’t have to think for long, “And I pledge thee mine.” She set her ring down on the table with a click, “Take this as proof, and don’t die” she forced a smile, “you can’t return for me if you are dead. Take Cynan and flee with the others, get to France or another country with no friendship for England, once there take your claim to the clergy and authorities. As long as I am here…maybe they will not care so much for my son; he will be easier to hide than me.”

   Idwal had dressed Cynan in clothes borrowed from one of the castle’s servants, and left the castle along with the many others who had chosen to leave. He could have taken a horse, but while that would have lend them speed it would also have made them more noticeable, where would two simple peasants get an expensive animal from? At first they stayed with the main group, moving quickly away from the castle and approaching army, but he quietly split off and started to head for the English border; no one would expect to find the young duke heading right into the lion’s den. Cynan had been unable to keep up with his rapid pace, so Idwal carried him piggyback, always moving at a rapid trot through the night’s dark.
   “You there Hold” the order was barked in English, a language Idwal recognised but couldn’t understand; he swore, there shouldn’t be patrols this far out He swerved away from the voice and began to run.
   “I said hold” Idwal heard the crashing of several men running in armour behind him. Terror lent him extra speed, he put his head down and ran faster than he had ever believed possible, Cynan clinging onto him and whimpering.
   “Stop him” more armoured figures appeared, these ones in front of him, blocking his path. He was trapped.

July 30 1267

   It was a cold dawn, surprisingly so for the time of year, but William didn’t mind; the day was full of promise, even if the early morning held some unpleasant necessities. He stood in his body armour, trying to look imposing, stern and regal, in front of his officers, sergeants, and a bunch of common soldiers chosen by lot; behind him three men stood on logs under a tree with ropes about their necks, waiting to be hung.
   “Was I not clear when I said no looting, murdering and raping?” he asked his audience, speaking up so all could hear, “These three seem to think I was not, and that’s why they die – this is my country and my people, when you steal you steal from me and it is my people you abuse; I will not stand for it”
   At his signal the hangman kicked the logs out from under the men’s feet; the drop was not sufficient to break their necks, and so William and the audience were forced to watch as they choked their lives away slowly. This time William’s impassive exterior matched an equally impassive interior; he had no sympathy for scum like these. It was the rest of the morning that promised trouble; the boy, and the widow.

   William left the boy until after he had eaten his breakfast, delaying for as long as possible, then he had the child brought to him in his tent by Fitz Eudes, a man who had proven time and again that he had a level head and good grasp of the necessary. The boy had been captured in the early hours of the morning, the man who had been accompanying him was dead, slain as he sought to hold off an entire patrol with just a dagger; his blood was still evident on the boy’s brown homespun tunic. This rabid loyalty was just one of several clues that prodded William’s interest in the boy. “Who are you, lad?” asked William kindly, already certain he knew the answer, just as he was certain the boy would have learned some French.
   The boy’s voice was hardly more than whisper, and he was plainly terrified, “I am Cynan ap Huw.”
   The plan had seemed so easy back on that battlefield when William had persuaded that Welshman to tell him of the local laws, but now…now he could see the boy, the fear in his eyes, it was anything but. “I want him taken from here to England, put him in a monastery, he can live out his days peacefully there.”
   Fitz Eudes ushered the boy out of the tent into the hands of the waiting guards, but lingered himself, “With all due respect, my lord, that was a merciful choice, but a poor one.”
   “I know.” admitted William.
   “As long as people believe him to be alive or in fit state to lay claim his ghost will dog your steps, and you’ll be looking over your shoulder for him. It’d be best to end it now.”
   “I know.” William sounded wretched, “I know, by Christ I know That is why you will cut off his left hand when you arrive at the monastery, that will remove him from the succession and none will follow him again. Make sure he survives.”

   It was about half past nine in the morning when the castle gates were thrown open and Gwynedd’s final surrender made. The garrison, what remained of them, laid down their arms and marched out, back to their homes; their places taken by William’s chosen Englishmen, the select few who would remain with him once the main army left. William had expected to see the lady of the castle, handing over control personally but she had left that task to one of the very few servants remaining. When questioned the servant revealed that Elen was waiting in castle’s the tiny chapel, alone.
   Brushing off remarks about the lady waiting in a handy location for a quick political marriage, and joking offers of an armoured escort – “After all these Welsh have strange notions on how to behave, you never know what she might try to do.” – William sought out the chapel, following the servant’s direction to the third floor’s northern tower room. He pushed the door open and entered the room without even breaking his stride, thinking to jump in headfirst before he lost his nerve.
   A woman knelt before the small altar; somehow William doubted she was praying despite appearances. He shut the door and put his helmet down on a nearby seat, his head was already bared, but somehow his earlier plan to stand about looking imposing with his helmet under his arm didn’t seem such a good idea now. The woman kept ignoring him, perhaps she really was praying, after all? Perhaps it was a test of some kind, or just an excuse to be rude? William cleared his throat; she continued to disregard him. He shuffled his feet, his armour jangling, and began to feel stupid – she was doing this on purpose, she had to be Either he could continue to stand here like a prize ass or he could demand her attention, but which was likely to be worse in the long run? “Start out uncompromising, my boy, start out so none will dare cross you, then you can relax and be softer.” that had been his father’s advice before he left, and so far Lionel’s advice had proven sound.
“A good example of Welsh manners, I presume? I expected Wales to be backward, but not so backward I had to teach people the basics of good behaviour - you do not ignore me”
   She began to get up, “Forgive me, my mind was…wandering.”
   Somehow William doubted that, but he decided he would let it go this one time; Elen turned around, and for the first time William got a proper look at her. “So, for once the poets didn’t exaggerate.” William’s face lost the stern appearance he had been carefully cultivating as he tried to break the ice, “The last famous beauty I met was my brother Henry’s wife, Agnes de Breda; we were all expecting an angel and found a beetle instead.” The compliment sank like half a tonne of granite in the North Sea. “Interesting choice of location, seeking sanctuary?” though he posed it as a harmless joke William was very interested in the answer, and what it would reveal about her.
   “If I were seeking sanctuary there is a convent not far from here; their walls would offer better shelter, but I doubt you would allow me to remain there.” her answer probed for information just as much as did the original question.
   “Actually, if I’m honest I would probably have left you.”
   “Then you are a fool.” Elen winced at her words; she had decided to play things safe, there was nothing to be gained by upsetting a man with an army camped in her home.
   William’s eyes narrowed, “I am willing to overlook much because of the differences between of the circumstances, but not that much; I would advise a little more caution. You may consider me a fool, but in truth how foolish would I have to be to offend the church by dragging away someone who has claimed sanctuary?”
   “In that case I don’t suppose you are willing to give me a head start?”
“No, you missed your chance. In the end it wouldn’t have saved you, it would have been a matter of time until you had to leave, and then.” he shrugged; the rest was plainly obvious.
   Elen smiled ruefully, “Not such a fool after all, then.”
   “No, and you would do well to remember that.” William frowned, he was not at all happy with the way this was going; he had no wish to spend his days worrying about hemlock in his stew, “My condolences on the death of your husband; I saw to it that he had a good burial. You…were close?” “By God I hope not”
   Elen lifted her chin; “We managed.” she replied coolly, then “I liked him, nothing more.”
   He breathed a sigh of relief; marriages between conqueror and conquered were tricky enough at the best of times, without the spectre of a beloved dead husband haunting things. “Your son, where is he?” William had decided long ago to let Elen believe Cynan had escaped to safety; he could see no benefit in telling her the truth, all it would do is bring her pain and make his conscience trouble him all the more.
   “I don’t know.” It was the truth, Elen didn’t know exactly where Cynan was, “You don’t leave a boy in a castle that is about to fall.”
   “I’ll find him, if he dares to return; if he stays away I shall leave him be. As long as he is out of Wales he poses little threat to me.” Elen didn’t know whether to believe him or not, she could only hope that Idwal had got her son to safety. The Englishman’s voice intruded on her thoughts, he sounded almost…understanding, “You won’t see him again, whatever happens.”
   “No.”
   “This war…I have cost you your family, that was not my wish; Huw should have surrendered at the first instead of fighting.”
   “Yes, he should have.” agreed Elen; unable to stop herself she launched into a tirade that surprised William with its venom, “He should have listened – I could see this end a mile off, but no, he had to go off and try to prevent the inevitable. As ever those who have to live with the consequences get ignored; he’s dead, the lucky bastard, but I’m not.” she glared at William, “You know the worst of it? Even if Cynan comes back and kills you I will still be pushed towards yet another marriage – whoever wins in this I lose, and yet I am the only one whose council is always ignored. No one would leave me in peace as a widow, and I am not one for the religious life, so I am always left picking up the pieces. Let’s get on with this, you mean to marry me; when?”
   “I had thought to leave it for a week or so, but now I’m tempted to say today.”
   “Of course I get no say, so today it is.” Elen didn’t give him time to speak, although he looked like he was going to, “I do hope you didn’t want a feast or anything, we have only a handful of servants left and many of those don’t know anything about food other than you eat it.”
   “I’m not much for parties and feasts.” confessed William, trying to take the edge off the atmosphere, “I wasn’t brought up with them like so many others, as a bastard I was generally kept out of the way, until my father decided he liked me; it was rather too late to turn me into a courtier at that point.”
   “So we dispense with any hint of pleasantry, I might have liked a proper wedding, but that counts for nothing-”
   “Do you?” interrupted William, “If that’s what you want it can be arranged, I can delay for a few days. I admit I’m eager to get to work, but as I am duke by right of conquest I suppose I can start my reorganisation without you. You would forfeit your chance to give me advice on my plans for Wales though; I might be willing to listen to a wife in private where none can laugh at me for it.”
   “Might?”
   “Alright, will; I will listen and consider, but only in private; my authority is tenuous at best, I’m young, untried and even a royal bastard has to fight for every small thing, any hint of weakness and the pack comes after me in full cry. I could use your knowledge of the locals, even if I don’t want anyone to know that.”
   Elen considered; playing for time would allow her to get a better idea of what she was landed with this time, but as there was no escaping this marriage that might not be such a good idea. The chance to influence policy, assuming he meant what he said, now that was worth pursuing; there were other benefits too, not least the protection William could offer from the horde of people who would love to seize the chance to marry her themselves, “I don’t like feasts much either, I always feel like a pet bird on display.”
“This evening then, we’ll keep things public enough that there is no doubt you’re off the market, but otherwise quiet. Now perhaps you will walk with me? I think it will do people good to see we have…settled things, if we can get on peaceably then perhaps our countrymen will follow our lead?” William offered her his arm, “I can tell you about my plans for Wales, lady Helen.”
   “Elen.” she corrected, reluctantly placing her hand on his arm.
   “Helen, Elen is too hard to pronounce.”
   “A pity you think that; it is my name and I don’t care for your Anglicised version.”
   “Dear thing, I’m going to tell you something you may take as a warning or advice, that is up to you; your name is Helen because I say it is, you will not complain, and you are fortunate there is no one here to see you defy me. As I said before my authority is tenuous now, if you question me then others will do so, a name may be small thing but the issue will grow; I will not let the ground erode from under my feet, understand?”
   “Dear thing?” Elen wrinkled her nose; “I actually prefer that to your garbled version of my name; you could at least make the effort to get my name right, I don’t call you Gwilim, do I?”
   William slapped her, rather harder than he had intended, “I did warn you; I won’t be defied.”
   Elen stepped back, putting space between them, “So you will rename every single person in Wales? No, of course not, so why me?” she began to explain rapidly as he raised his hand again, “It would only upset the local population If you look like you are going to trample our culture underfoot it will be harder for you to rule”
   “I suppose you are right, Elen.” he grimaced, knowing how far off his pronunciation was, “You can keep your name, dear thing, but do learn the lesson. Now, for that walk.” he offered her his arm again, she took it, and together they walked to the door.


One delayed chaper IV, I've been very busy. It's not as polished as I would like, the whole thing feels very rough to me, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.

One chapter left. This part got rather medieval, but the next one is more so. :waits from comments about Will being nasty:

Will's nasty http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ns/biggrin.gif

Interesting story, Froggy. Actually, I think Will's being pretty restrained. He could have killed Cynan, but he didn't. He could have told Elen he was dead or something, he didn't. He gives Elen a say (however small) in how the country is run. I wouldn't say he was nasty, really.

:beams with delight: Hurrah That means (at least with one person) I got it right, usually people would say he's nasty because he hit Elen and had those assorted people killed, not to mention a child maimed. That is just the middle ages in action, as you say Will is actually a pretty nice person for that time. People often map modern morals onto characters from another era, it can be so hard to get people to think how you want them to.

This would be the first indication I got it right; I had actually chalked this entire story up as a failed experiment becasue so few people seemed to be interested both here and on paradox. Not only were comments next to none existant after chapter I (let's face it, I got used to getting about 5 comments per post on Red Hand in 2 forums, anything seems none existant after that) but, more importantly, view counts were/are dropping by about half for each part posted. I suspect Dragon only appeals to a small handful of people, unlike Red Hand.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by [b

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ July 04 2004,23:04)]People often map modern morals onto characters from another era, it can be so hard to get people to think how you want them to.

---

http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ons/gc-yes.gif That's so true. What seems indefensible from a modern persective, were regular occurances then. Life was harder, so people were 'nastier'.

*shrugs* C'est la vie http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/rolleyes.gif

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by [b

Quote[/b] ]let's face it, I got used to getting about 5 comments per post on Red Hand

---

Yeah, sorry about that http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ns/biggrin.gif

I think that for as long as you continue to post on paradox and here you'll compare successes and failures to Red Hand.

No doubt all who post here will also.

I suppose one of the great hinderences and successes is that people do compare our morals to medival morals. The hinderence being that it will shock and in cases discust and reader. However this can also be a good thing. As by shocking the reader you can intrigue them and make them wan't to read on.

Good story by the way. http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...-2thumbsup.gif

sorry Lady Froggy for not posting but I was away from the forums for a while. Just like to say this is a great story. I don't think the quality is less than the Red Hand either.

Also, Willy boy seems more Medieval than Culad to me.

Froggy, you get better at writing with every story you post. I was going to say that I thought the character of William needed to be deepened a bit, but you've sorted that out in the last chapter. He is just a gentle man who needs to be hard.

One question if I may, the fight between Elen and Idwall in chapter two: was that real or were they trying to fool the council?

Sorry for the rather massive delay, I've been busy. Chapter V should be up later today, but then I have been telling myself that for three days now. It's nearly done; it just needs polishing up a little. Not even had time to drop by here and post a reply on your comments.

I've lost over 3/4 of my original (combined total of two forums) audience, around 200 people; this figure is derived from views per topic in the days after each chapter is posted. Chapter II was the most successful, ever since then it has been one huge loss. Red Hand, well I doubt I'll ever have that kind of success with a net story again - I simply refuse to undertake something so big as a net story ever again. Dragon is begging for just a tiny bit more, one more chapter, an epilogue, a sequel, a series, and that was carefully designed to stay small. I doubt I will ever let it grow though.

Dragon is technically better, it is a froggy that has had a bit more time to choose words and add detail; as for plot and characters, I think Hand was better, but then it had the space to grow them. William is the only character in Dragon I like, and even then it is a mild liking; I don't look forward to his scenes like Fionnghualla, I wouldn't cry if I killed him like Margaret, I don't feel the need to write a flashy exit like Fionna or Sigtryg. I do like the more medieval world of Dragon though.

Ludens, that fight was real.

Chapter V

Hell hath no fury

July 31 1267

   William was looking over the records for his new lands, seeing who owned what, and compiling a list of people who needed replacing for various reasons. He was seated at the table in what was now his bedchamber, thankful for the peace and quiet, but more thankful still that there were none to witness his laborious reading; it was not a skill he had ever practised much, and those who could read often sniggered at his need to run a finger along the lines, mouthing the words out silently to himself. “Ah ha…hmm, Cadell…dead.” William scratched the name down onto his list, amongst the inkblots and smudges.
   The door opened behind him; as he looked up William dragged his elbow over the wet ink on the parchment, “’Ods blood” he swore, looking at the stain on his tunic sleeve.
   “I can leave if you want.” offered Elen, hesitating in the doorway.
   “Hmm, no stay, sit down or something.” instructed William absently, looking at his ruined list. “Tell me about this…Se…Sie…take a look at the confounded name yourself.”
   Elen ignored the document he was flapping at her, “I can’t read; give this name a guess, I may be able to tell who you mean.”
   “It looks like Siesyl…?”
   “Seisyll.” corrected Elen, “Landholder, one small wooden castle, three manors; he failed to answer Huw’s call to arms.”
   “Oh, him; he didn’t answer the call because he had sent messengers to me, pledging allegiance. He knew I would win.”
   “So did I, but I had the decency to support Huw until you did win.”
   “Dear thing, you don’t have much choice in your allegiance, either then or now.” William scratched his head with the end of his quill, trying to think of where exactly he had got ‘dear thing’ from.
   “If you want my advice I would recommend getting rid of him; once a traitor, always a traitor.”
   “I promised him his lands if he remained neutral until I was in control, at which point he was to openly support me. He stays; I don’t break my word without very good reason.”
   “Half a day.”
   “Half a day what?”
   “Your promise to listen to me, it has lasted just half a day after the wedding; somehow I am not surprised.”
   “One point is all you’ve given your view on, and all I have disagreed on; stop being dramatic. No, actually you still have your name, so that makes us even. I assume you had some purpose in coming here?”
   “Yes, I need some new clothes. When my servants fled they stole everything they could, including my clothes; as you may imagine they were easy to carry and will fetch good money, just like the cutlery.” Elen sighed; she had been shaken by just how many preferred to run, leaving her to face the invaders alone, “I don’t inspire much loyalty, almost everyone fled, including my maid, the one person I had thought…I shall have to replace her too.”
   “Why did they flee?” William was genuinely puzzled, he hadn’t expected a mass exodus from the capital; he hadn’t wanted to ask what prompted it, but now she had brought the subject up he decided to take the opportunity.
   “Fifty-seven beheaded prisoners.”
   “They were soldiers, not bystanders like your faithless servants; they turned down their chance to surrender, that is warfare. Aside from that my campaign has been mostly bloodless, and I have discouraged looting and the like.”
   “There is never any certainty, it is safer to be gone than remain and hope for the best. No one likes to be subject to the whims of a victorious army. Now, about my clothes, or shall I keep wearing the same thing for a few more months?”
   “I suppose you should do something about your wardrobe, just don’t bankrupt me; before you do anything about that you can help me work though this list, reallocating land. Some of these Welshmen will have to go, I need to hand some land out to the few English nobles who are remaining here with me; I’m hoping you can recommend some deserving targets for disinheritance.”
   “I am certain I can.”

England: August 20 1267

   Cynan sat on the meagre straw filled mattress of his bed, in the dark of his cell he could barely see. He knew it could be worse, his cell was a proper room with a door that had a small window with bars on it; he could have been in a proper dungeon with chains of the walls and torturers and everything. His stomach growled, Cynan rubbed his empty belly; he couldn’t remember when he had last eaten, it was always so dark in here it was hard to tell how time passed, and anyway his last meal had been yucky, plain pottage like peasants ate.
   “So this is the ex-duke of Gwynedd?” The voice was male, eloquent and educated; he spoke in French that was rapid and full of words Cynan didn’t understand. A silhouette of a head blocked the tiny window, but Cynan couldn’t make out any details of the person behind it. The sound of bolts being drawn back indicated the person was coming in; Cynan got to his feet and tried to look brave, just like daddy would have done, because daddy wouldn’t be scared of these English pigs.
   “Jesù, it’s dark in here Bring a light, damn you.” for such a nice voice the man sure did swear a lot, thought Cynan. Someone brought a torch and held it behind the man, this didn’t make him any happier, because he snapped, “Light the boy up then, I don’t need to see myself” The guard thrust the torch into a wall bracket inside the cell, and then stepped back out of the way. Cynan looked at his visitor through watering eyes, half blinded by the sudden change in illumination; he was dressed in really expensive clothes and looked rather handsome, so Cynan decided he had to be a prince at the very least.
   “What a scrawny little runt, you mean to say that is what my bastard brother was fighting?” The man threw his head back and laughed, Cynan couldn’t see why, he wasn’t funny and no one had told a joke. “Can it speak a civilised tongue?” he spoke slowly as if to a halfwit, “You, boy, what is your name?”
   Cynan bristled, “I am Cynan ap Huw.” he replied equally slowly, “You talk funny.”
   For a moment it looked like the man was going to explode into a fit of fury, but in the end he began laughing again, Cynan couldn’t understand most of what he said next, “What a comical little rat, I wonder if all the Welsh are like that? I shall have to ask William in my next letter. Well, I see no point in keeping him, it’ll only cost money and increase William’s dangers in the future; my brother was always too soft, he should have killed the child himself instead of sending him here.”
   It took a while for Cynan to figure out what had been said, working from the few words he did understand; he began to scream as the guard headed towards him, drawing his sword.

Wales: September 12 1267

   The message had been both brief and mysterious; Tomorrow. Noon. North-east field. Teleri Elen now stood in the field, alone and growing more nervous as the hours slowly ticked by; perhaps coming here had been a bad idea, she had told no one where she was going and if this were a trap then there would be no rescue. She clasped her fingers about the object that had convinced her to trust the note; her old wedding ring, the ring she had given to Idwal less than an hour before he left the castle with Cynan.
   The sun moved far enough across the sky to indicate another half hour had passed before something finally happened; Teleri’s head appeared in a clump of bushes at the eastern corner of the filed, and she beckoned to Elen before ducking back down. Elen nonchalantly wandered over, trying to look casual in case she was being observed.
   “Hurry up” hissed Teleri, “We don’t have all day, and it’s my life risked here” her hand grabbed Elen’s and the ex-spymaster began to run, dragging Elen along behind her. She half led, half dragged Elen through the remaining fields, heading out into the untamed countryside, through the forest until they hit a small stream; there she stopped. Elen gratefully collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath.
   Teleri, on the other hand, was barely winded, and she wasted no time in explaining what was going on, “As you’ve seen we found your ring; Idwal’s dead, he died the night he left the castle. As best we can gather he ran into a patrol and was badly wounded fighting to protect Cynan. They took him alive, but beyond that…well, we found that ring on a drunken knight before the majority of the English army was sent home.”
   Elen wasn’t really listening, as soon as Teleri had mentioned Idwal running into a patrol she had only one thought, “Cynan? What happened to him?”
   “He’s dead.” Teleri paused, allowing the news to sink in, “He was sent to England and murdered on William’s orders.” she looked about, like a wary rabbit checking for foxes, “Pwyll died, he asked one question too many of a messenger in front of some soldiers, but thanks to him we know this information is true. I’m sorry.”
   “He lied.” Elen was slowly emerging from her stunned stupor into cold rage, “That misbegotten whore’s son lied He said Cynan had got away, he said he wouldn’t harm him” Her hand clenched about the ring so hard her fingers felt like they were about to break, “How much use would a dead duke be to you?”
   “A lot.” admitted Teleri reluctantly, “But you wouldn’t survive…”
   “I don’t care, as long as I see him die first I don’t care; I’d rather be dead than spend the rest of my life with him, pretending I don’t know what he’s done.”
   Teleri answered so quickly it was obvious she had anticipated this, and planned to use Elen to the full, “Tonight, kill him sometime tonight; we have people ready to take advantage of chaos.”
   Elen had set into a cold, controlled blend of fury and pain, she didn’t notice that the spymaster had expected her reaction, “It won’t be hard, you may count of that; I know how to create an opportunity.”
   Teleri’s ears pricked, “Horses” she dived into cover, and for all Elen knew left the area completely, leaving her to face whoever this was alone; Elen smiled grimly, alone, just as she had been left to face an invading army alone, William alone, life alone, and, in the end, probably death alone too.
   The horses belonged to William and his squire; as they caught sight of her the squire reined in, keeping his distance so she and William could talk in private. William swung down from his saddle, tied the horse to a tree, and strode over, demanding, “What have you been doing? I’ve turned half the garrison out searching for you You’ve been gone for hours, not a word to anyone, for all we knew you’d had an accident, run away or been kidnapped” his mouth twisted and he mumbled, “I was worried.”
   “How quaint.”
   William stiffed at her blithe dismissal of his concern, “You had better have a good excuse for this.”
   “No excuse.” she was calm now, so calm it frightened her; her answer had the expected effect, but she didn’t even try to dodge the blow. She staggered back, her ear ringing where William’s fist had caught it, fighting the bizarre urge to laugh. She looked pointedly at the squire who was watching with rapt interest while trying to look as if he weren’t, “If you want to make a scene then go ahead, but do you think that boy will keep silent?”
   “Very well.” William’s words were stiff and bitten off, “We shall take this elsewhere, as usual.” he turned and stalked back to his horse, mounted up and started to ride back towards the castle, with Elen on foot beside him and the squire bringing up the rear a discreet distance behind them. As she walked back Elen had to fight to hide a triumphant grin, it had been so easy, following the usual pattern; an argument that would end up with them at each other’s throats, followed by a few hours of smouldering resentment, then some awkward but heartfelt apologies that usually ended up in bed, then one sleeping, easy target who even provided the dagger…

   Elen lay in bed, awake still; by her reckoning it was several hours past midnight and there was still no sign of William. Everything else had gone according to plan, she was still trying not to laugh at the memory of him drenched in wine from the jug she had smashed over his head, not least because her ribs were tender enough to make laughing uncomfortable. All this time waiting had allowed her to think, and think endlessly, facing facts she didn’t much like. She resolved that enough was enough; she would go and search for him now, before she had chance to think too much. Besides it was so late he was obviously not coming; this fight had been a lot more explosive than usual, and it may take longer for his temper to cool than would be convenient.
   She got up and walked over to the door, not stopping to put something on over her linen shift; the sight on the other side of the door, in the solar, was not what she had expected. William sat slumped at the table, asleep and snoring slightly with a cup of wine held loosely in his right hand. His dagger was still in its sheath at his belt, he always went armed no matter where he was; Elen stole over silently and carefully drew the blade. She held it in an untrained grip, point downward so she could stab easily; she steeled herself, then stabbed down with all her strength.
   The blade bit deep into the wood of the table next to William’s hand with a loud thunk, the edge of the blade sliced a deep cut into the edge of his hand below the base of his little finger. William sat up with a start, leaping to his feet in a trained reaction made clumsy by wine and sleep. He looked from dagger to wife, then to his bleeding hand.
   “You are fortunate you broke your usual pattern tonight, or that blade would have been stuck in you. You gave me time to think, to see that…if you wanted to kill Cynan you wouldn’t have bothered sending him to England first.”
   William wrapped his damaged hand in the skirt of his tunic, trying to staunch the gushing blood, “How did you find out? I tried so hard…it was better you didn’t know; I even burned the letter from Henry boasting of what he’d done so you would never find it.”
   “So it is true then? I wasn’t certain.” Elen sank down into the fireside chair and stared at the embers still burning in the elaborately decorated stone fireplace, “I saw so little of him; five years and I saw him so rarely…I barely knew him. Intimate strangers, that’s all Huw and I ever were, that I knew, but I didn’t realise my rank had robbed me of my son too.” she took a deep breath, dragging her attention back to the present, seeking to confirm the other thing Teleri had said, “What about the man who was with Cynan? What happened to him?”
   “He died.” William replied shortly, hoping to leave it at that; he could tell from the intent expression on her face that she would keep asking, “He was mortally wounded before he was brought in by the patrol; I saw him just before he died. Nothing could be done to save him, and I wouldn’t have bothered if there were something to be done. You needn’t worry; he didn’t betray your son.”
   “Dead?” Elen was surprised to find she didn’t particularly care, if anything she felt relieved, not that Idwal was dead, but because he could never return to claim her now. Swapping a life of luxury and losing everything she owned to ditch William and marry Idwal instead was a prospect that had only appealed on that panicked night before the English army had arrived, she had survived one loveless political marriage and she could survive another, just as most nobles did. She was no longer bored and lonely, and that meant Idwal had lost all appeal; she would have been tied to someone with deep feelings she could never match, and that was its own kind of hell, pity blended with mild liking was the best she had ever managed for him. Besides, William wasn’t so bad, certainly tolerable, but most importantly he had offered her one thing no one else ever had: power.
   Elen was not the only one surprised by her tame reaction to Idwal’s death; William has expected tears at the very least. Dying men talk, their minds wander and they say things that are best left unsaid; he had heard of Elen’s plan from the translated dying gasps of Idwal himself. He hadn’t seen any reason to tell her that he knew, and now he kept to his decision; he would give no indication he was aware of her plan to escape him. He didn’t want to hear what she had thought of Idwal, presumably a lot less than he had thought of her.
   “I will help you capture the ring leaders of the resistance group that contacted me. I will not be used by anyone, not any more, definitely not when they go against my interests and those of Gwynedd.”
   William eased his still bleeding hand from the soaked makeshift bandage of his tunic, “I’ve certainly produced enough blood for a convincing murder.”
   “Let me bandage that for you.” Elen stood up, came over and examined the mess she had made of his hand, “If you die Wales will be razed by the English for revenge, and I’ll have to marry yet again.”
   “Oh I can’t die yet, I have a crown to win and a lot of changes yet to make.”

Finis

:sigh: Even with a custom made small story I ended up missing a lot out, both past present and future. 23 pages total, five chapters, so my original guess wasn't too far off.

Out of the main characters and important minor characters only Elen and William survive, along with Teleri who is about to be hunted down and executed. Are William and Elen happy? In a way, they get along well enough and have plenty to do, but they are certainly more a business partnership than anything else.

Well done Froggy,
http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...-2thumbsup.gif

don't let the view counts dismay you in any way,
i read the first chapter and have simply been too busy to come back until tonight.

Perhaps we can format the best of these stories into a set and make them available from the sites main page?
but not just yet,
i still have to finish redesigning the site and have to provide you with an updated template too.

Also i think we need a sticky in each forum letting people know what all the forums are for, we have many new members and some of them may not be aware of all the different areas,
the Org has grown remarkably during the last twelve months.

B.

perhaps even a vote for which stories should go into the mainpage set?

theres an idea,
you could advertise the voting in all the forums once a week or so - build some interest in the whole concept of this forum
:-)

B.

yeah lady froggy.

I was busy too so I end up reading 3-4 of your chapters in 1 go. I'm sure others do so too.

Don't feel down if the view per day is lower than your record success.

your stories only get better. we shoudl get you published or something http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...evalcheers.gif

I like Dragon better than Red Hand. The characters are easier to understand and I liked the way they were done more. The plot is more focussed and I think that is an improvement too. Perhaps the story is less light hearthed than Red Hand, but that is not neccesarily bad. Though probably that is why so many readers dropped. I liked your work because it is cheerful (except when you have a character die), but this isn't cheerful. However, that doesn't mean it isn't good. Also, reading a 'full blown' drama from the monitor is not something many people like. The drop in view rates certainly had nothing to do with technique.

Excellent story.

I liked the details like William being unable to pronounce that Welsh name. However, he seems to be a bit too nice for the time when you think about what the Marcher lords were getting up to in the 12th and 13th centuries. I was expecting him to be more like William de Braose, justly named the Ogre of Abergavenny.

I also liked the way the king of Scotland was too shortsighted to ally with the Welsh.

One thing that puzzled me: why did the Welsh abandon their guerilla warfare tactics in favour of a winner takes all battle after the old duke was killed?

Yipes, got to fix up the formatting...

The Marsher Lords were famous for their cruelty and brutality; it was supposedly mostly unique to them, other lords in medieval England weren’t so harsh. William isn't a Marsher lord, he is a young man brought up at court. He has never been in a battle before, he has never really led men before, and he certainly has never been involved in a war before. He is soft, young, unsure and rather vulnerable under that tough exterior he tries so hard to cultivate. He grows a bit harder as the story progresses and I envision him going on to unit Wales under his sword, putting down rebellions without mercy, and slowly growing to become more hardened and callous. He and Elen have quite the future, although I guess that won't be written now.

I find William to be the most likeable character in this story, but that is saying very little since my opinion on him is neutral rather than negative.

The Welsh retreated and hid in their castles when Huw died because they were leaderless; the duke was dead, there was no heir able to fight, and the marshal was busy trying to seduce his lord's wife.

Ludens, I am sorely tempted to add that the characters were easier to understand becasue they had very little character. The cast never came to life in my imagination, not even slightly. I don't even like most of them.

You must really hate this story. I really can't remember you saying anything positive about it.

When I wrote that I found the characters easier to understand it was because it became quickly clear to me what kind of characters they were. Culad, Donchad and Margaret stayed 'blancs' for me rather longer and I didn't like that. If the characters in this story were less polished, then it didn't matter there simply wasn't the time to go deeper into their personality.
Conclusion: they were more simple, but I liked them in their simplicity.
The only ones I thought too simple were Idwall and Teleri.

But if this really bothers you, you should ask other people what they think. I am just giving you my own opinion.

I wouldn't say I hate it, more that I find very little redeeming in it. Plot wise it is tighter but I don't actually like that, turns out I by far prefer something with space to develop. Technically it is more polished and the writing demonstrates a bit more skill but I find that without a good cast and plot that improvement is wasted.

The only part in this story where I felt the character had some real life was this bit: "she was still trying not to laugh at the memory of him drenched in wine from the jug she had smashed over his head, not least because her ribs were tender enough to make laughing uncomfortable." one sentence out of 24 pages. Why does that bit have some life to it? Because I never planned it, it just suddenly appeared as I was writing and seemed rather appropriate. My other stories and characters do this all the time, endless reams of unplanned events, lines and characters appearing of their own accord and fitting perfectly into place. These bits don’t always make it into the story but they do provide background I can reference and explain if need be.



Culad and the other early characters in Red Hand were sketchy because I was less skilled back then; I learned so much writing that story it is unbelievable. It's nothing to do with the characters, just the author's failings and now I know how to set up a character in a shorter space it shouldn't happen again.

I think this story can be taken quite a long way. The Marcher lords were given a lot more powers in their territory than lords in more settled parts of England, and they are going to get worried about the implications for them if William keeps the Welsh under relative control.

The cowardly murder of the young duke and William's success in Wales is going to heighten tensions between William and his brother (who seems to be a REALLY nasty piece of work). The tensions may well lead to civil war, which will be welcomed by the Marcher Lords, who are more likely to side with William's brother than the more idealistic William.

William's just rule and his marriage means that the Welsh may well back him in the civil war - Welsh kerns (It wasn't just the Irish who used kerns) and longbowmen will be an important addition to William's army.

Yes, that's the general outline for the sequel which will never be; there are other facets too but that is the main one. It could make quite a long story, quite a good story, but I am not convinced the cast could support it.

its a good story fella-i for one would love to see u continue it.........

Well, what about William and Elen having a son whom William declares to be the prince of Wales, and unlike Edward II he actually has some Welsh blood?

Also, there's the plot to kid Elen into thinking that William was responsible for the murder of her son. More than one surviving Welsh nobleman might like the idea of starting a rebellion and marrying Elen to make himself look like the legitimate sucessor to the old Duke. Of course, he would have to kill William.

When the rebellion starts, Elen may be sympathetic to the rebels and their leader thinking that he wants to bring freedom for the Welsh. Then she finds out that he is only interested in regaining the power he lost in the invasion. Possibly he wants to kill William and marry her, so he gains even more power. She then goes back to supporting William against the rebels, as although he only married her for political reasons, he is also the only man around who cares about the welfare of the people under his rule.

William and Elen's victory over the rebels (after thousands of people on both sides get killed) will increase William's standing in London, but at the price of increasing rivalry with his brother, leading to a civil war.

The continuation would be long and complex; I am very busy with Red Hand right now and I also have Eleanor on-going. I suppose maybe as a low quality scribbled update at a random pace it could be done, it'd probably only average one update a week, if that. Not sure it's worth it.

EDUT: And that is the story's formatting finally fixed up.